双城记——祝贺

2017-02-21 09:11:11   Tag:

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双城记——祝贺:那一锅人头攒动的沸羹已翻腾了一整天,现在正经过灯光暗淡的走道流泄出它最后的残余。此时曼内特医生、他的女儿露西·曼内特、被告的代办人罗瑞先生和被告的辩护律师斯特莱佛先生正围在刚刚被释放的查尔斯·达尔内身边,祝贺他死里逃生。



CONGRATULATORY 


F rom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his escape from death. 


It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognize in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering agony, would always—as on the trial—evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away. 


Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch 


of her hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and slight, and she believed them over. 


Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life. 


He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: “I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed on that account.” 


“You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two senses,” said his late client, taking his hand. 


“I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as another man’s, I believe.” 


It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, “Much better,” Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. 


“You think so?” said Mr. Stryver. “Well! you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.” 


“And as such,” quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered him out of it—“as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.” 


“Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,” said Stryver; “I have a night’s work to do yet. Speak for yourself.” 


“I speak for myself,” answered Mr. Lorry, “and for Mr. Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and—Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?” He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father. 


His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughts had wandered away. 


“My father,” said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his. 


He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her. 


“Shall we go home, my father?” 


With a long breath, he answered “Yes.” 


The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression—which he himself had originated—that he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until tomorrow morning’s interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should re-people it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into the open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter departed in it. 


Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning against the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement. 


“So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?” 


Nobody had made any acknowledgement of Mr. Carton’s part in the day’s proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance. 


“If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.” 


Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, “You have mentioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the House more than ourselves.” 


“I know, I know,” rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. “Don’t be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I daresay.” 


“And indeed, sir,” pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, “I really don’t know what you have to do with the matter. If you’ll excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, I really don’t know that it is your business.” 


“Business! Bless you, I have no business,” said Mr. Carton. 


“It is a pity you have not, sir.” 


“I think so, too.” 


“If you had,” pursued Mr. Lorry, “perhaps you would attend to it.” 


“Lord love you, no!—I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Carton. 


“Well, sir!” cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference, “business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.—Chair there!” 


Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson’s. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay: 


“This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street stones?” 


“I hardly seem yet,” returned Charles Darnay, “to belong to this world again.” 


“I don’t wonder at it; it’s not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.” 


“I begin to think I am faint.” 


“Then why the devil don’t you dine? I dined, myself, while those numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to—this, or some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.” 


Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgatehill to Fleet Street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him. 


“Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr. Darnay?” 


“I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far mended as to feel that.” 


“It must be an immense satisfaction!” 


He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one. 


“As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no good in it for me—except wine like this—nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any particular, you and I.” 


Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all. 


“Now your dinner is done,” Carton presently said, “why don’t you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don’t you give your toast?” 


“What health? What toast?” 


“Why, it’s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I’ll swear it’s there.” 


“Miss Manette, then!” 


“Miss Manette, then!” 


Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another. 


“That’s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!” he said, filling his new goblet. 


A slight frown and a laconic, “Yes,” were the answer. 


“That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be the object of 


such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?” 


Again Darnay answered not a word. 


“She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it to her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.” 


The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it. 


“I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,” was the careless rejoinder. “It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don’t know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.” 


“Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.” 


“Do you think I particularly like you?” 


“Really, Mr. Carton,” returned the other, oddly disconcerted, “I have not asked myself the question.” 


“But ask yourself the question now.” 


“You have acted as if you do; but I don’t think you do.” 


“I don’t think I do,” said Carton. “I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding.” 


“Nevertheless,” pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, “there is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side.” 


Carton rejoining, “Nothing in life!” Darnay rang. “Do you call the whole reckoning?” said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, “Then bring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.” 


The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and said: “A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?” 


“I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.” 


“Think? You know I have been drinking.” 


“Since I must say so, I know it.” 


“Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.” 


“Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.” 


“May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don’t let your sober face elate you, however; you don’t know what it may come to. Good night!” 


When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it. 


“Do you particularly like the man?” he muttered, at his own image; “why should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and have it out in plain words! You hate the fellow!” 


He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him. 

