The Man Who Was Thursday

The Man Who Was Thursday, by G. K. Chesterton Scanned and Edited by Harry Plantinga, planting@cs.pitt.edu This text is in the public domain

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

A NIGHTMARE

G. K. CHESTERTON

To Edmund Clerihew Bentley

A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather, Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together. Science announced nonentity and art admired decay; The world was old and ended: but you and I were gay; Round us in antic order their crippled vices came— Lust that had lost its laughter, fear that had lost its shame. Like the white lock of Whistler, that lit our aimless gloom, Men showed their own white feather as proudly as a plume. Life was a fly that faded, and death a drone that stung; The world was very old indeed when you and I were young. They twisted even decent sin to shapes not to be named: Men were ashamed of honour; but we were not ashamed. Weak if we were and foolish, not thus we failed, not thus; When that black Baal blocked the heavens he had no hymns from us Children we were—our forts of sand were even as weak as eve, High as they went we piled them up to break that bitter sea. Fools as we were in motley, all jangling and absurd, When all church bells were silent our cap and beds were heard.

Not all unhelped we held the fort, our tiny flags unfurled; Some giants laboured in that cloud to lift it from the world. I find again the book we found, I feel the hour that flings Far out of fish-shaped Paumanok some cry of cleaner things; And the Green Carnation withered, as in forest fires that pass, Roared in the wind of all the world ten million leaves of grass; Or sane and sweet and sudden as a bird sings in the rain— Truth out of Tusitala spoke and pleasure out of pain. Yea, cool and clear and sudden as a bird sings in the grey, Dunedin to Samoa spoke, and darkness unto day. But we were young; we lived to see God break their bitter charms. God and the good Republic come riding back in arms: We have seen the City of Mansoul, even as it rocked, relieved— Blessed are they who did not see, but being blind, believed.

This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells— Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash. The doubts that were so plain to chase, so dreadful to withstand— Oh, who shall understand but you; yea, who shall understand? The doubts that drove us through the night as we two talked amain, And day had broken on the streets e’er it broke upon the brain. Between us, by the peace of God, such truth can now be told; Yea, there is strength in striking root and good in growing old. We have found common things at last and marriage and a creed, And I may safely write it now, and you may safely read.

G. K. C.

CHAPTER I

THE TWO POETS OF SAFFRON PARK

THE suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not “artists,” the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face— that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.

This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small.

I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.

“It may well be,” he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, “it may well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden.”

The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of the group, Gregory’s sister Rosamond, who had her brother’s braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.

Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

“An artist is identical with an anarchist,” he cried. “You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Syme.

“Nonsense!” said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox. “Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!”

“It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria. No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!”

“Must you go?” inquired Gregory sarcastically.

“I tell you,” went on Syme with passion, “that every time a train comes in I feel that it has broken past batteries of besiegers, and that man has won a battle against chaos. You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. And when I hear the guard shout out the word ‘Victoria,’ it is not an unmeaning word. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. It is to me indeed ‘Victoria’; it is the victory of Adam.”

Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.

“And even then,” he said, “we poets always ask the question, ‘And what is Victoria now that you have got there?’ You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.”

“There again,” said Syme irritably, “what is there poetical about being in revolt? You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I’m hanged if I can see why they are poetical. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. It’s mere vomiting.”

The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.

“It is things going right,” he cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars— the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.”

“Really,” said Gregory superciliously, “the examples you choose—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Syme grimly, “I forgot we had abolished all conventions.”

For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory’s forehead.

“You don’t expect me,” he said, “to revolutionise society on this lawn?”

Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

“No, I don’t,” he said; “but I suppose that if you were serious about your anarchism, that is exactly what you would do.”

Gregory’s big bull’s eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.

“Don’t you think, then,” he said in a dangerous voice, “that I am serious about my anarchism?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Syme.

“Am I not serious about my anarchism?” cried Gregory, with knotted fists.

“My dear fellow!” said Syme, and strolled away.

With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.

“Mr. Syme,” she said, “do the people who talk like you and my brother often mean what they say? Do you mean what you say now?”

Syme smiled.

“Do you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, with grave eyes.

“My dear Miss Gregory,” said Syme gently, “there are many kinds of sincerity and insincerity. When you say ‘thank you’ for the salt, do you mean what you say? No. When you say ‘the world is round,’ do you mean what you say? No. It is true, but you don’t mean it. Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it.”

She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.

“Is he really an anarchist, then?” she asked.

“Only in that sense I speak of,” replied Syme; “or if you prefer it, in that nonsense.”

She drew her broad brows together and said abruptly—

“He wouldn’t really use—bombs or that sort of thing?”

Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.

“Good Lord, no!” he said, “that has to be done anonymously.”

And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory’s absurdity and of his safety.

Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.

He stared and talked at the girl’s red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream.

When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.

He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.

“I was waiting for you,” said Gregory. “Might I have a moment’s conversation?”

“Certainly. About what?” asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder.

Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. “About this and this,” he cried; “about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.”

“All the same,” replied Syme patiently, “just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree.” Then after a pause he said, “But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?”

“No,” cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, “I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever.”

The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.

“Mr. Syme,” he said, “this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before.”

“Indeed!”

“Now I remember,” resumed Gregory reflectively, “one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me.”

“I am very sorry,” replied Syme with gravity.

“I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology,” said Gregory very calmly. “No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said.”

“In what I said?”

“You said I was not serious about being an anarchist.”

“There are degrees of seriousness,” replied Syme. “I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth.”

Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully.

“And in no other sense,” he asked, “you think me serious? You think me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious.”

Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road.

“Serious!” he cried. “Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn’t keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking— something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink.”

“Very well,” said Gregory, his face darkening, “you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion.”

Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips.

“You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?”

“Oh,” said Syme with a beaming smile, “we are all Catholics now.”

“Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation, if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return—”

“You will promise me in return?” inquired Syme, as the other paused.

“I will promise you a very entertaining evening.” Syme suddenly took off his hat.

“Your offer,” he said, “is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?”

“I think,” said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, “that we will call a cab.”

He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town.

CHAPTER II

THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME

THE cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded.

“Will you take a little supper?” asked Gregory politely. “The pate de foie gras is not good here, but I can recommend the game.”

Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference—

“Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise.”

To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said “Certainly, sir!” and went away apparently to get it.

“What will you drink?” resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. “I shall only have a crepe de menthe myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?”

“Thank you!” said the motionless Syme. “You are very good.”

His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite.

“Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!” he said to Gregory, smiling. “I don’t often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way.”

“You are not asleep, I assure you,” said Gregory. “You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth.”

“And who are we?” asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass.

“It is quite simple,” replied Gregory. “We are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe.”

“Oh!” said Syme shortly. “You do yourselves well in drinks.”

“Yes, we are serious about everything,” answered Gregory.

Then after a pause he added—

“If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don’t put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don’t wish you to do yourself an injustice.”

“Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad,” replied Syme with perfect calm; “but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?”

“Certainly!” said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. “Try one of mine.”

Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance.

“You must not mind it,” said Gregory; “it’s a kind of screw.”

“Quite so,” said Syme placidly, “a kind of screw. How simple that is!”

The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair.

Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password.

Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked.

“I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities,” said Gregory; “we have to be very strict here.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” said Syme. “I know your passion for law and order,” and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death.

They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in.

“And now, my dear Mr. Syme,” said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, “now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?”

“It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety,” assented Syme; “but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?”

“To abolish God!” said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. “We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong.”

“And Right and Left,” said Syme with a simple eagerness, “I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me.”

“You spoke of a second question,” snapped Gregory.

“With pleasure,” resumed Syme. “In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?”

Gregory smiled.

“The answer is simple,” he said. “I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.”

Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on.

“The history of the thing might amuse you,” he said. “When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, ‘Down! down! presumptuous human reason!’ they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence— the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out ‘Blood!’ abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, ‘Let the weak perish; it is the Law.’ Well, well, it seems majors don’t do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe.”

“What is his name?” asked Syme.

“You would not know it,” answered Gregory. “That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they were heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands.”

He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed—

“But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, ‘What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?’ He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face. ‘You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?’ I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion’s voice. ‘Why, then, dress up as an anarchist, you fool!’ he roared so that the room shook. ‘Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.’ And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and—by God!— they would let me wheel their perambulators.”

Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes.

“You took me in,” he said. “It is really a smart dodge.”

Then after a pause he added—

“What do you call this tremendous President of yours?”

“We generally call him Sunday,” replied Gregory with simplicity. “You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor.”

He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment.

“I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme,” he continued casually. “I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don’t mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be.” He looked down for a moment modestly. “It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday.”

“My dear fellow.” said Syme heartily, “I congratulate you. A great career!”

Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly.

“As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table,” he said, “and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible.”

Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt’s revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak.

“I have only to get the form of election finished,” continued Gregory with animation, “then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then—then—oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!” And he clasped his hands.

Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation.

“Why is it,” he asked vaguely, “that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?” He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, “Is it because you are such an ass?”

There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out—

“Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?”

“A promise?” asked Gregory, wondering.

“Yes,” said Syme very seriously, “a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?”

“Your secret?” asked the staring Gregory. “Have you got a secret?”

“Yes,” said Syme, “I have a secret.” Then after a pause, “Will you swear?”

Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly—

“You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes.”

Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers’ pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators.

“Well,” said Syme slowly, “I don’t know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard.”

Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice.

“What do you say?” he asked in an inhuman voice.

“Yes,” said Syme simply, “I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming.”

From the doorway there came a murmur of “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor.

CHAPTER III

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

BEFORE one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory’s stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt’s revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand.

“Don’t be such a silly man,” he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. “Don’t you see it’s not necessary? Don’t you see that we’re both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick.”

Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question.

“Don’t you see we’ve checkmated each other?” cried Syme. “I can’t tell the police you are an anarchist. You can’t tell the anarchists I’m a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it’s a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I’m a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely.”

Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster.

“I don’t believe in immortality,” he said at last, “but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever.”

“I shall not break my word,” said Syme sternly, “nor will you break yours. Here are your friends.”

The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses— a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy—detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand.

“Comrade Gregory,” he said, “I suppose this man is a delegate?”

Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly—

“I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate.”

The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion.

“What branch do you represent?” he asked sharply.

“I should hardly call it a branch,” said Syme, laughing; “I should call it at the very least a root.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fact is,” said Syme serenely, “the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday.”

The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.

“Well, comrade,” said the man with the papers after a pause, “I suppose we’d better give you a seat in the meeting?”

“If you ask my advice as a friend,” said Syme with severe benevolence, “I think you’d better.”

When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme’s inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night’s discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it.

He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches.

“I think it is time we began,” he said; “the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair.”

This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat.

“Comrades,” he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, “our meeting to-night is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is not to acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a harder task. It is difficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult to replace them. Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to choose out of the company present the man who shall be Thursday. If any comrade suggests a name I will put it to the vote. If no comrade suggests a name, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter, who is gone from us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of his virtue and his innocence.”

There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimes heard in church. Then a large old man, with a long and venerable white beard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly and said—

“I move that Comrade Gregory be elected Thursday,” and sat lumberingly down again.

“Does anyone second?” asked the chairman.

A little man with a velvet coat and pointed beard seconded.

“Before I put the matter to the vote,” said the chairman, “I will call on Comrade Gregory to make a statement.”

Gregory rose amid a great rumble of applause. His face was deadly pale, so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet. But he was smiling and altogether at ease. He had made up his mind, and he saw his best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road. His best chance was to make a softened and ambiguous speech, such as would leave on the detective’s mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhood was a very mild affair after all. He believed in his own literary power, his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words. He thought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the people around him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly and delicately false. Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all their bravado, were only playing the fool. Could he not now, in the hour of peril, make Syme think so again?

“Comrades,” began Gregory, in a low but penetrating voice, “it is not necessary for me to tell you what is my policy, for it is your policy also. Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered. Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except to us, except to the fountain head. They learn about anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists from tradesmen’s newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday and the Sporting Times. They never learn about anarchists from anarchists. We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanders which are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another. The man who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard our reply. I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passion were to rend the roof. For it is deep, deep under the earth that the persecuted are permitted to assemble, as the Christians assembled in the Catacombs. But if, by some incredible accident, there were here to-night a man who all his life had thus immensely misunderstood us, I would put this question to him: ‘When those Christians met in those Catacombs, what sort of moral reputation had they in the streets above? What tales were told of their atrocities by one educated Roman to another? Suppose’ (I would say to him), ‘suppose that we are only repeating that still mysterious paradox of history. Suppose we seem as shocking as the Christians because we are really as harmless as the Christians. Suppose we seem as mad as the Christians because we are really as meek.”’

The applause that had greeted the opening sentences had been gradually growing fainter, and at the last word it stopped suddenly. In the abrupt silence, the man with the velvet jacket said, in a high, squeaky voice—

“I’m not meek!”

“Comrade Witherspoon tells us,” resumed Gregory, “that he is not meek. Ah, how little he knows himself! His words are, indeed, extravagant; his appearance is ferocious, and even (to an ordinary taste) unattractive. But only the eye of a friendship as deep and delicate as mine can perceive the deep foundation of solid meekness which lies at the base of him, too deep even for himself to see. I repeat, we are the true early Christians, only that we come too late. We are simple, as they revere simple— look at Comrade Witherspoon. We are modest, as they were modest—look at me. We are merciful—”

“No, no!” called out Mr. Witherspoon with the velvet jacket.

“I say we are merciful,” repeated Gregory furiously, “as the early Christians were merciful. Yet this did not prevent their being accused of eating human flesh. We do not eat human flesh—”

“Shame!” cried Witherspoon. “Why not?”

“Comrade Witherspoon,” said Gregory, with a feverish gaiety, “is anxious to know why nobody eats him (laughter). In our society, at any rate, which loves him sincerely, which is founded upon love—”

“No, no!” said Witherspoon, “down with love.”

“Which is founded upon love,” repeated Gregory, grinding his teeth, “there will be no difficulty about the aims which we shall pursue as a body, or which I should pursue were I chosen as the representative of that body. Superbly careless of the slanders that represent us as assassins and enemies of human society, we shall pursue with moral courage and quiet intellectual pressure, the permanent ideals of brotherhood and simplicity.”

Gregory resumed his seat and passed his hand across his forehead. The silence was sudden and awkward, but the chairman rose like an automaton, and said in a colourless voice—

“Does anyone oppose the election of Comrade Gregory?”

The assembly seemed vague and sub-consciously disappointed, and Comrade Witherspoon moved restlessly on his seat and muttered in his thick beard. By the sheer rush of routine, however, the motion would have been put and carried. But as the chairman was opening his mouth to put it, Syme sprang to his feet and said in a small and quiet voice—

“Yes, Mr. Chairman, I oppose.”

The most effective fact in oratory is an unexpected change in the voice. Mr. Gabriel Syme evidently understood oratory. Having said these first formal words in a moderated tone and with a brief simplicity, he made his next word ring and volley in the vault as if one of the guns had gone off.

“Comrades!” he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of his boots, “have we come here for this? Do we live underground like rats in order to listen to talk like this? This is talk we might listen to while eating buns at a Sunday School treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, ‘Be good, and you will be happy,’ ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ and ‘Virtue is its own reward’? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory’s address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure (hear, hear). But I am not a curate (loud cheers), and I did not listen to it with pleasure (renewed cheers). The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday (hear, hear).”

“Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy (hear, hear). Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers).”

Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness—

“You damnable hypocrite!”

Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity—

“Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy (hear, hear). This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride (cheers). I am not a man at all. I am a cause (renewed cheers). I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election—”

His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting.

“Stop, you blasted madmen!” he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. “Stop, you—”

But louder than Gregory’s shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder—

“I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it (loud and prolonged cheering). To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, ‘You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies.’”

The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said—

“I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post.”

“Stop all this, I tell you!” cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. “Stop it, it is all—”

The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.

“Does anyone second this amendment?” he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. “I end all this!” he said, in a voice as heavy as stone.

“This man cannot be elected. He is a—”

“Yes,” said Syme, quite motionless, “what is he?” Gregory’s mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. “He is a man quite inexperienced in our work,” he said, and sat down abruptly.

Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone—

“I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme.”

“The amendment will, as usual, be put first,” said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity.

“The question is that Comrade Syme—”

Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate.

“Comrades,” he cried out, “I am not a madman.”

“Oh, oh!” said Mr. Witherspoon.

“I am not a madman,” reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, “but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man.” Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme’s slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme’s bleak blue eyes. He merely began—

“Comrade Gregory commands—”

Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory—

“Who are you? You are not Sunday”; and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, “And you are not Thursday.”

“Comrades,” cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, “it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man.”

“Comrade Gregory,” said the chairman after a painful pause, “this is really not quite dignified.”

For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again—

“The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council.”

The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe.

Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes.

“You are a devil!” said Gregory at last.

“And you are a gentleman,” said Syme with gravity.

“It was you that entrapped me,” began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, “entrapped me into—”

“Talk sense,” said Syme shortly. “Into what sort of devils’ parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,” and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.

“The boat is quite ready,” said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. “Be good enough to step this way.”

With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye.

Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory.

“You have kept your word,” he said gently, with his face in shadow. “You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” cried the chaotic Gregory. “What did I promise you?”

“A very entertaining evening,” said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away.

CHAPTER IV

THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE

GABRIEL SYME was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism.

Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left—sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual—quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion.

He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise.

He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country.

Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said “Good evening.”

Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight.

“A good evening is it?” he said sharply. “You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm.”

“If we are calm,” replied the policeman, “it is the calm of organised resistance.”

“Eh?” said Syme, staring.

“The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle,” pursued the policeman. “The composure of an army is the anger of a nation.”

“Good God, the Board Schools!” said Syme. “Is this undenominational education?”

“No,” said the policeman sadly, “I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid.”

“Where did you have it?” asked Syme, wondering.

“Oh, at Harrow,” said the policeman

The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them.

“But, good Lord, man,” he said, “you oughtn’t to be a policeman!”

The policeman sighed and shook his head.

“I know,” he said solemnly, “I know I am not worthy.”

“But why did you join the police?” asked Syme with rude curiosity.

“For much the same reason that you abused the police,” replied the other. “I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear.”

“If you mean that you make your opinion clear,” said Syme, “I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?”

“You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system,” replied the other. “I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us.”

“Join you in what?” asked Syme.

“I will tell you,” said the policeman slowly. “This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt.”

Syme’s eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity.

“What do you do, then?” he said.

“The work of the philosophical policeman,” replied the man in blue, “is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartle pool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet.”

“Do you mean,” asked Syme, “that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?”

“You are not sufficiently democratic,” answered the policeman, “but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people’s.”

Syme struck his hands together.

“How true that is,” he cried. “I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed— say a wealthy uncle—he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else.”

“But this is absurd!” cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon in persons of his figure and costume, “but it is intolerable! I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re wasting your life. You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy. Their armies are on our frontiers. Their bolt is ready to fall. A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world.”

“It is a chance not to be missed, certainly,” assented Syme, “but still I do not quite understand. I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements. But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other. How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt. What is this anarchy?”

“Do not confuse it,” replied the constable, “with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring— the main mass of their supporters—are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section.”

“Oh!” said Syme.

“Naturally, therefore, these people talk about ‘a happy time coming’; ‘the paradise of the future’; ‘mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,’ and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak—the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths”— and the policeman lowered his voice—“in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave.

“They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody.”

“How can I join you?” asked Syme, with a sort of passion.

“I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment,” said the policeman, “as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like.”

“Telephone?” inquired Syme, with interest.

“No,” said the policeman placidly, “he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along.”

Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind.

“Are you the new recruit?” asked a heavy voice.

And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him.

“Are you the new recruit?” said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. “All right. You are engaged.”

Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.

“I really have no experience,” he began.

“No one has any experience,” said the other, “of the Battle of Armageddon.”

“But I am really unfit—”

“You are willing, that is enough,” said the unknown.

“Well, really,” said Syme, “I don’t know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test.”

“I do,” said the other—“martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day.”

Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, “The Last Crusade,” and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists.

When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight.

Over the whole landscape lay a luminous and unnatural discoloration, as of that disastrous twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric folly glowed in the night like a great fire. Even the common things he carried with him—the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol—took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque. So this inhuman landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human. To Syme’s exaggerative mind the bright, bleak houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon. But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon.

The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil went comparatively slowly. The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break. It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing Cross.

The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them. They were big and black against the huge white dawn. They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones of horrible and heathen kings. He leapt out of the boat on to one slimy step, and stood, a dark and slender figure, amid the enormous masonry. The two men in the tug put her off again and turned up stream. They had never spoken a word.

CHAPTER V

THE FEAST OF FEAR

AT first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river. As a figure he was quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven—clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir.

At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left.

There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme’s circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it.

There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong.

The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man’s face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague.

“If we walk up towards Leicester Square,” he said, “we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?”

“No,” said Syme.

“Nor have I,” answered the man in an ordinary tone. “I shall try to get to bed after breakfast.”

He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again.

“Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don’t know, I’d better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn’t seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age. For now we flaunt ourselves before the public. We have our breakfast on a balcony—on a balcony, if you please— overlooking Leicester Square.”

“And what do the people say?” asked Syme.

“It’s quite simple what they say,” answered his guide.

“They say we are a lot of jolly gentlemen who pretend they are anarchists.”

“It seems to me a very clever idea,” said Syme.

“Clever! God blast your impudence! Clever!” cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile. “When you’ve seen Sunday for a split second you’ll leave off calling him clever.”

With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square. It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental. It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look. But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright and clear. Between the open square and the sunlit leaves and the statue and the Saracenic outlines of the Alhambra, it looked the replica of some French or even Spanish public place. And this effect increased in Syme the sensation, which in many shapes he had had through the whole adventure, the eerie sensation of having strayed into a new world. As a fact, he had bought bad cigars round Leicester Square ever since he was a boy. But as he turned that corner, and saw the trees and the Moorish cupolas, he could have sworn that he was turning into an unknown Place de something or other in some foreign town.

At one corner of the square there projected a kind of angle of a prosperous but quiet hotel, the bulk of which belonged to a street behind. In the wall there was one large French window, probably the window of a large coffee-room; and outside this window, almost literally overhanging the square, was a formidably buttressed balcony, big enough to contain a dining-table. In fact, it did contain a dining-table, or more strictly a breakfast-table; and round the breakfast-table, glowing in the sunlight and evident to the street, were a group of noisy and talkative men, all dressed in the insolence of fashion, with white waistcoats and expensive button-holes. Some of their jokes could almost be heard across the square. Then the grave Secretary gave his unnatural smile, and Syme knew that this boisterous breakfast party was the secret conclave of the European Dynamiters.

Then, as Syme continued to stare at them, he saw something that he had not seen before. He had not seen it literally because it was too large to see. At the nearest end of the balcony, blocking up a great part of the perspective, was the back of a great mountain of a man. When Syme had seen him, his first thought was that the weight of him must break down the balcony of stone. His vastness did not lie only in the fact that he was abnormally tall and quite incredibly fat. This man was planned enormously in his original proportions, like a statue carved deliberately as colossal. His head, crowned with white hair, as seen from behind looked bigger than a head ought to be. The ears that stood out from it looked larger than human ears. He was enlarged terribly to scale; and this sense of size was so staggering, that when Syme saw him all the other figures seemed quite suddenly to dwindle and become dwarfish. They were still sitting there as before with their flowers and frock-coats, but now it looked as if the big man was entertaining five children to tea.

As Syme and the guide approached the side door of the hotel, a waiter came out smiling with every tooth in his head.

“The gentlemen are up there, sare,” he said. “They do talk and they do laugh at what they talk. They do say they will throw bombs at ze king.”

And the waiter hurried away with a napkin over his arm, much pleased with the singular frivolity of the gentlemen upstairs.

The two men mounted the stairs in silence.

Syme had never thought of asking whether the monstrous man who almost filled and broke the balcony was the great President of whom the others stood in awe. He knew it was so, with an unaccountable but instantaneous certainty. Syme, indeed, was one of those men who are open to all the more nameless psychological influences in a degree a little dangerous to mental health. Utterly devoid of fear in physical dangers, he was a great deal too sensitive to the smell of spiritual evil. Twice already that night little unmeaning things had peeped out at him almost pruriently, and given him a sense of drawing nearer and nearer to the head-quarters of hell. And this sense became overpowering as he drew nearer to the great President.

The form it took was a childish and yet hateful fancy. As he walked across the inner room towards the balcony, the large face of Sunday grew larger and larger; and Syme was gripped with a fear that when he was quite close the face would be too big to be possible, and that he would scream aloud. He remembered that as a child he would not look at the mask of Memnon in the British Museum, because it was a face, and so large.

By an effort, braver than that of leaping over a cliff, he went to an empty seat at the breakfast-table and sat down. The men greeted him with good-humoured raillery as if they had always known him. He sobered himself a little by looking at their conventional coats and solid, shining coffee-pot; then he looked again at Sunday. His face was very large, but it was still possible to humanity.

In the presence of the President the whole company looked sufficiently commonplace; nothing about them caught the eye at first, except that by the President’s caprice they had been dressed up with a festive respectability, which gave the meal the look of a wedding breakfast. One man indeed stood out at even a superficial glance. He at least was the common or garden Dynamiter. He wore, indeed, the high white collar and satin tie that were the uniform of the occasion; but out of this collar there sprang a head quite unmanageable and quite unmistakable, a bewildering bush of brown hair and beard that almost obscured the eyes like those of a Skye terrier. But the eyes did look out of the tangle, and they were the sad eyes of some Russian serf. The effect of this figure was not terrible like that of the President, but it had every diablerie that can come from the utterly grotesque. If out of that stiff tie and collar there had come abruptly the head of a cat or a dog, it could not have been a more idiotic contrast.

The man’s name, it seemed, was Gogol; he was a Pole, and in this circle of days he was called Tuesday. His soul and speech were incurably tragic; he could not force himself to play the prosperous and frivolous part demanded of him by President Sunday. And, indeed, when Syme came in the President, with that daring disregard of public suspicion which was his policy, was actually chaffing Gogol upon his inability to assume conventional graces.

“Our friend Tuesday,” said the President in a deep voice at once of quietude and volume, “our friend Tuesday doesn’t seem to grasp the idea. He dresses up like a gentleman, but he seems to be too great a soul to behave like one. He insists on the ways of the stage conspirator. Now if a gentleman goes about London in a top hat and a frock-coat, no one need know that he is an anarchist. But if a gentleman puts on a top hat and a frock-coat, and then goes about on his hands and knees— well, he may attract attention. That’s what Brother Gogol does. He goes about on his hands and knees with such inexhaustible diplomacy, that by this time he finds it quite difficult to walk upright.”

“I am not good at goncealment,” said Gogol sulkily, with a thick foreign accent; “I am not ashamed of the cause.”

“Yes you are, my boy, and so is the cause of you,” said the President good-naturedly. “You hide as much as anybody; but you can’t do it, you see, you’re such an ass! You try to combine two inconsistent methods. When a householder finds a man under his bed, he will probably pause to note the circumstance. But if he finds a man under his bed in a top hat, you will agree with me, my dear Tuesday, that he is not likely even to forget it. Now when you were found under Admiral Biffin’s bed—”

“I am not good at deception,” said Tuesday gloomily, flushing.

“Right, my boy, right,” said the President with a ponderous heartiness, “you aren’t good at anything.”

While this stream of conversation continued, Syme was looking more steadily at the men around him. As he did so, he gradually felt all his sense of something spiritually queer return.

He had thought at first that they were all of common stature and costume, with the evident exception of the hairy Gogol. But as he looked at the others, he began to see in each of them exactly what he had seen in the man by the river, a demoniac detail somewhere. That lop-sided laugh, which would suddenly disfigure the fine face of his original guide, was typical of all these types. Each man had something about him, perceived perhaps at the tenth or twentieth glance, which was not normal, and which seemed hardly human. The only metaphor he could think of was this, that they all looked as men of fashion and presence would look, with the additional twist given in a false and curved mirror.

Only the individual examples will express this half-concealed eccentricity. Syme’s original cicerone bore the title of Monday; he was the Secretary of the Council, and his twisted smile was regarded with more terror than anything, except the President’s horrible, happy laughter. But now that Syme had more space and light to observe him, there were other touches. His fine face was so emaciated, that Syme thought it must be wasted with some disease; yet somehow the very distress of his dark eyes denied this. It was no physical ill that troubled him. His eyes were alive with intellectual torture, as if pure thought was pain.

He was typical of each of the tribe; each man was subtly and differently wrong. Next to him sat Tuesday, the tousle-headed Gogol, a man more obviously mad. Next was Wednesday, a certain Marquis de St. Eustache, a sufficiently characteristic figure. The first few glances found nothing unusual about him, except that he was the only man at table who wore the fashionable clothes as if they were really his own. He had a black French beard cut square and a black English frock-coat cut even squarer. But Syme, sensitive to such things, felt somehow that the man carried a rich atmosphere with him, a rich atmosphere that suffocated. It reminded one irrationally of drowsy odours and of dying lamps in the darker poems of Byron and Poe. With this went a sense of his being clad, not in lighter colours, but in softer materials; his black seemed richer and warmer than the black shades about him, as if it were compounded of profound colour. His black coat looked as if it were only black by being too dense a purple. His black beard looked as if it were only black by being too deep a blue. And in the gloom and thickness of the beard his dark red mouth showed sensual and scornful. Whatever he was he was not a Frenchman; he might be a Jew; he might be something deeper yet in the dark heart of the East. In the bright coloured Persian tiles and pictures showing tyrants hunting, you may see just those almond eyes, those blue-black beards, those cruel, crimson lips.

Then came Syme, and next a very old man, Professor de Worms, who still kept the chair of Friday, though every day it was expected that his death would leave it empty. Save for his intellect, he was in the last dissolution of senile decay. His face was as grey as his long grey beard, his forehead was lifted and fixed finally in a furrow of mild despair. In no other case, not even that of Gogol, did the bridegroom brilliancy of the morning dress express a more painful contrast. For the red flower in his button-hole showed up against a face that was literally discoloured like lead; the whole hideous effect was as if some drunken dandies had put their clothes upon a corpse. When he rose or sat down, which was with long labour and peril, something worse was expressed than mere weakness, something indefinably connected with the horror of the whole scene. It did not express decrepitude merely, but corruption. Another hateful fancy crossed Syme’s quivering mind. He could not help thinking that whenever the man moved a leg or arm might fall off.

Right at the end sat the man called Saturday, the simplest and the most baffling of all. He was a short, square man with a dark, square face clean-shaven, a medical practitioner going by the name of Bull. He had that combination of savoir-faire with a sort of well-groomed coarseness which is not uncommon in young doctors. He carried his fine clothes with confidence rather than ease, and he mostly wore a set smile. There was nothing whatever odd about him, except that he wore a pair of dark, almost opaque spectacles. It may have been merely a crescendo of nervous fancy that had gone before, but those black discs were dreadful to Syme; they reminded him of half-remembered ugly tales, of some story about pennies being put on the eyes of the dead. Syme’s eye always caught the black glasses and the blind grin. Had the dying Professor worn them, or even the pale Secretary, they would have been appropriate. But on the younger and grosser man they seemed only an enigma. They took away the key of the face. You could not tell what his smile or his gravity meant. Partly from this, and partly because he had a vulgar virility wanting in most of the others it seemed to Syme that he might be the wickedest of all those wicked men. Syme even had the thought that his eyes might be covered up because they were too frightful to see.

CHAPTER VI

THE EXPOSURE

SUCH were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world. Again and again Syme strove to pull together his common sense in their presence. Sometimes he saw for an instant that these notions were subjective, that he was only looking at ordinary men, one of whom was old, another nervous, another short-sighted. The sense of an unnatural symbolism always settled back on him again. Each figure seemed to be, somehow, on the borderland of things, just as their theory was on the borderland of thought. He knew that each one of these men stood at the extreme end, so to speak, of some wild road of reasoning. He could only fancy, as in some old-world fable, that if a man went westward to the end of the world he would find something— say a tree—that was more or less than a tree, a tree possessed by a spirit; and that if he went east to the end of the world he would find something else that was not wholly itself— a tower, perhaps, of which the very shape was wicked. So these figures seemed to stand up, violent and unaccountable, against an ultimate horizon, visions from the verge. The ends of the earth were closing in.

Talk had been going on steadily as he took in the scene; and not the least of the contrasts of that bewildering breakfast-table was the contrast between the easy and unobtrusive tone of talk and its terrible purport. They were deep in the discussion of an actual and immediate plot. The waiter downstairs had spoken quite correctly when he said that they were talking about bombs and kings. Only three days afterwards the Czar was to meet the President of the French Republic in Paris, and over their bacon and eggs upon their sunny balcony these beaming gentlemen had decided how both should die. Even the instrument was chosen; the black-bearded Marquis, it appeared, was to carry the bomb.

Ordinarily speaking, the proximity of this positive and objective crime would have sobered Syme, and cured him of all his merely mystical tremors. He would have thought of nothing but the need of saving at least two human bodies from being ripped in pieces with iron and roaring gas. But the truth was that by this time he had begun to feel a third kind of fear, more piercing and practical than either his moral revulsion or his social responsibility. Very simply, he had no fear to spare for the French President or the Czar; he had begun to fear for himself. Most of the talkers took little heed of him, debating now with their faces closer together, and almost uniformly grave, save when for an instant the smile of the Secretary ran aslant across his face as the jagged lightning runs aslant across the sky. But there was one persistent thing which first troubled Syme and at last terrified him. The President was always looking at him, steadily, and with a great and baffling interest. The enormous man was quite quiet, but his blue eyes stood out of his head. And they were always fixed on Syme.

Syme felt moved to spring up and leap over the balcony. When the President’s eyes were on him he felt as if he were made of glass. He had hardly the shred of a doubt that in some silent and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy. He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees.

Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days. In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism. He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children. But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise. He had promised never to do the very thing that he now felt himself almost in the act of doing. He had promised not to jump over that balcony and speak to that policeman. He took his cold hand off the cold stone balustrade. His soul swayed in a vertigo of moral indecision. He had only to snap the thread of a rash vow made to a villainous society, and all his life could be as open and sunny as the square beneath him. He had, on the other hand, only to keep his antiquated honour, and be delivered inch by inch into the power of this great enemy of mankind, whose very intellect was a torture-chamber. Whenever he looked down into the square he saw the comfortable policeman, a pillar of common sense and common order. Whenever he looked back at the breakfast-table he saw the President still quietly studying him with big, unbearable eyes.

In all the torrent of his thought there were two thoughts that never crossed his mind. First, it never occurred to him to doubt that the President and his Council could crush him if he continued to stand alone. The place might be public, the project might seem impossible. But Sunday was not the man who would carry himself thus easily without having, somehow or somewhere, set open his iron trap. Either by anonymous poison or sudden street accident, by hypnotism or by fire from hell, Sunday could certainly strike him. If he defied the man he was probably dead, either struck stiff there in his chair or long afterwards as by an innocent ailment. If he called in the police promptly, arrested everyone, told all, and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise. They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea.

There was a second thought that never came to him. It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy. Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality. They might have called Sunday the super-man. If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking. He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it.

The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table—cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme.

“I have often wondered,” said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, “whether it wouldn’t be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round.”

“You are wrong,” said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. “The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man’s brain is a bomb,” he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. “My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man’s brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe.”

“I don’t want the universe broken up just yet,” drawled the Marquis. “I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed.”

“No, if the only end of the thing is nothing,” said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, “it hardly seems worth doing.”

The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.

“Every man knows in his heart,” he said, “that nothing is worth doing.”

There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said—

“We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to—”

The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them.

“Before we discuss that,” he said in a small, quiet voice, “let us go into a private room. I have something very particular to say.”

Syme stood up before any of the others. The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head. On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold.

A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune. Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle. He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere. That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom. His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room. But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ. And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him. For an instant, at least, he looked down upon all their sprawling eccentricities from the starry pinnacle of the commonplace. He felt towards them all that unconscious and elementary superiority that a brave man feels over powerful beasts or a wise man over powerful errors. He knew that he had neither the intellectual nor the physical strength of President Sunday; but in that moment he minded it no more than the fact that he had not the muscles of a tiger or a horn on his nose like a rhinoceros. All was swallowed up in an ultimate certainty that the President was wrong and that the barrel-organ was right. There clanged in his mind that unanswerable and terrible truism in the song of Roland—

“Pagens ont tort et Chretiens ont droit.”

which in the old nasal French has the clang and groan of great iron. This liberation of his spirit from the load of his weakness went with a quite clear decision to embrace death. If the people of the barrel-organ could keep their old-world obligations, so could he. This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants. It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand. The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death.

The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind. Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm. The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom. When they were all in, he closed and locked the door.

The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance.

“Zso! Zso!” he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable. “You zay you nod ‘ide. You zay you show himselves. It is all nuzzinks. Ven you vant talk importance you run yourselves in a dark box!”

The President seemed to take the foreigner’s incoherent satire with entire good humour.

“You can’t get hold of it yet, Gogol,” he said in a fatherly way. “When once they have heard us talking nonsense on that balcony they will not care where we go afterwards. If we had come here first, we should have had the whole staff at the keyhole. You don’t seem to know anything about mankind.”

“I die for zem,” cried the Pole in thick excitement, “and I slay zare oppressors. I care not for these games of gonzealment. I would zmite ze tyrant in ze open square.”

“I see, I see,” said the President, nodding kindly as he seated himself at the top of a long table. “You die for mankind first, and then you get up and smite their oppressors. So that’s all right. And now may I ask you to control your beautiful sentiments, and sit down with the other gentlemen at this table. For the first time this morning something intelligent is going to be said.”

Syme, with the perturbed promptitude he had shown since the original summons, sat down first. Gogol sat down last, grumbling in his brown beard about gombromise. No one except Syme seemed to have any notion of the blow that was about to fall. As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech.

“Comrades,” said the President, suddenly rising, “we have spun out this farce long enough. I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice. Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places. I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member. I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr. Bull.”

They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table.

“Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company.”

Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal.

Sunday went on smoothly—

“You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who—”

The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman.

“It can’t be!” he cried, leaping. “There can’t—”

The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name—”

Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.

“His name is Gogol,” said the President. “He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole.”

Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief.

CHAPTER VII

THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS

“SIT down!” said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords.

The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat.

“Well, my man,” said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, “will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?”

The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist constabulary.

“Pathetic Slav,” said the President, “tragic child of Poland, are you prepared in the presence of that card to deny that you are in this company— shall we say de trop?”

“Right oh!” said the late Gogol. It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair. It was irrational, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch accent.

“I gather that you fully understand your position,” said Sunday.

“You bet,” answered the Pole. “I see it’s a fair cop. All I say is, I don’t believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his.”

“I concede the point,” said Sunday. “I believe your own accent to be inimitable, though I shall practise it in my bath. Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?”

“Not a bit,” answered Gogol; and with one finger he ripped off the whole of his shaggy head-covering, emerging with thin red hair and a pale, pert face. “It was hot,” he added.

“I will do you the justice to say,” said Sunday, not without a sort of brutal admiration, “that you seem to have kept pretty cool under it. Now listen to me. I like you. The consequence is that it would annoy me for just about two and a half minutes if I heard that you had died in torments. Well, if you ever tell the police or any human soul about us, I shall have that two and a half minutes of discomfort. On your discomfort I will not dwell. Good day. Mind the step.”

The red-haired detective who had masqueraded as Gogol rose to his feet without a word, and walked out of the room with an air of perfect nonchalance. Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step.

“Time is flying,” said the President in his gayest manner, after glancing at his watch, which like everything about him seemed bigger than it ought to be. “I must go off at once; I have to take the chair at a Humanitarian meeting.”

The Secretary turned to him with working eyebrows.

“Would it not be better,” he said a little sharply, “to discuss further the details of our project, now that the spy has left us?”

“No, I think not,” said the President with a yawn like an unobtrusive earthquake. “Leave it as it is. Let Saturday settle it. I must be off. Breakfast here next Sunday.”

But the late loud scenes had whipped up the almost naked nerves of the Secretary. He was one of those men who are conscientious even in crime.

“I must protest, President, that the thing is irregular,” he said. “It is a fundamental rule of our society that all plans shall be debated in full council. Of course, I fully appreciate your forethought when in the actual presence of a traitor—”

“Secretary,” said the President seriously, “if you’d take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can’t say. But it might.”

The Secretary reared back in a kind of equine anger.

“I really fail to understand—” he began in high offense.

“That’s it, that’s it,” said the President, nodding a great many times. “That’s where you fail right enough. You fail to understand. Why, you dancing donkey,” he roared, rising, “you didn’t want to be overheard by a spy, didn’t you? How do you know you aren’t overheard now?”

And with these words he shouldered his way out of the room, shaking with incomprehensible scorn.

Four of the men left behind gaped after him without any apparent glimmering of his meaning. Syme alone had even a glimmering, and such as it was it froze him to the bone. If the last words of the President meant anything, they meant that he had not after all passed unsuspected. They meant that while Sunday could not denounce him like Gogol, he still could not trust him like the others.

The other four got to their feet grumbling more or less, and betook themselves elsewhere to find lunch, for it was already well past midday. The Professor went last, very slowly and painfully. Syme sat long after the rest had gone, revolving his strange position. He had escaped a thunderbolt, but he was still under a cloud. At last he rose and made his way out of the hotel into Leicester Square. The bright, cold day had grown increasingly colder, and when he came out into the street he was surprised by a few flakes of snow. While he still carried the sword-stick and the rest of Gregory’s portable luggage, he had thrown the cloak down and left it somewhere, perhaps on the steam-tug, perhaps on the balcony. Hoping, therefore, that the snow-shower might be slight, he stepped back out of the street for a moment and stood up under the doorway of a small and greasy hair-dresser’s shop, the front window of which was empty, except for a sickly wax lady in evening dress.

Snow, however, began to thicken and fall fast; and Syme, having found one glance at the wax lady quite sufficient to depress his spirits, stared out instead into the white and empty street. He was considerably astonished to see, standing quite still outside the shop and staring into the window, a man. His top hat was loaded with snow like the hat of Father Christmas, the white drift was rising round his boots and ankles; but it seemed as if nothing could tear him away from the contemplation of the colourless wax doll in dirty evening dress. That any human being should stand in such weather looking into such a shop was a matter of sufficient wonder to Syme; but his idle wonder turned suddenly into a personal shock; for he realised that the man standing there was the paralytic old Professor de Worms. It scarcely seemed the place for a person of his years and infirmities.

Syme was ready to believe anything about the perversions of this dehumanized brotherhood; but even he could not believe that the Professor had fallen in love with that particular wax lady. He could only suppose that the man’s malady (whatever it was) involved some momentary fits of rigidity or trance. He was not inclined, however, to feel in this case any very compassionate concern. On the contrary, he rather congratulated himself that the Professor’s stroke and his elaborate and limping walk would make it easy to escape from him and leave him miles behind. For Syme thirsted first and last to get clear of the whole poisonous atmosphere, if only for an hour. Then he could collect his thoughts, formulate his policy, and decide finally whether he should or should not keep faith with Gregory.

He strolled away through the dancing snow, turned up two or three streets, down through two or three others, and entered a small Soho restaurant for lunch. He partook reflectively of four small and quaint courses, drank half a bottle of red wine, and ended up over black coffee and a black cigar, still thinking. He had taken his seat in the upper room of the restaurant, which was full of the chink of knives and the chatter of foreigners. He remembered that in old days he had imagined that all these harmless and kindly aliens were anarchists. He shuddered, remembering the real thing. But even the shudder had the delightful shame of escape. The wine, the common food, the familiar place, the faces of natural and talkative men, made him almost feel as if the Council of the Seven Days had been a bad dream; and although he knew it was nevertheless an objective reality, it was at least a distant one. Tall houses and populous streets lay between him and his last sight of the shameful seven; he was free in free London, and drinking wine among the free. With a somewhat easier action, he took his hat and stick and strolled down the stair into the shop below.

When he entered that lower room he stood stricken and rooted to the spot. At a small table, close up to the blank window and the white street of snow, sat the old anarchist Professor over a glass of milk, with his lifted livid face and pendent eyelids. For an instant Syme stood as rigid as the stick he leant upon. Then with a gesture as of blind hurry, he brushed past the Professor, dashing open the door and slamming it behind him, and stood outside in the snow.

“Can that old corpse be following me?” he asked himself, biting his yellow moustache. “I stopped too long up in that room, so that even such leaden feet could catch me up. One comfort is, with a little brisk walking I can put a man like that as far away as Timbuctoo. Or am I too fanciful? Was he really following me? Surely Sunday would not be such a fool as to send a lame man?”

He set off at a smart pace, twisting and whirling his stick, in the direction of Covent Garden. As he crossed the great market the snow increased, growing blinding and bewildering as the afternoon began to darken. The snow-flakes tormented him like a swarm of silver bees. Getting into his eyes and beard, they added their unremitting futility to his already irritated nerves; and by the time that he had come at a swinging pace to the beginning of Fleet Street, he lost patience, and finding a Sunday teashop, turned into it to take shelter. He ordered another cup of black coffee as an excuse. Scarcely had he done so, when Professor de Worms hobbled heavily into the shop, sat down with difficulty and ordered a glass of milk.

Syme’s walking-stick had fallen from his hand with a great clang, which confessed the concealed steel. But the Professor did not look round. Syme, who was commonly a cool character, was literally gaping as a rustic gapes at a conjuring trick. He had seen no cab following; he had heard no wheels outside the shop; to all mortal appearances the man had come on foot. But the old man could only walk like a snail, and Syme had walked like the wind. He started up and snatched his stick, half crazy with the contradiction in mere arithmetic, and swung out of the swinging doors, leaving his coffee untasted. An omnibus going to the Bank went rattling by with an unusual rapidity. He had a violent run of a hundred yards to reach it; but he managed to spring, swaying upon the splash-board and, pausing for an instant to pant, he climbed on to the top. When he had been seated for about half a minute, he heard behind him a sort of heavy and asthmatic breathing.

Turning sharply, he saw rising gradually higher and higher up the omnibus steps a top hat soiled and dripping with snow, and under the shadow of its brim the short-sighted face and shaky shoulders of Professor de Worms. He let himself into a seat with characteristic care, and wrapped himself up to the chin in the mackintosh rug.

Every movement of the old man’s tottering figure and vague hands, every uncertain gesture and panic-stricken pause, seemed to put it beyond question that he was helpless, that he was in the last imbecility of the body. He moved by inches, he let himself down with little gasps of caution. And yet, unless the philosophical entities called time and space have no vestige even of a practical existence, it appeared quite unquestionable that he had run after the omnibus.

Syme sprang erect upon the rocking car, and after staring wildly at the wintry sky, that grew gloomier every moment, he ran down the steps. He had repressed an elemental impulse to leap over the side.

Too bewildered to look back or to reason, he rushed into one of the little courts at the side of Fleet Street as a rabbit rushes into a hole. He had a vague idea, if this incomprehensible old Jack-in-the-box was really pursuing him, that in that labyrinth of little streets he could soon throw him off the scent. He dived in and out of those crooked lanes, which were more like cracks than thoroughfares; and by the time that he had completed about twenty alternate angles and described an unthinkable polygon, he paused to listen for any sound of pursuit. There was none; there could not in any case have been much, for the little streets were thick with the soundless snow. Somewhere behind Red Lion Court, however, he noticed a place where some energetic citizen had cleared away the snow for a space of about twenty yards, leaving the wet, glistening cobble-stones. He thought little of this as he passed it, only plunging into yet another arm of the maze. But when a few hundred yards farther on he stood still again to listen, his heart stood still also, for he heard from that space of rugged stones the clinking crutch and labouring feet of the infernal cripple.

The sky above was loaded with the clouds of snow, leaving London in a darkness and oppression premature for that hour of the evening. On each side of Syme the walls of the alley were blind and featureless; there was no little window or any kind of eve. He felt a new impulse to break out of this hive of houses, and to get once more into the open and lamp-lit street. Yet he rambled and dodged for a long time before he struck the main thoroughfare. When he did so, he struck it much farther up than he had fancied. He came out into what seemed the vast and void of Ludgate Circus, and saw St. Paul’s Cathedral sitting in the sky.

At first he was startled to find these great roads so empty, as if a pestilence had swept through the city. Then he told himself that some degree of emptiness was natural; first because the snow-storm was even dangerously deep, and secondly because it was Sunday. And at the very word Sunday he bit his lip; the word was henceforth for hire like some indecent pun. Under the white fog of snow high up in the heaven the whole atmosphere of the city was turned to a very queer kind of green twilight, as of men under the sea. The sealed and sullen sunset behind the dark dome of St. Paul’s had in it smoky and sinister colours— colours of sickly green, dead red or decaying bronze, that were just bright enough to emphasise the solid whiteness of the snow. But right up against these dreary colours rose the black bulk of the cathedral; and upon the top of the cathedral was a random splash and great stain of snow, still clinging as to an Alpine peak. It had fallen accidentally, but just so fallen as to half drape the dome from its very topmost point, and to pick out in perfect silver the great orb and the cross. When Syme saw it he suddenly straightened himself, and made with his sword-stick an involuntary salute.

He knew that that evil figure, his shadow, was creeping quickly or slowly behind him, and he did not care.

It seemed a symbol of human faith and valour that while the skies were darkening that high place of the earth was bright. The devils might have captured heaven, but they had not yet captured the cross. He had a new impulse to tear out the secret of this dancing, jumping and pursuing paralytic; and at the entrance of the court as it opened upon the Circus he turned, stick in hand, to face his pursuer.

Professor de Worms came slowly round the corner of the irregular alley behind him, his unnatural form outlined against a lonely gas-lamp, irresistibly recalling that very imaginative figure in the nursery rhymes, “the crooked man who went a crooked mile.” He really looked as if he had been twisted out of shape by the tortuous streets he had been threading. He came nearer and nearer, the lamplight shining on his lifted spectacles, his lifted, patient face. Syme waited for him as St. George waited for the dragon, as a man waits for a final explanation or for death. And the old Professor came right up to him and passed him like a total stranger, without even a blink of his mournful eyelids.

There was something in this silent and unexpected innocence that left Syme in a final fury. The man’s colourless face and manner seemed to assert that the whole following had been an accident. Syme was galvanised with an energy that was something between bitterness and a burst of boyish derision. He made a wild gesture as if to knock the old man’s hat off, called out something like “Catch me if you can,” and went racing away across the white, open Circus. Concealment was impossible now; and looking back over his shoulder, he could see the black figure of the old gentleman coming after him with long, swinging strides like a man winning a mile race. But the head upon that bounding body was still pale, grave and professional, like the head of a lecturer upon the body of a harlequin.

This outrageous chase sped across Ludgate Circus, up Ludgate Hill, round St. Paul’s Cathedral, along Cheapside, Syme remembering all the nightmares he had ever known. Then Syme broke away towards the river, and ended almost down by the docks. He saw the yellow panes of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer. It was a foul tavern, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium might be smoked or knives drawn.

A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS

WHEN Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing. It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk.

One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation—

“Are you a policeman?”

Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.

“A policeman?” he said, laughing vaguely. “Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?”

“The process was simple enough,” answered the Professor patiently. “I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now.”

“Did I take a policeman’s hat by mistake out of the restaurant?” asked Syme, smiling wildly. “Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman.”

The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony.

“But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being anything in German thought.”

“Are you in the police service?” said the old man, ignoring all Syme’s improvised and desperate raillery. “Are you a detective?”

Syme’s heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.

“Your suggestion is ridiculous,” he began. “Why on earth—”

The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.

“Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?” he shrieked in a high, crazy voice. “Are you, or are you not, a police detective?”

“No!” answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman’s drop.

“You swear it,” said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. “You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?”

He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.

“I am not in the British police,” said Syme with insane calm.

Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse.

“That’s a pity,” he said, “because I am.”

Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.

“Because you are what?” he said thickly. “You are what?”

“I am a policeman,” said the Professor with his first broad smile. and beaming through his spectacles. “But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters’ club. I suppose I ought to arrest you.” And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.

Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation. There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter. Syme’s egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.

Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme’s mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.

“What yer laughing at, guv’nor?” asked one wondering labourer from the docks.

“At myself,” answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.

“Pull yourself together,” said the Professor, “or you’ll get hysterical. Have some more beer. I’ll join you.”

“You haven’t drunk your milk,” said Syme.

“My milk!” said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, “my milk! Do you think I’d look at the beastly stuff when I’m out of sight of the bloody anarchists? We’re all Christians in this room, though perhaps,” he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, “not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I’ll finish it right enough!” and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.

Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.

“I understand now,” he cried; “of course, you’re not an old man at all.”

“I can’t take my face off here,” replied Professor de Worms. “It’s rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I’m an old man, that’s not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday.”

“Yes, but I mean,” said Syme impatiently, “there’s nothing the matter with you.”

“Yes,” answered the other dispassionately. “I am subject to colds.”

Syme’s laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights. But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.

The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that that man Gogol was one of us?”

“I? No, I didn’t know it,” answered Syme in some surprise. “But didn’t you?”

“I knew no more than the dead,” replied the man who called himself de Worms. “I thought the President was talking about me, and I rattled in my boots.”

“And I thought he was talking about me,” said Syme, with his rather reckless laughter. “I had my hand on my revolver all the time.”

“So had I,” said the Professor grimly; “so had Gogol evidently.”

Syme struck the table with an exclamation.

“Why, there were three of us there!” he cried. “Three out of seven is a fighting number. If we had only known that we were three!”

The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.

“We were three,” he said. “If we had been three hundred we could still have done nothing.”

“Not if we were three hundred against four?” asked Syme, jeering rather boisterously.

“No,” said the Professor with sobriety, “not if we were three hundred against Sunday.”

And the mere name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips. The face of the unforgettable President sprang into his mind as startling as a coloured photograph, and he remarked this difference between Sunday and all his satellites, that their faces, however fierce or sinister, became gradually blurred by memory like other human faces, whereas Sunday’s seemed almost to grow more actual during absence, as if a man’s painted portrait should slowly come alive.

They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme’s speech came with a rush, like the sudden foaming of champagne.

“Professor,” he cried, “it is intolerable. Are you afraid of this man?”

The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.

“Yes, I am,” he said mildly. “So are you.”

Syme was dumb for an instant. Then he rose to his feet erect, like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.

“Yes,” he said in a voice indescribable, “you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.”

“How?” asked the staring Professor. “Why?”

“Because I am afraid of him,” said Syme; “and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.”

De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder. He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of inhuman exaltation—

“Who would condescend to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless—like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites to the brigand of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said, ‘I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards.’ So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.”

The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.

“Sunday is a fixed star,” he said.

“You shall see him a falling star,” said Syme, and put on his hat.

The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, with a sort of benevolent bewilderment, “exactly where you are going?”

“Yes,” replied Syme shortly, “I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris.”

“Have you any conception how?” inquired the other.

“No,” said Syme with equal decision.

“You remember, of course,” resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, “that when we broke up rather hurriedly the whole arrangements for the atrocity were left in the private hands of the Marquis and Dr. Bull. The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel. But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don’t know. The only man who does know is Dr. Bull.”

“Confound it!” cried Syme. “And we don’t know where he is.”

“Yes,” said the other in his curious, absent-minded way, “I know where he is myself.”

“Will you tell me?” asked Syme with eager eyes.

“I will take you there,” said the Professor, and took down his own hat from a peg.

Syme stood looking at him with a sort of rigid excitement.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Will you join me? Will you take the risk?”

“Young man,” said the Professor pleasantly, “I am amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it,” and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks.

Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame.

“Where are you going?” Syme inquired.

“Just now,” answered the Professor, “I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early.”

“Dr. Bull!” exclaimed Syme. “Does he live round the corner?”

“No,” answered his friend. “As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed.”

Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream.

Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes.

Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot.

“We are too late,” he said, “the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Syme. “Does he live over there, then?”

“Yes,” said de Worms, “behind that particular window which you can’t see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him to-morrow morning.”

Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road.

“You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils,” explained the Professor. “I once found a decent place in the West End.”

“I suppose,” said Syme, smiling, “that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?”

“It is,” said the Professor reverently, and went in.

In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme’s sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.

Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme’s.

“That’s a good get-up of yours,” said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; “a lot better than old Gogol’s. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy.”

“A difference of artistic theory,” replied the Professor pensively. “Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression. I am a portrait.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Syme.

“I am a portrait,” repeated the Professor. “I am a portrait of the celebrated Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples.”

“You mean you are made up like him,” said Syme. “But doesn’t he know that you are taking his nose in vain?”

“He knows it right enough,” replied his friend cheerfully.

“Then why doesn’t he denounce you?”

“I have denounced him,” answered the Professor.

“Do explain yourself,” said Syme.

“With pleasure, if you don’t mind hearing my story,” replied the eminent foreign philosopher. “I am by profession an actor, and my name is Wilks. When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully. I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic. When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor’s dirty old self. When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself. I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.

“I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn’t be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself. ‘I don’t fancy,’ he said, ‘that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.’ I replied quite scornfully, ‘You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.’ It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit. ‘I see,’ he sneered, ‘you prevail like the false pig in Aesop.’ ‘And you fail,’ I answered, smiling, ‘like the hedgehog in Montaigne.’ Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne? ‘Your claptrap comes off,’ he said; ‘so would your beard.’ I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered, ‘Like the Pantheist’s boots,’ at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.”

“Well,” said Syme, “I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night’s practical joke, but I don’t understand your never taking it off again.”

“That is the rest of the story,” said the impersonator. “When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent, ‘Yes, I am wanted—by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand, ‘No, sir,’ he said civilly, ‘at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because—”

Syme laid down his knife and fork.

“I know,” he said, “because you talked to him in a dark room.”

Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass.

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN IN SPECTACLES

“BURGUNDY is a jolly thing,” said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down.

“You don’t look as if it were,” said Syme; “you drink it as if it were medicine.”

“You must excuse my manner,” said the Professor dismally, “my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can’t leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can’t help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead— just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, ‘Buck up, old cock!’ It would bring tears to your eyes.”

“It does,” said Syme; “but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried.”

The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.

“You are a very clever fellow,” he said, “it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,” and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.

Then he said in a low voice—

“Can you play the piano?”

“Yes,” said Syme in simple wonder, “I’m supposed to have a good touch.”

Then, as the other did not speak, he added—

“I trust the great cloud is lifted.”

After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands—

“It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter.”

“Thank you,” said Syme, “you flatter me.”

“Listen to me,” said the other, “and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going to-morrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary’s disease. Don’t you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull.”

“And you think,” said Syme, “that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?”

“Don’t be an ass,” said his mentor. “I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers— like this, see,” and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table—“B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require.”

Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.

“We must have several word-signs,” said Syme seriously—“words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is ‘coeval.’ What’s yours?”

“Do stop playing the goat,” said the Professor plaintively. “You don’t know how serious this is.”

“‘Lush,’ too,” said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, “we must have ‘lush’—word applied to grass, don’t you know?”

“Do you imagine,” asked the Professor furiously, “that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?”

“There are several ways in which the subject could be approached,” said Syme reflectively, “and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, ‘Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer…’”

“Do you understand,” said the other, “that this is a tragedy?”

“Perfectly,” replied Syme; “always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed—”

“Syme,” said his friend with a stern simplicity, “go to bed!”

Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed.

Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold.

“Well,” said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, “I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?”

The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question.

“I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I’m considered good at these things, and it was a good hour’s grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?”

The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile.

“How long did it take you?”

The Professor did not move.

“Confound you, can’t you answer?” called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not.

Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man’s silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside.

Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message—

“I will only talk like this. We must get used to it.”

He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief—

“All right. Let’s get out to breakfast.”

They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard.

They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron. They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters. At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and tragic dawn lifting itself laboriously over London. From each the innumerable roofs of slate looked like the leaden surges of a grey, troubled sea after rain. Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past. Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream. As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series. But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion. Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.

By the time they reached Dr. Bull’s landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull’s bare garret it was full of light.

Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak. The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was— the French Revolution. There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning. Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre.

Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away. The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism. His position gave him a somewhat new appearance. The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death’s-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he.

He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table.

The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, comrade,” said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. “You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?” Then he added with infinite slowness, “We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment’s delay.”

Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word—

“Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss.”

He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor’s smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor’s makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor’s complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence.

“As I say,” resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, “the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me—”

His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, “You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!”

Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.

“Yes, the thing really happened to me,” he said hastily. “I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France.

“So unless you or I can get on his track—”

The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm.

“Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that—”

All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, “I have an intuition.”

The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, “Then sit on it.”

Syme telegraphed, “It is quite extraordinary.”

The other answered, “Extraordinary rot!”

Syme said, “I am a poet.”

The other retorted, “You are a dead man.”

Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, “You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring.”

He then studied the answer on his friend’s fingers. The answer was, “Go to hell!”

The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor.

“Perhaps I should rather say,” said Syme on his fingers, “that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods.”

His companion disdained to reply.

“Or yet again,” tapped Syme, “it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman.”

The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected—

“Dr. Bull!”

The Doctor’s sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme.

“Dr. Bull,” said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, “would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?”

The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move.

For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles.

Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking.

The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene.

The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby.

“I knew I was a poet,” cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. “I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones.”

“It certainly does make a queer difference,” said the Professor shakily. “But as regards the project of Dr. Bull—”

“Project be damned!” roared Syme, beside himself. “Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don’t suppose, do you, that that thing’s an anarchist?”

“Syme!” cried the other in an apprehensive agony.

“Why, by God,” said Syme, “I’ll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There’s my card,” and he flung down the blue card upon the table.

The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend’s. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice.

“I’m awfully glad you chaps have come so early,” he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, “for we can all start for France together. Yes, I’m in the force right enough,” and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form.

Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang.

“But Lord God Almighty,” he cried out, “if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!”

“We might have fought easily,” said Bull; “we were four against three.”

The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below.

“No,” said the voice, “we were not four against three—we were not so lucky. We were four against One.”

The others went down the stairs in silence.

The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder.

“It is jolly to get some pals,” he said. “I’ve been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won’t despise me for having been in a blue funk.”

“All the blue devils in blue hell,” said Syme, “contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles.”

The young man laughed delightedly.

“Wasn’t it a rag?” he said. “Such a simple idea—not my own. I haven’t got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But as last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark. ‘A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,’ he said positively. ‘Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.’ And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn’t the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it.”

“What was that?” asked Syme.

“I’ll tell you,” answered the man in spectacles. “This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks—by God, he never saw me at all!”

Syme’s eyes suddenly flashed on him.

“How was that?” he asked. “I thought you talked to him.”

“So I did,” said Bull brightly; “but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that.”

“I could not have conceived it,” said Syme gravely.

“It is indeed a new idea,” said the Professor.

Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely.

“I had already arranged,” he explained, “to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I’ll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once.”

“So you sent the Marquis off, I understand,” asked the Professor. “Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?”

“Yes,” answered the new guide, “I’ve timed it all. He’ll still be at Calais when we arrive.”

“But when we do catch him at Calais,” said the Professor, “what are we going to do?”

At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said—

“Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police.”

“Not I,” said Syme. “Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I’m no hand at casuistry, but I can’t break my word to a modern pessimist. It’s like breaking one’s word to a child.”

“I’m in the same boat,” said the Professor. “I tried to tell the police and I couldn’t, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round beast. Perjury or treason is the only crime I haven’t committed. If I did that I shouldn’t know the difference between right and wrong.”

“I’ve been through all that,” said Dr. Bull, “and I’ve made up my mind. I gave my promise to the Secretary—you know him, man who smiles upside down. My friends, that man is the most utterly unhappy man that was ever human. It may be his digestion, or his conscience, or his nerves, or his philosophy of the universe, but he’s damned, he’s in hell! Well, I can’t turn on a man like that, and hunt him down. It’s like whipping a leper. I may be mad, but that’s how I feel; and there’s jolly well the end of it.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” said Syme. “I knew you would decide like that when first you—”

“Eh?” said Dr. Bull.

“When first you took off your spectacles.”

Dr. Bull smiled a little, and strolled across the deck to look at the sunlit sea. Then he strolled back again, kicking his heels carelessly, and a companionable silence fell between the three men.

“Well,” said Syme, “it seems that we have all the same kind of morality or immorality, so we had better face the fact that comes of it.”

“Yes,” assented the Professor, “you’re quite right; and we must hurry up, for I can see the Grey Nose standing out from France.”

“The fact that comes of it,” said Syme seriously, “is this, that we three are alone on this planet. Gogol has gone, God knows where; perhaps the President has smashed him like a fly. On the Council we are three men against three, like the Romans who held the bridge. But we are worse off than that, first because they can appeal to their organization and we cannot appeal to ours, and second because—”

“Because one of those other three men,” said the Professor, “is not a man.”

Syme nodded and was silent for a second or two, then he said—

“My idea is this. We must do something to keep the Marquis in Calais till tomorrow midday. I have turned over twenty schemes in my head. We cannot denounce him as a dynamiter; that is agreed. We cannot get him detained on some trivial charge, for we should have to appear; he knows us, and he would smell a rat. We cannot pretend to keep him on anarchist business; he might swallow much in that way, but not the notion of stopping in Calais while the Czar went safely through Paris. We might try to kidnap him, and lock him up ourselves; but he is a well-known man here. He has a whole bodyguard of friends; he is very strong and brave, and the event is doubtful. The only thing I can see to do is actually to take advantage of the very things that are in the Marquis’s favour. I am going to profit by the fact that he is a highly respected nobleman. I am going to profit by the fact that he has many friends and moves in the best society.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” asked the Professor.

