The Future They Fight For

France’s streets sing with the echoes of history.

Just a single ceiling in the Palace of Versailles

When our class visits Versailles, it feels like stepping back in time. Every room is furnished with lavish luxuries, including magnificent chandeliers and marble columns; at every turn, we walk through doorways dripping with gold. If I were a peasant in eighteenth-century France, I would’ve probably fallen at the feet of the “jewels and silks and powder and splendour” of the King, Queen, and their Court. Like A Tale of Two Cities’ mender of roads, I would’ve been overwhelmed by their incredible elegance and glamor, yelling “Long live the King!” in unrestrained awe.

In the Place de La Bastille, metal markers outline the shape of the old fortress. It’s smaller than I thought it would be - in paintings, it seems like a hulking mass looming over the city from a distance. In person, I suddenly understand how crowds could’ve rushed at the royal fortress and dismantled it brick by brick. I realize how their riotous anger would’ve caught on like wildfire, creating a “remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering,” just as Dickens describes in his novel.

Nowhere is the cry of history as strong as in the Place de la Révolution, the former site of the guillotine. On the day that we visit it, the sky is achingly bright. I imagine the condemned squinting in the sun as they mount the scaffold, surrounded by a tumultuous crowd. I think of Sydney Carton and the untold numbers of men like him, good people killed by the bloodthirsty Revolution.

How do we honor this storied past?

An outline of the old royal fortress at the Place de la Bastille

First, we remember history’s participants. We focus on the humanity of both sides - by reading texts like A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables, we understand how appalling social conditions sparked the people’s well-founded anger, whether it was the revolutionaries of 1789 or the insurgents of the 1832 barricade. Yet Darnay’s story in A Tale of Two Cities also creates sympathy for those aristocrats whose only crime was a tie to the Second Estate. When we stand where Lucie did so that Darnay could see his wife from prison, faithfully waiting there no matter the day or the weather, we see the cruelty of the couple’s separation. By acknowledging that there is no side in history that was absolutely right, we are better able to understand the stories of our predecessors.

We must also honor those who history often forgets. At the Musée Carnavalet, I learned how women were an active part of the revolutionary dynamic despite being left out of most revolutionary iconography. According to historian Clyde Plumauzille, women played the role of “firebrands,” triggering riots during shortages, and even took part in Assembly debates from the gallery. At the Conciergerie, our class was introduced to figures like Olympe de Gouges, who wrote the Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the Female Citizen in response to 1789’s Declaration of the Rights of Man. Even women like Lucie Manette, a character often dismissed as people-pleasing and passive, held whole families together. At the trial to determine her husband’s fate, Lucie gives Charles Darnay an expression “so sustaining, so encouraging… so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face.” I love this image because it highlights Lucie’s quiet strength in the face of unspeakable horror. It’s easy to write off women like her as aimless bystanders, but they, too, shaped the dynamic of history.

Yet our Lucies and Cosettes also remind us of the future these revolutionaries fought for. In both A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables, the protagonists’ visions of the future were not about who won or lost. They weren’t about a total overthrow of societal order or the extinction of an entire class. At the foot of the scaffold, Sydney sees “the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy… I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.” This beautiful image is humble and personal. It isn’t grand - Sydney doesn’t try to save the whole of France - but it envisions a family that no longer lives in fear. The future Sydney sacrifices himself for is one of humility and tranquility, of quiet joy and hopeful strength. On her wedding day, Cosette realizes that her “sorrows, sleeplessness, tears, anguish, terrors, despair… were making yet more blissful the coming moments of bliss.” Maybe this is the whole point: maybe people fight so that past sufferings can lead to present satisfaction. They fight for Lucie, happy with her husband and children, and Cosette, content in Marius' arms.

Even Enjolras, in his grandiose speech at the barricade, speaks of this forthcoming joy:

“Light! Light! Everything comes from light, and returns to it. Citizens, the nineteenth century is a great century, but the twentieth century will be a happy one. Nothing like the history of old - not any more. There’ll be no reason then to fear.... Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance of the future, and we go to a grave pervaded through and through by the light of dawn.”