祝贺


那一锅人头攒动的沸羹已翻腾了一整天,现在正经过灯光暗淡的走道流泄出它最后的残余。此时曼内特医生、他的女儿露西·曼内特、被告的代办人罗瑞先生和被告的辩护律师斯特莱佛先生正围在刚刚被释放的查尔斯·达尔内身边,祝贺他死里逃生。


即使灯光明亮了许多,要在这位面貌聪颖,腰板挺直的曼内特医生身上辨认出当年巴黎阁楼里的那个老鞋匠也已十分困难。但是多看过他一眼的人即或还没有机会从他那低沉阴郁的嗓门听见那凄苦的调子,不曾见到那每每无缘无故便丧魂落魄的黯淡神态,也往往想多看他一眼。能使他从灵魂深处泛起这种情绪的可以是一种外在的因素,即重提那长期纠缠过他的痛苦经历(比加在这次审判中),也可能是由于这种情绪的本质而自行出现,将他笼罩在阴霾之中,这时候,不知道他来龙去脉的人便难免感到迷惑,仿佛看到夏天的太阳把现实中的巴士底监狱的阴影从三百英里之外投射到他的身上。


只有他的女儿具有把这种阴郁的沉思从他心里赶走的魔力。她是一条金色的丝线,把他跟受难以前的历史连结在一起,也把他跟受难以后的现在连结在一起:她说话的声音、她面颊的光辉、她双手的触摸,几乎对他永远有一种有利的影响。不能绝对地说永远,因为她也让他想起某些使她失去魔力的时刻。不过这种时刻不多,后果也不严重,而且她相信它已成为过去。


达尔内先生已经热情地、感激地吻过她的手,也已转身向斯特莱佛先生表示了热烈的谢意。斯特莱佛先生三十刚过,看来却要比实际年龄大上二十岁。他身体健壮、嗓门粗大、红光满面、大大咧咧,全不受礼仪羁绊,有一种勇往直前地往人群里挤,去找人攀谈的派头(肉体上如此,道德上也如此),而其后果也很能为他的这种做法辩护。


他仍然戴着假发,穿着律师袍子,便闯到他的前当事人面前,无缘无故地把罗瑞先生挤到了一边。他说:“我很高兴能大获全胜把你救了出来,达尔内先生。这是一场无耻的审判,无耻至极。可并不因为无耻而减少它胜诉的可能。”


“我对你终身感激不尽--在两种意义上,”前当事人抓住他的手说。


“我已经为你竭尽了全力,达尔内先生;我这个人竭尽了全力是不会比任何人逊色的,我相信。”


这话分明是要别人接着话茬说,“你可比别人强多了。”罗瑞先生便这样说了。也许他这样说并非没有自己的打算。他是打算挤回圈子里来。


“你这样看么?”斯特莱佛先生说,“是呀,你今天全天在场,应该了解情况。你也是个办理业务的人呢。”


“正因为如此,”罗瑞先生说。熟悉法律的律师又把他挤回了圈子,跟前不久把他挤了出去一样--“正因为如此我要向曼内特医生建议停止交谈,命令大家回家。露西小姐气色不好,达尔内先生过了一天可怕的日子,我们大家都精疲力竭了。”


“你只能代表自己说话,罗瑞先生,”斯特莱佛先生说,“我还有一夜的活儿要干呢。代表你自己说话。”


“我代表我自己说话,”罗瑞先生回答,“也代表达尔内先生说话,代表露西小姐说话--露西小姐,你认为我可以代表我们全体说话么?”他这个问题是向她提出的,却也瞄了一眼她的父亲。


她父亲的脸仿佛冻结了,很奇怪地望着达尔内。那是一种专注的眼神,眉头渐渐地皱紧了,露出厌恶和怀疑的神气,甚至还混合有恐惧。他露出这种离奇的表情,思想已经飞到了远处。


“爸爸,”露西把一只手温柔地放在他的手上。


他缓缓地抖掉了身上的阴影,向她转过身去。


“我们回家吧,爸爸?”


