《A Tale of Two Cities》　Book1　CHAPTER III      The Night Shadows
　　　　by Charles Dickens

Wonderful fact to reflect upon, that
every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every
other.A solemn consideration, when enter a great city by night, that every one of those
darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them
encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts
there, is, if some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the
awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of
this dear book that loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into
the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein as momentary lights glanced into it, I have
had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book
should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I

had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost,
when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My
friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the
inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that
individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In any of the
burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than
it busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me or than I am to them.



As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance the messenger on horseback had
exactly the same possession as the King, the first Minister of State, or the richest
merchant in London. So with the three passengers shut up i' the narrow compass

of one lumbering old mail-coach; the were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each
ha been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county
between him and the next.



The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at ale-houses by the way to
drink, but evincing tendency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his
eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black,
with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they were afraid of
being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart. They had a sinister
expression, under an old cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great
muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When

he stopped for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his
liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled again.



No, Jerry, no!' said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode. `It wouldn't do for
you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't suit your line of business!
Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd been a drinking!'



His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off
his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff
black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad,
blunt nose. It was so like smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him,
as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.



While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box
at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities
within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and
took such shapes to the mare as arose out of her private topics of  uneasiness. They
seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.



What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious way, with
its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed
themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.



Tellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger--with an arm drawn
through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the
next passenger, and driving him into his comer, whenever the coach got a special
jolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the
coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became
the bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of
money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with all its
foreign and home connexion, ever paid in thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms
underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to
the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he
went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe,
and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.



But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way,
like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another current
of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig
some one out of a grave.



Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face
of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the
faces of a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions
they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,
defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties
of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the
main one face, and every head was prematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger
inquired of this spectre:



`Buried how long'



The answer was always the same: `Almost eighteen years.'



`You had abandoned all hope of being dug out'



`Long ago.'



`You know that you are recalled to life'



`They tell me so.



`I hope you care to live'



`I can't say.'



`Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see he''



The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply
was, `Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.' Sometimes, it was given in a tender
rain of tears, and then it was `Take me to her.' Sometimes it was staring and bewildered,
and then it was, `I don't know her. I don't understand.'



After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig--now,
with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands--to dig this wretched creature out.
Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fall away
to dust. The passenger would then start to himself and lower the window, to get the
reality of mist and rain on his cheek.



Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from
the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadow's outside
the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by
Temple Bar, the real business of the past day, the real strong-rooms, the real express
sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the midst of
them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again.



`Buried how long'



`Almost eighteen years.



`I hope you care to live'



`I can't say.'



Dig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish
him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate
upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid
away into the bank and the grave.



`Buried how long'



`Almost eighteen years.'



`You had abandoned all hope of being dug out'



`Long ago.'



The words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in his hearing as ever
spoken words had been in his life--when the weary passenger started to the consciousness
of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.



He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of ploughed
land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were
unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden
yellow still remained upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was
clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.



`Eighteen years!' said the passenger, looking at the sun. `Gracious Creator of day! To be
buried alive for eighteen years!'

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