— Enjolras

If Hugo and Dickens were to bookpack with us, accompanying our class to the sites that they described in their novels, I think they’d be pleased. Imagine their joy to see children playing at the site of the old Bastille, totally unaware of the bloody chaos that once took place. Imagine how wonderful it would be to watch happy crowds at the cafe in Les Halles where the barricade once stood. Wouldn’t Hugo be so bemused to see people now shuffling through the sewer museum and buying sewer rat soft toys as souvenirs? 

The future is still imperfect. Dickens’ opening line - “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” - is absolutely true today. As we’ve explored London and Paris through history’s eyes, it’s been such a gift to realize how far this world has come, while also acknowledging the work we still need to do. It’s been an even greater privilege to discuss these topics alongside nine people who have been endlessly open, thoughtful, and kind. As I see families picnicking at the Champ de Mars and couples strolling quietly along the banks of the Seine, I know the future I fight for.

I hope we all do.

A final sunset along the Seine.

An Open Reflection on Ornate Churches

The churches in Paris are unquestionably beautiful. There’s the Notre Dame, full of resolute beauty; the Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés, joyfully bright and ornate; the Sainte-Chapelle, with stained glass stunning in its sunlit splendor…

Light streaming through the Sainte-Chapelle’s stained-glass windows

They are incredible! They are also innumerable. I love visiting these places - they remind me of the remarkable universality and endurance of my faith. It’s amazing that two perpendicular planks have meaning to countless visitors from countless countries. It’s fun to spot the symbolism hidden amidst church facades and ceiling frescoes. But even as I visit these buildings, sometimes I find myself thinking gosh, it’s just another ornate church… and I tell myself that I already know what to expect. There’ll be a big altar in the center, an organ in the back, vaulted ceilings, and stone columns.

These buildings also bring with them the contentious question of church spending. It’s something that I and my classmates have contemplated as we visit chapel after chapel, wondering whether this money would have been better spent on programs for the poor. I believe that the church’s expenses can be categorized into two parts: the wealth of the church itself and the wealth of its clergy and congregants. In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo is clear in his condemnation for the latter when he introduces the character of Monseigneur Bienvenu, a humble bishop who transforms Valjean’s life through his love and forgiveness.

Monseigneur Bienvenu lives in an old hospital building, a “single-storey, low, narrow building with a small garden.” Of his fifteen-thousand-franc salary, he keeps only one thousand for his own expenditures, having donated the rest to religious foundations, prisons, and the poor. When Monseigneur Bienvenu is invited to a synod of bishops in Paris, he’s struck by his colleagues’ luxurious lifestyles. When he visits one of their homes, the bishop makes his opinion clear:

“Such beautiful clocks! Such beautiful carpets! Such beautiful liveries! They must be very disturbing. Oh, I wouldn’t want to have all these luxuries crying constantly in my ears, ‘There are people who are hungry! There are people who are cold! There are poor people! There are poor people!’”

— Monseigneur Bienvenu

Here, Hugo isn’t condemning the church at large but instead the homes and lifestyles of clergymen who prioritize their well-being over others. I agree with this completely! I remember being taught in Sunday School about the importance of charity. One anecdote that always sticks with me is when Jesus instructs his followers to give to those who are hungry, provide drink to those who are thirsty, invite strangers in, supply clothes to those in need, look after the sick, and visit those in prison. “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine,” He says, “you did for me.” I think it’s beautiful that Christians directly serve their God by being generous to others. With this teaching, then, there’s no reason for congregants - especially church clergy, as leaders of other Christians - to hoard wealth at others’ expense. 

The wealth of the church building itself is a slightly more contentious matter. As I walked through Paris’ brilliant chapels, I found myself wondering if all these places were really necessary. Did all these buildings need a spiral staircase and stained-glass window? Couldn’t some of the money to pay for these magnificent marble statues have instead been given away? 

After a few weeks of thinking about this, I’ve discovered that it’s crucial to understand church buildings through the intention behind them. I asked some Christian friends about my dilemma, and they reminded me that churches are more nuanced than they initially seem. “As much as the church is not an architectural firm,” one friend told me bluntly, “it is also not an almshouse.”

Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis (church of Saint‐Paul‐Saint‐Louis)

What are churches for, then? Perhaps their main function is to provide a place for people to be reminded of the presence of God. Perhaps churches allow people to see God’s justice through magnificent murals of Christ clearing the temple courts, boldly calling out churchwide corruption. Perhaps they encourage visitors to understand His humility when they witness statues of Christ as a child, who came down to Earth to save the people who mistreated Him. Perhaps churches show His compassion through the cross. Maybe, upon visiting these places, Christians are in turn motivated to live as Christ models and calls them to. They do their best to show others the same love that they see on church frescoes, which includes protecting and caring for the vulnerable members of their community. 

Is some of this extravagant? Yes! God never called for a twenty-four karat cross. When communities build churches not to inspire benevolence but to bring honor and fame to their constructors, I think our criticism of them is completely valid. But if there is a way that a church can bring good to its members, who then can inspire that good in others, it becomes something gorgeous.

One of the most beautiful churches we saw in Paris was the Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, a magnificent building with burgundy doors and an open, welcoming nave. I loved it not because of its facade or decorations or interior design, but because it was the church where Marius and Cosette got married - it reminded me of the couple's radiance. I could picture them there on the steps of the church, gazing out at the charming city before them, finally realizing that “their griefs were but so many handmaidens now putting the finishing touches to their joy.” As the two make their way home, their happiness overflows to their observers: “The rapture of these two hearts spilled over on to the crowd and gladdened passers-by.”

Though this moment is about romantic love, it illustrates the way that the church can bring gladness and community to others. This is the kind of church I’d love to see: one that encourages self-forgetful joy. I hope that because of this potential, all the money spent to build these edifices isn’t totally wasted. And I hope that, above all, churches continue to remain places of sanctuary and selflessness - never of avarice, exclusion, or egoism.

**small note: I use “chapel” and “church” quite interchangeably here, but there technically is a difference! To my understanding, churches have a permanent congregation and pastor/priest, whereas chapels have traditionally been smaller spaces without a permanent priest.

Character Studies

Our explorations so far have focused on the intersection between book and place, but Les Misérables is a tale that transcends time and space. To prove it, we went to the Louvre and searched its collection for each character’s painted counterpart.

Here’s a catalogue of our beloved crew, as seen through centuries of European art:

Javert | The Lictors Bringing Brutus the Bodies of his Sons, Jacques-Louis David 

In the corner of this painting, we see Brutus half-hidden in the shadows, his face a mask of grim devotion. Behind him lies the body of one of his sons, who Brutus had beheaded for conspiring against the Republic. Brutus’ pose is tense and agitated - here, he is forced to choose between loyalty and love.

The parallels between this Roman consul and Javert are clear: both are rigid in their devotion to justice and legalism. Javert’s agony after letting Valjean go mirrors Brutus’ agitation as he watches his family mourn. Both men test the extent of their humanity. On that bridge over the Seine, Javert suddenly realizes how terrible it is that “beneath your torso of bronze you have something absurd and unruly that is almost like a heart.” I’m sure Brutus is reckoning with the same dreadful feeling as he tests how far he will go for the sake of his country. Brutus loses his sons and Javert, unable to cope with his changed conscience, loses his life.

Fantine | The Burial of Atala, Anne Louis Girodet-Trioson

The placard next to the painting tells us that Atala is the fiancée of a Native American man called Chactas, who hugs her legs. She has poisoned herself in order to preserve her vow of chastity. Through the mouth of the cave we see a cross in the distance and the soft glow of light. The description to the left of the painting tells us that, through the cross bathed in light, the scene’s “horror and sadness are mitigated by the Christian belief in salvation after death.” 

Fantine’s last moments are not so peaceful. Yet like Atala, Fantine also serves as a figure of purity. Despite her past, when Jean Valjean first meets her, he says that “you’ve never ceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God.” Valjean, like the priest in this painting, gently takes care of Fantine’s body after her death, tidying her hair and closing her eyes. Just as we see with the light in this picture, Fantine’s face is also “strangely illuminated.” For both Atala and Fantine, our consolation is that they will be saved from their earthly suffering in heaven. 