他长呼了一口气,说,“好的。”


无罪释放的囚徒的朋友们分了手,他们有一种感觉:他还不会当晚就放出来--但这印象只是他自己造成的。通道里的光几乎全熄灭了。铁门在砰砰地、嘎嘎地关闭。人们正在离开这可怕的地方。对绞刑架、枷号示众、鞭刑柱、烙铁的兴趣要到第二天早上才会吸引人们在这儿重新出现。露西·曼内特走在她父亲和达尔内先生之间,踏进了露天里。他们雇了一部出租马车,父女俩便坐着车走了。


斯特莱佛先生早在走道里就已跟他们分了手,挤回了衣帽间。另外有一个人,从来没有跟这群人会合,也没有跟他们中任何人说过一句话,却一直靠在一堵为最深沉的黑暗笼罩着的墙壁上,等到别人都离开之后才慢慢走出阴影,站在一边望着,直到马车走掉。现在他向罗瑞先生和达尔内先生站着的街道走去。


“那么,罗瑞先生!办理业务的人可以向达尔内先生说说话了么?”


对卡尔顿先生在白天的程序中所扮演的角色至今还没有人表示过感谢,也还没有人知道。他已经脱下了律师长袍,可他那模样并无任何改善。


“你若是知道办理业务的人心里有些什么矛盾,你会觉得很有意思的。有两种力量在斗争,一种是善良天性的冲动,一种是业务工作的面子。”


罗瑞先生脸红了,热情地说,“你以前也说过这话,先生。我们办理业务的人是为公司服务的,作不了自己的主。我们不能不多想公司,少想自己。”


“我知道,我知道,”卡尔顿先生信口说着,“不要生气,罗瑞先生。你跟别人一样善良,这我毫不怀疑,甚至还敢说你比别人更善良。”


“实际上,先生,”罗瑞先生没有理他,只顾说下去,“我的确不知道你跟这件事有什么关系。我比你年龄大了许多,冒昧说一句,我的确不知道这事会变成你的业务。”


“业务!上帝保佑你,我没有业务!”卡尔顿先生说。


“真遗憾你没有业务,先生。”


“我也认为遗憾。”


“若是你有了业务,”罗瑞先生不肯放松,“你也许会好好干的。”


“愿主喜爱你,不!--我不会好好干的,”卡尔顿先生说。


“好吧,先生:”罗瑞先生叫了起来,对方的满不在乎使他很生气,“业务是很好的东西,很体面的东西。而且,如果业务给人带来了制约和不便,迫使人沉默的话,达尔内先生是个慷慨大方的绅士,他知道该怎么大方地处理的。达尔内先生,晚安。上帝保佑你,先生!我希望你今天兴旺与幸福--轿子!”


罗瑞先生也许有点生自己的气,也有点生那律师的气。他匆匆上了轿,回台尔森银行去了。卡尔顿散发着啤酒气,看来已有几分醉意。他哈哈大笑,转身对达尔内说:


“把你跟我抛掷到一起的是一种奇特的机缘。今天晚上你单独和一个相貌酷似你的人一起站在街头的石板上,一定很觉得异样吧?”


“我简直还没觉得回到人世呢,”查尔斯·达尔内回答。


“这我并不感到奇怪;你在黄泉路上已经走了很远呢。连说话也没了力气。”


“我倒开始感到真是一点力气也没有了。”


“那你干吗不吃饭去?那些傻瓜们在研究你应该属于哪个世界时,我已经吃过饭了。让我引你到最近的一家酒店去美美地吃一顿吧!”


他挽起他的胳膊带他通过路盖希尔,来到舰队街,穿过了一段有街棚的路面进入了一家小酒店。他们被引进一间小屋。查尔斯·达尔内在这里吃了一顿简单却味美的晚饭,喝了些甘醇的酒,体力开始恢复。而卡尔顿则带着满脸颇不客气的神情坐在桌子对面,面前摆了自己的一瓶啤酒。


“你现在觉得回到了这个扰攘的人世了么,达尔内先生?”


“我的时间感和地区感都混乱得可怕。不过,我已经恢复了许多,能感到混乱了。”


“你一定感到非常称心如意吧!”


