《A Tale of Two Cities》　Book2　CHAPTER
XIX An Opinion
　　　　by Charles Dickens

WORN out by anxious
watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was
startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him
when it was dark night.



He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done so, whether he was
not still asleep. For, going to the door of the Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived
that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat
reading at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry
could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly studious and attentive.



Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for
some few moments whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed dream of his own;
for, did not his eyes show him his friend before him in his accustomed clothing and
aspect, and employed as usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change
of which he had so strong an impression had actually happened?



It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being obvious.
If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how came
he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in
Dr. Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the Doctor's
bedroom door in the early morning?



Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he had had any particle
of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved it; but he was by that time
clearheaded, and had none. He advised that they should let the time go by until the
regular breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had
occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then
cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had

been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.



Miss Pross submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out with care. Having
abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the
breakfast-hour in his usual white linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was
summoned in the usual way, and came to breakfast.



So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those delicate and
gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first supposed
that his daughter's marriage had taken place yesterday. An incidentalallusion, purposely
thrown out, to the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and
counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however, he was so
composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid he sought. And that aid was
his own.



Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were left
together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:



`My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a very curious case
in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me; perhaps, to
your better information it may be less so.'



Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked
troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once.



`Doctor Manette,' said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately" title="ad.热情地；体贴地">affectionately on the arm, `the case is the
case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise me well
for his sake--and above all, for his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.'



`If I understand,' said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, `some mental shock---?'



`Yes!'



`Be explicit,' said the Doctor. `Spare no detail.'



Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.



`My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great acuteness and
severity to the affections, the feelings, the--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind.
It is the case of a shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how
long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there are no other means
of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a
process that he cannot trace himself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking
manner. It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a
highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and great exertion of body,
and of constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which was already very
large. But, unfortunately, there has been'--he paused add took a deep breath--`a slight
relapse.'



The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, `Of how long duration?'



`Nine days and nights.'



`How did it show itself? I infer,' glancing at his hands again, `in the resumption of some
old pursuit connected with the shock?'



`That is the fact.'



`Now, did you ever see him,' asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the
same low voice, `engaged in that pursuit originally?'



`Once.'



`And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all respects--as he was
then?'



`I think in all respects.'



`You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?'



`No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only
to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.'



The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, `That was very kind. That was very thoughtful!'
Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while.



`Now, my dear Manette,' said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate and most
affectionate way, `I am a mere man of business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and
difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess
the kind of intelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom I could so
rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there
danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented? How should a repetition of it be
treated? How does it come about at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have
been more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I knew how.
But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity, knowledge, and
experience, could put me on the right track, I might be able to do so much; unenlightened
and undirected, I can do so little. Pray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a
little more clearly, and teach me how to be a little more useful.'



Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not
press him.



`I think so' it probable,' said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort, `that the
relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its subject.'



`Was it dreaded by him?' Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.



`Very much.' He said it with an involuntaryshudder.



`You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's mind, and how
difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force himself to utter a word upon the
topic that oppresses him.'



`Would he,' asked Mr. Lorry, `he sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to
impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on him?'



`I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even believe it--in some
cases--to be quite impossible.'



`Now,' said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again, after a short
silence on both sides, `to what would you refer this attack?'



`I believe,' returned Doctor Manette, `that there had been a strong and extraordinary
revival of the train of thought and remembrance that was the first cause of the malady.
Some intense associations of a most distressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It
is probable that there had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations
would be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a particular occasion. He
tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself made him less able
to bear it.'



`Would he remember what took place in the relapse?' asked Mr. Lorry, with natural
hesitation.



The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and answered, in a low voice,
`Not at all.'



`Now, as to the future,' hinted Mr. Lorry.



`As to the future,' said the Doctor, recovering firmness, `I should have great hope. As it
pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He; yielding
under the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded and long vaguelyforeseen and
contended against, and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
the worst was over.'



`Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!' said Mr. Lorry.



`I am thankful!' repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.



`There are two other points,' said Mr. Lorry, `on which I am anxious to be instructed. I
may go on?



`You cannot do your friend a better service.' The Doctor gave him his hand.



`To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusuallyenergetic; he applies
himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting
of experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too much?'



`I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in singular need of
occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in part, the result of affliction. The
less it was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the

unhealthy direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.'



`You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?'



`I think I am quite sure of it.'



`My dear Manette, if he were overworked now'



`My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one
direction, and it needs a counter-weight.'



`Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that he was
overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this disorder?'



`I do not think so. I do not think,' said Doctor Manette with the firmness of
self-conviction, `that anything but the one train of association would renew it. I think
that, hence-forth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it.
Alter what has happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such
violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost believe, that the
circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.'



He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing would overset the
delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had slowly won
his assurance out of personal endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate
that confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and
approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all; but,
remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he
had seen in the last nine days, he knew that he must face it.



`The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction so happily
recovered from,' said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, `we will call-Blacksmith's work,
Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a case and for the sake of illustration, that he
had been used, in his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was
unexpectedly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by him?'



The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously on the ground.



`He has always kept it by him,' said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at his friend. `Now,
would it not be better that he should let it go?'



Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground.



`You do not find it easy to advise me?' said Mr. Lorry.



`I quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think---' And there he shook his
head, and stopped.



`You see,' said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause, `it is very hard to
explain, consistently, the innermost workings of this poor man's mind. He once yearned so
frightfully for that occupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved
his pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the
brain, and by substituting, as he became more practised, the ingenuity of the hands, for
the ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of
putting it quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of himself
than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the idea that
he might need that old employment, and not find it, gives him a sudden sense of terror,
like that which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.'



He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lob's face. `But may
not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business who only deals with such
material objects as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes--may not the retention of the thing
involve the retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the
fear go with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the forge?'



There was another silence.



`You see, too,' said the Doctor, tremulously, `it is such an old companion.'



`I would not keep it,' said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained in firmness as he
saw the Doctor disquieted. `I would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want your
authority. I am sure it does no good. Come! Give me your authority, like a dear good man.
For his daughter's sake, my dear Manette!'



Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him! `In her name, then, let it be
done; I sanction it. But, I would not take it away while he was present. Let it be removed
when he is not there; let him miss his old companion after an absence.'



Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They passed the day in
the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days he remained
perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The
precaution that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously
explained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no
suspicions.



On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into his room with a
chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There,
with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's
bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--or
which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body
(previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was commenced without delay in
the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked
do destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while
enraged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost felt, and
almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime.
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