Marius | Daphnis et Chloé, François Gérard

Let’s be honest: the man in this painting looks exactly like the kind of guy who’d say something like “If there were not someone who loved, the sun would be extinguished” (yes, that is an authentic Marius quote). In this painting, Daphnis and his lover, Chloé, are peaceful, radiant, and resplendent in their love. This scene reminds me of when Marius meets with Cosette in her garden. Look at the painting’s bright rays of sun! Look at its lush foliage and lovely colors. It looks exactly like how the couple would see their world together.

Throughout the novel, Marius often goes to extremes. He changes from a loyal royalist to a defiant Bonapartist in memory of his father. One day, he’s in raptures over Cosette; the next, he’s risking his life on the barricade because he can't bear to live without her. It's hard to understand Marius’ ideology sometimes because the majority of his motivations are characterized by love - love for his father, love for his partner, and love for his friends. That is how he operates, and that is how we see him in this painting. Marius: a man in love. 

“Marius was at Cosette’s side. Never had the sky been starrier or more spellbinding, the trees more tremulous, the plant smells more pervasive. Never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter sound. Never had all the harmonics of cosmic serenity better answered the inward music of love.”

— Victor Hugo

Gavroche | The Wounded Drummer Boy, François Bouchot 

Gavroche, the little gamin, is present in every brushstroke of this painting. According to the Louvre’s description, this “drummer boy” could have been the real-life Joseph Bara, a fourteen-year-old volunteer in the French Revolutionary Army. He was killed by Vendean royalists and became a republican martyr.

The drummer boy’s youthful innocence is etched into the canvas, his final expression soft and peaceful. His young age is a testament to the fighting’s brutality. Gavroche, like the drummer boy, is the epitome of revolutionary spirit. Both boys illustrate the battle’s costs through their tragic deaths: for example, when Gavroche is shot, “The whole barricade gave a cry.”

Gavroche may not be a drummer boy, but he goes down singing. This “great little soul” gives strength to the rest of the barricade.

Éponine | Velléda, Jean-Baptiste Camille Corot 

This girl’s plain clothes and pained expression make me immediately think of Éponine. She looks down rather than at the viewer, her dark eyes mournful. Her eyes are dull and her hair long and unkempt. The dark, wintry background reminds me of the cold Gorbeau tenement, which Hugo describes as “squalid, dark, [and] sordid.” 

The girl’s index finger rests listlessly on an open book. When I saw it, I thought of how sad Éponine seems when she boasts that she knows how to write. She reads and writes fluently, to be sure, but she shows off as if she is trying to prove that she is not as pitiful as she seems. “There’s no spelling mistakes,” she tells Marius. “You can look. We’ve had some education, my sister and me. We haven’t always been the way we are now.” 

Maybe the girl in this painting feels the same shame.

Enjolras | Wounded Roman Soldier, Jean-Germain Drouais 

The soldier’s gaze is fierce. His hand covers a bloody cut. His sword lies by his side, ready to be picked up again; whoever this soldier is, he has not given up. Though he is wounded, he is ready to fight.  

I see Enjolras here, a man with “only one passion: rightfulness.” Indeed, like this Roman soldier, Enjolras won’t back down from what he believes in. When Enjolras is about to be killed by a throng of soldiers and guardsmen, he faces them “with a proud gaze, head held high, with that stump of a weapon in his hand.” I picture him with the same expression as the wounded Roman soldier here. These men will never give up their honor or courage. They will always look their enemies in the eye. 

“‘Who goes there?’
At the same time could be heard the clatter of guns being readied.
Enjolras replied in a proud, ringing tone, ‘The French Revolution!’”

— Victor Hugo

Cosette | Mona Lisa, Leonardo da Vinci

This is the only picture I've included with other people in it, mainly because I wanted to show you that the Mona Lisa is packed. Tourists from all around the world clamor to take her picture. She is adored by everyone for reasons nobody can really articulate. She has become the icon of the Louvre in the same way that Cosette has become the icon of Les Misérables. 

Bayard’s Cosette Sweeping - not in the Louvre but often found on book covers and musical posters. Les Mis’ own Mona Lisa.