“The Symes are first mentioned in the fourteenth century,” said Syme; “but there is a tradition that one of them rode behind Bruce at Bannockburn. Since 1350 the tree is quite clear.”

“He’s gone off his head,” said the little Doctor, staring.

“Our bearings,” continued Syme calmly, “are ‘argent a chevron gules charged with three cross crosslets of the field.’ The motto varies.”

The Professor seized Syme roughly by the waistcoat.

“We are just inshore,” he said. “Are you seasick or joking in the wrong place?”

“My remarks are almost painfully practical,” answered Syme, in an unhurried manner. “The house of St. Eustache also is very ancient. The Marquis cannot deny that he is a gentleman. He cannot deny that I am a gentleman. And in order to put the matter of my social position quite beyond a doubt, I propose at the earliest opportunity to knock his hat off. But here we are in the harbour.”

They went on shore under the strong sun in a sort of daze. Syme, who had now taken the lead as Bull had taken it in London, led them along a kind of marine parade until he came to some cafes, embowered in a bulk of greenery and overlooking the sea. As he went before them his step was slightly swaggering, and he swung his stick like a sword. He was making apparently for the extreme end of the line of cafes, but he stopped abruptly. With a sharp gesture he motioned them to silence, but he pointed with one gloved finger to a cafe table under a bank of flowering foliage at which sat the Marquis de St. Eustache, his teeth shining in his thick, black beard, and his bold, brown face shadowed by a light yellow straw hat and outlined against the violet sea.

CHAPTER X

THE DUEL

SYME sat down at a cafe table with his companions, his blue eyes sparkling like the bright sea below, and ordered a bottle of Saumur with a pleased impatience. He was for some reason in a condition of curious hilarity. His spirits were already unnaturally high; they rose as the Saumur sank, and in half an hour his talk was a torrent of nonsense. He professed to be making out a plan of the conversation which was going to ensue between himself and the deadly Marquis. He jotted it down wildly with a pencil. It was arranged like a printed catechism, with questions and answers, and was delivered with an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.

“I shall approach. Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own. I shall say, ‘The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.’ He will say, ‘The celebrated Mr. Syme, I presume.’ He will say in the most exquisite French, ‘How are you?’ I shall reply in the most exquisite Cockney, ‘Oh, just the Syme—’”

“Oh, shut it,” said the man in spectacles. “Pull yourself together, and chuck away that bit of paper. What are you really going to do?”

“But it was a lovely catechism,” said Syme pathetically. “Do let me read it you. It has only forty-three questions and answers, and some of the Marquis’s answers are wonderfully witty. I like to be just to my enemy.”

“But what’s the good of it all?” asked Dr. Bull in exasperation.

“It leads up to my challenge, don’t you see,” said Syme, beaming. “When the Marquis has given the thirty-ninth reply, which runs—”

“Has it by any chance occurred to you,” asked the Professor, with a ponderous simplicity, “that the Marquis may not say all the forty-three things you have put down for him? In that case, I understand, your own epigrams may appear somewhat more forced.”

Syme struck the table with a radiant face.

“Why, how true that is,” he said, “and I never thought of it. Sir, you have an intellect beyond the common. You will make a name.”

“Oh, you’re as drunk as an owl!” said the Doctor.

“It only remains,” continued Syme quite unperturbed, “to adopt some other method of breaking the ice (if I may so express it) between myself and the man I wish to kill. And since the course of a dialogue cannot be predicted by one of its parties alone (as you have pointed out with such recondite acumen), the only thing to be done, I suppose, is for the one party, as far as possible, to do all the dialogue by himself. And so I will, by George!” And he stood up suddenly, his yellow hair blowing in the slight sea breeze.

A band was playing in a cafe chantant hidden somewhere among the trees, and a woman had just stopped singing. On Syme’s heated head the bray of the brass band seemed like the jar and jingle of that barrel-organ in Leicester Square, to the tune of which he had once stood up to die. He looked across to the little table where the Marquis sat. The man had two companions now, solemn Frenchmen in frock-coats and silk hats, one of them with the red rosette of the Legion of Honour, evidently people of a solid social position. Besides these black, cylindrical costumes, the Marquis, in his loose straw hat and light spring clothes, looked Bohemian and even barbaric; but he looked the Marquis. Indeed, one might say that he looked the king, with his animal elegance, his scornful eyes, and his proud head lifted against the purple sea. But he was no Christian king, at any rate; he was, rather, some swarthy despot, half Greek, half Asiatic, who in the days when slavery seemed natural looked down on the Mediterranean, on his galley and his groaning slaves. Just so, Syme thought, would the brown-gold face of such a tyrant have shown against the dark green olives and the burning blue.

“Are you going to address the meeting?” asked the Professor peevishly, seeing that Syme still stood up without moving.

Syme drained his last glass of sparkling wine.

“I am,” he said, pointing across to the Marquis and his companions, “that meeting. That meeting displeases me. I am going to pull that meeting’s great ugly, mahogany-coloured nose.”

He stepped across swiftly, if not quite steadily. The Marquis, seeing him, arched his black Assyrian eyebrows in surprise, but smiled politely.

“You are Mr. Syme, I think,” he said.

Syme bowed.

“And you are the Marquis de Saint Eustache,” he said gracefully. “Permit me to pull your nose.”

He leant over to do so, but the Marquis started backwards, upsetting his chair, and the two men in top hats held Syme back by the shoulders.

“This man has insulted me!” said Syme, with gestures of explanation.

“Insulted you?” cried the gentleman with the red rosette, “when?”

“Oh, just now,” said Syme recklessly. “He insulted my mother.”

“Insulted your mother!” exclaimed the gentleman incredulously.

“Well, anyhow,” said Syme, conceding a point, “my aunt.”

“But how can the Marquis have insulted your aunt just now?” said the second gentleman with some legitimate wonder. “He has been sitting here all the time.”

“Ah, it was what he said!” said Syme darkly.

“I said nothing at all,” said the Marquis, “except something about the band. I only said that I liked Wagner played well.”

“It was an allusion to my family,” said Syme firmly. “My aunt played Wagner badly. It was a painful subject. We are always being insulted about it.”

“This seems most extraordinary,” said the gentleman who was decore, looking doubtfully at the Marquis.

“Oh, I assure you,” said Syme earnestly, “the whole of your conversation was simply packed with sinister allusions to my aunt’s weaknesses.”

“This is nonsense!” said the second gentleman. “I for one have said nothing for half an hour except that I liked the singing of that girl with black hair.”

“Well, there you are again!” said Syme indignantly. “My aunt’s was red.”

“It seems to me,” said the other, “that you are simply seeking a pretext to insult the Marquis.”

“By George!” said Syme, facing round and looking at him, “what a clever chap you are!”

The Marquis started up with eyes flaming like a tiger’s.

“Seeking a quarrel with me!” he cried. “Seeking a fight with me! By God! there was never a man who had to seek long. These gentlemen will perhaps act for me. There are still four hours of daylight. Let us fight this evening.”

Syme bowed with a quite beautiful graciousness.

“Marquis,” he said, “your action is worthy of your fame and blood. Permit me to consult for a moment with the gentlemen in whose hands I shall place myself.”

In three long strides he rejoined his companions, and they, who had seen his champagne-inspired attack and listened to his idiotic explanations, were quite startled at the look of him. For now that he came back to them he was quite sober, a little pale, and he spoke in a low voice of passionate practicality.

“I have done it,” he said hoarsely. “I have fixed a fight on the beast. But look here, and listen carefully. There is no time for talk. You are my seconds, and everything must come from you. Now you must insist, and insist absolutely, on the duel coming off after seven to-morrow, so as to give me the chance of preventing him from catching the 7.45 for Paris. If he misses that he misses his crime. He can’t refuse to meet you on such a small point of time and place. But this is what he will do. He will choose a field somewhere near a wayside station, where he can pick up the train. He is a very good swordsman, and he will trust to killing me in time to catch it. But I can fence well too, and I think I can keep him in play, at any rate, until the train is lost. Then perhaps he may kill me to console his feelings. You understand? Very well then, let me introduce you to some charming friends of mine,” and leading them quickly across the parade, he presented them to the Marquis’s seconds by two very aristocratic names of which they had not previously heard.

Syme was subject to spasms of singular common sense, not otherwise a part of his character. They were (as he said of his impulse about the spectacles) poetic intuitions, and they sometimes rose to the exaltation of prophecy.

He had correctly calculated in this case the policy of his opponent. When the Marquis was informed by his seconds that Syme could only fight in the morning, he must fully have realised that an obstacle had suddenly arisen between him and his bomb-throwing business in the capital. Naturally he could not explain this objection to his friends, so he chose the course which Syme had predicted. He induced his seconds to settle on a small meadow not far from the railway, and he trusted to the fatality of the first engagement.

When he came down very coolly to the field of honour, no one could have guessed that he had any anxiety about a journey; his hands were in his pockets, his straw hat on the back of his head, his handsome face brazen in the sun. But it might have struck a stranger as odd that there appeared in his train, not only his seconds carrying the sword-case, but two of his servants carrying a portmanteau and a luncheon basket.

Early as was the hour, the sun soaked everything in warmth, and Syme was vaguely surprised to see so many spring flowers burning gold and silver in the tall grass in which the whole company stood almost knee-deep.

With the exception of the Marquis, all the men were in sombre and solemn morning-dress, with hats like black chimney-pots; the little Doctor especially, with the addition of his black spectacles, looked like an undertaker in a farce. Syme could not help feeling a comic contrast between this funereal church parade of apparel and the rich and glistening meadow, growing wild flowers everywhere. But, indeed, this comic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black hats was but a symbol of the tragic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black business. On his right was a little wood; far away to his left lay the long curve of the railway line, which he was, so to speak, guarding from the Marquis, whose goal and escape it was. In front of him, behind the black group of his opponents, he could see, like a tinted cloud, a small almond bush in flower against the faint line of the sea.

The member of the Legion of Honour, whose name it seemed was Colonel Ducroix, approached the Professor and Dr. Bull with great politeness, and suggested that the play should terminate with the first considerable hurt.

Dr. Bull, however, having been carefully coached by Syme upon this point of policy, insisted, with great dignity and in very bad French, that it should continue until one of the combatants was disabled. Syme had made up his mind that he could avoid disabling the Marquis and prevent the Marquis from disabling him for at least twenty minutes. In twenty minutes the Paris train would have gone by.

“To a man of the well-known skill and valour of Monsieur de St. Eustache,” said the Professor solemnly, “it must be a matter of indifference which method is adopted, and our principal has strong reasons for demanding the longer encounter, reasons the delicacy of which prevent me from being explicit, but for the just and honourable nature of which I can—”

“Peste!” broke from the Marquis behind, whose face had suddenly darkened, “let us stop talking and begin,” and he slashed off the head of a tall flower with his stick.

Syme understood his rude impatience and instinctively looked over his shoulder to see whether the train was coming in sight. But there was no smoke on the horizon.

Colonel Ducroix knelt down and unlocked the case, taking out a pair of twin swords, which took the sunlight and turned to two streaks of white fire. He offered one to the Marquis, who snatched it without ceremony, and another to Syme, who took it, bent it, and poised it with as much delay as was consistent with dignity.

Then the Colonel took out another pair of blades, and taking one himself and giving another to Dr. Bull, proceeded to place the men.

Both combatants had thrown off their coats and waistcoats, and stood sword in hand. The seconds stood on each side of the line of fight with drawn swords also, but still sombre in their dark frock-coats and hats. The principals saluted. The Colonel said quietly, “Engage!” and the two blades touched and tingled.

When the jar of the joined iron ran up Syme’s arm, all the fantastic fears that have been the subject of this story fell from him like dreams from a man waking up in bed. He remembered them clearly and in order as mere delusions of the nerves—how the fear of the Professor had been the fear of the tyrannic accidents of nightmare, and how the fear of the Doctor had been the fear of the airless vacuum of science. The first was the old fear that any miracle might happen, the second the more hopeless modern fear that no miracle can ever happen. But he saw that these fears were fancies, for he found himself in the presence of the great fact of the fear of death, with its coarse and pitiless common sense. He felt like a man who had dreamed all night of falling over precipices, and had woke up on the morning when he was to be hanged. For as soon as he had seen the sunlight run down the channel of his foe’s foreshortened blade, and as soon as he had felt the two tongues of steel touch, vibrating like two living things, he knew that his enemy was a terrible fighter, and that probably his last hour had come.

He felt a strange and vivid value in all the earth around him, in the grass under his feet; he felt the love of life in all living things. He could almost fancy that he heard the grass growing; he could almost fancy that even as he stood fresh flowers were springing up and breaking into blossom in the meadow—flowers blood red and burning gold and blue, fulfilling the whole pageant of the spring. And whenever his eyes strayed for a flash from the calm, staring, hypnotic eyes of the Marquis, they saw the little tuft of almond tree against the sky-line. He had the feeling that if by some miracle he escaped he would be ready to sit for ever before that almond tree, desiring nothing else in the world.

But while earth and sky and everything had the living beauty of a thing lost, the other half of his head was as clear as glass, and he was parrying his enemy’s point with a kind of clockwork skill of which he had hardly supposed himself capable. Once his enemy’s point ran along his wrist, leaving a slight streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored. Every now and then he riposted, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken. Then came an interruption and a change.

At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right. Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons. The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows. Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need. He could guess the reason of the Marquis’s sudden madness of battle— the Paris train was in sight.

But the Marquis’s morbid energy over-reached itself. Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent’s point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his riposte was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time. Syme’s sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis’s body, which it had pierced.

Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all.

There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis’s body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man’s neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis’s cheek. But there was no scar.

For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil—perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story—of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl’s red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. “After all,” he said to himself, “I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do—I can die,” and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train.

He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man’s thigh.

“Stop!” said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. “I want to say something.”

“What is the matter?” asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. “Has there been foul play?”

“There has been foul play somewhere,” said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. “Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse.”

The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience.

“Please let me speak,” he said. “It is rather important. Mr. Syme,” he continued, turning to his opponent, “we are fighting to-day, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train.”

“I protest that this is most irregular,” said Dr. Bull indignantly.

“It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent,” said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. “There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one’s nose a weapon.”

“Will you or will you not pull my nose?” said the Marquis in exasperation. “Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don’t be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!” and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill.

Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures— the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand.

He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene.

The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice.

“If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow,” he said, “he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It’s the kind of thing that might come in useful any day,” and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage.

“If I had known,” he spluttered, “that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight—”

“Oh, I know, I know!” said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. “You are making a mistake; but it can’t be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Bull fiercely, “and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil’s work—”

The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.

“Will you drive me mad?” he cried. “The train—”

“You shall not go by the train,” said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword.

The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking.

“You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!” he said without taking breath. “You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You—”

“You shall not go by this train,” repeated Syme.

“And why the infernal blazes,” roared the other, “should I want to go by the train?”

“We know all,” said the Professor sternly. “You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!”

“Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!” cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily.

“Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don’t realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!”

“Then what did you care about?” began the Professor.

“What did I care about? I didn’t care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me.”

“I regret to inform you,” said Syme with restraint, “that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something.”

“It means everything,” said the other, “and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand.”

“Us!” repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. “What do you mean by ‘us’?”

“The police, of course!” said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face.

The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale.

“I am Inspector Ratcliffe,” he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. “My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card,” and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket.

The Professor gave a tired gesture.

“Oh, don’t show it us,” he said wearily; “we’ve got enough of them to equip a paper-chase.”

The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy, but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism, which holds it holy to destroy mankind like vermin. How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologise, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer.”

The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said—

“Of course, I accept the apology; but you will in your turn forgive me if I decline to follow you further into your difficulties, and permit myself to say good morning! The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day. Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town.”

Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out—

“No, by George! I won’t. If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I’ll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can’t fight for civilization.”

Dr. Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting.

“Don’t make too much noise,” said Inspector Ratcliffe, “Sunday may hear you.”

“Sunday!” cried Bull, and dropped his hat.

“Yes,” retorted Ratcliffe, “he may be with them.”

“With whom?” asked Syme.

“With the people out of that train,” said the other.

“What you say seems utterly wild,” began Syme. “Why, as a matter of fact—But, my God,” he cried out suddenly, like a man who sees an explosion a long way off, “by God! if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy! Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary. What can it mean?”

“Mean!” said the new policeman with incredible violence. “It means that we are struck dead! Don’t you know Sunday? Don’t you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one has never thought of them? Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme? I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line—especially of that railway line!” and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station. “The whole movement was controlled by him; half the world was ready to rise for him. But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him… and the old devil put them on the Supreme Council, to waste their time in watching each other. Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies! Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France. And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we five idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man’s buff.”

“Well?” asked Syme with a sort of steadiness.

“Well,” replied the other with sudden serenity, “he has found us playing blind man’s buff to-day in a field of great rustic beauty and extreme solitude. He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it.”

Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way.

“It was a habit of the late Marquis de St. Eustache,” said the new policeman, producing a leather case, “always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles.”

He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes.

“It cannot be as bad as you say,” said the Professor, somewhat shaken. “There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists.”

“Do ordinary tourists,” asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, “wear black masks half-way down the face?”

Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side.

CHAPTER XI

THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE

SYME put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.

“The President is not with them, anyhow,” he said, and wiped his forehead.

“But surely they are right away on the horizon,” said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull’s hasty though polite explanation. “Could you possibly know your President among all those people?”

“Could I know a white elephant among all those people!” answered Syme somewhat irritably. “As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them… by God! I believe this ground would shake.”

After an instant’s pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision—

“Of course the President isn’t with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

“This is absurd!” said Syme. “Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true,” he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, “it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out.”

“Oh, they,” said the new detective contemptuously; “no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value— we are not much, my boy, in Sunday’s universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary,” and he spat on the grass.

Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely—

“There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me.”

With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees.

The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man’s head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme’s overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men’s faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside), seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis’s straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation.

“May I ask,” he said, “where on earth we are all going to?”

So genuine had been the doubts of his soul, that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy, human voice.

“We must get down through the town of Lancy to the sea,” he said. “I think that part of the country is least likely to be with them.”

“What can you mean by all this?” cried Syme. “They can’t be running the real world in that way. Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police.”

“Mere mobs!” repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn. “So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You’ve got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons’ wars.”

“As a lecture on English history for the little ones,” said Syme, “this is all very nice; but I have not yet grasped its application.”

“Its application is,” said his informant, “that most of old Sunday’s right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That is why he has got hold of all the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits.”

“Millionaires I can understand,” said Syme thoughtfully, “they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere.”

“Well,” said the other, “it rather depends what sort of person you mean.”

“Well, for instance,” said Syme, “he could never convert that person,” and he pointed straight in front of him.

They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.

“Mr. Syme is saying,” called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, “that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist.”

“Mr. Syme is right enough there,” answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, “if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy.”

“He looks poor,” said Dr. Bull doubtfully.

“Quite so,” said the Colonel; “that is why he is rich.”

“I have an idea,” called out Dr. Bull suddenly; “how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind.”

“Oh, give him anything!” said Syme eagerly. “I have piles of money on me.”

“That will never do,” said the Colonel; “he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain.”

“Oh, if he haggles!” began Bull impatiently.

“He haggles because he is a free man,” said the other. “You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped.”

And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become devout in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man’s presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track.

As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob. They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons.

Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe.

“Yes,” replied the policeman, “that’s discipline. That’s Sunday. He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God. Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly. But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly.”

Syme nodded. It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse.

The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs. The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road fell sheer in front of them like a waterfall. Down this direct descent the cart clattered at a considerable angle, and in a few minutes, the road growing yet steeper, they saw below them the little harbour of Lancy and a great blue arc of the sea. The travelling cloud of their enemies had wholly disappeared from the horizon.

The horse and cart took a sharp turn round a clump of elms, and the horse’s nose nearly struck the face of an old gentleman who was sitting on the benches outside the little cafe of “Le Soleil d’Or.” The peasant grunted an apology, and got down from his seat. The others also descended one by one, and spoke to the old gentleman with fragmentary phrases of courtesy, for it was quite evident from his expansive manner that he was the owner of the little tavern.

He was a white-haired, apple-faced old boy, with sleepy eyes and a grey moustache; stout, sedentary, and very innocent, of a type that may often be found in France, but is still commoner in Catholic Germany. Everything about him, his pipe, his pot of beer, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested an ancestral peace; only when his visitors looked up as they entered the inn-parlour, they saw the sword upon the wall.

The Colonel, who greeted the innkeeper as an old friend, passed rapidly into the inn-parlour, and sat down ordering some ritual refreshment. The military decision of his action interested Syme, who sat next to him, and he took the opportunity when the old innkeeper had gone out of satisfying his curiosity.

“May I ask you, Colonel,” he said in a low voice, “why we have come here?”

Colonel Ducroix smiled behind his bristly white moustache.

“For two reasons, sir,” he said; “and I will give first, not the most important, but the most utilitarian. We came here because this is the only place within twenty miles in which we can get horses.”

“Horses!” repeated Syme, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” replied the other; “if you people are really to distance your enemies it is horses or nothing for you, unless of course you have bicycles and motor-cars in your pocket.”

“And where do you advise us to make for?” asked Syme doubtfully.

“Beyond question,” replied the Colonel, “you had better make all haste to the police station beyond the town. My friend, whom I seconded under somewhat deceptive circumstances, seems to me to exaggerate very much the possibilities of a general rising; but even he would hardly maintain, I suppose, that you were not safe with the gendarmes.”

Syme nodded gravely; then he said abruptly—

“And your other reason for coming here?”

“My other reason for coming here,” said Ducroix soberly, “is that it is just as well to see a good man or two when one is possibly near to death.”

Syme looked up at the wall, and saw a crudely-painted and pathetic religious picture. Then he said—

“You are right,” and then almost immediately afterwards, “Has anyone seen about the horses?”

“Yes,” answered Ducroix, “you may be quite certain that I gave orders the moment I came in. Those enemies of yours gave no impression of hurry, but they were really moving wonderfully fast, like a well-trained army. I had no idea that the anarchists had so much discipline. You have not a moment to waste.”

Almost as he spoke, the old innkeeper with the blue eyes and white hair came ambling into the room, and announced that six horses were saddled outside.

By Ducroix’s advice the five others equipped themselves with some portable form of food and wine, and keeping their duelling swords as the only weapons available, they clattered away down the steep, white road. The two servants, who had carried the Marquis’s luggage when he was a marquis, were left behind to drink at the cafe by common consent, and not at all against their own inclination.

By this time the afternoon sun was slanting westward, and by its rays Syme could see the sturdy figure of the old innkeeper growing smaller and smaller, but still standing and looking after them quite silently, the sunshine in his silver hair. Syme had a fixed, superstitious fancy, left in his mind by the chance phrase of the Colonel, that this was indeed, perhaps, the last honest stranger whom he should ever see upon the earth.

He was still looking at this dwindling figure, which stood as a mere grey blot touched with a white flame against the great green wall of the steep down behind him. And as he stared over the top of the down behind the innkeeper, there appeared an army of black-clad and marching men. They seemed to hang above the good man and his house like a black cloud of locusts. The horses had been saddled none too soon.

CHAPTER XII

THE EARTH IN ANARCHY

URGING the horses to a gallop, without respect to the rather rugged descent of the road, the horsemen soon regained their advantage over the men on the march, and at last the bulk of the first buildings of Lancy cut off the sight of their pursuers. Nevertheless, the ride had been a long one, and by the time they reached the real town the west was warming with the colour and quality of sunset. The Colonel suggested that, before making finally for the police station, they should make the effort, in passing, to attach to themselves one more individual who might be useful.

“Four out of the five rich men in this town,” he said, “are common swindlers. I suppose the proportion is pretty equal all over the world. The fifth is a friend of mine, and a very fine fellow; and what is even more important from our point of view, he owns a motor-car.”

“I am afraid,” said the Professor in his mirthful way, looking back along the white road on which the black, crawling patch might appear at any moment, “I am afraid we have hardly time for afternoon calls.”

“Doctor Renard’s house is only three minutes off,” said the Colonel.

“Our danger,” said Dr. Bull, “is not two minutes off.”

“Yes,” said Syme, “if we ride on fast we must leave them behind, for they are on foot.”

“He has a motor-car,” said the Colonel.

“But we may not get it,” said Bull.

“Yes, he is quite on your side.”

“But he might be out.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Syme suddenly. “What is that noise?”

For a second they all sat as still as equestrian statues, and for a second— for two or three or four seconds—heaven and earth seemed equally still. Then all their ears, in an agony of attention, heard along the road that indescribable thrill and throb that means only one thing—horses!

The Colonel’s face had an instantaneous change, as if lightning had struck it, and yet left it scatheless.

“They have done us,” he said, with brief military irony. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

“Where can they have got the horses?” asked Syme, as he mechanically urged his steed to a canter.

The Colonel was silent for a little, then he said in a strained voice—

“I was speaking with strict accuracy when I said that the ‘Soleil d’Or’ was the only place where one can get horses within twenty miles.”

“No!” said Syme violently, “I don’t believe he’d do it. Not with all that white hair.”

“He may have been forced,” said the Colonel gently. “They must be at least a hundred strong, for which reason we are all going to see my friend Renard, who has a motor-car.”

With these words he swung his horse suddenly round a street corner, and went down the street with such thundering speed, that the others, though already well at the gallop, had difficulty in following the flying tail of his horse.

Dr. Renard inhabited a high and comfortable house at the top of a steep street, so that when the riders alighted at his door they could once more see the solid green ridge of the hill, with the white road across it, standing up above all the roofs of the town. They breathed again to see that the road as yet was clear, and they rang the bell.

Dr. Renard was a beaming, brown-bearded man, a good example of that silent but very busy professional class which France has preserved even more perfectly than England. When the matter was explained to him he pooh-poohed the panic of the ex-Marquis altogether; he said, with the solid French scepticism, that there was no conceivable probability of a general anarchist rising. “Anarchy,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “it is childishness!”

“Et ca,” cried out the Colonel suddenly, pointing over the other’s shoulder, “and that is childishness, isn’t it?”

They all looked round, and saw a curve of black cavalry come sweeping over the top of the hill with all the energy of Attila. Swiftly as they rode, however, the whole rank still kept well together, and they could see the black vizards of the first line as level as a line of uniforms. But although the main black square was the same, though travelling faster, there was now one sensational difference which they could see clearly upon the slope of the hill, as if upon a slanted map. The bulk of the riders were in one block; but one rider flew far ahead of the column, and with frantic movements of hand and heel urged his horse faster and faster, so that one might have fancied that he was not the pursuer but the pursued. But even at that great distance they could see something so fanatical, so unquestionable in his figure, that they knew it was the Secretary himself. “I am sorry to cut short a cultured discussion,” said the Colonel, “but can you lend me your motor-car now, in two minutes?”

“I have a suspicion that you are all mad,” said Dr. Renard, smiling sociably; “but God forbid that madness should in any way interrupt friendship. Let us go round to the garage.”

Dr. Renard was a mild man with monstrous wealth; his rooms were like the Musee de Cluny, and he had three motor-cars. These, however, he seemed to use very sparingly, having the simple tastes of the French middle class, and when his impatient friends came to examine them, it took them some time to assure themselves that one of them even could be made to work. This with some difficulty they brought round into the street before the Doctor’s house. When they came out of the dim garage they were startled to find that twilight had already fallen with the abruptness of night in the tropics. Either they had been longer in the place than they imagined, or some unusual canopy of cloud had gathered over the town. They looked down the steep streets, and seemed to see a slight mist coming up from the sea.

“It is now or never,” said Dr. Bull. “I hear horses.”

“No,” corrected the Professor, “a horse.”

And as they listened, it was evident that the noise, rapidly coming nearer on the rattling stones, was not the noise of the whole cavalcade but that of the one horseman, who had left it far behind— the insane Secretary.

Syme’s family, like most of those who end in the simple life, had once owned a motor, and he knew all about them. He had leapt at once into the chauffeur’s seat, and with flushed face was wrenching and tugging at the disused machinery. He bent his strength upon one handle, and then said quite quietly—

“I am afraid it’s no go.”

As he spoke, there swept round the corner a man rigid on his rushing horse, with the rush and rigidity of an arrow. He had a smile that thrust out his chin as if it were dislocated. He swept alongside of the stationary car, into which its company had crowded, and laid his hand on the front. It was the Secretary, and his mouth went quite straight in the solemnity of triumph.

Syme was leaning hard upon the steering wheel, and there was no sound but the rumble of the other pursuers riding into the town. Then there came quite suddenly a scream of scraping iron, and the car leapt forward. It plucked the Secretary clean out of his saddle, as a knife is whipped out of its sheath, trailed him kicking terribly for twenty yards, and left him flung flat upon the road far in front of his frightened horse. As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader.

“I can’t understand why it has grown so dark,” said the Professor at last in a low voice.

“Going to be a storm, I think,” said Dr. Bull. “I say, it’s a pity we haven’t got a light on this car, if only to see by.”

“We have,” said the Colonel, and from the floor of the car he fished up a heavy, old-fashioned, carved iron lantern with a light inside it. It was obviously an antique, and it would seem as if its original use had been in some way semi-religious, for there was a rude moulding of a cross upon one of its sides.

“Where on earth did you get that?” asked the Professor.

“I got it where I got the car,” answered the Colonel, chuckling, “from my best friend. While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember. ‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘there’s no time to get a lamp.’ He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall. From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house. By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence. Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car. Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?”

“You were,” said Syme seriously, and hung the heavy lantern over the front. There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp. Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles.

“These lights make one feel more cheerful.”

Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together.

“There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful,” he said, “and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes.”

Then all Bull’s boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him.

“Oh, this is all raving nonsense!” he cried. “If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us.”

“No,” said the other with an immovable simplicity, “the whole town would fight for them. We shall see.”

While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.

“What is that noise?” he said.

“Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose,” said the Colonel. “I thought we had got clear of them.”

“The horses behind us! No,” said the Professor, “it is not horses, and it is not behind us.”

Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard’s garage.

“I tell you they were his,” he repeated, with wild eyes, “and they were full of men in masks!”

“Absurd!” said the Colonel angrily. “Dr. Renard would never give them his cars.”

“He may have been forced,” said Ratcliffe quietly. “The whole town is on their side.”

“You still believe that,” asked the Colonel incredulously.

“You will all believe it soon,” said the other with a hopeless calm.

There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly—

“No, I can’t believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town—”

He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear.

“My God!” said the Colonel, “someone has shot at us.”

“It need not interrupt conversation,” said the gloomy Ratcliffe. “Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town.”

The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street.

“It is extraordinary,” he said, “most extraordinary.”

“A fastidious person,” said Syme, “might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there.”

“No,” said Inspector Ratcliffe, “we shall never get there.”

He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture.

“What do you mean?” asked Bull sharply.

“I mean that we shall never get there,” said the pessimist placidly. “They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude.”

And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea.

The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said,

“It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street.”

“Well, if there is,” said Bull impatiently, “it must be something else—a sham fight or the mayor’s birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them.”

The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter.

“Why, you silly mugs!” he cried, “what did I tell you. That crowd’s as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren’t, it’s on our side.”

“How do you know?” asked the professor, staring.

“You blind bat,” cried Bull, “don’t you see who is leading them?”

They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out—

“Why, it’s Renard!”

There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.

“What a fool I’ve been!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us.”

Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out—

“Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!”

An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road.

Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat.

“Well,” said the cigarette smoker slowly, “what do you think now?”

“I think,” said Dr. Bull with precision, “that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that’s not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can’t make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don’t think, I’ll tell you. I don’t think what you think. I don’t think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I’m a democrat, and I still don’t believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn’t.”

Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear.

“You are a very fine fellow,” he said. “You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you’re right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you’re not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He’s rationalistic, and, what’s worse, he’s rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich.”

“They are really destroyed now,” said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. “The devils are coming on!”

The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze.

The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do— it’s like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man’s character into your head—”

“Dr. Bull,” said Syme sardonically, “has at least got it into his hat.”

“I tell you it can’t be!” cried the Colonel, stamping.

“Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me,” and he strode forward.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” drawled the smoker. “He will very soon explain it to all of us.”

But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance.

“It is no good,” said Syme. “He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull’s hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them.”

“I won’t ‘ave it,” said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. “The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance.”

“Shall we go back, then?” asked the Professor.

“No,” said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, “the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme.”

Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man’s hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die.

“What the devil is up?” cried the Professor, seizing his arm.

“The morning star has fallen!” said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star.

The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light.

“The world is insane!” said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands.

“No,” said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, “it is I.”

“What are we going to do?” asked the Professor.

“At this moment,” said Syme, with a scientific detachment, “I think we are going to smash into a lamppost.”

The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree.

“Well, we smashed something,” said the Professor, with a faint smile. “That’s some comfort.”

“You’re becoming an anarchist,” said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness.

“Everyone is,” said Ratcliffe.

As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front. Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below.

The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them.

“We have one more chance,” said Syme, taking the steel out of his mouth. “Whatever all this pandemonium means, I suppose the police station will help us. We can’t get there, for they hold the way. But there’s a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge. We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out. Keep after me.”

They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones. They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story. They turned and faced the town.

That town was transfigured with uproar. All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them. The long dark line was dotted with torches and lanterns; but even where no flame lit up a furious face, they could see in the farthest figure, in the most shadowy gesture, an organised hate. It was clear that they were the accursed of all men, and they knew not why.

Two or three men, looking little and black like monkeys, leapt over the edge as they had done and dropped on to the beach. These came ploughing down the deep sand, shouting horribly, and strove to wade into the sea at random. The example was followed, and the whole black mass of men began to run and drip over the edge like black treacle.

Foremost among the men on the beach Syme saw the peasant who had driven their cart. He splashed into the surf on a huge cart-horse, and shook his axe at them.

“The peasant!” cried Syme. “They have not risen since the Middle Ages.”

“Even if the police do come now,” said the Professor mournfully, “they can do nothing with this mob.”

“Nonsense!” said Bull desperately; “there must be some people left in the town who are human.”

“No,” said the hopeless Inspector, “the human being will soon be extinct. We are the last of mankind.”

“It may be,” said the Professor absently. Then he added in his dreamy voice, “What is all that at the end of the ‘Dunciad’?

“‘Nor public flame; nor private, dares to shine; Nor human light is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored; Light dies before thine uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.’”

“Stop!” cried Bull suddenly, “the gendarmes are out.”

The low lights of the police station were indeed blotted and broken with hurrying figures, and they heard through the darkness the clash and jingle of a disciplined cavalry.

“They are charging the mob!” cried Bull in ecstacy or alarm.

“No,” said Syme, “they are formed along the parade.”

“They have unslung their carbines,” cried Bull dancing with excitement.

“Yes,” said Ratcliffe, “and they are going to fire on us.”

As he spoke there came a long crackle of musketry, and bullets seemed to hop like hailstones on the stones in front of them.

“The gendarmes have joined them!” cried the Professor, and struck his forehead.

“I am in the padded cell,” said Bull solidly.

There was a long silence, and then Ratcliffe said, looking out over the swollen sea, all a sort of grey purple—

“What does it matter who is mad or who is sane? We shall all be dead soon.”

Syme turned to him and said—

“You are quite hopeless, then?”

Mr. Ratcliffe kept a stony silence; then at last he said quietly—

“No; oddly enough I am not quite hopeless. There is one insane little hope that I cannot get out of my mind. The power of this whole planet is against us, yet I cannot help wondering whether this one silly little hope is hopeless yet.”

“In what or whom is your hope?” asked Syme with curiosity.

“In a man I never saw,” said the other, looking at the leaden sea.

“I know what you mean,” said Syme in a low voice, “the man in the dark room. But Sunday must have killed him by now.”

“Perhaps,” said the other steadily; “but if so, he was the only man whom Sunday found it hard to kill.”

“I heard what you said,” said the Professor, with his back turned. “I also am holding hard on to the thing I never saw.”

All of a sudden Syme, who was standing as if blind with introspective thought, swung round and cried out, like a man waking from sleep—

“Where is the Colonel? I thought he was with us!”

“The Colonel! Yes,” cried Bull, “where on earth is the Colonel?”

“He went to speak to Renard,” said the Professor.

“We cannot leave him among all those beasts,” cried Syme. “Let us die like gentlemen if—”

“Do not pity the Colonel,” said Ratcliffe, with a pale sneer. “He is extremely comfortable. He is—”

“No! no! no!” cried Syme in a kind of frenzy, “not the Colonel too! I will never believe it!”

“Will you believe your eyes?” asked the other, and pointed to the beach.

Many of their pursuers had waded into the water shaking their fists, but the sea was rough, and they could not reach the pier. Two or three figures, however, stood on the beginning of the stone footway, and seemed to be cautiously advancing down it. The glare of a chance lantern lit up the faces of the two foremost. One face wore a black half-mask, and under it the mouth was twisting about in such a madness of nerves that the black tuft of beard wriggled round and round like a restless, living thing. The other was the red face and white moustache of Colonel Ducroix. They were in earnest consultation.

“Yes, he is gone too,” said the Professor, and sat down on a stone. “Everything’s gone. I’m gone! I can’t trust my own bodily machinery. I feel as if my own hand might fly up and strike me.”

“When my hand flies up,” said Syme, “it will strike somebody else,” and he strode along the pier towards the Colonel, the sword in one hand and the lantern in the other.

As if to destroy the last hope or doubt, the Colonel, who saw him coming, pointed his revolver at him and fired. The shot missed Syme, but struck his sword, breaking it short at the hilt. Syme rushed on, and swung the iron lantern above his head.

“Judas before Herod!” he said, and struck the Colonel down upon the stones. Then he turned to the Secretary, whose frightful mouth was almost foaming now, and held the lamp high with so rigid and arresting a gesture, that the man was, as it were, frozen for a moment, and forced to hear.

“Do you see this lantern?” cried Syme in a terrible voice. “Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it.”

He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.

“Swords!” shouted Syme, turning his flaming face to the three behind him. “Let us charge these dogs, for our time has come to die.”

His three companions came after him sword in hand. Syme’s sword was broken, but he rent a bludgeon from the fist of a fisherman, flinging him down. In a moment they would have flung themselves upon the face of the mob and perished, when an interruption came. The Secretary, ever since Syme’s speech, had stood with his hand to his stricken head as if dazed; now he suddenly pulled off his black mask.

The pale face thus peeled in the lamplight revealed not so much rage as astonishment. He put up his hand with an anxious authority.

“There is some mistake,” he said. “Mr. Syme, I hardly think you understand your position. I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“Of the law?” said Syme, and dropped his stick.

“Certainly!” said the Secretary. “I am a detective from Scotland Yard,” and he took a small blue card from his pocket.

“And what do you suppose we are?” asked the Professor, and threw up his arms.

“You,” said the Secretary stiffly, “are, as I know for a fact, members of the Supreme Anarchist Council. Disguised as one of you, I—”

Dr. Bull tossed his sword into the sea.

“There never was any Supreme Anarchist Council,” he said. “We were all a lot of silly policemen looking at each other. And all these nice people who have been peppering us with shot thought we were the dynamiters. I knew I couldn’t be wrong about the mob,” he said, beaming over the enormous multitude, which stretched away to the distance on both sides. “Vulgar people are never mad. I’m vulgar myself, and I know. I am now going on shore to stand a drink to everybody here.”

CHAPTER XIII

THE PURSUIT OF THE PRESIDENT

NEXT morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover. The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn’t exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern. But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.

The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other. The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators.

Syme had to explain how they had fled with such swiftness through a civilised country. But above all these matters of detail which could be explained, rose the central mountain of the matter that they could not explain. What did it all mean? If they were all harmless officers, what was Sunday? If he had not seized the world, what on earth had he been up to? Inspector Ratcliffe was still gloomy about this.

“I can’t make head or tail of old Sunday’s little game any more than you can,” he said. “But whatever else Sunday is, he isn’t a blameless citizen. Damn it! do you remember his face?”

“I grant you,” answered Syme, “that I have never been able to forget it.”

“Well,” said the Secretary, “I suppose we can find out soon, for to-morrow we have our next general meeting. You will excuse me,” he said, with a rather ghastly smile, “for being well acquainted with my secretarial duties.”

“I suppose you are right,” said the Professor reflectively. “I suppose we might find it out from him; but I confess that I should feel a bit afraid of asking Sunday who he really is.”

“Why,” asked the Secretary, “for fear of bombs?”

“No,” said the Professor, “for fear he might tell me.”

“Let us have some drinks,” said Dr. Bull, after a silence.

Throughout their whole journey by boat and train they were highly convivial, but they instinctively kept together. Dr. Bull, who had always been the optimist of the party, endeavoured to persuade the other four that the whole company could take the same hansom cab from Victoria; but this was over-ruled, and they went in a four-wheeler, with Dr. Bull on the box, singing. They finished their journey at an hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so as to be close to the early breakfast next morning in Leicester Square. Yet even then the adventures of the day were not entirely over. Dr. Bull, discontented with the general proposal to go to bed, had strolled out of the hotel at about eleven to see and taste some of the beauties of London. Twenty minutes afterwards, however, he came back and made quite a clamour in the hall. Syme, who tried at first to soothe him, was forced at last to listen to his communication with quite new attention.

“I tell you I’ve seen him!” said Dr. Bull, with thick emphasis.

“Whom?” asked Syme quickly. “Not the President?”

“Not so bad as that,” said Dr. Bull, with unnecessary laughter, “not so bad as that. I’ve got him here.”

“Got whom here?” asked Syme impatiently.

“Hairy man,” said the other lucidly, “man that used to be hairy man—Gogol. Here he is,” and he pulled forward by a reluctant elbow the identical young man who five days before had marched out of the Council with thin red hair and a pale face, the first of all the sham anarchists who had been exposed.

“Why do you worry with me?” he cried. “You have expelled me as a spy.”

“We are all spies!” whispered Syme.

“We’re all spies!” shouted Dr. Bull. “Come and have a drink.”

Next morning the battalion of the reunited six marched stolidly towards the hotel in Leicester Square.

“This is more cheerful,” said Dr. Bull; “we are six men going to ask one man what he means.”

“I think it is a bit queerer than that,” said Syme. “I think it is six men going to ask one man what they mean.”

They turned in silence into the Square, and though the hotel was in the opposite corner, they saw at once the little balcony and a figure that looked too big for it. He was sitting alone with bent head, poring over a newspaper. But all his councillors, who had come to vote him down, crossed that Square as if they were watched out of heaven by a hundred eyes.

They had disputed much upon their policy, about whether they should leave the unmasked Gogol without and begin diplomatically, or whether they should bring him in and blow up the gunpowder at once. The influence of Syme and Bull prevailed for the latter course, though the Secretary to the last asked them why they attacked Sunday so rashly.

“My reason is quite simple,” said Syme. “I attack him rashly because I am afraid of him.”

They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad sunlight of Sunday’s smile.

“Delightful!” he said. “So pleased to see you all. What an exquisite day it is. Is the Czar dead?”

The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.

“No, sir,” he said sternly “there has been no massacre. I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.”

“Disgusting spectacles?” repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile. “You mean Dr. Bull’s spectacles?”

The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal—

“Of course, we all have our opinions and even our eyes, but really to call them disgusting before the man himself—”

Dr. Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.

“My spectacles are blackguardly,” he said, “but I’m not. Look at my face.”

“I dare say it’s the sort of face that grows on one,” said the President, “in fact, it grows on you; and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life? I dare say it will grow on me some day.”

“We have no time for tomfoolery,” said the Secretary, breaking in savagely. “We have come to know what all this means. Who are you? What are you? Why did you get us all here? Do you know who and what we are? Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool? Answer me, I tell you.”

“Candidates,” murmured Sunday, “are only required to answer eight out of the seventeen questions on the paper. As far as I can make out, you want me to tell you what I am, and what you are, and what this table is, and what this Council is, and what this world is for all I know. Well, I will go so far as to rend the veil of one mystery. If you want to know what you are, you are a set of highly well-intentioned young jackasses.”

“And you,” said Syme, leaning forward, “what are you?”

“I? What am I?” roared the President, and he rose slowly to an incredible height, like some enormous wave about to arch above them and break. “You want to know what I am, do you? Bull, you are a man of science. Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them. Syme, you are a poet. Stare at those morning clouds. But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the top-most cloud before the truth about me. You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am. Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf— kings and sages, and poets and lawgivers, all the churches, and all the philosophies. But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay. I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now.”

Before one of them could move, the monstrous man had swung himself like some huge ourang-outang over the balustrade of the balcony. Yet before he dropped he pulled himself up again as on a horizontal bar, and thrusting his great chin over the edge of the balcony, said solemnly—

“There’s one thing I’ll tell you though about who I am. I am the man in the dark room, who made you all policemen.”

With that he fell from the balcony, bouncing on the stones below like a great ball of india-rubber, and went bounding off towards the corner of the Alhambra, where he hailed a hansom-cab and sprang inside it. The six detectives had been standing thunderstruck and livid in the light of his last assertion; but when he disappeared into the cab, Syme’s practical senses returned to him, and leaping over the balcony so recklessly as almost to break his legs, he called another cab.

He and Bull sprang into the cab together, the Professor and the Inspector into another, while the Secretary and the late Gogol scrambled into a third just in time to pursue the flying Syme, who was pursuing the flying President. Sunday led them a wild chase towards the north-west, his cabman, evidently under the influence of more than common inducements, urging the horse at breakneck speed. But Syme was in no mood for delicacies, and he stood up in his own cab shouting, “Stop thief!” until crowds ran along beside his cab, and policemen began to stop and ask questions. All this had its influence upon the President’s cabman, who began to look dubious, and to slow down to a trot. He opened the trap to talk reasonably to his fare, and in so doing let the long whip droop over the front of the cab. Sunday leant forward, seized it, and jerked it violently out of the man’s hand. Then standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm. Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it. The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds. Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.

At the highest ecstacy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin. Then raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme’s face and vanished. Syme caught the thing while instinctively warding it off, and discovered that it consisted of two crumpled papers. One was addressed to himself, and the other to Dr. Bull, with a very long, and it is to be feared partly ironical, string of letters after his name. Dr. Bull’s address was, at any rate, considerably longer than his communication, for the communication consisted entirely of the words:—

“What about Martin Tupper now?”

“What does the old maniac mean?” asked Bull, staring at the words. “What does yours say, Syme?”

Syme’s message was, at any rate, longer, and ran as follows:—

“No one would regret anything in the nature of an interference by the Archdeacon more than I. I trust it will not come to that. But, for the last time, where are your goloshes? The thing is too bad, especially after what uncle said.”

The President’s cabman seemed to be regaining some control over his horse, and the pursuers gained a little as they swept round into the Edgware Road. And here there occurred what seemed to the allies a providential stoppage. Traffic of every kind was swerving to right or left or stopping, for down the long road was coming the unmistakable roar announcing the fire-engine, which in a few seconds went by like a brazen thunderbolt. But quick as it went by, Sunday had bounded out of his cab, sprung at the fire-engine, caught it, slung himself on to it, and was seen as he disappeared in the noisy distance talking to the astonished fireman with explanatory gestures.

“After him!” howled Syme. “He can’t go astray now. There’s no mistaking a fire-engine.”

The three cabmen, who had been stunned for a moment, whipped up their horses and slightly decreased the distance between themselves and their disappearing prey. The President acknowledged this proximity by coming to the back of the car, bowing repeatedly, kissing his hand, and finally flinging a neatly-folded note into the bosom of Inspector Ratcliffe. When that gentleman opened it, not without impatience, he found it contained the words:—

“Fly at once. The truth about your trouser-stretchers is known. —A FRIEND.”

The fire-engine had struck still farther to the north, into a region that they did not recognise; and as it ran by a line of high railings shadowed with trees, the six friends were startled, but somewhat relieved, to see the President leap from the fire-engine, though whether through another whim or the increasing protest of his entertainers they could not see. Before the three cabs, however, could reach up to the spot, he had gone up the high railings like a huge grey cat, tossed himself over, and vanished in a darkness of leaves.

Syme with a furious gesture stopped his cab, jumped out, and sprang also to the escalade. When he had one leg over the fence and his friends were following, he turned a face on them which shone quite pale in the shadow.

“What place can this be?” he asked. “Can it be the old devil’s house? I’ve heard he has a house in North London.”

“All the better,” said the Secretary grimly, planting a foot in a foothold, “we shall find him at home.”

“No, but it isn’t that,” said Syme, knitting his brows. “I hear the most horrible noises, like devils laughing and sneezing and blowing their devilish noses!”

“His dogs barking, of course,” said the Secretary.

“Why not say his black-beetles barking!” said Syme furiously, “snails barking! geraniums barking! Did you ever hear a dog bark like that?”

He held up his hand, and there came out of the thicket a long growling roar that seemed to get under the skin and freeze the flesh— a low thrilling roar that made a throbbing in the air all about them.

“The dogs of Sunday would be no ordinary dogs,” said Gogol, and shuddered.

Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.

“Well, listen to that,” he said, “is that a dog—anybody’s dog?”

There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.

“Well, his house ought to be hell!” said the Secretary; “and if it is hell, I’m going in!” and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.

The others followed. They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path. Nothing was in sight, but Dr. Bull suddenly struck his hands together.

“Why, you asses,” he cried, “it’s the Zoo!”

As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.

“Has it come this way?” gasped the keeper.

“Has what?” asked Syme.

“The elephant!” cried the keeper. “An elephant has gone mad and run away!”

“He has run away with an old gentleman,” said the other stranger breathlessly, “a poor old gentleman with white hair!”

“What sort of old gentleman?” asked Syme, with great curiosity.

“A very large and fat old gentleman in light grey clothes,” said the keeper eagerly.

“Well,” said Syme, “if he’s that particular kind of old gentleman, if you’re quite sure that he’s a large and fat old gentleman in grey clothes, you may take my word for it that the elephant has not run away with him. He has run away with the elephant. The elephant is not made by God that could run away with him if he did not consent to the elopement. And, by thunder, there he is!”

There was no doubt about it this time. Clean across the space of grass, about two hundred yards away, with a crowd screaming and scampering vainly at his heels, went a huge grey elephant at an awful stride, with his trunk thrown out as rigid as a ship’s bowsprit, and trumpeting like the trumpet of doom. On the back of the bellowing and plunging animal sat President Sunday with all the placidity of a sultan, but goading the animal to a furious speed with some sharp object in his hand.

“Stop him!” screamed the populace. “He’ll be out of the gate!”

“Stop a landslide!” said the keeper. “He is out of the gate!”

And even as he spoke, a final crash and roar of terror announced that the great grey elephant had broken out of the gates of the Zoological Gardens, and was careening down Albany Street like a new and swift sort of omnibus.

“Great Lord!” cried Bull, “I never knew an elephant could go so fast. Well, it must be hansom-cabs again if we are to keep him in sight.”

As they raced along to the gate out of which the elephant had vanished, Syme felt a glaring panorama of the strange animals in the cages which they passed. Afterwards he thought it queer that he should have seen them so clearly. He remembered especially seeing pelicans, with their preposterous, pendant throats. He wondered why the pelican was the symbol of charity, except it was that it wanted a good deal of charity to admire a pelican. He remembered a hornbill, which was simply a huge yellow beak with a small bird tied on behind it. The whole gave him a sensation, the vividness of which he could not explain, that Nature was always making quite mysterious jokes. Sunday had told them that they would understand him when they had understood the stars. He wondered whether even the archangels understood the hornbill.

The six unhappy detectives flung themselves into cabs and followed the elephant sharing the terror which he spread through the long stretch of the streets. This time Sunday did not turn round, but offered them the solid stretch of his unconscious back, which maddened them, if possible, more than his previous mockeries. Just before they came to Baker Street, however, he was seen to throw something far up into the air, as a boy does a ball meaning to catch it again. But at their rate of racing it fell far behind, just by the cab containing Gogol; and in faint hope of a clue or for some impulse unexplainable, he stopped his cab so as to pick it up. It was addressed to himself, and was quite a bulky parcel. On examination, however, its bulk was found to consist of thirty-three pieces of paper of no value wrapped one round the other. When the last covering was torn away it reduced itself to a small slip of paper, on which was written:—

“The word, I fancy, should be ‘pink’.”

The man once known as Gogol said nothing, but the movements of his hands and feet were like those of a man urging a horse to renewed efforts.

Through street after street, through district after district, went the prodigy of the flying elephant, calling crowds to every window, and driving the traffic left and right. And still through all this insane publicity the three cabs toiled after it, until they came to be regarded as part of a procession, and perhaps the advertisement of a circus. They went at such a rate that distances were shortened beyond belief, and Syme saw the Albert Hall in Kensington when he thought that he was still in Paddington. The animal’s pace was even more fast and free through the empty, aristocratic streets of South Kensington, and he finally headed towards that part of the sky-line where the enormous Wheel of Earl’s Court stood up in the sky. The wheel grew larger and larger, till it filled heaven like the wheel of stars.

The beast outstripped the cabs. They lost him round several corners, and when they came to one of the gates of the Earl’s Court Exhibition they found themselves finally blocked. In front of them was an enormous crowd; in the midst of it was an enormous elephant, heaving and shuddering as such shapeless creatures do. But the President had disappeared.

“Where has he gone to?” asked Syme, slipping to the ground.

“Gentleman rushed into the Exhibition, sir!” said an official in a dazed manner. Then he added in an injured voice: “Funny gentleman, sir. Asked me to hold his horse, and gave me this.”

He held out with distaste a piece of folded paper, addressed: “To the Secretary of the Central Anarchist Council.”

The Secretary, raging, rent it open, and found written inside it:—

“When the herring runs a mile, Let the Secretary smile; When the herring tries to fly, Let the Secretary die. Rustic Proverb.”

“Why the eternal crikey,” began the Secretary, “did you let the man in? Do people commonly come to your Exhibition riding on mad elephants? Do—”

“Look!” shouted Syme suddenly. “Look over there!”

“Look at what?” asked the Secretary savagely.

“Look at the captive balloon!” said Syme, and pointed in a frenzy.

“Why the blazes should I look at a captive balloon?” demanded the Secretary. “What is there queer about a captive balloon?”

“Nothing,” said Syme, “except that it isn’t captive!”

They all turned their eyes to where the balloon swung and swelled above the Exhibition on a string, like a child’s balloon. A second afterwards the string came in two just under the car, and the balloon, broken loose, floated away with the freedom of a soap bubble.

“Ten thousand devils!” shrieked the Secretary. “He’s got into it!” and he shook his fists at the sky.

The balloon, borne by some chance wind, came right above them, and they could see the great white head of the President peering over the side and looking benevolently down on them.

“God bless my soul!” said the Professor with the elderly manner that he could never disconnect from his bleached beard and parchment face. “God bless my soul! I seemed to fancy that something fell on the top of my hat!”

He put up a trembling hand and took from that shelf a piece of twisted paper, which he opened absently only to find it inscribed with a true lover’s knot and, the words:—

“Your beauty has not left me indifferent.—From LITTLE SNOWDROP.”

There was a short silence, and then Syme said, biting his beard—

“I’m not beaten yet. The blasted thing must come down somewhere. Let’s follow it!”

CHAPTER XIV

THE SIX PHILOSOPHERS

ACROSS green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled six draggled detectives, about five miles out of London. The optimist of the party had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon across South England in hansom-cabs. But he was ultimately convinced of the persistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and the still more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon. Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke through black thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp. Those green hills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirable light grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park. His silk hat was broken over his nose by a swinging bough, his coat-tails were torn to the shoulder by arresting thorns, the clay of England was splashed up to his collar; but he still carried his yellow beard forward with a silent and furious determination, and his eyes were still fixed on that floating ball of gas, which in the full flush of sunset seemed coloured like a sunset cloud.

“After all,” he said, “it is very beautiful!”

“It is singularly and strangely beautiful!” said the Professor. “I wish the beastly gas-bag would burst!”

“No,” said Dr. Bull, “I hope it won’t. It might hurt the old boy.”

“Hurt him!” said the vindictive Professor, “hurt him! Not as much as I’d hurt him if I could get up with him. Little Snowdrop!”

“I don’t want him hurt, somehow,” said Dr. Bull.

“What!” cried the Secretary bitterly. “Do you believe all that tale about his being our man in the dark room? Sunday would say he was anybody.”

“I don’t know whether I believe it or not,” said Dr. Bull. “But it isn’t that that I mean. I can’t wish old Sunday’s balloon to burst because—”

“Well,” said Syme impatiently, “because?”

“Well, because he’s so jolly like a balloon himself,” said Dr. Bull desperately. “I don’t understand a word of all that idea of his being the same man who gave us all our blue cards. It seems to make everything nonsense. But I don’t care who knows it, I always had a sympathy for old Sunday himself, wicked as he was. Just as if he was a great bouncing baby. How can I explain what my queer sympathy was? It didn’t prevent my fighting him like hell! Shall I make it clear if I say that I liked him because he was so fat?”

“You will not,” said the Secretary.

“I’ve got it now,” cried Bull, “it was because he was so fat and so light. Just like a balloon. We always think of fat people as heavy, but he could have danced against a sylph. I see now what I mean. Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity. It was like the old speculations—what would happen if an elephant could leap up in the sky like a grasshopper?”

“Our elephant,” said Syme, looking upwards, “has leapt into the sky like a grasshopper.”

“And somehow,” concluded Bull, “that’s why I can’t help liking old Sunday. No, it’s not an admiration of force, or any silly thing like that. There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were bursting with some good news. Haven’t you sometimes felt it on a spring day? You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they are good-natured tricks. I never read the Bible myself, but that part they laugh at is literal truth, ‘Why leap ye, ye high hills?’ The hills do leap—at least, they try to… Why do I like Sunday?… how can I tell you?… because he’s such a Bounder.”

There was a long silence, and then the Secretary said in a curious, strained voice—

“You do not know Sunday at all. Perhaps it is because you are better than I, and do not know hell. I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbid from the first. The man who sits in darkness, and who chose us all, chose me because I had all the crazy look of a conspirator—because my smile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled. But there must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in all these anarchic men. For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, not your airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature of Things. I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blind down, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which our master lives. He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark and out of shape. He listened to all my words without speaking or even stirring. I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my most eloquent questions. Then, after a long silence, the Thing began to shake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady. It shook like a loathsome and living jelly. It reminded me of everything I had ever read about the base bodies that are the origin of life— the deep sea lumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do you ask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself.”

“Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly,” cut in the clear voice of Inspector Ratcliffe. “President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one’s intellect, but he is not such a Barnum’s freak physically as you make out. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I’ll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he’s absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can’t think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren’t think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?”

“And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?” asked Syme.

“I don’t think of Sunday on principle,” said Gogol simply, “any more than I stare at the sun at noonday.”

“Well, that is a point of view,” said Syme thoughtfully. “What do you say, Professor?”

The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all.

“Wake up, Professor!” said Syme genially. “Tell us what you think of Sunday.”

The Professor spoke at last very slowly.

“I think something,” he said, “that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose.

“Well, when I saw Sunday’s face I thought it was too large— everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn’t focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn’t an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain.”

He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on—

“But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world. Well, Sunday’s face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don’t know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective. Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really have a face. I have not faith enough to believe in matter.”

Syme’s eyes were still fixed upon the errant orb, which, reddened in the evening light, looked like some rosier and more innocent world.

“Have you noticed an odd thing,” he said, “about all your descriptions? Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to—the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like a changing landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of Sunday as I think of the whole world.”

“Get on a little faster, Syme,” said Bull; “never mind the balloon.”

“When I first saw Sunday,” said Syme slowly, “I only saw his back; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men’s clothes.”

“Get on,” said Dr. Bull.

“And then the queer thing happened. I had seen his back from the street, as he sat in the balcony. Then I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight. His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil. On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good.”

“Syme,” exclaimed the Secretary, “are you ill?”

“It was like the face of some ancient archangel, judging justly after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.”

“Pan,” said the Professor dreamily, “was a god and an animal.”

“Then, and again and always,” went on Syme like a man talking to himself, “that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way.”

“Had you time for thinking then?” asked Ratcliffe.

“Time,” replied Syme, “for one outrageous thought. I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face—an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran.”

“Horrible!” said Dr. Bull, and shuddered.

“Horrible is not the word,” said Syme. “It was exactly the worst instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children.”

“It is a long game,” said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots.

“Listen to me,” cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. “Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front—”

“Look!” cried out Bull clamorously, “the balloon is coming down!”

There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun.

The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit.

“He is dead!” he cried. “And now I know he was my friend— my friend in the dark!”

“Dead!” snorted the Secretary. “You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun.”

“Clashing his hoofs,” said the Professor. “The colts do, and so did Pan.”

“Pan again!” said Dr. Bull irritably. “You seem to think Pan is everything.”

“So he is,” said the Professor, “in Greek. He means everything.”

“Don’t forget,” said the Secretary, looking down, “that he also means Panic.”

Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations.

“It fell over there,” he said shortly. “Let us follow it!”

Then he added with an indescribable gesture—

“Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks.”

He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field.

Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by.”

“Who is your master?” asked Syme, standing quite still.

“I was told you knew his name,” said the man respectfully.

There was a silence, and then the Secretary said—

“Where is this carriage?”

“It has been waiting only a few moments,” said the stranger. “My master has only just come home.”

Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland.

He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man’s coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man’s face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky.

“Show us the place,” Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road.

As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel.

“What can it all mean?” asked Bull of Syme as they separated. “Is this another joke of Sunday’s?”

“I don’t know,” said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; “but if it is, it’s one of the jokes you talk about. It’s a good-natured one.”

The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the carriages.

Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment. It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse.

Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother.

When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme—

“Refreshments are provided for you in your room.”

Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was—blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly—

“I have put out your clothes, sir.”

“Clothes!” said Syme sardonically. “I have no clothes except these,” and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl.

“My master asks me to say,” said the attendant, “that there is a fancy dress ball to-night, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper.”

“Cold pheasant is a good thing,” said Syme reflectively, “and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?”

The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents.

“You’re to be dressed as Thursday, sir,” said the valet somewhat affably.

“Dressed as Thursday!” said Syme in meditation. “It doesn’t sound a warm costume.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the other eagerly, “the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin.”

“Well, I don’t understand anything,” said Syme, sighing. “I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the valet, “Bible also provided for you,” and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday.

“This is getting wilder and wilder,” said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. “Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?”

“Yes, sir, everything,” said the attendant gravely. “Shall I help you on with your costume?”

“Oh, hitch the bally thing on!” said Syme impatiently.

But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal.

CHAPTER XV

THE ACCUSER

AS Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man’s eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question.

If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon.

As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees. For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it.

They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself—the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects—a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill—without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.

On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens.

Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days. Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his. Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain. The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes— the ruder forms of life—were created, had a dress of dim purple, over which sprawled goggle-eyed fishes and outrageous tropical birds, the union in him of unfathomable fancy and of doubt. Dr. Bull, the last day of Creation, wore a coat covered with heraldic animals in red and gold, and on his crest a man rampant. He lay back in his chair with a broad smile, the picture of an optimist in his element.

One by one the wanderers ascended the bank and sat in their strange seats. As each of them sat down a roar of enthusiasm rose from the carnival, such as that with which crowds receive kings. Cups were clashed and torches shaken, and feathered hats flung in the air. The men for whom these thrones were reserved were men crowned with some extraordinary laurels. But the central chair was empty.

Syme was on the left hand of it and the Secretary on the right. The Secretary looked across the empty throne at Syme, and said, compressing his lips—

“We do not know yet that he is not dead in a field.”

Almost as Syme heard the words, he saw on the sea of human faces in front of him a frightful and beautiful alteration, as if heaven had opened behind his head. But Sunday had only passed silently along the front like a shadow, and had sat in the central seat. He was draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead.

For a long time—it seemed for hours—that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music. Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story. At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself. Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine. Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles. It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night. Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house. Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four. Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions. The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out. And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone. Not one of them had spoken a word.

They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird. Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one.

“We will eat and drink later,” he said. “Let us remain together a little, we who have loved each other so sadly, and have fought so long. I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes—epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself.”

Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on.

“But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope.”

There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice—

“Who and what are you?”

“I am the Sabbath,” said the other without moving. “I am the peace of God.”

The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.

“I know what you mean,” he cried, “and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls— and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace.”

Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.

“No,” said Syme, “I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know.”

Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said—

“It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself.”

Bull said—

“I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep.”

“I am not happy,” said the Professor with his head in his hands, “because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell.”

And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child—

“I wish I knew why I was hurt so much.”

Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said—

“I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also.”

The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile.

“Gregory!” gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. “Why, this is the real anarchist!”

“Yes,” said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, “I am the real anarchist.”

“‘Now there was a day,’” murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, “‘when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.’”

“You are right,” said Gregory, and gazed all round. “I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could.”

A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence.

“Oh, most unhappy man,” he cried, “try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister.”

“My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world,” said Gregory. “I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!”

“I never hated you,” said Syme very sadly.

Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.

“You!” he cried. “You never hated because you never lived. I know what you are all of you, from first to last— you are the people in power! You are the police—the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I—”

Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.

