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Book 1 - 6
The Shoemaker
"Good day!" said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head
that bent low over the shoemaking.
It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
salutation, as if it were at a distance:
"Good day!"
"You are still hard at work, I see?"
After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
voice replied, "Yes--I am working." This time, a pair of haggard eyes
had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no
doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it
was the faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last
feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it
lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the
senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak
stain. So sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice
underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature,
that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a
wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone
before lying down to die.
Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had
looked up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull
mechanical perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only
visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
"I want," said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the
shoemaker, "to let in a little more light here. You can bear a
little more?"
The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,
at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the
other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
"What did you say?"
"You can bear a little more light?"
"I must bear it, if you let it in." (Laying the palest shadow of a
stress upon the second word.)
The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and
showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in
his labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were
at his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut,
but not very long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The
hollowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to look
large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused white hair,
though they had been really otherwise; but, they were naturally
large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay open
at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and
his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor
tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and
air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that
it would have been hard to say which was which.
He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very
bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant
gaze, pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him,
without first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as
if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never
spoke, without first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
"Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?" asked Defarge,
motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
"What did you say?"
"Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?"
"I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know."
But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door.
When he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the
shoemaker looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure,
but the unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as
he looked at it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-
colour), and then the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent
over the shoe. The look and the action had occupied but an instant.
"You have a visitor, you see," said Monsieur Defarge.
"What did you say?"
"Here is a visitor."
The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his work.
"Come!" said Defarge. "Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe
when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur."
Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
"Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name."
There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
"I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?"
"I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's information?"
"It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the
present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand."
He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
"And the maker's name?" said Defarge.
Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand
in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin,
and so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission.
The task of recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always
sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person
from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure,
to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.
"Did you ask me for my name?"
"Assuredly I did."
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
"Is that all?"
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
again, until the silence was again broken.
"You are not a shoemaker by trade?" said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly
at him.
His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred
the question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they
turned back on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
"I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade.
I-I learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--"
He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on
his hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the
face from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started,
and resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake,
reverting to a subject of last night.
"I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty
after a long while, and I have made shoes ever since."
As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him,
Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
"Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?"
The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
questioner.
"Monsieur Manette"; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm;
"do you remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me.
Is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time,
rising in your mind, Monsieur Manette?"
As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at
Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively
intent intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced
themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were
overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had
been there. And so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair
young face of her who had crept along the wall to a point where she
could see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands
which at first had been only raised in frightened compassion, if not
even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were
now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the
spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life
and hope--so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger
characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it had
passed like a moving light, from him to her.
Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less
and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the
ground and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep
long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
"Have you recognised him, monsieur?" asked Defarge in a whisper.
"Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew
so well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!"
She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on
which he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of
the figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he
stooped over his labour.
Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a
spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.
It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument
in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him
which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and
was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her
dress. He raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started
forward, but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no
fear of his striking at her with the knife, though they had.
He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips
began to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By
degrees, in the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was
heard to say:
"What is this?"
With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her
lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if
she laid his ruined head there.
"You are not the gaoler's daughter?"
She sighed "No."
"Who are you?"
Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench
beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A
strange thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over
his frame; he laid the knife down' softly, as he sat staring at her.
Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly
pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by
little and little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of
the action he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work
at his shoemaking.
But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his
shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if
to be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his
hand to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of
folded rag attached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee,
and it contained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or
two long golden hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon
his finger.
He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. "It
is the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!"
As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the
light, and looked at her.
"She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was
summoned out--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when
I was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve.
'You will leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the
body, though they may in the spirit.' Those were the words I said.
I remember them very well."
He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter
it. But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him
coherently, though slowly.
"How was this?--WAS IT YOU?"
Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and
only said, in a low voice, "I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not
come near us, do not speak, do not move!"
"Hark!" he exclaimed. "Whose voice was that?"
His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his
white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything
but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little
packet and tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at
her, and gloomily shook his head.
"No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what
the prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the
face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She
was--and He was--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago.
What is your name, my gentle angel?"
Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her
knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
"O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother
was, and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard
history. But I cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you
here. All that I may tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you
to touch me and to bless me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!"
His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
"If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it
is--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch,
in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on
your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it!
If, when I hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be
true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I
bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor
heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!"
She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast
like a child.
"If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that
I have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be
at peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid
waste, and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep
for it! And if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father
who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to
kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never
for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night,
because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for
it, weep for it! Weep for her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen,
thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face, and his sobs strike
against my heart. O, see! Thank God for us, thank God!"
He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight
so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering
which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his
heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must
follow all storms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into
which the storm called Life must hush at last--they came forward to
raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually
dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had
nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her
hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.
"If, without disturbing him," she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry
as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, "all
could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the,
very door, he could be taken away--"
"But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?" asked Mr. Lorry.
"More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to him."
"It is true," said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear.
"More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of
France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?"
"That's business," said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice
his methodical manners; "and if business is to be done, I had better do it."
"Then be so kind," urged Miss Manette, "as to leave us here. You see
how composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him
with me now. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure
us from interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you
come back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care
of him until you return, and then we will remove him straight."
Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course,
and in favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only
carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time
pressed, for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their
hastily dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and
hurrying away to do it.
Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on
the hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The
darkness deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a
light gleamed through the chinks in the wall.
Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey,
and had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers,
bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this
provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there
was nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and he and
Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet.
No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in
the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had
happened, whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether
he knew that he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have
solved. They tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so
very slow to answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and
agreed for the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost
manner of occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not
been seen in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound
of his daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion,
he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the
cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily
responded to his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and
took--and kept--her hand in both his own.
They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp,
Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many
steps of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the
roof and round at the wails.
"You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?"
"What did you say?"
But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as
if she had repeated it.
"Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago."
That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from
his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower;" and when he looked about him, it
evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him.
On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread,
as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no
drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he
dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the
many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen,
and that was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post,
knitting, and saw nothing.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him,
when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,
miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame
Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them,
and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She
quickly brought them down and handed them in;--and immediately
afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word "To the Barrier!"
The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under
the feeble over-swinging lamps.
Under the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better
streets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay
crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the
city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there.
"Your papers, travellers!" "See here then, Monsieur the Officer,"
said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, "these are
the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were
consigned to me, with him, at the--" He dropped his voice, there was
a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed
into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm
looked, not an every day or an every night look, at monsieur with the
white head. "It is well. Forward!" from the uniform. "Adieu!" from
Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler
over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from
this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether
their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where
anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and
black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they
once more whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite
the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers
were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the
old inquiry:
"I hope you care to be recalled to life?"
And the old answer:
"I can't say."
The end of the first book.
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