Both women are beautiful, both are popular, both are loved by all. For better or for worse, they have become the faces of something much larger than themselves. Whether people read Les Misérables for the little girl on the cover or come to the Louvre for the woman with the mysterious smile, I hope they find so much more than they ever hoped for.

Jean Valjean

There are quite a few paintings that remind me of our protagonist’s chief characteristics: the tenderness in the elderly gentleman’s face in Portrait of an Old Man and a Boy, the heroic dedication of the brown-haired man in The Deluge, the peaceful solitude of the figure in Sunset in Chevrier…

But I found that Jean Valjean most resembles us, the visitors at the Louvre. Like us at the museum, Valjean sees the heights and depths of humanity. Yet while we see it through paintings, he sees it through his own experiences. When he meets the bishop, for example, Valjean encounters the best of men; when he sees the exploitation of Cosette, the wickedness of Paris’ criminal underbelly, and the brutality of the barricade, he sees the very worst. Like us, Valjean is often on the outside looking in. He observes others from a distance, feeling as separated as we do from the events of these paintings: for most of the years he spends with Cosette, Valjean “was concealing his name, concealing his identity, concealing his age” in order to protect his family from his past.

There’s parts of Valjean that resonate with all of us, whether that be his complicated backstory, his changed personality, or his ongoing journey to redemption. As museum-goers, we get to see how the story and characters of Les Misérables are reflected across countless places and periods, from fifteenth-century tempera paintings to our contemporary experiences. In both the Louvre and Les Mis, we see emotion, love, glory, pain, light, and darkness - we see every expression of our shared humanity.

To Be Loved

If there’s one thing that Les Misérables and my job have taught me, it’s that there is no greater gift than to be loved.

I work as a caregiver at a nursing home: every day, I help residents get out of bed, change, shower, and eat. We spend countless hours coloring together and strolling on the sidewalk, but I often feel like I don’t truly know a resident until I see them with their friends or family. Sometimes, residents are so excited about their children visiting that they tell me about it as soon as they open their eyes. Other times, they’re delightfully surprised! There was once an eighty-year old who kept to herself and wouldn’t move without being thoroughly persuaded. As soon as she saw her daughter, she swiftly stood to hug her. They embraced on the sidewalk outside the nursing home, smiles brighter than the summer sun.

Saint-Sulpice, from Colonel Pontmercy’s point of view

Some of the most impactful moments in Les Misérables occur when characters are deprived of this chance to be with their loved ones. Colonel Pontmercy and Jean Valjean, for example, are both tragically forbidden to be close to their children. In two touching scenes, both of these men are tantalizingly close to reuniting with their families - yet both decide to hold back because of the way they are perceived, one as a disgraced Bonapartist and one as a former convict. Throughout his novel, Hugo illustrates the painful breakdowns of familial relationships as a way to criticize the divisions created by society.

One of the most heart-rending relationships is that of Marius and his father, Colonel Pontmercy. Marius’ bourgeois grandfather, who saw Colonel Pontmercy’s service for Bonaparte as betrayal, threatens to disinherit Marius if the colonel continues to raise him. Forgotten and forsaken, Colonel Pontmercy chooses to stay away from his son, “believing he was doing the right thing and sacrificing no one but himself.” His one consolation is seeing Marius when he goes to mass at Saint-Sulpice. As the colonel gazes at his son, quietly concealed behind a pillar so that Marius’ family will not see, his eyes fill with tears.

One afternoon, we stand behind those very same pillars at Saint-Sulpice. They are unbelievably huge and strangely square. It’s the perfect place to conceal oneself: only one man, a warden of Saint-Sulpice, seems to notice the veteran’s sorrow. The chapel is dazzling in the daytime, grand and open and filled with light, but I imagine that Colonel Pontmercy barely saw the beauty within the chapel’s nave.

I’ve seen just how much the elderly people at my work treasure seeing their families, but it must be very bittersweet - few residents can leave on their own, so most are forced to watch their sons and daughters grow older with each visit, unable to play a part in the rest of their families’ lives. For Colonel Pontmercy, this dual joy and sadness must have been multiplied a hundredfold. From the pillar, the colonel would’ve had a perfect view of his son: the nave is wide and spacious, with chairs arranged neatly in the center. Marius would’ve been so close, yet just out of reach.