“I see everything,” he cried, “everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, ‘You lie!’ No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser, ‘We also have suffered.’

“It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from these thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man entered insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander; we have not been happy. I can answer for every one of the great guards of Law whom he has accused. At least—”

He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of Sunday, which wore a strange smile.

“Have you,” he cried in a dreadful voice, “have you ever suffered?”

As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child. It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything went black. Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text that he had heard somewhere, “Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?”

---

When men in books awake from a vision, they commonly find themselves in some place in which they might have fallen asleep; they yawn in a chair, or lift themselves with bruised limbs from a field. Syme’s experience was something much more psychologically strange if there was indeed anything unreal, in the earthly sense, about the things he had gone through. For while he could always remember afterwards that he had swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever come to at all. He could only remember that gradually and naturally he knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy and conversational companion. That companion had been a part of his recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory. They were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality. But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did. He felt he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality.

Dawn was breaking over everything in colours at once clear and timid; as if Nature made a first attempt at yellow and a first attempt at rose. A breeze blew so clean and sweet, that one could not think that it blew from the sky; it blew rather through some hole in the sky. Syme felt a simple surprise when he saw rising all round him on both sides of the road the red, irregular buildings of Saffron Park. He had no idea that he had walked so near London. He walked by instinct along one white road, on which early birds hopped and sang, and found himself outside a fenced garden. There he saw the sister of Gregory, the girl with the gold-red hair, cutting lilac before breakfast, with the great unconscious gravity of a girl.

THE END

A WILD, MAD, HILARIOUS AND PROFOUNDLY MOVING TALE

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

by G. K. Chesterton

author of the Father Brown stories

It is very difficult to classify THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. It is possible to say that it is a gripping adventure story of murderous criminals and brilliant policemen; but it was to be expected that the author of the Father Brown stories should tell a detective story like no-one else. On this level, therefore, THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY succeeds superbly; if nothing else, it is a magnificent tour-de-force of suspense-writing.

However, the reader will soon discover that it is much more than that. Carried along on the boisterous rush of the narrative by Chesterton’s wonderful high-spirited style, he will soon see that he is being carried into much deeper waters than he had planned on; and the totally unforeseeable denouement will prove for the modern reader, as it has for thousands of others since 1908 when the book was first published, an inevitable and moving experience, as the investigators finally discover who Sunday is.

CHAPTER I

THE TWO POETS OF SAFFRON PARK

THE suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not “artists,” the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face— that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.

This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small.

I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.

CAPITOLO I

I DUE POETI DI SAFFRON PARK

IL sobborgo di Saffron Park sorgeva sul lato del tramonto di Londra, rosso e frastagliato come una nube al tramonto. Era costruito interamente di mattoni vivaci; il suo profilo contro il cielo era fantastico, e persino la sua pianta era stravagante. Era stato l’estro di un costruttore speculatore, vagamente sfiorato dall’arte, che chiamava la sua architettura ora elisabettiana ora regina Anna, evidentemente convinto che le due sovrane fossero la stessa persona. Lo si descriveva con una certa ragione come una colonia artistica, benché non producesse mai, in alcun modo definibile, alcuna arte. Ma per quanto le sue pretese di essere un centro intellettuale fossero un poco vaghe, le sue pretese di essere un luogo ameno erano del tutto incontestabili. Il forestiero che guardava per la prima volta le bizzarre case rosse non poteva che pensare quanto stranamente conformate dovessero essere le persone capaci di adattarvisi. Né, quando incontrava quelle persone, restava deluso a tal riguardo. Il luogo non era soltanto ameno, ma perfetto, purché lo si sapesse considerare non come un inganno ma piuttosto come un sogno. Anche se gli abitanti non erano «artisti», l’insieme era comunque artistico. Quel giovane dai lunghi capelli ramati e dal volto impudente… quel giovane non era davvero un poeta; ma di certo era una poesia. Quel vecchio signore dalla barba bianca e ispida e dal cappello bianco e stravagante… quel venerabile ciarlatano non era davvero un filosofo; ma almeno era la causa della filosofia negli altri. Quel signore di scienza dalla testa calva simile a un uovo e dal collo nudo simile a quello di un uccello non aveva alcun vero diritto alle arie di scienza che si dava. Non aveva scoperto nulla di nuovo in biologia; ma quale creatura biologica avrebbe potuto scoprire più singolare di se stesso? Così, e così soltanto, l’intero luogo andava propriamente considerato; andava considerato non tanto come una bottega per artisti, quanto come un’opera d’arte fragile ma compiuta. Chi entrava nella sua atmosfera sociale si sentiva come se fosse entrato in una commedia scritta.

Più che mai questa seducente irrealtà lo avvolgeva verso il calar della notte, quando gli stravaganti tetti si stagliavano scuri contro l’ultimo bagliore e l’intero villaggio folle pareva isolato come una nube alla deriva. E ciò era tanto più vero nelle molte notti di festa locale, quando i giardinetti erano spesso illuminati, e le grandi lanterne cinesi ardevano tra gli alberi nani come qualche frutto feroce e mostruoso. E ciò fu più forte che mai in una sera particolare, ancora vagamente ricordata nella zona, di cui il poeta dai capelli ramati fu l’eroe. Non fu affatto l’unica sera di cui egli fu l’eroe. In molte notti chi passava accanto al suo piccolo giardino sul retro poteva udire la sua voce acuta e didascalica dettar legge agli uomini e in particolare alle donne. L’atteggiamento delle donne in simili casi era davvero uno dei paradossi del luogo. La maggior parte di esse era di quel genere vagamente detto emancipato, e professava una qualche protesta contro la supremazia maschile. Eppure queste donne nuove tributavano sempre a un uomo lo stravagante omaggio che nessuna donna comune gli concede mai, quello di ascoltarlo mentre parla. E il signor Lucian Gregory, il poeta dai capelli rossi, era davvero (in un certo senso) un uomo degno d’esser ascoltato, anche se alla fine non si faceva che riderne. Esponeva la vecchia tiritera dell’anarchia dell’arte e dell’arte dell’anarchia con una certa impudente freschezza che procurava almeno un piacere momentaneo. Lo aiutava in qualche misura la sorprendente stranezza del suo aspetto, che sfruttava, come si suol dire, fino all’ultimo. I suoi capelli rosso scuro, divisi nel mezzo, erano letteralmente come quelli di una donna, e si arricciavano nei lenti boccoli di una vergine in un quadro preraffaellita. Da dentro questo ovale quasi santo, tuttavia, il suo volto sporgeva d’improvviso largo e brutale, il mento proteso in avanti con un’aria di disprezzo plebeo. Questa combinazione insieme solleticava e atterriva i nervi di una popolazione nevrotica. Sembrava una bestemmia ambulante, una mescolanza dell’angelo e della scimmia.

Quella sera particolare, se non sarà ricordata per null’altro, sarà ricordata in quel luogo per il suo strano tramonto. Pareva la fine del mondo. Tutto il cielo sembrava coperto di un piumaggio vivissimo e palpabile; si poteva solo dire che il cielo era pieno di piume, e di piume che quasi sfioravano il volto. Per la maggior parte della volta erano grigie, con le più strane sfumature di viola e di malva e di un innaturale rosa o verde pallido; ma verso occidente il tutto diveniva indescrivibile, trasparente e appassionato, e le ultime piume roventi coprivano il sole come qualcosa di troppo bello per essere visto. L’insieme incombeva così vicino sulla terra, da non esprimere altro che una violenta segretezza. Lo stesso empireo pareva un segreto. Esprimeva quella splendida piccolezza che è l’anima del patriottismo di campanile. Lo stesso cielo pareva piccolo.

Dico che vi sono alcuni abitanti che possono ricordare quella sera se non altro per quel cielo opprimente. Ve ne sono altri che possono ricordarla perché segnò la prima comparsa nel luogo del secondo poeta di Saffron Park. Per lungo tempo il rivoluzionario dai capelli rossi aveva regnato senza rivali; fu nella notte del tramonto che la sua solitudine ebbe d’improvviso fine. Il nuovo poeta, che si presentò col nome di Gabriel Syme, era un mortale dall’aria mitissima, con una barba bionda e appuntita e radi capelli gialli. Ma crebbe l’impressione che fosse meno mansueto di quanto sembrasse. Segnalò il suo ingresso dissentendo dal poeta affermato, Gregory, sull’intera natura della poesia. Disse che egli (Syme) era poeta della legge, poeta dell’ordine; anzi, disse d’essere poeta della rispettabilità. Sicché tutti gli abitanti di Saffron Park lo guardarono come se in quel momento fosse caduto da quel cielo impossibile.

In effetti il signor Lucian Gregory, il poeta anarchico, collegò i due eventi.

“It may well be,” he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, “it may well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden.”

The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of the group, Gregory’s sister Rosamond, who had her brother’s braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.

Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

“An artist is identical with an anarchist,” he cried. “You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Syme.

“Nonsense!” said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox. “Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!”

“It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria. No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!”

“Must you go?” inquired Gregory sarcastically.

“I tell you,” went on Syme with passion, “that every time a train comes in I feel that it has broken past batteries of besiegers, and that man has won a battle against chaos. You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. And when I hear the guard shout out the word ‘Victoria,’ it is not an unmeaning word. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. It is to me indeed ‘Victoria’; it is the victory of Adam.”

Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.

“And even then,” he said, “we poets always ask the question, ‘And what is Victoria now that you have got there?’ You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.”

“There again,” said Syme irritably, “what is there poetical about being in revolt? You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I’m hanged if I can see why they are poetical. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. It’s mere vomiting.”

The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.

“It is things going right,” he cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars— the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.”

“Really,” said Gregory superciliously, “the examples you choose—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Syme grimly, “I forgot we had abolished all conventions.”

For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory’s forehead.

“You don’t expect me,” he said, “to revolutionise society on this lawn?”

Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

“No, I don’t,” he said; “but I suppose that if you were serious about your anarchism, that is exactly what you would do.”

Gregory’s big bull’s eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.

“Don’t you think, then,” he said in a dangerous voice, “that I am serious about my anarchism?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Syme.

“Am I not serious about my anarchism?” cried Gregory, with knotted fists.

“My dear fellow!” said Syme, and strolled away.

With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.

“Mr. Syme,” she said, “do the people who talk like you and my brother often mean what they say? Do you mean what you say now?”

Syme smiled.

“Do you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, with grave eyes.

“My dear Miss Gregory,” said Syme gently, “there are many kinds of sincerity and insincerity. When you say ‘thank you’ for the salt, do you mean what you say? No. When you say ‘the world is round,’ do you mean what you say? No. It is true, but you don’t mean it. Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it.”

«Può ben darsi», disse, nella sua improvvisa maniera lirica, «può ben darsi che in una simile notte di nubi e di colori crudeli sorga sulla terra un portento quale un poeta rispettabile. Lei dice d’essere poeta della legge; io dico che è una contraddizione in termini. Mi meraviglio soltanto che non vi fossero comete e terremoti nella notte in cui è comparso in questo giardino».

L’uomo dai miti occhi azzurri e dalla pallida barba appuntita sopportò questi tuoni con una certa solennità sottomessa. Il terzo membro del gruppo, Rosamond, sorella di Gregory, che aveva le trecce di capelli rossi del fratello, ma sotto di esse un volto più gentile, rise con quel misto di ammirazione e di disapprovazione che soleva riservare all’oracolo di famiglia.

Gregory riprese, di ottimo umore oratorio.

«Un artista è identico a un anarchico», gridò. «Potresti scambiare le parole ovunque. Un anarchico è un artista. L’uomo che getta una bomba è un artista, perché preferisce un grande istante a ogni cosa. Egli vede quanto più prezioso sia un lampo di luce fiammeggiante, un rombo di tuono perfetto, dei meri corpi comuni di qualche informe poliziotto. Un artista ignora ogni governo, abolisce ogni convenzione. Il poeta si diletta soltanto del disordine. Se non fosse così, la cosa più poetica del mondo sarebbe la ferrovia sotterranea».

«E lo è», disse il signor Syme.

«Sciocchezze!», disse Gregory, che era molto razionale quando qualcun altro tentava il paradosso. «Perché tutti gli impiegati e i manovali sui treni della ferrovia hanno un’aria così triste e stanca, così tanto triste e stanca? Glielo dirò io. È perché sanno che il treno procede giusto. È perché sanno che qualunque luogo per cui hanno preso il biglietto, quel luogo raggiungeranno. È perché, dopo aver superato Sloane Square, sanno che la stazione successiva dev’essere Victoria, e nient’altro che Victoria. Oh, il loro selvaggio rapimento! oh, i loro occhi come stelle e le loro anime di nuovo nell’Eden, se la stazione successiva fosse, inspiegabilmente, Baker Street!».

«Sei tu a essere impoetico», replicò il poeta Syme. «Se quel che dici degli impiegati è vero, essi non possono che essere prosaici quanto la tua poesia. La cosa rara e strana è colpire il bersaglio; la cosa grossolana e ovvia è mancarlo. Sentiamo che è epico quando l’uomo con una sola freccia impetuosa colpisce un uccello lontano. Non è forse altrettanto epico quando l’uomo con una sola locomotiva impetuosa colpisce una stazione lontana? Il caos è noioso; perché nel caos il treno potrebbe davvero andare ovunque, a Baker Street o a Bagdad. Ma l’uomo è un mago, e tutta la sua magia sta in questo, che egli dice Victoria, ed ecco! è Victoria. No, prenditi i tuoi libri di mera poesia e prosa; lasciami leggere un orario ferroviario, con lacrime d’orgoglio. Prenditi il tuo Byron, che commemora le sconfitte dell’uomo; dammi Bradshaw, che ne commemora le vittorie. Dammi Bradshaw, ti dico!».

«Devi proprio andare?», domandò Gregory sarcasticamente.

«Ti dico», proseguì Syme con passione, «che ogni volta che un treno arriva sento che ha sfondato batterie di assedianti, e che l’uomo ha vinto una battaglia contro il caos. Tu dici con disprezzo che, lasciata Sloane Square, si deve giungere a Victoria. Io dico che si potrebbero invece fare mille cose, e che ogni volta che vi giungo davvero ho la sensazione d’uno scampato pericolo. E quando odo il controllore gridare la parola «Victoria», non è una parola priva di senso. È per me il grido d’un araldo che annuncia una conquista. È per me davvero «Victoria»; è la vittoria di Adamo».

Gregory scosse la pesante testa rossa con un lento e triste sorriso.

«E anche allora», disse, «noi poeti ci poniamo sempre la domanda: “E cos’è Victoria, ora che ci sei arrivato?” Tu credi che Victoria sia come la Nuova Gerusalemme. Noi sappiamo che la Nuova Gerusalemme sarà soltanto come Victoria. Sì, il poeta sarà scontento perfino nelle vie del cielo. Il poeta è sempre in rivolta».

«Ecco, di nuovo», disse Syme irritato, «cosa c’è di poetico nell’essere in rivolta? Tanto varrebbe dire che è poetico avere il mal di mare. L’esser nauseati è una rivolta. Sia l’esser nauseati sia l’esser ribelli possono essere la cosa salutare in certe occasioni disperate; ma che io sia impiccato se riesco a capire perché siano poetici. La rivolta in astratto è… rivoltante. È mero vomito».

La ragazza trasalì per un lampo alla parola sgradevole, ma Syme era troppo infervorato per badarle.

«Sono le cose che vanno per il verso giusto», gridò, «a essere poetiche! Le nostre digestioni, per esempio, che procedono sacre e silenziose per il verso giusto, ecco il fondamento di ogni poesia. Sì, la cosa più poetica, più poetica dei fiori, più poetica delle stelle… la cosa più poetica del mondo è non star male».

«Davvero», disse Gregory con sussiego, «gli esempi che scegli…».

«Chiedo scusa», disse Syme torvo, «avevo dimenticato che avevamo abolito ogni convenzione».

Per la prima volta una chiazza rossa apparve sulla fronte di Gregory.

«Non pretenderai», disse, «che io rivoluzioni la società su questo prato?».

Syme lo guardò dritto negli occhi e sorrise dolcemente.

«No, non lo pretendo», disse; «ma suppongo che, se tu facessi sul serio col tuo anarchismo, sarebbe esattamente ciò che faresti».

I grandi occhi bovini di Gregory batterono d’improvviso come quelli di un leone adirato, e si sarebbe quasi potuto immaginare che la sua rossa criniera si rizzasse.

«Non pensi, dunque», disse con voce minacciosa, «che io faccia sul serio col mio anarchismo?».

«Come, scusa?», disse Syme.

«Non faccio sul serio col mio anarchismo?», gridò Gregory, coi pugni serrati.

«Mio caro amico!», disse Syme, e si allontanò a passo lento.

Con sorpresa, ma con un curioso piacere, si accorse che Rosamond Gregory era ancora in sua compagnia.

«Signor Syme», disse, «le persone che parlano come lei e mio fratello pensano spesso davvero ciò che dicono? Lei pensa davvero ciò che dice adesso?».

Syme sorrise.

«E lei?», chiese.

«Che cosa intende?», chiese la ragazza, con occhi gravi.

«Mia cara signorina Gregory», disse Syme con dolcezza, «vi sono molte specie di sincerità e d’insincerità. Quando dice “grazie” per il sale, pensa davvero ciò che dice? No. Quando dice “il mondo è rotondo”, pensa davvero ciò che dice? No. È vero, ma non lo pensa davvero. Ora, talvolta un uomo come suo fratello trova davvero una cosa che pensa sul serio. Può essere solo una mezza verità, un quarto di verità, un decimo di verità; ma allora dice più di quanto pensi… per pura forza di pensarlo».

She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.

“Is he really an anarchist, then?” she asked.

“Only in that sense I speak of,” replied Syme; “or if you prefer it, in that nonsense.”

She drew her broad brows together and said abruptly—

“He wouldn’t really use—bombs or that sort of thing?”

Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.

“Good Lord, no!” he said, “that has to be done anonymously.”

And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory’s absurdity and of his safety.

Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.

He stared and talked at the girl’s red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream.

When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.

He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.

“I was waiting for you,” said Gregory. “Might I have a moment’s conversation?”

“Certainly. About what?” asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder.

Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. “About this and this,” he cried; “about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.”

“All the same,” replied Syme patiently, “just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree.” Then after a pause he said, “But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?”

“No,” cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, “I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever.”

The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.

“Mr. Syme,” he said, “this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before.”

“Indeed!”

“Now I remember,” resumed Gregory reflectively, “one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me.”

“I am very sorry,” replied Syme with gravity.

“I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology,” said Gregory very calmly. “No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said.”

“In what I said?”

“You said I was not serious about being an anarchist.”

“There are degrees of seriousness,” replied Syme. “I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth.”

Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully.

“And in no other sense,” he asked, “you think me serious? You think me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious.”

Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road.

“Serious!” he cried. “Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn’t keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking— something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink.”

“Very well,” said Gregory, his face darkening, “you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion.”

Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips.

“You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?”

“Oh,” said Syme with a beaming smile, “we are all Catholics now.”

“Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation, if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return—”

“You will promise me in return?” inquired Syme, as the other paused.

“I will promise you a very entertaining evening.” Syme suddenly took off his hat.

“Your offer,” he said, “is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?”

“I think,” said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, “that we will call a cab.”

He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town.

Ella lo guardava di sotto a sopracciglia diritte; il suo volto era grave e aperto, e vi era caduta sopra l’ombra di quella responsabilità irragionevole che sta in fondo alla donna più frivola, la vigilanza materna che è antica quanto il mondo.

«È dunque davvero un anarchico?», chiese.

«Solo in quel senso di cui parlo», replicò Syme; «o, se preferisce, in quel controsenso».

Ella corrugò le larghe sopracciglia e disse bruscamente…

«Non userebbe davvero… bombe o cose del genere?».

Syme scoppiò in una gran risata, che pareva troppo grande per la sua figura esile e alquanto azzimata.

«Santo cielo, no!», disse, «quello va fatto anonimamente».

E a ciò gli angoli della sua stessa bocca si aprirono in un sorriso, ed ella pensò con simultaneo piacere all’assurdità di Gregory e alla sua incolumità.

Syme passeggiò con lei fino a una panca nell’angolo del giardino, e continuò a riversare le sue opinioni. Poiché era un uomo sincero, e nonostante le sue arie e moine superficiali, in fondo umile. Ed è sempre l’uomo umile a parlare troppo; l’uomo orgoglioso sorveglia troppo se stesso. Difendeva la rispettabilità con violenza ed esagerazione. Si accalorava nell’elogio dell’ordine e del decoro. Per tutto il tempo c’era un profumo di lillà attorno a lui. A un certo punto udì assai flebilmente, in qualche via lontana, un organetto cominciare a suonare, e gli parve che le sue parole eroiche si muovessero al ritmo di una minuscola melodia proveniente da sotto o da oltre il mondo.

Fissò e parlò ai capelli rossi e al volto divertito della ragazza per quelli che parvero pochi minuti; e poi, sentendo che i gruppi in un simile luogo dovevano mescolarsi, si alzò in piedi. Con suo stupore, scoprì l’intero giardino vuoto. Tutti se n’erano andati da un pezzo, ed egli stesso se ne andò con scuse piuttosto affrettate. Partì con una sensazione di champagne nella testa, che in seguito non seppe spiegarsi. Nei folli eventi che stavano per seguire questa ragazza non ebbe parte alcuna; non la rivide più finché tutta la sua storia non fu conclusa. Eppure, in qualche modo indescrivibile, ella continuò a ricorrere come un motivo musicale attraverso tutte le sue folli avventure successive, e la gloria dei suoi strani capelli corse come un filo rosso attraverso quei cupi e maldisegnati arazzi della notte. Poiché ciò che seguì fu tanto improbabile, che ben avrebbe potuto essere un sogno.

Quando Syme uscì nella via stellata, la trovò per il momento deserta. Poi si rese conto (in qualche strano modo) che il silenzio era piuttosto un silenzio vivo che uno morto. Proprio fuori della porta si ergeva un lampione, il cui bagliore indorava le foglie dell’albero che si sporgeva oltre la staccionata dietro di lui. A circa un piede dal lampione stava una figura quasi rigida e immobile quanto il lampione stesso. Il cilindro alto e la lunga finanziera erano neri; il volto, in un’improvvisa ombra, era quasi altrettanto scuro. Solo una frangia di capelli fiammeggianti contro la luce, e insieme qualcosa di aggressivo nell’atteggiamento, proclamavano che era il poeta Gregory. Aveva qualcosa dell’aspetto di un bravo mascherato che attende, spada in pugno, il suo nemico.

Fece una sorta di saluto incerto, che Syme ricambiò con maniera alquanto più formale.

«La stavo aspettando», disse Gregory. «Potrei scambiare una parola con lei?».

«Certo. Di che cosa?», chiese Syme in una sorta di fiacca meraviglia.

Gregory vibrò un colpo di bastone contro il lampione, e poi contro l’albero. «Di questo e di questo», gridò; «dell’ordine e dell’anarchia. Ecco il suo prezioso ordine, quella magra lampada di ferro, brutta e sterile; ed ecco l’anarchia, ricca, viva, che si riproduce da sé… ecco l’anarchia, splendida di verde e d’oro».

«Eppure», replicò Syme con pazienza, «per il momento lei vede l’albero soltanto alla luce della lampada. Mi domando quando mai vedrebbe la lampada alla luce dell’albero». Poi, dopo una pausa, disse: «Ma posso chiederle se se ne è stata qui fuori al buio soltanto per riprendere la nostra piccola disputa?».

«No», esclamò Gregory, con voce che risuonò per la via, «non me ne sono stato qui per riprendere la nostra disputa, ma per porvi fine per sempre».

Il silenzio scese di nuovo, e Syme, per quanto non capisse nulla, tese istintivamente l’orecchio a qualcosa di serio. Gregory cominciò con voce suadente e con un sorriso alquanto sconcertante.

«Signor Syme», disse, «questa sera lei è riuscito a fare qualcosa di piuttosto notevole. Ha fatto a me ciò che nessun uomo nato di donna è mai riuscito a fare prima».

«Davvero!».

«Ora ricordo», riprese Gregory pensieroso, «un’altra persona vi riuscì. Il capitano di un battello a un penny (se ben ricordo) a Southend. Lei mi ha irritato».

«Me ne dispiace molto», replicò Syme con gravità.

«Temo che la mia furia e il suo insulto siano troppo gravi per essere cancellati anche con una scusa», disse Gregory con gran calma. «Nessun duello potrebbe cancellarli. Se anche la uccidessi non potrei cancellarli. Vi è un solo modo per cui quell’insulto può essere cancellato, e quel modo lo scelgo io. Sto per provarle, a possibile sacrificio della mia vita e del mio onore, che aveva torto in ciò che ha detto».

«In ciò che ho detto?».

«Lei ha detto che non facevo sul serio nell’essere anarchico».

«Vi sono gradi di serietà», replicò Syme. «Non ho mai dubitato che lei fosse perfettamente sincero in questo senso, che ritenesse ciò che diceva ben degno d’esser detto, che ritenesse che un paradosso potesse destare gli uomini a una verità trascurata».

Gregory lo fissò con fermezza e pena.

«E in nessun altro senso», chiese, «mi ritiene serio? Mi ritiene un flâneur che lascia cadere occasionali verità. Non pensa che in un senso più profondo, più letale, io faccia sul serio».

Syme batté violentemente il bastone sulle pietre della strada.

«Serio!», gridò. «Santo cielo! è seria questa via? Sono serie queste maledette lanterne cinesi? È serio tutto quanto il baraccone? Si viene qui e si dice un mucchio di sciocchezze, e forse anche qualcosa di sensato, ma avrei ben poca stima di un uomo che non tenesse, sullo sfondo della propria vita, qualcosa di più serio di tutto questo chiacchierare… qualcosa di più serio, fosse pure la religione o soltanto il bere».

«Molto bene», disse Gregory, il volto rabbuiandosi, «vedrà qualcosa di più serio del bere o della religione».

Syme restò ad attendere col suo consueto aspetto mite finché Gregory non riaprì le labbra.

«Poco fa ha parlato di avere una religione. È davvero vero che ne ha una?».

«Oh», disse Syme con un sorriso raggiante, «adesso siamo tutti cattolici».

«Allora posso chiederle di giurare su qualunque dio o santo la sua religione comporti che non rivelerà ciò che sto per dirle ad alcun figlio di Adamo, e specialmente non alla polizia? Vuole giurarlo! Se prenderà su di sé questa terribile abnegazione, se acconsentirà a gravare la sua anima di un voto che non dovrebbe mai fare e di una conoscenza che non dovrebbe mai sognare, io le prometterò in cambio…».

«Mi prometterà in cambio?», domandò Syme, mentre l’altro si interrompeva.

«Le prometterò una serata assai divertente». Syme d’improvviso si tolse il cappello.

«La sua offerta», disse, «è di gran lunga troppo idiota per essere rifiutata. Lei dice che un poeta è sempre un anarchico. Non sono d’accordo; ma spero almeno che sia sempre un uomo di lealtà sportiva. Mi permetta, qui e ora, di giurare da cristiano, e promettere da buon compagno e da collega artista, che non riferirò nulla di tutto ciò, qualunque cosa sia, alla polizia. E ora, in nome di Colney Hatch, di che si tratta?».

«Penso», disse Gregory con placida incongruenza, «che chiameremo una carrozza».

Diede due lunghi fischi, e un calessino giunse sferragliando giù per la strada. I due vi salirono in silenzio. Gregory diede attraverso lo sportello l’indirizzo di un’oscura osteria sulla riva di Chiswick del fiume. La carrozza sfrecciò via di nuovo, e in essa questi due esseri fantastici lasciarono la loro fantastica cittadina.

CHAPTER II

THE SECRET OF GABRIEL SYME

THE cab pulled up before a particularly dreary and greasy beershop, into which Gregory rapidly conducted his companion. They seated themselves in a close and dim sort of bar-parlour, at a stained wooden table with one wooden leg. The room was so small and dark, that very little could be seen of the attendant who was summoned, beyond a vague and dark impression of something bulky and bearded.

“Will you take a little supper?” asked Gregory politely. “The pate de foie gras is not good here, but I can recommend the game.”

Syme received the remark with stolidity, imagining it to be a joke. Accepting the vein of humour, he said, with a well-bred indifference—

“Oh, bring me some lobster mayonnaise.”

To his indescribable astonishment, the man only said “Certainly, sir!” and went away apparently to get it.

“What will you drink?” resumed Gregory, with the same careless yet apologetic air. “I shall only have a crepe de menthe myself; I have dined. But the champagne can really be trusted. Do let me start you with a half-bottle of Pommery at least?”

“Thank you!” said the motionless Syme. “You are very good.”

His further attempts at conversation, somewhat disorganised in themselves, were cut short finally as by a thunderbolt by the actual appearance of the lobster. Syme tasted it, and found it particularly good. Then he suddenly began to eat with great rapidity and appetite.

“Excuse me if I enjoy myself rather obviously!” he said to Gregory, smiling. “I don’t often have the luck to have a dream like this. It is new to me for a nightmare to lead to a lobster. It is commonly the other way.”

“You are not asleep, I assure you,” said Gregory. “You are, on the contrary, close to the most actual and rousing moment of your existence. Ah, here comes your champagne! I admit that there may be a slight disproportion, let us say, between the inner arrangements of this excellent hotel and its simple and unpretentious exterior. But that is all our modesty. We are the most modest men that ever lived on earth.”

“And who are we?” asked Syme, emptying his champagne glass.

“It is quite simple,” replied Gregory. “We are the serious anarchists, in whom you do not believe.”

“Oh!” said Syme shortly. “You do yourselves well in drinks.”

“Yes, we are serious about everything,” answered Gregory.

Then after a pause he added—

“If in a few moments this table begins to turn round a little, don’t put it down to your inroads into the champagne. I don’t wish you to do yourself an injustice.”

“Well, if I am not drunk, I am mad,” replied Syme with perfect calm; “but I trust I can behave like a gentleman in either condition. May I smoke?”

“Certainly!” said Gregory, producing a cigar-case. “Try one of mine.”

Syme took the cigar, clipped the end off with a cigar-cutter out of his waistcoat pocket, put it in his mouth, lit it slowly, and let out a long cloud of smoke. It is not a little to his credit that he performed these rites with so much composure, for almost before he had begun them the table at which he sat had begun to revolve, first slowly, and then rapidly, as if at an insane seance.

“You must not mind it,” said Gregory; “it’s a kind of screw.”

“Quite so,” said Syme placidly, “a kind of screw. How simple that is!”

The next moment the smoke of his cigar, which had been wavering across the room in snaky twists, went straight up as if from a factory chimney, and the two, with their chairs and table, shot down through the floor as if the earth had swallowed them. They went rattling down a kind of roaring chimney as rapidly as a lift cut loose, and they came with an abrupt bump to the bottom. But when Gregory threw open a pair of doors and let in a red subterranean light, Syme was still smoking with one leg thrown over the other, and had not turned a yellow hair.

Gregory led him down a low, vaulted passage, at the end of which was the red light. It was an enormous crimson lantern, nearly as big as a fireplace, fixed over a small but heavy iron door. In the door there was a sort of hatchway or grating, and on this Gregory struck five times. A heavy voice with a foreign accent asked him who he was. To this he gave the more or less unexpected reply, “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” The heavy hinges began to move; it was obviously some kind of password.

Inside the doorway the passage gleamed as if it were lined with a network of steel. On a second glance, Syme saw that the glittering pattern was really made up of ranks and ranks of rifles and revolvers, closely packed or interlocked.

“I must ask you to forgive me all these formalities,” said Gregory; “we have to be very strict here.”

“Oh, don’t apologise,” said Syme. “I know your passion for law and order,” and he stepped into the passage lined with the steel weapons. With his long, fair hair and rather foppish frock-coat, he looked a singularly frail and fanciful figure as he walked down that shining avenue of death.

They passed through several such passages, and came out at last into a queer steel chamber with curved walls, almost spherical in shape, but presenting, with its tiers of benches, something of the appearance of a scientific lecture-theatre. There were no rifles or pistols in this apartment, but round the walls of it were hung more dubious and dreadful shapes, things that looked like the bulbs of iron plants, or the eggs of iron birds. They were bombs, and the very room itself seemed like the inside of a bomb. Syme knocked his cigar ash off against the wall, and went in.

“And now, my dear Mr. Syme,” said Gregory, throwing himself in an expansive manner on the bench under the largest bomb, “now we are quite cosy, so let us talk properly. Now no human words can give you any notion of why I brought you here. It was one of those quite arbitrary emotions, like jumping off a cliff or falling in love. Suffice it to say that you were an inexpressibly irritating fellow, and, to do you justice, you are still. I would break twenty oaths of secrecy for the pleasure of taking you down a peg. That way you have of lighting a cigar would make a priest break the seal of confession. Well, you said that you were quite certain I was not a serious anarchist. Does this place strike you as being serious?”

CAPITOLO II

IL SEGRETO DI GABRIEL SYME

LA carrozza si fermò davanti a una birreria particolarmente tetra e unta, nella quale Gregory guidò rapidamente il suo compagno. Presero posto in una specie di saletta angusta e buia, a un tavolo di legno macchiato che aveva una sola gamba di legno. La stanza era così piccola e scura che ben poco si poteva vedere del cameriere che fu chiamato, oltre a una vaga e oscura impressione di qualcosa di massiccio e barbuto.

«Gradisce una piccola cena?» chiese Gregory con cortesia. «Il pâté de foie gras qui non è buono, ma posso raccomandarle la selvaggina.»

Syme accolse l’osservazione con impassibilità, immaginando che fosse uno scherzo. Assecondando la vena di umorismo, disse, con una indifferenza beneducata:

«Oh, mi porti dell’aragosta con la maionese.»

Con suo indescrivibile stupore, l’uomo si limitò a dire: «Senz’altro, signore!» e se ne andò, a quanto pareva, per procurargliela.

«Cosa berrà?» riprese Gregory, con la stessa aria trascurata eppure di scusa. «Io prenderò soltanto una crème de menthe; ho già cenato. Ma dello champagne ci si può davvero fidare. Mi permetta almeno di iniziare con una mezza bottiglia di Pommery?»

«Grazie!» disse l’immobile Syme. «È molto gentile.»

I suoi ulteriori tentativi di conversazione, di per sé alquanto sconnessi, furono infine troncati come da un fulmine dall’effettiva comparsa dell’aragosta. Syme l’assaggiò, e la trovò particolarmente buona. Poi cominciò all’improvviso a mangiare con grande rapidità e appetito.

«Mi scusi se mi diverto in modo piuttosto evidente!» disse a Gregory, sorridendo. «Non ho spesso la fortuna di fare un sogno come questo. È una novità per me che un incubo conduca a un’aragosta. Di solito è il contrario.»

«Le assicuro che non sta dormendo,» disse Gregory. «Lei è, al contrario, vicinissimo al momento più concreto ed eccitante della sua esistenza. Ah, ecco che arriva il suo champagne! Ammetto che possa esserci una lieve sproporzione, diciamo così, fra le disposizioni interne di questo eccellente albergo e il suo esterno semplice e senza pretese. Ma tutto ciò è dovuto alla nostra modestia. Siamo gli uomini più modesti che siano mai vissuti sulla terra.»

«E chi siamo noi?» chiese Syme, vuotando il bicchiere di champagne.

«È semplicissimo,» rispose Gregory. «Siamo gli anarchici seri, in cui lei non crede.»

«Oh!» disse Syme secco. «Vi trattate bene quanto a bevande.»

«Sì, siamo seri su ogni cosa,» rispose Gregory.

Poi, dopo una pausa, aggiunse:

«Se tra qualche istante questo tavolo comincerà a girare un poco, non lo attribuisca alle sue incursioni nello champagne. Non vorrei che si facesse un torto.»

«Be’, se non sono ubriaco, sono pazzo,» rispose Syme con perfetta calma; «ma confido di sapermi comportare da gentiluomo in entrambe le condizioni. Posso fumare?»

«Certamente!» disse Gregory, tirando fuori un portasigari. «Provi uno dei miei.»

Syme prese il sigaro, ne tagliò l’estremità con un tagliasigari che pescò dal taschino del panciotto, se lo mise in bocca, lo accese lentamente e lasciò uscire una lunga nuvola di fumo. Non gli fa poco onore l’aver compiuto questi riti con tanta compostezza, perché quasi prima che avesse cominciato, il tavolo al quale sedeva aveva preso a ruotare, dapprima lentamente, e poi rapidamente, come in una folle seduta spiritica.

«Non ci badi,» disse Gregory; «è una specie di vite.»

«Proprio così,» disse Syme placido, «una specie di vite. Com’è semplice!»

Un istante dopo il fumo del suo sigaro, che aveva ondeggiato per la stanza in serpeggianti volute, salì dritto come da una ciminiera di fabbrica, e i due, con le loro sedie e il tavolo, precipitarono giù attraverso il pavimento come se la terra li avesse inghiottiti. Scesero sferragliando per una specie di ruggente ciminiera, rapidi come un ascensore lanciato senza freno, e giunsero con un urto brusco in fondo. Ma quando Gregory spalancò un paio di porte e lasciò entrare una rossa luce sotterranea, Syme fumava ancora con una gamba accavallata sull’altra, e non gli si era mosso un biondo capello.

Gregory lo condusse giù per un basso corridoio a volta, in fondo al quale c’era la luce rossa. Era un’enorme lanterna cremisi, grande quasi come un caminetto, fissata sopra una porticina di ferro piccola ma pesante. Nella porta c’era una specie di sportello o inferriata, e su questo Gregory batté cinque volte. Una voce pesante con accento straniero gli chiese chi fosse. A ciò egli diede la risposta più o meno inaspettata: «Il signor Joseph Chamberlain.» I pesanti cardini cominciarono a muoversi; era evidentemente una specie di parola d’ordine.

Oltre la soglia il corridoio luccicava come se fosse rivestito di una rete d’acciaio. A un secondo sguardo, Syme vide che lo scintillante disegno era in realtà composto di file e file di fucili e rivoltelle, fittamente stipati o incastrati l’uno nell’altro.

«Devo pregarla di perdonarmi tutte queste formalità,» disse Gregory; «qui dobbiamo essere molto rigorosi.»

«Oh, non si scusi,» disse Syme. «Conosco la vostra passione per l’ordine e la legge,» e mise piede nel corridoio rivestito di armi d’acciaio. Con i suoi lunghi capelli biondi e la sua palandrana piuttosto affettata, appariva una figura singolarmente fragile e stravagante mentre percorreva quello splendente viale di morte.

Attraversarono parecchi corridoi del genere, e sbucarono infine in una bizzarra camera d’acciaio dalle pareti curve, quasi sferica nella forma, ma che presentava, con le sue gradinate di panche, qualcosa dell’aspetto di un’aula per conferenze scientifiche. In quel locale non c’erano fucili né pistole, ma intorno alle pareti pendevano forme più dubbie e più terribili, cose che parevano i bulbi di piante di ferro, o le uova di uccelli di ferro. Erano bombe, e la stanza stessa pareva l’interno di una bomba. Syme scosse la cenere del sigaro contro la parete, ed entrò.

«E ora, mio caro signor Syme,» disse Gregory, gettandosi in maniera espansiva sulla panca sotto la bomba più grande, «ora siamo del tutto a nostro agio, dunque parliamo come si deve. Nessuna parola umana potrebbe darle un’idea del perché l’ho condotta qui. È stata una di quelle emozioni del tutto arbitrarie, come buttarsi da una rupe o cadere in amore. Basti dire che lei era un tipo indicibilmente irritante, e, a suo onore, lo è ancora. Infrangerei venti giuramenti di segretezza per il piacere di ridimensionarla un poco. Quel suo modo di accendere un sigaro farebbe violare a un prete il sigillo della confessione. Ebbene, lei ha detto di essere assolutamente certo che io non fossi un anarchico serio. Questo posto le fa l’impressione di essere una cosa seria?»

“It does seem to have a moral under all its gaiety,” assented Syme; “but may I ask you two questions? You need not fear to give me information, because, as you remember, you very wisely extorted from me a promise not to tell the police, a promise I shall certainly keep. So it is in mere curiosity that I make my queries. First of all, what is it really all about? What is it you object to? You want to abolish Government?”

“To abolish God!” said Gregory, opening the eyes of a fanatic. “We do not only want to upset a few despotisms and police regulations; that sort of anarchism does exist, but it is a mere branch of the Nonconformists. We dig deeper and we blow you higher. We wish to deny all those arbitrary distinctions of vice and virtue, honour and treachery, upon which mere rebels base themselves. The silly sentimentalists of the French Revolution talked of the Rights of Man! We hate Rights as we hate Wrongs. We have abolished Right and Wrong.”

“And Right and Left,” said Syme with a simple eagerness, “I hope you will abolish them too. They are much more troublesome to me.”

“You spoke of a second question,” snapped Gregory.

“With pleasure,” resumed Syme. “In all your present acts and surroundings there is a scientific attempt at secrecy. I have an aunt who lived over a shop, but this is the first time I have found people living from preference under a public-house. You have a heavy iron door. You cannot pass it without submitting to the humiliation of calling yourself Mr. Chamberlain. You surround yourself with steel instruments which make the place, if I may say so, more impressive than homelike. May I ask why, after taking all this trouble to barricade yourselves in the bowels of the earth, you then parade your whole secret by talking about anarchism to every silly woman in Saffron Park?”

Gregory smiled.

“The answer is simple,” he said. “I told you I was a serious anarchist, and you did not believe me. Nor do they believe me. Unless I took them into this infernal room they would not believe me.”

Syme smoked thoughtfully, and looked at him with interest. Gregory went on.

“The history of the thing might amuse you,” he said. “When first I became one of the New Anarchists I tried all kinds of respectable disguises. I dressed up as a bishop. I read up all about bishops in our anarchist pamphlets, in Superstition the Vampire and Priests of Prey. I certainly understood from them that bishops are strange and terrible old men keeping a cruel secret from mankind. I was misinformed. When on my first appearing in episcopal gaiters in a drawing-room I cried out in a voice of thunder, ‘Down! down! presumptuous human reason!’ they found out in some way that I was not a bishop at all. I was nabbed at once. Then I made up as a millionaire; but I defended Capital with so much intelligence that a fool could see that I was quite poor. Then I tried being a major. Now I am a humanitarian myself, but I have, I hope, enough intellectual breadth to understand the position of those who, like Nietzsche, admire violence— the proud, mad war of Nature and all that, you know. I threw myself into the major. I drew my sword and waved it constantly. I called out ‘Blood!’ abstractedly, like a man calling for wine. I often said, ‘Let the weak perish; it is the Law.’ Well, well, it seems majors don’t do this. I was nabbed again. At last I went in despair to the President of the Central Anarchist Council, who is the greatest man in Europe.”

“What is his name?” asked Syme.

“You would not know it,” answered Gregory. “That is his greatness. Caesar and Napoleon put all their genius into being heard of, and they were heard of. He puts all his genius into not being heard of, and he is not heard of. But you cannot be for five minutes in the room with him without feeling that Caesar and Napoleon would have been children in his hands.”

He was silent and even pale for a moment, and then resumed—

“But whenever he gives advice it is always something as startling as an epigram, and yet as practical as the Bank of England. I said to him, ‘What disguise will hide me from the world? What can I find more respectable than bishops and majors?’ He looked at me with his large but indecipherable face. ‘You want a safe disguise, do you? You want a dress which will guarantee you harmless; a dress in which no one would ever look for a bomb?’ I nodded. He suddenly lifted his lion’s voice. ‘Why, then, dress up as an anarchist, you fool!’ he roared so that the room shook. ‘Nobody will ever expect you to do anything dangerous then.’ And he turned his broad back on me without another word. I took his advice, and have never regretted it. I preached blood and murder to those women day and night, and—by God!— they would let me wheel their perambulators.”

Syme sat watching him with some respect in his large, blue eyes.

“You took me in,” he said. “It is really a smart dodge.”

Then after a pause he added—

“What do you call this tremendous President of yours?”

“We generally call him Sunday,” replied Gregory with simplicity. “You see, there are seven members of the Central Anarchist Council, and they are named after days of the week. He is called Sunday, by some of his admirers Bloody Sunday. It is curious you should mention the matter, because the very night you have dropped in (if I may so express it) is the night on which our London branch, which assembles in this room, has to elect its own deputy to fill a vacancy in the Council. The gentleman who has for some time past played, with propriety and general applause, the difficult part of Thursday, has died quite suddenly. Consequently, we have called a meeting this very evening to elect a successor.”

«Sembra proprio avere una morale sotto tutta la sua allegria,» convenne Syme; «ma posso farle due domande? Non deve temere di darmi informazioni, perché, come ricorderà, lei molto saggiamente mi ha estorto la promessa di non riferire alla polizia, una promessa che manterrò senz’altro. È dunque per pura curiosità che pongo le mie domande. Prima di tutto, di che cosa si tratta davvero? A che cosa vi opponete? Volete abolire il Governo?»

«Abolire Dio!» disse Gregory, spalancando gli occhi di un fanatico. «Non vogliamo soltanto rovesciare qualche dispotismo e qualche regolamento di polizia; quella specie di anarchia esiste, ma è un mero ramo dei Nonconformisti. Noi scaviamo più a fondo e vi facciamo saltare più in alto. Vogliamo negare tutte quelle arbitrarie distinzioni tra vizio e virtù, onore e tradimento, sulle quali i semplici ribelli si fondano. Gli sciocchi sentimentali della Rivoluzione francese parlavano dei Diritti dell’Uomo! Noi odiamo i Diritti come odiamo i Torti. Abbiamo abolito il Giusto e l’Ingiusto.»

«E la Destra e la Sinistra,» disse Syme con schietto entusiasmo, «spero che aboliate anche quelle. Mi danno molto più fastidio.»

«Ha parlato di una seconda domanda,» ribatté secco Gregory.

«Con piacere,» riprese Syme. «In tutti i vostri atti presenti e in tutto ciò che vi circonda c’è un tentativo scientifico di segretezza. Ho una zia che abitava sopra una bottega, ma questa è la prima volta che trovo gente che vive per scelta sotto un locale pubblico. Avete una pesante porta di ferro. Non la si può oltrepassare senza sottomettersi all’umiliazione di dichiararsi il signor Chamberlain. Vi circondate di strumenti d’acciaio che rendono il luogo, se posso dirlo, più imponente che accogliente. Posso chiederle perché, dopo esservi presi tutto questo disturbo per barricarvi nelle viscere della terra, poi mettete in piazza tutto il vostro segreto parlando di anarchia a ogni sciocca donnetta di Saffron Park?»

Gregory sorrise.

«La risposta è semplice,» disse. «Le ho detto che ero un anarchico serio, e lei non mi ha creduto. Né loro mi credono. Se non li portassi in questa stanza infernale, non mi crederebbero.»

Syme fumava pensieroso, e lo guardava con interesse. Gregory proseguì.

«La storia della faccenda potrebbe divertirla,» disse. «Quando diventai per la prima volta uno dei Nuovi Anarchici, provai ogni sorta di travestimenti rispettabili. Mi vestii da vescovo. Mi documentai su tutto ciò che riguarda i vescovi nei nostri opuscoli anarchici, in La superstizione il vampiro e Preti da preda. Certamente da essi capii che i vescovi sono strani e terribili vegliardi che custodiscono un crudele segreto dall’umanità. Ero male informato. Quando alla mia prima apparizione in ghette episcopali in un salotto gridai con voce di tuono: “Abbasso! abbasso la presuntuosa ragione umana!” si accorsero in qualche modo che non ero affatto un vescovo. Fui subito smascherato. Poi mi finsi milionario; ma difesi il Capitale con tanta intelligenza che perfino uno sciocco avrebbe visto che ero del tutto povero. Poi provai a fare il maggiore dell’esercito. Ora, io sono un umanitario, ma ho, spero, una sufficiente ampiezza intellettuale per comprendere la posizione di coloro che, come Nietzsche, ammirano la violenza — la superba, folle guerra della Natura e tutto il resto, sa. Mi immedesimai nel maggiore. Sguainai la spada e la brandii di continuo. Gridavo “Sangue!” in modo distratto, come uno che chiede del vino. Dicevo spesso: “Che i deboli periscano; è la Legge.” Ebbene, be’, pare che i maggiori non facciano queste cose. Fui smascherato di nuovo. Alla fine andai in preda alla disperazione dal Presidente del Consiglio Anarchico Centrale, che è l’uomo più grande d’Europa.»

«Come si chiama?» chiese Syme.

«Non lo conoscerebbe,» rispose Gregory. «È questa la sua grandezza. Cesare e Napoleone misero tutto il loro genio nel farsi conoscere, e si fecero conoscere. Lui mette tutto il suo genio nel non farsi conoscere, e non è conosciuto. Ma non si può stare cinque minuti in una stanza con lui senza avvertire che Cesare e Napoleone sarebbero stati bambini nelle sue mani.»

Rimase silenzioso e persino pallido per un momento, e poi riprese:

«Ma ogni volta che dà un consiglio è sempre qualcosa di sorprendente come un epigramma, eppure di pratico come la Banca d’Inghilterra. Gli dissi: “Quale travestimento mi nasconderà al mondo? Cosa posso trovare di più rispettabile dei vescovi e dei maggiori?” Mi guardò con la sua faccia larga ma indecifrabile. “Vuole un travestimento sicuro, non è così? Vuole un abito che le garantisca di essere innocuo; un abito in cui nessuno cercherebbe mai una bomba?” Annuii. Alzò all’improvviso la sua voce di leone. “Ebbene, allora si vesta da anarchico, sciocco che non è altro!” ruggì così che la stanza tremò. “Nessuno si aspetterà mai che lei faccia qualcosa di pericoloso, allora.” E mi voltò la sua larga schiena senza aggiungere parola. Seguii il suo consiglio, e non me ne sono mai pentito. Predicai sangue e assassinio a quelle donne giorno e notte, e — perdio! — mi avrebbero lasciato spingere le loro carrozzine.»

Syme sedeva osservandolo con un certo rispetto nei suoi grandi occhi azzurri.

«Mi ha ingannato,» disse. «È davvero un trucco astuto.»

Poi, dopo una pausa, aggiunse:

«Come lo chiamate questo vostro formidabile Presidente?»

«Di solito lo chiamiamo Domenica,» rispose Gregory con semplicità. «Vede, i membri del Consiglio Anarchico Centrale sono sette, e prendono il nome dai giorni della settimana. Lui è chiamato Domenica, da qualcuno dei suoi ammiratori Domenica di Sangue. È curioso che lei sollevi la questione, perché proprio la notte in cui è capitato qui (se posso esprimermi così) è la notte in cui la nostra sezione di Londra, che si riunisce in questa stanza, deve eleggere il proprio delegato per colmare una vacanza nel Consiglio. Il gentiluomo che per qualche tempo ha interpretato, con decoro e generale plauso, la difficile parte di Giovedì, è morto all’improvviso. Di conseguenza, abbiamo convocato una riunione proprio stasera per eleggere un successore.»

He got to his feet and strolled across the room with a sort of smiling embarrassment.

“I feel somehow as if you were my mother, Syme,” he continued casually. “I feel that I can confide anything to you, as you have promised to tell nobody. In fact, I will confide to you something that I would not say in so many words to the anarchists who will be coming to the room in about ten minutes. We shall, of course, go through a form of election; but I don’t mind telling you that it is practically certain what the result will be.” He looked down for a moment modestly. “It is almost a settled thing that I am to be Thursday.”

“My dear fellow.” said Syme heartily, “I congratulate you. A great career!”

Gregory smiled in deprecation, and walked across the room, talking rapidly.

“As a matter of fact, everything is ready for me on this table,” he said, “and the ceremony will probably be the shortest possible.”

Syme also strolled across to the table, and found lying across it a walking-stick, which turned out on examination to be a sword-stick, a large Colt’s revolver, a sandwich case, and a formidable flask of brandy. Over the chair, beside the table, was thrown a heavy-looking cape or cloak.

“I have only to get the form of election finished,” continued Gregory with animation, “then I snatch up this cloak and stick, stuff these other things into my pocket, step out of a door in this cavern, which opens on the river, where there is a steam-tug already waiting for me, and then—then—oh, the wild joy of being Thursday!” And he clasped his hands.

Syme, who had sat down once more with his usual insolent languor, got to his feet with an unusual air of hesitation.

“Why is it,” he asked vaguely, “that I think you are quite a decent fellow? Why do I positively like you, Gregory?” He paused a moment, and then added with a sort of fresh curiosity, “Is it because you are such an ass?”

There was a thoughtful silence again, and then he cried out—

“Well, damn it all! this is the funniest situation I have ever been in in my life, and I am going to act accordingly. Gregory, I gave you a promise before I came into this place. That promise I would keep under red-hot pincers. Would you give me, for my own safety, a little promise of the same kind?”

“A promise?” asked Gregory, wondering.

“Yes,” said Syme very seriously, “a promise. I swore before God that I would not tell your secret to the police. Will you swear by Humanity, or whatever beastly thing you believe in, that you will not tell my secret to the anarchists?”

“Your secret?” asked the staring Gregory. “Have you got a secret?”

“Yes,” said Syme, “I have a secret.” Then after a pause, “Will you swear?”

Gregory glared at him gravely for a few moments, and then said abruptly—

“You must have bewitched me, but I feel a furious curiosity about you. Yes, I will swear not to tell the anarchists anything you tell me. But look sharp, for they will be here in a couple of minutes.”

Syme rose slowly to his feet and thrust his long, white hands into his long, grey trousers’ pockets. Almost as he did so there came five knocks on the outer grating, proclaiming the arrival of the first of the conspirators.

“Well,” said Syme slowly, “I don’t know how to tell you the truth more shortly than by saying that your expedient of dressing up as an aimless poet is not confined to you or your President. We have known the dodge for some time at Scotland Yard.”

Gregory tried to spring up straight, but he swayed thrice.

“What do you say?” he asked in an inhuman voice.

“Yes,” said Syme simply, “I am a police detective. But I think I hear your friends coming.”

From the doorway there came a murmur of “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain.” It was repeated twice and thrice, and then thirty times, and the crowd of Joseph Chamberlains (a solemn thought) could be heard trampling down the corridor.

Si alzò in piedi e passeggiò per la stanza con una sorta di sorridente imbarazzo.

«Ho la strana sensazione che lei sia mia madre, Syme,» continuò con noncuranza. «Sento di poterle confidare qualsiasi cosa, poiché lei ha promesso di non dirlo a nessuno. Anzi, le confiderò una cosa che non direi con tante parole agli anarchici che arriveranno in questa stanza fra una decina di minuti. Naturalmente procederemo con una qualche forma di elezione; ma non mi dispiace dirle che è praticamente certo quale ne sarà il risultato.» Abbassò lo sguardo per un momento con modestia. «È quasi cosa fatta che io debba essere Giovedì.»

«Mio caro,» disse Syme con calore, «mi congratulo con lei. Una grande carriera!»

Gregory sorrise schermendosi, e attraversò la stanza, parlando rapidamente.

«In effetti, sul tavolo è già tutto pronto per me,» disse, «e la cerimonia sarà probabilmente la più breve possibile.»

Anche Syme passeggiò fino al tavolo, e vi trovò distesi un bastone da passeggio, che a un esame si rivelò un bastone-spada, una grossa rivoltella Colt, un porta-panini e una formidabile fiasca di brandy. Sulla sedia, accanto al tavolo, era gettata una mantellina o un mantello dall’aria pesante.

«Non devo far altro che portare a termine la forma dell’elezione,» continuò Gregory con animazione, «poi afferro questo mantello e questo bastone, mi caccio in tasca queste altre cose, esco da una porta di questa caverna, che dà sul fiume, dove c’è già un rimorchiatore a vapore che mi aspetta, e poi — poi — oh, la gioia selvaggia di essere Giovedì!» E si strinse le mani.

Syme, che si era di nuovo seduto con il suo consueto insolente languore, si alzò in piedi con un’insolita aria di esitazione.

«Come mai,» chiese vagamente, «penso che lei sia proprio un tipo per bene? Perché mi è positivamente simpatico, Gregory?» Fece una pausa un momento, e poi aggiunse con una sorta di rinnovata curiosità: «Sarà perché lei è un tale asino?»

Ci fu di nuovo un pensieroso silenzio, e poi egli esclamò:

«Ebbene, che diavolo! questa è la situazione più buffa in cui mi sia mai trovato in vita mia, e intendo agire di conseguenza. Gregory, le ho fatto una promessa prima di entrare in questo posto. Quella promessa la manterrei sotto tenaglie roventi. Vorrebbe farmi, per la mia sicurezza, una piccola promessa dello stesso genere?»

«Una promessa?» chiese Gregory, meravigliato.

«Sì,» disse Syme molto seriamente, «una promessa. Ho giurato davanti a Dio che non avrei rivelato il suo segreto alla polizia. Vuole giurare sull’Umanità, o su qualunque bestialità in cui lei crede, che non rivelerà il mio segreto agli anarchici?»

«Il suo segreto?» chiese Gregory sbarrando gli occhi. «Lei ha un segreto?»

«Sì,» disse Syme, «ho un segreto.» Poi, dopo una pausa: «Vuole giurare?»

Gregory lo fissò gravemente per qualche istante, e poi disse bruscamente:

«Deve avermi stregato, ma sento una furiosa curiosità nei suoi confronti. Sì, giurerò di non riferire agli anarchici nulla di ciò che lei mi dirà. Ma faccia in fretta, perché saranno qui tra un paio di minuti.»

Syme si alzò lentamente in piedi e cacciò le sue lunghe mani bianche nelle tasche dei suoi lunghi calzoni grigi. Quasi nell’istante in cui lo fece giunsero cinque colpi all’inferriata esterna, che annunciavano l’arrivo del primo dei cospiratori.

«Ebbene,» disse Syme lentamente, «non so come dirle la verità più brevemente che dicendole che il suo espediente di travestirsi da poeta senza scopo non è riservato a lei o al suo Presidente. Noi conosciamo il trucco da qualche tempo a Scotland Yard.»

Gregory tentò di balzare su dritto, ma barcollò tre volte.

«Cosa dice?» chiese con voce disumana.

«Sì,» disse Syme con semplicità, «sono un detective della polizia. Ma credo di sentire arrivare i suoi amici.»

Dalla soglia giunse un mormorio: «Il signor Joseph Chamberlain.» Fu ripetuto due, tre volte, e poi trenta volte, e si udì la folla dei Joseph Chamberlain (solenne pensiero) calpestare rumorosamente il corridoio.

CHAPTER III

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

BEFORE one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory’s stunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with a bound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up the Colt’s revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put up a pale and polite hand.

“Don’t be such a silly man,” he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. “Don’t you see it’s not necessary? Don’t you see that we’re both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick.”

Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question.

“Don’t you see we’ve checkmated each other?” cried Syme. “I can’t tell the police you are an anarchist. You can’t tell the anarchists I’m a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it’s a lonely, intellectual duel, my head against yours. I’m a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The one solitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely.”

Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster.

“I don’t believe in immortality,” he said at last, “but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever.”

“I shall not break my word,” said Syme sternly, “nor will you break yours. Here are your friends.”

The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses— a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy—detached himself, and bustled forward with some papers in his hand.

“Comrade Gregory,” he said, “I suppose this man is a delegate?”

Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly—

“I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate.”

The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion.

“What branch do you represent?” he asked sharply.

“I should hardly call it a branch,” said Syme, laughing; “I should call it at the very least a root.”

“What do you mean?”

“The fact is,” said Syme serenely, “the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday.”

The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.

“Well, comrade,” said the man with the papers after a pause, “I suppose we’d better give you a seat in the meeting?”

“If you ask my advice as a friend,” said Syme with severe benevolence, “I think you’d better.”

When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme’s inspired impudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night’s discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it.

He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches.

“I think it is time we began,” he said; “the steam-tug is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair.”

This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat.

“Comrades,” he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, “our meeting to-night is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is not to acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a harder task. It is difficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult to replace them. Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to choose out of the company present the man who shall be Thursday. If any comrade suggests a name I will put it to the vote. If no comrade suggests a name, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter, who is gone from us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of his virtue and his innocence.”

There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimes heard in church. Then a large old man, with a long and venerable white beard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly and said—

CAPITOLO III

L’UOMO CHE FU GIOVEDÌ

PRIMA che uno di quei volti freschi potesse affacciarsi sulla soglia, lo sbigottimento attonito di Gregory era già svanito da lui. Con un balzo fu accanto al tavolo, e dalla gola gli uscì un rumore da bestia feroce. Afferrò la rivoltella Colt e prese la mira su Syme. Syme non batté ciglio, ma levò una mano pallida e cortese.

«Non faccia lo sciocco» disse, con la dignità effeminata di un curato. «Non vede che è inutile? Non vede che siamo tutti e due sulla stessa barca? Sì, e per giunta ben nauseati dal mare.»

Gregory non riusciva a parlare, ma non riusciva nemmeno a far fuoco, e la sua domanda la esprimeva con lo sguardo.

«Non vede che ci siamo dati scacco matto a vicenda?» gridò Syme. «Io non posso dire alla polizia che lei è un anarchico. Lei non può dire agli anarchici che io sono un poliziotto. Posso solo osservarla, sapendo ciò che lei è; lei può solo osservare me, sapendo ciò che io sono. Insomma, è un solitario duello intellettuale, la mia testa contro la sua. Io sono un poliziotto privato dell’aiuto della polizia. Lei, povero amico mio, è un anarchico privato dell’aiuto di quella legge e di quell’organizzazione che sono così essenziali all’anarchia. L’unica differenza è a suo vantaggio. Lei non è circondato da poliziotti curiosi; io sono circondato da anarchici curiosi. Io non posso tradire lei, ma potrei tradire me stesso. Su, su! Aspetti e mi guardi tradirmi. Lo farò tanto bene.»

Gregory posò lentamente la pistola, continuando a fissare Syme come se fosse un mostro marino.

«Io non credo nell’immortalità» disse infine, «ma se, dopo tutto questo, lei venisse meno alla parola data, Dio farebbe un inferno solo per lei, perché vi ululasse in eterno.»

«Io non verrò meno alla mia parola» disse Syme severamente, «né lei verrà meno alla sua. Ecco i suoi amici.»

La massa degli anarchici entrò nella stanza pesantemente, con andatura strascicata e alquanto stanca; ma un ometto, con la barba nera e gli occhiali — un uomo del tipo pressappoco del signor Tim Healy — si staccò dal gruppo, e si fece avanti affaccendato con certe carte in mano.

«Compagno Gregory» disse, «suppongo che quest’uomo sia un delegato?»

Gregory, colto di sorpresa, abbassò lo sguardo e mormorò il nome di Syme; ma Syme replicò quasi con impertinenza —

«Sono lieto di vedere che il vostro cancello è custodito abbastanza bene da rendere difficile a chiunque non sia un delegato di trovarsi qui.»

La fronte dell’ometto dalla barba nera era però ancora contratta in qualcosa che somigliava al sospetto.

«Quale sezione rappresentate?» chiese bruscamente.

«Difficilmente la chiamerei una sezione» disse Syme, ridendo; «la chiamerei tutt’al più una radice.»

«Che cosa intendete?»

«Il fatto è» disse Syme serenamente, «la verità è che sono un sabbatario. Sono stato mandato qui appositamente per verificare che voi diate la debita osservanza alla Domenica.»

L’ometto lasciò cadere una delle sue carte, e un guizzo di paura passò su tutti i volti del gruppo. Evidentemente il terribile Presidente, il cui nome era Domenica, mandava talvolta ambasciatori tanto irregolari a simili riunioni di sezione.

«Bene, compagno» disse l’uomo dalle carte dopo una pausa, «suppongo che faremmo meglio a darvi un posto nella riunione?»

«Se chiedete il mio consiglio come amico» disse Syme con severa benevolenza, «credo che fareste meglio.»

Quando Gregory udì concludersi quel dialogo pericoloso, con un’improvvisa salvezza per il suo rivale, si alzò di scatto e prese a percorrere la stanza in penoso pensiero. Era, in verità, in un’agonia di diplomazia. Era chiaro che la sfrontatezza ispirata di Syme sarebbe con ogni probabilità riuscita a trarlo fuori da tutti i dilemmi meramente accidentali. Da essi c’era poco da sperare. Non poteva tradire Syme di persona, in parte per onore, ma in parte anche perché, se lo avesse tradito e per qualche ragione non fosse riuscito a distruggerlo, il Syme scampato sarebbe stato un Syme liberato da ogni obbligo di segretezza, un Syme che sarebbe semplicemente andato al più vicino posto di polizia. Dopotutto, era solo la discussione di una notte, e solo un detective ne sarebbe stato al corrente. Avrebbe lasciato trapelare il meno possibile dei loro piani quella notte, poi avrebbe lasciato andare Syme, e avrebbe corso il rischio.

Si diresse a grandi passi verso il gruppo di anarchici, che già si distribuiva lungo le panche.

«Credo sia ora di cominciare» disse; «il rimorchiatore a vapore aspetta già sul fiume. Propongo che il compagno Buttons assuma la presidenza.»

Approvato ciò per alzata di mano, l’ometto dalle carte scivolò nel seggio presidenziale.

