The "happily ever after" ending is here in spirit,
and will be demonstrated to its fullest in heaven.
"I am the resurrection, and the life:
he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live."
~ John 11:25 ~
"The Footsteps Die Out Forever"
The last chapter of "A Tale of Two Cities"
By Charles Dickens
ong the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and
harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the
one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety
of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow
to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror.
Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself
into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression
over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.
Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were, thou
powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute
monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the
churches that are not my Father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions
of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed
order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. "If thou be changed
into this shape by the will of God," say the seers to the enchanted, in the
wise Arabian stories, "then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere
passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!" Changeless and hopeless,
the tumbrils roll along.
As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked
furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side
and to that, the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants
of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in
some occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the
faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;
then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised
exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and
who there the day before.
Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their
last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the
ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair;
again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude
such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their
eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he
a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror,
that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or
gesture, to the pity of the people.
There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are
often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem
to be always the same question, for it is always followed by a press of people towards
the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in
it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at
the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girI who
sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for
the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street
of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only
to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He
cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound. On the steps of a church, awaiting
the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the
first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself,
"Has he sacrificed me?" when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
"Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind him.
"That. At the back there."
"With his hand in the girl's?"
The man cries, "Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!"
"Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly. "And why not, citizen?"
"He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him
be at peace."
But the man continuing to exclaim, "Down, Evremonde!" the face of Evremonde
is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively
at him, and goes his way.
The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace
is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown
to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes
on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as
in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of
the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
"Therese!" she cries, in her shrill tones. "Who has seen her? Therese
"She never missed before," says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
"No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance petulantly. "Therese!"
"Louder," the woman recommends.
Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee. Louder
yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her.
Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although
the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills
they will go far enough to find her!
"Bad Fortune!" cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, "and
here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be dispatched in a wink, and she not here!
See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation
As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge
their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash! - a head
is held up, and the knitting-women, who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it
a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One. The second tumbril empties
and moves on; the third comes up. Crash! - And the knitting-women, never faltering
or pausing in their work, count Two. The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress
is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting
out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face
and thanks him.
"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally
a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts
to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here today. I think
you were sent to me by Heaven."
"Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear
child, and mind no other object."
"I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go,
if they are rapid."
"They will be rapid. Fear not!"
The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were
alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children
of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on
the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.
"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am
very ignorant, and it troubles me - just a little."
"Tell me what it is."
"I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very
dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the
south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate - for I cannot
write - and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is."
"Yes, yes, better as it is."
"What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now,
as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this: - If
the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in
all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old."
"What then, my gentle sister?"
"Do you think"; the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance,
fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble: "that it will
seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and
I will be mercifully sheltered?"
"It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there."
"You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment
She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand
does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy
is in the patient face. She goes next before him - is gone; the knitting-women count
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in
Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in
Me, shall never die!"
The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many
footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like
one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three.
They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man's face
ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic. One of the most
remarkable sufferers by the same axe - a woman - had asked at the foot of the same
scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were inspiring
her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have
"I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Jurymen, the Judge, long
ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing
by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see
a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles
to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long, long years to come,
I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural
birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous
and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon
her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored,
and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace; I see the good old man,
so long their friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing
tranquilly to his reward.
"I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants,
generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of
this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their
last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the
other's soul, than I was in the souls of both.
"I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning
his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well,
that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw
upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing
a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place - then
fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement - and I hear him
tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far,
far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known."