A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 5 in English Social Stories by Charles Dickens books and stories Free | A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 5

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 5

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

By Charles Dickens

The Golden Thread

(5)

The Jackal

Those were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is

the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate

statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow

in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a

perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.

The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other

learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.

Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative

practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the

drier parts of the legal race.

A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had

begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which

he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,

specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the

visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the

florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of

the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from

among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.

It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib

man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that

faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is

among the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.

But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more

business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its

pith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney

Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.

Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great

ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,

might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,

anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring

at the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there

they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was

rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily

to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,

among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton

would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he

rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.

“Ten o'clock, sir,” said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to

wake him--“ten o'clock, sir.”

“_What's_ the matter?”

“Ten o'clock, sir.”

“What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?”

“Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.”

“Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.”

After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man

dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,

he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,

and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's

Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.

The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone

home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,

and a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He

had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which

may be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of

Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of

Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.

“You are a little late, Memory,” said Stryver.

“About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.”

They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,

where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in

the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon

it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.

“You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.”

“Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or

seeing him dine--it's all one!”

“That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the

identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?”

“I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have

been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.”

Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.

“You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.”

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining

room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel

or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them

out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down

at the table, and said, “Now I am ready!”

“Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,” said Mr. Stryver,

gaily, as he looked among his papers.

“How much?”

“Only two sets of them.”

“Give me the worst first.”

“There they are, Sydney. Fire away!”

The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the

drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table

proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to

his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in

a different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in

his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some

lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,

so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he

stretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or

more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the

matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on

him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the

jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as

no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious

gravity.

At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and

proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,

made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal

assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his

hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then

invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application

to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;

this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not

disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.

“And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,” said Mr.

Stryver.

The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming

again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.

“You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses

to-day. Every question told.”

“I always am sound; am I not?”

“I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to

it and smooth it again.”

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.

“The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,” said Stryver, nodding

his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, “the

old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and

now in despondency!”

“Ah!” returned the other, sighing: “yes! The same Sydney, with the same

luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.”

“And why not?”

“God knows. It was my way, I suppose.”

He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before

him, looking at the fire.

“Carton,” said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,

as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour

was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney

Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, “your way

is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look

at me.”

“Oh, botheration!” returned Sydney, with a lighter and more

good-humoured laugh, “don't _you_ be moral!”

“How have I done what I have done?” said Stryver; “how do I do what I

do?”

“Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth

your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to

do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.”

“I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?”

“I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,” said

Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.

“Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,”

pursued Carton, “you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into

mine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,

picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we

didn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always

nowhere.”

“And whose fault was that?”

“Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always

driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree

that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy

thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.

Turn me in some other direction before I go.”

“Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,” said Stryver, holding up

his glass. “Are you turned in a pleasant direction?”

Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.

“Pretty witness,” he muttered, looking down into his glass. “I have had

enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?”

“The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.”

“_She_ pretty?”

“Is she not?”

“No.”

“Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!”

“Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge

of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!”

“Do you know, Sydney,” said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,

and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: “do you know, I rather

thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,

and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?”

“Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a

yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.

I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;

I'll get to bed.”

When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light

him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy

windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the

dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a

lifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round

before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and

the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.

Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still

on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the

wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and

perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries

from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the

fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.

A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of

houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its

pillow was wet with wasted tears.

Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of

good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,

incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight

on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.

******

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