«Compagni» esordì, secco come un colpo di pistola, «la nostra riunione di stanotte è importante, per quanto non debba essere lunga. Questa sezione ha sempre avuto l’onore di eleggere i Giovedì per il Consiglio Centrale Europeo. Abbiamo eletto molti e splendidi Giovedì. Tutti rimpiangiamo la triste dipartita dell’eroico lavoratore che occupò la carica fino alla settimana scorsa. Come sapete, i suoi servigi alla causa furono considerevoli. Organizzò il grande colpo di dinamite di Brighton che, in circostanze più felici, avrebbe dovuto uccidere tutti quelli che erano sul molo. Come pure sapete, la sua morte fu di abnegazione tanto quanto la sua vita, poiché morì per la fede che riponeva in una miscela igienica di gesso e acqua come surrogato del latte, bevanda che egli riteneva barbara, in quanto implicante crudeltà verso la mucca. La crudeltà, o qualsiasi cosa che le si avvicinasse, lo rivoltava sempre. Ma non è per acclamarne le virtù che ci siamo riuniti, bensì per un compito più arduo. È difficile lodare adeguatamente le sue qualità, ma è ancora più difficile sostituirle. A voi, compagni, spetta questa sera di scegliere fra i presenti l’uomo che sarà Giovedì. Se qualche compagno propone un nome, lo metterò ai voti. Se nessun compagno propone un nome, potrò solo dire a me stesso che quel caro dinamitardo, che ci ha lasciati, ha portato con sé negli abissi inconoscibili l’ultimo segreto della sua virtù e della sua innocenza.»

Vi fu un fremito di applausi quasi impercettibili, come talvolta si sente in chiesa. Poi un grande vecchio, con una lunga e veneranda barba bianca, forse l’unico vero operaio presente, si alzò goffamente e disse —

“I move that Comrade Gregory be elected Thursday,” and sat lumberingly down again.

“Does anyone second?” asked the chairman.

A little man with a velvet coat and pointed beard seconded.

“Before I put the matter to the vote,” said the chairman, “I will call on Comrade Gregory to make a statement.”

Gregory rose amid a great rumble of applause. His face was deadly pale, so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet. But he was smiling and altogether at ease. He had made up his mind, and he saw his best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road. His best chance was to make a softened and ambiguous speech, such as would leave on the detective’s mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhood was a very mild affair after all. He believed in his own literary power, his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words. He thought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the people around him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly and delicately false. Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all their bravado, were only playing the fool. Could he not now, in the hour of peril, make Syme think so again?

“Comrades,” began Gregory, in a low but penetrating voice, “it is not necessary for me to tell you what is my policy, for it is your policy also. Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered. Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except to us, except to the fountain head. They learn about anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists from tradesmen’s newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday and the Sporting Times. They never learn about anarchists from anarchists. We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanders which are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another. The man who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard our reply. I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passion were to rend the roof. For it is deep, deep under the earth that the persecuted are permitted to assemble, as the Christians assembled in the Catacombs. But if, by some incredible accident, there were here to-night a man who all his life had thus immensely misunderstood us, I would put this question to him: ‘When those Christians met in those Catacombs, what sort of moral reputation had they in the streets above? What tales were told of their atrocities by one educated Roman to another? Suppose’ (I would say to him), ‘suppose that we are only repeating that still mysterious paradox of history. Suppose we seem as shocking as the Christians because we are really as harmless as the Christians. Suppose we seem as mad as the Christians because we are really as meek.”’

The applause that had greeted the opening sentences had been gradually growing fainter, and at the last word it stopped suddenly. In the abrupt silence, the man with the velvet jacket said, in a high, squeaky voice—

“I’m not meek!”

“Comrade Witherspoon tells us,” resumed Gregory, “that he is not meek. Ah, how little he knows himself! His words are, indeed, extravagant; his appearance is ferocious, and even (to an ordinary taste) unattractive. But only the eye of a friendship as deep and delicate as mine can perceive the deep foundation of solid meekness which lies at the base of him, too deep even for himself to see. I repeat, we are the true early Christians, only that we come too late. We are simple, as they revere simple— look at Comrade Witherspoon. We are modest, as they were modest—look at me. We are merciful—”

“No, no!” called out Mr. Witherspoon with the velvet jacket.

“I say we are merciful,” repeated Gregory furiously, “as the early Christians were merciful. Yet this did not prevent their being accused of eating human flesh. We do not eat human flesh—”

“Shame!” cried Witherspoon. “Why not?”

“Comrade Witherspoon,” said Gregory, with a feverish gaiety, “is anxious to know why nobody eats him (laughter). In our society, at any rate, which loves him sincerely, which is founded upon love—”

“No, no!” said Witherspoon, “down with love.”

“Which is founded upon love,” repeated Gregory, grinding his teeth, “there will be no difficulty about the aims which we shall pursue as a body, or which I should pursue were I chosen as the representative of that body. Superbly careless of the slanders that represent us as assassins and enemies of human society, we shall pursue with moral courage and quiet intellectual pressure, the permanent ideals of brotherhood and simplicity.”

Gregory resumed his seat and passed his hand across his forehead. The silence was sudden and awkward, but the chairman rose like an automaton, and said in a colourless voice—

“Does anyone oppose the election of Comrade Gregory?”

The assembly seemed vague and sub-consciously disappointed, and Comrade Witherspoon moved restlessly on his seat and muttered in his thick beard. By the sheer rush of routine, however, the motion would have been put and carried. But as the chairman was opening his mouth to put it, Syme sprang to his feet and said in a small and quiet voice—

“Yes, Mr. Chairman, I oppose.”

The most effective fact in oratory is an unexpected change in the voice. Mr. Gabriel Syme evidently understood oratory. Having said these first formal words in a moderated tone and with a brief simplicity, he made his next word ring and volley in the vault as if one of the guns had gone off.

“Comrades!” he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of his boots, “have we come here for this? Do we live underground like rats in order to listen to talk like this? This is talk we might listen to while eating buns at a Sunday School treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, ‘Be good, and you will be happy,’ ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ and ‘Virtue is its own reward’? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory’s address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure (hear, hear). But I am not a curate (loud cheers), and I did not listen to it with pleasure (renewed cheers). The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday (hear, hear).”

«Propongo che il compagno Gregory sia eletto Giovedì», e si rimise goffamente a sedere.

«Qualcuno appoggia?» chiese il presidente.

Un ometto con una giacca di velluto e la barba a punta appoggiò.

«Prima di mettere la questione ai voti» disse il presidente, «invito il compagno Gregory a fare una dichiarazione.»

Gregory si alzò tra un gran rombo di applausi. Il suo volto era mortalmente pallido, sicché per contrasto i suoi strani capelli rossi parevano quasi scarlatti. Ma sorrideva ed era del tutto a suo agio. Aveva deciso, e vedeva la sua strategia migliore chiara davanti a sé come una bianca strada. La sua occasione migliore era di fare un discorso addolcito e ambiguo, tale da lasciare nella mente del detective l’impressione che la fratellanza anarchica fosse dopotutto una faccenda assai mite. Confidava nella propria potenza letteraria, nella sua capacità di suggerire sottili sfumature e di scegliere le parole perfette. Pensava che con cura avrebbe potuto riuscire, malgrado tutta la gente intorno a lui, a trasmettere un’immagine dell’istituzione, sottilmente e delicatamente falsa. Syme aveva un tempo pensato che gli anarchici, sotto tutta la loro spavalderia, non facessero altro che lo sciocco. Non poteva egli ora, nell’ora del pericolo, far sì che Syme lo pensasse di nuovo?

«Compagni» esordì Gregory, con voce bassa ma penetrante, «non è necessario che io vi dica quale sia la mia linea politica, poiché è anche la vostra. Il nostro credo è stato calunniato, è stato sfigurato, è stato completamente confuso e occultato, ma non è mai stato mutato. Coloro che parlano dell’anarchismo e dei suoi pericoli vanno dovunque e in ogni dove per ottenere le loro informazioni, tranne che da noi, tranne che alla fonte. Imparano a conoscere gli anarchici dai romanzetti da quattro soldi; imparano a conoscere gli anarchici dai giornali dei bottegai; imparano a conoscere gli anarchici dall’Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday e dallo Sporting Times. Non imparano mai a conoscere gli anarchici dagli anarchici. Non abbiamo alcuna possibilità di smentire le montagne di calunnie che ci vengono ammassate sul capo da un capo all’altro dell’Europa. L’uomo che ha sempre sentito dire che siamo pestilenze ambulanti non ha mai sentito la nostra risposta. So che non la sentirà stanotte, per quanto la mia passione possa squarciare il tetto. Poiché è nel profondo, profondo sotto terra che ai perseguitati è concesso di riunirsi, come i cristiani si riunivano nelle Catacombe. Ma se, per qualche incredibile accidente, vi fosse qui stanotte un uomo che per tutta la vita ci avesse così immensamente frainteso, io gli porrei questa domanda: “Quando quei cristiani si riunivano in quelle Catacombe, che sorta di reputazione morale avevano nelle strade là sopra? Quali storie sulle loro atrocità venivano narrate da un romano colto a un altro? Supponete” (gli direi), “supponete che noi non facciamo che ripetere quel tuttora misterioso paradosso della storia. Supponete che noi appaiamo scioccanti come i cristiani perché siamo davvero innocui come i cristiani. Supponete che appaiamo folli come i cristiani perché siamo davvero altrettanto miti”.»

L’applauso che aveva salutato le frasi d’apertura si era andato via via affievolendo, e all’ultima parola cessò di colpo. Nell’improvviso silenzio, l’uomo dalla giacca di velluto disse, con voce alta e stridula —

«Io non sono mite!»

«Il compagno Witherspoon ci dice» riprese Gregory, «di non essere mite. Ah, come poco conosce se stesso! Le sue parole sono, invero, stravaganti; il suo aspetto è feroce, e persino (per un gusto ordinario) sgradevole. Ma solo l’occhio di un’amicizia profonda e delicata come la mia può scorgere il profondo fondamento di solida mitezza che sta alla sua base, troppo profondo perché egli stesso possa vederlo. Ripeto, noi siamo i veri primi cristiani, solo che siamo giunti troppo tardi. Siamo semplici, come loro veneravano il semplice — guardate il compagno Witherspoon. Siamo modesti, come loro erano modesti — guardate me. Siamo misericordiosi —»

«No, no!» esclamò il signor Witherspoon dalla giacca di velluto.

«Dico che siamo misericordiosi» ripeté Gregory furiosamente, «come i primi cristiani erano misericordiosi. Eppure questo non impedì loro di essere accusati di mangiare carne umana. Noi non mangiamo carne umana —»

«Vergogna!» gridò Witherspoon. «E perché no?»

«Il compagno Witherspoon» disse Gregory, con una gaiezza febbrile, «è ansioso di sapere perché nessuno lo mangi (risate). Nella nostra società, in ogni caso, che lo ama sinceramente, che è fondata sull’amore —»

«No, no!» disse Witherspoon, «abbasso l’amore.»

«Che è fondata sull’amore» ripeté Gregory, digrignando i denti, «non vi sarà alcuna difficoltà quanto alle mete che perseguiremo come corpo, o che perseguirei io se fossi scelto quale rappresentante di quel corpo. Superbamente incuranti delle calunnie che ci rappresentano come assassini e nemici della società umana, perseguiremo con coraggio morale e quieta pressione intellettuale gli ideali permanenti della fratellanza e della semplicità.»

Gregory riprese il suo posto e si passò la mano sulla fronte. Il silenzio fu improvviso e imbarazzante, ma il presidente si alzò come un automa, e disse con voce incolore —

«Qualcuno si oppone all’elezione del compagno Gregory?»

L’assemblea sembrava incerta e inconsciamente delusa, e il compagno Witherspoon si agitava irrequieto sul suo posto e borbottava nella folta barba. Per il puro slancio della routine, tuttavia, la mozione sarebbe stata messa ai voti e approvata. Ma proprio mentre il presidente apriva bocca per metterla ai voti, Syme balzò in piedi e disse con voce piccola e quieta —

«Sì, signor presidente, io mi oppongo.»

Il fatto più efficace nell’oratoria è un cambiamento inatteso nella voce. Il signor Gabriel Syme evidentemente s’intendeva di oratoria. Dette quelle prime formali parole in tono moderato e con una breve semplicità, fece sì che la parola successiva risuonasse e rimbombasse nella volta come se una delle armi da fuoco avesse sparato.

«Compagni!» gridò, con una voce che fece sobbalzare ogni uomo fuori dai propri stivali, «siamo venuti qui per questo? Viviamo sottoterra come topi per ascoltare discorsi come questo? Sono discorsi che potremmo ascoltare mentre mangiamo focaccine a una festicciola di scuola domenicale. Rivestiamo forse queste pareti di armi e sbarriamo quella porta con la morte per timore che qualcuno venga a sentire il compagno Gregory dirci, “Siate buoni, e sarete felici”, “L’onestà è la miglior politica”, e “La virtù è premio a se stessa”? Non c’era una parola nel discorso del compagno Gregory che un curato non avrebbe potuto ascoltare con piacere (bene, bene). Ma io non sono un curato (fragorosi applausi), e non l’ho ascoltato con piacere (rinnovati applausi). L’uomo che è adatto a fare un buon curato non è adatto a fare un Giovedì risoluto, energico ed efficiente (bene, bene).»

“Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy (hear, hear). Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers).”

Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness—

“You damnable hypocrite!”

Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity—

“Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy (hear, hear). This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride (cheers). I am not a man at all. I am a cause (renewed cheers). I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election—”

His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting.

“Stop, you blasted madmen!” he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. “Stop, you—”

But louder than Gregory’s shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder—

“I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it (loud and prolonged cheering). To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, ‘You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies.’”

The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said—

“I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post.”

“Stop all this, I tell you!” cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. “Stop it, it is all—”

The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.

“Does anyone second this amendment?” he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. “I end all this!” he said, in a voice as heavy as stone.

“This man cannot be elected. He is a—”

“Yes,” said Syme, quite motionless, “what is he?” Gregory’s mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. “He is a man quite inexperienced in our work,” he said, and sat down abruptly.

Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone—

“I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme.”

“The amendment will, as usual, be put first,” said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity.

“The question is that Comrade Syme—”

Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate.

“Comrades,” he cried out, “I am not a madman.”

“Oh, oh!” said Mr. Witherspoon.

“I am not a madman,” reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, “but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man.” Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme’s slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme’s bleak blue eyes. He merely began—

“Comrade Gregory commands—”

Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory—

“Who are you? You are not Sunday”; and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, “And you are not Thursday.”

“Comrades,” cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, “it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man.”

“Comrade Gregory,” said the chairman after a painful pause, “this is really not quite dignified.”

For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again—

«Il compagno Gregory ci ha detto, in tono fin troppo apologetico, che noi non siamo i nemici della società. Ma io dico che noi siamo i nemici della società, e tanto peggio per la società. Siamo i nemici della società, poiché la società è la nemica dell’umanità, la sua più antica e la sua più spietata nemica (bene, bene). Il compagno Gregory ci ha detto (di nuovo apologeticamente) che noi non siamo assassini. E qui concordo. Non siamo assassini, siamo giustizieri (applausi).»

Fin da quando Syme si era alzato, Gregory era rimasto seduto a fissarlo, il volto idiota per lo stupore. Ora, nella pausa, le sue labbra d’argilla si schiusero, ed egli disse, con automatica e senza vita distinzione —

«Maledetto ipocrita!»

Syme guardò dritto in quegli occhi spaventosi con i propri, di un pallido azzurro, e disse con dignità —

«Il compagno Gregory mi accusa di ipocrisia. Egli sa altrettanto bene quanto me che sto mantenendo tutti i miei impegni e non facendo altro che il mio dovere. Io non uso mezzi termini. Non pretendo di usarli. Dico che il compagno Gregory è inadatto a essere Giovedì con tutte le sue amabili qualità. È inadatto a essere Giovedì a causa delle sue amabili qualità. Non vogliamo il Supremo Consiglio dell’Anarchia contagiato da una svenevole misericordia (bene, bene). Non è questo il momento per la cortesia cerimoniosa, né è un momento per la modestia cerimoniosa. Io mi oppongo al compagno Gregory come mi opporrei a tutti i Governi d’Europa, poiché l’anarchico che si è dato all’anarchia ha dimenticato la modestia tanto quanto ha dimenticato l’orgoglio (applausi). Io non sono affatto un uomo. Io sono una causa (rinnovati applausi). Io mi oppongo al compagno Gregory in modo tanto impersonale e calmo quanto sceglierei una pistola piuttosto che un’altra da quella rastrelliera sul muro; e dico che, piuttosto che avere Gregory e i suoi metodi all’acqua di rose nel Supremo Consiglio, offrirei me stesso all’elezione —»

La sua frase fu sommersa da un’assordante cateratta di applausi. I volti, che si erano fatti sempre più feroci nell’approvazione mentre la sua tirata si faceva sempre più intransigente, erano ora distorti in ghigni di attesa o spaccati da grida di entusiasmo. Nel momento in cui annunciò di essere pronto a candidarsi per la carica di Giovedì, un ruggito di eccitazione e di assenso proruppe, e divenne incontrollabile, e nello stesso istante Gregory balzò in piedi, con la schiuma alla bocca, e gridò contro le grida.

«Fermatevi, dannati pazzi!» gridò, in cima a una voce che gli lacerava la gola. «Fermatevi, voi —»

Ma più forte delle grida di Gregory e più forte del ruggito della stanza giunse la voce di Syme, che ancora parlava in un rombo di tuono spietato —

«Io non vado al Consiglio per confutare quella calunnia che ci chiama assassini; ci vado per guadagnarmela (fragorosi e prolungati applausi). Al prete che dice che questi uomini sono i nemici della religione, al giudice che dice che questi uomini sono i nemici della legge, al grasso parlamentare che dice che questi uomini sono i nemici dell’ordine e della pubblica decenza, a tutti costoro risponderò: “Voi siete falsi re, ma siete veri profeti. Io sono venuto a distruggervi, e ad adempiere le vostre profezie”.»

Il pesante clamore andò gradualmente spegnendosi, ma prima che fosse cessato Witherspoon era balzato in piedi, i capelli e la barba tutti ritti, e aveva detto —

«Propongo, come emendamento, che il compagno Syme sia nominato alla carica.»

«Fermate tutto questo, ve lo dico!» gridò Gregory, con volto e mani frenetici. «Fermatelo, è tutto —»

La voce del presidente troncò il suo discorso con freddo accento.

«Qualcuno appoggia questo emendamento?» disse. Un uomo alto, stanco, con occhi malinconici e una barba a collana all’americana, fu visto sull’ultima panca alzarsi lentamente in piedi. Gregory strillava già da qualche tempo; ora vi fu un cambiamento nel suo accento, più sconvolgente di qualsiasi strillo. «Io metto fine a tutto questo!» disse, con voce pesante come pietra.

«Quest’uomo non può essere eletto. Egli è un —»

«Sì» disse Syme, del tutto immobile, «che cos’è?» La bocca di Gregory si mosse due volte senza suono; poi lentamente il sangue cominciò a rifluire nel suo volto morto. «È un uomo del tutto inesperto nel nostro lavoro» disse, e si sedette bruscamente.

Prima che avesse finito, l’uomo lungo e magro dalla barba all’americana era di nuovo in piedi, e ripeteva con un’alta cantilena monotona americana —

«Chiedo di appoggiare l’elezione del compagno Syme.»

«L’emendamento sarà, come d’uso, messo per primo ai voti» disse il signor Buttons, il presidente, con meccanica rapidità.

«La questione è che il compagno Syme —»

Gregory era di nuovo balzato in piedi, ansante e appassionato.

«Compagni» esclamò, «io non sono un pazzo.»

«Oh, oh!» disse il signor Witherspoon.

«Io non sono un pazzo» ribadì Gregory, con una spaventosa sincerità che per un momento sbalordì la stanza, «ma vi do un consiglio che potete chiamare pazzo se volete. No, non lo chiamerò un consiglio, poiché non posso darvene alcuna ragione. Lo chiamerò un ordine. Chiamatelo un ordine folle, ma agite di conseguenza. Colpite, ma ascoltatemi! Uccidetemi, ma obbeditemi! Non eleggete quest’uomo.» La verità è così terribile, persino in catene, che per un momento l’esile e folle vittoria di Syme vacillò come una canna. Ma non lo si sarebbe potuto indovinare dai gelidi occhi azzurri di Syme. Egli si limitò a cominciare —

«Il compagno Gregory ordina —»

Poi l’incantesimo si ruppe, e un anarchico gridò a Gregory —

«Chi siete voi? Voi non siete Domenica»; e un altro anarchico aggiunse con voce più greve, «E non siete Giovedì.»

«Compagni» gridò Gregory, con una voce come quella di un martire che in un’estasi di dolore è andato oltre il dolore, «non m’importa nulla che mi detestiate come tiranno o mi detestiate come schiavo. Se non volete accettare il mio ordine, accettate la mia degradazione. Mi inginocchio a voi. Mi getto ai vostri piedi. Vi imploro. Non eleggete quest’uomo.»

«Compagno Gregory» disse il presidente dopo una penosa pausa, «questo non è davvero del tutto dignitoso.»

Per la prima volta nel corso della seduta vi fu per qualche secondo un vero silenzio. Poi Gregory ricadde sul suo seggio, un pallido relitto d’uomo, e il presidente ripeté, come un pezzo di orologeria rimesso d’improvviso in moto —

“The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council.”

The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe.

Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes.

“You are a devil!” said Gregory at last.

“And you are a gentleman,” said Syme with gravity.

“It was you that entrapped me,” began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, “entrapped me into—”

“Talk sense,” said Syme shortly. “Into what sort of devils’ parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,” and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table.

“The boat is quite ready,” said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. “Be good enough to step this way.”

With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye.

Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory.

“You have kept your word,” he said gently, with his face in shadow. “You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it.”

“What do you mean?” cried the chaotic Gregory. “What did I promise you?”

“A very entertaining evening,” said Syme, and he made a military salute with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away.

«La questione è che il compagno Syme sia eletto alla carica di Giovedì nel Consiglio Generale.»

Il ruggito si levò come il mare, le mani si levarono come una foresta, e tre minuti dopo il signor Gabriel Syme, del Servizio Segreto di Polizia, era eletto alla carica di Giovedì nel Consiglio Generale degli Anarchici d’Europa.

Tutti nella stanza parvero avvertire il rimorchiatore in attesa sul fiume, il bastone-spada e la rivoltella, in attesa sul tavolo. Nell’istante in cui l’elezione fu conclusa e irrevocabile, e Syme ebbe ricevuto la carta che comprovava la sua elezione, tutti balzarono in piedi, e i gruppi infuocati si mossero e si mescolarono nella stanza. Syme si trovò, in un modo o nell’altro, faccia a faccia con Gregory, che ancora lo fissava con uno sguardo di odio attonito. Rimasero in silenzio per molti minuti.

«Voi siete un demonio!» disse infine Gregory.

«E voi siete un gentiluomo» disse Syme con gravità.

«Siete stato voi a intrappolarmi» cominciò Gregory, tremando dalla testa ai piedi, «a intrappolarmi in —»

«Parlate con senno» disse Syme brevemente. «In che sorta di parlamento dei diavoli avete intrappolato me, se è per questo? Voi mi avete fatto giurare prima che io facessi giurare voi. Forse facciamo entrambi ciò che riteniamo giusto. Ma ciò che riteniamo giusto è così maledettamente diverso che non può esserci nulla tra noi in fatto di concessioni. Tra noi non è possibile null’altro che l’onore e la morte», e si tirò addosso il gran mantello sulle spalle e raccolse la fiaschetta dal tavolo.

«La barca è pronta» disse il signor Buttons, facendosi avanti tutto affaccendato. «Abbiate la bontà di venire da questa parte.»

Con un gesto che tradiva il commesso di negozio, condusse Syme lungo un breve corridoio rivestito di ferro, mentre Gregory, ancora in agonia, seguiva febbrilmente alle loro calcagna. In fondo al corridoio c’era una porta, che Buttons aprì di scatto, mostrando un’improvvisa immagine azzurra e argentea del fiume illuminato dalla luna, che pareva una scena di teatro. Vicino all’apertura giaceva una piccola lancia a vapore, scura e nana, come un draghetto neonato con un unico occhio rosso.

Quasi nell’atto di salire a bordo, Gabriel Syme si volse verso Gregory, che lo guardava a bocca aperta.

«Avete mantenuto la parola» disse dolcemente, col volto nell’ombra. «Siete un uomo d’onore, e ve ne ringrazio. L’avete mantenuta persino in un piccolo particolare. C’era una cosa in special modo che mi prometteste all’inizio della faccenda, e che di certo mi avete dato alla fine di essa.»

«Che cosa intendete?» gridò il caotico Gregory. «Che cosa vi ho promesso?»

«Una serata assai divertente» disse Syme, e fece un saluto militare col bastone-spada mentre il battello a vapore scivolava via.

CHAPTER IV

THE TALE OF A DETECTIVE

GABRIEL SYME was not merely a detective who pretended to be a poet; he was really a poet who had become a detective. Nor was his hatred of anarchy hypocritical. He was one of those who are driven early in life into too conservative an attitude by the bewildering folly of most revolutionists. He had not attained it by any tame tradition. His respectability was spontaneous and sudden, a rebellion against rebellion. He came of a family of cranks, in which all the oldest people had all the newest notions. One of his uncles always walked about without a hat, and another had made an unsuccessful attempt to walk about with a hat and nothing else. His father cultivated art and self-realisation; his mother went in for simplicity and hygiene. Hence the child, during his tenderer years, was wholly unacquainted with any drink between the extremes of absinth and cocoa, of both of which he had a healthy dislike. The more his mother preached a more than Puritan abstinence the more did his father expand into a more than pagan latitude; and by the time the former had come to enforcing vegetarianism, the latter had pretty well reached the point of defending cannibalism.

Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left—sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite outrage. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual—quiet, courteous, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane. He did not regard anarchists, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril, like a Chinese invasion.

He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist with a bomb in his pocket so savage or so solitary as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise.

He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively so lurid, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding under the vast caverns of a subterranean country.

Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke to him, and said “Good evening.”

Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere stolidity of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight.

“A good evening is it?” he said sharply. “You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm.”

“If we are calm,” replied the policeman, “it is the calm of organised resistance.”

“Eh?” said Syme, staring.

“The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle,” pursued the policeman. “The composure of an army is the anger of a nation.”

“Good God, the Board Schools!” said Syme. “Is this undenominational education?”

“No,” said the policeman sadly, “I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid.”

“Where did you have it?” asked Syme, wondering.

“Oh, at Harrow,” said the policeman

The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them.

“But, good Lord, man,” he said, “you oughtn’t to be a policeman!”

The policeman sighed and shook his head.

“I know,” he said solemnly, “I know I am not worthy.”

“But why did you join the police?” asked Syme with rude curiosity.

“For much the same reason that you abused the police,” replied the other. “I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear.”

“If you mean that you make your opinion clear,” said Syme, “I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?”

CAPITOLO IV

IL RACCONTO DI UN INVESTIGATORE

GABRIEL SYME non era semplicemente un investigatore che fingeva di essere un poeta; era in realtà un poeta che era diventato un investigatore. Né il suo odio per l’anarchia era ipocrita. Egli era uno di quelli che vengono spinti presto nella vita verso un atteggiamento troppo conservatore dalla sconcertante follia della maggior parte dei rivoluzionari. Non vi era pervenuto per alcuna mansueta tradizione. La sua rispettabilità era spontanea e improvvisa, una ribellione contro la ribellione. Discendeva da una famiglia di stravaganti, in cui tutte le persone più vecchie avevano tutte le idee più nuove. Uno dei suoi zii andava sempre in giro senza cappello, e un altro aveva fatto un tentativo non riuscito di andare in giro con un cappello e niente altro. Suo padre coltivava l’arte e la realizzazione del sé; sua madre si dedicava alla semplicità e all’igiene. Da qui il fanciullo, durante i suoi anni più teneri, non conobbe affatto altra bevanda che gli estremi dell’assenzio e del cacao, di entrambi i quali provava una sana avversione. Quanto più sua madre predicava un’astinenza più che puritana, tanto più suo padre si espandeva in una tolleranza più che pagana; e nel tempo in cui la prima era giunta a imporre il vegetarianismo, il secondo aveva bell’e raggiunto il punto di difendere il cannibalismo.

Circondato fin dall’infanzia da ogni immaginabile forma di rivolta, Gabriel dovette ribellarsi in qualcosa, e così si ribellò nell’unica cosa rimasta: la ragionevolezza. Ma c’era in lui giusto quanto bastava del sangue di questi fanatici da rendere anche la sua protesta a favore del buon senso un poco troppo feroce per essere sensata. Il suo odio per l’illegalità moderna era stato coronato anche da un incidente. Accadde che egli stava camminando in una via laterale nell’istante di un attentato dinamitardo. Rimase cieco e sordo per un momento, e poi vide, mentre il fumo si diradava, le finestre infrante e i volti sanguinanti. Dopo di ciò andò in giro come al solito: quieto, cortese, piuttosto mite; ma c’era un punto nella sua mente che non era sano. Egli non considerava gli anarchici, come fa la maggior parte di noi, come una manciata di uomini morbosi, che combinano l’ignoranza con l’intellettualismo. Li considerava come un pericolo immenso e spietato, come un’invasione cinese.

Riversava perpetuamente nei giornali e nei loro cestini della carta straccia un torrente di racconti, versi e articoli violenti, avvertendo gli uomini di questo diluvio di barbara negazione. Ma sembrava non avvicinarsi per nulla al suo nemico e, ciò che era peggio, per nulla a un modo di campare. Mentre percorreva l’argine del Tamigi, mordendo amaramente un sigaro dozzinale e rimuginando sull’avanzata dell’Anarchia, non c’era anarchico con una bomba in tasca tanto selvaggio o tanto solitario quanto lui. Anzi, egli sentiva sempre che il Governo stava solo e disperato, con le spalle al muro. Era troppo donchisciottesco per averlo a cuore in altro modo.

Camminò una volta lungo l’Embankment sotto un cupo tramonto rosso. Il rosso fiume rifletteva il cielo rosso, ed entrambi riflettevano la sua ira. Il cielo, in verità, era così fosco, e la luce sul fiume relativamente così sinistra, che l’acqua quasi sembrava di fiamma più feroce del tramonto che rispecchiava. Pareva un corso d’acqua di letterale fuoco che si snodava sotto le vaste caverne di un paese sotterraneo.

In quei giorni Syme era malmesso. Portava un vecchio cilindro nero all’antica; era avvolto in un mantello ancora più antiquato, nero e sdrucito; e l’insieme gli dava l’aspetto dei primi malvagi di Dickens e Bulwer Lytton. Anche la sua barba e i suoi capelli gialli erano più incolti e leonini di quando apparvero molto tempo dopo, tagliati e appuntiti, sui prati di Saffron Park. Un lungo, magro, nero sigaro, comprato a Soho per due soldi, sporgeva da tra i denti serrati, e nell’insieme egli sembrava un esemplare assai soddisfacente di quegli anarchici contro i quali aveva giurato una guerra santa. Forse fu per questo che un poliziotto sull’Embankment gli rivolse la parola, e disse: «Buona sera».

Syme, nel colmo dei suoi morbosi timori per l’umanità, parve punto dalla mera impassibilità di quel funzionario automatico, una semplice mole di azzurro nel crepuscolo.

«Una buona sera, dite?» disse aspramente. «Voialtri chiamereste la fine del mondo una buona sera. Guardate quel sole rosso sangue e quel fiume rosso sangue! Vi dico che se quello fosse letteralmente sangue umano, versato e splendente, voi ve ne stareste ancora qui saldo come sempre, in cerca di qualche povero innocuo vagabondo da poter sloggiare. Voi poliziotti siete crudeli con i poveri, ma potrei perdonarvi persino la vostra crudeltà se non fosse per la vostra calma.»

«Se siamo calmi,» rispose il poliziotto, «è la calma della resistenza organizzata.»

«Eh?» disse Syme, fissandolo.

«Il soldato deve essere calmo nel folto della battaglia,» proseguì il poliziotto. «La compostezza di un esercito è l’ira di una nazione.»

«Buon Dio, le Board Schools!» disse Syme. «È questa l’istruzione aconfessionale?»

«No,» disse il poliziotto tristemente, «io non ho mai avuto simili vantaggi. Le Board Schools vennero dopo il mio tempo. L’istruzione che ebbi io fu assai rozza e all’antica, temo.»

«Dove la riceveste?» chiese Syme, meravigliato.

«Oh, a Harrow,» disse il poliziotto.

Le simpatie di classe che, per quanto false siano, sono le cose più vere in tanti uomini, eruppero da Syme prima che egli potesse controllarle.

«Ma, santo cielo, uomo,» disse, «voi non dovreste fare il poliziotto!»

Il poliziotto sospirò e scosse il capo.

«Lo so,» disse solennemente, «lo so di non esserne degno.»

«Ma perché vi siete arruolato nella polizia?» chiese Syme con rude curiosità.

«Per pressoché la stessa ragione per cui voi avete inveito contro la polizia,» replicò l’altro. «Ho scoperto che vi era un’apertura particolare nel servizio per coloro i cui timori per l’umanità riguardavano piuttosto le aberrazioni dell’ intelletto scientifico che i normali e scusabili, sebbene eccessivi, scoppi della volontà umana. Confido di essermi spiegato con chiarezza.»

«Se intendete che rendete chiara la vostra opinione,» disse Syme, «suppongo che sia così. Ma quanto a rendere chiaro voi stesso, è l’ultima cosa che fate. Come mai un uomo come voi si trova a parlare di filosofia in un elmetto azzurro sull’argine del Tamigi?»

“You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system,” replied the other. “I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us.”

“Join you in what?” asked Syme.

“I will tell you,” said the policeman slowly. “This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely intellectual conspiracy would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation. He is certain that the scientific and artistic worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat myself, and I am fully aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue. But it would obviously be undesirable to employ the common policeman in an investigation which is also a heresy hunt.”

Syme’s eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity.

“What do you do, then?” he said.

“The work of the philosophical policeman,” replied the man in blue, “is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination at Hartle pool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet.”

“Do you mean,” asked Syme, “that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?”

“You are not sufficiently democratic,” answered the policeman, “but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people’s.”

Syme struck his hands together.

“How true that is,” he cried. “I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed— say a wealthy uncle—he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse the edifice, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious, the harrying of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified work, the punishment of powerful traitors in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else.”

“But this is absurd!” cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon in persons of his figure and costume, “but it is intolerable! I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re wasting your life. You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy. Their armies are on our frontiers. Their bolt is ready to fall. A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world.”

“It is a chance not to be missed, certainly,” assented Syme, “but still I do not quite understand. I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements. But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other. How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling one bolt. What is this anarchy?”

“Do not confuse it,” replied the constable, “with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely guilty section. The outer ring— the main mass of their supporters—are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely good. These I call the innocent section.”

«Evidentemente non avete udito dell’ultimo sviluppo del nostro sistema di polizia,» replicò l’altro. «Non me ne sorprendo. Lo teniamo piuttosto nascosto alla classe colta, perché quella classe contiene la maggior parte dei nostri nemici. Ma voi sembrate proprio nella giusta disposizione d’animo. Penso che potreste quasi unirvi a noi.»

«Unirmi a voi in che cosa?» chiese Syme.

«Ve lo dirò,» disse lentamente il poliziotto. «La situazione è questa: il capo di uno dei nostri dipartimenti, uno dei più celebri investigatori d’Europa, è da tempo dell’opinione che una congiura puramente intellettuale minaccerebbe presto l’esistenza stessa della civiltà. Egli è certo che il mondo scientifico e quello artistico siano silenziosamente uniti in una crociata contro la Famiglia e lo Stato. Ha perciò formato uno speciale corpo di poliziotti, poliziotti che sono anche filosofi. È loro compito sorvegliare gli inizi di questa congiura, non soltanto in senso criminale ma in senso controversiale. Io stesso sono un democratico, e sono pienamente consapevole del valore dell’uomo comune nelle questioni di comune coraggio o virtù. Ma sarebbe evidentemente indesiderabile impiegare il comune poliziotto in un’indagine che è anche una caccia all’eresia.»

Gli occhi di Syme erano lucenti di una curiosità partecipe.

«E allora che cosa fate?» disse.

«L’opera del poliziotto filosofico,» replicò l’uomo in azzurro, «è al tempo stesso più audace e più sottile di quella dell’ordinario investigatore. L’ordinario investigatore va nelle bettole ad arrestare i ladri; noi andiamo ai raffinati tè artistici a scoprire i pessimisti. L’ordinario investigatore scopre da un registro o da un diario che un delitto è stato commesso. Noi scopriamo da un libro di sonetti che un delitto sarà commesso. Dobbiamo rintracciare l’origine di quei pensieri terribili che spingono gli uomini infine al fanatismo intellettuale e al delitto intellettuale. Giungemmo appena in tempo a impedire l’assassinio a Hartlepool, e ciò fu interamente dovuto al fatto che il nostro signor Wilks (un giovane in gamba) aveva compreso a fondo un trioletto.»

«Volete dire,» chiese Syme, «che c’è davvero tanta connessione tra il delitto e l’intelletto moderno quanto tutto questo?»

«Non siete sufficientemente democratico,» rispose il poliziotto, «ma avevate ragione quando or ora avete detto che il nostro ordinario trattamento del povero criminale era una faccenda alquanto brutale. Vi dico che talvolta mi disgusta il mio mestiere quando vedo come esso significhi perpetuamente soltanto una guerra contro gli ignoranti e i disperati. Ma questo nostro nuovo movimento è tutt’altra cosa. Neghiamo lo snobistico assunto inglese secondo cui gli incolti sono i criminali pericolosi. Ricordiamo gli imperatori romani. Ricordiamo i grandi principi avvelenatori del Rinascimento. Diciamo che il criminale pericoloso è il criminale colto. Diciamo che il criminale più pericoloso oggi è il filosofo moderno interamente privo di legge. In confronto a lui, gli scassinatori e i bigami sono uomini essenzialmente morali; il mio cuore va verso di loro. Essi accettano l’ideale essenziale dell’uomo; soltanto lo cercano nel modo sbagliato. I ladri rispettano la proprietà. Desiderano soltanto che la proprietà diventi loro proprietà affinché possano più perfettamente rispettarla. Ma i filosofi detestano la proprietà in quanto proprietà; essi vogliono distruggere l’idea stessa del possesso personale. I bigami rispettano il matrimonio, altrimenti non si sottoporrebbero alla formalità altamente cerimoniale e persino ritualistica della bigamia. Ma i filosofi disprezzano il matrimonio in quanto matrimonio. Gli assassini rispettano la vita umana; desiderano soltanto conseguire una maggiore pienezza di vita umana in se stessi mediante il sacrificio di ciò che a loro sembra essere vite inferiori. Ma i filosofi odiano la vita stessa, la propria non meno di quella altrui.»

Syme batté le mani l’una contro l’altra.

«Com’è vero!» esclamò. «L’ho sentito fin dalla fanciullezza, ma non ho mai saputo formulare l’antitesi verbale. Il criminale comune è un uomo cattivo, ma perlomeno è, per così dire, un uomo buono condizionato. Egli dice che se solo un certo ostacolo venisse rimosso — poniamo, un ricco zio — sarebbe allora pronto ad accettare l’universo e a lodare Iddio. È un riformatore, ma non un anarchico. Egli desidera purificare l’edificio, ma non distruggerlo. Ma il filosofo malvagio non cerca di modificare le cose, bensì di annientarle. Sì, il mondo moderno ha conservato tutte quelle parti del lavoro di polizia che sono davvero oppressive e ignominiose, la persecuzione dei poveri, lo spionaggio degli sventurati. Ha abbandonato il suo lavoro più dignitoso, la punizione dei potenti traditori nello Stato e dei potenti eresiarchi nella Chiesa. I moderni dicono che non dobbiamo punire gli eretici. Il mio unico dubbio è se abbiamo il diritto di punire chiunque altro.»

«Ma questo è assurdo!» esclamò il poliziotto, giungendo le mani con un’eccitazione insolita in persone della sua figura e del suo costume, «ma è intollerabile! Non so che cosa stiate facendo, ma state sprecando la vostra vita. Voi dovete, voi vi unirete al nostro esercito speciale contro l’anarchia. I loro eserciti sono alle nostre frontiere. Il loro fulmine è pronto a cadere. Un momento ancora, e potreste perdere la gloria di lavorare con noi, forse la gloria di morire con gli ultimi eroi del mondo.»

«È un’occasione da non perdere, certamente,» acconsentì Syme, «eppure non comprendo del tutto. So bene quanto chiunque altro che il mondo moderno è pieno di piccoli uomini senza legge e di piccoli movimenti folli. Ma, per quanto ripugnanti siano, generalmente hanno l’unico merito di essere in disaccordo tra loro. Come potete parlare di un loro guidare un solo esercito o scagliare un solo fulmine? Che cos’è questa anarchia?»

«Non confondetela,» replicò l’agente, «con quegli occasionali scoppi dinamitardi dalla Russia o dall’Irlanda, che sono in realtà gli scoppi di uomini oppressi, per quanto in errore. Questo è un vasto movimento filosofico, composto di un cerchio esterno e di uno interno. Potreste persino chiamare il cerchio esterno il laicato e il cerchio interno il sacerdozio. Io preferisco chiamare il cerchio esterno la sezione innocente, il cerchio interno la sezione supremamente colpevole. Il cerchio esterno — la massa principale dei loro sostenitori — sono semplicemente anarchici; cioè, uomini che credono che le regole e le formule abbiano distrutto la felicità umana. Essi credono che tutti i risultati malvagi del delitto umano siano i risultati del sistema che lo ha chiamato delitto. Non credono che il delitto crei la punizione. Credono che la punizione abbia creato il delitto. Credono che se un uomo seducesse sette donne se ne andrebbe naturalmente senza colpa come i fiori della primavera. Credono che se un uomo borseggiasse qualcuno si sentirebbe naturalmente squisitamente buono. Questi io li chiamo la sezione innocente.»

“Oh!” said Syme.

“Naturally, therefore, these people talk about ‘a happy time coming’; ‘the paradise of the future’; ‘mankind freed from the bondage of vice and the bondage of virtue,’ and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak—the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths”— and the policeman lowered his voice—“in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave.

“They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody.”

“How can I join you?” asked Syme, with a sort of passion.

“I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment,” said the policeman, “as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like.”

“Telephone?” inquired Syme, with interest.

“No,” said the policeman placidly, “he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along.”

Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind.

“Are you the new recruit?” asked a heavy voice.

And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature; and second, that the man had his back to him.

“Are you the new recruit?” said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. “All right. You are engaged.”

Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.

“I really have no experience,” he began.

“No one has any experience,” said the other, “of the Battle of Armageddon.”

“But I am really unfit—”

“You are willing, that is enough,” said the unknown.

“Well, really,” said Syme, “I don’t know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test.”

“I do,” said the other—“martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good day.”

Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, “The Last Crusade,” and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists.

When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight.

Over the whole landscape lay a luminous and unnatural discoloration, as of that disastrous twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric folly glowed in the night like a great fire. Even the common things he carried with him—the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol—took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque. So this inhuman landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human. To Syme’s exaggerative mind the bright, bleak houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon. But even the moon is only poetical because there is a man in the moon.

The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil went comparatively slowly. The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break. It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing Cross.

The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them. They were big and black against the huge white dawn. They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones of horrible and heathen kings. He leapt out of the boat on to one slimy step, and stood, a dark and slender figure, amid the enormous masonry. The two men in the tug put her off again and turned up stream. They had never spoken a word.

«Oh!» disse Syme.

«Naturalmente, dunque, questa gente parla di “un felice tempo che verrà”; “il paradiso del futuro”; “l’umanità liberata dalla schiavitù del vizio e dalla schiavitù della virtù”, e così via. E così parlano anche gli uomini del cerchio interno: il sacro sacerdozio. Anch’essi parlano a folle plaudenti della felicità del futuro, e dell’umanità finalmente liberata. Ma nelle loro bocche» — e il poliziotto abbassò la voce — «nelle loro bocche queste felici frasi hanno un significato orribile. Essi non hanno illusioni; sono troppo intellettuali per pensare che l’uomo su questa terra possa mai essere del tutto libero dal peccato originale e dalla lotta. Ed essi intendono la morte. Quando dicono che l’umanità sarà finalmente libera, intendono che l’umanità commetterà il suicidio. Quando parlano di un paradiso senza bene né male, intendono la tomba.

«Essi hanno soltanto due obiettivi: distruggere prima l’umanità e poi se stessi. Ecco perché lanciano bombe invece di sparare con le pistole. La truppa innocente è delusa perché la bomba non ha ucciso il re; ma l’alto sacerdozio è felice perché essa ha ucciso qualcuno.»

«Come posso unirmi a voi?» chiese Syme, con una sorta di passione.

«So per certo che c’è un posto vacante in questo momento,» disse il poliziotto, «giacché ho l’onore di essere alquanto nella confidenza del capo di cui vi ho parlato. Dovreste davvero venire a vederlo. O piuttosto, non dovrei dire vederlo, nessuno lo vede mai; ma potete parlargli se volete.»

«Al telefono?» s’informò Syme, con interesse.

«No,» disse il poliziotto placidamente, «ha il capriccio di starsene sempre seduto in una stanza buia pesta. Dice che gli rende più luminosi i pensieri. Venite pure.»

Alquanto stordito e considerevolmente eccitato, Syme si lasciò condurre a una porta laterale nella lunga fila di edifici di Scotland Yard. Quasi prima che sapesse che cosa stava facendo, era stato passato attraverso le mani di circa quattro funzionari intermedi, e fu improvvisamente introdotto in una stanza, la cui repentina oscurità lo colse di sorpresa come un lampo di luce. Non era l’oscurità ordinaria, in cui le forme si possono tracciare debolmente; era come diventare all’improvviso ciechi come talpe.

«Siete voi la nuova recluta?» chiese una voce pesante.

E in qualche strano modo, sebbene non vi fosse l’ombra di una figura nella tenebra, Syme seppe due cose: primo, che essa proveniva da un uomo di statura massiccia; e secondo, che l’uomo gli volgeva le spalle.

«Siete voi la nuova recluta?» disse il capo invisibile, che sembrava aver saputo tutto quanto. «Bene. Siete assunto.»

Syme, del tutto spiazzato, oppose una debole resistenza a questa frase irrevocabile.

«Non ho davvero alcuna esperienza,» cominciò.

«Nessuno ha alcuna esperienza,» disse l’altro, «della Battaglia di Armageddon.»

«Ma io sono davvero inadatto…»

«Siete disposto, e questo basta,» disse lo sconosciuto.

«Ecco, davvero,» disse Syme, «non conosco alcuna professione di cui la mera disponibilità sia la prova ultima.»

«Io sì,» disse l’altro — «i martiri. Vi sto condannando a morte. Buona giornata.»

Fu così che quando Gabriel Syme uscì di nuovo nella cremisi luce della sera, col suo malandato cappello nero e il suo malandato, illegale mantello, uscì membro del Nuovo Corpo degli Investigatori per lo sventamento della grande congiura. Agendo su consiglio del suo amico il poliziotto (che era professionalmente incline all’ordine), si aggiustò i capelli e la barba, comprò un buon cappello, si vestì di un squisito abito estivo di grigio-azzurro chiaro, con un pallido fiore giallo all’occhiello e, in breve, divenne quella persona elegante e piuttosto insopportabile che Gregory aveva incontrato per la prima volta nel piccolo giardino di Saffron Park. Prima di lasciare definitivamente i locali della polizia, il suo amico gli fornì un piccolo cartoncino azzurro, sul quale era scritto: «L’Ultima Crociata», e un numero, il segno della sua autorità ufficiale. Lo ripose con cura nel taschino superiore del panciotto, accese una sigaretta, e uscì a dare la caccia e a combattere il nemico in tutti i salotti di Londra. Dove la sua avventura infine lo condusse, l’abbiamo già visto. Verso l’una e mezza di una notte di febbraio si ritrovò a navigare a vapore in un piccolo rimorchiatore su per il silenzioso Tamigi, armato di bastone animato e rivoltella, il debitamente eletto Giovedì del Consiglio Centrale degli Anarchici.

Quando Syme mise piede sul rimorchiatore a vapore ebbe una singolare sensazione di mettere piede in qualcosa di interamente nuovo; non soltanto nel paesaggio di una nuova terra, ma persino nel paesaggio di un nuovo pianeta. Ciò era dovuto principalmente all’insana ma solida decisione di quella sera, sebbene in parte anche a un intero mutamento del tempo e del cielo da quando egli era entrato nella piccola taverna circa due ore prima. Ogni traccia del piumaggio appassionato del tramonto nuvoloso era stata spazzata via, e una luna nuda stava in un cielo nudo. La luna era così forte e piena che (per un paradosso che spesso si può notare) sembrava un sole più debole. Dava non la sensazione di luminoso chiarore lunare, ma piuttosto di una morta luce diurna.

Sull’intero paesaggio giaceva una luminosa e innaturale scoloritura, come di quel disastroso crepuscolo di cui Milton parlò come sparso dal sole in eclissi; cosicché Syme cadde facilmente nel suo primo pensiero, che egli fosse davvero su qualche altro e più vuoto pianeta, il quale girava attorno a qualche stella più triste. Ma quanto più sentiva questa scintillante desolazione nella terra illuminata dalla luna, tanto più la sua propria follia cavalleresca ardeva nella notte come un grande fuoco. Persino le cose comuni che portava con sé — il cibo e il brandy e la pistola carica — assumevano esattamente quella concreta e materiale poesia che un fanciullo prova quando porta un fucile in un viaggio o una focaccia con sé a letto. Il bastone animato con la spada e la fiaschetta del brandy, sebbene in se stessi soltanto gli strumenti di morbosi congiurati, divennero le espressioni della sua propria più sana avventura cavalleresca. Il bastone con la spada divenne quasi la spada della cavalleria, e il brandy il vino della staffa. Poiché persino le più disumanizzate fantasie moderne dipendono da qualche figura più antica e più semplice; le avventure possono essere folli, ma l’avventuriero deve essere sano di mente. Il drago senza San Giorgio non sarebbe nemmeno grottesco. Così questo paesaggio inumano era immaginifico soltanto per la presenza di un uomo realmente umano. Alla mente esagerante di Syme le luminose, spoglie case e terrazze lungo il Tamigi apparivano vuote come le montagne della luna. Ma persino la luna è poetica soltanto perché c’è un uomo nella luna.

Il rimorchiatore era manovrato da due uomini, e con molta fatica procedeva comparativamente lento. La chiara luna che aveva illuminato Chiswick era tramontata nel tempo in cui essi oltrepassarono Battersea, e quando giunsero sotto l’enorme mole di Westminster il giorno aveva già cominciato a spuntare. Spuntò come lo spaccarsi di grandi barre di piombo, mostrando barre d’argento; e queste si erano ravvivate come bianco fuoco quando il rimorchiatore, mutando la sua rotta in avanti, virò verso l’interno a un grande pontile d’attracco un poco oltre Charing Cross.

Le grandi pietre dell’Embankment sembravano ugualmente scure e gigantesche mentre Syme alzava lo sguardo su di esse. Erano grandi e nere contro l’immensa bianca alba. Gli facevano sentire che stava sbarcando sui colossali gradini di qualche palazzo egizio; e, in verità, la cosa si addiceva al suo umore, poiché egli era, nella propria mente, in procinto di salire ad attaccare i saldi troni di orribili e pagani re. Balzò fuori dalla barca su un gradino viscido, e rimase, figura scura e slanciata, in mezzo all’enorme muratura. I due uomini nel rimorchiatore lo staccarono di nuovo e risalirono la corrente. Non avevano proferito parola.

CHAPTER V

THE FEAST OF FEAR

AT first the large stone stair seemed to Syme as deserted as a pyramid; but before he reached the top he had realised that there was a man leaning over the parapet of the Embankment and looking out across the river. As a figure he was quite conventional, clad in a silk hat and frock-coat of the more formal type of fashion; he had a red flower in his buttonhole. As Syme drew nearer to him step by step, he did not even move a hair; and Syme could come close enough to notice even in the dim, pale morning light that his face was long, pale and intellectual, and ended in a small triangular tuft of dark beard at the very point of the chin, all else being clean-shaven. This scrap of hair almost seemed a mere oversight; the rest of the face was of the type that is best shaven—clear-cut, ascetic, and in its way noble. Syme drew closer and closer, noting all this, and still the figure did not stir.

At first an instinct had told Syme that this was the man whom he was meant to meet. Then, seeing that the man made no sign, he had concluded that he was not. And now again he had come back to a certainty that the man had something to do with his mad adventure. For the man remained more still than would have been natural if a stranger had come so close. He was as motionless as a wax-work, and got on the nerves somewhat in the same way. Syme looked again and again at the pale, dignified and delicate face, and the face still looked blankly across the river. Then he took out of his pocket the note from Buttons proving his election, and put it before that sad and beautiful face. Then the man smiled, and his smile was a shock, for it was all on one side, going up in the right cheek and down in the left.

There was nothing, rationally speaking, to scare anyone about this. Many people have this nervous trick of a crooked smile, and in many it is even attractive. But in all Syme’s circumstances, with the dark dawn and the deadly errand and the loneliness on the great dripping stones, there was something unnerving in it.

There was the silent river and the silent man, a man of even classic face. And there was the last nightmare touch that his smile suddenly went wrong.

The spasm of smile was instantaneous, and the man’s face dropped at once into its harmonious melancholy. He spoke without further explanation or inquiry, like a man speaking to an old colleague.

“If we walk up towards Leicester Square,” he said, “we shall just be in time for breakfast. Sunday always insists on an early breakfast. Have you had any sleep?”

“No,” said Syme.

“Nor have I,” answered the man in an ordinary tone. “I shall try to get to bed after breakfast.”

He spoke with casual civility, but in an utterly dead voice that contradicted the fanaticism of his face. It seemed almost as if all friendly words were to him lifeless conveniences, and that his only life was hate. After a pause the man spoke again.

“Of course, the Secretary of the branch told you everything that can be told. But the one thing that can never be told is the last notion of the President, for his notions grow like a tropical forest. So in case you don’t know, I’d better tell you that he is carrying out his notion of concealing ourselves by not concealing ourselves to the most extraordinary lengths just now. Originally, of course, we met in a cell underground, just as your branch does. Then Sunday made us take a private room at an ordinary restaurant. He said that if you didn’t seem to be hiding nobody hunted you out. Well, he is the only man on earth, I know; but sometimes I really think that his huge brain is going a little mad in its old age. For now we flaunt ourselves before the public. We have our breakfast on a balcony—on a balcony, if you please— overlooking Leicester Square.”

“And what do the people say?” asked Syme.

“It’s quite simple what they say,” answered his guide.

“They say we are a lot of jolly gentlemen who pretend they are anarchists.”

“It seems to me a very clever idea,” said Syme.

“Clever! God blast your impudence! Clever!” cried out the other in a sudden, shrill voice which was as startling and discordant as his crooked smile. “When you’ve seen Sunday for a split second you’ll leave off calling him clever.”

With this they emerged out of a narrow street, and saw the early sunlight filling Leicester Square. It will never be known, I suppose, why this square itself should look so alien and in some ways so continental. It will never be known whether it was the foreign look that attracted the foreigners or the foreigners who gave it the foreign look. But on this particular morning the effect seemed singularly bright and clear. Between the open square and the sunlit leaves and the statue and the Saracenic outlines of the Alhambra, it looked the replica of some French or even Spanish public place. And this effect increased in Syme the sensation, which in many shapes he had had through the whole adventure, the eerie sensation of having strayed into a new world. As a fact, he had bought bad cigars round Leicester Square ever since he was a boy. But as he turned that corner, and saw the trees and the Moorish cupolas, he could have sworn that he was turning into an unknown Place de something or other in some foreign town.

At one corner of the square there projected a kind of angle of a prosperous but quiet hotel, the bulk of which belonged to a street behind. In the wall there was one large French window, probably the window of a large coffee-room; and outside this window, almost literally overhanging the square, was a formidably buttressed balcony, big enough to contain a dining-table. In fact, it did contain a dining-table, or more strictly a breakfast-table; and round the breakfast-table, glowing in the sunlight and evident to the street, were a group of noisy and talkative men, all dressed in the insolence of fashion, with white waistcoats and expensive button-holes. Some of their jokes could almost be heard across the square. Then the grave Secretary gave his unnatural smile, and Syme knew that this boisterous breakfast party was the secret conclave of the European Dynamiters.

CAPITOLO V

IL BANCHETTO DELLA PAURA

DAPPRINCIPIO la grande scalinata di pietra parve a Syme deserta come una piramide; ma prima di raggiungerne la cima si era reso conto che c’era un uomo appoggiato al parapetto dell’Embankment, lo sguardo perso al di là del fiume. Come figura era del tutto convenzionale, in cappello a cilindro e finanziera del taglio più formale che la moda consentisse; portava un fiore rosso all’occhiello. Man mano che Syme gli si avvicinava, passo dopo passo, egli non mosse un capello; e Syme poté accostarsi tanto da notare, persino nella fioca e pallida luce del mattino, che aveva il volto lungo, pallido e intellettuale, terminante in un piccolo ciuffo triangolare di barba scura proprio sulla punta del mento, mentre tutto il resto era rasato di fresco. Quel po’ di peli sembrava quasi una semplice dimenticanza; il resto del viso era di quel tipo che meglio si conviene alla rasatura: dai lineamenti netti, ascetico e, a suo modo, nobile. Syme si avvicinava sempre di più, osservando ogni cosa, e la figura non si scomponeva.

Dapprima un istinto aveva detto a Syme che quello era l’uomo che avrebbe dovuto incontrare. Poi, vedendo che l’uomo non dava alcun segno, aveva concluso che non lo fosse. E ora di nuovo era tornato alla certezza che quell’uomo avesse qualcosa a che fare con la sua folle avventura. Perché l’uomo rimaneva più immobile di quanto sarebbe stato naturale se uno sconosciuto gli si fosse fatto tanto vicino. Era immobile come una figura di cera, e dava sui nervi press’a poco allo stesso modo. Syme guardò e riguardò quel volto pallido, dignitoso e delicato, e il volto continuava a fissare, senza espressione, al di là del fiume. Allora egli estrasse di tasca il biglietto di Buttons che provava la sua elezione, e lo pose davanti a quel viso triste e bello. Allora l’uomo sorrise, e il suo sorriso fu una scossa, perché era tutto da una parte, sollevandosi sulla guancia destra e abbassandosi sulla sinistra.

Non c’era nulla, razionalmente parlando, da spaventare chicchessia in tutto ciò. Molte persone hanno questo tic nervoso del sorriso storto, e in molti risulta perfino attraente. Ma in tutte le circostanze di Syme, con la cupa alba e la missione mortale e la solitudine su quelle grandi pietre gocciolanti, c’era in esso qualcosa che sconvolgeva.

C’era il fiume silenzioso e l’uomo silenzioso, un uomo dal volto perfino classico. E c’era quell’ultimo tocco da incubo, che il suo sorriso a un tratto andasse a rovescio.

Lo spasimo del sorriso fu istantaneo, e il volto dell’uomo ricadde subito nella sua armoniosa malinconia. Egli parlò senza ulteriori spiegazioni o domande, come chi si rivolge a un vecchio collega.

«Se ci incamminiamo verso Leicester Square» disse «faremo appena in tempo per la colazione. La Domenica insiste sempre per una colazione mattutina. Avete preso sonno?»

«No» disse Syme.

«Neanch’io» rispose l’uomo in tono ordinario. «Cercherò di andare a letto dopo colazione.»

Parlava con casuale cortesia, ma in una voce del tutto spenta che contraddiceva il fanatismo del suo volto. Sembrava quasi che per lui tutte le parole amichevoli fossero comodità senza vita, e che la sua sola vita fosse l’odio. Dopo una pausa l’uomo parlò di nuovo.

«Naturalmente il Segretario della sezione vi ha detto tutto ciò che si può dire. Ma l’unica cosa che non si può mai dire è l’ultima trovata del Presidente, perché le sue idee crescono come una foresta tropicale. Così, caso mai non lo sappiate, è meglio che vi dica che in questo momento sta portando la sua idea di nasconderci col non nasconderci fino ai limiti più straordinari. In origine, s’intende, ci riunivamo in una cella sotterranea, esattamente come fa la vostra sezione. Poi la Domenica ci fece prendere una sala privata in un ristorante qualunque. Diceva che, se non sembravi nasconderti, nessuno ti veniva a stanare. Ebbene, è l’unico uomo sulla terra, lo so; ma a volte penso davvero che il suo enorme cervello stia impazzendo un poco nella sua vecchiaia. Perché adesso ci sfoggiamo davanti al pubblico. Facciamo colazione su un balcone… su un balcone, vi prego di credere… che dà su Leicester Square.»

«E cosa dice la gente?» chiese Syme.

«È semplicissimo quel che dicono» rispose la sua guida.

«Dicono che siamo un mucchio di allegri gentiluomini che fanno finta di essere anarchici.»

«Mi pare un’idea assai ingegnosa» disse Syme.

«Ingegnosa! Che il cielo maledica la vostra impudenza! Ingegnosa!» gridò l’altro con una voce improvvisa e stridula, sconcertante e discorde quanto il suo sorriso storto. «Quando avrete visto la Domenica per una frazione di secondo, smetterete di chiamarlo ingegnoso.»

Con questo sbucarono da una stradina stretta, e videro il primo sole del mattino inondare Leicester Square. Non si saprà mai, immagino, perché questa piazza in sé debba apparire tanto estranea e per certi versi tanto continentale. Non si saprà mai se fu l’aria straniera ad attrarre gli stranieri o furono gli stranieri a darle l’aria straniera. Ma in quel particolare mattino l’effetto pareva singolarmente luminoso e nitido. Tra la piazza aperta e le foglie al sole e la statua e i profili saraceni dell’Alhambra, sembrava la replica di qualche pubblica piazza francese o addirittura spagnola. E quell’effetto accrebbe in Syme la sensazione che, sotto molte forme, aveva provato durante tutta l’avventura: la sensazione inquietante di essersi smarrito in un mondo nuovo. Di fatto, aveva comprato pessimi sigari intorno a Leicester Square fin da quando era ragazzo. Ma nel voltare quell’angolo, e nel vedere gli alberi e le cupole moresche, avrebbe giurato di svoltare in una sconosciuta Place de non so cosa in qualche città straniera.

A un angolo della piazza sporgeva una sorta di spigolo di un albergo prospero ma tranquillo, il cui grosso apparteneva a una via retrostante. Nel muro c’era una grande finestra alla francese, probabilmente la finestra di una vasta sala da caffè; e fuori da quella finestra, quasi letteralmente a strapiombo sulla piazza, c’era un balcone formidabilmente sostenuto da mensoloni, abbastanza grande da contenere una tavola da pranzo. E infatti conteneva una tavola da pranzo, o più esattamente una tavola da colazione; e attorno alla tavola da colazione, splendenti al sole e ben visibili dalla strada, c’era un gruppo di uomini rumorosi e chiacchieroni, tutti vestiti con l’insolenza della moda, con panciotti bianchi e occhielli costosi. Alcune delle loro battute si potevano quasi udire dall’altra parte della piazza. Poi il grave Segretario fece il suo sorriso innaturale, e Syme comprese che quella turbolenta comitiva a colazione era il segreto conclave dei Dinamitardi europei.

Then, as Syme continued to stare at them, he saw something that he had not seen before. He had not seen it literally because it was too large to see. At the nearest end of the balcony, blocking up a great part of the perspective, was the back of a great mountain of a man. When Syme had seen him, his first thought was that the weight of him must break down the balcony of stone. His vastness did not lie only in the fact that he was abnormally tall and quite incredibly fat. This man was planned enormously in his original proportions, like a statue carved deliberately as colossal. His head, crowned with white hair, as seen from behind looked bigger than a head ought to be. The ears that stood out from it looked larger than human ears. He was enlarged terribly to scale; and this sense of size was so staggering, that when Syme saw him all the other figures seemed quite suddenly to dwindle and become dwarfish. They were still sitting there as before with their flowers and frock-coats, but now it looked as if the big man was entertaining five children to tea.

As Syme and the guide approached the side door of the hotel, a waiter came out smiling with every tooth in his head.

“The gentlemen are up there, sare,” he said. “They do talk and they do laugh at what they talk. They do say they will throw bombs at ze king.”

And the waiter hurried away with a napkin over his arm, much pleased with the singular frivolity of the gentlemen upstairs.

The two men mounted the stairs in silence.

Syme had never thought of asking whether the monstrous man who almost filled and broke the balcony was the great President of whom the others stood in awe. He knew it was so, with an unaccountable but instantaneous certainty. Syme, indeed, was one of those men who are open to all the more nameless psychological influences in a degree a little dangerous to mental health. Utterly devoid of fear in physical dangers, he was a great deal too sensitive to the smell of spiritual evil. Twice already that night little unmeaning things had peeped out at him almost pruriently, and given him a sense of drawing nearer and nearer to the head-quarters of hell. And this sense became overpowering as he drew nearer to the great President.

