Fleet Street is modern mayhem: cars honk, buses swerve, and businessmen push past us with their heads down and briefcases swinging. We have to nearly shout so that our voices can be heard, making exaggerated expressions and emphatic gestures as we hurry down this busy street. I slip between tour groups milling around taverns and tea shops, striding quickly to keep up with our USC group, and almost walk right past the little alleyway that leads to Middle Temple.
As soon as we turn onto this tiny path, the city’s steady rumble drops to a tranquil hush. Our voices, once barely audible amid Fleet Street's hustle and bustle, suddenly feel loud and out of place. It is like stepping back in time: old-fashioned lamps decorate street corners, barristers walk along cobblestone streets, and hand-painted signs adorn the entrance to each building. In the distance, we hear Gregorian chants softly streaming from Temple Church.
A moment of silence in Middle Temple.
This is where Mr. Stryver lives in A Tale of Two Cities. When Stryver’s “great ally” Sydney Carton meets Stryver after a successful trial, he “turned into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King’s Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.” The “Temple” Dickens references here is the very same as the Middle Temple we're visiting. For the next few hours, Carton pores over piles of legal papers while Stryver reclines in front of the fire, occasionally picking up a "lighter document." It’s in this scene that we begin to glimpse the differences between each man’s nature. While Carton sheds sweat and tears, Stryver relaxes with brandy and rum in hand. Later, as dawn begins to break, Carton must retreat to his lonely lodgings, whereas Stryver immediately retires to bed.
In the portion of the book that we’ve read thus far, Stryver seems maddeningly entitled and out of touch: when he decides to ask for Lucie’s hand, Dickens teasingly writes that Stryver had “made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s daughter.” Artless and egotistical, this statement pokes fun at Stryver’s self-absorption and ignorance. It is clear that Mr. Stryver is a man unaccustomed to the denial of any pleasure, blissfully unaware of the miserable struggles of Carton and the common people around him.
Perhaps the cobblestone street Carton took to get home.
As our class marvels at Middle Temple’s manicured gardens, it becomes easier to understand Stryver’s obliviousness. Middle Temple is charmingly beautiful but profoundly insular: gardens are accessible by key card only, buildings are locked, and even prospective members of the Inn of Court must submit an £178 application fee. As we stand under a magnificent mulberry tree, there is no trace of the surrounding city’s chaos - it feels like a different world, one unconcerned with the strife of those outside its walls.
In class, we’ve been discussing the nature of societal change and revolution. History has shown us how people like Stryver perpetuate injustice by being focused solely on their own gain. Dickens characterizes Stryver as a sly and unscrupulous lawyer “already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative practice" - to Stryver, wealth supersedes others’ welfare. We see the same mindset in the Marquis, a large and loathsome man who runs over a child with his carriage. Stryver’s boorishness and the Marquis’ antagonism reveal the lack of concern that the upper class had for Europe’s common people, sowing the seeds of popular revolt. We’ve seen glimpses of this in the novel already. In France, Madame Defarge ominously knits a register of those “doomed to destruction,” including those connected to the Marquis. She vows vengeance and retribution, insistent on the triumph of the tyrannized peasantry. Middle Temple and the Marquis' château are achingly idyllic, but at a cost: to never venture beyond their walls is to join the aristocrats who crush others in their own climb to the top.
The next day, we walk past old debtors’ prisons and weave our way through packed streets, reminiscent of the urban crowds of centuries past. Though I miss the quiet serenity of Middle Temple, this moment is proof that London’s beauty lies not in its exquisite architecture nor in its amazing royal relics. Instead, I've learned that London’s great strength is its people. There's the family that sells my favorite hawker food at Borough Market, the incredible cast of Sondheim Theatre’s Les Misérables, the motley group of drummers who fill Soho Square with sound… Every corner of this city has so many stories. London has its tales of nobility and scandals and international intrigue, of course, but to truly know this city is to understand the long and intricate histories of the countless families who call this place their home.
I think Dickens would agree. When we toured the Dickens Museum, I met Annabel, one of the volunteer guides. She eagerly recounted details from his brilliant career - we heard about his daily routine (four hours of writing each morning), his hobbies (theater and countless walks), and apparent love affair (!). Yet what most stood out to me was this: “When Dickens had visitors,” Annabel said, a smile slowly spreading, “he never took them to the posh parts of London. They never went to Westminster or Mayfair." Instead, they went to the sites of the city’s poor, to crowded streets and dilapidated buildings. It was as if Dickens was saying, “This is truly London.”
Scenes from the city: Soho Square, a crowded subway, Borough Market, and the Chinatown Gate.
This is the beauty of venturing outside of Middle Temple. This is what the Marquis misses out on when he heartlessly casts away French countrymen. Though it’s a relief at first to be separated from the urban squalor, the silence of these privileged places separates us from the common people whose stories shape history. It's Carton, not Stryver, who is a "man of good abilities and good emotions," and Madame Defarge whose resolute determination underlies a revolution. When our idyllic ignorance causes us to neglect other people, our privilege becomes a threat. Even now, in the age of social media and online news articles, we can choose to ignore the plight of those around us. We can choose to create a secluded oasis of celebrity gossip and royal family feuds, purposefully scrolling past any mention of power or politics, but to do so is to refuse to take part in any real change. As Madame Defarge declares, this change will eventually take place - but we can take no credit.
Will we be a Stryver, comically ignorant of those around him, or a Marquis, detestable in his lack of care for commoners? Or will we instead choose to be Darnay, who vows to renounce his power and privilege for the sake of other people? May we keep our eyes and hearts open, choosing to listen to every person's story rather than being satisfied with our own silence.
“Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the triumph. ”