On the way to the Rue de l’Homme Armé - photo courtesy of Jake!

Later that week, we trace another touching scene. The sun shines warmly over us as we walk through the city from the Rue de l’Homme-Armé (now called the Rue des Archives) to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. These are Valjean’s last steps, taken during his self-imposed exile. After Cosette marries Marius, Valjean confesses his criminal past to his son-in-law, arousing Marius’ distrust and suspicion. Marius begins to keep his distance; in return, Valjean ventures to the couple’s home less and less. He slowly approaches their residence on the Rue des Filles-due-Calvaire… And then he stops. As he stares at his daughter’s street, “there was in that tragic gaze something that resembled the dazzling brilliance of the impossible and the reflection of an inaccessible paradise.”

He stands still for several minutes, a tear trickling down his cheek.

Then, he goes home, “by the same route, at the same pace, the light fading from his eyes as he moved away.”

When we bookpack Valjean’s path, I can’t help but notice how beautiful the neighborhood is. The sky is a pure, brilliant blue, illuminating the lovely cream-colored walls of the houses below. Every balcony railing is elegantly decorated. The street-lamps are delightfully old-fashioned, with black metal curled in sophisticated swirls. It’s sad to think of Valjean there, stock-still on a street corner. He would’ve been surrounded by so much color and light, all of which paled in comparison to the paradise denied to him. He stood so close to Cosette but couldn’t take the last few steps to her door.

Following in the footsteps of Valjean and Pontmercy makes me realize just how heartbreaking these moments are. How could they have been so close to their children - behind a pillar, or at the street corner - and still have been forced to turn away? Why did such good men have to make such great sacrifices? It’s almost cruel that the scenery was so beautiful; the neighborhood and chapel were so serene, despite both men’s inner strife.

“The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved, loved for yourself, better still, loved despite yourself.”

— Victor Hugo

Victor Hugo definitely plays into this drama, using descriptions like Valjean’s single tear and Pontmercy’s trembling stance to spark our outrage. We are shocked at how society has separated these men from their families. Because of a difference in political views, Marius’ family casts out the colonel. Because of an inborn contempt for criminals, Valjean is separated from the girl he saved. “The supreme happiness of life,” Hugo writes, “is the conviction that you are loved,” yet both Valjean and Colonel Pontmercy are deprived of this joy simply because of the labels that society has imposed on them.

At work, I don’t know most of the residents’ pasts. I know about some residents’ children and where they used to live, but most people don’t mention their work or what they were known for. That’s how it should be - every single one of these people deserve to be treated with humanity and compassion regardless of who they were before we met them.

Hugo reminds us of the danger of putting politics and policies before people. Tragically, it’s something we still do today - in the face of anger and injustice and hurt, I know it’s easy to forget that those around us still need the same compassion and forgiveness that we do. (When a resident yells at me, I have to fight every urge to change the way I care for them - trust me. I've been there.) But two final, crucial words shape Hugo’s claim: “The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that you are loved… despite yourself.” May we be loved, and may we show love, despite our views and our faults. May our differences never deprive us of our dignity.

“You who suffer because you love, love yet more.”

— Victor Hugo

In Sydney’s Shoes

Dawn breaks over the banks of the Seine.

Sunrise over the Seine.

I stand at the river’s edge as the sun slowly rises over the horizon. Its fragile rays gently light up Paris’ cobblestone streets, and the entire city turns to gold.

It's as if all of Paris takes a breath. From my spot on the Île de la Cité, I watch the sunlight gently touch windows and the river's rippled waters. As the clock strikes seven, the air slowly warms, enveloping the city in a soft embrace.

Standing here, I’m reminded of A Tale of Two Cities’ descriptions of dawn. The first occurs when Sydney Carton leaves Stryver’s lodgings, exhausted from combing through Stryver’s upcoming cases. As he slinks back home, a bleak day unfolds: the air is “cool and sad” and the “dull sky [is] overcast.” When Sydney gets home, he collapses onto a “neglected bed,” its pillow “wet with wasted tears.” It’s a dejected, desolate description, mirroring Carton’s own downcast spirit. He heads home lifeless and lonely, mourning his wasted potential and the life he let slip through his fingers. For Sydney, there is no beauty, only bitterness. The sunrise welcomes another wasted day.

