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The Wine-shop

Page history last edited by Michael J 12 years, 11 months ago

A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street.

The accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had

tumbled out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones

just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a

walnut-shell.

 

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their

idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough,

irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed,

one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that

approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded,

each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size.

Some men kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and

sipped, or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to

sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others,

men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated

earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads, which

were squeezed dry into infants' mouths; others made small mud-

embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by

lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off

little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others

devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask,

licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with

eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not

only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with

it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody

acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence.

 

A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men,

women, and children--resounded in the street while this wine game

lasted. There was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness.

There was a special companionship in it, an observable inclination on

the part of every one to join some other one, which led, especially

among the luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces,

drinking of healths, shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and

dancing, a dozen together. When the wine was gone, and the places

where it had been most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by

fingers, these demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken

out. The man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was

cutting, set it in motion again; the women who had left on a door-step

the little pot of hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften

the pain in her own starved fingers and toes, or in those of her

child, returned to it; men with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous

faces, who had emerged into the winter light from cellars, moved

away, to descend again; and a gloom gathered on the scene that

appeared more natural to it than sunshine.

 

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. The hands of the man who sawed

the wood, left red marks on the billets; and the forehead of the

woman who nursed her baby, was stained with the stain of the old rag

she wound about her head again. Those who had been greedy with the

staves of the cask, had acquired a tigerish smear about the mouth;

and one tall joker so besmirched, his head more out of a long squalid

bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled upon a wall with his finger

dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.

 

The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the

street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.

 

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--nobles of great power all of them;

but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had

undergone a terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and

certainly not in the fabulous mill which ground old people young,

shivered at every corner, passed in and out at every doorway, looked

from every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment that the

wind shook. The mill which had worked them down, was the mill that

grinds young people old; 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 sigh, Hunger. It

was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses,

in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was

patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was

repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the

man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and

started up from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse,

of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker's

shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad

bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was

offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting

chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in

every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some

reluctant drops of oil.

 

Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding

street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets

diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of

rags and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon

them that looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet

some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed

and slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among

them; nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor

foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused

about enduring, or inflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost

as many as the shops) were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The

butcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat;

the baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves. The people rudely pictured

as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked over their scanty measures of

thin wine and beer, and were gloweringly confidential together.

Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition, save tools and

weapons; but, the cutler's knives and axes were sharp and bright, the

smith's hammers were heavy, and the gunmaker's stock was murderous.

The crippling stones of the pavement, with their many little

reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but broke off abruptly

at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down the middle of the

street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy rains, and

then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across the

streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and

pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,

and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly

manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea,

and the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.

 

For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region

should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger,

so long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and

hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the

darkness of their condition. But, the time was not come yet; and

every wind that blew over France shook the rags of the scarecrows

in vain, for the birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning.

 

The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its

appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood

outside it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at

the struggle for the lost wine. "It's not my affair," said he,

with a final shrug of the shoulders. "The people from the market

did it. Let them bring another."

 

There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his

joke, he called to him across the way:

 

"Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?"

 

The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often

the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed,

as is often the way with his tribe too.

 

"What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?" said the

wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with

a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it.

"Why do you write in the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is

there no other place to write such words in?"

 

In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,

perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his

own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic

dancing attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot

into his hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say

wolfishly practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.

 

"Put it on, put it on," said the other. "Call wine, wine; and finish

there." With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's

dress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand

on his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.

 

This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of

thirty, and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although

it was a bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his

shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms

were bare to the elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his

head than his own crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man

altogether, with good eyes and a good bold breadth between them.

Good-humoured looking on the whole, but implacable-looking, too;

evidently a man of a strong resolution and a set purpose; a man not

desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow pass with a gulf on either

side, for nothing would turn the man.

 

Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he

came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with

a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand

heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure

of manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which

one might have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against

herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame

Defarge being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a

quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though not to the

concealment of her large earrings. Her knitting was before her, but

she had laid it down to pick her teeth with a toothpick. Thus

engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left hand, Madame

Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one

grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly

defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested

to her husband that he would do well to look round the shop among the

customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped

over the way.

 

The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they

rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in

a corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing

dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short

supply of wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that

the elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, "This is our

man."

 

"What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?" said Monsieur

Defarge to himself; "I don't know you."

 

But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into

discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the

counter.

 

"How goes it, Jacques?" said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge.

"Is all the spilt wine swallowed?"

 

"Every drop, Jacques," answered Monsieur Defarge.

 

When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,

picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,

and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

 

"It is not often," said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur

Defarge, "that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine,

or of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?"

 

"It is so, Jacques," Monsieur Defarge returned.

