《A Tale of Two Cities》 Book2 CHAPTER
XVI Still knitting
by Charles Dickens
MADAME DEFARGE and
monsieur her husband returned amicably to the bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a
blue cap toiled through the darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of
avenue by the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where the chateau
of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to the whispering trees. Such ample
leisure had the stone faces, now, for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the
few village scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead stick to
burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and
terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that the expression of the
faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the village--had a faint and bare existence
there, as its people had that when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of
pride to faces of anger and pain also, that when that dangling figure was hauled up forty
fee above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which
they would henceforth bear for ever. In the stone face over the great window of the
bed-chamber where the murder was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured
nose, which everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the scarce
occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep
at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a
minute, before they all started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate
hares who could find a living there.
Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the stone floor, and the
pure water in the village well--thousands of acres of land--a whole province of
France--all France itself--lay under the night sky, concentrated into a faint hairbreadth
line. So does a whole world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling
star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse the manner of its
composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of
ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight, in their public
vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their journey naturally tended. There was the
usual stoppage at the barrier guardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for
the usual examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two of the
soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate with, and affectionately
embraced.
When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings, and they, having
finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the
black mud and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:
`Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?'
`Very little tonight, but all he knows. There is another spy commissioned for our quarter.
There may be many more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one.'
`Eh well!' said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool business air. `It is
necessary to register him. How do they call that man?'
`He is English.'
`So much the better. His name?'
`Barsad,' said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had been so careful to
get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect correctness.
`Barsad,,' repeated madame. `Good. Christian name?'
`John.'
`John Barsad,' repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself. `Good. His appearance;
is it known?'
`Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair; complexion dark;
generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline,
but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression,
therefore, sinister.'
`Eh my faith. It is a portrait!' said madame, laughing. `He shall be registered tomorrow.'
They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight) and where Madame
Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted the small moneys that had been
taken during her absence, examined the stock, went through the entries in
the book, made other entries of her own, checked the serving man in every possible way,
and finally dismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl of money
for the second time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of
separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe
in his mouth, walked up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which
condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up and down
through life.
The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a neighbourhood, was
ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock
of wine smelt much stronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy
and aniseed. He whiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
`You are fatigued,' said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the money. `There are
only the usual odours.'
`I am a little tired,' her husband acknowledged.
`You are a little depressed, too,' said madame, whose quick eyes had never been so intent
on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for him. `Oh, the men, the men!'
`But my dear!' began Defarge.
`But my dear!' repeated madame, nodding firmly; `but my dear! You are faint of heart
tonight, my dear!'
`Well, then,' said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung Out of his breast, `it is a long
time.'
`It is a long time,' repeated his wife; `and when is it not a long time? Vengeance and
retribution require a long time; it is the rule.'
`It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,' said Defarge.
`How long,' demanded madame, composedly, `does it take to make and store the lightning?
Tell me.'
Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that too.
`It does not take a long time,' said madame, `for an earthquake to swallow a town. Eh
well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake?'
`A long time, I suppose,' said Defarge.
`But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the
meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not seen or heard. That is your
consolation. Keep it.'
She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
`I tell thee,' said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis, `that although it is a
long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and
never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all
the world that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the
rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more of
certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock you.'
`My brave wife,' returned Defarge, standing before her with his head a little bent, and
his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and attentive pupil before his catechist, `I
do not question all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know
well, my wife, it is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.'
`Eh well! How then?' demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there were another enemy
strangled.
`Well!' said Defarge, with a half-complaining and half apologetic shrug. `We shall not see
the triumph.'
We shall have helped it,' returned madame, with her extended hand in strong action.
`Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the
triumph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat
and tyrant, and still I would--'
Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
`Hold!' cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with cowardice; `I too, my
dear, will stop at nothing.'
`Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim and your
opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. When the time comes, let loose
a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained--not
shown--yet always ready.'
Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her little counter with
her chain of money as if she knocked its brains out, and then gathering the heavy
handkerchief under her arm in a serene manner, and observing that it was time to go
to bed.
Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the wine-shop, knitting away
assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she now and then glanced at the flower, it was
with no infraction of her usual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or
not drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot, and heaps of
flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous perquisitions into all the
glutinous little glasses near madame, fell dead at the bottom. Their decease made no
impression on the other flies out promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner
(as if they
themselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met the same fate.
Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they thought as much at Court that
sunny summer day.
A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she felt to be a new
one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before she
looked at the figure.
It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the customers ceased talking,
and began gradually to drop out of the wine-shop.
`Good day, madame,' said the new comer.
`Good day, monsieur.'
She said it aloud, but added to herself as she resumed her knitting: `Hah! Good day, age
about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage,
complexion dark, eyes dark, thin long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not
straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister
expression! Good day, one and all!'
`Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a mouthful of cool fresh
water, madame.'
Madame complied with a polite air.
`Marvellous cognac this, madame!'
It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame Defarge knew enough of
its antecedents to know better. She said, however, that the cognac was flattered, and took
up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers for a few moments,
and took the opportunity of observing the place in general.
`You knit with great skill, madame.'
`I am accustomed to it.'
`A pretty pattern too!'
`You think so?' said madame, looking at him with a smile.
`Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?'
`Pastime,' said madame, still looking at him with a smile, while her fingers moved nimbly.
`Not for use?'
`That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--well,' said madame, drawing a
breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of coquetry, `I'll use it!'