他尖刻地说,又斟满了一杯酒。那杯子挺大。


“对我来说,能叫我最称心如意的便是忘掉我属于这个世界。这个世界对我毫无好处--除了这样的美酒之外。同样,我对它也毫无好处。所以在这个问题上我俩是不大相似的。实际上我开始感到我们在任何方面都不大相像。”


一天的情绪折磨已把查尔斯·达尔内弄得精神恍惚。他感到跟这位行动粗鲁、面貌酷似自己的人在一起像在做梦,因此不知道回答什么好,最后只好索性一言不发。


“你既然吃完了饭,”卡尔顿立即说道,“你为什么不为健康干杯呢,达尔内先生?为什么不祝一祝酒呢?”


“为谁的健康干杯?为谁祝酒?”


“怎么啦,那人不就在你的舌尖上么?应该在的,必然是在的,我发誓它一定在。”


“那就是曼内特小姐了!”


“曼内特小姐!”


卡尔顿正面望着伙伴祝酒,却把自己的酒杯扔到身后的墙上,摔得粉碎,然后按铃叫来了另一个杯子。


“你在黑暗里送进马车的可是个漂亮小姐呢,达尔内先生!”他往新杯里斟着酒,说。


回答是淡淡的皱眉和一声简短的“是的”。


“有这样美丽的小姐同情,有她为你哭泣是很幸运的呢!你感觉怎么样?能得到这样的同情与怜悯,即使受到生死审判也是值得的吧,达尔内先生?”


达尔内仍旧默然。


“我把你的消息带给她时她非常高兴。她虽然没有表示,我却这样估计。”


这一句暗示及时提醒了达尔内:这个讨厌的伙伴那天曾主动帮助他渡过了难关。他立即转向了这个话头,并对他表示感谢。


“我不需要感谢,也不值得感谢,”回答是满不在乎的一句。“首先,那不过是举手之劳,其次,我也不知道为什么这样做。达尔内先生,让我问你一个问题。”


“欢迎,也可以对你的帮助聊表谢意。”


“你以为我特别喜欢你么?”


“的确,卡尔顿先生,”达尔内回答,出奇地感到不安。“我还没有问过自己这个问题呢。”


“那你现在就问问自己吧。”


“从你做的事看来,似乎喜欢,可我并不觉得你喜欢我。”


“我也觉得我并不喜欢你,”卡尔顿说。“我对你的理解力开始有了很高的评价。”


“不过,”达尔内接下去,一面起身按铃,“我希望这不至于妨碍我付帐,也不至于妨碍我们彼此全无恶意地分手。”


卡尔顿回答道,“我才不走呢!”达尔内按铃。“你打算全部付帐么?”卡尔顿问。对方做了肯定的回答。“那就再给我来一品脱同样的酒。伙计,十点钟再叫醒我。”


查尔斯·达尔内付了帐,向他道了晚安。卡尔顿没有回答,却带着几分挑战的神态站起身来,“还有最后一句话,达尔内先生:你以为我醉了么?”


“我认为你一直在喝酒,卡尔顿先生。”


“认为?你知道我是一直在喝酒。”


“既然我非回答不可,我的目答是:知道。”


“那你也必须明白我为什么喝酒。我是个绝望了的苦力,先生。我不关心世上任何人,也没有任何人关心我。”


“非常遗憾。你是可以更好地发挥你的才智的。”


“也许可以,达尔内先生,也许不行。不过,别因为你那张清醒的面孔而得意。你还不知道会出现什么后果呢,晚安!”


这个奇怪的家伙单独留了下来。他拿起一枝蜡烛,走到墙上的镜子而前,细细地打量镜里的自己。


“你特别喜欢这个人么?”他对着自己的影子喃喃地说,“你凭什么要特别喜欢一个长得像你的人?你知道你自己并不爱他啊,滚蛋吧!你让自己发生了多大的变化!好一个理由,居然让你喜欢上了一个人,只不过他让你看到了你追求不到的东西,看到了你可能变成的样子!你若跟他交换地位,你能像他一样受到那双蓝眼睛的青睐么?能像他一样得到那一张激动的脸儿的同情么?算了,说穿了吧,你恨他!”


他向那一品脱酒寻求安慰,几分钟之内把它喝了个精光。然后他便双臂伏在桌上睡着了,他的头发拖在桌上,烛泪点点落在他身上,犹如流成了一道长长的裹尸布。


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