 

At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge,

still using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another

grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.

 

The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty

drinking vessel and smacked his lips.

 

"Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle

always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques.

Am I right, Jacques?"

 

"You are right, Jacques," was the response of Monsieur Defarge.

 

This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the

moment when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows

up, and slightly rustled in her seat.

 

"Hold then! True!" muttered her husband. "Gentlemen--my wife!"

 

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with

three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head,

and giving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner

round the wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent

calmness and repose of spirit, and became absorbed in it.

 

"Gentlemen," said her husband, who had kept his bright eye

observantly upon her, "good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-

fashion, that you wished to see, and were inquiring for when I

stepped out, is on the fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase

gives on the little courtyard close to the left here," pointing with

his hand, "near to the window of my establishment. But, now that I

remember, one of you has already been there, and can show the way.

Gentlemen, adieu!"

 

They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur

Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly

gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.

 

"Willingly, sir," said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him

to the door.

 

Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the

first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive.

It had not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The

gentleman then beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out.

Madame Defarge knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and

saw nothing.

 

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,

joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his

own company just before. It opened from a stinking little black

courtyard, and was the general public entrance to a great pile of

houses, inhabited by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-

paved entry to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent

down on one knee to the child of his old master, and put her hand to

his lips. It was a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very

remarkable transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had

no good-humour in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had

become a secret, angry, dangerous man.

 

"It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly."

Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began

ascending the stairs.

 

"Is he alone?" the latter whispered.

 

"Alone! God help him, who should be with him!" said the other, in the

same low voice.

 

"Is he always alone, then?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Of his own desire?"

 

"Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they

found me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril

be discreet--as he was then, so he is now."

 

"He is greatly changed?"

 

"Changed!"

 

The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,

and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half

so forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and

his two companions ascended higher and higher.

 

Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded

parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was

vile indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little

habitation within the great foul nest of one high building--that is

to say, the room or rooms within every door that opened on the

general staircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing,

besides flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable

and hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted

the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their

intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost

insupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of

dirt and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of

mind, and to his young companion's agitation, which became greater

every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these

stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any languishing

good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all

spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. Through the rusted

bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled

neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the

summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it

of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.

 

At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for

the third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper

inclination and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the

garret story was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going

a little in advance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry

took, as though he dreaded to be asked any question by the young

lady, turned himself about here, and, carefully feeling in the

pockets of the coat he carried over his shoulder, took out a key.

 

"The door is locked then, my friend?" said Mr. Lorry, surprised.

 

"Ay. Yes," was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.

 

"You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?"

 

"I think it necessary to turn the key." Monsieur Defarge whispered it

closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.

 

"Why?"

 

"Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be

frightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what

harm--if his door was left open."

 

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Mr. Lorry.

 

"Is it possible!" repeated Defarge, bitterly. "Yes. And a beautiful

world we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such

things are possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see

you!--under that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us

go on."

 

This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word

of it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she

trembled under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep

anxiety, and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt

it incumbent on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.

 

"Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over

in a moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over.

Then, all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the

happiness you bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here,

assist you on that side. That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now.

Business, business!"

 

They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they

were soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they

came all at once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down

close together at the side of a door, and who were intently looking

into the room to which the door belonged, through some chinks or

holes in the wall. On hearing footsteps close at hand, these three

turned, and rose, and showed themselves to be the three of one name

who had been drinking in the wine-shop.

 

"I forgot them in the surprise of your visit," explained Monsieur

Defarge. "Leave us, good boys; we have business here."

 

The three glided by, and went silently down.

 

There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of

the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone,

Mr. Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:

 

"Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?"

 

"I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few."

 

"Is that well?"

 

"_I_ think it is well."

 

"Who are the few? How do you choose them?"

 

"I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom

the sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is

another thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment."

 

With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked

in through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he

struck twice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object

than to make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key

across it, three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the

lock, and turned it as heavily as he could.

 

The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the

room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little

more than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.

 

He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter.

Mr. Lorry got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held

her; for he felt that she was sinking.

 

"A-a-a-business, business!" he urged, with a moisture that was not of

business shining on his cheek. "Come in, come in!"

 

"I am afraid of it," she answered, shuddering.

 

"Of it? What?"

 

"I mean of him. Of my father."

 

Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of

their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his

shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat

her down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.

 

Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,

took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,

methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as

he could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured

tread to where the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.

 

The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was

dim and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in

the roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores

from the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces,

like any other door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one

half of this door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a

very little way. Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through

these means, that it was difficult, on first coming in, to see

anything; and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one,

the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet,

work of that kind was being done in the garret; for, with his back

towards the door, and his face towards the window where the keeper of

the wine-shop stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat on a low

bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.

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