The form it took was a childish and yet hateful fancy. As he walked across the inner room towards the balcony, the large face of Sunday grew larger and larger; and Syme was gripped with a fear that when he was quite close the face would be too big to be possible, and that he would scream aloud. He remembered that as a child he would not look at the mask of Memnon in the British Museum, because it was a face, and so large.

By an effort, braver than that of leaping over a cliff, he went to an empty seat at the breakfast-table and sat down. The men greeted him with good-humoured raillery as if they had always known him. He sobered himself a little by looking at their conventional coats and solid, shining coffee-pot; then he looked again at Sunday. His face was very large, but it was still possible to humanity.

In the presence of the President the whole company looked sufficiently commonplace; nothing about them caught the eye at first, except that by the President’s caprice they had been dressed up with a festive respectability, which gave the meal the look of a wedding breakfast. One man indeed stood out at even a superficial glance. He at least was the common or garden Dynamiter. He wore, indeed, the high white collar and satin tie that were the uniform of the occasion; but out of this collar there sprang a head quite unmanageable and quite unmistakable, a bewildering bush of brown hair and beard that almost obscured the eyes like those of a Skye terrier. But the eyes did look out of the tangle, and they were the sad eyes of some Russian serf. The effect of this figure was not terrible like that of the President, but it had every diablerie that can come from the utterly grotesque. If out of that stiff tie and collar there had come abruptly the head of a cat or a dog, it could not have been a more idiotic contrast.

The man’s name, it seemed, was Gogol; he was a Pole, and in this circle of days he was called Tuesday. His soul and speech were incurably tragic; he could not force himself to play the prosperous and frivolous part demanded of him by President Sunday. And, indeed, when Syme came in the President, with that daring disregard of public suspicion which was his policy, was actually chaffing Gogol upon his inability to assume conventional graces.

“Our friend Tuesday,” said the President in a deep voice at once of quietude and volume, “our friend Tuesday doesn’t seem to grasp the idea. He dresses up like a gentleman, but he seems to be too great a soul to behave like one. He insists on the ways of the stage conspirator. Now if a gentleman goes about London in a top hat and a frock-coat, no one need know that he is an anarchist. But if a gentleman puts on a top hat and a frock-coat, and then goes about on his hands and knees— well, he may attract attention. That’s what Brother Gogol does. He goes about on his hands and knees with such inexhaustible diplomacy, that by this time he finds it quite difficult to walk upright.”

“I am not good at goncealment,” said Gogol sulkily, with a thick foreign accent; “I am not ashamed of the cause.”

“Yes you are, my boy, and so is the cause of you,” said the President good-naturedly. “You hide as much as anybody; but you can’t do it, you see, you’re such an ass! You try to combine two inconsistent methods. When a householder finds a man under his bed, he will probably pause to note the circumstance. But if he finds a man under his bed in a top hat, you will agree with me, my dear Tuesday, that he is not likely even to forget it. Now when you were found under Admiral Biffin’s bed—”

“I am not good at deception,” said Tuesday gloomily, flushing.

Poi, mentre Syme continuava a fissarli, vide qualcosa che prima non aveva visto. Non l’aveva visto, letteralmente, perché era troppo grande per essere visto. All’estremità più vicina del balcone, ostruendo gran parte della prospettiva, c’era la schiena di una gran montagna d’uomo. Quando Syme lo ebbe visto, il suo primo pensiero fu che il peso di lui dovesse sfondare il balcone di pietra. La sua vastità non stava soltanto nel fatto che fosse anormalmente alto e incredibilmente grasso. Quest’uomo era stato progettato enormemente nelle sue proporzioni originarie, come una statua scolpita deliberatamente colossale. La sua testa, coronata di capelli bianchi, vista di spalle sembrava più grande di quanto una testa dovrebbe essere. Le orecchie che ne sporgevano parevano più grandi di orecchie umane. Era ingrandito terribilmente in scala; e questo senso della mole era così sbalorditivo che, quando Syme lo vide, tutte le altre figure sembrarono d’un tratto rimpicciolirsi e farsi nane. Sedevano ancora là come prima, coi loro fiori e le loro finanziere, ma ora sembrava che il grosso uomo stesse offrendo il tè a cinque bambini.

Mentre Syme e la guida si avvicinavano alla porta laterale dell’albergo, un cameriere uscì sorridendo con tutti i denti che aveva in bocca.

«I signori sono lassù, sciòr» disse. «Parlano e ridono di quel che dicono. Dicono che tireranno bombe al re.»

E il cameriere si allontanò in fretta con un tovagliolo sul braccio, assai compiaciuto della singolare frivolezza dei signori al piano di sopra.

I due uomini salirono le scale in silenzio.

A Syme non era nemmeno passato per la mente di chiedere se quell’uomo mostruoso, che quasi riempiva e sfondava il balcone, fosse il grande Presidente di cui gli altri avevano tanta soggezione. Sapeva che era così, con una certezza inspiegabile ma istantanea. Syme, in verità, era uno di quegli uomini aperti a tutte le più innominabili influenze psicologiche in un grado un poco pericoloso per la salute mentale. Del tutto privo di paura di fronte ai pericoli fisici, era fin troppo sensibile all’odore del male spirituale. Già due volte quella notte piccole cose insignificanti avevano fatto capolino verso di lui quasi lascivamente, e gli avevano dato la sensazione di avvicinarsi sempre più al quartier generale dell’inferno. E questa sensazione divenne opprimente man mano che si avvicinava al grande Presidente.

La forma che essa prese fu una fantasia infantile eppure odiosa. Mentre attraversava la sala interna verso il balcone, il grande volto della Domenica si faceva sempre più grande; e Syme fu preso dalla paura che, quando gli fosse stato del tutto vicino, il volto sarebbe stato troppo grande per essere possibile, e che egli avrebbe gridato forte. Ricordò che da bambino non voleva guardare la maschera di Mennone al British Museum, perché era un volto, e così grande.

Con uno sforzo più coraggioso di quello di gettarsi da una rupe, si diresse verso una sedia vuota alla tavola da colazione e si sedette. Gli uomini lo salutarono con bonaria canzonatura, come se lo avessero sempre conosciuto. Si rinfrancò un poco guardando le loro giacche convenzionali e la solida, lucente caffettiera; poi guardò di nuovo la Domenica. Aveva il volto grandissimo, ma ancora possibile all’umanità.

Alla presenza del Presidente tutta la compagnia appariva abbastanza banale; nulla in essa colpiva l’occhio, a prima vista, se non che, per capriccio del Presidente, erano stati agghindati con una rispettabilità festosa, la quale dava al pasto l’aria di una colazione di nozze. Un uomo, in verità, spiccava anche a uno sguardo superficiale. Egli almeno era il Dinamitardo comune, quello dell’orto e del giardino. Portava, sì, l’alto colletto bianco e la cravatta di raso che erano l’uniforme della circostanza; ma da quel colletto scaturiva una testa del tutto ingovernabile e del tutto inconfondibile, uno sconcertante cespuglio di capelli e barba castani che quasi ne nascondeva gli occhi, come quelli di un terrier di Skye. Ma gli occhi guardavano davvero fuori da quel groviglio, ed erano i tristi occhi di qualche servo della gleba russo. L’effetto di questa figura non era terribile come quello del Presidente, ma aveva tutta la diavoleria che può derivare dal più totale grottesco. Se da quella cravatta e da quel colletto rigidi fosse spuntata di colpo la testa di un gatto o di un cane, non avrebbe potuto esserci contrasto più idiota.

Il nome dell’uomo, a quanto pareva, era Gogol; era un polacco, e in quel circolo di giorni lo chiamavano Martedì. La sua anima e il suo eloquio erano incurabilmente tragici; non riusciva a costringersi a recitare la parte prospera e frivola che gli imponeva il Presidente Domenica. E, in effetti, quando Syme entrò, il Presidente, con quello sprezzante disprezzo del sospetto pubblico che era la sua politica, stava proprio canzonando Gogol per la sua incapacità di assumere grazie convenzionali.

«Il nostro amico Martedì» disse il Presidente con voce profonda insieme di quiete e di volume «il nostro amico Martedì non pare afferrare l’idea. Si veste da gentiluomo, ma sembra un’anima troppo grande per comportarsi da tale. Insiste sui modi del cospiratore da palcoscenico. Ora, se un gentiluomo se ne va in giro per Londra in cilindro e finanziera, nessuno ha bisogno di sapere che è un anarchico. Ma se un gentiluomo si mette cilindro e finanziera, e poi se ne va in giro a quattro zampe… ebbene, può attirare l’attenzione. È ciò che fa il fratello Gogol. Va in giro a quattro zampe con tale inesauribile diplomazia, che ormai a questo punto trova assai difficile camminare eretto.»

«Non zono bravo a naskondermi» disse Gogol imbronciato, con un forte accento straniero; «non mi vergogno della causa.»

«Sì che ti vergogni, ragazzo mio, e anche la causa si vergogna di te» disse il Presidente bonariamente. «Ti nascondi quanto chiunque altro; ma non ci riesci, vedi, perché sei un tale asino! Cerchi di combinare due metodi incompatibili. Quando un padrone di casa trova un uomo sotto il suo letto, probabilmente si fermerà a notare la circostanza. Ma se trova un uomo sotto il suo letto in cilindro, converrai con me, mio caro Martedì, che difficilmente riuscirà anche solo a dimenticarlo. Ora, quando ti hanno trovato sotto il letto dell’ammiraglio Biffin…»

«Non zono bravo nell’inganno» disse Martedì cupamente, arrossendo.

“Right, my boy, right,” said the President with a ponderous heartiness, “you aren’t good at anything.”

While this stream of conversation continued, Syme was looking more steadily at the men around him. As he did so, he gradually felt all his sense of something spiritually queer return.

He had thought at first that they were all of common stature and costume, with the evident exception of the hairy Gogol. But as he looked at the others, he began to see in each of them exactly what he had seen in the man by the river, a demoniac detail somewhere. That lop-sided laugh, which would suddenly disfigure the fine face of his original guide, was typical of all these types. Each man had something about him, perceived perhaps at the tenth or twentieth glance, which was not normal, and which seemed hardly human. The only metaphor he could think of was this, that they all looked as men of fashion and presence would look, with the additional twist given in a false and curved mirror.

Only the individual examples will express this half-concealed eccentricity. Syme’s original cicerone bore the title of Monday; he was the Secretary of the Council, and his twisted smile was regarded with more terror than anything, except the President’s horrible, happy laughter. But now that Syme had more space and light to observe him, there were other touches. His fine face was so emaciated, that Syme thought it must be wasted with some disease; yet somehow the very distress of his dark eyes denied this. It was no physical ill that troubled him. His eyes were alive with intellectual torture, as if pure thought was pain.

He was typical of each of the tribe; each man was subtly and differently wrong. Next to him sat Tuesday, the tousle-headed Gogol, a man more obviously mad. Next was Wednesday, a certain Marquis de St. Eustache, a sufficiently characteristic figure. The first few glances found nothing unusual about him, except that he was the only man at table who wore the fashionable clothes as if they were really his own. He had a black French beard cut square and a black English frock-coat cut even squarer. But Syme, sensitive to such things, felt somehow that the man carried a rich atmosphere with him, a rich atmosphere that suffocated. It reminded one irrationally of drowsy odours and of dying lamps in the darker poems of Byron and Poe. With this went a sense of his being clad, not in lighter colours, but in softer materials; his black seemed richer and warmer than the black shades about him, as if it were compounded of profound colour. His black coat looked as if it were only black by being too dense a purple. His black beard looked as if it were only black by being too deep a blue. And in the gloom and thickness of the beard his dark red mouth showed sensual and scornful. Whatever he was he was not a Frenchman; he might be a Jew; he might be something deeper yet in the dark heart of the East. In the bright coloured Persian tiles and pictures showing tyrants hunting, you may see just those almond eyes, those blue-black beards, those cruel, crimson lips.

Then came Syme, and next a very old man, Professor de Worms, who still kept the chair of Friday, though every day it was expected that his death would leave it empty. Save for his intellect, he was in the last dissolution of senile decay. His face was as grey as his long grey beard, his forehead was lifted and fixed finally in a furrow of mild despair. In no other case, not even that of Gogol, did the bridegroom brilliancy of the morning dress express a more painful contrast. For the red flower in his button-hole showed up against a face that was literally discoloured like lead; the whole hideous effect was as if some drunken dandies had put their clothes upon a corpse. When he rose or sat down, which was with long labour and peril, something worse was expressed than mere weakness, something indefinably connected with the horror of the whole scene. It did not express decrepitude merely, but corruption. Another hateful fancy crossed Syme’s quivering mind. He could not help thinking that whenever the man moved a leg or arm might fall off.

Right at the end sat the man called Saturday, the simplest and the most baffling of all. He was a short, square man with a dark, square face clean-shaven, a medical practitioner going by the name of Bull. He had that combination of savoir-faire with a sort of well-groomed coarseness which is not uncommon in young doctors. He carried his fine clothes with confidence rather than ease, and he mostly wore a set smile. There was nothing whatever odd about him, except that he wore a pair of dark, almost opaque spectacles. It may have been merely a crescendo of nervous fancy that had gone before, but those black discs were dreadful to Syme; they reminded him of half-remembered ugly tales, of some story about pennies being put on the eyes of the dead. Syme’s eye always caught the black glasses and the blind grin. Had the dying Professor worn them, or even the pale Secretary, they would have been appropriate. But on the younger and grosser man they seemed only an enigma. They took away the key of the face. You could not tell what his smile or his gravity meant. Partly from this, and partly because he had a vulgar virility wanting in most of the others it seemed to Syme that he might be the wickedest of all those wicked men. Syme even had the thought that his eyes might be covered up because they were too frightful to see.

«Giusto, ragazzo mio, giusto» disse il Presidente con una cordialità ponderosa, «non sei bravo in nulla.»

Mentre questa corrente di conversazione proseguiva, Syme osservava con maggior fermezza gli uomini attorno a sé. E così facendo, sentì a poco a poco ritornare tutto quel suo senso di qualcosa spiritualmente strano.

Aveva pensato dapprima che fossero tutti di comune statura e costume, con l’evidente eccezione del peloso Gogol. Ma man mano che guardava gli altri, cominciò a scorgere in ciascuno di essi esattamente ciò che aveva visto nell’uomo presso il fiume: un particolare demoniaco da qualche parte. Quella risata sghemba, che a un tratto sfigurava il bel volto della sua prima guida, era tipica di tutti quei tipi. Ciascun uomo aveva in sé qualcosa, percepito forse al decimo o al ventesimo sguardo, che non era normale, e che pareva a stento umano. L’unica metafora che gli venisse in mente era questa: che apparivano tutti come apparirebbero uomini di moda e di prestanza, con la torsione supplementare data da uno specchio falso e curvo.

Solo gli esempi individuali esprimeranno questa eccentricità mezzo celata. Il cicerone originario di Syme portava il titolo di Lunedì; era il Segretario del Consiglio, e il suo sorriso contorto veniva considerato con più terrore di qualsiasi altra cosa, eccetto l’orribile, felice risata del Presidente. Ma ora che Syme aveva più spazio e luce per osservarlo, c’erano altri tocchi. Il suo bel volto era così emaciato che Syme pensò dovesse essere consumato da qualche malattia; eppure, in qualche modo, proprio l’angoscia dei suoi occhi scuri lo smentiva. Non era un male fisico a tormentarlo. I suoi occhi erano vivi di una tortura intellettuale, come se il puro pensiero fosse dolore.

Egli era tipico di ciascuno della tribù; ogni uomo era sottilmente e diversamente storto. Accanto a lui sedeva Martedì, lo scarmigliato Gogol, un uomo più evidentemente pazzo. Poi veniva Mercoledì, un certo Marchese de St. Eustache, figura sufficientemente caratteristica. I primi sguardi non trovavano in lui nulla di insolito, tranne che era l’unico uomo a tavola a portare gli abiti alla moda come se fossero davvero suoi. Aveva una barba nera alla francese tagliata quadrata e una finanziera nera all’inglese tagliata ancora più quadrata. Ma Syme, sensibile a queste cose, sentiva in qualche modo che l’uomo si portava dietro un’atmosfera densa, un’atmosfera densa che soffocava. Ricordava irrazionalmente odori sonnolenti e lampade morenti nei poemi più cupi di Byron e di Poe. A ciò si accompagnava la sensazione che egli fosse vestito, non di colori più chiari, ma di materiali più morbidi; il suo nero pareva più ricco e più caldo delle sfumature nere intorno a lui, come se fosse composto di un colore profondo. La sua giacca nera pareva nera solo per essere un purpureo troppo denso. La sua barba nera pareva nera solo per essere un blu troppo profondo. E nella penombra e nel folto della barba la sua bocca rosso scuro appariva sensuale e sprezzante. Qualunque cosa fosse, non era un francese; poteva essere un ebreo; poteva essere qualcosa di ancor più profondo nel cuore oscuro dell’Oriente. Nelle mattonelle e nelle immagini persiane dai vivaci colori che raffigurano tiranni a caccia, si possono vedere proprio quegli occhi a mandorla, quelle barbe blu-nere, quelle labbra crudeli e cremisi.

Poi veniva Syme, e accanto a lui un uomo molto anziano, il Professor de Worms, che teneva ancora la cattedra del Venerdì, benché ogni giorno ci si aspettasse che la sua morte la lasciasse vuota. Salvo che per l’intelletto, egli era nell’ultima dissoluzione di una decadenza senile. Il volto era grigio come la sua lunga barba grigia, la fronte era sollevata e fissata definitivamente in una ruga di mite disperazione. In nessun altro caso, nemmeno in quello di Gogol, lo splendore da sposo dell’abito mattutino esprimeva un contrasto più penoso. Perché il fiore rosso all’occhiello risaltava contro un volto letteralmente scolorito come il piombo; l’intero effetto orrendo era come se dei dandy ubriachi avessero messo i loro abiti addosso a un cadavere. Quando si alzava o si sedeva, il che avveniva con lunga fatica e pericolo, si esprimeva qualcosa di peggiore della semplice debolezza, qualcosa indefinibilmente connesso con l’orrore dell’intera scena. Non esprimeva soltanto decrepitezza, ma corruzione. Un’altra fantasia odiosa attraversò la mente tremante di Syme. Non poteva fare a meno di pensare che, ogni volta che l’uomo si muoveva, una gamba o un braccio potesse staccarglisi.

Proprio in fondo sedeva l’uomo chiamato Sabato, il più semplice e il più sconcertante di tutti. Era un uomo basso e tarchiato, dal volto scuro e quadrato, rasato, un medico praticante che rispondeva al nome di Bull. Aveva quella combinazione di savoir-faire con una sorta di rozzezza ben curata che non è rara nei giovani medici. Portava i suoi begli abiti con sicurezza più che con disinvoltura, e per lo più esibiva un sorriso fisso. Non c’era assolutamente nulla di strano in lui, tranne che portava un paio di occhiali scuri, quasi opachi. Poteva essere stato solo un crescendo della fantasia nervosa che l’aveva preceduto, ma quei dischi neri erano tremendi per Syme; gli ricordavano brutti racconti mezzo dimenticati, qualche storia di monetine poste sugli occhi dei morti. Lo sguardo di Syme cadeva sempre sulle lenti nere e sul cieco sogghigno. Se li avesse portati il Professore morente, o anche il pallido Segretario, sarebbero stati appropriati. Ma sull’uomo più giovane e più grossolano parevano soltanto un enigma. Toglievano la chiave del volto. Non si poteva dire cosa significassero il suo sorriso o la sua serietà. In parte per questo, e in parte perché aveva una virilità volgare che mancava nella maggior parte degli altri, a Syme parve che potesse essere il più malvagio di tutti quegli uomini malvagi. Syme ebbe perfino il pensiero che i suoi occhi fossero forse coperti perché troppo spaventosi da vedere.

CHAPTER VI

THE EXPOSURE

SUCH were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world. Again and again Syme strove to pull together his common sense in their presence. Sometimes he saw for an instant that these notions were subjective, that he was only looking at ordinary men, one of whom was old, another nervous, another short-sighted. The sense of an unnatural symbolism always settled back on him again. Each figure seemed to be, somehow, on the borderland of things, just as their theory was on the borderland of thought. He knew that each one of these men stood at the extreme end, so to speak, of some wild road of reasoning. He could only fancy, as in some old-world fable, that if a man went westward to the end of the world he would find something— say a tree—that was more or less than a tree, a tree possessed by a spirit; and that if he went east to the end of the world he would find something else that was not wholly itself— a tower, perhaps, of which the very shape was wicked. So these figures seemed to stand up, violent and unaccountable, against an ultimate horizon, visions from the verge. The ends of the earth were closing in.

Talk had been going on steadily as he took in the scene; and not the least of the contrasts of that bewildering breakfast-table was the contrast between the easy and unobtrusive tone of talk and its terrible purport. They were deep in the discussion of an actual and immediate plot. The waiter downstairs had spoken quite correctly when he said that they were talking about bombs and kings. Only three days afterwards the Czar was to meet the President of the French Republic in Paris, and over their bacon and eggs upon their sunny balcony these beaming gentlemen had decided how both should die. Even the instrument was chosen; the black-bearded Marquis, it appeared, was to carry the bomb.

Ordinarily speaking, the proximity of this positive and objective crime would have sobered Syme, and cured him of all his merely mystical tremors. He would have thought of nothing but the need of saving at least two human bodies from being ripped in pieces with iron and roaring gas. But the truth was that by this time he had begun to feel a third kind of fear, more piercing and practical than either his moral revulsion or his social responsibility. Very simply, he had no fear to spare for the French President or the Czar; he had begun to fear for himself. Most of the talkers took little heed of him, debating now with their faces closer together, and almost uniformly grave, save when for an instant the smile of the Secretary ran aslant across his face as the jagged lightning runs aslant across the sky. But there was one persistent thing which first troubled Syme and at last terrified him. The President was always looking at him, steadily, and with a great and baffling interest. The enormous man was quite quiet, but his blue eyes stood out of his head. And they were always fixed on Syme.

Syme felt moved to spring up and leap over the balcony. When the President’s eyes were on him he felt as if he were made of glass. He had hardly the shred of a doubt that in some silent and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy. He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees.

Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days. In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism. He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children. But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise. He had promised never to do the very thing that he now felt himself almost in the act of doing. He had promised not to jump over that balcony and speak to that policeman. He took his cold hand off the cold stone balustrade. His soul swayed in a vertigo of moral indecision. He had only to snap the thread of a rash vow made to a villainous society, and all his life could be as open and sunny as the square beneath him. He had, on the other hand, only to keep his antiquated honour, and be delivered inch by inch into the power of this great enemy of mankind, whose very intellect was a torture-chamber. Whenever he looked down into the square he saw the comfortable policeman, a pillar of common sense and common order. Whenever he looked back at the breakfast-table he saw the President still quietly studying him with big, unbearable eyes.

In all the torrent of his thought there were two thoughts that never crossed his mind. First, it never occurred to him to doubt that the President and his Council could crush him if he continued to stand alone. The place might be public, the project might seem impossible. But Sunday was not the man who would carry himself thus easily without having, somehow or somewhere, set open his iron trap. Either by anonymous poison or sudden street accident, by hypnotism or by fire from hell, Sunday could certainly strike him. If he defied the man he was probably dead, either struck stiff there in his chair or long afterwards as by an innocent ailment. If he called in the police promptly, arrested everyone, told all, and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise. They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea.

There was a second thought that never came to him. It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy. Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality. They might have called Sunday the super-man. If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking. He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it.

CAPITOLO VI

LO SMASCHERAMENTO

Tali erano i sei uomini che avevano giurato di distruggere il mondo. Più e più volte Syme tentò di rimettere insieme il proprio buon senso in loro presenza. Talvolta gli si rivelava per un istante che quelle nozioni erano soggettive, che egli non stava guardando altro che uomini comuni, uno dei quali era vecchio, un altro nervoso, un altro miope. La sensazione di un simbolismo innaturale tornava sempre a posarsi su di lui. Ciascuna figura sembrava trovarsi, in qualche modo, sul confine estremo delle cose, proprio come la loro teoria si trovava sul confine estremo del pensiero. Egli sapeva che ognuno di quegli uomini stava all’estremità ultima, per così dire, di qualche selvaggia strada di ragionamento. Poteva soltanto immaginare, come in qualche favola del mondo antico, che se un uomo fosse andato verso occidente fino ai confini del mondo avrebbe trovato qualcosa— poniamo un albero—che era più o meno di un albero, un albero posseduto da uno spirito; e che se fosse andato verso oriente fino ai confini del mondo avrebbe trovato qualcos’altro che non era del tutto se stesso— una torre, forse, la cui stessa forma era malvagia. Così quelle figure sembravano ergersi, violente e inspiegabili, contro un orizzonte ultimo, visioni provenienti dall’orlo del mondo. I confini della terra si stavano stringendo intorno a lui.

Il discorso era proseguito senza sosta mentre egli si impregnava della scena; e non ultimo fra i contrasti di quella sconcertante tavola da colazione era il contrasto fra il tono disinvolto e discreto della conversazione e il suo terribile contenuto. Erano immersi nella discussione di una cospirazione reale e imminente. Il cameriere di sotto aveva parlato assai correttamente quando aveva detto che parlavano di bombe e di re. Solo tre giorni dopo lo Zar avrebbe dovuto incontrare il Presidente della Repubblica francese a Parigi, e davanti al loro uovo e pancetta, sul balcone soleggiato, quei raggianti gentiluomini avevano deciso come entrambi sarebbero morti. Persino lo strumento era scelto; il Marchese dalla barba nera, a quanto pareva, doveva portare la bomba.

In circostanze ordinarie, la prossimità di questo delitto concreto e oggettivo avrebbe fatto rinsavire Syme, e lo avrebbe guarito da tutti i suoi tremori meramente mistici. Non avrebbe pensato ad altro che alla necessità di salvare almeno due corpi umani dall’essere dilaniati in pezzi dal ferro e dal gas ruggente. Ma la verità era che ormai a quel punto aveva cominciato a provare un terzo genere di paura, più penetrante e più concreto della sua ripugnanza morale o della sua responsabilità sociale. Molto semplicemente, non aveva paura da spendere per il Presidente francese o per lo Zar; aveva cominciato a temere per se stesso. La maggior parte dei conversatori badava poco a lui, discutendo ora con i visi più ravvicinati, e quasi uniformemente gravi, salvo quando per un istante il sorriso del Segretario correva di traverso sul suo volto come il frastagliato lampo corre di traverso nel cielo. Ma c’era una cosa insistente che dapprima turbò Syme e alla fine lo terrorizzò. Il Presidente lo guardava di continuo, fisso, con un interesse immenso e sconcertante. L’uomo enorme era del tutto tranquillo, ma i suoi occhi azzurri sporgevano dal capo. Ed erano sempre fissi su Syme.

Syme si sentì spinto a balzare su e a saltare oltre il balcone. Quando gli occhi del Presidente erano su di lui si sentiva come se fosse fatto di vetro. Non aveva che l’ombra di un dubbio che, in qualche modo silenzioso e straordinario, Sunday avesse scoperto che egli era una spia. Guardò oltre il bordo del balcone, e vide un poliziotto, in piedi con aria distratta proprio là sotto, che fissava le lucenti inferriate e gli alberi illuminati dal sole.

Allora si abbatté su di lui la grande tentazione che lo avrebbe tormentato per molti giorni. Alla presenza di questi uomini potenti e ripugnanti, che erano i principi dell’anarchia, aveva quasi dimenticato la fragile e fantasiosa figura del poeta Gregory, il semplice esteta dell’anarchismo. Anzi ora pensava a lui con un’antica tenerezza, come se avessero giocato insieme da bambini. Ma ricordava di essere ancora legato a Gregory da una grande promessa. Aveva promesso di non fare mai proprio quella cosa che ora sentiva di essere quasi sul punto di fare. Aveva promesso di non saltare oltre quel balcone e di non parlare a quel poliziotto. Ritrasse la mano fredda dalla fredda balaustra di pietra. La sua anima oscillava in una vertigine di indecisione morale. Non doveva far altro che spezzare il filo di un voto avventato fatto a una società scellerata, e tutta la sua vita avrebbe potuto essere aperta e soleggiata come la piazza sottostante. D’altra parte, non doveva far altro che tener fede al suo antiquato onore, e consegnarsi pollice dopo pollice in balìa di questo grande nemico dell’umanità, il cui stesso intelletto era una camera di tortura. Ogni volta che guardava giù nella piazza vedeva il rassicurante poliziotto, pilastro del buon senso e dell’ordine comune. Ogni volta che si voltava a guardare la tavola da colazione vedeva il Presidente che ancora lo studiava con calma, con occhi grandi e insopportabili.

In tutto il torrente dei suoi pensieri c’erano due pensieri che non gli attraversarono mai la mente. Primo, non gli venne mai in mente di dubitare che il Presidente e il suo Consiglio potessero schiacciarlo se avesse continuato a restare solo. Il luogo poteva essere pubblico, il progetto poteva sembrare impossibile. Ma Sunday non era uomo da comportarsi con tanta disinvoltura senza aver, in qualche modo o in qualche luogo, già teso la sua trappola di ferro. Che fosse con anonimo veleno o con un improvviso incidente di strada, con l’ipnosi o con fuoco infernale, Sunday poteva certamente colpirlo. Se avesse sfidato quell’uomo era probabilmente morto, o stecchito lì sulla sua sedia o molto tempo dopo, come per un male innocente. Se avesse chiamato prontamente la polizia, fatto arrestare tutti, raccontato ogni cosa, e scagliato contro di loro l’intera energia dell’Inghilterra, sarebbe probabilmente scampato; altrimenti certamente no. Erano un balcone pieno di gentiluomini che dominavano una piazza luminosa e affaccendata; ma egli non si sentiva più al sicuro con loro che se fossero stati una barca piena di pirati armati che dominavano un mare deserto.

C’era un secondo pensiero che non gli venne mai. Non gli venne mai in mente di lasciarsi conquistare spiritualmente dal nemico. Molti moderni, avvezzi a un debole culto dell’intelletto e della forza, avrebbero forse vacillato nella loro fedeltà sotto questa oppressione di una grande personalità. Avrebbero forse chiamato Sunday il superuomo. Se mai una tale creatura sia concepibile, egli, in effetti, le somigliava alquanto, con la sua astrazione che scuoteva la terra, come di una statua di pietra che cammina. Avrebbe potuto essere chiamato qualcosa al di sopra dell’uomo, con i suoi grandi piani, troppo evidenti per essere scoperti, con il suo grande volto, troppo franco per essere compreso. Ma questa era una sorta di meschinità moderna a cui Syme non poteva abbassarsi neppure nella sua estrema morbosità. Come ogni uomo, era abbastanza vile da temere la grande forza; ma non era del tutto abbastanza vile da ammirarla.

The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table—cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme.

“I have often wondered,” said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, “whether it wouldn’t be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round.”

“You are wrong,” said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. “The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man’s brain is a bomb,” he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. “My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man’s brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe.”

“I don’t want the universe broken up just yet,” drawled the Marquis. “I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed.”

“No, if the only end of the thing is nothing,” said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, “it hardly seems worth doing.”

The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.

“Every man knows in his heart,” he said, “that nothing is worth doing.”

There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said—

“We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to—”

The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them.

“Before we discuss that,” he said in a small, quiet voice, “let us go into a private room. I have something very particular to say.”

Syme stood up before any of the others. The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head. On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold.

A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune. Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle. He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere. That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom. His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room. But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ. And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him. For an instant, at least, he looked down upon all their sprawling eccentricities from the starry pinnacle of the commonplace. He felt towards them all that unconscious and elementary superiority that a brave man feels over powerful beasts or a wise man over powerful errors. He knew that he had neither the intellectual nor the physical strength of President Sunday; but in that moment he minded it no more than the fact that he had not the muscles of a tiger or a horn on his nose like a rhinoceros. All was swallowed up in an ultimate certainty that the President was wrong and that the barrel-organ was right. There clanged in his mind that unanswerable and terrible truism in the song of Roland—

“Pagens ont tort et Chretiens ont droit.”

which in the old nasal French has the clang and groan of great iron. This liberation of his spirit from the load of his weakness went with a quite clear decision to embrace death. If the people of the barrel-organ could keep their old-world obligations, so could he. This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants. It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand. The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death.

The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind. Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm. The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom. When they were all in, he closed and locked the door.

Gli uomini mangiavano mentre parlavano, e persino in questo erano tipici. Il Dottor Bull e il Marchese mangiavano con noncuranza e convenzionalità le cose migliori che erano in tavola—fagiano freddo o pasticcio di Strasburgo. Ma il Segretario era vegetariano, e parlava con fervore dell’assassinio progettato davanti a mezzo pomodoro crudo e a tre quarti di bicchiere d’acqua tiepida. Il vecchio Professore aveva sbobbe tali da far pensare a una nauseante seconda infanzia. E persino in questo il Presidente Sunday conservava la sua curiosa predominanza di pura massa. Poiché mangiava come venti uomini; mangiava in modo incredibile, con una spaventosa freschezza di appetito, tanto che era come assistere al lavoro di una salsicciera. Eppure di continuo, quando aveva inghiottito una dozzina di focaccine o bevuto un litro di caffè, lo si trovava con la grande testa reclinata da un lato a fissare Syme.

«Mi sono spesso domandato», disse il Marchese, addentando un gran boccone da una fetta di pane e marmellata, «se non sarebbe meglio per me farlo con un coltello. La maggior parte delle cose migliori sono state fatte col coltello. E sarebbe un’emozione nuova ficcare un coltello in un Presidente francese e rigirarglielo dentro.»

«Ti sbagli», disse il Segretario, aggrottando le nere sopracciglia. «Il coltello non era che l’espressione dell’antica lite personale con un tiranno personale. La dinamite non è soltanto il nostro miglior strumento, ma il nostro miglior simbolo. È un simbolo di noi tanto perfetto quanto l’incenso è simbolo delle preghiere dei cristiani. Si espande; distrugge solo perché si dilata; e così, il pensiero distrugge solo perché si dilata. Il cervello di un uomo è una bomba», gridò, sciogliendo d’improvviso la sua strana passione e percuotendosi con violenza il proprio cranio. «Il mio cervello mi pare una bomba, notte e giorno. Deve espandersi! Deve espandersi! Il cervello di un uomo deve espandersi, foss’anche a costo di far saltare l’universo.»

«Non voglio ancora che l’universo salti in aria», biascicò il Marchese. «Voglio fare un mucchio di cose bestiali prima di morire. Ne ho pensata una ieri, a letto.»

«No, se l’unico fine della cosa è il nulla», disse il Dottor Bull col suo sorriso sfingeo, «non pare che valga la pena di farlo.»

Il vecchio Professore fissava il soffitto con occhi spenti.

«Ogni uomo sa in cuor suo», disse, «che nulla vale la pena di essere fatto.»

Ci fu un singolare silenzio, e poi il Segretario disse—

«Ci stiamo però allontanando dal punto. L’unica questione è come Mercoledì debba vibrare il colpo. Immagino che tutti concordiamo sull’idea originaria di una bomba. Quanto alle disposizioni concrete, suggerirei che domani mattina egli vada anzitutto a—»

Il discorso fu troncato di netto sotto una vasta ombra. Il Presidente Sunday si era alzato in piedi, sembrando riempire il cielo sopra di loro.

«Prima di discuterne», disse con voce sommessa e tranquilla, «passiamo in una stanza privata. Ho qualcosa di assai particolare da dire.»

Syme si alzò prima di tutti gli altri. L’istante della scelta era finalmente giunto, la pistola era puntata alla sua tempia. Sul selciato, prima ancora, poteva udire il poliziotto muoversi pigramente e battere i piedi, poiché il mattino, benché luminoso, era freddo.

Un organetto nella strada attaccò d’un tratto, con uno strappo, un motivo gioviale. Syme si drizzò teso, come se fosse stato uno squillo di tromba prima della battaglia. Si sentì colmo di un coraggio soprannaturale venuto dal nulla. Quella musica tintinnante sembrava piena della vivacità, della volgarità, e del valore irrazionale dei poveri, i quali in tutte quelle strade sudicie si aggrappavano tutti al decoro e alla carità della cristianità. La sua giovanile bravata di fare il poliziotto gli era svanita dalla mente; non pensava a se stesso come al rappresentante del corpo di gentiluomini trasformati in poliziotti da operetta, né del vecchio eccentrico che viveva nella stanza buia. Ma si sentiva davvero l’ambasciatore di tutta questa gente comune e cordiale della strada, che ogni giorno marciava in battaglia alla musica dell’organetto. E questo alto orgoglio di essere umano lo aveva sollevato inspiegabilmente a un’altezza infinita al di sopra degli uomini mostruosi che lo circondavano. Per un istante, almeno, guardò dall’alto tutte le loro scomposte stravaganze dal pinnacolo stellato della normalità. Provò verso tutti loro quella superiorità inconsapevole ed elementare che un uomo coraggioso prova sulle bestie potenti o un uomo saggio sugli errori potenti. Sapeva di non possedere né la forza intellettuale né quella fisica del Presidente Sunday; ma in quel momento se ne dava pensiero non più di quanto se ne desse del fatto di non avere i muscoli di una tigre o un corno sul naso come un rinoceronte. Tutto era inghiottito da una certezza ultima che il Presidente aveva torto e che l’organetto aveva ragione. Nella sua mente risuonava quel truismo terribile e incontestabile della Canzone di Rolando—

«Pagens ont tort et Chretiens ont droit.»

che nell’antico francese nasale ha il fragore e il gemito del grande ferro. Questa liberazione del suo spirito dal peso della sua debolezza andò di pari passo con una decisione affatto chiara di abbracciare la morte. Se la gente dell’organetto sapeva tener fede ai suoi obblighi del mondo antico, lo poteva anche lui. Questo stesso orgoglio nel mantenere la parola stava nel fatto che la manteneva a dei miscredenti. Era il suo ultimo trionfo su quei pazzi scendere nella loro stanza buia e morire per qualcosa che essi non potevano nemmeno comprendere. L’organetto sembrava dare il motivo della marcia con l’energia e i rumori mescolati di un’intera orchestra; ed egli poteva udire profondi e rombanti, sotto tutte le trombe dell’orgoglio della vita, i tamburi dell’orgoglio della morte.

I cospiratori stavano già sfilando attraverso la finestra aperta per entrare nelle stanze retrostanti. Syme andò per ultimo, all’apparenza calmo, ma con tutto il cervello e il corpo pulsanti di ritmo romantico. Il Presidente li condusse giù per una scaletta laterale irregolare, come avrebbero potuto usare i domestici, dentro una stanza buia, fredda e vuota, con un tavolo e delle panche, come un consiglio d’amministrazione abbandonato. Quando furono tutti dentro, chiuse la porta e la sprangò a chiave.

The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance.

“Zso! Zso!” he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable. “You zay you nod ‘ide. You zay you show himselves. It is all nuzzinks. Ven you vant talk importance you run yourselves in a dark box!”

The President seemed to take the foreigner’s incoherent satire with entire good humour.

“You can’t get hold of it yet, Gogol,” he said in a fatherly way. “When once they have heard us talking nonsense on that balcony they will not care where we go afterwards. If we had come here first, we should have had the whole staff at the keyhole. You don’t seem to know anything about mankind.”

“I die for zem,” cried the Pole in thick excitement, “and I slay zare oppressors. I care not for these games of gonzealment. I would zmite ze tyrant in ze open square.”

“I see, I see,” said the President, nodding kindly as he seated himself at the top of a long table. “You die for mankind first, and then you get up and smite their oppressors. So that’s all right. And now may I ask you to control your beautiful sentiments, and sit down with the other gentlemen at this table. For the first time this morning something intelligent is going to be said.”

Syme, with the perturbed promptitude he had shown since the original summons, sat down first. Gogol sat down last, grumbling in his brown beard about gombromise. No one except Syme seemed to have any notion of the blow that was about to fall. As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech.

“Comrades,” said the President, suddenly rising, “we have spun out this farce long enough. I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice. Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places. I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member. I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr. Bull.”

They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table.

“Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company.”

Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal.

Sunday went on smoothly—

“You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who—”

The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman.

“It can’t be!” he cried, leaping. “There can’t—”

The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name—”

Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.

“His name is Gogol,” said the President. “He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole.”

Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief.

Il primo a parlare fu Gogol, l’irriconciliabile, che sembrava scoppiare di inarticolato risentimento.

«Zso! Zso!» gridò, con un’oscura eccitazione, il suo pesante accento polacco facendosi quasi impenetrabile. «Voi dite che non vi nascondete. Voi dite che vi mostrate. È tutto niente. Quando volete parlare di cose importanti vi cacciate in una scatola buia!»

Il Presidente parve accogliere l’incoerente satira dello straniero con perfetto buon umore.

«Non riesci ancora ad afferrarlo, Gogol», disse in tono paterno. «Una volta che ci hanno sentito dire sciocchezze su quel balcone non si cureranno di dove andremo dopo. Se fossimo venuti qui per primi, avremmo avuto tutta la servitù al buco della serratura. Non pari sapere nulla del genere umano.»

«Io muoio per loro», gridò il polacco con densa eccitazione, «e uccido i loro oppressori. Non mi curo di questi giochi di nascondimento. Colpirei il tiranno nella piazza aperta.»

«Capisco, capisco», disse il Presidente, annuendo con benevolenza mentre si sedeva a capotavola di un lungo tavolo. «Prima muori per il genere umano, e poi ti rialzi e colpisci i loro oppressori. Dunque va tutto bene. E ora posso pregarti di dominare i tuoi bei sentimenti, e di sederti con gli altri gentiluomini a questo tavolo? Per la prima volta questa mattina si sta per dire qualcosa di intelligente.»

Syme, con la turbata sollecitudine che aveva mostrato fin dalla prima convocazione, si sedette per primo. Gogol si sedette per ultimo, borbottando nella sua barba fulva a proposito del gombromesso. Nessuno tranne Syme sembrava avere la minima idea del colpo che stava per abbattersi. Quanto a lui, aveva soltanto la sensazione di un uomo che sale sul patibolo con l’intenzione, quanto meno, di fare un bel discorso.

«Compagni», disse il Presidente, alzandosi d’improvviso, «abbiamo tirato per le lunghe questa farsa abbastanza a lungo. Vi ho chiamati quaggiù per dirvi qualcosa di tanto semplice e sconvolgente che persino i camerieri di sopra (da tempo avvezzi alle nostre frivolezze) potrebbero cogliere una nuova serietà nella mia voce. Compagni, stavamo discutendo piani e nominando luoghi. Propongo, prima di dire altro, che quei piani e quei luoghi non siano votati da questa riunione, ma siano lasciati interamente sotto il controllo di qualche membro fidato. Suggerisco il Compagno Sabato, il Dottor Bull.»

Tutti lo fissarono; poi sobbalzarono tutti sui loro seggi, poiché le parole seguenti, benché non gridate, avevano un’enfasi viva e sensazionale. Sunday batté sul tavolo.

«Non una parola di più sui piani e sui luoghi deve essere detta in questa riunione. Non un solo minuscolo particolare in più su ciò che intendiamo fare deve essere menzionato in questa compagnia.»

Sunday aveva trascorso la vita a stupire i suoi seguaci; ma pareva che non li avesse mai davvero stupiti fino a quel momento. Si mossero tutti febbrilmente sui loro seggi, tranne Syme. Egli sedeva rigido sul suo, con la mano in tasca, e sull’impugnatura della sua rivoltella carica. Quando l’attacco contro di lui fosse venuto, avrebbe venduto cara la pelle. Avrebbe scoperto, almeno, se il Presidente era mortale.

Sunday proseguì senza intoppi—

«Probabilmente comprenderete che c’è un solo movente possibile per proibire la libera parola in questa festa della libertà. Che degli estranei ci origlino non conta nulla. Danno per scontato che stiamo scherzando. Ma ciò che conterebbe, fino alla morte, è questo, che ci sia realmente in mezzo a noi qualcuno che non è dei nostri, che conosce il nostro grave proposito, ma non lo condivide, che—»

Il Segretario strillò all’improvviso come una donna.

«Non può essere!» gridò, balzando in piedi. «Non può esserci—»

Il Presidente sbatté la grande mano piatta sul tavolo come la pinna di qualche enorme pesce.

«Sì», disse lentamente, «c’è una spia in questa stanza. C’è un traditore a questo tavolo. Non sprecherò altre parole. Il suo nome—»

Syme si sollevò a metà dal suo seggio, il dito fermo sul grilletto.

«Il suo nome è Gogol», disse il Presidente. «È quell’impostore peloso laggiù che finge di essere un polacco.»

Gogol balzò in piedi, una pistola in ciascuna mano. Nello stesso lampo tre uomini gli si avventarono alla gola. Persino il Professore fece uno sforzo per alzarsi. Ma Syme vide poco della scena, perché era accecato da una benefica oscurità; era sprofondato sul suo seggio tremando, in una paralisi di appassionato sollievo.

CHAPTER VII

THE UNACCOUNTABLE CONDUCT OF PROFESSOR DE WORMS

“SIT down!” said Sunday in a voice that he used once or twice in his life, a voice that made men drop drawn swords.

The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat.

“Well, my man,” said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, “will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?”

The alleged Pole was a little pale under his tangle of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist constabulary.

“Pathetic Slav,” said the President, “tragic child of Poland, are you prepared in the presence of that card to deny that you are in this company— shall we say de trop?”

“Right oh!” said the late Gogol. It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair. It was irrational, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch accent.

“I gather that you fully understand your position,” said Sunday.

“You bet,” answered the Pole. “I see it’s a fair cop. All I say is, I don’t believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his.”

“I concede the point,” said Sunday. “I believe your own accent to be inimitable, though I shall practise it in my bath. Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?”

“Not a bit,” answered Gogol; and with one finger he ripped off the whole of his shaggy head-covering, emerging with thin red hair and a pale, pert face. “It was hot,” he added.

“I will do you the justice to say,” said Sunday, not without a sort of brutal admiration, “that you seem to have kept pretty cool under it. Now listen to me. I like you. The consequence is that it would annoy me for just about two and a half minutes if I heard that you had died in torments. Well, if you ever tell the police or any human soul about us, I shall have that two and a half minutes of discomfort. On your discomfort I will not dwell. Good day. Mind the step.”

The red-haired detective who had masqueraded as Gogol rose to his feet without a word, and walked out of the room with an air of perfect nonchalance. Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step.

“Time is flying,” said the President in his gayest manner, after glancing at his watch, which like everything about him seemed bigger than it ought to be. “I must go off at once; I have to take the chair at a Humanitarian meeting.”

The Secretary turned to him with working eyebrows.

“Would it not be better,” he said a little sharply, “to discuss further the details of our project, now that the spy has left us?”

“No, I think not,” said the President with a yawn like an unobtrusive earthquake. “Leave it as it is. Let Saturday settle it. I must be off. Breakfast here next Sunday.”

But the late loud scenes had whipped up the almost naked nerves of the Secretary. He was one of those men who are conscientious even in crime.

“I must protest, President, that the thing is irregular,” he said. “It is a fundamental rule of our society that all plans shall be debated in full council. Of course, I fully appreciate your forethought when in the actual presence of a traitor—”

“Secretary,” said the President seriously, “if you’d take your head home and boil it for a turnip it might be useful. I can’t say. But it might.”

The Secretary reared back in a kind of equine anger.

“I really fail to understand—” he began in high offense.

“That’s it, that’s it,” said the President, nodding a great many times. “That’s where you fail right enough. You fail to understand. Why, you dancing donkey,” he roared, rising, “you didn’t want to be overheard by a spy, didn’t you? How do you know you aren’t overheard now?”

And with these words he shouldered his way out of the room, shaking with incomprehensible scorn.

Four of the men left behind gaped after him without any apparent glimmering of his meaning. Syme alone had even a glimmering, and such as it was it froze him to the bone. If the last words of the President meant anything, they meant that he had not after all passed unsuspected. They meant that while Sunday could not denounce him like Gogol, he still could not trust him like the others.

The other four got to their feet grumbling more or less, and betook themselves elsewhere to find lunch, for it was already well past midday. The Professor went last, very slowly and painfully. Syme sat long after the rest had gone, revolving his strange position. He had escaped a thunderbolt, but he was still under a cloud. At last he rose and made his way out of the hotel into Leicester Square. The bright, cold day had grown increasingly colder, and when he came out into the street he was surprised by a few flakes of snow. While he still carried the sword-stick and the rest of Gregory’s portable luggage, he had thrown the cloak down and left it somewhere, perhaps on the steam-tug, perhaps on the balcony. Hoping, therefore, that the snow-shower might be slight, he stepped back out of the street for a moment and stood up under the doorway of a small and greasy hair-dresser’s shop, the front window of which was empty, except for a sickly wax lady in evening dress.

CAPITOLO VII

L’INSPIEGABILE CONDOTTA DEL PROFESSOR DE WORMS

«Sedete!» disse Sunday con una voce che adoperò una o due volte nella vita, una voce che faceva cadere le spade sguainate dalle mani.

I tre che si erano alzati indietreggiarono lontano da Gogol, e quell’equivoco personaggio riprese esso stesso il proprio posto.

«Ebbene, brav’uomo», disse il Presidente con vivacità, rivolgendosi a lui come ci si rivolge a un perfetto sconosciuto, «volete farmi la cortesia di mettere la mano nella tasca alta del panciotto e mostrarmi che cosa vi tenete?»

Il presunto polacco era un poco pallido sotto la sua massa arruffata di capelli scuri, ma infilò due dita nella tasca con apparente freddezza e ne trasse una striscia di cartoncino azzurro. Quando Syme la vide posata sul tavolo, si ridestò di nuovo al mondo che gli stava intorno. Perché, benché il cartoncino giacesse all’estremità opposta del tavolo, ed egli non riuscisse a leggere nulla della scritta che vi era sopra, esso recava una sorprendente somiglianza con il cartoncino azzurro che teneva nella propria tasca, il cartoncino che gli era stato consegnato quando si era arruolato nella polizia antianarchica.

«Patetico slavo», disse il Presidente, «tragico figlio della Polonia, siete disposto, in presenza di quel cartoncino, a negare di essere in questa compagnia — diciamo pure di troppo?»

«E va bene!» disse il fu Gogol. Fece sobbalzare tutti udire una voce chiara, mercantile e alquanto plebea uscire da quella foresta di peli stranieri. Era irrazionale, come se un cinese avesse d’un tratto parlato con accento scozzese.

«Deduco che comprendiate appieno la vostra posizione», disse Sunday.

«Puoi giurarci», rispose il polacco. «Vedo che m’avete beccato in regola. Tutto quel che dico è che non credo che un polacco avrebbe potuto imitare il mio accento come io ho imitato il suo.»

«Vi concedo il punto», disse Sunday. «Credo che il vostro accento sia inimitabile, benché io intenda esercitarmi nella vasca da bagno. Vi dispiace lasciare la barba insieme al cartoncino?»

«Nemmeno un po’», rispose Gogol; e con un solo dito si strappò via l’intera peluria che gli copriva il capo, emergendone con radi capelli rossi e un viso pallido e sfrontato. «Faceva caldo», aggiunse.

«Vi renderò la giustizia di dire», disse Sunday, non senza una sorta di brutale ammirazione, «che sembrate esservi mantenuto piuttosto freddo là sotto. Ora ascoltatemi. Voi mi piacete. La conseguenza è che mi seccherebbe per circa due minuti e mezzo apprendere che siete morto tra i tormenti. Ebbene, se mai racconterete alla polizia o a qualsiasi anima viva qualcosa di noi, avrò quei due minuti e mezzo di disagio. Sul vostro disagio non mi soffermerò. Buona giornata. Attento al gradino.»

Il investigatore dai capelli rossi che aveva impersonato Gogol si alzò in piedi senza una parola, e uscì dalla stanza con un’aria di perfetta noncuranza. Eppure lo stupefatto Syme fu in grado di rendersi conto che quella disinvoltura era assunta all’improvviso; poiché vi fu un lieve inciampo fuori dalla porta, il che dimostrava che l’investigatore in partenza non aveva badato al gradino.

«Il tempo vola», disse il Presidente nel suo modo più gaio, dopo aver gettato un’occhiata all’orologio, che, come ogni cosa che lo riguardava, sembrava più grande di quanto avrebbe dovuto essere. «Devo andarmene subito; devo presiedere una riunione umanitaria.»

Il Segretario si volse verso di lui con le sopracciglia in movimento.

«Non sarebbe meglio», disse un poco aspramente, «discutere ulteriormente i dettagli del nostro progetto, ora che la spia ci ha lasciati?»

«No, credo di no», disse il Presidente con uno sbadiglio simile a un terremoto discreto. «Lasciate le cose come stanno. Che se ne occupi Saturday. Devo andare. Colazione qui la prossima domenica.»

Ma le recenti scene chiassose avevano messo a nudo i nervi quasi scoperti del Segretario. Era uno di quegli uomini che sono coscienziosi persino nel delitto.

«Devo protestare, Presidente, che la cosa è irregolare», disse. «È una regola fondamentale della nostra società che tutti i piani siano dibattuti in seno al consiglio plenario. Naturalmente, apprezzo pienamente la vostra prudenza in presenza effettiva di un traditore…»

«Segretario», disse il Presidente con gravità, «se vi portaste la testa a casa e la faceste bollire come una rapa, potrebbe tornare utile. Non saprei dire. Ma potrebbe.»

Il Segretario si impennò all’indietro in una sorta di collera equina.

«Davvero non riesco a comprendere…» cominciò, altamente offeso.

«Ecco, ecco», disse il Presidente, annuendo un gran numero di volte. «È proprio lì che voi fallite. Non riuscite a comprendere. Ma come, asino ballerino», ruggì, alzandosi, «non volevate essere uditi da una spia, non è così? Come sapete di non essere uditi adesso?»

E con queste parole si aprì a spallate un varco fuori dalla stanza, scosso da un incomprensibile disprezzo.

I quattro uomini rimasti indietro lo fissarono a bocca aperta senza alcun apparente barlume del suo significato. Il solo Syme ebbe persino un barlume, e per quel poco che era gli gelò le ossa. Se le ultime parole del Presidente significavano qualcosa, significavano che, dopo tutto, egli non era passato insospettato. Significavano che, mentre Sunday non poteva denunciarlo come Gogol, tuttavia non poteva fidarsi di lui come degli altri.

Gli altri quattro si alzarono in piedi brontolando più o meno, e se ne andarono altrove a cercare il pranzo, poiché era già ben passato mezzogiorno. Il Professore uscì per ultimo, molto lentamente e penosamente. Syme rimase seduto a lungo dopo che gli altri se ne furono andati, rimuginando sulla sua strana posizione. Era sfuggito a un fulmine, ma era ancora sotto una nube. Alla fine si alzò e si avviò fuori dall’albergo, in Leicester Square. La giornata luminosa e fredda si era fatta sempre più fredda, e quando sbucò nella strada fu sorpreso da qualche fiocco di neve. Poiché portava ancora con sé il bastone-spada e il resto del bagaglio portatile di Gregory, aveva gettato via il mantello e l’aveva lasciato da qualche parte, forse sul rimorchiatore a vapore, forse sul balcone. Sperando, dunque, che la nevicata potesse essere leggera, si ritrasse per un momento dalla strada e si fermò sotto l’ingresso di una piccola e untuosa bottega di parrucchiere, la cui vetrina anteriore era vuota, tranne che per una cerea signora malaticcia in abito da sera.

Snow, however, began to thicken and fall fast; and Syme, having found one glance at the wax lady quite sufficient to depress his spirits, stared out instead into the white and empty street. He was considerably astonished to see, standing quite still outside the shop and staring into the window, a man. His top hat was loaded with snow like the hat of Father Christmas, the white drift was rising round his boots and ankles; but it seemed as if nothing could tear him away from the contemplation of the colourless wax doll in dirty evening dress. That any human being should stand in such weather looking into such a shop was a matter of sufficient wonder to Syme; but his idle wonder turned suddenly into a personal shock; for he realised that the man standing there was the paralytic old Professor de Worms. It scarcely seemed the place for a person of his years and infirmities.

Syme was ready to believe anything about the perversions of this dehumanized brotherhood; but even he could not believe that the Professor had fallen in love with that particular wax lady. He could only suppose that the man’s malady (whatever it was) involved some momentary fits of rigidity or trance. He was not inclined, however, to feel in this case any very compassionate concern. On the contrary, he rather congratulated himself that the Professor’s stroke and his elaborate and limping walk would make it easy to escape from him and leave him miles behind. For Syme thirsted first and last to get clear of the whole poisonous atmosphere, if only for an hour. Then he could collect his thoughts, formulate his policy, and decide finally whether he should or should not keep faith with Gregory.

He strolled away through the dancing snow, turned up two or three streets, down through two or three others, and entered a small Soho restaurant for lunch. He partook reflectively of four small and quaint courses, drank half a bottle of red wine, and ended up over black coffee and a black cigar, still thinking. He had taken his seat in the upper room of the restaurant, which was full of the chink of knives and the chatter of foreigners. He remembered that in old days he had imagined that all these harmless and kindly aliens were anarchists. He shuddered, remembering the real thing. But even the shudder had the delightful shame of escape. The wine, the common food, the familiar place, the faces of natural and talkative men, made him almost feel as if the Council of the Seven Days had been a bad dream; and although he knew it was nevertheless an objective reality, it was at least a distant one. Tall houses and populous streets lay between him and his last sight of the shameful seven; he was free in free London, and drinking wine among the free. With a somewhat easier action, he took his hat and stick and strolled down the stair into the shop below.

When he entered that lower room he stood stricken and rooted to the spot. At a small table, close up to the blank window and the white street of snow, sat the old anarchist Professor over a glass of milk, with his lifted livid face and pendent eyelids. For an instant Syme stood as rigid as the stick he leant upon. Then with a gesture as of blind hurry, he brushed past the Professor, dashing open the door and slamming it behind him, and stood outside in the snow.

“Can that old corpse be following me?” he asked himself, biting his yellow moustache. “I stopped too long up in that room, so that even such leaden feet could catch me up. One comfort is, with a little brisk walking I can put a man like that as far away as Timbuctoo. Or am I too fanciful? Was he really following me? Surely Sunday would not be such a fool as to send a lame man?”

He set off at a smart pace, twisting and whirling his stick, in the direction of Covent Garden. As he crossed the great market the snow increased, growing blinding and bewildering as the afternoon began to darken. The snow-flakes tormented him like a swarm of silver bees. Getting into his eyes and beard, they added their unremitting futility to his already irritated nerves; and by the time that he had come at a swinging pace to the beginning of Fleet Street, he lost patience, and finding a Sunday teashop, turned into it to take shelter. He ordered another cup of black coffee as an excuse. Scarcely had he done so, when Professor de Worms hobbled heavily into the shop, sat down with difficulty and ordered a glass of milk.

Syme’s walking-stick had fallen from his hand with a great clang, which confessed the concealed steel. But the Professor did not look round. Syme, who was commonly a cool character, was literally gaping as a rustic gapes at a conjuring trick. He had seen no cab following; he had heard no wheels outside the shop; to all mortal appearances the man had come on foot. But the old man could only walk like a snail, and Syme had walked like the wind. He started up and snatched his stick, half crazy with the contradiction in mere arithmetic, and swung out of the swinging doors, leaving his coffee untasted. An omnibus going to the Bank went rattling by with an unusual rapidity. He had a violent run of a hundred yards to reach it; but he managed to spring, swaying upon the splash-board and, pausing for an instant to pant, he climbed on to the top. When he had been seated for about half a minute, he heard behind him a sort of heavy and asthmatic breathing.

Turning sharply, he saw rising gradually higher and higher up the omnibus steps a top hat soiled and dripping with snow, and under the shadow of its brim the short-sighted face and shaky shoulders of Professor de Worms. He let himself into a seat with characteristic care, and wrapped himself up to the chin in the mackintosh rug.

La neve, tuttavia, cominciò a infittirsi e a cadere fitta; e Syme, avendo trovato del tutto sufficiente una sola occhiata alla cerea signora per deprimersi l’animo, prese invece a fissare la strada bianca e deserta. Fu considerevolmente stupito di vedere, in piedi del tutto immobile fuori dalla bottega e con lo sguardo fisso nella vetrina, un uomo. Il suo cappello a cilindro era carico di neve come il cappello di Babbo Natale, il bianco cumulo saliva intorno agli stivali e alle caviglie; ma pareva che nulla potesse strapparlo alla contemplazione della scolorita bambola di cera nel sudicio abito da sera. Che un essere umano se ne stesse con un simile tempo a guardare dentro una simile bottega era per Syme motivo di sufficiente stupore; ma il suo ozioso stupore si mutò d’un tratto in uno shock personale; perché si rese conto che l’uomo lì fermo era il paralitico vecchio Professor de Worms. Non sembrava affatto il luogo per una persona dei suoi anni e delle sue infermità.

Syme era pronto a credere qualsiasi cosa sulle perversioni di quella disumanizzata confraternita; ma persino lui non poteva credere che il Professore si fosse innamorato di quella particolare signora di cera. Poteva solo supporre che il male dell’uomo (qualunque fosse) comportasse qualche momentaneo accesso di rigidità o di trance. Non era propenso, tuttavia, a provare in questo caso alcun sentimento molto compassionevole. Al contrario, si congratulava piuttosto con se stesso del fatto che l’ictus di il Professore e la sua elaborata e claudicante andatura avrebbero reso facile sfuggirgli e lasciarlo miglia indietro. Poiché Syme aveva sete, prima e sopra ogni cosa, di liberarsi dell’intera atmosfera velenosa, non foss’altro che per un’ora. Allora avrebbe potuto raccogliere i pensieri, formulare la propria linea di condotta, e decidere finalmente se dovesse o meno tener fede a Gregory.

Se ne andò a passeggio attraverso la neve danzante, imboccò due o tre strade, ne ridiscese due o tre altre, ed entrò in un piccolo ristorante di Soho per pranzare. Consumò riflessivamente quattro piccole e pittoresche portate, bevve mezza bottiglia di vino rosso, e finì davanti a un caffè nero e a un sigaro nero, sempre pensando. Aveva preso posto nella sala superiore del ristorante, che era piena del tintinnio dei coltelli e del chiacchiericcio degli stranieri. Ricordava che nei vecchi tempi aveva immaginato che tutti questi innocui e cordiali forestieri fossero anarchici. Rabbrividì, ricordando la cosa reale. Ma persino il brivido aveva la deliziosa vergogna della fuga scampata. Il vino, il cibo comune, il luogo familiare, i volti di uomini naturali e chiacchieroni, gli facevano quasi sentire come se il Consiglio dei Sette Giorni fosse stato un brutto sogno; e benché sapesse che era nondimeno una realtà oggettiva, era almeno una realtà lontana. Alte case e strade popolose si frapponevano tra lui e l’ultima visione dei vergognosi sette; egli era libero nella libera Londra, e beveva vino tra i liberi. Con gesto un poco più disinvolto, prese il cappello e il bastone e scese per le scale nella bottega sottostante.

Quando entrò in quella sala inferiore rimase impietrito e inchiodato al suolo. A un tavolino, accostato alla vetrina nuda e alla bianca strada di neve, sedeva il vecchio Professore anarchico davanti a un bicchiere di latte, con il viso livido sollevato e le palpebre cadenti. Per un istante Syme rimase rigido come il bastone su cui si appoggiava. Poi, con un gesto come di cieca fretta, passò rapido accanto a il Professore, spalancando la porta e sbattendola dietro di sé, e si fermò fuori nella neve.

«Può quel vecchio cadavere starmi seguendo?» si domandò, mordendosi i baffi gialli. «Mi sono trattenuto troppo a lungo lassù in quella stanza, tanto che perfino piedi di piombo come i suoi hanno potuto raggiungermi. Una consolazione è che, con un po’ di svelta camminata, posso mettere un uomo come quello tanto lontano quanto Timbuctù. Oppure sono troppo fantasioso? Mi stava davvero seguendo? Di certo Sunday non sarebbe stato tanto sciocco da mandare uno zoppo?»

Si mise in cammino a passo svelto, torcendo e roteando il bastone, in direzione di Covent Garden. Mentre attraversava il grande mercato la neve aumentò, facendosi accecante e sconcertante man mano che il pomeriggio cominciava a oscurarsi. I fiocchi di neve lo tormentavano come uno sciame di api d’argento. Finendogli negli occhi e nella barba, aggiungevano la loro incessante futilità ai nervi già irritati; e nel tempo in cui giunse a passo dondolante all’imbocco di Fleet Street, perse la pazienza, e, trovando una sala da tè aperta di domenica, vi si infilò per ripararsi. Ordinò un’altra tazza di caffè nero come pretesto. Aveva appena finito di farlo, quando il Professor de Worms arrancò pesantemente dentro la bottega, si sedette a fatica e ordinò un bicchiere di latte.

