有声名著之双城记Book2 Chapter13
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有声名著之双城记
CHAPTER XIIIThe Fellow of Delicacy1
IF Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shonethe house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during awhole year, and had always been the same moody2 and moroselounger there. When he cared to talk, he talked well; but, thecloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with sucha fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by the light withinhim.
And yet he did care something for the streets that environedthat house, and for the senseless stones that made theirpavements. Many a night he vaguely3 and unhappily wanderedthere, when wine had brought no transitory gladness to him;many a dreary4 daybreak revealed his solitary5 figure lingeringthere, and still lingering there when the first beams of thesun brought into strong relief, removed beauties ofarchitecture in spires6 of churches and lofty buildings, asperhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things,else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late, theneglected bed in the Temple Court had known him more scantilythin ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon it nolonger than a few minutes, he had got up again, and hauntedthat neighbourhood.
On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to hisjackal that `he had thought better of that marrying matter')had carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sightand scent7 of flowers in the City streets had some waifs ofgoodness in them for the worst, of health for the sickliest,and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod thosestones. From being irresolute8 and purposeless, his feet becameanimated by an intention, and, in the working out of thatintention, they took him to the Doctor's door.
He was shown upstairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone.
She had never been quite at her ease with him, and receivedhim with some little embarrassment9 as he seated himself nearher table. But, looking up at his face in the interchange ofthe first few commonplaces, she observed a change in it.
`I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!'
`No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive10 tohealth. What is to be expected of or by, such profligates?'
`Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to live no better life?'
`God knows it is a shame!'
`Then why not change it?'
Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddenedto see that there were tears in his eyes. There were tears inhis voice too, as he answered:
`It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am.
I shall sink lower, and be worse.'
He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes withhis hand. The table trembled in the silence that followed.
She had never seen hint softened11, and was much distressed13. Heknew her to be so, without looking at her, and said:
`Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before theknowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?'
`If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make youhappier, it would make me very glad!'
`God bless you for your sweet compassion14!' #p#副标题#e#He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke15 steadily16.
`Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anythingI say. I am like one who died young. All my life might havebeen.'
`No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it mightstill be; I am sure that you might be much, much worthier17 ofyourself.'
`Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I knowbetter--I shall never forget it I'
She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with afixed despair of himself which made the interview unlike anyother that could have been holden.
`If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could havereturned the love of the man you see before you--self-flungaway, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse19 as you know himto be--he would have been conscious this day and hour, inspite of his happiness, that he would bring you to misery,bring you to sorrow and repentance20, blight21 you, disgrace you,pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have notenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that itcannot he.'
`Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recallyou--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no wayrepay your confidence? I knob this is a confidence,' shemodestly said, after a little hesitation22, and in earnesttears, `I know you would say this to no one else. Can I turnit to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?'
He shook his head.
`To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear methrough a very little more, all you can ever do for me isdone. I wish you to know that you have been the last dream ofmy soul. In my degradation23 I have not been so degraded butthat the sight of you with your father, and of this home madesuch a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought haddied out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by aremorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and haveheard whispers from old voices impelling24 me upward, that Ithought were silent for ever. I have had unformed ideas ofstriving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth25 andsensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, alla dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper26 where helay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it.'
`Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Tryagain!'
`No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to bequite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and havestill the weakness, to wish you to know with what a suddenmastery you kindled27 me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire--afire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself,quickening nothing, lighting28 nothing, doing no service, idlyburning away.'
`Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have more unhappythan you were before you knew me--`Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimedme, if anything could. You will not be the cause of mybecoming worse.'
`Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at allevents, attributable to some influence of mine--this is what Imean, if I can make it plain--can I use no influence to serveyou? Have I no power for good, with you, at all?'
`The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, Ihave come here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of mymisdirected life, the remembrance that I opened my heart toyou, last of all the world; and that there was something leftin me at this time which you could deplore29 and pity.' #p#副标题#e#`Which I entreated30 you to believe, again and again, mostfervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things,Mr. Carton!'
`Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I haveproved myself, and I know better. I distress12 you; I draw fastto an end. Will you let me believe, when I recall this day,that the last confidence of my life was reposed31 in your pureand innocent breast, and that it lies there alone, and will beshared by no one?'
`If that will be a consolation32 to you, yes.'
`Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?'
`Mr. Carton,' she answered, after an agitated33 pause, `thesecret is yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.'
`Thank you. And again, God bless you.'
He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door. `Beunder no apprehension34, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming thisconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never referto it again. If I were dead, that could not be surer than itis henceforth. In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacredthe one good remembrance--and shall thank and bless you forit--that my last avowal35 of myself was made to you, and that myname, and faults, and miseries36 were gently carried in yourheart. May it otherwise be light and happy!'
He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and itwas so sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how muchhe every day kept down and perverted37, that Lucie Manette weptmournfully for him as he stood looking back at her.
`Be comforted!' he said, `I am not worth such feeling, MissManette. An hour or two hence, and the low companions and lowhabits that I scorn but yield to, will render me less worthsuch tears as those, than any wretch18 who creeps along thestreets. Be comforted But, within myself, I shall always be,towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be whatyou have heretofore seen me. The last supplication38 but one Imake to you, is, that you will believe this of me.'
`I will, Mr. Carton.'
`My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I willrelieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you havenothing in unison39, and between whom and you there is animpassable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but itrises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, Iwould do anything. If my career were of that better kind thatthere was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, Iwould embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you.
Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardentand sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the timewill not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed aboutyou--ties that will bind40 you yet more tenderly and strongly tothe home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever graceand gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of ahappy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your ownbright beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now andthen that there is a man who would give his life, to keep alife you love beside you!' He said, `Farewell!' said a last`God bless you!' and left her.
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