Fortunately, there's another dawn that I want to draw our attention to - one that better matches the beauty that surrounds me as I stand on the bank of the Seine. This one occurs after Sydney decides to save Darnay. Though we haven’t yet discovered the details of his plan, we’ve just seen him strike a deal with John Barsad and purchase small packets from the chemist’s shop. Later, we learn that these arrangements allow Sydney to switch places with Darnay and go to the guillotine in his place. The Sydney we see here is a man transformed, filled with noble purpose and unshakeable resolve. Just look at how differently the dawn is described:

“The glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike… straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays. And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled under it.”

— Charles Dickens

How profoundly beautiful! How distinct from the dawn that came before! Here, Dickens uses the shift in scenery to highlight Sydney’s changed nature. Though he once returned home to a neglected bed and overcast sky, this new Sydney Carton stands before warm sunlight and sparkling waters. The “bridge of light” that seems to link him and the heavens illustrates the change in his life’s trajectory. Though he once condemned himself to the bottom dredges of society, telling Lucie that “I shall never be better than I am. I shall sink lower, and be worse,” his soul now soars upwards as he dedicates himself to a greater purpose. Just as I saw the bright sun chase away the last traces of darkness, Sydney’s new calling overcomes the pain of his past.

But what exactly is Carton condemning himself to? We step into his shoes as we walk through the Conciergerie, a massive and monstrous building whose formidable walls contain countless concrete cells. The smallest cells are sparse and scarcely five feet wide. Amid the dimness of the Conciergerie, lit only by flickering candle flames, Sydney probably breathes in the same damp, musty scent that hangs in the air during our visit.

Yet even as he takes in these dismal surroundings, Sydney accepts his fate with confidence. Indeed, it is with a “bright and remarkable” composure that he changes places with Darnay, swapping their clothes with a strength and swiftness that seem “quite supernatural” for this once-morose man. Just as we’ve seen with the two different descriptions of dawn, Sydney’s outlook totally changes at the Conciergerie. He becomes a man of solid conviction and profound purpose, and not even the darkest circumstances can dim his spirit.

Exploring the Conciergerie emphasizes just how much Sydney sacrifices for the sake of a family that will never be able to thank him. The Place de la Révolution, the site of the old guillotine, drives this message home: when we get there, I realize just how terrified the Terror’s victims would have felt. The entire plaza is flat, so the condemned would’ve walked up the raised scaffold in full view of the crowd. The plaza also stretches for hundreds of feet, meaning that prisoners were swiftly shuttled to the guillotine like parts in an assembly line. Amid this moment of dread and degradation, Sydney softly reassures a small seamstress. His gentle bravery inspires courage, and the seamstress faithfully fixes her eyes on his.

The guillotine's blade goes down.

A cell in the Conciergerie and the Place de la Révolution.

“They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man’s face ever beheld there. ”

— Charles Dickens

When we trace Sydney’s steps, we see the sheer horror of the future he’s condemned himself to. Yet despite the ghastliness of the guillotine, Sydney is the most calm and confident that he’s ever been. Out of his humility and loyal love, he chooses to make a profound sacrifice so that both Darnay and himself can be saved.

I wish Sydney had known his worth earlier. I wish he had always believed, as firmly as he did in his final breaths, that his life could be redeemed. We see how his perspective changes as soon as he finds his purpose, how he barely notices the horrors of the Conciergerie and Place de la Révolution. For the first time in his life, Sydney welcomes a new day.

Perhaps it’s a reminder for all of us that sometimes a shift in perspective is all it takes to turn things around. Sometimes in class, I’ve been scared to speak up because my contributions don’t seem as worthy or as sophisticated as others’ do. (Perhaps that’s what held Sydney back, too, for so many years.) Yet Sydney’s life didn’t just become meaningful when he decided to give it away. That value was always there - Sydney just didn’t see it! I’d like to remember the same for myself, and reader, whoever you are, the same applies to you.

“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.”

— Sydney Carton

A Separate Silence

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. ”

— Madame Defarge