Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0066/00661.txt

Text File | 1993-07-27 | 29KB | 604 lines

$Unique_ID{bob00661}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{(A) Tale Of Two Cities
Chapter III}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Dickens, Charles}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{prisoner
upon
how
lorry
like
jury
never
now
gentleman
father
see
pictures
see
figures
}
$Date{}
$Log{See Calais*0066101.scf
}
Title:       (A) Tale Of Two Cities
Book:        Book The Second: The Golden Thread
Author:      Dickens, Charles

Chapter III

A Disappointment

     Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
claimed the forfeit of his life.  That this correspondence with the public
enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last
year, or of the year before.  That, it was certain the prisoner had, for
longer than that, been in the habit of passing and repassing between France
and England, on secret business of which he could give no honest account.
That, if it were in the nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it
never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained
undiscovered.  That Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a
person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of
the prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his
Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.  That,
this patriot would be produced before them.  That, his position and attitude
were, on the whole, sublime.  That, he had been the prisoner's friend, but,
at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved
to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the
sacred altar of his country.  That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in
ancient Greece and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would
assuredly have had one.  That, as they were not so decreed, he probably would
not have one.  That, Virtue, as had been observed by the poets (in many
passages which he well knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips
of their tongues; whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty
consciousness that they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner
contagious; more especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of
country.  That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable
witness for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him a
holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets, and
secrete his papers.  That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to hear
some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a
general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's) brothers and
sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr. Attorney-General's) father and
mother.  That, he called with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise.
That, the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the documents of
their discovering that would be produced, would show the prisoner to have
been furnished with lists of his Majesty's forces, and of their disposition
and preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had
habitually conveyed such information to a hostile power.  That, these lists
could not be proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all
the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as
showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions.  That, the proof would
go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged in these
pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the very first
action fought between the British troops and the Americans.  That, for these
reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a
responsible jury (as they knew they were), must positively find the prisoner
Guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not.  That, they
never could lay their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could
tolerate the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that,
they never could endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon
their pillows; in short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs,
any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken
off.  That head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the
name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the
faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as
good as dead and gone.

     When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a
cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation
of what he was soon to become.  When toned down again, the unimpeachable
patriot appeared in the witness-box.

     Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the
patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name.  The story of his pure soul was
exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be - perhaps, if it had
a fault, a little too exactly.  Having released his noble bosom of its
burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged
gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged
to ask him a few questions.  The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still
looking at the ceiling of the court.

     Had he ever been a spy himself?  No, he scorned the base insinuation.
What did he live upon?  His property.  Where was his property?  He didn't
precisely remember where it was.  What was it?  No business of anybody's.
Had he inherited it?  Yes, he had.  From whom?  Distant relation.  Very
distant?  Rather.  Ever been in prison?  Certainly not.  Never in a debtors'
prison?  Didn't see what that had to do with it.  Never in a debtors' prison?
Come, once again.  Never?  Yes.  How many times?  Two or three times.  Not
five or six?  Perhaps.  Of what profession?  Gentleman.  Ever been kicked?
Might have been.  Frequently?  No.  Ever kicked downstairs?  Decidedly not;
once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his
own accord.  Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice?  Something to that
effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was
not true.  Swear it was not true?  Positively.  Ever live by cheating at
play?  Never.  Ever live by play?  Not more than other gentleman do.  Ever
borrow money of the prisoner?  Yes.  Ever pay him?  No.  Was not this
intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the
prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?  No.  Sure he saw the prisoner with
these lists?  Certain.  Knew no more about the lists?  No.  Had not procured
them himself, for instance?  No.  Expect to get anything by this evidence?
No.  Not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps?  Oh dear no.
Or to do anything?  Oh dear no.  Swear that?  Over and over again.  No
motives but motives of sheer patriotism?  None whatever.

     The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a
great rate.  He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
simplicity, four years ago.  He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.  He
had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of
charity - never thought of such a thing.  He began to have suspicions of the
prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards.  In arranging his
clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the
prisoner's pockets, over and over again.  He had taken these lists from the
drawer of the prisoner's desk.  He had not put them there first.  He had seen
the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and
similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne.  He loved his
country, and couldn't bear it, and had given information.  He had never been
suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting a
mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one.  He had known the
last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence.  He didn't
call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences were curious.
Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true patriotism was his
only motive too.  He was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.

     The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
Lorry.

     "Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?"

     "I am."

     "On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and Dover by
the mail?"

     "It did."