Il bastone da passeggio di Syme gli era caduto di mano con un gran fragore, che tradì l’acciaio celato. Ma il Professore non si voltò a guardare. Syme, che di solito era un tipo freddo, se ne stava letteralmente a bocca aperta come un villico che sbadiglia dinanzi a un gioco di prestigio. Non aveva visto alcuna carrozza seguirlo; non aveva udito ruote fuori dalla bottega; a ogni mortale apparenza l’uomo era venuto a piedi. Ma il vecchio non sapeva camminare che come una lumaca, e Syme aveva camminato come il vento. Balzò in piedi e afferrò il bastone, mezzo impazzito per la contraddizione della pura aritmetica, e si slanciò fuori dalle porte a battente, lasciando il caffè intatto. Un omnibus diretto alla Banca passò rombando con insolita rapidità. Dovette fare una violenta corsa di cento metri per raggiungerlo; ma riuscì a balzarci sopra, oscillando sul predellino e, fermandosi un istante per ansimare, si arrampicò in cima. Quando era rimasto seduto per circa mezzo minuto, udì dietro di sé una sorta di respiro pesante e asmatico.

Voltandosi di scatto, vide salire gradatamente sempre più su per i gradini dell’omnibus un cappello a cilindro sporco e grondante di neve, e sotto l’ombra della sua tesa il viso miope e le spalle malferme del Professor de Worms. Egli si lasciò andare su un sedile con caratteristica cautela, e si avvolse fino al mento nella coperta impermeabile.

Every movement of the old man’s tottering figure and vague hands, every uncertain gesture and panic-stricken pause, seemed to put it beyond question that he was helpless, that he was in the last imbecility of the body. He moved by inches, he let himself down with little gasps of caution. And yet, unless the philosophical entities called time and space have no vestige even of a practical existence, it appeared quite unquestionable that he had run after the omnibus.

Syme sprang erect upon the rocking car, and after staring wildly at the wintry sky, that grew gloomier every moment, he ran down the steps. He had repressed an elemental impulse to leap over the side.

Too bewildered to look back or to reason, he rushed into one of the little courts at the side of Fleet Street as a rabbit rushes into a hole. He had a vague idea, if this incomprehensible old Jack-in-the-box was really pursuing him, that in that labyrinth of little streets he could soon throw him off the scent. He dived in and out of those crooked lanes, which were more like cracks than thoroughfares; and by the time that he had completed about twenty alternate angles and described an unthinkable polygon, he paused to listen for any sound of pursuit. There was none; there could not in any case have been much, for the little streets were thick with the soundless snow. Somewhere behind Red Lion Court, however, he noticed a place where some energetic citizen had cleared away the snow for a space of about twenty yards, leaving the wet, glistening cobble-stones. He thought little of this as he passed it, only plunging into yet another arm of the maze. But when a few hundred yards farther on he stood still again to listen, his heart stood still also, for he heard from that space of rugged stones the clinking crutch and labouring feet of the infernal cripple.

The sky above was loaded with the clouds of snow, leaving London in a darkness and oppression premature for that hour of the evening. On each side of Syme the walls of the alley were blind and featureless; there was no little window or any kind of eve. He felt a new impulse to break out of this hive of houses, and to get once more into the open and lamp-lit street. Yet he rambled and dodged for a long time before he struck the main thoroughfare. When he did so, he struck it much farther up than he had fancied. He came out into what seemed the vast and void of Ludgate Circus, and saw St. Paul’s Cathedral sitting in the sky.

At first he was startled to find these great roads so empty, as if a pestilence had swept through the city. Then he told himself that some degree of emptiness was natural; first because the snow-storm was even dangerously deep, and secondly because it was Sunday. And at the very word Sunday he bit his lip; the word was henceforth for hire like some indecent pun. Under the white fog of snow high up in the heaven the whole atmosphere of the city was turned to a very queer kind of green twilight, as of men under the sea. The sealed and sullen sunset behind the dark dome of St. Paul’s had in it smoky and sinister colours— colours of sickly green, dead red or decaying bronze, that were just bright enough to emphasise the solid whiteness of the snow. But right up against these dreary colours rose the black bulk of the cathedral; and upon the top of the cathedral was a random splash and great stain of snow, still clinging as to an Alpine peak. It had fallen accidentally, but just so fallen as to half drape the dome from its very topmost point, and to pick out in perfect silver the great orb and the cross. When Syme saw it he suddenly straightened himself, and made with his sword-stick an involuntary salute.

He knew that that evil figure, his shadow, was creeping quickly or slowly behind him, and he did not care.

It seemed a symbol of human faith and valour that while the skies were darkening that high place of the earth was bright. The devils might have captured heaven, but they had not yet captured the cross. He had a new impulse to tear out the secret of this dancing, jumping and pursuing paralytic; and at the entrance of the court as it opened upon the Circus he turned, stick in hand, to face his pursuer.

Professor de Worms came slowly round the corner of the irregular alley behind him, his unnatural form outlined against a lonely gas-lamp, irresistibly recalling that very imaginative figure in the nursery rhymes, “the crooked man who went a crooked mile.” He really looked as if he had been twisted out of shape by the tortuous streets he had been threading. He came nearer and nearer, the lamplight shining on his lifted spectacles, his lifted, patient face. Syme waited for him as St. George waited for the dragon, as a man waits for a final explanation or for death. And the old Professor came right up to him and passed him like a total stranger, without even a blink of his mournful eyelids.

There was something in this silent and unexpected innocence that left Syme in a final fury. The man’s colourless face and manner seemed to assert that the whole following had been an accident. Syme was galvanised with an energy that was something between bitterness and a burst of boyish derision. He made a wild gesture as if to knock the old man’s hat off, called out something like “Catch me if you can,” and went racing away across the white, open Circus. Concealment was impossible now; and looking back over his shoulder, he could see the black figure of the old gentleman coming after him with long, swinging strides like a man winning a mile race. But the head upon that bounding body was still pale, grave and professional, like the head of a lecturer upon the body of a harlequin.

This outrageous chase sped across Ludgate Circus, up Ludgate Hill, round St. Paul’s Cathedral, along Cheapside, Syme remembering all the nightmares he had ever known. Then Syme broke away towards the river, and ended almost down by the docks. He saw the yellow panes of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer. It was a foul tavern, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium might be smoked or knives drawn.

A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk.

Ogni movimento della figura vacillante del vecchio e delle sue mani vaghe, ogni gesto incerto e ogni pausa presa dal panico, sembravano porre fuori questione che egli fosse indifeso, che fosse nell’ultima imbecillità del corpo. Si muoveva a pollici, si calava con piccoli ansimi di cautela. Eppure, a meno che le entità filosofiche chiamate tempo e spazio non abbiano neppure un vestigio di un’esistenza pratica, appariva del tutto indubitabile che egli fosse corso dietro all’omnibus.

Syme scattò eretto sulla vettura oscillante, e dopo aver fissato con occhi smarriti il cielo invernale, che si faceva più cupo a ogni istante, scese di corsa i gradini. Aveva represso un impulso elementare a saltare oltre il fianco.

Troppo sconcertato per guardarsi indietro o per ragionare, si precipitò in uno dei piccoli cortili a lato di Fleet Street come un coniglio si precipita in una tana. Aveva una vaga idea, se questo incomprensibile diavoletto a molla lo stava davvero inseguendo, che in quel labirinto di stradine avrebbe potuto presto fargli perdere la pista. Si tuffò dentro e fuori quei viottoli tortuosi, che assomigliavano più a crepe che a vie di passaggio; e nel tempo in cui ebbe compiuto una ventina di angoli alternati e descritto un impensabile poligono, si fermò per ascoltare qualsiasi rumore d’inseguimento. Non ce n’era nessuno; e in ogni caso non avrebbe potuto essercene molto, poiché le stradine erano dense di neve senza suono. Da qualche parte dietro Red Lion Court, tuttavia, notò un luogo dove qualche energico cittadino aveva sgombrato la neve per uno spazio di circa venti metri, lasciando i ciottoli umidi e luccicanti. Vi prestò poca attenzione mentre lo oltrepassava, tuffandosi soltanto in un altro braccio ancora del labirinto. Ma quando, qualche centinaio di metri più oltre, si fermò di nuovo immobile ad ascoltare, anche il suo cuore si fermò, poiché udì, da quello spazio di pietre scabre, il tintinnio della stampella e il passo affannoso dell’infernale sciancato.

Il cielo lassù era carico delle nubi della neve, lasciando Londra in un buio e in un’oppressione prematuri per quell’ora della sera. Ai due lati di Syme le pareti del vicolo erano cieche e senza tratti; non vi era una piccola finestra né alcuna sorta di apertura. Sentì un nuovo impulso a rompere fuori da quell’alveare di case, e a ritrovarsi ancora una volta nella strada aperta e illuminata dai lampioni. Eppure vagabondò e schivò per un lungo tempo prima di imbattersi nell’arteria principale. Quando vi riuscì, la imboccò molto più in su di quanto avesse immaginato. Sbucò in quello che sembrava il vasto vuoto di Ludgate Circus, e vide la Cattedrale di St. Paul assisa nel cielo.

Dapprima trasalì nel trovare queste grandi strade così deserte, come se una pestilenza avesse spazzato la città. Poi si disse che un certo grado di vuoto era naturale; in primo luogo perché la tempesta di neve era persino pericolosamente fitta, e in secondo luogo perché era domenica. E alla parola stessa domenica si morse il labbro; la parola era ormai a nolo come un qualche osceno bisticcio. Sotto la bianca nebbia di neve alta lassù in cielo l’intera atmosfera della città era mutata in una assai strana specie di crepuscolo verde, come di uomini sotto il mare. Il tramonto sigillato e imbronciato dietro l’oscura cupola di St. Paul aveva in sé colori fumosi e sinistri — colori di verde malaticcio, di rosso morto o di bronzo in decomposizione, che erano appena abbastanza luminosi da sottolineare la solida bianchezza della neve. Ma proprio a ridosso di questi colori tetri si ergeva la nera mole della cattedrale; e sulla cima della cattedrale c’era uno schizzo casuale e una grande macchia di neve, ancora aggrappata come a una vetta alpina. Era caduta per caso, ma caduta appunto così da drappeggiare a metà la cupola dal suo punto più sommo, e da far risaltare in perfetto argento il grande globo e la croce. Quando Syme la vide si raddrizzò d’un tratto, e fece con il suo bastone-spada un involontario saluto.

Sapeva che quella figura malvagia, la sua ombra, stava strisciando rapida o lenta dietro di lui, e non gliene importava.

Sembrava un simbolo della fede e del valore umani che, mentre i cieli si oscuravano, quell’alto luogo della terra fosse luminoso. I diavoli avrebbero potuto conquistare il cielo, ma non avevano ancora conquistato la croce. Ebbe un nuovo impulso a strappar via il segreto di quel paralitico che danzava, saltava e inseguiva; e all’imbocco del cortile, là dove si apriva sul Circus, si voltò, bastone in pugno, per affrontare il suo inseguitore.

Il Professor de Worms venne lentamente a girare l’angolo dell’irregolare vicolo alle sue spalle, la sua forma innaturale stagliata contro un solitario lampione a gas, che richiamava irresistibilmente quella tanto fantasiosa figura delle filastrocche infantili, «l’uomo storto che percorse un miglio storto». Sembrava davvero come se fosse stato contorto dalle stesse vie tortuose che aveva percorso. Si avvicinava sempre di più, la luce del lampione che gli brillava sugli occhiali sollevati, sul viso sollevato e paziente. Syme lo attendeva come San Giorgio attese il drago, come un uomo attende una spiegazione finale o la morte. E il vecchio Professore gli venne proprio davanti e gli passò accanto come un perfetto sconosciuto, senza neppure un battito delle sue meste palpebre.

C’era qualcosa in questa silenziosa e inattesa innocenza che lasciò Syme in una furia definitiva. Il viso e i modi scoloriti dell’uomo parevano affermare che l’intero inseguimento fosse stato un caso. Syme fu galvanizzato da un’energia che era qualcosa a metà tra l’amarezza e uno scoppio di puerile scherno. Fece un gesto selvaggio come per far saltar via il cappello del vecchio, gridò qualcosa come «Prendimi se ci riesci», e si mise a correre via attraverso il bianco e aperto Circus. L’occultamento era ormai impossibile; e voltandosi a guardare al di sopra della spalla, poté vedere la nera figura del vecchio signore venirgli dietro a lunghe falcate dondolanti come un uomo che vince una corsa sul miglio. Ma la testa su quel corpo balzante era ancora pallida, grave e professionale, come la testa di un docente sul corpo di un arlecchino.

Questa oltraggiosa caccia sfrecciò attraverso Ludgate Circus, su per Ludgate Hill, intorno alla Cattedrale di St. Paul, lungo Cheapside, mentre Syme ricordava tutti gli incubi che avesse mai conosciuto. Poi Syme deviò di scatto verso il fiume, e finì quasi giù presso i docks. Vide i vetri gialli di una bassa e illuminata osteria, vi si gettò dentro e ordinò della birra. Era una taverna immonda, spruzzata di marinai stranieri, un luogo dove si poteva fumare oppio o sguainare coltelli.

Un momento dopo il Professor de Worms entrò nel locale, si sedette con cautela, e chiese un bicchiere di latte.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS

WHEN Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing. It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk.

One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation—

“Are you a policeman?”

Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.

“A policeman?” he said, laughing vaguely. “Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?”

“The process was simple enough,” answered the Professor patiently. “I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now.”

“Did I take a policeman’s hat by mistake out of the restaurant?” asked Syme, smiling wildly. “Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman.”

The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony.

“But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being anything in German thought.”

“Are you in the police service?” said the old man, ignoring all Syme’s improvised and desperate raillery. “Are you a detective?”

Syme’s heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.

“Your suggestion is ridiculous,” he began. “Why on earth—”

The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.

“Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?” he shrieked in a high, crazy voice. “Are you, or are you not, a police detective?”

“No!” answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman’s drop.

“You swear it,” said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. “You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?”

He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.

“I am not in the British police,” said Syme with insane calm.

Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse.

“That’s a pity,” he said, “because I am.”

Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.

“Because you are what?” he said thickly. “You are what?”

“I am a policeman,” said the Professor with his first broad smile. and beaming through his spectacles. “But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters’ club. I suppose I ought to arrest you.” And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.

Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation. There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter. Syme’s egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.

CAPITOLO VIII

IL PROFESSORE SI SPIEGA

Quando Gabriel Syme si trovò finalmente sistemato su una sedia, e di fronte a lui, fissi e definitivi anch’essi, le sopracciglia inarcate e le palpebre plumbee del Professore, le sue paure tornarono per intero. Quell’uomo incomprensibile uscito dal feroce consiglio, dopo tutto, lo aveva certamente inseguito. Se costui aveva un carattere da paralitico e un altro da inseguitore, l’antitesi poteva renderlo più interessante, ma di certo non più rassicurante. Sarebbe stata ben magra consolazione che egli non riuscisse a smascherare il Professore, se per qualche grave disgrazia il Professore fosse riuscito a smascherare lui. Vuotò un intero boccale di peltro colmo di birra prima che il professore avesse toccato il suo latte.

Una possibilità, tuttavia, lo teneva speranzoso e insieme impotente. Era appena possibile che quella bravata significasse qualcosa di diverso persino da un lieve sospetto sul suo conto. Forse era una qualche formula o segno consueto. Forse quella folle corsa era una sorta di segnale amichevole che egli avrebbe dovuto comprendere. Forse era un rito. Forse il nuovo Giovedì veniva sempre inseguito lungo Cheapside, come il nuovo Sindaco vi viene sempre scortato. Stava proprio scegliendo una domanda esplorativa, quando il vecchio Professore di fronte lo interruppe di colpo e senza tanti complimenti. Prima che Syme potesse porre la sua prima domanda diplomatica, il vecchio anarchico gli aveva chiesto all’improvviso, senza alcuna sorta di preparazione:

«Siete un poliziotto?»

Qualunque cosa Syme si fosse aspettato, non si era mai aspettato nulla di così brutale e concreto. Persino la sua grande presenza di spirito seppe raccogliere soltanto una risposta dall’aria di goffa giovialità.

«Un poliziotto?» disse, ridendo vagamente. «Che cosa mai vi ha fatto pensare a un poliziotto a proposito di me?»

«Il procedimento è stato abbastanza semplice» rispose il Professore con pazienza. «Ho pensato che avevate l’aria di un poliziotto. Lo penso anche adesso.»

«Ho forse preso per sbaglio il cappello di un poliziotto uscendo dal ristorante?» chiese Syme, con un sorriso stralunato. «Mi sono per caso attaccato addosso un numero da qualche parte? I miei stivali hanno per caso quell’aria vigile? Perché devo essere un poliziotto? Su, su, lasciatemi essere un postino.»

Il vecchio Professore scosse il capo con una gravità che non lasciava alcuna speranza, ma Syme proseguì con una febbrile ironia.

«Ma forse ho frainteso le sottigliezze della vostra filosofia tedesca. Forse poliziotto è un termine relativo. In senso evolutivo, signore, la scimmia sfuma così gradualmente nel poliziotto che io stesso non riesco mai a cogliere la gradazione. La bertuccia non è che il poliziotto in potenza. Forse una zitella del Clapham Common non è che il poliziotto che avrebbe potuto essere. Non ho nulla in contrario a essere il poliziotto che avrebbe potuto essere. Non ho nulla in contrario a essere qualsiasi cosa nel pensiero tedesco.»

«Siete al servizio della polizia?» disse il vecchio, ignorando tutte le improvvisate e disperate facezie di Syme. «Siete un detective?»

Il cuore di Syme si mutò in pietra, ma il suo volto non mutò affatto.

«La vostra supposizione è ridicola» cominciò. «Perché mai…»

Il vecchio batté con impeto la mano tremante sul tavolo traballante, quasi spaccandolo.

«Mi avete sentito porvi una domanda chiara, voi, spia ciarliera?» strillò con voce acuta e forsennata. «Siete, o non siete, un detective della polizia?»

«No!» rispose Syme, come un uomo ritto sulla botola del patibolo.

«Lo giurate» disse il vecchio, sporgendosi verso di lui, il volto morto che si faceva, per così dire, ripugnantemente vivo. «Lo giurate! Lo giurate! Se giurate il falso, sarete dannato? Sarete certo che il diavolo danzerà al vostro funerale? Farete in modo che l’incubo si accovacci sulla vostra tomba? Non ci sarà davvero alcun errore? Siete un anarchico, siete un dinamitardo! E soprattutto non siete in alcun senso un detective? Non appartenete alla polizia britannica?»

Sporse il gomito spigoloso ben oltre il tavolo, e portò la grande mano molle all’orecchio, come una conchiglia.

«Non appartengo alla polizia britannica» disse Syme con folle calma.

Il professor de Worms si lasciò cadere all’indietro sulla sedia con una curiosa aria di benevolo cedimento.

«È un peccato» disse, «perché io sì.»

Syme scattò dritto in piedi, rovesciando la panca dietro di sé con fracasso.

«Perché siete che cosa?» disse con voce impastata. «Siete che cosa?»

«Sono un poliziotto» disse il Professore con il suo primo largo sorriso, raggiante dietro gli occhiali. «Ma poiché voi ritenete che poliziotto sia soltanto un termine relativo, naturalmente io non ho nulla a che fare con voi. Appartengo al corpo di polizia britannico; ma poiché voi mi dite di non appartenere alla polizia britannica, non posso che dire di avervi incontrato in un club di dinamitardi. Suppongo che dovrei arrestarvi.» E con queste parole depose sul tavolo davanti a Syme una copia esatta della carta azzurra che Syme portava nel taschino del proprio panciotto, il simbolo del suo potere conferitogli dalla polizia.

Syme ebbe per un lampo la sensazione che il cosmo si fosse capovolto di netto, che tutti gli alberi crescessero all’ingiù e che tutte le stelle fossero sotto i suoi piedi. Poi venne lentamente la convinzione opposta. Nelle ultime ventiquattr’ore il cosmo era davvero stato capovolto, ma ora l’universo rovesciato si era rimesso col verso giusto. Questo diavolo da cui era fuggito tutto il giorno non era che un fratello maggiore della sua stessa casa, che dall’altra parte del tavolo si abbandonava all’indietro ridendo di lui. Sul momento non pose alcuna domanda di dettaglio; conobbe soltanto il felice e sciocco fatto che quest’ombra, che lo aveva inseguito con un’intollerabile oppressione di pericolo, non era che l’ombra di un amico che cercava di raggiungerlo. Comprese nello stesso istante di essere uno sciocco e un uomo libero. Poiché a ogni guarigione dalla morbosità deve accompagnarsi una certa salutare umiliazione. Giunge un certo punto, in tali condizioni, in cui sono possibili soltanto tre cose: primo, il perpetuarsi di un orgoglio satanico; secondo, le lacrime; e terzo, il riso. L’egotismo di Syme si aggrappò saldamente alla prima via per qualche secondo, e poi d’improvviso adottò la terza. Preso il proprio biglietto azzurro della polizia dal taschino del proprio panciotto, lo gettò sul tavolo; poi rovesciò indietro il capo finché la sua punta di barba gialla non fu quasi rivolta al soffitto, e proruppe in una risata barbarica.

Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme’s mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.

“What yer laughing at, guv’nor?” asked one wondering labourer from the docks.

“At myself,” answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.

“Pull yourself together,” said the Professor, “or you’ll get hysterical. Have some more beer. I’ll join you.”

“You haven’t drunk your milk,” said Syme.

“My milk!” said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, “my milk! Do you think I’d look at the beastly stuff when I’m out of sight of the bloody anarchists? We’re all Christians in this room, though perhaps,” he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, “not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I’ll finish it right enough!” and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.

Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.

“I understand now,” he cried; “of course, you’re not an old man at all.”

“I can’t take my face off here,” replied Professor de Worms. “It’s rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I’m an old man, that’s not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday.”

“Yes, but I mean,” said Syme impatiently, “there’s nothing the matter with you.”

“Yes,” answered the other dispassionately. “I am subject to colds.”

Syme’s laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights. But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.

The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that that man Gogol was one of us?”

“I? No, I didn’t know it,” answered Syme in some surprise. “But didn’t you?”

“I knew no more than the dead,” replied the man who called himself de Worms. “I thought the President was talking about me, and I rattled in my boots.”

“And I thought he was talking about me,” said Syme, with his rather reckless laughter. “I had my hand on my revolver all the time.”

“So had I,” said the Professor grimly; “so had Gogol evidently.”

Syme struck the table with an exclamation.

“Why, there were three of us there!” he cried. “Three out of seven is a fighting number. If we had only known that we were three!”

The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.

“We were three,” he said. “If we had been three hundred we could still have done nothing.”

“Not if we were three hundred against four?” asked Syme, jeering rather boisterously.

“No,” said the Professor with sobriety, “not if we were three hundred against Sunday.”

And the mere name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips. The face of the unforgettable President sprang into his mind as startling as a coloured photograph, and he remarked this difference between Sunday and all his satellites, that their faces, however fierce or sinister, became gradually blurred by memory like other human faces, whereas Sunday’s seemed almost to grow more actual during absence, as if a man’s painted portrait should slowly come alive.

They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme’s speech came with a rush, like the sudden foaming of champagne.

“Professor,” he cried, “it is intolerable. Are you afraid of this man?”

The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.

“Yes, I am,” he said mildly. “So are you.”

Syme was dumb for an instant. Then he rose to his feet erect, like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.

“Yes,” he said in a voice indescribable, “you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.”

“How?” asked the staring Professor. “Why?”

“Because I am afraid of him,” said Syme; “and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.”

De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder. He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of inhuman exaltation—

“Who would condescend to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless—like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites to the brigand of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said, ‘I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards.’ So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.”

The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.

“Sunday is a fixed star,” he said.

“You shall see him a falling star,” said Syme, and put on his hat.

The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, with a sort of benevolent bewilderment, “exactly where you are going?”

“Yes,” replied Syme shortly, “I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris.”

“Have you any conception how?” inquired the other.

“No,” said Syme with equal decision.

“You remember, of course,” resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, “that when we broke up rather hurriedly the whole arrangements for the atrocity were left in the private hands of the Marquis and Dr. Bull. The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel. But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don’t know. The only man who does know is Dr. Bull.”

Persino in quel chiuso covo, riempito senza posa dal fragore di coltelli, piatti, boccali, voci clamorose, improvvise risse e fuggi fuggi, c’era qualcosa di omerico nell’ilarità di Syme che indusse molti uomini mezzi ubriachi a voltarsi.

«Che c’avete da ridere, capo?» chiese un manovale del porto, incuriosito.

«Di me stesso» rispose Syme, e si abbandonò di nuovo all’agonia della sua reazione estatica.

«Riprendetevi» disse il Professore, «o vi verrà una crisi isterica. Prendete ancora un po’ di birra. Vi tengo compagnia.»

«Non avete bevuto il vostro latte» disse Syme.

«Il mio latte!» disse l’altro, in tono di sprezzo tagliente e insondabile, «il mio latte! Credete che degnerei di uno sguardo quella schifezza quando sono fuori dalla vista di quei maledetti anarchici? Qui dentro siamo tutti cristiani, anche se forse» aggiunse, gettando un’occhiata intorno sulla folla barcollante, «non troppo osservanti. Finire il mio latte? Per tutti i fulmini! sì, altroché se lo finisco!» E buttò il bicchiere giù dal tavolo, con un fracasso di vetro e uno schizzo di fluido argenteo.

Syme lo fissava con una felice curiosità.

«Adesso capisco» esclamò; «naturalmente, non siete affatto un vecchio.»

«Non posso togliermi la faccia qui» replicò il professor de Worms. «È un trucco piuttosto elaborato. Quanto al fatto se io sia un vecchio, non sta a me dirlo. Ho compiuto trentotto anni all’ultimo compleanno.»

«Sì, ma voglio dire» disse Syme con impazienza, «non avete nulla che non vada.»

«Sì» rispose l’altro con distacco. «Sono soggetto ai raffreddori.»

Il riso di Syme di fronte a tutto ciò aveva in sé una selvaggia fiacchezza di sollievo. Rideva all’idea che il Professore paralitico fosse in realtà un giovane attore agghindato come per le luci della ribalta. Ma sentiva che avrebbe riso altrettanto forte se fosse caduta una pepiera.

Il falso Professore bevve e si asciugò la falsa barba.

«Sapevate» chiese, «che quel tale, Gogol, era uno dei nostri?»

«Io? No, non lo sapevo» rispose Syme con una certa sorpresa. «Ma voi non lo sapevate?»

«Non ne sapevo più di un morto» replicò l’uomo che si faceva chiamare de Worms. «Credevo che il Presidente stesse parlando di me, e mi tremavano le ginocchia negli stivali.»

«E io credevo che parlasse di me» disse Syme, con la sua risata piuttosto temeraria. «Ho tenuto la mano sulla rivoltella per tutto il tempo.»

«Anch’io» disse il Professore cupamente; «e così pure Gogol, evidentemente.»

Syme batté sul tavolo con un’esclamazione.

«Ma allora eravamo in tre, là!» esclamò. «Tre su sette è un numero da battaglia. Se solo avessimo saputo di essere in tre!»

Il volto del professor de Worms si oscurò, ed egli non alzò lo sguardo.

«Eravamo in tre» disse. «Se fossimo stati in trecento non avremmo potuto fare nulla lo stesso.»

«Nemmeno se fossimo stati trecento contro quattro?» chiese Syme, beffardo con una certa turbolenza.

«No» disse il Professore con sobrietà, «nemmeno se fossimo stati trecento contro Domenica.»

E il solo nome gettò Syme nel freddo e nella serietà; il riso gli era morto nel cuore prima che potesse morirgli sulle labbra. Il volto dell’indimenticabile Presidente gli balzò alla mente vivido come una fotografia a colori, e osservò questa differenza tra Domenica e tutti i suoi satelliti: che i loro volti, per feroci o sinistri che fossero, andavano gradualmente offuscandosi nella memoria come tutti gli altri volti umani, mentre quello di Domenica pareva quasi farsi più reale durante l’assenza, come se il ritratto dipinto di un uomo dovesse lentamente prendere vita.

Rimasero entrambi in silenzio per la misura di qualche istante, e poi il discorso di Syme venne in un fiotto, come l’improvviso spumeggiare dello champagne.

«Professore» esclamò, «è intollerabile. Avete paura di quest’uomo?»

Il Professore sollevò le pesanti palpebre, e guardò Syme con grandi occhi azzurri, spalancati, di una sincerità quasi eterea.

«Sì, ne ho paura» disse con dolcezza. «E anche voi.»

Syme restò muto per un istante. Poi si alzò in piedi, dritto come un uomo offeso, e scostò da sé la sedia.

«Sì» disse con voce indescrivibile, «avete ragione. Ho paura di lui. Perciò giuro davanti a Dio che cercherò quest’uomo di cui ho paura finché non lo troverò, e lo colpirò sulla bocca. Se il cielo fosse il suo trono e la terra lo sgabello dei suoi piedi, giuro che lo trascinerei giù.»

«Come?» chiese il Professore con gli occhi sbarrati. «Perché?»

«Perché ho paura di lui» disse Syme; «e nessun uomo dovrebbe lasciare nell’universo alcunché di cui abbia paura.»

De Worms lo guardò socchiudendo gli occhi, con una sorta di cieca meraviglia. Fece uno sforzo per parlare, ma Syme proseguì a voce bassa, con un sottofondo di inumana esaltazione:

«Chi mai si abbasserebbe ad abbattere le semplici cose di cui non ha paura? Chi mai si degraderebbe a essere soltanto coraggioso, come un qualunque pugile da fiera? Chi mai si piegherebbe a essere impavido, come un albero? Combatti la cosa di cui hai paura. Ricordate la vecchia storia del pastore inglese che diede l’estrema unzione al brigante di Sicilia, e come sul letto di morte il grande predone disse: “Non posso darvi denaro, ma posso darvi un consiglio per tutta la vita: il pollice sulla lama, e colpisci verso l’alto.” Così io dico a voi: colpite verso l’alto, se colpite alle stelle.»

L’altro guardò il soffitto, uno dei trucchi della sua posa.

«Domenica è una stella fissa» disse.

«Lo vedrete cadere come una stella» disse Syme, e si mise il cappello.

La decisione del suo gesto trasse vagamente in piedi il Professore.

«Avete una qualche idea» chiese, con una sorta di benevolo sconcerto, «di dove esattamente stiate andando?»

«Sì» rispose Syme secco, «vado a impedire che questa bomba venga lanciata a Parigi.»

«Avete una qualche concezione di come?» s’informò l’altro.

«No» disse Syme con pari decisione.

«Ricorderete, naturalmente» riprese il sedicente de Worms, tirandosi la barba e guardando fuori dalla finestra, «che quando ci sciogliemmo piuttosto in fretta, tutti i preparativi dell’attentato rimasero nelle mani private del Marchese e del dottor Bull. Il Marchese, a quest’ora, sta probabilmente attraversando la Manica. Ma dove andrà e cosa farà, è dubbio che persino il Presidente lo sappia; noi di certo non lo sappiamo. L’unico che lo sa è il dottor Bull.»

“Confound it!” cried Syme. “And we don’t know where he is.”

“Yes,” said the other in his curious, absent-minded way, “I know where he is myself.”

“Will you tell me?” asked Syme with eager eyes.

“I will take you there,” said the Professor, and took down his own hat from a peg.

Syme stood looking at him with a sort of rigid excitement.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Will you join me? Will you take the risk?”

“Young man,” said the Professor pleasantly, “I am amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it,” and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks.

Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame.

“Where are you going?” Syme inquired.

“Just now,” answered the Professor, “I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early.”

“Dr. Bull!” exclaimed Syme. “Does he live round the corner?”

“No,” answered his friend. “As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed.”

Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream.

Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes.

Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot.

“We are too late,” he said, “the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Syme. “Does he live over there, then?”

“Yes,” said de Worms, “behind that particular window which you can’t see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him to-morrow morning.”

Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road.

“You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils,” explained the Professor. “I once found a decent place in the West End.”

“I suppose,” said Syme, smiling, “that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?”

“It is,” said the Professor reverently, and went in.

In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme’s sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.

Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme’s.

“That’s a good get-up of yours,” said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; “a lot better than old Gogol’s. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy.”

“A difference of artistic theory,” replied the Professor pensively. “Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression. I am a portrait.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Syme.

“I am a portrait,” repeated the Professor. “I am a portrait of the celebrated Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples.”

“You mean you are made up like him,” said Syme. “But doesn’t he know that you are taking his nose in vain?”

“He knows it right enough,” replied his friend cheerfully.

“Then why doesn’t he denounce you?”

“I have denounced him,” answered the Professor.

“Do explain yourself,” said Syme.

“With pleasure, if you don’t mind hearing my story,” replied the eminent foreign philosopher. “I am by profession an actor, and my name is Wilks. When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully. I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic. When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor’s dirty old self. When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself. I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.

«Maledizione!» esclamò Syme. «E noi non sappiamo dove sia.»

«Sì» disse l’altro nel suo curioso modo assorto, «io so dove si trova.»

«Me lo direte?» chiese Syme con occhi ansiosi.

«Vi ci porterò» disse il Professore, e staccò da un gancio il proprio cappello.

Syme rimase a guardarlo con una sorta di rigida eccitazione.

«Che cosa intendete?» chiese bruscamente. «Vi unirete a me? Correrete il rischio?»

«Giovanotto» disse il Professore amabilmente, «mi diverte osservare che mi credete un codardo. Su questo dirò una sola parola, e sarà interamente nella maniera della vostra stessa retorica filosofica. Voi pensate che sia possibile abbattere il Presidente. Io so che è impossibile, e sto per tentarlo»; e aprendo la porta della taverna, che lasciò entrare una folata d’aria pungente, uscirono insieme nelle strade buie presso i moli.

La maggior parte della neve si era sciolta o era stata calpestata fino a farsi fango, ma qua e là un grumo di essa mostrava ancora un colore grigio più che bianco nell’oscurità. Le stradine erano fradice e piene di pozzanghere, che riflettevano irregolarmente i lampioni fiammeggianti, e per caso, come frammenti di un altro mondo caduto. Syme si sentiva quasi stordito mentre avanzava attraverso quella crescente confusione di luci e di ombre; ma il suo compagno proseguiva con una certa alacrità, verso il punto in cui, in fondo alla strada, un pollice o due di fiume illuminato dai lampioni sembrava una sbarra di fiamma.

«Dove state andando?» s’informò Syme.

«In questo momento» rispose il Professore, «vado giusto qui dietro l’angolo a vedere se il dottor Bull è andato a letto. È un igienista, e si corica presto.»

«Il dottor Bull!» esclamò Syme. «Abita dietro l’angolo?»

«No» rispose l’amico. «In realtà abita piuttosto lontano, dall’altra parte del fiume, ma da qui possiamo capire se è andato a letto.»

Svoltando l’angolo mentre parlava, e volgendosi verso il fiume fioco, screziato di fiamma, indicò col bastone l’altra sponda. Sul lato del Surrey, in quel punto, si protendeva nel Tamigi, quasi da sovrastarlo, una massa e un aggregato di quelle alte casipole, punteggiate di finestre illuminate, che si ergevano come ciminiere di fabbrica a un’altezza quasi folle. La loro particolare postura e posizione facevano sì che un blocco di edifici somigliasse in modo speciale a una Torre di Babele dai cento occhi. Syme non aveva mai visto nessuno dei grattacieli d’America, e così poté soltanto pensare agli edifici di un sogno.

Proprio mentre fissava, la luce più alta di quel torrione dagli innumerevoli lumi si spense di colpo, come se quell’Argo nero gli avesse strizzato uno dei suoi innumerevoli occhi.

Il professor de Worms girò sui tacchi e batté il bastone contro lo stivale.

«Siamo arrivati troppo tardi» disse, «l’igienico Dottore è andato a letto.»

«Che cosa intendete?» chiese Syme. «Allora abita laggiù?»

«Sì» disse de Worms, «dietro quella particolare finestra che non riuscite a scorgere. Venite a mangiare qualcosa. Dovremo fargli visita domani mattina.»

Senza ulteriori discorsi, si aprì la via attraverso parecchie stradine secondarie finché sbucarono nel bagliore e nel clamore dell’East India Dock Road. Il Professore, che sembrava conoscere bene i dintorni, si diresse verso un punto in cui la fila dei negozi illuminati arretrava in una sorta di brusca penombra e quiete, in cui una vecchia locanda bianca, tutta malandata, si ritraeva una ventina di piedi dalla strada.

«Buone locande inglesi ne trovate lasciate qua e là per caso, dappertutto, come fossili» spiegò il Professore. «Una volta ne trovai una decente nel West End.»

«Suppongo» disse Syme, sorridendo, «che questa sia la corrispondente decente locanda dell’East End?»

«Proprio così» disse il Professore con reverenza, ed entrò.

In quel luogo cenarono e dormirono, entrambi molto a fondo. I fagioli e la pancetta, che quella gente insospettabile cucinava bene, la sorprendente comparsa del Borgogna dalle loro cantine, coronarono in Syme il senso di una nuova cameratismo e di un nuovo conforto. Per tutta quella prova il suo orrore radicale era stato l’isolamento, e non ci sono parole per esprimere l’abisso che separa l’isolamento dall’avere un alleato. Si può concedere ai matematici che quattro è due volte due. Ma due non è due volte uno; due è duemila volte uno. Ecco perché, a dispetto di cento svantaggi, il mondo tornerà sempre alla monogamia.

Syme poté riversare per la prima volta tutta la sua incredibile vicenda, dal momento in cui Gregory lo aveva condotto nella piccola taverna presso il fiume. Lo fece con ozio e con ampiezza, in un lussureggiante monologo, come si parla con amici vecchissimi. Anche da parte sua, l’uomo che aveva impersonato il professor de Worms non fu meno comunicativo. La sua storia era quasi altrettanto sciocca di quella di Syme.

«È un bel travestimento, il vostro» disse Syme, scolando un bicchiere di Mâcon; «assai migliore di quello del vecchio Gogol. Fin dall’inizio pensai che fosse un po’ troppo peloso.»

«Una divergenza di teoria artistica» replicò il Professore pensoso. «Gogol era un idealista. Si truccava secondo l’ideale astratto o platonico dell’anarchico. Io, invece, sono un realista. Sono un ritrattista. Ma, in verità, dire che sono un ritrattista è un’espressione inadeguata. Io sono un ritratto.»

«Non vi capisco» disse Syme.

«Sono un ritratto» ripeté il Professore. «Sono il ritratto del celebre professor de Worms, il quale, credo, si trova a Napoli.»

«Volete dire che siete truccato come lui» disse Syme. «Ma non sa forse che gli state prendendo il naso invano?»

«Lo sa benissimo» replicò l’amico allegramente.

«Allora perché non vi denuncia?»

«Sono io ad averlo denunciato» rispose il Professore.

«Spiegatevi meglio, vi prego» disse Syme.

«Con piacere, se non vi dispiace ascoltare la mia storia» replicò l’eminente filosofo straniero. «Di professione sono attore, e mi chiamo Wilks. Quando calcavo le scene, mi mescolavo a ogni sorta di compagnia bohémienne e di canaglie. Talvolta lambivo il mondo dell’ippica, talvolta la feccia delle arti, e occasionalmente il rifugiato politico. In qualche covo di sognatori in esilio fui presentato al grande filosofo nichilista tedesco, il professor de Worms. Non colsi molto di lui al di là del suo aspetto, che era assai ripugnante, e che studiai con cura. Compresi che aveva dimostrato che il principio distruttore dell’universo era Dio; donde egli insisteva sulla necessità di un’energia furiosa e incessante, che facesse a pezzi tutte le cose. L’energia, diceva, era il Tutto. Era zoppo, miope e in parte paralitico. Quando lo incontrai ero in vena frivola, e mi era così antipatico che decisi di imitarlo. Se fossi stato un disegnatore, ne avrei tracciato una caricatura. Ero soltanto un attore, potevo soltanto recitare una caricatura. Mi truccai in quella che voleva essere una selvaggia esagerazione del vecchio e sudicio io del vecchio Professore. Quando entrai nella stanza piena dei suoi sostenitori, mi aspettavo di essere accolto da un boato di risate, oppure (se erano troppo alticci) da un boato di indignazione per l’offesa. Non so descrivere la sorpresa che provai quando il mio ingresso fu accolto da un rispettoso silenzio, seguito (non appena ebbi aperto bocca) da un mormorio di ammirazione. La maledizione dell’artista perfetto era caduta su di me. Ero stato troppo sottile, ero stato troppo veritiero. Credettero che io fossi davvero il grande Professore nichilista. Ero un giovane dalla mente sana, a quel tempo, e confesso che fu un colpo. Prima però che potessi riprendermi del tutto, due o tre di quegli ammiratori corsero da me raggianti d’indignazione, e mi dissero che nella stanza accanto mi era stato inflitto un pubblico insulto. Ne chiesi la natura. Pareva che un tipo impertinente si fosse conciato come una grottesca parodia di me stesso. Avevo bevuto più champagne di quanto mi facesse bene, e in un lampo di follia decisi di andare fino in fondo alla situazione. Fu dunque per affrontare lo sguardo torvo della compagnia e le mie stesse sopracciglia inarcate e i miei occhi gelidi che il vero Professore entrò nella stanza.

“I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn’t be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself. ‘I don’t fancy,’ he said, ‘that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.’ I replied quite scornfully, ‘You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.’ It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit. ‘I see,’ he sneered, ‘you prevail like the false pig in Aesop.’ ‘And you fail,’ I answered, smiling, ‘like the hedgehog in Montaigne.’ Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne? ‘Your claptrap comes off,’ he said; ‘so would your beard.’ I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered, ‘Like the Pantheist’s boots,’ at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.”

“Well,” said Syme, “I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night’s practical joke, but I don’t understand your never taking it off again.”

“That is the rest of the story,” said the impersonator. “When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent, ‘Yes, I am wanted—by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand, ‘No, sir,’ he said civilly, ‘at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because—”

Syme laid down his knife and fork.

“I know,” he said, “because you talked to him in a dark room.”

Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass.

«Inutile dire che ci fu una collisione. I pessimisti tutt’intorno guardavano ansiosi ora l’uno ora l’altro Professore, per capire quale dei due fosse davvero il più fiacco. Ma vinsi io. Da un vecchio malandato in salute, come il mio rivale, non ci si poteva certo aspettare una fiacchezza così impressionante come quella di un giovane attore nel fiore degli anni. Vedete, lui aveva davvero la paralisi, e operando entro questo preciso limite, non poteva essere paralitico con tanta allegria quanto lo ero io. Poi tentò di demolire le mie pretese sul piano intellettuale. Io lo contrai con uno stratagemma semplicissimo. Ogni volta che diceva qualcosa che nessuno tranne lui poteva capire, replicavo con qualcosa che nemmeno io stesso riuscivo a capire. “Non credo” disse, “che voi possiate aver elaborato il principio secondo cui l’evoluzione è soltanto negazione, giacché in essa inerisce l’introduzione di lacune, che sono un elemento essenziale della differenziazione.” Replicai con tono assai sprezzante: “Avete letto tutto questo in Pinckwerts; l’idea che l’involuzione funzionasse eugeneticamente è stata confutata da un pezzo da Glumpe.” È superfluo che vi dica che non sono mai esistite persone come Pinckwerts e Glumpe. Ma la gente tutt’intorno (con mia certa sorpresa) sembrava ricordarli assai bene, e il Professore, accorgendosi che il metodo dotto e misterioso lo lasciava piuttosto alla mercé di un nemico un tantino privo di scrupoli, ripiegò su una forma di spirito più popolare. “Vedo” sogghignò, “che voi prevalete come il porco falso di Esopo.” “E voi soccombete” risposi, sorridendo, “come il riccio di Montaigne.” C’è bisogno che dica che in Montaigne non c’è alcun riccio? “Le vostre ciarle reggono” disse; “così come reggerebbe la vostra barba.” A questo non avevo alcuna risposta intelligente, ed era del tutto vero e piuttosto arguto. Ma risi di cuore, risposi a caso: “Come gli stivali del panteista”, e girai sui tacchi con tutti gli onori della vittoria. Il vero Professore fu buttato fuori, ma non con violenza, benché un tale cercasse con molta pazienza di strappargli via il naso. Ora, credo, è accolto ovunque in Europa come un delizioso impostore. La sua apparente serietà e la sua collera, capite, lo rendono tanto più divertente.»

«Bene» disse Syme, «posso capire che vi siate messo la sua vecchia barba sudicia per uno scherzo di una notte, ma non capisco perché non ve la siate mai più tolta.»

«Questo è il resto della storia» disse l’impersonatore. «Quando io stesso lasciai la compagnia, seguìto da un reverente applauso, mi allontanai zoppicando per la strada buia, sperando di essere presto abbastanza lontano da poter camminare come un essere umano. Con mio stupore, mentre svoltavo l’angolo, sentii un tocco sulla spalla, e voltandomi mi trovai sotto l’ombra di un enorme poliziotto. Mi disse che ero ricercato. Assunsi una sorta di posa paralitica, e gridai con marcato accento tedesco: “Sì, sono ricercato… dagli oppressi del mondo. Mi state arrestando con l’accusa di essere il grande anarchico, il professor de Worms.” Il poliziotto, impassibile, consultò un foglio che teneva in mano: “No, signore” disse cortesemente, “o almeno, non esattamente, signore. Vi sto arrestando con l’accusa di non essere il celebre anarchico, il professor de Worms.” Questa accusa, se pure era in qualche modo criminosa, era di certo la più lieve delle due, e seguii l’uomo, dubbioso, ma non troppo sgomento. Fui introdotto in una serie di stanze, e infine alla presenza di un ufficiale di polizia, il quale mi spiegò che era stata aperta una seria campagna contro i centri dell’anarchia, e che questa mia riuscita mascherata poteva essere di considerevole valore per la pubblica sicurezza. Mi offrì un buon stipendio e questa piccola carta azzurra. Benché la nostra conversazione fosse breve, mi colpì come un uomo di massiccio buon senso e umorismo; ma non posso dirvi molto di lui personalmente, perché…»

Syme posò coltello e forchetta.

«Lo so» disse, «perché gli avete parlato in una stanza buia.»

Il professor de Worms annuì e vuotò il bicchiere.

CHAPTER IX

THE MAN IN SPECTACLES

“BURGUNDY is a jolly thing,” said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down.

“You don’t look as if it were,” said Syme; “you drink it as if it were medicine.”

“You must excuse my manner,” said the Professor dismally, “my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can’t leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can’t help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead— just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, ‘Buck up, old cock!’ It would bring tears to your eyes.”

“It does,” said Syme; “but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried.”

The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.

“You are a very clever fellow,” he said, “it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,” and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.

Then he said in a low voice—

“Can you play the piano?”

“Yes,” said Syme in simple wonder, “I’m supposed to have a good touch.”

Then, as the other did not speak, he added—

“I trust the great cloud is lifted.”

After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands—

“It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter.”

“Thank you,” said Syme, “you flatter me.”

“Listen to me,” said the other, “and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going to-morrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary’s disease. Don’t you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull.”

“And you think,” said Syme, “that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?”

“Don’t be an ass,” said his mentor. “I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers— like this, see,” and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table—“B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require.”

Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.

“We must have several word-signs,” said Syme seriously—“words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is ‘coeval.’ What’s yours?”

“Do stop playing the goat,” said the Professor plaintively. “You don’t know how serious this is.”

“‘Lush,’ too,” said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, “we must have ‘lush’—word applied to grass, don’t you know?”

“Do you imagine,” asked the Professor furiously, “that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?”

“There are several ways in which the subject could be approached,” said Syme reflectively, “and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, ‘Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer…’”

“Do you understand,” said the other, “that this is a tragedy?”

“Perfectly,” replied Syme; “always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed—”

“Syme,” said his friend with a stern simplicity, “go to bed!”

Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed.

Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold.

“Well,” said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, “I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?”

CAPITOLO IX

L’UOMO CON GLI OCCHIALI

«Il borgogna è una cosa allegra» disse il Professore con tristezza, posando il bicchiere.

«Non si direbbe, a vederti» disse Syme; «lo bevi come se fosse una medicina.»

«Devi scusare i miei modi» disse il Professore tetro; «la mia situazione è piuttosto singolare. Dentro trabocco davvero di una gaiezza fanciullesca; ma ho recitato tanto bene la parte del Professore paralitico, che ormai non riesco più a smettere. Cosicché, quando mi trovo tra amici e non ho alcun bisogno di travestirmi, non posso fare a meno di parlare adagio e di corrugare la fronte — proprio come se fosse la mia fronte. Posso essere del tutto felice, capisci, ma soltanto in una maniera paralitica. Le più esuberanti esclamazioni mi balzano nel cuore, ma escono dalla mia bocca del tutto diverse. Dovresti sentirmi dire: “Su con la vita, vecchio mio!”. Ti farebbe venire le lacrime agli occhi.»

«E infatti» disse Syme; «ma non posso fare a meno di pensare che, a parte tutto questo, tu sia davvero un po’ preoccupato.»

Il Professore ebbe un piccolo sussulto e lo guardò fisso.

«Sei un tipo molto sveglio» disse; «è un piacere lavorare con te. Sì, ho una nube piuttosto pesante in testa. C’è un grande problema da affrontare» e affondò la fronte calva tra le due mani.

Poi disse a voce bassa —

«Sai suonare il pianoforte?»

«Sì» disse Syme con schietta meraviglia, «dicono che io abbia un buon tocco.»

Poi, siccome l’altro non parlava, aggiunse —

«Confido che la grande nube si sia dissolta.»

Dopo un lungo silenzio, il Professore disse dal cavernoso buio delle sue mani —

«Sarebbe andato altrettanto bene se tu avessi saputo usare una macchina da scrivere.»

«Grazie» disse Syme, «mi lusinghi.»

«Ascoltami» disse l’altro, «e ricorda chi dobbiamo incontrare domani. Tu e io domani tenteremo qualcosa di ben più pericoloso che rubare i Gioielli della Corona dalla Torre. Cerchiamo di rubare un segreto a un uomo molto acuto, molto forte e molto malvagio. Credo che non esista uomo, tranne il Presidente, s’intende, tanto seriamente sconcertante e formidabile quanto quel piccolo tizio sogghignante con le lenti. Non ha, forse, il candente entusiasmo fino alla morte, il folle martirio per l’anarchia che contraddistingue il Segretario. Ma d’altronde proprio quel fanatismo del Segretario ha un che di umanamente patetico, ed è quasi un tratto che lo riscatta. Il piccolo Dottore, invece, ha una brutale lucidità più agghiacciante della malattia del Segretario. Non noti la sua detestabile virilità e vitalità? Rimbalza come una palla di gomma. Puoi starne certo, la Domenica non dormiva (mi domando se dorma mai) quando rinchiuse tutti i piani di questo oltraggio nella tonda, nera testa del dottor Bull.»

«E tu pensi» disse Syme, «che questo mostro senza pari si placherà se gli suono il pianoforte?»

«Non fare l’asino» disse il suo mentore. «Ho menzionato il pianoforte perché conferisce dita rapide e indipendenti. Syme, se dobbiamo affrontare questo colloquio e uscirne sani o vivi, dobbiamo avere fra noi un codice di segnali che questo bruto non veda. Ho preparato un rozzo cifrario alfabetico corrispondente alle cinque dita — così, guarda» e tamburellò con le dita sul tavolo di legno — «B A D, bad, cattivo, una parola che potrebbe servirci spesso.»

Syme si versò un altro bicchiere di vino e cominciò a studiare lo schema. Aveva una mente prontissima negli indovinelli, e mani abilissime nei giochi di prestigio, e non ci mise molto a imparare come trasmettere semplici messaggi con quelli che sarebbero parsi oziosi colpetti su un tavolo o su un ginocchio. Ma il vino e la compagnia avevano sempre l’effetto di ispirargli una farsesca ingegnosità, e il Professore si trovò presto alle prese con l’energia troppo vasta del nuovo linguaggio, mentre passava attraverso il cervello surriscaldato di Syme.

«Ci vogliono parecchi segni-parola» disse Syme con serietà — «parole che probabilmente ci serviranno, sottili sfumature di significato. La mia parola preferita è “coevo”. E la tua?»

«Smettila di fare il buffone» disse il Professore lamentoso. «Non capisci quanto sia serio tutto questo.»

«Anche “rigoglioso”» disse Syme, scuotendo il capo con aria assennata, «ci vuole “rigoglioso” — parola che si dice dell’erba, non è vero?»

«Ti immagini forse» chiese il Professore furibondo, «che parleremo al dottor Bull di erba?»

«Ci sono parecchi modi in cui si potrebbe introdurre l’argomento» disse Syme con aria riflessiva, «e infilare la parola senza che paia forzata. Potremmo dire: “Dottor Bull, da rivoluzionario ricorderà che un tiranno un tempo ci consigliò di mangiare erba; e in effetti molti di noi, guardando la fresca e rigogliosa erba d’estate…”»

«Ti rendi conto» disse l’altro, «che questa è una tragedia?»

«Perfettamente» rispose Syme; «bisogna sempre essere comici in una tragedia. Che diavolo altro puoi fare? Vorrei che questo tuo linguaggio avesse una portata più ampia. Non potremmo forse estenderlo dalle dita delle mani a quelle dei piedi? Ciò comporterebbe togliersi stivali e calze nel bel mezzo della conversazione, il che, per quanto discretamente compiuto —»

«Syme» disse il suo amico con severa semplicità, «va’ a letto!»

Syme, tuttavia, rimase seduto sul letto per un tempo considerevole a padroneggiare il nuovo codice. Fu svegliato la mattina dopo, mentre l’oriente era ancora sigillato dall’oscurità, e trovò il suo alleato dalla barba grigia ritto come un fantasma accanto al letto.

Syme si mise a sedere sul letto sbattendo le palpebre; poi raccolse lentamente i pensieri, gettò via le coperte e si alzò in piedi. Gli parve, in certo qual modo curioso, che tutta la sicurezza e la socievolezza della notte precedente cadessero via insieme alle coperte, e si ritrovò in piedi in un’aria di gelido pericolo. Sentiva ancora una fiducia e una lealtà intere verso il compagno; ma era la fiducia tra due uomini avviati al patibolo.

«Ebbene» disse Syme con una allegria forzata mentre si tirava su i calzoni, «ho sognato quel tuo alfabeto. Ci hai messo molto a inventarlo?»

The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question.

“I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I’m considered good at these things, and it was a good hour’s grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?”

The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile.

“How long did it take you?”

The Professor did not move.

“Confound you, can’t you answer?” called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not.

Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man’s silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside.

Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message—

“I will only talk like this. We must get used to it.”

He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief—

“All right. Let’s get out to breakfast.”

They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard.

They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron. They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters. At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and tragic dawn lifting itself laboriously over London. From each the innumerable roofs of slate looked like the leaden surges of a grey, troubled sea after rain. Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past. Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream. As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series. But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion. Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.

By the time they reached Dr. Bull’s landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull’s bare garret it was full of light.

Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak. The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was— the French Revolution. There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning. Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre.

Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away. The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism. His position gave him a somewhat new appearance. The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death’s-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he.

He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table.

The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, comrade,” said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. “You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?” Then he added with infinite slowness, “We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment’s delay.”

Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word—

Il Professore non rispose, ma fissava davanti a sé con occhi del colore di un mare invernale; così Syme ripeté la domanda.

«Dico, ci hai messo molto a inventare tutto questo? Mi ritengono bravo in queste cose, e mi è costato una buona ora di fatica. L’hai imparato tutto lì per lì?»

Il Professore taceva; aveva gli occhi spalancati, e portava un sorriso fisso ma piccolissimo.

«Quanto ci hai messo?»

Il Professore non si mosse.

«Diamine, non sai rispondere?» gridò Syme, in un’improvvisa collera che aveva sotto qualcosa di simile alla paura. Che il Professore potesse rispondere o no, il fatto è che non lo fece.

Syme restò a fissare quel viso rigido come pergamena e quegli occhi vuoti, azzurri. Il suo primo pensiero fu che il Professore fosse impazzito, ma il secondo pensiero fu più spaventoso. Dopotutto, che cosa sapeva di quella strana creatura che aveva sconsideratamente accettato come amico? Che cosa ne sapeva, se non che l’uomo era stato alla colazione degli anarchici e gli aveva raccontato una storia ridicola? Quanto era improbabile che vi fosse là un altro amico oltre a Gogol! Il silenzio di quest’uomo era un modo teatrale di dichiarare guerra? Quello sguardo adamantino era, in fondo, solo l’orribile ghigno di un traditore triplice, che si voltava per l’ultima volta? Restò lì e tese l’orecchio in quel silenzio spietato. Quasi gli parve di sentire dei dinamitardi venuti a catturarlo muoversi furtivamente nel corridoio là fuori.

Poi l’occhio gli scivolò in basso, e scoppiò a ridere. Sebbene il Professore stesse lì immobile e muto come una statua, le sue cinque dita silenziose danzavano vive sul tavolo morto. Syme osservò i movimenti scintillanti della mano parlante, e lesse chiaramente il messaggio —

«Parlerò soltanto così. Dobbiamo abituarci.»

Batté in risposta con l’impazienza del sollievo —

«Va bene. Andiamo a fare colazione.»

Presero cappelli e bastoni in silenzio; ma quando Syme prese il suo bastone-spada, lo strinse forte.

Si fermarono solo pochi minuti per trangugiare caffè e ruvidi, spessi panini a un chiosco, e poi si diressero attraverso il fiume, che sotto la luce grigia e crescente pareva desolato come l’Acheronte. Raggiunsero il piede dell’enorme blocco di edifici che avevano visto dall’altra sponda del fiume, e cominciarono in silenzio a salire i nudi e innumerevoli gradini di pietra, fermandosi solo di tanto in tanto per fare brevi osservazioni sulla ringhiera della balaustra. Circa ogni due rampe passavano davanti a una finestra; ogni finestra mostrava loro una pallida e tragica alba che si levava faticosamente su Londra. Da ciascuna gli innumerevoli tetti di ardesia parevano i plumbei marosi di un mare grigio e agitato dopo la pioggia. Syme era sempre più cosciente che la sua nuova avventura aveva, in qualche modo, una qualità di gelida lucidità peggiore delle folli avventure passate. La notte prima, per esempio, gli alti casamenti gli erano parsi come una torre in un sogno. Mentre ora saliva quei gradini stancanti e perpetui, era intimidito e sgomento dalla loro serie quasi infinita. Ma non era il caldo orrore di un sogno né di qualcosa che potesse essere esagerazione o illusione. La loro infinità somigliava piuttosto al vuoto infinito dell’aritmetica, qualcosa d’impensabile, eppure necessario al pensiero. Oppure era come le sconvolgenti affermazioni dell’astronomia sulla distanza delle stelle fisse. Stava salendo la casa della ragione, cosa più orribile della sragione stessa.

Nel tempo in cui raggiunsero il pianerottolo del dottor Bull, un’ultima finestra mostrò loro un’aspra, bianca alba orlata da banchi di un rosso greve, più simile a creta rossa che a nuvola rossa. E quando entrarono nella nuda soffitta del dottor Bull, essa era piena di luce.

Syme era stato perseguitato da un ricordo semistorico legato a quelle stanze vuote e a quell’austero spuntar del giorno. Nell’istante in cui vide la soffitta e il dottor Bull seduto a scrivere a un tavolo, ricordò che cosa fosse quel ricordo — la Rivoluzione francese. Ci sarebbe voluto il nero profilo di una ghigliottina contro quel pesante rosso e bianco del mattino. Il dottor Bull era in camicia bianca e brache nere soltanto; la sua testa scura, dai capelli corti, poteva ben essere appena uscita dalla parrucca; poteva essere Marat, o un Robespierre più trasandato.

Eppure, a guardarlo bene, la fantasia francese svaniva. I giacobini erano idealisti; in quest’uomo c’era invece un materialismo sanguinario. La sua posizione gli conferiva un aspetto in qualche modo nuovo. La forte, bianca luce del mattino che veniva da un lato, creando ombre nette, lo faceva apparire più pallido e più angoloso di quanto fosse sembrato alla colazione sul balcone. Così le due lenti nere che imprigionavano i suoi occhi potevano davvero sembrare nere cavità nel cranio, dandogli l’aspetto di un teschio di morte. E in verità, se mai la Morte in persona sedette a scrivere a un tavolo di legno, poteva essere lui.

Alzò lo sguardo e sorrise abbastanza allegramente all’ingresso dei due uomini, e si alzò con quella elastica rapidità di cui il Professore aveva parlato. Sistemò due sedie per entrambi e, andando a un attaccapanni dietro la porta, si mise una giacca e un panciotto di ruvido tweed scuro; li abbottonò con cura e tornò a sedersi al tavolo.

Il tranquillo buon umore dei suoi modi lasciò impotenti i due avversari. Fu con qualche momentanea difficoltà che il Professore ruppe il silenzio e cominciò: «Mi dispiace disturbarti così presto, compagno» disse, con un accurato ritorno al lento fare di de Worms. «Avrai senza dubbio predisposto ogni cosa per l’affare di Parigi?» Poi aggiunse con infinita lentezza: «Abbiamo informazioni che rendono intollerabile qualsiasi cosa abbia la natura di un solo istante d’indugio.»

Il dottor Bull sorrise di nuovo, ma continuò a scrutarli senza parlare. Il Professore riprese, con una pausa prima di ogni stanca parola —

“Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss.”

He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor’s smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor’s makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor’s complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence.

“As I say,” resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, “the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me—”

His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, “You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!”

Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.

“Yes, the thing really happened to me,” he said hastily. “I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France.

“So unless you or I can get on his track—”

The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm.

“Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that—”

All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, “I have an intuition.”

The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, “Then sit on it.”

Syme telegraphed, “It is quite extraordinary.”

The other answered, “Extraordinary rot!”

Syme said, “I am a poet.”

The other retorted, “You are a dead man.”

Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, “You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring.”

He then studied the answer on his friend’s fingers. The answer was, “Go to hell!”

The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor.

“Perhaps I should rather say,” said Syme on his fingers, “that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods.”

His companion disdained to reply.

“Or yet again,” tapped Syme, “it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman.”

The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected—

“Dr. Bull!”

The Doctor’s sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme.

“Dr. Bull,” said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, “would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?”

The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move.

For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles.

Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking.

«Ti prego di non credermi eccessivamente brusco; ma ti consiglio di modificare quei piani, o, se è troppo tardi per questo, di seguire il tuo agente con tutto l’appoggio che puoi procurargli. Il compagno Syme e io abbiamo avuto un’esperienza che richiederebbe più tempo di quanto possiamo permetterci per raccontarla, se dobbiamo agire in conseguenza. Tuttavia esporrò l’accaduto in dettaglio, anche a rischio di perdere tempo, se davvero ritieni che sia essenziale alla comprensione del problema di cui dobbiamo discutere.»

Andava dilungando le frasi, rendendole intollerabilmente lunghe e strascicate, nella speranza di far imbestialire il pratico piccolo Dottore fino a un’esplosione d’impazienza che potesse tradirlo. Ma il piccolo Dottore continuava soltanto a fissare e a sorridere, e il monologo era una fatica in salita. Syme cominciò a provare una nuova nausea e una nuova disperazione. Il sorriso e il silenzio del Dottore non somigliavano affatto allo sguardo catalettico e all’orribile silenzio che aveva affrontato in il Professore mezz’ora prima. Nel travestimento e in tutte le buffonate di il Professore c’era sempre qualcosa di semplicemente grottesco, come un pupazzo. Syme ricordava quei folli affanni del giorno prima come si ricorda d’aver avuto paura dell’Uomo Nero da bambini. Ma qui c’era la luce del giorno; qui c’era un uomo sano, dalle spalle quadrate, in tweed, per nulla strano salvo il caso dei suoi brutti occhiali, che non fissava torvo né sogghignava affatto, ma sorrideva pacatamente senza dire una parola. Il tutto trasmetteva un senso di insopportabile realtà. Sotto la luce crescente del sole i colori della carnagione del Dottore, il disegno del suo tweed, crescevano e si dilatavano oltraggiosamente, come tali cose acquistano troppa importanza in un romanzo realistico. Ma il suo sorriso era assai lieve, la posa del capo cortese; l’unica cosa inquietante era il suo silenzio.

«Come dicevo» riprese il Professore, come un uomo che arranca nella sabbia pesante, «l’episodio che ci è capitato e che ci ha indotti a chiedere informazioni sul Marchese è di quelli che potresti ritenere meglio raccontati; ma poiché è toccato al compagno Syme piuttosto che a me —»

Le sue parole pareva le trascinasse come parole di un inno; ma Syme, che stava osservando, vide le sue lunghe dita picchiettare rapide sull’orlo del tavolo traballante. Lesse il messaggio: «Devi continuare tu. Questo diavolo mi ha prosciugato!»

Syme si gettò nella breccia con quella spavalderia dell’improvvisazione che gli veniva sempre quando era allarmato.

«Sì, la cosa è capitata davvero a me» disse in fretta. «Ho avuto la fortuna di cadere in conversazione con un detective che mi prese, grazie al mio cappello, per una persona rispettabile. Volendo consolidare la mia reputazione di rispettabilità, lo portai al Savoy e lo feci ubriacare fradicio. Sotto questo influsso divenne amichevole, e mi disse a chiare lettere che entro un giorno o due sperano di arrestare il Marchese in Francia.

«Sicché, a meno che tu o io non riusciamo a mettergli le mani addosso —»

Il Dottore sorrideva ancora nel modo più amichevole, e i suoi occhi protetti erano ancora impenetrabili. Il Professore segnalò a Syme che avrebbe ripreso la spiegazione, e ricominciò con la stessa elaborata calma.