It was remarkable: but the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be decidedly opposed to a rose
on the headdress of Madame Defarge. Two men had entered separately, and had been about to
order drink, when, catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of
looking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away. Nor, of those who
had been there when this visitor entered, was there one left. They had all dropped off.
The spy had kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away
in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and unimpeachable.
`JOHN,' thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked
at the stranger., `Stay long enough, and I shall knit ``BARSAD'' before you go.'
`You have a husband, madame?'
`I have.'
`Children?'
`No children.'
`Business seems bad?'
`Business is very bad; the people are so poor.'
`Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.'
`As you say,' madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an extra something into
his name that boded him no good.
`Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of course.'
`I think?' returned madame, in a high voice. `I and my husband have enough to do to keep
this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That is the
subject we think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about,
without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think for others? No, no.'
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did not allow his
baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but, stood with an air of gossiping
gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping
his cognac.
`A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor Gaspard!' With a sigh
of great compassion.
`My faith!' returned madame, coolly and lightly, `if people use knives for such purposes,
they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has paid
the price.'
`I believe,' said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence, and
expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: `I
believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor
fellow? Between ourselves.'
`Is there?' asked madame, vacantly.
`Is there not?'
`--Here is my husband!' said Madame Defarge.
As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by touching his
hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, `Good day, Jacques!' Defarge stopped short, and
stared at him.
`Good day, Jacques!' the spy repeated; with not quite so much confidence, or quite so easy
a smile under the stare.
`You deceive yourself, monsieur,' returned the keeper of the wine-shop. `You mistake me
for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.'
`It is all the same,' said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: `good day!'
`Good day!' answered Defarge, drily.
`I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when you entered, that
they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching
the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.'
`No one has told me so,' said Defarge, shaking his head. `I know nothing of it.'
Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his hand on the back
of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both
opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious attitude, but drained
his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh water, and asked for another glass of
cognac. Madame Defarge poured it out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a
little song over it.
`You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?' observed Defarge.
`Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested in its miserable
inhabitants.'
`Hah!' muttered Defarge.
`The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,' pursued the spy,
`that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting associations with your name.'
`Indeed!' said Defarge, with much indifference.
`Yes, indeed. When Dr. Manette was released, you, his old domestic, had the charge of him,
I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am informed of the circumstances?'
`Such is the fact, certainly,' said Defarge. He had had it conveyed to him, in an
accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and warbled, that he would do best to
answer, but always with brevity.
`It was to you,' said the spy, `that his daughter came; and it was from your care that his
daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown monsieur; how is he called?--in a little
wig--Lorry--of the bank of Tellson and Company--over to England.'
`Such is the fact,' repeated Defarge.
`Very interesting remembrances' said the spy. `I have known Dr. Manette and his daughter,
in England.'
`Yes?' said Defarge.
`You don't hear much about them now?' said the spy.
`No,' said Defarge.
`In effect,' madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little song, `we never
hear about them. We received the news of their safe arrival, and perhaps another letter,
or perhaps Mo; but, since then, they have gradually taken their road in life--we,
ours--and we have held no correspondence.'
`Perfectly so, madame,' replied the spy. `She is going to be married.'
`Going?' echoed madame. `She was pretty enough to have been married long ago. You English
are cold, it seems to me.'
`Oh! You know I am English.'
`I perceive your tongue is,' returned madame; `and what the tongue is, I suppose the man
is.'
He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best of it, and turned
it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the end, he added:
`Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to one who, like
herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor Gaspard! It was cruel,
cruel!) it is a curious thing that she is going to marry the nephew of' Monsieur the
Marquis, for whom Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the
present Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is Mr.
Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.'
Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable effect upon her
husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter, as to the striking of a light and
the lighting of his pipe, he was troubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would
have been no spy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be worth, and no customers
coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad paid for what he had drunk, and took his
leave: taking occasion to say, in a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked
forward to the pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes
after he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the husband and wife
remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should come back.
`Can it be true,' said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife as he stood
smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: `what he has said of Ma'amselle Manette?'
`As he has said it,' returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, `it is probably
false. But it may be true.'
`If it is--'Defarge began, and stopped.
`If it is?' repeated his wife.
`--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her sake, Destiny
will keep her husband out of France.'
`Her husband's destiny,' said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure, `will take him
where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know.'
`But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange'--said Defarge, rather
pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it, `that, after all our sympathy for
Monsieur her father, and herself, her husband's name should be proscribed under your hand
at this moment, by the side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?'
`Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,' answered madame. `I have them
both here, of a certainty; and they are both here for their merits; that is enough.'
She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently took the rose out
of the handkerchief that was wound about her head. Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive
sense that the objectionable decoration was gone or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very shortly afterwards, and
the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned himself inside out, and
sat on doorsteps and window-ledges, and came to the corners of vile streets and courts,
for a breath of air, Madame Defarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from
place to place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like her--such as
the world will do well never to breed again. All the women knitted. They knitted worthless
things; but, the mechanical work was a mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the
hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,
the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame Defarge moved on
from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of women
that she had spoken with, and left behind.
Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. `A great woman,' said
he, `a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully grand woman!'
Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and the distant beating
of the military drums in the Palace Court-Yard, as the women sat knitting, knitting.
Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness was closing in as surely, when the church
bells, then ringing pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into
thundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a wretched voice,
that night all-potent as the voice of Power and Plenty, Freedom and Life. So much was
closing in about the women who sat knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were
closing in around a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,
counting dropping heads. |
