English
AWonderfulfacttoreflectupon,thateveryhumancreatureisconstitutedtobethatprofoundsecretandmysterytoeveryother.
Asolemnconsideration,whenIenteragreatcitybynight,thateveryoneofthosedarklyclusteredhousesenclosesitsownsecret;thateveryroomineveryoneofthemenclosesitsownsecret;thateverybeatingheartinthehundredsofthousandsofbreaststhere,is,insomeofitsimaginings,asecrettotheheartnearestit!
Somethingoftheawfulness,evenofDeathitself,isreferabletothis.
NomorecanIturntheleavesofthisdearbookthatIloved,andvainlyhopeintimetoreaditall.
NomorecanIlookintothedepthsofthisunfathomablewater,wherein,asmomentarylightsglancedintoit,Ihavehadglimpsesofburiedtreasureandotherthingssubmerged.
Itwasappointedthatthebookshouldshutwithaaspring,foreverandforever,whenIhadreadbutapage.
Itwasappointedthatthewatershouldbelockedinaneternalfrost,whenthelightwasplayingonitssurface,andIstoodinignoranceontheshore.
Myfriendisdead,myneighbourisdead,mylove,thedarlingofmysoul,isdead;itistheinexorableconsolidationandperpetuationofthesecretthatwasalwaysinthatindividuality,andwhichIshallcarryinminetomylife’send.
Inanyoftheburial-placesofthiscitythroughwhichIpass,isthereasleepermoreinscrutablethanitsbusyinhabitantsare,intheirinnermostpersonality,tome,orthanIamtothem?
Astothis,hisnaturalandnottobealienatedinheritance,themessengeronhorsebackhadexactlythesamepossessionsastheKing,thefirstMinisterofState,ortherichestmerchantinLondon.
Sowiththethreepassengersshutupinthenarrowcompassofonelumberingoldmailcoach;theyweremysteriestooneanother,ascompleteasifeachhadbeeninhisowncoachandsix,orhisowncoachandsixty,withthebreadthofacountybetweenhimandthenext.
Themessengerrodebackataneasytrot,stoppingprettyoftenatale-housesbythewaytodrink,butevincingatendencytokeephisowncounsel,andtokeephishatcockedoverhiseyes.
Hehadeyesthatassortedverywellwiththatdecoration,beingofasurfaceblack,withnodepthinthecolourorform,andmuchtooneartogether—asiftheywereafraidofbeingfoundoutinsomething,singly,iftheykepttoofarapart.
Theyhadasinisterexpression,underanoldcocked-hatlikeathree-corneredspittoon,andoveragreatmufflerforthechinandthroat,whichdescendednearlytothewearer’sknees.
Whenhestoppedfordrink,hemovedthismufflerwithhislefthand,onlywhilehepouredhisliquorinwithhisright;assoonasthatwasdone,hemuffledagain.
“No,Jerry,no!”saidthemessenger,harpingononethemeasherode.“Itwouldn’tdoforyou,Jerry.
Jerry,youhonesttradesman,itwouldn’tsuitYOURlineofbusiness!Recalled—!
BustmeifIdon’tthinkhe’dbeenadrinking!”
Hismessageperplexedhismindtothatdegreethathewasfain,severaltimes,totakeoffhishattoscratchhishead.
Exceptonthecrown,whichwasraggedlybald,hehadstiff,blackhair,standingjaggedlyalloverit,andgrowingdownhillalmosttohisbroad,bluntnose.
ItwassolikeSmith’swork,somuchmorelikethetopofastronglyspikedwallthanaheadofhair,thatthebestofplayersatleap-frogmighthavedeclinedhim,asthemostdangerousmanintheworldtogoover.
WhilehetrottedbackwiththemessagehewastodelivertothenightwatchmaninhisboxatthedoorofTellson’sBank,byTempleBar,whowastodeliverittogreaterauthoritieswithin,theshadowsofthenighttooksuchshapestohimasaroseoutofthemessage,andtooksuchshapestothemareasaroseoutofHERprivatetopicsofuneasiness.
Theyseemedtobenumerous,forsheshiedateveryshadowontheroad.
Whattime,themail-coachlumbered,jolted,rattled,andbumpeduponitstediousway,withitsthreefellow-inscrutablesinside.
Towhom,likewise,theshadowsofthenightrevealedthemselves,intheformstheirdozingeyesandwanderingthoughtssuggested.
Tellson’sBankhadarunuponitinthemail.
Asthebankpassenger—withanarmdrawnthroughtheleathernstrap,whichdidwhatlayinittokeephimfrompoundingagainstthenextpassenger,anddrivinghimintohiscorner,wheneverthecoachgotaspecialjolt—noddedinhisplace,withhalf-shuteyes,thelittlecoach-windows,andthecoach-lampdimlygleamingthroughthem,andthebulkybundleofoppositepassenger,becamethebank,anddidagreatstrokeofbusiness.