«Syme mi portò subito questa informazione, e siamo venuti qui insieme per vedere quale uso saresti incline a farne. Mi pare indubbiamente urgente che —»

Per tutto questo tempo Syme aveva fissato il Dottore quasi altrettanto fisso di quanto il Dottore fissava il Professore, ma del tutto senza il sorriso. I nervi di entrambi i commilitoni erano prossimi a spezzarsi sotto quella tensione di immobile amabilità, quando Syme all’improvviso si sporse in avanti e picchiettò distrattamente l’orlo del tavolo. Il suo messaggio all’alleato diceva: «Ho un’intuizione.»

Il Professore, senza quasi una pausa nel suo monologo, rispose col segnale: «Allora tienla per te.»

Syme telegrafò: «È del tutto straordinaria.»

L’altro rispose: «Straordinarie sciocchezze!»

Syme disse: «Io sono un poeta.»

L’altro ribatté: «Tu sei un uomo morto.»

Syme era diventato tutto rosso fino ai suoi capelli gialli, e gli occhi gli ardevano febbrilmente. Come aveva detto, aveva un’intuizione, e questa era salita a una sorta di stordita certezza. Riprendendo i suoi colpetti simbolici, segnalò all’amico: «Non ti rendi conto di quanto sia poetica la mia intuizione. Ha quella qualità improvvisa che a volte sentiamo nell’arrivo della primavera.»

Poi studiò la risposta sulle dita dell’amico. La risposta era: «Va’ all’inferno!»

Il Professore riprese allora il suo monologo puramente verbale rivolto al Dottore.

«Forse dovrei piuttosto dire» disse Syme sulle dita, «che somiglia a quell’improvviso odore di mare che si può avvertire nel cuore di boschi rigogliosi.»

Il compagno sdegnò di rispondere.

«O ancora» tamburellò Syme, «è positiva, come lo è l’appassionata chioma rossa di una bella donna.»

Il Professore proseguiva il suo discorso, ma nel bel mezzo Syme decise di agire. Si sporse attraverso il tavolo e disse con una voce che non poteva essere ignorata —

«Dottor Bull!»

La testa liscia e sorridente del Dottore non si mosse, ma avrebbero potuto giurare che sotto le lenti scure i suoi occhi guizzassero verso Syme.

«Dottor Bull» disse Syme, con una voce singolarmente precisa e cortese, «vuole farmi un piccolo favore? Sarebbe così gentile da togliersi gli occhiali?»

Il Professore girò di scatto sulla sedia e fissò Syme con una sorta di gelato furore di stupore. Syme, come un uomo che ha gettato la vita e la fortuna sul tavolo, si sporse in avanti con volto infuocato. Il Dottore non si mosse.

Per qualche secondo vi fu un silenzio in cui si sarebbe potuto sentire cadere uno spillo, spezzato una sola volta dal solitario fischio di un piroscafo lontano sul Tamigi. Poi il dottor Bull si alzò lentamente, sempre sorridendo, e si tolse gli occhiali.

Syme balzò in piedi, indietreggiando un poco, come un docente di chimica dopo un’esplosione riuscita. Aveva gli occhi come stelle, e per un istante poté solo indicare senza parlare.

The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene.

The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby.

“I knew I was a poet,” cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. “I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones.”

“It certainly does make a queer difference,” said the Professor shakily. “But as regards the project of Dr. Bull—”

“Project be damned!” roared Syme, beside himself. “Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don’t suppose, do you, that that thing’s an anarchist?”

“Syme!” cried the other in an apprehensive agony.

“Why, by God,” said Syme, “I’ll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There’s my card,” and he flung down the blue card upon the table.

The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend’s. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice.

“I’m awfully glad you chaps have come so early,” he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, “for we can all start for France together. Yes, I’m in the force right enough,” and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form.

Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang.

“But Lord God Almighty,” he cried out, “if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!”

“We might have fought easily,” said Bull; “we were four against three.”

The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below.

“No,” said the voice, “we were not four against three—we were not so lucky. We were four against One.”

The others went down the stairs in silence.

The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder.

“It is jolly to get some pals,” he said. “I’ve been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won’t despise me for having been in a blue funk.”

“All the blue devils in blue hell,” said Syme, “contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles.”

The young man laughed delightedly.

“Wasn’t it a rag?” he said. “Such a simple idea—not my own. I haven’t got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But as last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark. ‘A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,’ he said positively. ‘Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.’ And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn’t the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it.”

“What was that?” asked Syme.

“I’ll tell you,” answered the man in spectacles. “This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks—by God, he never saw me at all!”

Syme’s eyes suddenly flashed on him.

“How was that?” he asked. “I thought you talked to him.”

“So I did,” said Bull brightly; “but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that.”

“I could not have conceived it,” said Syme gravely.

“It is indeed a new idea,” said the Professor.

Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely.

Anche il Professore era balzato in piedi, dimentico della sua presunta paralisi. Si appoggiò allo schienale della sedia e fissò dubbioso il dottor Bull, come se il Dottore fosse stato trasformato in un rospo davanti ai suoi occhi. E in verità fu quasi una scena di trasformazione altrettanto grande.

I due detective videro seduto nella sedia davanti a loro un giovane dall’aria fanciullesca, con occhi nocciola schietti e allegri, un’espressione aperta, abiti da popolano come quelli di un impiegato di città, e un innegabile sentore di essere molto buono e piuttosto banale. Il sorriso era ancora là, ma poteva essere il primo sorriso di un neonato.

«Lo sapevo di essere un poeta!» gridò Syme in una sorta di estasi. «Sapevo che la mia intuizione era infallibile come il Papa. Sono stati gli occhiali a farlo! Sono stati tutti gli occhiali. Dati quei bestiali occhi neri, tutto il resto di lui — la salute e l’aria allegra — ne faceva un diavolo vivo tra i morti.»

«Fa certamente una strana differenza» disse il Professore con voce tremula. «Ma per quanto riguarda il progetto del dottor Bull —»

«Al diavolo il progetto!» ruggì Syme, fuori di sé. «Guardatelo! Guardategli la faccia, guardategli il colletto, guardategli i suoi benedetti stivali! Non penserete mica che quella cosa lì sia un anarchico?»

«Syme!» gridò l’altro in un’apprensiva agonia.

«Ebbene, per Dio» disse Syme, «me ne assumo io il rischio! Dottor Bull, sono un agente di polizia. Ecco il mio tesserino» e sbatté il cartoncino azzurro sul tavolo.

Il Professore temeva ancora che tutto fosse perduto; ma era leale. Tirò fuori il proprio tesserino ufficiale e lo mise accanto a quello dell’amico. Allora il terzo uomo scoppiò a ridere, e per la prima volta quella mattina udirono la sua voce.

«Sono terribilmente contento che voi ragazzi siate arrivati così presto» disse, con una sorta di leggerezza da scolaretto, «perché possiamo partire tutti insieme per la Francia. Sì, sono nella polizia anch’io, eccome» e fece scivolare verso di loro un cartoncino azzurro con leggerezza, per pura formalità.

Cacciandosi in testa un vivace bombetta e rimettendosi i suoi occhiali da folletto, il Dottore si mosse così rapido verso la porta, che gli altri istintivamente lo seguirono. Syme pareva un po’ assorto, e mentre passava sotto la soglia batté d’improvviso il bastone sul lastricato di pietra del corridoio, così che risuonò.

«Ma Signore Iddio Onnipotente» esclamò, «se le cose stanno così, c’erano più maledetti detective che maledetti dinamitardi a quel maledetto Consiglio!»

«Avremmo potuto batterci facilmente» disse Bull; «eravamo quattro contro tre.»

Il Professore stava scendendo le scale, ma la sua voce salì dal basso.

«No» disse la voce, «non eravamo quattro contro tre — non siamo stati così fortunati. Eravamo quattro contro Uno.»

Gli altri scesero le scale in silenzio.

Il giovane chiamato Bull, con una innocente cortesia a lui caratteristica, insistette per andare per ultimo finché non raggiunsero la strada; ma là la sua robusta rapidità si affermò inconsciamente, e camminò svelto in testa verso un ufficio informazioni ferroviarie, parlando agli altri da sopra la spalla.

«È bello trovare dei compari» disse. «Sono stato mezzo morto per la fifa, standomene tutto solo. Per poco non gettavo le braccia al collo di Gogol e non lo abbracciavo, il che sarebbe stato imprudente. Spero che non mi disprezzerete per essermela fatta addosso dalla paura.»

«Tutti i diavoli azzurri dell’inferno azzurro» disse Syme, «hanno contribuito alla mia fifa azzurra! Ma il diavolo peggiore eri tu con le tue infernali lenti.»

Il giovane rise deliziato.

«Non è stato uno scherzo formidabile?» disse. «Un’idea così semplice — non mia. Non ho la testa per queste cose. Vedete, io volevo entrare nel servizio investigativo, specialmente nel ramo antidinamite. Ma a quello scopo volevano qualcuno che si travestisse da dinamitardo; e giurarono tutti, per mille diavoli, che non sarei mai potuto sembrare un dinamitardo. Dicevano che perfino la mia andatura era rispettabile, e che visto di dietro sembravo la Costituzione britannica. Dicevano che avevo un’aria troppo sana e troppo ottimista, troppo affidabile e benevola; mi diedero d’ogni sorta di nomi a Scotland Yard. Dicevano che se fossi stato un criminale avrei potuto fare fortuna sembrando tanto un uomo onesto; ma poiché avevo la sventura di essere un uomo onesto, non c’era la benché minima possibilità che li aiutassi sembrando mai un criminale. Ma alla fine fui condotto davanti a un vecchio babbeo che stava in alto nella polizia, e che pareva avere una testa niente male sulle spalle. E là gli altri parlarono tutti senza speranza. Uno chiese se una barba folta avrebbe nascosto il mio bel sorriso; un altro disse che, tingendomi la faccia di nero, sarei potuto sembrare un anarchico negro; ma questo vecchietto intervenne con un’osservazione stupefacente. “Un paio di occhiali affumicati basteranno” disse con sicurezza. “Guardatelo adesso: sembra un angelico fattorino. Mettetegli un paio di occhiali affumicati, e i bambini strilleranno alla sua vista.” E così fu, perbacco! Una volta che i miei occhi furono coperti, tutto il resto — il sorriso, le spalle larghe e i capelli corti — mi fecero sembrare un perfetto diavoletto. Come dicevo, era abbastanza semplice una volta fatto, come i miracoli; ma non era quella la parte davvero miracolosa della faccenda. C’era una cosa davvero sbalorditiva in tutta la storia, e mi gira ancora la testa a pensarci.»

«E quale?» chiese Syme.

«Ve lo dico io» rispose l’uomo con gli occhiali. «Questo pezzo grosso della polizia che mi valutò così bene da sapere come le lenti sarebbero andate con i miei capelli e le mie calze — per Dio, non mi vide affatto!»

Gli occhi di Syme lampeggiarono d’improvviso su di lui.

«Come mai?» chiese. «Credevo che gli aveste parlato.»

«Certo che gli ho parlato» disse Bull allegramente; «ma parlammo in una stanza buia pesta come una carbonaia. Ecco, non l’avreste mai indovinato.»

«Non avrei potuto immaginarlo» disse Syme con gravità.

«È davvero un’idea nuova» disse il Professore.

Il loro nuovo alleato, nelle faccende pratiche, era un turbine. All’ufficio informazioni chiese con brevità sbrigativa dei treni per Dover. Ottenute le informazioni, ficcò la compagnia in una carrozza, e sistemò gli altri e sé stesso in uno scompartimento ferroviario prima che avessero ben afferrato quel processo mozzafiato. Erano già sul battello per Calais prima che la conversazione scorresse liberamente.

“I had already arranged,” he explained, “to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I’ll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once.”

“So you sent the Marquis off, I understand,” asked the Professor. “Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?”

“Yes,” answered the new guide, “I’ve timed it all. He’ll still be at Calais when we arrive.”

“But when we do catch him at Calais,” said the Professor, “what are we going to do?”

At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said—

“Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police.”

“Not I,” said Syme. “Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I’m no hand at casuistry, but I can’t break my word to a modern pessimist. It’s like breaking one’s word to a child.”

“I’m in the same boat,” said the Professor. “I tried to tell the police and I couldn’t, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round beast. Perjury or treason is the only crime I haven’t committed. If I did that I shouldn’t know the difference between right and wrong.”

“I’ve been through all that,” said Dr. Bull, “and I’ve made up my mind. I gave my promise to the Secretary—you know him, man who smiles upside down. My friends, that man is the most utterly unhappy man that was ever human. It may be his digestion, or his conscience, or his nerves, or his philosophy of the universe, but he’s damned, he’s in hell! Well, I can’t turn on a man like that, and hunt him down. It’s like whipping a leper. I may be mad, but that’s how I feel; and there’s jolly well the end of it.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” said Syme. “I knew you would decide like that when first you—”

“Eh?” said Dr. Bull.

“When first you took off your spectacles.”

Dr. Bull smiled a little, and strolled across the deck to look at the sunlit sea. Then he strolled back again, kicking his heels carelessly, and a companionable silence fell between the three men.

“Well,” said Syme, “it seems that we have all the same kind of morality or immorality, so we had better face the fact that comes of it.”

“Yes,” assented the Professor, “you’re quite right; and we must hurry up, for I can see the Grey Nose standing out from France.”

“The fact that comes of it,” said Syme seriously, “is this, that we three are alone on this planet. Gogol has gone, God knows where; perhaps the President has smashed him like a fly. On the Council we are three men against three, like the Romans who held the bridge. But we are worse off than that, first because they can appeal to their organization and we cannot appeal to ours, and second because—”

“Because one of those other three men,” said the Professor, “is not a man.”

Syme nodded and was silent for a second or two, then he said—

“My idea is this. We must do something to keep the Marquis in Calais till tomorrow midday. I have turned over twenty schemes in my head. We cannot denounce him as a dynamiter; that is agreed. We cannot get him detained on some trivial charge, for we should have to appear; he knows us, and he would smell a rat. We cannot pretend to keep him on anarchist business; he might swallow much in that way, but not the notion of stopping in Calais while the Czar went safely through Paris. We might try to kidnap him, and lock him up ourselves; but he is a well-known man here. He has a whole bodyguard of friends; he is very strong and brave, and the event is doubtful. The only thing I can see to do is actually to take advantage of the very things that are in the Marquis’s favour. I am going to profit by the fact that he is a highly respected nobleman. I am going to profit by the fact that he has many friends and moves in the best society.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” asked the Professor.

“The Symes are first mentioned in the fourteenth century,” said Syme; “but there is a tradition that one of them rode behind Bruce at Bannockburn. Since 1350 the tree is quite clear.”

“He’s gone off his head,” said the little Doctor, staring.

“Our bearings,” continued Syme calmly, “are ‘argent a chevron gules charged with three cross crosslets of the field.’ The motto varies.”

The Professor seized Syme roughly by the waistcoat.

“We are just inshore,” he said. “Are you seasick or joking in the wrong place?”

“My remarks are almost painfully practical,” answered Syme, in an unhurried manner. “The house of St. Eustache also is very ancient. The Marquis cannot deny that he is a gentleman. He cannot deny that I am a gentleman. And in order to put the matter of my social position quite beyond a doubt, I propose at the earliest opportunity to knock his hat off. But here we are in the harbour.”

They went on shore under the strong sun in a sort of daze. Syme, who had now taken the lead as Bull had taken it in London, led them along a kind of marine parade until he came to some cafes, embowered in a bulk of greenery and overlooking the sea. As he went before them his step was slightly swaggering, and he swung his stick like a sword. He was making apparently for the extreme end of the line of cafes, but he stopped abruptly. With a sharp gesture he motioned them to silence, but he pointed with one gloved finger to a cafe table under a bank of flowering foliage at which sat the Marquis de St. Eustache, his teeth shining in his thick, black beard, and his bold, brown face shadowed by a light yellow straw hat and outlined against the violet sea.

«Avevo già stabilito» spiegò, «di andare in Francia per il pranzo; ma sono felicissimo di avere qualcuno con cui pranzare. Vedete, ho dovuto mandare di là quella bestia del Marchese con la sua bomba, perché il Presidente mi teneva d’occhio, Dio solo sa come. Un giorno vi racconterò la storia. Era una cosa da soffocare. Ogni volta che tentavo di sgusciarne fuori, vedevo il Presidente da qualche parte, sorridente dal bovindo di un club, o che mi levava il cappello dall’alto di un omnibus. Ve lo dico io, potete dire ciò che volete, quel tale ha venduto l’anima al diavolo; può essere in sei posti alla volta.»

«Sicché hai spedito via il Marchese, se ho ben capito» chiese il Professore. «È stato molto tempo fa? Faremo in tempo a raggiungerlo?»

«Sì» rispose la nuova guida, «ho calcolato tutto il tempo. Sarà ancora a Calais quando arriveremo.»

«Ma quando lo prenderemo, a Calais» disse il Professore, «che cosa faremo?»

A questa domanda il volto del dottor Bull si abbassò per la prima volta. Riflettè un poco, e poi disse —

«In teoria, suppongo, dovremmo chiamare la polizia.»

«Io no» disse Syme. «In teoria dovrei prima annegarmi. Ho promesso a un pover’uomo, che era un vero pessimista moderno, sulla mia parola d’onore, di non dirlo alla polizia. Non sono bravo in casistica, ma non posso mancare di parola a un pessimista moderno. È come mancare di parola a un bambino.»

«Sono nella stessa barca» disse il Professore. «Ho tentato di dirlo alla polizia e non ci sono riuscito, per via di un qualche sciocco giuramento che feci. Vedete, quando ero attore ero una specie di canaglia a tutto tondo. Lo spergiuro o il tradimento sono l’unico delitto che non ho commesso. Se lo facessi, non saprei più distinguere il bene dal male.»

«Sono passato per tutto questo» disse il dottor Bull, «e ho deciso. Ho dato la mia promessa al Segretario — lo conoscete, l’uomo che sorride alla rovescia. Amici miei, quell’uomo è l’essere più assolutamente infelice che sia mai stato umano. Sarà la sua digestione, o la sua coscienza, o i suoi nervi, o la sua filosofia dell’universo, ma è dannato, è all’inferno! Ebbene, non posso rivoltarmi contro un uomo così, e dargli la caccia. È come frustare un lebbroso. Sarò pazzo, ma è così che sento; e con ciò è ben bene finita.»

«Non credo che tu sia pazzo» disse Syme. «Sapevo che avresti deciso così fin dal momento in cui tu —»

«Eh?» disse il dottor Bull.

«Fin dal momento in cui ti togliesti gli occhiali.»

Il dottor Bull sorrise appena, e attraversò a passeggio il ponte per guardare il mare illuminato dal sole. Poi tornò indietro passeggiando, dando distratti calci ai talloni, e un silenzio cordiale scese tra i tre uomini.

«Ebbene» disse Syme, «pare che abbiamo tutti la stessa sorta di moralità o immoralità, dunque faremmo meglio ad affrontare il fatto che ne consegue.»

«Sì» convenne il Professore, «hai perfettamente ragione; e dobbiamo sbrigarci, perché vedo il Grigio Naso stagliarsi dalla Francia.»

«Il fatto che ne consegue» disse Syme con serietà, «è questo, che noi tre siamo soli su questo pianeta. Gogol se n’è andato, Dio sa dove; forse il Presidente lo ha schiacciato come una mosca. Nel Consiglio siamo tre uomini contro tre, come i Romani che tennero il ponte. Ma siamo messi peggio di così, primo perché essi possono appellarsi alla loro organizzazione e noi non possiamo appellarci alla nostra, e secondo perché —»

«Perché uno di quegli altri tre uomini» disse il Professore, «non è un uomo.»

Syme annuì e restò in silenzio per un secondo o due, poi disse —

«La mia idea è questa. Dobbiamo fare qualcosa per trattenere il Marchese a Calais fino a domani a mezzogiorno. Ho rimuginato venti piani nella mia testa. Non possiamo denunciarlo come dinamitardo; questo è convenuto. Non possiamo farlo trattenere con qualche accusa da poco, perché dovremmo comparire noi; ci conosce, e fiuterebbe l’inganno. Non possiamo fingere di trattenerlo per affari anarchici; potrebbe inghiottire molto in quella direzione, ma non l’idea di fermarsi a Calais mentre lo Zar attraversa tranquillo Parigi. Potremmo tentare di rapirlo e rinchiuderlo noi stessi; ma qui è un uomo assai noto. Ha un intero corpo di amici a fargli da guardia; è molto forte e coraggioso, e l’esito è incerto. L’unica cosa che vedo da fare è, in realtà, approfittare proprio delle cose che giocano a favore del Marchese. Intendo trarre vantaggio dal fatto che è un nobiluomo assai rispettato. Intendo trarre vantaggio dal fatto che ha molti amici e frequenta l’alta società.»

«Ma che diavolo stai dicendo?» chiese il Professore.

«I Syme sono menzionati per la prima volta nel Trecento» disse Syme; «ma c’è una tradizione secondo cui uno di loro cavalcava dietro Bruce a Bannockburn. Dal 1350 l’albero è del tutto chiaro.»

«Ha perso la testa» disse il piccolo Dottore, fissandolo.

«Le nostre insegne» continuò Syme con calma, «sono “d’argento, a un capriolo di rosso caricato di tre crocette di croce del campo”. Il motto varia.»

Il Professore afferrò Syme rudemente per il panciotto.

«Siamo appena sotto costa» disse. «Hai il mal di mare o scherzi nel posto sbagliato?»

«Le mie osservazioni sono quasi dolorosamente pratiche» rispose Syme, senza fretta. «Anche la casata di St. Eustache è antichissima. Il Marchese non può negare d’essere un gentiluomo. Non può negare che io sia un gentiluomo. E per porre la questione della mia posizione sociale del tutto al di là di ogni dubbio, mi propongo, alla prima occasione, di fargli saltar via il cappello. Ma eccoci nel porto.»

Scesero a terra sotto il forte sole in una sorta di stordimento. Syme, che ora aveva preso il comando come Bull l’aveva preso a Londra, li guidò lungo una specie di passeggiata a mare finché giunse ad alcuni caffè, immersi in una massa di verzura e affacciati sul mare. Mentre camminava davanti a loro il suo passo era leggermente spavaldo, e faceva roteare il bastone come una spada. Si dirigeva apparentemente verso l’estremità della fila di caffè, ma si fermò di colpo. Con un gesto secco fece loro cenno di tacere, ma indicò con un dito guantato un tavolino di caffè sotto un pergolato di fronde fiorite, al quale sedeva il Marchese de St. Eustache, i denti splendenti nella folta barba nera, e il suo volto ardito, bruno, ombreggiato da un chiaro cappello di paglia gialla e stagliato contro il mare violetto.

CHAPTER X

THE DUEL

SYME sat down at a cafe table with his companions, his blue eyes sparkling like the bright sea below, and ordered a bottle of Saumur with a pleased impatience. He was for some reason in a condition of curious hilarity. His spirits were already unnaturally high; they rose as the Saumur sank, and in half an hour his talk was a torrent of nonsense. He professed to be making out a plan of the conversation which was going to ensue between himself and the deadly Marquis. He jotted it down wildly with a pencil. It was arranged like a printed catechism, with questions and answers, and was delivered with an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.

“I shall approach. Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own. I shall say, ‘The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.’ He will say, ‘The celebrated Mr. Syme, I presume.’ He will say in the most exquisite French, ‘How are you?’ I shall reply in the most exquisite Cockney, ‘Oh, just the Syme—’”

“Oh, shut it,” said the man in spectacles. “Pull yourself together, and chuck away that bit of paper. What are you really going to do?”

“But it was a lovely catechism,” said Syme pathetically. “Do let me read it you. It has only forty-three questions and answers, and some of the Marquis’s answers are wonderfully witty. I like to be just to my enemy.”

“But what’s the good of it all?” asked Dr. Bull in exasperation.

“It leads up to my challenge, don’t you see,” said Syme, beaming. “When the Marquis has given the thirty-ninth reply, which runs—”

“Has it by any chance occurred to you,” asked the Professor, with a ponderous simplicity, “that the Marquis may not say all the forty-three things you have put down for him? In that case, I understand, your own epigrams may appear somewhat more forced.”

Syme struck the table with a radiant face.

“Why, how true that is,” he said, “and I never thought of it. Sir, you have an intellect beyond the common. You will make a name.”

“Oh, you’re as drunk as an owl!” said the Doctor.

“It only remains,” continued Syme quite unperturbed, “to adopt some other method of breaking the ice (if I may so express it) between myself and the man I wish to kill. And since the course of a dialogue cannot be predicted by one of its parties alone (as you have pointed out with such recondite acumen), the only thing to be done, I suppose, is for the one party, as far as possible, to do all the dialogue by himself. And so I will, by George!” And he stood up suddenly, his yellow hair blowing in the slight sea breeze.

A band was playing in a cafe chantant hidden somewhere among the trees, and a woman had just stopped singing. On Syme’s heated head the bray of the brass band seemed like the jar and jingle of that barrel-organ in Leicester Square, to the tune of which he had once stood up to die. He looked across to the little table where the Marquis sat. The man had two companions now, solemn Frenchmen in frock-coats and silk hats, one of them with the red rosette of the Legion of Honour, evidently people of a solid social position. Besides these black, cylindrical costumes, the Marquis, in his loose straw hat and light spring clothes, looked Bohemian and even barbaric; but he looked the Marquis. Indeed, one might say that he looked the king, with his animal elegance, his scornful eyes, and his proud head lifted against the purple sea. But he was no Christian king, at any rate; he was, rather, some swarthy despot, half Greek, half Asiatic, who in the days when slavery seemed natural looked down on the Mediterranean, on his galley and his groaning slaves. Just so, Syme thought, would the brown-gold face of such a tyrant have shown against the dark green olives and the burning blue.

“Are you going to address the meeting?” asked the Professor peevishly, seeing that Syme still stood up without moving.

Syme drained his last glass of sparkling wine.

“I am,” he said, pointing across to the Marquis and his companions, “that meeting. That meeting displeases me. I am going to pull that meeting’s great ugly, mahogany-coloured nose.”

He stepped across swiftly, if not quite steadily. The Marquis, seeing him, arched his black Assyrian eyebrows in surprise, but smiled politely.

“You are Mr. Syme, I think,” he said.

Syme bowed.

“And you are the Marquis de Saint Eustache,” he said gracefully. “Permit me to pull your nose.”

He leant over to do so, but the Marquis started backwards, upsetting his chair, and the two men in top hats held Syme back by the shoulders.

“This man has insulted me!” said Syme, with gestures of explanation.

“Insulted you?” cried the gentleman with the red rosette, “when?”

“Oh, just now,” said Syme recklessly. “He insulted my mother.”

“Insulted your mother!” exclaimed the gentleman incredulously.

“Well, anyhow,” said Syme, conceding a point, “my aunt.”

“But how can the Marquis have insulted your aunt just now?” said the second gentleman with some legitimate wonder. “He has been sitting here all the time.”

“Ah, it was what he said!” said Syme darkly.

“I said nothing at all,” said the Marquis, “except something about the band. I only said that I liked Wagner played well.”

“It was an allusion to my family,” said Syme firmly. “My aunt played Wagner badly. It was a painful subject. We are always being insulted about it.”

“This seems most extraordinary,” said the gentleman who was decore, looking doubtfully at the Marquis.

“Oh, I assure you,” said Syme earnestly, “the whole of your conversation was simply packed with sinister allusions to my aunt’s weaknesses.”

“This is nonsense!” said the second gentleman. “I for one have said nothing for half an hour except that I liked the singing of that girl with black hair.”

“Well, there you are again!” said Syme indignantly. “My aunt’s was red.”

“It seems to me,” said the other, “that you are simply seeking a pretext to insult the Marquis.”

CAPITOLO X

IL DUELLO

SYME si sedette a un tavolino di caffè con i suoi compagni, gli occhi azzurri scintillanti come il mare luminoso là sotto, e ordinò una bottiglia di Saumur con impaziente compiacimento. Per qualche ragione si trovava in una condizione di curiosa ilarità. Aveva già lo spirito innaturalmente esaltato; e questo saliva via via che il Saumur scendeva, e in mezz’ora il suo discorso divenne un torrente di insensatezze. Dichiarò di stare tracciando il piano della conversazione che di lì a poco si sarebbe svolta tra lui e il micidiale Marchese. Lo buttava giù febbrilmente con la matita. Era ordinato come un catechismo stampato, con domande e risposte, e veniva recitato con una straordinaria rapidità di eloquio.

«Mi avvicinerò. Prima ch’egli si tolga il cappello, io mi toglierò il mio. Dirò: “Il Marchese de Saint Eustache, immagino”. Egli dirà: “Il celebre signor Syme, suppongo”. Dirà, nel più squisito francese: “Come sta?” E io risponderò, nel più squisito cockney: “Oh, sono in gran Syme…”»

«Oh, piantala», disse l’uomo con gli occhiali. «Riprenditi, e getta via quel pezzo di carta. Che cosa hai davvero intenzione di fare?»

«Ma era un catechismo delizioso», disse Syme in tono patetico. «Lasciate almeno che ve lo legga. Ha soltanto quarantatré domande e risposte, e alcune delle risposte del Marchese sono meravigliosamente argute. Mi piace essere giusto col mio nemico.»

«Ma a che serve tutto questo?» chiese il dottor Bull esasperato.

«Conduce alla mia sfida, non capite», disse Syme, raggiante. «Quando il Marchese avrà dato la trentanovesima replica, che suona…»

«Vi è per caso passato per la mente», chiese il Professore, con una ponderosa semplicità, «che il Marchese potrebbe non dire tutte le quarantatré cose che gli avete messo in bocca? In tal caso, se ben comprendo, i vostri epigrammi potrebbero apparire un po’ più forzati.»

Syme batté la mano sul tavolo, con la faccia radiosa.

«Perbacco, com’è vero», disse, «e io non ci avevo mai pensato. Signore, voi avete un intelletto fuori del comune. Vi farete un nome.»

«Oh, siete ubriaco fradicio!» disse il Dottore.

«Non resta dunque», proseguì Syme del tutto imperturbabile, «che adottare qualche altro metodo per rompere il ghiaccio (se così posso esprimermi) tra me e l’uomo che desidero uccidere. E poiché il corso di un dialogo non può essere previsto da una sola soltanto delle sue parti (come voi avete rilevato con così recondito acume), l’unica cosa da farsi, suppongo, è che una delle parti, per quanto possibile, faccia da sola tutto il dialogo. E così farò, perbacco!» E si alzò di scatto, i capelli gialli agitati dalla lieve brezza marina.

Un’orchestra suonava in un caffè-concerto nascosto chissà dove tra gli alberi, e una donna aveva appena smesso di cantare. Sulla testa infervorata di Syme lo squillo degli ottoni pareva lo stridore e il tintinnio di quell’organetto di Leicester Square, sulla cui aria egli si era una volta alzato per morire. Lanciò lo sguardo verso il tavolino dove sedeva il Marchese. L’uomo aveva ora due compagni, francesi solenni in redingote e cappelli a cilindro, uno dei quali con la rosetta rossa della Legion d’Onore, gente evidentemente di solida posizione sociale. Accanto a quei costumi neri e cilindrici, il Marchese, col suo largo cappello di paglia e i leggeri abiti di primavera, appariva bohémien e persino barbarico; ma appariva il Marchese. Anzi, si sarebbe potuto dire che avesse l’aspetto di un re, con la sua eleganza animale, gli occhi sprezzanti, e la fiera testa levata contro il mare purpureo. Ma non era certo un re cristiano; era, piuttosto, un qualche despota bruno, mezzo greco, mezzo asiatico, che nei giorni in cui la schiavitù pareva naturale guardava dall’alto il Mediterraneo, la sua galea e i suoi schiavi gementi. Proprio così, pensò Syme, si sarebbe stagliato il volto bruno-dorato di un simile tiranno contro gli ulivi verde scuro e l’azzurro ardente.

«Avete intenzione di arringare l’assemblea?» chiese il Professore con stizza, vedendo che Syme continuava a starsene ritto senza muoversi.

Syme vuotò l’ultimo bicchiere di vino spumante.

«Sì», disse, indicando il Marchese e i suoi compagni, «quell’assemblea. Quell’assemblea mi dispiace. Ho intenzione di tirare il grande, brutto naso color mogano di quell’assemblea.»

Attraversò lo spazio con passo rapido, se non del tutto fermo. Il Marchese, vedendolo, inarcò le nere sopracciglia assire per la sorpresa, ma sorrise cortesemente.

«Voi siete il signor Syme, credo», disse.

Syme s’inchinò.

«E voi siete il Marchese de Saint Eustache», disse con garbo. «Permettete che vi tiri il naso.»

Si sporse per farlo, ma il Marchese arretrò di scatto, rovesciando la sedia, e i due uomini in cilindro trattennero Syme per le spalle.

«Quest’uomo mi ha insultato!» disse Syme, con gesti di spiegazione.

«Vi ha insultato?» gridò il gentiluomo con la rosetta rossa, «quando?»

«Oh, or ora», disse Syme sconsideratamente. «Ha insultato mia madre.»

«Ha insultato vostra madre!» esclamò il gentiluomo incredulo.

«Insomma, comunque», disse Syme, concedendo un punto, «mia zia.»

«Ma come può il Marchese aver insultato vostra zia or ora?» disse il secondo gentiluomo con una certa legittima meraviglia. «È rimasto seduto qui tutto il tempo.»

«Ah, è stato ciò che ha detto!» disse Syme cupamente.

«Non ho detto proprio nulla», disse il Marchese, «se non qualcosa a proposito dell’orchestra. Ho detto soltanto che mi piace Wagner suonato bene.»

«Era un’allusione alla mia famiglia», disse Syme con fermezza. «Mia zia suonava male Wagner. Era un argomento doloroso. Veniamo continuamente insultati su questo punto.»

«Questo mi sembra oltremodo straordinario», disse il gentiluomo che era decoré, guardando dubbioso il Marchese.

«Oh, vi assicuro», disse Syme con gravità, «che l’intera vostra conversazione era semplicemente zeppa di sinistre allusioni alle debolezze di mia zia.»

«Questo è un’assurdità!» disse il secondo gentiluomo. «Io, per parte mia, non ho detto nulla per mezz’ora, se non che mi piaceva il canto di quella ragazza dai capelli neri.»

«Ecco, ci risiamo!» disse Syme con indignazione. «Quelli di mia zia erano rossi.»

«Mi pare», disse l’altro, «che voi stiate semplicemente cercando un pretesto per insultare il Marchese.»

“By George!” said Syme, facing round and looking at him, “what a clever chap you are!”

The Marquis started up with eyes flaming like a tiger’s.

“Seeking a quarrel with me!” he cried. “Seeking a fight with me! By God! there was never a man who had to seek long. These gentlemen will perhaps act for me. There are still four hours of daylight. Let us fight this evening.”

Syme bowed with a quite beautiful graciousness.

“Marquis,” he said, “your action is worthy of your fame and blood. Permit me to consult for a moment with the gentlemen in whose hands I shall place myself.”

In three long strides he rejoined his companions, and they, who had seen his champagne-inspired attack and listened to his idiotic explanations, were quite startled at the look of him. For now that he came back to them he was quite sober, a little pale, and he spoke in a low voice of passionate practicality.

“I have done it,” he said hoarsely. “I have fixed a fight on the beast. But look here, and listen carefully. There is no time for talk. You are my seconds, and everything must come from you. Now you must insist, and insist absolutely, on the duel coming off after seven to-morrow, so as to give me the chance of preventing him from catching the 7.45 for Paris. If he misses that he misses his crime. He can’t refuse to meet you on such a small point of time and place. But this is what he will do. He will choose a field somewhere near a wayside station, where he can pick up the train. He is a very good swordsman, and he will trust to killing me in time to catch it. But I can fence well too, and I think I can keep him in play, at any rate, until the train is lost. Then perhaps he may kill me to console his feelings. You understand? Very well then, let me introduce you to some charming friends of mine,” and leading them quickly across the parade, he presented them to the Marquis’s seconds by two very aristocratic names of which they had not previously heard.

Syme was subject to spasms of singular common sense, not otherwise a part of his character. They were (as he said of his impulse about the spectacles) poetic intuitions, and they sometimes rose to the exaltation of prophecy.

He had correctly calculated in this case the policy of his opponent. When the Marquis was informed by his seconds that Syme could only fight in the morning, he must fully have realised that an obstacle had suddenly arisen between him and his bomb-throwing business in the capital. Naturally he could not explain this objection to his friends, so he chose the course which Syme had predicted. He induced his seconds to settle on a small meadow not far from the railway, and he trusted to the fatality of the first engagement.

When he came down very coolly to the field of honour, no one could have guessed that he had any anxiety about a journey; his hands were in his pockets, his straw hat on the back of his head, his handsome face brazen in the sun. But it might have struck a stranger as odd that there appeared in his train, not only his seconds carrying the sword-case, but two of his servants carrying a portmanteau and a luncheon basket.

Early as was the hour, the sun soaked everything in warmth, and Syme was vaguely surprised to see so many spring flowers burning gold and silver in the tall grass in which the whole company stood almost knee-deep.

With the exception of the Marquis, all the men were in sombre and solemn morning-dress, with hats like black chimney-pots; the little Doctor especially, with the addition of his black spectacles, looked like an undertaker in a farce. Syme could not help feeling a comic contrast between this funereal church parade of apparel and the rich and glistening meadow, growing wild flowers everywhere. But, indeed, this comic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black hats was but a symbol of the tragic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black business. On his right was a little wood; far away to his left lay the long curve of the railway line, which he was, so to speak, guarding from the Marquis, whose goal and escape it was. In front of him, behind the black group of his opponents, he could see, like a tinted cloud, a small almond bush in flower against the faint line of the sea.

The member of the Legion of Honour, whose name it seemed was Colonel Ducroix, approached the Professor and Dr. Bull with great politeness, and suggested that the play should terminate with the first considerable hurt.

Dr. Bull, however, having been carefully coached by Syme upon this point of policy, insisted, with great dignity and in very bad French, that it should continue until one of the combatants was disabled. Syme had made up his mind that he could avoid disabling the Marquis and prevent the Marquis from disabling him for at least twenty minutes. In twenty minutes the Paris train would have gone by.

“To a man of the well-known skill and valour of Monsieur de St. Eustache,” said the Professor solemnly, “it must be a matter of indifference which method is adopted, and our principal has strong reasons for demanding the longer encounter, reasons the delicacy of which prevent me from being explicit, but for the just and honourable nature of which I can—”

“Peste!” broke from the Marquis behind, whose face had suddenly darkened, “let us stop talking and begin,” and he slashed off the head of a tall flower with his stick.

Syme understood his rude impatience and instinctively looked over his shoulder to see whether the train was coming in sight. But there was no smoke on the horizon.

Colonel Ducroix knelt down and unlocked the case, taking out a pair of twin swords, which took the sunlight and turned to two streaks of white fire. He offered one to the Marquis, who snatched it without ceremony, and another to Syme, who took it, bent it, and poised it with as much delay as was consistent with dignity.

«Perbacco!» disse Syme, girandosi a guardarlo, «che tipo intelligente siete!»

Il Marchese balzò in piedi con occhi fiammeggianti come quelli di una tigre.

«Cercare briga con me!» gridò. «Cercar rissa con me! Per Dio! non c’è mai stato uomo che dovesse cercar a lungo. Questi signori faranno forse da padrini per me. Restano ancora quattro ore di luce. Battiamoci stasera.»

Syme s’inchinò con una grazia del tutto squisita.

«Marchese», disse, «la vostra azione è degna della vostra fama e del vostro sangue. Permettete che mi consulti un istante coi signori nelle cui mani mi rimetterò.»

In tre lunghe falcate raggiunse i suoi compagni, i quali, avendo visto il suo attacco ispirato dallo champagne e ascoltato le sue idiote spiegazioni, rimasero del tutto trasecolati dal suo aspetto. Poiché ora che tornava da loro era del tutto sobrio, un po’ pallido, e parlava a voce bassa con appassionata praticità.

«L’ho fatto», disse con voce roca. «Ho impegnato un duello con la bestia. Ma sentite qui, e ascoltate attentamente. Non c’è tempo per chiacchierare. Voi siete i miei padrini, e tutto deve venire da voi. Ora dovete insistere, e insistere assolutamente, perché il duello abbia luogo dopo le sette di domattina, così da darmi modo di impedirgli di prendere il treno delle 7.45 per Parigi. Se lo perde, perde il suo delitto. Non può rifiutare d’incontrarvi su un punto così piccolo di tempo e luogo. Ma ecco che cosa farà. Sceglierà un campo da qualche parte vicino a una stazione lungo la linea, dove possa prendere il treno. È un ottimo spadaccino, e conterà di uccidermi in tempo per prenderlo. Ma anch’io tiro di scherma bene, e credo di poterlo tenere impegnato, quanto meno, finché il treno non sia perduto. Poi forse mi ucciderà per consolare i suoi sentimenti. Capite? Molto bene, allora, lasciate che vi presenti a certi miei incantevoli amici», e conducendoli in fretta attraverso la passeggiata, li presentò ai padrini del Marchese con due nomi assai aristocratici che essi non avevano mai udito prima.

Syme era soggetto a spasmi di singolare buon senso, per il resto non parte del suo carattere. Erano (come diceva del suo impulso a proposito degli occhiali) intuizioni poetiche, e talora salivano fino all’esaltazione della profezia.

Egli aveva in questo caso correttamente calcolato la politica del suo avversario. Quando il Marchese fu informato dai suoi padrini che Syme poteva battersi soltanto al mattino, dovette comprendere appieno che un ostacolo si era d’improvviso frapposto tra lui e la sua faccenda di lanciar bombe nella capitale. Naturalmente non poteva spiegare tale obiezione ai suoi amici, e perciò scelse il corso che Syme aveva predetto. Indusse i suoi padrini a fissare un piccolo prato non lontano dalla ferrovia, e si affidò alla fatalità del primo scontro.

Quando scese con gran freddezza sul terreno dell’onore, nessuno avrebbe potuto indovinare che nutrisse alcuna ansia per un viaggio; teneva le mani in tasca, il cappello di paglia sulla nuca, il bel volto sfrontato al sole. Ma a un estraneo sarebbe potuto parere strano che al suo seguito comparissero non soltanto i suoi padrini che recavano la custodia delle spade, ma anche due dei suoi servitori che portavano una valigia e un cesto per la colazione.

Per quanto fosse presto, il sole intrideva ogni cosa di tepore, e Syme fu vagamente sorpreso di vedere tanti fiori di primavera ardere d’oro e d’argento tra l’erba alta in cui l’intera compagnia stava quasi affondata fino al ginocchio.

A eccezione del Marchese, tutti gli uomini erano in tenuta da mattino cupa e solenne, con cappelli come neri comignoli; il piccolo Dottore soprattutto, con l’aggiunta dei suoi occhiali neri, pareva un impresario di pompe funebri in una farsa. Syme non poté fare a meno di avvertire un comico contrasto tra questa funerea parata da chiesa di indumenti e il ricco e scintillante prato, tutto punteggiato di fiori selvatici. Ma, in verità, questo comico contrasto tra i gialli fiori e i neri cappelli non era che un simbolo del tragico contrasto tra i gialli fiori e la nera faccenda. Alla sua destra c’era un boschetto; lontano alla sua sinistra si stendeva la lunga curva della linea ferroviaria, che egli, per così dire, custodiva contro il Marchese, per il quale era meta e via di fuga. Davanti a sé, dietro il nero gruppo dei suoi avversari, poteva scorgere, simile a una nube colorata, un piccolo mandorlo in fiore contro la tenue linea del mare.

Il membro della Legion d’Onore, che di nome pareva chiamarsi colonnello Ducroix, si accostò a il Professore e al dottor Bull con gran cortesia, e propose che il combattimento terminasse alla prima ferita di rilievo.

Il dottor Bull, tuttavia, essendo stato accuratamente istruito da Syme su questo punto di condotta, insisté, con gran dignità e in pessimo francese, perché continuasse finché uno dei combattenti non fosse messo fuori combattimento. Syme aveva stabilito che avrebbe potuto evitare di mettere fuori combattimento il Marchese e impedire al Marchese di mettere fuori combattimento lui per almeno venti minuti. In venti minuti il treno per Parigi sarebbe passato.

«Per un uomo della ben nota abilità e del valore di Monsieur de St. Eustache», disse il Professore solennemente, «dev’essere del tutto indifferente quale metodo si adotti, e il nostro principale ha forti ragioni per esigere lo scontro più lungo, ragioni la cui delicatezza mi impedisce di essere esplicito, ma della cui giusta e onorevole natura io posso…»

«Peste!» eruppe il Marchese da dietro, il cui volto si era d’improvviso rabbuiato, «smettiamo di parlare e cominciamo», e con il bastone recise la testa di un alto fiore.

Syme comprese la sua rude impazienza e istintivamente guardò oltre la spalla per vedere se il treno fosse in vista. Ma all’orizzonte non c’era fumo.

Il colonnello Ducroix si inginocchiò e aprì la custodia, estraendone un paio di spade gemelle, che presero la luce del sole e si mutarono in due strisce di bianco fuoco. Ne offrì una al Marchese, che l’afferrò senza cerimonie, e un’altra a Syme, che la prese, la piegò e la soppesò con tutto l’indugio compatibile con la dignità.

Then the Colonel took out another pair of blades, and taking one himself and giving another to Dr. Bull, proceeded to place the men.

Both combatants had thrown off their coats and waistcoats, and stood sword in hand. The seconds stood on each side of the line of fight with drawn swords also, but still sombre in their dark frock-coats and hats. The principals saluted. The Colonel said quietly, “Engage!” and the two blades touched and tingled.

When the jar of the joined iron ran up Syme’s arm, all the fantastic fears that have been the subject of this story fell from him like dreams from a man waking up in bed. He remembered them clearly and in order as mere delusions of the nerves—how the fear of the Professor had been the fear of the tyrannic accidents of nightmare, and how the fear of the Doctor had been the fear of the airless vacuum of science. The first was the old fear that any miracle might happen, the second the more hopeless modern fear that no miracle can ever happen. But he saw that these fears were fancies, for he found himself in the presence of the great fact of the fear of death, with its coarse and pitiless common sense. He felt like a man who had dreamed all night of falling over precipices, and had woke up on the morning when he was to be hanged. For as soon as he had seen the sunlight run down the channel of his foe’s foreshortened blade, and as soon as he had felt the two tongues of steel touch, vibrating like two living things, he knew that his enemy was a terrible fighter, and that probably his last hour had come.

He felt a strange and vivid value in all the earth around him, in the grass under his feet; he felt the love of life in all living things. He could almost fancy that he heard the grass growing; he could almost fancy that even as he stood fresh flowers were springing up and breaking into blossom in the meadow—flowers blood red and burning gold and blue, fulfilling the whole pageant of the spring. And whenever his eyes strayed for a flash from the calm, staring, hypnotic eyes of the Marquis, they saw the little tuft of almond tree against the sky-line. He had the feeling that if by some miracle he escaped he would be ready to sit for ever before that almond tree, desiring nothing else in the world.

But while earth and sky and everything had the living beauty of a thing lost, the other half of his head was as clear as glass, and he was parrying his enemy’s point with a kind of clockwork skill of which he had hardly supposed himself capable. Once his enemy’s point ran along his wrist, leaving a slight streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored. Every now and then he riposted, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken. Then came an interruption and a change.

At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right. Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons. The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows. Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need. He could guess the reason of the Marquis’s sudden madness of battle— the Paris train was in sight.

But the Marquis’s morbid energy over-reached itself. Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent’s point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his riposte was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time. Syme’s sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis’s body, which it had pierced.

Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all.

There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis’s body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man’s neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis’s cheek. But there was no scar.

For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil—perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story—of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl’s red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. “After all,” he said to himself, “I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do—I can die,” and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train.

Poi il Colonnello estrasse un altro paio di lame, e prendendone una per sé e dando l’altra al dottor Bull, procedette a disporre gli uomini.

Entrambi i combattenti si erano tolti giacche e panciotti, e stavano con la spada in pugno. I padrini stavano ai due lati della linea di combattimento, anch’essi con la spada sguainata, ma sempre cupi nelle loro scure redingote e coi cappelli. I due principali salutarono. Il Colonnello disse sommessamente: «In guardia!» e le due lame si toccarono e vibrarono.

Quando lo stridore del ferro incrociato risalì il braccio di Syme, tutte le fantastiche paure che sono state oggetto di questa storia caddero da lui come sogni da un uomo che si desta nel letto. Le ricordava con chiarezza e in ordine come mere illusioni dei nervi… come la paura di il Professore fosse stata la paura degli accidenti tirannici dell’incubo, e come la paura del Dottore fosse stata la paura del vuoto senz’aria della scienza. La prima era l’antica paura che qualsiasi miracolo potesse accadere, la seconda la più disperata paura moderna che nessun miracolo possa mai accadere. Ma vedeva che quelle paure erano fantasie, poiché si trovava al cospetto del gran fatto della paura della morte, col suo rozzo e spietato buon senso. Si sentiva come un uomo che avesse sognato tutta la notte di precipitare da dirupi, e si fosse svegliato la mattina in cui doveva essere impiccato. Poiché non appena ebbe visto la luce del sole scorrere lungo la scanalatura della lama scorciata del suo avversario, e non appena ebbe sentito le due lingue d’acciaio toccarsi, vibrando come due cose vive, seppe che il suo nemico era un terribile combattente, e che probabilmente la sua ultima ora era giunta.

Provò uno strano e vivido valore in tutta la terra intorno a lui, nell’erba sotto i suoi piedi; sentì l’amore della vita in tutte le cose viventi. Poteva quasi immaginare di udire l’erba crescere; poteva quasi immaginare che, mentre stava lì, nuovi fiori spuntassero e sbocciassero nel prato… fiori rossi di sangue e d’oro ardente e d’azzurro, che compivano l’intero fasto della primavera. E ogniqualvolta i suoi occhi deviavano per un lampo dagli occhi calmi, fissi, ipnotici del Marchese, vedevano il piccolo ciuffo di mandorlo contro la linea del cielo. Aveva la sensazione che se per qualche miracolo fosse scampato, sarebbe stato pronto a sedersi per sempre davanti a quel mandorlo, senza desiderare nient’altro al mondo.

Ma mentre la terra e il cielo e ogni cosa avevano la viva bellezza di una cosa perduta, l’altra metà della sua testa era limpida come vetro, ed egli parava il colpo del nemico con una specie di meccanica abilità da orologeria di cui si sarebbe a stento creduto capace. Una volta la punta del nemico gli corse lungo il polso, lasciando una lieve striscia di sangue, ma o non fu notata o fu tacitamente ignorata. Di tanto in tanto rispondeva di risposta, e una o due volte poté quasi immaginare di sentire la sua punta andare a segno, ma poiché non c’era sangue né sulla lama né sulla camicia, suppose di essersi sbagliato. Poi vennero un’interruzione e un mutamento.

A rischio di perdere tutto, il Marchese, interrompendo il suo tranquillo fissare, lanciò una rapida occhiata oltre la spalla verso la linea ferroviaria alla sua destra. Poi rivolse a Syme un volto trasfigurato in quello di un demone, e cominciò a battersi come se avesse venti armi. L’attacco venne così rapido e furioso, che l’unica spada scintillante parve una pioggia di scintillanti frecce. Syme non aveva modo di guardare la ferrovia; ma nemmeno ne aveva bisogno. Poteva indovinare la ragione dell’improvvisa follia di battaglia del Marchese… il treno per Parigi era in vista.

Ma la morbosa energia del Marchese si spinse troppo oltre. Due volte Syme, parando, respinse la punta dell’avversario ben fuori dal cerchio di combattimento; e la terza volta la sua risposta fu così rapida, che non ci fu dubbio sul colpo questa volta. La spada di Syme si piegò davvero sotto il peso del corpo del Marchese, che aveva trafitto.

Syme era certo di aver conficcato la lama nel suo nemico quanto un giardiniere di aver conficcato la vanga nel terreno. Eppure il Marchese balzò indietro dal colpo senza vacillare, e Syme rimase a fissare la punta della propria spada come un idiota. Non c’era su di essa una goccia di sangue.

Ci fu un istante di rigido silenzio, e poi Syme a sua volta si gettò furiosamente sull’altro, colmo di una fiammeggiante curiosità. Il Marchese era probabilmente, in senso generale, uno schermidore migliore di lui, come egli aveva supposto in principio, ma in quel momento il Marchese pareva sconvolto e in svantaggio. Si batteva alla cieca e persino fiaccamente, e volgeva continuamente lo sguardo verso la linea ferroviaria, quasi come se temesse il treno più dell’acciaio appuntito. Syme, dal canto suo, si batteva con ferocia ma sempre con cautela, in una furia intellettuale, ansioso di sciogliere l’enigma della propria spada senza sangue. A tale scopo, mirava meno al corpo del Marchese, e più alla gola e alla testa. Un minuto e mezzo dopo sentì la propria punta entrare nel collo dell’uomo, sotto la mascella. Ne uscì pulita. Mezzo folle, affondò di nuovo, e produsse quella che avrebbe dovuto essere una sanguinosa cicatrice sulla guancia del Marchese. Ma non c’era cicatrice.

Per un momento il cielo di Syme si fece di nuovo nero di terrori soprannaturali. Di certo quell’uomo aveva una vita incantata. Ma questo nuovo sgomento spirituale era una cosa più tremenda di quanto fosse stato il mero capovolgimento spirituale simboleggiato dal paralitico che lo aveva inseguito. Il Professore era soltanto un folletto; quest’uomo era un diavolo… forse era il Diavolo! Comunque, questo era certo, che per tre volte una spada umana era stata cacciata in lui senza lasciare segno. Quando Syme ebbe quel pensiero si raddrizzò, e tutto ciò che di buono c’era in lui cantò alto nell’aria come un alto vento canta tra gli alberi. Pensò a tutte le cose umane della sua storia… alle lanterne cinesi di Saffron Park, ai capelli rossi della ragazza nel giardino, agli onesti marinai tracannatori di birra giù al molo, ai suoi fedeli compagni ritti accanto a lui. Forse era stato scelto come campione di tutte queste cose fresche e amabili per incrociare le spade col nemico di tutta la creazione. «Dopo tutto», disse tra sé, «io sono più di un diavolo; io sono un uomo. Posso fare l’unica cosa che Satan stesso non può fare… posso morire», e mentre la parola gli attraversava la mente, udì un fischio debole e lontano, che presto sarebbe stato il boato del treno per Parigi.

He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man’s thigh.

“Stop!” said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. “I want to say something.”

“What is the matter?” asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. “Has there been foul play?”

“There has been foul play somewhere,” said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. “Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse.”

The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience.

“Please let me speak,” he said. “It is rather important. Mr. Syme,” he continued, turning to his opponent, “we are fighting to-day, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train.”

“I protest that this is most irregular,” said Dr. Bull indignantly.

“It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent,” said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. “There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one’s nose a weapon.”

“Will you or will you not pull my nose?” said the Marquis in exasperation. “Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don’t be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!” and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill.

Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures— the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand.

He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene.

The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice.

“If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow,” he said, “he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It’s the kind of thing that might come in useful any day,” and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage.

“If I had known,” he spluttered, “that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight—”

“Oh, I know, I know!” said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. “You are making a mistake; but it can’t be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Bull fiercely, “and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil’s work—”

The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.

“Will you drive me mad?” he cried. “The train—”

“You shall not go by the train,” said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword.

The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking.

“You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!” he said without taking breath. “You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You—”

“You shall not go by this train,” repeated Syme.

“And why the infernal blazes,” roared the other, “should I want to go by the train?”

“We know all,” said the Professor sternly. “You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!”

“Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!” cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily.

“Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don’t realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!”

“Then what did you care about?” began the Professor.

“What did I care about? I didn’t care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me.”

“I regret to inform you,” said Syme with restraint, “that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something.”

“It means everything,” said the other, “and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand.”

“Us!” repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. “What do you mean by ‘us’?”

“The police, of course!” said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face.

The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale.

Riprese a battersi con una levità soprannaturale, come un maomettano ansante per il Paradiso. Man mano che il treno si avvicinava sempre più, gli parve di vedere gente che innalzava gli archi floreali a Parigi; si univa al crescente frastuono e alla gloria della grande Repubblica la cui porta egli custodiva contro l’Inferno. I suoi pensieri salivano sempre più in alto col crescente boato del treno, che si concluse, quasi con fierezza, in un lungo e acuto fischio. Il treno si fermò.

D’improvviso, con stupore di tutti, il Marchese balzò indietro del tutto fuori dalla portata della spada e gettò a terra la propria spada. Il balzo fu prodigioso, e non meno prodigioso perché Syme un attimo prima gli aveva conficcato la spada nella coscia.

«Fermo!» disse il Marchese con una voce che impose una momentanea obbedienza. «Voglio dire una cosa.»

«Che cosa succede?» chiese il colonnello Ducroix, sbarrando gli occhi. «C’è stato un gioco scorretto?»

«C’è stato un gioco scorretto da qualche parte», disse il dottor Bull, che era un po’ pallido. «Il nostro principale ha ferito il Marchese almeno quattro volte, e lui non ne ha risentito affatto.»

Il Marchese alzò la mano con una curiosa aria di spettrale pazienza.

«Vi prego, lasciatemi parlare», disse. «È piuttosto importante. Signor Syme», proseguì, rivolgendosi al suo avversario, «noi ci battiamo oggi, se ben ricordo, perché voi avete espresso il desiderio (che ho ritenuto irrazionale) di tirarmi il naso. Vorreste farmi la cortesia di tirarmi il naso ora, il più in fretta possibile? Devo prendere un treno.»

«Protesto: questo è quanto mai irregolare», disse il dottor Bull con indignazione.

«È certamente alquanto contrario ai precedenti», disse il colonnello Ducroix, guardando con rimpianto il proprio principale. «Vi è, credo, un caso registrato (il capitano Bellegarde e il barone Zumpt) in cui le armi furono cambiate nel mezzo dello scontro su richiesta di uno dei combattenti. Ma difficilmente si può chiamare arma il proprio naso.»

«Volete o non volete tirarmi il naso?» disse il Marchese esasperato. «Su, su, signor Syme! Volevate farlo, fatelo! Non potete avere idea di quanto sia importante per me. Non siate così egoista! Tiratemi il naso subito, quando ve lo chiedo!» e si sporse leggermente in avanti con un sorriso affascinante. Il treno per Parigi, ansante e gemente, era entrato stridendo in una piccola stazione dietro la vicina collina.

Syme provò la sensazione che aveva provato più di una volta in queste avventure… il senso che un’onda orribile e sublime, sollevata fino al cielo, stesse per rovesciarsi. Camminando in un mondo che comprendeva a metà, mosse due passi avanti e afferrò il naso romano di questo straordinario nobiluomo. Lo tirò con forza, e gli rimase in mano.

Rimase per alcuni secondi con una sciocca solennità, la proboscide di cartapesta ancora tra le dita, a guardarla, mentre il sole e le nubi e le colline boscose guardavano dall’alto questa scena imbecille.

Il Marchese ruppe il silenzio con voce forte e allegra.

«Se qualcuno ha bisogno del mio sopracciglio sinistro», disse, «se lo può prendere. Colonnello Ducroix, accettate il mio sopracciglio sinistro! È il genere di cosa che potrebbe tornar utile un giorno o l’altro», e con gravità si strappò uno dei suoi bruni sopraccigli assiri, portandosi via circa metà della bruna fronte, e cortesemente lo offrì al Colonnello, che stava paonazzo e ammutolito dalla rabbia.

«Se avessi saputo», balbettò, «di fare da padrino a un vigliacco che si imbottisce per battersi…»

«Oh, lo so, lo so!» disse il Marchese, gettando sconsideratamente varie parti di sé a destra e a sinistra per il campo. «State commettendo un errore; ma non lo si può spiegare adesso. Vi dico che il treno è entrato in stazione!»

«Sì», disse il dottor Bull con fierezza, «e il treno uscirà dalla stazione. Uscirà senza di voi. Sappiamo bene a quale opera diabolica…»

Il misterioso Marchese levò le mani con gesto disperato. Era un bizzarro spaventapasseri, ritto lì al sole con metà del suo vecchio volto scrostata, e mezzo un altro volto che sogghignava e ghignava di sotto.

«Volete farmi impazzire?» gridò. «Il treno…»

«Non partirete col treno», disse Syme con fermezza, e afferrò la propria spada.

La selvaggia figura si volse verso Syme, e parve raccogliersi per uno sforzo sublime prima di parlare.

«Grande grasso, maledetto, cisposo, pasticcione, tonante, decerebrato, scellerato, rimbambito, dannato sciocco che non siete altro!» disse tutto d’un fiato. «Grande stupida rapa dalla faccia rosea e dalla zucca stopposa! Voi…»

«Non partirete con questo treno», ripeté Syme.

«E perché diavolo mai», ruggì l’altro, «dovrei voler partire col treno?»

«Sappiamo tutto», disse il Professore severamente. «State andando a Parigi per lanciare una bomba!»

«Sto andando a Gerico per lanciare un Ciarlestrone!» gridò l’altro, strappandosi i capelli, che vennero via con facilità.

«Avete tutti un rammollimento del cervello, che non capite che cosa sono? Credevate davvero che volessi prendere quel treno? Venti treni per Parigi potrebbero passare, per quel che me ne importa. Al diavolo i treni per Parigi!»

«E allora che cosa vi premeva?» cominciò il Professore.

«Che cosa mi premeva? Non mi premeva di prendere il treno; mi premeva se il treno prendesse me, e ora, per Dio! mi ha preso.»

«Mi rincresce informarvi», disse Syme con misura, «che le vostre osservazioni non trasmettono alcuna impressione alla mia mente. Forse, se voleste rimuovere i resti della vostra fronte originaria e qualche porzione di ciò che un tempo era il vostro mento, il vostro significato si farebbe più chiaro. La lucidità mentale si compie in molti modi. Che cosa intendete dicendo che il treno vi ha preso? Sarà la mia fantasia letteraria, ma in qualche modo sento che dovrebbe voler dire qualcosa.»

«Vuol dire tutto», disse l’altro, «e la fine di tutto. Domenica ci tiene ora nel cavo della sua mano.»

«Ci?» ripeté il Professore, come istupidito. «Che cosa intendete con “ci”?»

«La polizia, naturalmente!» disse il Marchese, e si strappò lo scalpo e mezza faccia.

La testa che ne emerse era la testa bionda, ben pettinata, dai capelli lisci, comune nella polizia inglese, ma il volto era terribilmente pallido.

“I am Inspector Ratcliffe,” he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. “My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card,” and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket.

The Professor gave a tired gesture.

“Oh, don’t show it us,” he said wearily; “we’ve got enough of them to equip a paper-chase.”

The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy, but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism, which holds it holy to destroy mankind like vermin. How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologise, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer.”

The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said—

“Of course, I accept the apology; but you will in your turn forgive me if I decline to follow you further into your difficulties, and permit myself to say good morning! The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day. Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town.”

Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out—

“No, by George! I won’t. If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I’ll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can’t fight for civilization.”

Dr. Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting.

“Don’t make too much noise,” said Inspector Ratcliffe, “Sunday may hear you.”

“Sunday!” cried Bull, and dropped his hat.

“Yes,” retorted Ratcliffe, “he may be with them.”

“With whom?” asked Syme.

“With the people out of that train,” said the other.

“What you say seems utterly wild,” began Syme. “Why, as a matter of fact—But, my God,” he cried out suddenly, like a man who sees an explosion a long way off, “by God! if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy! Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary. What can it mean?”

“Mean!” said the new policeman with incredible violence. “It means that we are struck dead! Don’t you know Sunday? Don’t you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one has never thought of them? Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme? I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line—especially of that railway line!” and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station. “The whole movement was controlled by him; half the world was ready to rise for him. But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him… and the old devil put them on the Supreme Council, to waste their time in watching each other. Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies! Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France. And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we five idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man’s buff.”

“Well?” asked Syme with a sort of steadiness.

“Well,” replied the other with sudden serenity, “he has found us playing blind man’s buff to-day in a field of great rustic beauty and extreme solitude. He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it.”

Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way.

“It was a habit of the late Marquis de St. Eustache,” said the new policeman, producing a leather case, “always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles.”

He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes.

“It cannot be as bad as you say,” said the Professor, somewhat shaken. “There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists.”

“Do ordinary tourists,” asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, “wear black masks half-way down the face?”

Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side.

«Sono l’ispettore Ratcliffe», disse, con una specie di fretta che rasentava la ruvidezza. «Il mio nome è piuttosto ben noto alla polizia, e vedo abbastanza bene che voi le appartenete. Ma se vi è qualche dubbio sulla mia posizione, ho un tesserino», e cominciò a tirar fuori dalla tasca un tesserino azzurro.

Il Professore fece un gesto stanco.

«Oh, non mostratecelo», disse spossato; «ne abbiamo abbastanza da equipaggiare una caccia al tesoro.»

Il piccolo uomo di nome Bull aveva, come molti uomini che paiono di mera vivace volgarità, improvvisi moti di buon gusto. Qui salvò certamente la situazione. Nel mezzo di questa sconcertante scena di trasformazione egli fece un passo avanti con tutta la gravità e la responsabilità di un padrino, e si rivolse ai due padrini del Marchese.

