The French Revolution has been the subject of more books than
any secular event that ever occurred, and two books by English
writers have brought the passion, the cruelty, and the horror
of it for all time within the shuddering comprehension of
English-speaking people. One is a history that is more than a
history; the other a tale that is more than a tale. Dickens,
no doubt, owed much of his inspiration to Carlyle's tremendous
prose epic. But the genius that depicted a moving and tragic
story upon the red background of the Terror was Dickens's own,
and the "Tale of Two Cities" was final proof that its author
could handle a great theme in a manner that was worthy of its
greatness. The work was one of the novelist's later
writings--it was published in 1859--and is in many respects
distinct from all his others. It stands by itself among
Dickens's masterpieces, in sombre and splendid loneliness--a
detached glory to its author, and to his country's literature.
_I.--Recalled to Life_
A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken in the street. All the
people within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, to
run to the spot and drink the wine. Some kneeled down, made scoops of
their two hands joined, and tried to sip before the wine had all run out
between their fingers. Others dipped in the puddles with little mugs of
mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads. A
shrill sound of laughter resounded in the street while this wine game
lasted.
The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street
in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
wooden shoes. One tall joker so besmirched scrawled upon a wall, with
his finger dipped in muddy wine lees, "Blood!"
And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary gleam
had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was heavy--
cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want were the lords in waiting on
the saintly presence. The children had ancient faces and grave voices;
and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow
of age, and coming up afresh, was the sign--Hunger.
The master of the wine-shop outside of which the cask had been broken
turned back to his shop when the struggle for the wine was ended.
Monsieur Defarge was a dark, bull-necked man, good-humoured-looking on
the whole, but implacable-looking, too. Three men who had been drinking
at the counter paid for their wine, and left. An elderly gentleman, who
had been sitting in a corner with a young lady, advanced, introduced
himself as Mr. Jarvis Lorry, of Tellson's Bank, London, and begged the
favour of a word.
The conference was very short, but very decided. It had not lasted a
minute, when Monsieur Defarge nodded and went out, followed by Mr. Lorry
and the young lady.
He led them through a stinking little black courtyard, and up a
staircase to a dim garret, where a white-haired man sat on a low bench,
stooping and very busy, making shoes.
"You are still hard at work, I see," said Monsieur Defarge.
A pair of haggard eyes looked at the questioner, and a very faint voice
replied, "Yes, I am working."
"Here is a visitor. Show him that shoe and tell him the maker's name."