Book II - Chapter XIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy

by Charles Dickens

　　If Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in thehouse of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,and had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When hecared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarelypierced by the light within him.

　　And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a nighthe vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had broughtno transitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed hissolitary figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the firstbeams of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties ofarchitecture in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhapsthe quiet time brought some sense of better things, else forgottenand unattainable, into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in theTemple Court had known him more scantily than ever; and often when hehad thrown himself upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got upagain, and haunted that neighbourhood.

　　On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackalthat "he had thought better of that marrying matter") had carried hisdelicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers inthe City streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst,of health for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feetstill trod those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless,his feet became animated by an intention, and, in the working out ofthat intention, they took him to the Doctor's door.

　　He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She hadnever been quite at her ease with him, and received him with somelittle embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But,looking up at his face in the interchange of the first fewcommon-places, she observed a change in it.

　　"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!"

　　"No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health.What is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?"

　　"Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pityto live no better life?"

　　"God knows it is a shame!"

　　"Then why not change it?"

　　Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to seethat there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his 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 with his hand.The table trembled in the silence that followed.

　　She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knewher to be so, without looking at her, and said:

　　"Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledgeof what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?"

　　"If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,it would make me very glad!"

　　"God bless you for your sweet compassion!"

　　He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.

　　"Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say.I am like one who died young. All my life might have been."

　　"No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be;I am sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself."

　　"Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--althoughin the mystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shallnever forget it!"

　　She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixeddespair of himself which made the interview unlike any otherthat could have been holden.

　　"If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returnedthe love of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted,drunken, poor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would havebeen conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that hewould bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blightyou, disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that youcan have no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankfulthat it cannot be."

　　"Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall you--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay yourconfidence? I know this is a confidence," she modestly said, after alittle hesitation, and in earnest tears, "I know you would say this tono one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?"

　　He shook his head.

　　"To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through avery little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you toknow that you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradationI have not been so degraded but that the sight of you with your father,and of this home made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows thatI thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubledby a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and haveheard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought weresilent for ever. I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginninganew, shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandonedfight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves thesleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it."

　　"Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!"

　　"No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quiteundeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still theweakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparablein its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing,doing no service, idly burning away."

　　"Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappythan you were before you knew me--"

　　"Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me,if anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse."

　　"Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,attributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean,if I can make it plain--can I use no influence to serve you?Have I no power for good, with you, at all?"

　　"The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have comehere to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;and that there was something left in me at this time which you coulddeplore and pity."

　　"Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently,with all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!"

　　"Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,and I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you letme believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my lifewas reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies therealone, and will be shared by no one?"

　　"If that will be a consolation to you, yes."

　　"Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?"

　　"Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "the secret isyours, 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.

　　"Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming thisconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to itagain. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth.In the hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and shall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself wasmade to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gentlycarried in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!"

　　He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it wasso sad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he everyday kept down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully forhim as he stood looking back at her.

　　"Be comforted!" he said, "I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette.An hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scornbut yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than anywretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself,I shall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shallbe what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but oneI make 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 will relieveyou of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison,and between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is uselessto say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for anydear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that betterkind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it,I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you.Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincerein this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be longin coming, when new ties will be formed about you--ties that will bindyou yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearestties that will ever grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when thelittle picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when yousee your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet, thinknow and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keepa life you love beside you!"

　　He said, "Farewell!" said a last "God bless you!" and left her.