• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

‘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, henceforth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After 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 Lorry’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