Therattleoftheharnesswasthechinkofmoney,andmoredraftswerehonouredinfiveminutesthanevenTellson’s,withallitsforeignandhomeconnection,everpaidinthricethetime.
Thenthestrong-roomsunderground,atTellson’s,withsuchoftheirvaluablestoresandsecretsaswereknowntothepassenger(anditwasnotalittlethatheknewaboutthem),openedbeforehim,andhewentinamongthemwiththegreatkeysandthefeebly-burningcandle,andfoundthemsafe,andstrong,andsound,andstill,justashehadlastseenthem.
But,thoughthebankwasalmostalwayswithhim,andthoughthecoach(inaconfusedway,likethepresenceofpainunderanopiate)wasalwayswithhim,therewasanothercurrentofimpressionthatneverceasedtorun,allthroughthenight.
Hewasonhiswaytodigsomeoneoutofagrave.
Now,whichofthemultitudeoffacesthatshowedthemselvesbeforehimwasthetruefaceoftheburiedperson,theshadowsofthenightdidnotindicate;buttheywereallthefacesofamanoffive-and-fortybyyears,andtheydifferedprincipallyinthepassionstheyexpressed,andintheghastlinessoftheirwornandwastedstate.
Pride,contempt,defiance,stubbornness,submission,lamentation,succeededoneanother;sodidvarietiesofsunkencheek,cadaverouscolour,emaciatedhandsandfigures.
Butthefacewasinthemainoneface,andeveryheadwasprematurelywhite.
Ahundredtimesthedozingpassengerinquiredofthisspectre:
“Buriedhowlong?”
Theanswerwasalwaysthesame:“Almosteighteenyears.”
“Youhadabandonedallhopeofbeingdugout?”
“Longago.”
“Youknowthatyouarerecalledtolife?”
“Theytellmeso.”
“Ihopeyoucaretolive?”
“Ican’tsay.”
“ShallIshowhertoyou?Willyoucomeandseeher?”
Theanswerstothisquestionwerevariousandcontradictory.Sometimesthebrokenreplywas,“Wait!
ItwouldkillmeifIsawhertoosoon.”
Sometimes,itwasgiveninatenderrainoftears,andthenitwas,“Takemetoher.”
Sometimesitwasstaringandbewildered,andthenitwas,“Idon’tknowher.Idon’tunderstand.”
Aftersuchimaginarydiscourse,thepassengerinhisfancywoulddig,anddig,dig—nowwithaspade,nowwithagreatkey,nowwithhishands—todigthiswretchedcreatureout.
Gotoutatlast,withearthhangingabouthisfaceandhair,hewouldsuddenlyfanawaytodust.
Thepassengerwouldthenstarttohimself,andlowerthewindow,togettherealityofmistandrainonhischeek.
Yetevenwhenhiseyeswereopenedonthemistandrain,onthemovingpatchoflightfromthelamps,andthehedgeattheroadsideretreatingbyjerks,thenightshadowsoutsidethecoachwouldfallintothetrainofthenightshadowswithin.
TherealBanking-housebyTempleBar,therealbusinessofthepastday,therealstrongrooms,therealexpresssentafterhim,andtherealmessagereturned,wouldallbethere.
Outofthemidstofthem,theghostlyfacewouldrise,andhewouldaccostitagain.
“Buriedhowlong?”
“Almosteighteenyears.”
“Ihopeyoucaretolive?”
“Ican’tsay.”
Dig—dig—dig—untilanimpatientmovementfromoneofthetwopassengerswouldadmonishhimtopullupthewindow,drawhisarmsecurelythroughtheleathernstrap,andspeculateuponthetwoslumberingforms,untilhismindlostitsholdofthem,andtheyagainslidawayintothebankandthegrave.
“Buriedhowlong?”
“Almosteighteenyears.”
“Youhadabandonedallhopeofbeingdugout?”
“Longago.”
Thewordswerestillinhishearingasjustspoken—distinctlyinhishearingaseverspokenwordshadbeeninhislife—whenthewearypassengerstartedtotheconsciousnessofdaylight,andfoundthattheshadowsofthenightweregone.
Heloweredthewindow,andlookedoutattherisingsun.
Therewasaridgeofploughedland,withaploughuponitwhereithadbeenleftlastnightwhenthehorseswereunyoked;beyond,aquietcoppice-wood,inwhichmanyleavesofburningredandgoldenyellowstillremaineduponthetrees.
Thoughtheearthwascoldandwet,theskywasclear,andthesunrosebright,placid,andbeautiful.
“Eighteenyears!”saidthepassenger,lookingatthesun.“GraciousCreatorofday!Tobeburiedaliveforeighteenyears!”
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