     "Were there any other passengers in the mail?"

     "Two."

     "Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?"

     "They did."

     "Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner.  Was he one of those two
passengers?"

     "I cannot undertake to say that he was."

     "Does he resemble either of these two passengers?"

     "Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that."

     "Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner.  Supposing him wrapped up as
those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
render it unlikely that he was one of them?

     "No."

     "You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?"

     "No."

     "So at least you say he may have been one of them?"

     "Yes.  Except that I remember them both to have been - like
myself - timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air."

     "Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?"

     "I certainly have seen that."

     "Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner.  Have you seen him, to
your certain knowledge, before?"

     "I have."

     "When?"

     "I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
voyage with me."

[See Calais: At Calais, the prisoner came on board.]

     "At what hour did he come on board?"

     "At a little after midnight."

     "In the dead of the night.  Was he the only passenger who came on board
at that untimely hour?"

     "He happened to be the only one."

     "Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry.  He was the only passenger
who came on board in the dead of the night?"

     "He was."

     "Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?"

     "With two companions.  A gentleman and lady.  They are here."

     "They are here.  Had you any conversation with the prisoner?"

     "Hardly any.  The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough,
and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore."

     "Miss Manette!"

     The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
turned again, stood up where she had sat.  Her father rose with her, and kept
her hand drawn through his arm.

     "Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner."

     To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the
staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain
quite still.  His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into
imaginary beds of flowers in a garden: and his efforts to control and steady
his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart.  The
buzz of the great flies was loud again.

     "Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Where?"

     "On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
occasion."

     "You are the young lady just now referred to?"

     "O!  most unhappily, I am!"

     The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice
of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: "Answer the questions put to
you, and make no remark upon them."

     "Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that
passage across the Channel?"

     "Yes, sir."

     "Recall it."

     In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began:

     "When the gentleman came on board -"

     "Do you mean the prisoner?"  inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.

     "Yes, my Lord."

     "Then say the prisoner."

     "When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father," turning
her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, "was much fatigued and in a
very weak state of health.  My father was so reduced that I was afraid to
take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the
cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him.  There
were no other passengers that night, but we four.  The prisoner was so good
as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the wind
and weather, better than I had done.  I had not known how to do it well, not
understanding how the wind would set when we were out of the harbour.  He did
it for me.  He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father's state,
and I am sure he felt it.  That was the manner of our beginning to speak
together."

     "Let me interrupt you for a moment.  Had he come on board alone?"

     "No."

     "How many were with him?"

     "Two French gentlemen."

     "Had they conferred together?"

     "They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was
necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat."

     "Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?"

     "Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what
papers."

     "Like these in shape and size?"

     "Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very
near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they spoke
very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at
papers."

     "Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette."

     "The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me - which arose out of
my helpless situation - as he was kind, and good, and useful to my father.  I
hope," bursting into tears, "I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day."

     Buzzing from the blue-flies.

     "Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you
give the evidence which it is your duty to give - which you must give - and
which you escape from giving - with great unwillingness, he is the only
person present in that condition.  Please to go on."

     "He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and
difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was
therefore travelling under an assumed name.  He said that this business had,
within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals, take him
backwards and forwards between France and England for a long time to come."

     "Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette?  Be particular."

     "He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said
that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on England's
part.  He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George Washington might gain
almost as great a name in history as George the Third.  But there was no harm
in his way of saying this: it was said laughingly, and to beguile the time."

     Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a
scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be unconsciously
imitated by the spectators.  Her forehead was painfully anxious and intent as
she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for the Judge to
write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel for and against.  Among
the lookers-on there was the same expression in all quarters of the court;
insomuch, that a great majority of the foreheads there, might have been
mirrors reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up from his notes to
glare at that tremendous heresy about George Washington.

     Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's
father, Doctor Manette.  Who was called accordingly.

     "Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner.  Have you ever seen him
before?"

     "Once.  When he called at my lodgings in London.  Some three years, or
three years and a half ago."

     "Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
speak to his conversation with your daughter?"

     "Sir, I can do neither."

     "Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
either?"

     He answered, in a low voice, "There is."

     "Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?"

     He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, "A long imprisonment."

     "Were you newly released on the occasion in question?"

     "They tell me so."

     "Have you no remembrance of the occasion?"

     "None.  My mind is a blank, from some times - I cannot even say what
time - when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the time
when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter here.  She had
become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored my faculties; but, I am
quite unable even to say how she had become familiar.  I have no remembrance
of the process."

     Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
together.

