a tale of two cities(双城记)-49

presently.Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.“I don’t hear it.”“Gone deaf in a hour?” said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with hismind much disturbed; “wot’s come to her?”“I feel,” said Miss Pross, “as if there had been a flash and acrash, and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in thislife.”“Blest if she ain’t in a queer condition!” said Mr. Cruncher,more and more disturbed. “Wot can she have been a takin’, tokeep her courage up? Hark! There’s the roll of them dreadfulcarts! You can hear that, Miss?”“I can hear,” said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her,“nothing. O, my good man, there was first a great crash, and thena great stillness, and that stillness seems to be fixed andunchangeable, never to be broken any more as long as my lifelasts.”“If she don’t hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nightheir journey’s end,” said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over hisshoulder, “it’s my opinion that indeed she never will hear anythingelse in this world.”And indeed she never did.Charles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two CitiesChapter XLVTHE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOR EVERAlong the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow andharsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine.All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined sinceimagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation,Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety ofsoil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn,which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain thanthose that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out ofshape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itselfinto the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapaciouslicense and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the samefruit according to its kind.Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again towhat they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall beseen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages offeudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches thatare not my Father’s house but dens of thieves, the huts of millionsof starving peasants! No; the great magician who majesticallyworks out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses histransformations. “If thou be changed into this shape by the will ofGod,” say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories,“then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passingconjuration, then resume thy former aspect!” Changeless andhopeless, the tumbrils roll along.Charles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two CitiesAs the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem toplough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in thestreets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, theploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants ofthe houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are nopeople, and in some occupation of the hands is not so much assuspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Hereand there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he pointshis finger, with something of the complacency of a curator orauthorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell whosat here yesterday, and who there the day before.Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and allthings on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, witha lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated withdrooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are someso heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude suchglances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Severalclose their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughtstogether. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazedaspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings,and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by lookor gesture, to the pity of the people.There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of thetumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and theyare asked some question. It would seem to be always the samequestion, for it is always followed by a press of people towards thethird cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point outone man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to knowwhich is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his headCharles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two Citiesbent down, to converse with a mere girI who sits on the side of thecart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the sceneabout him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in thelong street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they movehim at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a littlemore loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, hisarms being bound.On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of thetumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the firstof them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He alreadyasks himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as helooks into the third.“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.“That. At the back there.”“With his hand in the girl’s?”“Yes.”The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine allaristocrats! Down, Evremonde!”“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.“And why not, citizen?”“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutesmore. Let him be at peace.”But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” theface of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, andgoes his way.The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughedamong the populace is turning round, to come on into the place ofexecution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, nowCharles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two Citiescrumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for allare following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as ina garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busilyknitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance,looking about for her friend.“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her?Therese Defarge!”“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of thesisterhood.“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance petulantly.“Therese.”“Louder,” the woman recommends.Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcelyhear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added,and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down toseek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengershave done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their ownwills they will go far enough to find her!“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in thechair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will bedispatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in myhand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation anddisappointment!”As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, thetumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of SainteGuillotine are robed and ready. Crash!—a head is held up, and theknitting-women, who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it amoment ago when it could think and speak, count One.The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.Charles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two CitiesCrash!—And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing intheir work, count Two.The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress islifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient handin getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently placesher with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs upand falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for Iam naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I havebeen able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, thatwe might have hope and comfort here today. I think you were sentto me by Heaven.”“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me,dear child, and mind no other object.”“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothingwhen I let it go, if they are rapid.”“They will be rapid. Fear not!”The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but theyspeak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand tohand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother,else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the darkhighway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one lastquestion? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me—just a little.”“Tell me what it is.”“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself,whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and shelives in a farmer’s house in the south country. Poverty parted us,and she knows nothing of my fate—for I cannot write—and if ICharles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two Citiescould, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.”“Yes, yes, better as it is.”“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I amstill thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which givesme so much support, is this:—If the Republic really does good tothe poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to sufferless, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.”“What then, my gentle sister?”“Do you think”; the uncomplaining eyes in which there is somuch endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more andtremble: “that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in thebetter land where I trust both you and I will be mercifullysheltered?”“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no troublethere.”“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss younow? Is the moment come?”“Yes.”She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless eachother. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothingworse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. Shegoes next before him—is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he thatbelieveth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: andwhosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die!”The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces,the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, sothat it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, allCharles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two Citiesflashes away. Twenty-Three.* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *They said of him, about the city that night, that it was thepeacefullest man’s face ever beheld there. Many added that helooked sublime and prophetic.One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe—awoman—had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not longbefore, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that wereinspiring her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they wereprophetic, they would have been these:“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Jurymen,the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on thedestruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument,before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city anda brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles tobe truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long, longyears to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time ofwhich this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation foritself and wearing out.“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more.I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I seeher father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful toall men in his healing office, and at peace; I see the good old man,so long their friend, in ten years’ time enriching them with all hehas, and passing tranquilly to his reward.“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the heartsCharles Dickens ElecBook ClassicsA Tale of Two Citiesof their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman,weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and herhusband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthlybed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacredin the other’s soul, than I was in the souls of both.“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore myname, a man winning his way up in that path of life which oncewas mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is madeillustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it,faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men,bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know andgolden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a traceof this day’s disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story,with a tender and a faltering voice.“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it isa far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”The EndCharles Dickens ElecBook Classics