     A singular circumstance then arose in the case.  The object in hand
being to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotteruntracked,
in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and got
out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did not remain,
but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and
dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was called to identify
him as having been at the precise time required, in the coffee-room of an
hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for another person.  The
prisoner's counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result, except
that he had never seen the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged
gentleman who had all this time been looking at the ceiling of the court,
wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it
to him.  Opening this piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked
with great attention and curiosity at the prisoner.

     "You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?"

     The witness was quite sure.

     "Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?"

     Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.

     "Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there," pointing to
him who had tossed the paper over, "and then look well upon the prisoner.
How say you?  Are they very like each other?"

     Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly
if not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not
only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into
comparison.  My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his wig,
and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became much more
remarkable.  My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's counsel),
whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for
treason?  But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the
witness to tell him whether what happened once, might happen twice; whether
he would have been so confident if he had seen this illustration of his
rashness sooner, whether he would be so confident, having seen it; and more.
The upshot of which was, to smash this witness like a crockery vessel, and
shiver his part of the case to useless lumber.

     Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his
fingers in his following of the evidence.  He had now to attend while Mr.
Stryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit of
clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor,
an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon
earth since accursed Judas - which he certainly did look rather like.  How
the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and was worthy to be;
how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false swearers had rested on the
prisoner as a victim, because some family affairs in France, he being of
French extraction, did require his making those passages across the
Channel - though what those affairs were, a consideration for others who were
near and dear to him, forbad him, even for his life, to disclose.  How the
evidence that had been warped and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish
in giving it they had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little
innocent gallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young
gentleman and young lady so thrown together; - with the exception of that
reference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and
impossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.  How
it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this attempt to
practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and
therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it; how, nevertheless, it
rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous character of evidence too
often disfiguring such cases, and of which the State Trials of this country
were full.  But, there my Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had
not been true), saying that he could not sit upon that Bench and suffer those
allusions.

     Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were
even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the prisoner a
hundred times worse.  Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the suit of
clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole decidedly trimming
and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.

     And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.

     Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.  While
his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered
with those sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury;
while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew;
while even my Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down
his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that
his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn gown
half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened to light on his
head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling
as they had been all day.  Something especially reckless in his demeanour,
not only gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong
resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary
earnestness, when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many
of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would
hardly have thought the two were so alike.  Mr. Cruncher made the observation
to his next neighbour, and added, "I'd hold half a guinea that he don't get
no law-work to do.  Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he?"

     Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her
father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly: "Officer!
ook to that young lady.  Help the gentleman to take her out.  Don't you see
she will fall!"

     There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much
sympathy with her father.  It had evidently been a great distress to him, to
have the days of his imprisonment recalled.  He had shown strong internal
agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which
made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since.  As he
passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a moment, spoke, through
their foreman.

     They were not agreed, and wished to retire.  My Lord (perhaps with
George Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not
agreed, but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and
ward, and retired himself.  The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in
the court were now being lighted.  It began to be rumoured that the jury
would be out a long while.  The spectators dropped off to get refreshment,
and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat down.

     Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest, could
easily get near him.

     "Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can.  But, keep in the
way.  You will be sure to hear when the jury come in.  Don't be a moment
behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank.  You are
the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I can."

     Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling.  Mr. Carton came up at
the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.

     "How is the young lady?"

     "She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
feels the better for being out of court."

     "I'll tell the prisoner so.  It won't do for a respectable bank
gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know."

     Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point
in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.  The way
out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears,
and spikes.

     "Mr. Darnay!"

     The prisoner came forward directly.

     "You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette.
She will do very well.  You have seen the worst of her agitation."

     "I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it.  Could you tell her so
for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?"

     "Yes, I could.  I will, if you ask it."

     Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent.  He stood,
half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.

     "I do ask it.  Accept my cordial thanks."

     "What," said Carton, still only half turned towards him, "do you expect,
Mr. Darnay?"

     "The worst."

     "It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest.  But I think their
withdrawing is in your favour."

     Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no
more: but left them - so like each other in feature, so unlike each other in
manner - standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above them.

     An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.  The
hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that refection,
had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide of people
setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with them.

     "Jerry!  Jerry!"  Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
there.

     "Here, sir!  It's a fight to get back again.  Here I am, sir!"

     Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng.  "Quick!  Have you got
it?"

     "Yes, sir!"

     Hastily written on the paper was the word "Acquitted."

     "If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again," muttered
Jerry, as he turned, "I should have known what you meant, this time."

     He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out with a
vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the
street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other
carrion.