«Signori», disse, «vi dobbiamo tutti serie scuse; ma vi assicuro che non siete stati resi vittime di uno scherzo così volgare come immaginate, né in verità di alcunché di indegno in un uomo d’onore. Non avete sprecato il vostro tempo; avete contribuito a salvare il mondo. Non siamo dei buffoni, ma uomini disperatissimi in guerra con una vasta congiura. Una società segreta di anarchici ci dà la caccia come a lepri; non gli sventurati pazzi che qua o là possono lanciare una bomba per fame o per filosofia tedesca, ma una chiesa ricca, potente e fanatica, una chiesa di pessimismo orientale, che ritiene sacro distruggere il genere umano come vermi. Con quanto accanimento ci diano la caccia potete arguirlo dal fatto che siamo ridotti a travestimenti come quelli di cui mi scuso, e a burle come questa di cui voi soffrite.»

Il più giovane padrino del Marchese, un uomo basso coi baffi neri, si inchinò cortesemente, e disse:

«Naturalmente accetto le scuse; ma voi a vostra volta mi perdonerete se declino di seguirvi oltre nelle vostre difficoltà, e mi permetto di dire buongiorno! Lo spettacolo di un conoscente e distinto concittadino che si sfascia all’aria aperta è insolito e, tutto sommato, sufficiente per una giornata. Colonnello Ducroix, non vorrei in alcun modo influenzare le vostre azioni, ma se sentite come me che la nostra presente compagnia è un po’ anormale, me ne torno a piedi in città.»

Il colonnello Ducroix accennò a muoversi meccanicamente, ma poi tirò bruscamente i propri bianchi baffi ed esplose:

«No, perbacco! Non lo farò. Se questi signori sono davvero in un pasticcio con un mucchio di volgari sabotatori come quelli, li aiuterò a venirne fuori. Ho combattuto per la Francia, e sarebbe dura se non potessi combattere per la civiltà.»

Il dottor Bull si tolse il cappello e lo agitò, esultando come a un pubblico comizio.

«Non fate troppo rumore», disse l’ispettore Ratcliffe, «Domenica potrebbe udirvi.»

«Domenica!» gridò Bull, e lasciò cadere il cappello.

«Sì», ribatté Ratcliffe, «potrebbe essere con loro.»

«Con chi?» chiese Syme.

«Con la gente scesa da quel treno», disse l’altro.

«Ciò che dite mi pare del tutto folle», cominciò Syme. «Ma, in fondo, in effetti… Ma, mio Dio», gridò d’improvviso, come un uomo che vede un’esplosione da lontano, «per Dio! se questo è vero, tutta la benedetta banda di noi del Consiglio Anarchico era contro l’anarchia! Ogni nato di donna era un detective, eccetto il Presidente e il suo segretario personale. Che cosa può significare?»

«Significare!» disse il nuovo poliziotto con incredibile violenza. «Significa che siamo fulminati! Non conoscete Domenica? Non sapete che i suoi scherzi sono sempre così grandi e semplici che nessuno ci ha mai pensato? Riuscite a immaginare qualcosa di più simile a Domenica di questo, che egli abbia messo tutti i suoi potenti nemici nel Consiglio Supremo, e poi si sia curato che non fosse supremo? Vi dico che ha comprato ogni trust, ha catturato ogni cavo, ha il controllo di ogni linea ferroviaria… specialmente di quella linea ferroviaria!» e puntò un dito tremante verso la piccola stazione lungo la via. «L’intero movimento era controllato da lui; metà del mondo era pronta a insorgere per lui. Ma c’erano soltanto cinque persone, forse, che gli avrebbero resistito… e il vecchio diavolo le mise nel Consiglio Supremo, a sprecare il loro tempo sorvegliandosi a vicenda. Idioti che siamo, egli ha ordito l’intera nostra idiozia! Domenica sapeva che il Professore avrebbe inseguito Syme per Londra, e che Syme si sarebbe battuto con me in Francia. E intanto combinava grandi masse di capitale, e s’impadroniva di grandi linee di telegrafia, mentre noi cinque idioti ci correvamo dietro l’un l’altro come un mucchio di dannati bambini che giocano a mosca cieca.»

«Ebbene?» chiese Syme con una certa fermezza.

«Ebbene», replicò l’altro con improvvisa serenità, «egli ci ha trovato a giocare a mosca cieca, oggi, in un campo di gran bellezza agreste e di estrema solitudine. Ha probabilmente conquistato il mondo; non gli resta che conquistare questo campo e tutti gli sciocchi che vi sono. E poiché volete davvero sapere qual era la mia obiezione all’arrivo di quel treno, ve lo dirò. La mia obiezione era che Domenica o il suo Segretario è appena sceso da esso proprio in questo momento.»

Syme emise un grido involontario, e tutti volsero gli occhi verso la lontana stazione. Era proprio vero che una considerevole massa di gente pareva muoversi nella loro direzione. Ma erano troppo distanti per poter essere distinti in alcun modo.

«Era un’abitudine del defunto Marchese de St. Eustache», disse il nuovo poliziotto, tirando fuori un astuccio di cuoio, «portare sempre con sé un binocolo da teatro. O il Presidente o il Segretario ci viene dietro con quella folla. Ci hanno colti in un bel posto tranquillo dove non abbiamo alcuna tentazione di violare i nostri giuramenti chiamando la polizia. Dottor Bull, ho il sospetto che voi ci vedrete meglio attraverso questi che attraverso i vostri così decorativi occhiali.»

Porse il binocolo al Dottore, che immediatamente si tolse gli occhiali e portò l’apparecchio agli occhi.

«Non può essere grave come dite», disse il Professore, alquanto scosso. «Ce n’è certo un buon numero, ma potrebbero benissimo essere comuni turisti.»

«I comuni turisti», chiese Bull, col binocolo agli occhi, «portano maschere nere che coprono metà del volto?»

Syme quasi gli strappò il binocolo di mano, e vi guardò attraverso. La maggior parte degli uomini nella folla che avanzava aveva davvero un aspetto abbastanza comune; ma era proprio vero che due o tre dei capi davanti portavano nere mezze maschere che quasi arrivavano alla bocca. Questo travestimento è assai completo, specie a tale distanza, e Syme trovò impossibile concludere alcunché dalle mascelle e dai menti rasati degli uomini che parlavano davanti. Ma di lì a poco, mentre parlavano, tutti sorrisero, e uno di loro sorrise di traverso.

CHAPTER XI

THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE

SYME put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.

“The President is not with them, anyhow,” he said, and wiped his forehead.

“But surely they are right away on the horizon,” said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull’s hasty though polite explanation. “Could you possibly know your President among all those people?”

“Could I know a white elephant among all those people!” answered Syme somewhat irritably. “As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them… by God! I believe this ground would shake.”

After an instant’s pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision—

“Of course the President isn’t with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

“This is absurd!” said Syme. “Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true,” he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, “it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out.”

“Oh, they,” said the new detective contemptuously; “no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value— we are not much, my boy, in Sunday’s universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary,” and he spat on the grass.

Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely—

“There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me.”

With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees.

The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man’s head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme’s overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men’s faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside), seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis’s straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation.

“May I ask,” he said, “where on earth we are all going to?”

So genuine had been the doubts of his soul, that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy, human voice.

“We must get down through the town of Lancy to the sea,” he said. “I think that part of the country is least likely to be with them.”

“What can you mean by all this?” cried Syme. “They can’t be running the real world in that way. Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police.”

“Mere mobs!” repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn. “So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You’ve got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons’ wars.”

CAPITOLO XI

I CRIMINALI DANNO LA CACCIA ALLA POLIZIA

SYME allontanò il cannocchiale dagli occhi con un sollievo quasi spettrale.

«Il Presidente comunque non è con loro», disse, e si asciugò la fronte.

«Ma sono ormai laggiù, all’orizzonte», osservò il Colonnello sconcertato, sbattendo le palpebre e appena rimessosi dalla spiegazione frettolosa ma cortese di Bull. «Potreste davvero riconoscere il vostro Presidente fra tutta quella gente?»

«Se potrei riconoscere un elefante bianco fra tutta quella gente!» rispose Syme con una certa irritazione. «Come dite giustissimamente, sono all’orizzonte; ma se camminasse con loro… per Dio! credo che questo terreno tremerebbe.»

Dopo un istante di pausa il nuovo venuto di nome Ratcliffe disse con cupa risolutezza:

«Naturalmente il Presidente non è con loro. Volesse il Cielo che ci fosse. Molto più probabilmente il Presidente sta cavalcando in trionfo per Parigi, o siede sulle rovine della Cattedrale di San Paolo.»

«Questo è assurdo!» esclamò Syme. «Qualcosa può essere accaduto in nostra assenza; ma non può aver travolto il mondo con un simile assalto. È verissimo», aggiunse, aggrottando la fronte con aria dubbiosa verso i campi lontani che si stendevano in direzione della piccola stazione, «è certamente vero che sembra esserci una folla che viene da questa parte; ma non sono affatto tutto l’esercito che voi immaginate.»

«Oh, loro», disse con disprezzo il nuovo investigatore; «no, non sono una forza di grande valore. Ma lasciate che vi dica francamente che sono calcolati con precisione secondo il nostro valore… noi non contiamo molto, ragazzo mio, nell’universo di Sunday. Ha messo le mani lui stesso su tutti i cavi e i telegrafi. Ma uccidere il Consiglio Supremo lo considera una faccenda da nulla, come una cartolina; la si può lasciare al suo segretario privato», e sputò sull’erba.

Poi si volse agli altri e disse con una certa severità:

«Sulla morte ci sarebbe molto da dire; ma se qualcuno ha qualche preferenza per l’altra alternativa, gli consiglio vivamente di camminarmi dietro.»

Con queste parole voltò la sua larga schiena e si mosse con silenziosa energia verso il bosco. Gli altri diedero una sola occhiata alle spalle, e videro che l’oscura nube di uomini si era staccata dalla stazione e avanzava con misteriosa disciplina attraverso la pianura. Vedevano già, persino a occhio nudo, macchie nere sui volti in prima fila, che segnavano le maschere che indossavano. Si voltarono e seguirono il loro capo, che aveva già raggiunto il bosco ed era scomparso fra gli alberi scintillanti.

Il sole sull’erba era secco e caldo. Così, tuffandosi nel bosco, ebbero un fresco brivido d’ombra, come tuffatori che si immergono in una fosca pozza. L’interno del bosco era pieno di luce solare frantumata e di ombre tremule. Ne formavano una sorta di velo fremente, che quasi richiamava la vertigine di un cinematografo. Persino le figure solide che camminavano con lui Syme riusciva a stento a scorgere, per via delle trame di sole e d’ombra che danzavano su di esse. Ora la testa di un uomo era illuminata come da una luce di Rembrandt, lasciando tutto il resto cancellato; ora, di nuovo, egli aveva mani bianche forti e fisse col volto di un negro. L’ex Marchese si era calato il vecchio cappello di paglia sugli occhi, e l’ombra nera della tesa gli tagliava il volto così nettamente in due che sembrava indossare una delle nere semimaschere dei loro inseguitori. Quella fantasia colorò l’opprimente senso di meraviglia di Syme. Portava una maschera? Portava qualcuno una maschera? Era qualcuno qualcosa? Questo bosco di stregoneria, in cui i volti degli uomini diventavano a turno neri e bianchi, in cui le loro figure dapprima si gonfiavano nella luce del sole e poi svanivano nell’informe notte, questo puro caos di chiaroscuro (dopo la limpida luce diurna là fuori), sembrava a Syme un simbolo perfetto del mondo in cui si era mosso per tre giorni, questo mondo in cui gli uomini si toglievano le barbe e gli occhiali e i nasi, e si trasformavano in altre persone. Quella tragica fiducia in sé che aveva provato quando credeva che il Marchese fosse un diavolo era stranamente scomparsa ora che sapeva che il Marchese era un amico. Si sentiva quasi incline a domandarsi, dopo tutti questi smarrimenti, che cosa fosse un amico e che cosa un nemico. C’era qualcosa che fosse distinto da ciò che sembrava? Il Marchese si era tolto il naso ed era risultato essere un investigatore. Non poteva altrettanto bene togliersi la testa e risultare essere un folletto? Non era tutto, dopotutto, come questo sconcertante boscaglia, questa danza di buio e di luce? Tutto soltanto un barlume, il barlume sempre imprevisto, e sempre dimenticato. Poiché Gabriel Syme aveva trovato nel cuore di quel bosco chiazzato di sole ciò che molti pittori moderni vi avevano trovato. Aveva trovato ciò che la gente moderna chiama Impressionismo, che è un altro nome per quel scetticismo finale che non riesce a trovare alcun fondo all’universo.

Come un uomo in un incubo malvagio si sforza di gridare e di destarsi, Syme si sforzò con un subitaneo impeto di scacciare quest’ultima e peggiore delle sue fantasie. Con due passi impazienti raggiunse l’uomo dal cappello di paglia del Marchese, l’uomo che aveva preso a chiamare Ratcliffe. Con voce esageratamente alta e allegra, ruppe l’insondabile silenzio e fece conversazione.

«Posso chiedere», disse, «dove diamine stiamo andando tutti quanti?»

Così genuini erano stati i dubbi della sua anima, che fu ben lieto di udire il compagno parlare con voce facile e umana.

«Dobbiamo scendere attraverso la città di Lancy fino al mare», disse. «Penso che quella parte del paese sia la meno propensa a stare con loro.»

«Che cosa intendete con tutto questo?» gridò Syme. «Non possono governare il mondo reale in quel modo. Non sono certo molti gli operai anarchici, e certo, se anche lo fossero, semplici plebaglie non potrebbero battere gli eserciti moderni e la polizia.»

«Semplici plebaglie!» ripeté il suo nuovo amico con uno sbuffo di scherno. «Così parlate di plebaglie e di classi operaie come se fossero il punto della questione. Avete quella eterna idea idiota che, se venisse l’anarchia, verrebbe dai poveri. E perché mai? I poveri sono stati ribelli, ma non sono mai stati anarchici; hanno più interesse di chiunque altro a che vi sia un qualche governo decente. Il povero ha davvero una posta in gioco nel paese. Il ricco no; può andarsene in Nuova Guinea su uno yacht. I poveri hanno talvolta obiettato all’essere governati male; i ricchi hanno sempre obiettato all’essere governati del tutto. Gli aristocratici sono sempre stati anarchici, come si può vedere dalle guerre dei baroni.»

“As a lecture on English history for the little ones,” said Syme, “this is all very nice; but I have not yet grasped its application.”

“Its application is,” said his informant, “that most of old Sunday’s right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That is why he has got hold of all the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits.”

“Millionaires I can understand,” said Syme thoughtfully, “they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere.”

“Well,” said the other, “it rather depends what sort of person you mean.”

“Well, for instance,” said Syme, “he could never convert that person,” and he pointed straight in front of him.

They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.

“Mr. Syme is saying,” called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, “that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist.”

“Mr. Syme is right enough there,” answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, “if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy.”

“He looks poor,” said Dr. Bull doubtfully.

“Quite so,” said the Colonel; “that is why he is rich.”

“I have an idea,” called out Dr. Bull suddenly; “how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind.”

“Oh, give him anything!” said Syme eagerly. “I have piles of money on me.”

“That will never do,” said the Colonel; “he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain.”

“Oh, if he haggles!” began Bull impatiently.

“He haggles because he is a free man,” said the other. “You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped.”

And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become devout in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man’s presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track.

As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob. They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons.

Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe.

“Yes,” replied the policeman, “that’s discipline. That’s Sunday. He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God. Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly. But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly.”

Syme nodded. It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse.

The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs. The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road fell sheer in front of them like a waterfall. Down this direct descent the cart clattered at a considerable angle, and in a few minutes, the road growing yet steeper, they saw below them the little harbour of Lancy and a great blue arc of the sea. The travelling cloud of their enemies had wholly disappeared from the horizon.

«Come lezione di storia inglese per i piccini», disse Syme, «tutto ciò è graziosissimo; ma non ne ho ancora afferrato l’applicazione.»

«La sua applicazione è», disse il suo informatore, «che la maggior parte dei bracci destri del vecchio Sunday sono milionari sudafricani e americani. Ecco perché ha messo le mani su tutte le comunicazioni; ed ecco perché gli ultimi quattro campioni della polizia antianarchica corrono attraverso un bosco come conigli.»

«I milionari li posso capire», disse Syme pensieroso, «sono quasi tutti matti. Ma mettere le mani su qualche vecchio signore malvagio con le sue fissazioni è una cosa; mettere le mani su grandi nazioni cristiane è un’altra. Scommetterei il naso della mia faccia (perdonate l’allusione) che Sunday resterebbe perfettamente impotente davanti al compito di convertire una qualsiasi persona ordinaria e sana in qualunque luogo.»

«Beh», disse l’altro, «dipende piuttosto dal genere di persona che intendete.»

«Beh, per esempio», disse Syme, «non potrebbe mai convertire quella persona», e puntò dritto davanti a sé.

Erano giunti a uno spiazzo aperto di luce solare, che parve esprimere a Syme il ritorno definitivo del suo stesso buon senso; e in mezzo a questa radura della foresta c’era una figura che poteva bene stare a rappresentare quel buon senso in un’attualità quasi terribile. Bruciato dal sole e macchiato di sudore, e grave dell’insondabile gravità delle piccole fatiche necessarie, un pesante contadino francese tagliava legna con un’accetta. Il suo carro stava a pochi metri, già mezzo carico di legname; e il cavallo che brucava l’erba era, come il suo padrone, valoroso ma non disperato; come il suo padrone, era persino prospero, eppure quasi triste. L’uomo era un Normanno, più alto della media dei Francesi e assai spigoloso; e la sua figura bruna si stagliava scura contro un quadrato di luce solare, quasi come una qualche figura allegorica del lavoro affrescata su uno sfondo d’oro.

«Il signor Syme sta dicendo», gridò Ratcliffe al Colonnello francese, «che quest’uomo, almeno, non sarà mai un anarchico.»

«Il signor Syme ha ben ragione in questo», rispose il Colonnello Ducroix, ridendo, «non foss’altro per la ragione che ha un mucchio di proprietà da difendere. Ma dimenticavo che nel vostro paese non siete avvezzi a contadini benestanti.»

«Sembra povero», disse il dottor Bull con aria dubbiosa.

«Proprio così», disse il Colonnello; «ecco perché è ricco.»

«Ho un’idea», gridò all’improvviso il dottor Bull; «quanto vorrebbe per darci un passaggio sul suo carro? Quei cani vanno tutti a piedi, e potremmo presto lasciarli indietro.»

«Oh, dategli qualunque cosa!» disse Syme con ansia. «Ho mucchi di denaro addosso.»

«Non andrà mai bene così», disse il Colonnello; «non avrà alcun rispetto per voi se non contrattate.»

«Oh, se si mette a mercanteggiare!» cominciò Bull spazientito.

«Mercanteggia perché è un uomo libero», disse l’altro. «Voi non capite; non coglierebbe il senso della generosità. Non gli si sta dando una mancia.»

E persino mentre parevano udire i pesanti passi dei loro strani inseguitori alle spalle, dovettero starsene lì a battere i piedi mentre il Colonnello francese parlava col boscaiolo francese con tutto il pacato scherzare e battibeccare del giorno di mercato. Al termine dei quattro minuti, tuttavia, videro che il Colonnello aveva ragione, poiché il boscaiolo entrò nei loro piani, non con la vaga servilità di un mediatore troppo ben pagato, ma con la serietà di un procuratore a cui sia stato corrisposto l’onorario dovuto. Disse loro che la cosa migliore da fare era dirigersi giù verso la piccola locanda sulle alture sopra Lancy, dove il locandiere, un vecchio soldato divenuto devoto negli ultimi anni, avrebbe di certo simpatizzato con loro, e persino corso dei rischi per sostenerli. L’intera compagnia, perciò, si ammucchiò in cima alle cataste di legna, e si mise a dondolare sul rozzo carro giù per l’altro versante, più ripido, della boscaglia. Per quanto pesante e sgangherato fosse il veicolo, lo si guidava abbastanza in fretta, e presto ebbero l’inebriante impressione di distanziare del tutto coloro, chiunque fossero, che davano loro la caccia. Poiché, dopotutto, l’enigma di dove gli anarchici avessero raccolto tutti quei seguaci restava ancora irrisolto. La presenza di un solo uomo era bastata contro di loro; erano fuggiti al primo scorgere il sorriso deforme del Segretario. Syme di tanto in tanto si voltava a guardare oltre la spalla l’esercito sulle loro tracce.

Man mano che il bosco si faceva prima più rado e poi più piccolo con la distanza, poteva vedere i pendii illuminati dal sole al di là e al di sopra di esso; e attraverso questi si muoveva ancora la quadrata folla nera come un unico mostruoso scarabeo. Nella fortissima luce solare e coi suoi occhi fortissimi, che erano quasi telescopici, Syme poteva vedere questa massa di uomini piuttosto chiaramente. Poteva vederli come figure umane distinte; ma era sempre più sorpreso dal modo in cui si muovevano come un sol uomo. Sembravano vestiti di abiti scuri e cappelli semplici, come una qualsiasi folla comune uscita dalle strade; ma non si spargevano, non si sparpagliavano né si trascinavano lungo linee diverse all’attacco, come sarebbe stato naturale in una comune plebaglia. Si muovevano con una sorta di spaventosa e malvagia rigidità legnosa, come un fisso esercito di automi.

Syme lo fece notare a Ratcliffe.

«Sì», rispose il poliziotto, «quella è disciplina. Quello è Sunday. È forse a cinquecento miglia di distanza, ma la paura di lui è su tutti loro, come il dito di Dio. Sì, camminano con regolarità; e potete scommetterci gli stivali che parlano con regolarità, sì, e pensano con regolarità. Ma la sola cosa importante per noi è che stanno sparendo con regolarità.»

Syme annuì. Era vero che la macchia nera degli uomini che li inseguivano si faceva sempre più piccola man mano che il contadino frustava il suo cavallo.

Il piano del paesaggio soleggiato, per quanto piatto nel complesso, digradava sul versante più lontano del bosco in ondate di ripido pendio verso il mare, in un modo non dissimile dalle falde inferiori delle colline del Sussex. L’unica differenza era che nel Sussex la strada sarebbe stata spezzata e angolosa come un piccolo ruscello, mentre qui la bianca strada francese precipitava a picco davanti a loro come una cascata. Giù per questa diretta discesa il carro sferragliava con notevole inclinazione, e in pochi minuti, facendosi la strada ancor più ripida, videro sotto di loro il piccolo porto di Lancy e un grande arco azzurro di mare. La nube errante dei loro nemici era del tutto scomparsa dall’orizzonte.

The horse and cart took a sharp turn round a clump of elms, and the horse’s nose nearly struck the face of an old gentleman who was sitting on the benches outside the little cafe of “Le Soleil d’Or.” The peasant grunted an apology, and got down from his seat. The others also descended one by one, and spoke to the old gentleman with fragmentary phrases of courtesy, for it was quite evident from his expansive manner that he was the owner of the little tavern.

He was a white-haired, apple-faced old boy, with sleepy eyes and a grey moustache; stout, sedentary, and very innocent, of a type that may often be found in France, but is still commoner in Catholic Germany. Everything about him, his pipe, his pot of beer, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested an ancestral peace; only when his visitors looked up as they entered the inn-parlour, they saw the sword upon the wall.

The Colonel, who greeted the innkeeper as an old friend, passed rapidly into the inn-parlour, and sat down ordering some ritual refreshment. The military decision of his action interested Syme, who sat next to him, and he took the opportunity when the old innkeeper had gone out of satisfying his curiosity.

“May I ask you, Colonel,” he said in a low voice, “why we have come here?”

Colonel Ducroix smiled behind his bristly white moustache.

“For two reasons, sir,” he said; “and I will give first, not the most important, but the most utilitarian. We came here because this is the only place within twenty miles in which we can get horses.”

“Horses!” repeated Syme, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” replied the other; “if you people are really to distance your enemies it is horses or nothing for you, unless of course you have bicycles and motor-cars in your pocket.”

“And where do you advise us to make for?” asked Syme doubtfully.

“Beyond question,” replied the Colonel, “you had better make all haste to the police station beyond the town. My friend, whom I seconded under somewhat deceptive circumstances, seems to me to exaggerate very much the possibilities of a general rising; but even he would hardly maintain, I suppose, that you were not safe with the gendarmes.”

Syme nodded gravely; then he said abruptly—

“And your other reason for coming here?”

“My other reason for coming here,” said Ducroix soberly, “is that it is just as well to see a good man or two when one is possibly near to death.”

Syme looked up at the wall, and saw a crudely-painted and pathetic religious picture. Then he said—

“You are right,” and then almost immediately afterwards, “Has anyone seen about the horses?”

“Yes,” answered Ducroix, “you may be quite certain that I gave orders the moment I came in. Those enemies of yours gave no impression of hurry, but they were really moving wonderfully fast, like a well-trained army. I had no idea that the anarchists had so much discipline. You have not a moment to waste.”

Almost as he spoke, the old innkeeper with the blue eyes and white hair came ambling into the room, and announced that six horses were saddled outside.

By Ducroix’s advice the five others equipped themselves with some portable form of food and wine, and keeping their duelling swords as the only weapons available, they clattered away down the steep, white road. The two servants, who had carried the Marquis’s luggage when he was a marquis, were left behind to drink at the cafe by common consent, and not at all against their own inclination.

By this time the afternoon sun was slanting westward, and by its rays Syme could see the sturdy figure of the old innkeeper growing smaller and smaller, but still standing and looking after them quite silently, the sunshine in his silver hair. Syme had a fixed, superstitious fancy, left in his mind by the chance phrase of the Colonel, that this was indeed, perhaps, the last honest stranger whom he should ever see upon the earth.

He was still looking at this dwindling figure, which stood as a mere grey blot touched with a white flame against the great green wall of the steep down behind him. And as he stared over the top of the down behind the innkeeper, there appeared an army of black-clad and marching men. They seemed to hang above the good man and his house like a black cloud of locusts. The horses had been saddled none too soon.

Il cavallo e il carro presero una svolta brusca attorno a un gruppo di olmi, e il naso del cavallo per poco non urtò il viso di un vecchio signore seduto sulle panche fuori dal piccolo caffè «Le Soleil d’Or». Il contadino borbottò una scusa, e scese dal suo posto. Anche gli altri discesero a uno a uno, e rivolsero al vecchio signore frasi frammentarie di cortesia, poiché era del tutto evidente, dai suoi modi espansivi, che egli era il proprietario della piccola taverna.

Era un vecchietto dai capelli bianchi e la faccia da mela, con occhi sonnolenti e i baffi grigi; corpulento, sedentario e assai innocente, di un tipo che si trova spesso in Francia, ma è ancora più comune nella Germania cattolica. Ogni cosa in lui, la pipa, il boccale di birra, i fiori e l’alveare, suggeriva una pace ancestrale; solo quando i suoi visitatori alzarono lo sguardo entrando nella sala della locanda, videro la spada appesa al muro.

Il Colonnello, che salutò il locandiere come un vecchio amico, passò rapidamente nella sala della locanda, e si sedette ordinando un qualche rituale ristoro. La decisione militare del suo gesto interessò Syme, che sedeva accanto a lui, il quale colse l’occasione, quando il vecchio locandiere fu uscito, di soddisfare la propria curiosità.

«Posso chiedervi, Colonnello», disse a bassa voce, «perché siamo venuti qui?»

Il Colonnello Ducroix sorrise dietro i suoi ispidi baffi bianchi.

«Per due ragioni, signore», disse; «e vi darò per prima non la più importante, ma la più utilitaristica. Siamo venuti qui perché è l’unico luogo nel raggio di venti miglia in cui possiamo procurarci dei cavalli.»

«Cavalli!» ripeté Syme, alzando lo sguardo di scatto.

«Sì», rispose l’altro; «se voialtri volete davvero distanziare i vostri nemici, per voi è cavalli o niente, a meno che, s’intende, non abbiate biciclette e automobili in tasca.»

«E dove ci consigliate di dirigerci?» chiese Syme con aria dubbiosa.

«Senza alcun dubbio», rispose il Colonnello, «fareste meglio a recarvi in tutta fretta alla stazione di polizia oltre la città. Il mio amico, che ho assecondato in circostanze alquanto ingannevoli, mi sembra esagerare di molto le possibilità di una sollevazione generale; ma perfino lui difficilmente sosterrebbe, suppongo, che non sareste al sicuro coi gendarmi.»

Syme annuì con gravità; poi disse bruscamente:

«E la vostra altra ragione per venire qui?»

«La mia altra ragione per venire qui», disse Ducroix pacatamente, «è che tanto vale bene vedere un uomo dabbene o due quando si è forse vicini alla morte.»

Syme alzò lo sguardo al muro, e vide un’immagine religiosa dipinta rozzamente e patetica. Poi disse:

«Avete ragione», e quasi subito dopo, «Qualcuno si è occupato dei cavalli?»

«Sì», rispose Ducroix, «potete essere ben certo che ho dato ordini nel momento stesso in cui sono entrato. Quei vostri nemici non davano impressione di fretta, ma si muovevano davvero meravigliosamente in fretta, come un esercito ben addestrato. Non avevo idea che gli anarchici avessero tanta disciplina. Non avete un momento da perdere.»

Quasi mentre parlava, il vecchio locandiere dagli occhi azzurri e i capelli bianchi entrò nella stanza con passo dondolante, e annunciò che sei cavalli erano sellati là fuori.

Per consiglio di Ducroix gli altri cinque si munirono di qualche forma portatile di cibo e di vino, e tenendo le loro spade da duello come sole armi disponibili, si allontanarono sferragliando giù per la ripida, bianca strada. I due servitori, che avevano portato i bagagli del Marchese quando egli era un marchese, furono lasciati indietro a bere al caffè di comune accordo, e non certo contro la loro stessa inclinazione.

A quest’ora del giorno il sole pomeridiano volgeva a ponente, e ai suoi raggi Syme poteva vedere la robusta figura del vecchio locandiere farsi sempre più piccola, eppure ancora ritta a guardarli allontanarsi in perfetto silenzio, la luce del sole nei suoi capelli d’argento. Syme aveva una fissa, superstiziosa fantasia, lasciatagli in mente dalla frase casuale del Colonnello, che questi fosse davvero, forse, l’ultimo estraneo onesto che gli fosse mai dato di vedere sulla terra.

Stava ancora guardando quella figura che si rimpiccioliva, la quale si ergeva come una mera grigia macchia toccata da una bianca fiamma contro la grande verde parete del ripido declivio dietro di lui. E mentre fissava oltre la cima del declivio dietro il locandiere, apparve un esercito di uomini vestiti di nero in marcia. Sembravano incombere sul brav’uomo e sulla sua casa come una nera nube di locuste. I cavalli erano stati sellati non un attimo troppo presto.

CHAPTER XII

THE EARTH IN ANARCHY

URGING the horses to a gallop, without respect to the rather rugged descent of the road, the horsemen soon regained their advantage over the men on the march, and at last the bulk of the first buildings of Lancy cut off the sight of their pursuers. Nevertheless, the ride had been a long one, and by the time they reached the real town the west was warming with the colour and quality of sunset. The Colonel suggested that, before making finally for the police station, they should make the effort, in passing, to attach to themselves one more individual who might be useful.

“Four out of the five rich men in this town,” he said, “are common swindlers. I suppose the proportion is pretty equal all over the world. The fifth is a friend of mine, and a very fine fellow; and what is even more important from our point of view, he owns a motor-car.”

“I am afraid,” said the Professor in his mirthful way, looking back along the white road on which the black, crawling patch might appear at any moment, “I am afraid we have hardly time for afternoon calls.”

“Doctor Renard’s house is only three minutes off,” said the Colonel.

“Our danger,” said Dr. Bull, “is not two minutes off.”

“Yes,” said Syme, “if we ride on fast we must leave them behind, for they are on foot.”

“He has a motor-car,” said the Colonel.

“But we may not get it,” said Bull.

“Yes, he is quite on your side.”

“But he might be out.”

“Hold your tongue,” said Syme suddenly. “What is that noise?”

For a second they all sat as still as equestrian statues, and for a second— for two or three or four seconds—heaven and earth seemed equally still. Then all their ears, in an agony of attention, heard along the road that indescribable thrill and throb that means only one thing—horses!

The Colonel’s face had an instantaneous change, as if lightning had struck it, and yet left it scatheless.

“They have done us,” he said, with brief military irony. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

“Where can they have got the horses?” asked Syme, as he mechanically urged his steed to a canter.

The Colonel was silent for a little, then he said in a strained voice—

“I was speaking with strict accuracy when I said that the ‘Soleil d’Or’ was the only place where one can get horses within twenty miles.”

“No!” said Syme violently, “I don’t believe he’d do it. Not with all that white hair.”

“He may have been forced,” said the Colonel gently. “They must be at least a hundred strong, for which reason we are all going to see my friend Renard, who has a motor-car.”

With these words he swung his horse suddenly round a street corner, and went down the street with such thundering speed, that the others, though already well at the gallop, had difficulty in following the flying tail of his horse.

Dr. Renard inhabited a high and comfortable house at the top of a steep street, so that when the riders alighted at his door they could once more see the solid green ridge of the hill, with the white road across it, standing up above all the roofs of the town. They breathed again to see that the road as yet was clear, and they rang the bell.

Dr. Renard was a beaming, brown-bearded man, a good example of that silent but very busy professional class which France has preserved even more perfectly than England. When the matter was explained to him he pooh-poohed the panic of the ex-Marquis altogether; he said, with the solid French scepticism, that there was no conceivable probability of a general anarchist rising. “Anarchy,” he said, shrugging his shoulders, “it is childishness!”

“Et ca,” cried out the Colonel suddenly, pointing over the other’s shoulder, “and that is childishness, isn’t it?”

They all looked round, and saw a curve of black cavalry come sweeping over the top of the hill with all the energy of Attila. Swiftly as they rode, however, the whole rank still kept well together, and they could see the black vizards of the first line as level as a line of uniforms. But although the main black square was the same, though travelling faster, there was now one sensational difference which they could see clearly upon the slope of the hill, as if upon a slanted map. The bulk of the riders were in one block; but one rider flew far ahead of the column, and with frantic movements of hand and heel urged his horse faster and faster, so that one might have fancied that he was not the pursuer but the pursued. But even at that great distance they could see something so fanatical, so unquestionable in his figure, that they knew it was the Secretary himself. “I am sorry to cut short a cultured discussion,” said the Colonel, “but can you lend me your motor-car now, in two minutes?”

“I have a suspicion that you are all mad,” said Dr. Renard, smiling sociably; “but God forbid that madness should in any way interrupt friendship. Let us go round to the garage.”

Dr. Renard was a mild man with monstrous wealth; his rooms were like the Musee de Cluny, and he had three motor-cars. These, however, he seemed to use very sparingly, having the simple tastes of the French middle class, and when his impatient friends came to examine them, it took them some time to assure themselves that one of them even could be made to work. This with some difficulty they brought round into the street before the Doctor’s house. When they came out of the dim garage they were startled to find that twilight had already fallen with the abruptness of night in the tropics. Either they had been longer in the place than they imagined, or some unusual canopy of cloud had gathered over the town. They looked down the steep streets, and seemed to see a slight mist coming up from the sea.

“It is now or never,” said Dr. Bull. “I hear horses.”

CAPITOLO XII

LA TERRA NELL’ANARCHIA

SPINGENDO i cavalli al galoppo, senza riguardo alla discesa piuttosto scoscesa della strada, i cavalieri riguadagnarono presto il loro vantaggio sugli uomini in marcia, e alla fine la mole dei primi edifici di Lancy tagliò fuori la vista dei loro inseguitori. Ciò nonostante, la cavalcata era stata lunga, e nel tempo in cui raggiunsero la vera e propria cittadina l’occidente si andava scaldando del colore e della qualità del tramonto. Il Colonnello propose che, prima di dirigersi definitivamente al posto di polizia, tentassero, passando, di aggregarsi un altro individuo che poteva tornar utile.

«Quattro dei cinque uomini ricchi di questa città», disse, «sono volgari truffatori. Suppongo che la proporzione sia press’a poco identica in tutto il mondo. Il quinto è un mio amico, ed è una gran brava persona; e ciò che dal nostro punto di vista è ancor più importante, possiede un’automobile».

«Temo», disse il Professore a modo suo, ridanciano, volgendo lo sguardo indietro lungo la bianca strada sulla quale la nera chiazza strisciante poteva comparire da un momento all’altro, «temo che abbiamo a malapena il tempo per le visite pomeridiane».

«La casa del dottor Renard è a soli tre minuti», disse il Colonnello.

«Il nostro pericolo», disse il dottor Bull, «non è a due minuti».

«Sì», disse Syme, «se cavalchiamo veloci dobbiamo lasciarli indietro, poiché sono a piedi».

«Lui ha un’automobile», disse il Colonnello.

«Ma potremmo non ottenerla», disse Bull.

«Sì, è del tutto dalla vostra parte».

«Ma potrebbe essere fuori».

«Tenete a freno la lingua», disse Syme all’improvviso. «Che cos’è quel rumore?»

Per un secondo se ne stettero tutti immobili come statue equestri, e per un secondo — per due o tre o quattro secondi — il cielo e la terra parvero ugualmente immobili. Poi tutte le loro orecchie, in un’agonia d’attenzione, udirono lungo la strada quell’indescrivibile fremito e pulsare che significa una cosa soltanto: cavalli!

Il volto del Colonnello ebbe un mutamento istantaneo, come se il fulmine l’avesse colpito, e tuttavia l’avesse lasciato illeso.

«Ci hanno battuti», disse, con breve ironia militare. «Prepararsi a ricevere la cavalleria!»

«Dove possono aver trovato i cavalli?» chiese Syme, mentre meccanicamente spingeva il suo destriero a un piccolo galoppo.

Il Colonnello tacque un poco, poi disse con voce tesa:

«Parlavo con rigorosa esattezza quando dissi che il “Soleil d’Or” era l’unico luogo dove si possano trovare cavalli nel raggio di venti miglia».

«No!» disse Syme con violenza, «non credo che l’avrebbe fatto. Non con tutti quei capelli bianchi».

«Può essere stato costretto», disse il Colonnello con dolcezza. «Devono essere almeno un centinaio, ragione per cui andremo tutti a trovare il mio amico Renard, che possiede un’automobile».

Con queste parole fece voltare di colpo il suo cavallo a una cantonata, e s’inoltrò per la via con una tale tonante velocità, che gli altri, benché già ben lanciati al galoppo, faticavano a seguire la coda al vento del suo cavallo.

Il dottor Renard abitava una casa alta e comoda in cima a una via ripida, cosicché quando i cavalieri smontarono alla sua porta poterono di nuovo scorgere la solida cresta verde della collina, con la bianca strada che la attraversava, stagliarsi al di sopra di tutti i tetti della città. Respirarono di nuovo nel vedere che la strada era ancora sgombra, e suonarono il campanello.

Il dottor Renard era un uomo raggiante, dalla barba bruna, un buon esempio di quella classe professionale silenziosa ma indaffaratissima che la Francia ha conservato ancor più perfettamente dell’Inghilterra. Quando gli fu spiegata la faccenda, sbeffeggiò del tutto il panico dell’ex Marchese; disse, con la solida scetticità francese, che non v’era alcuna probabilità concepibile di una sollevazione anarchica generale. «L’anarchia», disse, scrollando le spalle, «è una fanciullaggine!»

«Et ça», gridò a un tratto il Colonnello, indicando al di sopra della spalla dell’altro, «e quella è una fanciullaggine, non è vero?»

Si voltarono tutti a guardare, e videro una curva di nera cavalleria dilagare scendendo giù dalla cima della collina con tutta l’energia di Attila. Per quanto veloci cavalcassero, tuttavia, l’intera schiera si teneva ancora ben compatta, e si potevano scorgere le nere visiere della prima fila allineate come una fila di uniformi. Ma benché il grosso quadrato nero fosse lo stesso, per quanto viaggiasse più rapido, v’era ora una sensazionale differenza che potevano vedere chiaramente sul pendio della collina, come su una mappa inclinata. La massa dei cavalieri era in un unico blocco; ma un cavaliere volava assai avanti alla colonna, e con frenetici movimenti di mano e di calcagno spronava il suo cavallo sempre più veloce, tanto che si sarebbe potuto immaginare che egli non fosse l’inseguitore ma l’inseguito. Ma persino a quella grande distanza potevano scorgere qualcosa di così fanatico, di così inequivocabile nella sua figura, che seppero trattarsi del Segretario in persona. «Mi dispiace troncare una discussione colta», disse il Colonnello, «ma potete prestarmi la vostra automobile adesso, in due minuti?»

«Ho il sospetto che siate tutti pazzi», disse il dottor Renard, sorridendo affabilmente; «ma Dio non voglia che la follia interrompa in alcun modo l’amicizia. Andiamo verso il garage».

Il dottor Renard era un uomo mite dotato di una ricchezza mostruosa; le sue stanze erano come il Musée de Cluny, ed egli possedeva tre automobili. Queste, tuttavia, sembrava usarle molto con parsimonia, avendo i gusti semplici della borghesia francese, e quando i suoi impazienti amici vennero a esaminarle, ci volle un po’ di tempo perché si accertassero che anche solo una di esse potesse essere messa in moto. Questa, con qualche difficoltà, la portarono nella strada davanti alla casa del Dottore. Quando uscirono dall’oscuro garage, si sbigottirono nel trovare che il crepuscolo era già calato con la bruschezza della notte nei tropici. O erano rimasti nel luogo più a lungo di quanto immaginassero, o qualche insolito baldacchino di nuvole si era radunato sopra la città. Guardarono giù per le ripide strade, e parve loro di vedere una leggera foschia salire dal mare.

«O ora o mai più», disse il dottor Bull. «Sento dei cavalli».

“No,” corrected the Professor, “a horse.”

And as they listened, it was evident that the noise, rapidly coming nearer on the rattling stones, was not the noise of the whole cavalcade but that of the one horseman, who had left it far behind— the insane Secretary.

Syme’s family, like most of those who end in the simple life, had once owned a motor, and he knew all about them. He had leapt at once into the chauffeur’s seat, and with flushed face was wrenching and tugging at the disused machinery. He bent his strength upon one handle, and then said quite quietly—

“I am afraid it’s no go.”

As he spoke, there swept round the corner a man rigid on his rushing horse, with the rush and rigidity of an arrow. He had a smile that thrust out his chin as if it were dislocated. He swept alongside of the stationary car, into which its company had crowded, and laid his hand on the front. It was the Secretary, and his mouth went quite straight in the solemnity of triumph.

Syme was leaning hard upon the steering wheel, and there was no sound but the rumble of the other pursuers riding into the town. Then there came quite suddenly a scream of scraping iron, and the car leapt forward. It plucked the Secretary clean out of his saddle, as a knife is whipped out of its sheath, trailed him kicking terribly for twenty yards, and left him flung flat upon the road far in front of his frightened horse. As the car took the corner of the street with a splendid curve, they could just see the other anarchists filling the street and raising their fallen leader.

“I can’t understand why it has grown so dark,” said the Professor at last in a low voice.

“Going to be a storm, I think,” said Dr. Bull. “I say, it’s a pity we haven’t got a light on this car, if only to see by.”

“We have,” said the Colonel, and from the floor of the car he fished up a heavy, old-fashioned, carved iron lantern with a light inside it. It was obviously an antique, and it would seem as if its original use had been in some way semi-religious, for there was a rude moulding of a cross upon one of its sides.

“Where on earth did you get that?” asked the Professor.

“I got it where I got the car,” answered the Colonel, chuckling, “from my best friend. While our friend here was fighting with the steering wheel, I ran up the front steps of the house and spoke to Renard, who was standing in his own porch, you will remember. ‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘there’s no time to get a lamp.’ He looked up, blinking amiably at the beautiful arched ceiling of his own front hall. From this was suspended, by chains of exquisite ironwork, this lantern, one of the hundred treasures of his treasure house. By sheer force he tore the lamp out of his own ceiling, shattering the painted panels, and bringing down two blue vases with his violence. Then he handed me the iron lantern, and I put it in the car. Was I not right when I said that Dr. Renard was worth knowing?”

“You were,” said Syme seriously, and hung the heavy lantern over the front. There was a certain allegory of their whole position in the contrast between the modern automobile and its strange ecclesiastical lamp. Hitherto they had passed through the quietest part of the town, meeting at most one or two pedestrians, who could give them no hint of the peace or the hostility of the place. Now, however, the windows in the houses began one by one to be lit up, giving a greater sense of habitation and humanity. Dr. Bull turned to the new detective who had led their flight, and permitted himself one of his natural and friendly smiles.

“These lights make one feel more cheerful.”

Inspector Ratcliffe drew his brows together.

“There is only one set of lights that make me more cheerful,” he said, “and they are those lights of the police station which I can see beyond the town. Please God we may be there in ten minutes.”

Then all Bull’s boiling good sense and optimism broke suddenly out of him.

“Oh, this is all raving nonsense!” he cried. “If you really think that ordinary people in ordinary houses are anarchists, you must be madder than an anarchist yourself. If we turned and fought these fellows, the whole town would fight for us.”

“No,” said the other with an immovable simplicity, “the whole town would fight for them. We shall see.”

While they were speaking the Professor had leant forward with sudden excitement.

“What is that noise?” he said.

“Oh, the horses behind us, I suppose,” said the Colonel. “I thought we had got clear of them.”

“The horses behind us! No,” said the Professor, “it is not horses, and it is not behind us.”

Almost as he spoke, across the end of the street before them two shining and rattling shapes shot past. They were gone almost in a flash, but everyone could see that they were motor-cars, and the Professor stood up with a pale face and swore that they were the other two motor-cars from Dr. Renard’s garage.

“I tell you they were his,” he repeated, with wild eyes, “and they were full of men in masks!”

“Absurd!” said the Colonel angrily. “Dr. Renard would never give them his cars.”

“He may have been forced,” said Ratcliffe quietly. “The whole town is on their side.”

“You still believe that,” asked the Colonel incredulously.

“You will all believe it soon,” said the other with a hopeless calm.

There was a puzzled pause for some little time, and then the Colonel began again abruptly—

“No, I can’t believe it. The thing is nonsense. The plain people of a peaceable French town—”

He was cut short by a bang and a blaze of light, which seemed close to his eyes. As the car sped on it left a floating patch of white smoke behind it, and Syme had heard a shot shriek past his ear.

“My God!” said the Colonel, “someone has shot at us.”

«No», corresse il Professore, «un cavallo».

E mentre stavano in ascolto, fu evidente che il rumore, avvicinandosi rapidamente sulle pietre sonanti, non era il rumore dell’intera cavalcata, bensì quello di un solo cavaliere, che l’aveva lasciata assai indietro: il folle Segretario.

La famiglia di Syme, come la maggior parte di coloro che finiscono nella vita semplice, aveva un tempo posseduto un’automobile, ed egli sapeva tutto di quelle macchine. Si era slanciato d’un balzo sul sedile dell’autista e, con il volto acceso, torceva e strattonava quel meccanismo caduto in disuso. Piegò tutte le sue forze su una leva, poi disse con tutta calma:

«Temo che non ci sia nulla da fare».

Mentre parlava, sbucò all’angolo un uomo rigido sul suo cavallo lanciato, con lo slancio e la rigidità di una freccia. Aveva un sorriso che gli sporgeva il mento in fuori, come se fosse slogato. Si affiancò all’automobile ferma, nella quale si era stipata la compagnia, e vi posò la mano sul davanti. Era il Segretario, e la sua bocca si distese perfettamente diritta nella solennità del trionfo.

Syme si appoggiava con tutto il peso sul volante, e non si udiva altro suono che il rombo degli altri inseguitori che entravano cavalcando in città. Poi, tutto d’un tratto, si levò uno stridore di ferro raschiato, e l’automobile balzò in avanti. Strappò il Segretario di netto dalla sella, come un coltello viene sfilato di scatto dal fodero, se lo trascinò dietro per venti metri mentre quello scalciava spaventosamente, e infine lo lasciò disteso bocconi sulla strada, assai innanzi al suo cavallo atterrito. Mentre l’automobile prendeva l’angolo della via con una splendida curva, poterono appena scorgere gli altri anarchici che riempivano la strada e rialzavano il loro capo caduto.

«Non riesco a capire perché si sia fatto così buio», disse infine il Professore a bassa voce.

«Sta per venire una tempesta, credo», disse il dottor Bull. «Dico, è un peccato non avere un lume su questa macchina, non foss’altro che per vederci».

«Ce l’abbiamo», disse il Colonnello, e dal fondo dell’automobile ripescò una pesante lanterna di ferro, all’antica, tutta intagliata, con dentro una luce. Era evidentemente un pezzo antico, e pareva che il suo uso originario fosse stato in qualche modo semireligioso, poiché su uno dei suoi lati vi era un rozzo rilievo a foggia di croce.

«Dove diavolo l’avete presa?», chiese il Professore.

«L’ho presa là dove ho preso la macchina», rispose il Colonnello ridacchiando, «dal mio migliore amico. Mentre il nostro amico qui presente si azzuffava con il volante, io ho fatto di corsa i gradini della casa e ho parlato con Renard, che se ne stava sotto il proprio portico, ricorderete. “Suppongo”, gli ho detto, “che non ci sia tempo di procurarsi una lampada”. Egli alzò lo sguardo, ammiccando bonariamente al bel soffitto ad arco del proprio ingresso. Da esso pendeva, sospesa a catene di squisita lavorazione in ferro, questa lanterna, uno dei cento tesori della sua casa-tesoro. A pura forza strappò la lampada dal proprio soffitto, mandando in frantumi i pannelli dipinti e facendo cadere, nella foga, due vasi azzurri. Poi mi porse la lanterna di ferro, e io la misi nella macchina. Non avevo forse ragione quando dicevo che il dottor Renard valeva la pena di conoscerlo?»

«L’avevate», disse Syme con gravità, e appese la pesante lanterna sul davanti. Vi era una certa allegoria della loro intera condizione nel contrasto tra la moderna automobile e la sua strana lampada ecclesiastica. Fin lì avevano attraversato la parte più tranquilla della città, incontrando tutt’al più uno o due passanti, che nulla potevano dir loro sulla pace o sull’ostilità del luogo. Ora, tuttavia, le finestre delle case cominciavano a illuminarsi a una a una, dando un senso più forte di dimora e di umanità. Il dottor Bull si volse al nuovo investigatore che aveva guidato la loro fuga, e si concesse uno dei suoi sorrisi naturali e cordiali.

«Queste luci mettono più allegria».

L’ispettore Ratcliffe corrugò le sopracciglia.

«C’è una sola serie di luci che mi mette allegria», disse, «e sono quelle della stazione di polizia che scorgo là, oltre la città. Piaccia a Dio che vi si possa arrivare entro dieci minuti».

Allora tutto il ribollente buon senso e l’ottimismo di Bull proruppero d’un tratto da lui.

«Oh, ma queste sono farneticazioni!», esclamò. «Se davvero credete che gente comune, in case comuni, sia fatta di anarchici, dovete essere più pazzo di un anarchico voi stesso. Se ci voltassimo a combattere contro questi tizi, l’intera città combatterebbe per noi».

«No», disse l’altro con imperturbabile semplicità, «l’intera città combatterebbe per loro. Vedremo».

Mentre parlavano, il Professore si era sporto in avanti con improvvisa concitazione.

«Che cos’è quel rumore?», disse.

«Oh, i cavalli dietro di noi, suppongo», disse il Colonnello. «Credevo che ce ne fossimo liberati».

«I cavalli dietro di noi! No», disse il Professore, «non sono cavalli, e non è dietro di noi».

Quasi nell’atto stesso di parlare, in fondo alla strada davanti a loro guizzarono due forme lucenti e sferraglianti. Sparirono quasi in un lampo, ma tutti poterono vedere che si trattava di automobili, e il Professore si alzò in piedi con il volto pallido e giurò che erano le altre due automobili del garage del dottor Renard.

«Vi dico che erano le sue», ripeté, con occhi stralunati, «ed erano piene di uomini mascherati!»

«Assurdo!», disse il Colonnello con ira. «Il dottor Renard non darebbe mai loro le sue automobili».

«Può darsi che sia stato costretto», disse Ratcliffe con calma. «L’intera città è dalla loro parte».

«Continuate a crederlo?», chiese il Colonnello con incredulità.

«Presto lo crederete tutti», disse l’altro con una calma disperata.

Vi fu una pausa perplessa per un po’ di tempo, e poi il Colonnello ricominciò bruscamente:

«No, non posso crederci. È una cosa insensata. La gente semplice di una tranquilla città francese…»

Fu interrotto di colpo da un botto e da un lampo di luce, che parve vicinissimo ai suoi occhi. Mentre l’automobile sfrecciava avanti, si lasciò dietro un fluttuante fiocco di fumo bianco, e Syme aveva udito un colpo sibilargli accanto all’orecchio.

«Dio mio!», disse il Colonnello, «qualcuno ci ha sparato».

“It need not interrupt conversation,” said the gloomy Ratcliffe. “Pray resume your remarks, Colonel. You were talking, I think, about the plain people of a peaceable French town.”

The staring Colonel was long past minding satire. He rolled his eyes all round the street.

“It is extraordinary,” he said, “most extraordinary.”

“A fastidious person,” said Syme, “might even call it unpleasant. However, I suppose those lights out in the field beyond this street are the Gendarmerie. We shall soon get there.”

“No,” said Inspector Ratcliffe, “we shall never get there.”

He had been standing up and looking keenly ahead of him. Now he sat down and smoothed his sleek hair with a weary gesture.

“What do you mean?” asked Bull sharply.

“I mean that we shall never get there,” said the pessimist placidly. “They have two rows of armed men across the road already; I can see them from here. The town is in arms, as I said it was. I can only wallow in the exquisite comfort of my own exactitude.”

And Ratcliffe sat down comfortably in the car and lit a cigarette, but the others rose excitedly and stared down the road. Syme had slowed down the car as their plans became doubtful, and he brought it finally to a standstill just at the corner of a side street that ran down very steeply to the sea.

The town was mostly in shadow, but the sun had not sunk; wherever its level light could break through, it painted everything a burning gold. Up this side street the last sunset light shone as sharp and narrow as the shaft of artificial light at the theatre. It struck the car of the five friends, and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said,

“It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street.”

“Well, if there is,” said Bull impatiently, “it must be something else—a sham fight or the mayor’s birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them.”

The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter.

“Why, you silly mugs!” he cried, “what did I tell you. That crowd’s as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren’t, it’s on our side.”

“How do you know?” asked the professor, staring.

“You blind bat,” cried Bull, “don’t you see who is leading them?”

They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out—

“Why, it’s Renard!”

There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand.

“What a fool I’ve been!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us.”

Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out—

“Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!”

An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road.

Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat.

“Well,” said the cigarette smoker slowly, “what do you think now?”

“I think,” said Dr. Bull with precision, “that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that’s not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can’t make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don’t think, I’ll tell you. I don’t think what you think. I don’t think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I’m a democrat, and I still don’t believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn’t.”

Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear.

“You are a very fine fellow,” he said. “You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you’re right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you’re not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He’s rationalistic, and, what’s worse, he’s rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich.”

“They are really destroyed now,” said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. “The devils are coming on!”

The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze.

The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do— it’s like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man’s character into your head—”

«Non c’è bisogno che questo interrompa la conversazione», disse il tetro Ratcliffe. «Vi prego, colonnello, riprendete le vostre osservazioni. Stavate parlando, mi pare, della brava gente di una tranquilla cittadina francese.»

Il colonnello, con lo sguardo fisso, aveva da tempo smesso di curarsi della satira. Roteò gli occhi tutt’intorno per la strada.

«È straordinario», disse, «assolutamente straordinario.»

«Una persona schizzinosa», disse Syme, «potrebbe persino definirlo sgradevole. Comunque, immagino che quelle luci laggiù nel campo oltre questa strada siano la Gendarmeria. Presto saremo arrivati.»

«No», disse l’ispettore Ratcliffe, «non ci arriveremo mai.»

Era rimasto in piedi a scrutare acutamente davanti a sé. Ora si sedette e si lisciò i capelli lucidi con un gesto stanco.

«Che cosa intendete?» chiese Bull, secco.

«Intendo che non ci arriveremo mai», disse il pessimista placidamente. «Hanno già schierato due file di uomini armati attraverso la strada; li vedo da qui. La città è in armi, come avevo detto. Non mi resta che crogiolarmi nella squisita consolazione della mia stessa esattezza.»

E Ratcliffe si accomodò comodamente in automobile e accese una sigaretta, ma gli altri si alzarono concitati e fissarono giù per la strada. Syme aveva rallentato l’automobile via via che i loro piani si facevano incerti, e la portò infine a fermarsi proprio all’angolo di una via laterale che scendeva molto ripida fino al mare.

La città era per lo più immersa nell’ombra, ma il sole non era ancora tramontato; ovunque la sua luce radente riuscisse a farsi strada, dipingeva ogni cosa d’un oro fiammeggiante. Su per questa via laterale l’ultima luce del tramonto splendeva tagliente e stretta come il fascio di luce artificiale a teatro. Colpiva l’automobile dei cinque amici e la illuminava come un carro in fiamme. Ma il resto della strada, e soprattutto le sue due estremità, era immerso nel più fitto crepuscolo, e per qualche secondo non riuscirono a vedere nulla. Poi Syme, che aveva la vista più acuta, ruppe il silenzio con un breve, amaro fischio, e disse:

«È proprio vero. C’è una folla, o un esercito, o qualcosa del genere in fondo a quella strada.»

«Ebbene, se anche fosse», disse Bull spazientito, «dovrà pur essere qualcos’altro: una finta battaglia, o il compleanno del sindaco, o simili. Non posso e non voglio credere che brava gente allegra, in un posto come questo, se ne vada in giro con la dinamite nelle tasche. Avanza un poco, Syme, e lasciaci dare un’occhiata.»

L’automobile avanzò lentamente per un centinaio di metri, e poi trasalirono tutti quando il dottor Bull scoppiò in un’acuta risata di scherno.

«Ma che sciocconi!» esclamò. «Che cosa vi avevo detto? Quella folla è pacifica come una mucca, e se anche non lo fosse, è dalla nostra parte.»

«E tu come lo sai?» chiese il professore, guardando fisso.

«Pipistrello cieco», gridò Bull, «non vedi chi li guida?»

Aguzzarono di nuovo lo sguardo, e allora il colonnello, con un nodo alla gola, esclamò:

«Ma è Renard!»

C’era, in effetti, una fila di figure indistinte che sbarrava la strada, e non si potevano scorgere con chiarezza; ma abbastanza avanti da cogliere il caso della luce serale si aggirava avanti e indietro l’inconfondibile dottor Renard, in cappello bianco, lisciandosi la lunga barba castana e stringendo una rivoltella nella mano sinistra.

«Che sciocco sono stato!» esclamò il colonnello. «Ma certo, il caro vecchio amico è venuto in nostro aiuto.»

Il dottor Bull traboccava di risa, facendo oscillare la spada in mano con la noncuranza d’un bastone da passeggio. Balzò giù dall’automobile e corse attraverso lo spazio che li separava, gridando:

«Dottor Renard! Dottor Renard!»

Un istante dopo Syme credette che gli occhi gli fossero impazziti in testa. Poiché il filantropico dottor Renard aveva deliberatamente alzato la rivoltella e sparato due volte contro Bull, sì che gli spari risuonarono giù per la strada.

Quasi nello stesso secondo in cui lo sbuffo di nube bianca si levava da quell’atroce esplosione, un lungo sbuffo di nube bianca si levava anche dalla sigaretta del cinico Ratcliffe. Come tutti gli altri impallidì un poco, ma sorrise. Il dottor Bull, contro il quale erano stati esplosi i colpi, mancandogli il cranio per un pelo, rimase immobile in mezzo alla strada senza un segno di paura, poi si voltò lentissimamente, tornò strisciando fino all’automobile e vi salì con due fori nel cappello.

«Ebbene», disse il fumatore di sigaretta lentamente, «che cosa ne pensi adesso?»

«Penso», disse il dottor Bull con precisione, «di essere disteso nel mio letto al numero 217 di Peabody Buildings, e che presto mi sveglierò di soprassalto; oppure, se non è così, penso di essere seduto in una cella imbottita di Hanwell, e che il medico non riesce a raccapezzarsi sul mio caso. Ma se volete sapere che cosa non penso, ve lo dirò. Non penso quello che pensate voi. Non penso, e non lo penserò mai, che la massa degli uomini comuni sia una masnada di sudici pensatori moderni. No, signore, io sono un democratico, e continuo a non credere che Sunday possa convertire anche un solo sterratore o commesso qualunque. No, sarò anche pazzo io, ma l’umanità non lo è.»

Syme fissò su Bull i suoi vividi occhi azzurri con un’intensità che non era solito lasciar trasparire.

«Sei davvero un bell’uomo», disse. «Sai credere in una sanità di mente che non è soltanto la tua sanità di mente. E hai perfettamente ragione riguardo all’umanità, riguardo ai contadini e a gente come quel simpatico vecchio locandiere. Ma non hai ragione riguardo a Renard. L’ho sospettato fin dal principio. È un razionalista, e, quel che è peggio, è ricco. Quando il dovere e la religione saranno davvero distrutti, sarà per opera dei ricchi.»

«Sono davvero distrutti già adesso», disse l’uomo con la sigaretta, e si alzò con le mani in tasca. «I demoni avanzano!»

Gli uomini nell’automobile guardarono ansiosi nella direzione del suo sguardo trasognato, e videro che l’intero reggimento in fondo alla strada avanzava verso di loro, il dottor Renard che marciava furibondo in testa, la barba al vento.

Il colonnello balzò giù dall’automobile con un’esclamazione insofferente.

«Signori», gridò, «la cosa è incredibile. Dev’essere uno scherzo. Se conosceste Renard come lo conosco io… è come dare della dinamitarda alla regina Vittoria. Se vi foste messi in testa il carattere di quell’uomo…»

“Dr. Bull,” said Syme sardonically, “has at least got it into his hat.”

“I tell you it can’t be!” cried the Colonel, stamping.

“Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me,” and he strode forward.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” drawled the smoker. “He will very soon explain it to all of us.”

But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance.

“It is no good,” said Syme. “He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull’s hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them.”

“I won’t ‘ave it,” said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. “The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance.”

“Shall we go back, then?” asked the Professor.

“No,” said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, “the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme.”

Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man’s hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die.

“What the devil is up?” cried the Professor, seizing his arm.

“The morning star has fallen!” said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star.

The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light.

“The world is insane!” said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands.

“No,” said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, “it is I.”

“What are we going to do?” asked the Professor.

“At this moment,” said Syme, with a scientific detachment, “I think we are going to smash into a lamppost.”

The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree.

“Well, we smashed something,” said the Professor, with a faint smile. “That’s some comfort.”

“You’re becoming an anarchist,” said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness.

“Everyone is,” said Ratcliffe.

As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front. Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below.

The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them.

“We have one more chance,” said Syme, taking the steel out of his mouth. “Whatever all this pandemonium means, I suppose the police station will help us. We can’t get there, for they hold the way. But there’s a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge. We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out. Keep after me.”

They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones. They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story. They turned and faced the town.

That town was transfigured with uproar. All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them. The long dark line was dotted with torches and lanterns; but even where no flame lit up a furious face, they could see in the farthest figure, in the most shadowy gesture, an organised hate. It was clear that they were the accursed of all men, and they knew not why.

Two or three men, looking little and black like monkeys, leapt over the edge as they had done and dropped on to the beach. These came ploughing down the deep sand, shouting horribly, and strove to wade into the sea at random. The example was followed, and the whole black mass of men began to run and drip over the edge like black treacle.

Foremost among the men on the beach Syme saw the peasant who had driven their cart. He splashed into the surf on a huge cart-horse, and shook his axe at them.

“The peasant!” cried Syme. “They have not risen since the Middle Ages.”

“Even if the police do come now,” said the Professor mournfully, “they can do nothing with this mob.”

“Nonsense!” said Bull desperately; “there must be some people left in the town who are human.”

“No,” said the hopeless Inspector, “the human being will soon be extinct. We are the last of mankind.”

“It may be,” said the Professor absently. Then he added in his dreamy voice, “What is all that at the end of the ‘Dunciad’?

“‘Nor public flame; nor private, dares to shine; Nor human light is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored; Light dies before thine uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.’”

«Il dottor Bull», disse Syme con tono sardonico, «se l’è per lo meno cacciata dentro il cappello.»

«Vi dico che è impossibile!» gridò il Colonnello, pestando i piedi.

«Renard lo spiegherà. Lo spiegherà a me», e si spinse in avanti.

«Non abbiate tanta fretta», biascicò il fumatore. «Molto presto lo spiegherà a tutti quanti noi.»

Ma l’impaziente Colonnello era già fuori portata di voce, e avanzava incontro al nemico che avanzava. L’eccitato dottor Renard sollevò di nuovo la sua pistola, ma, riconosciuto l’avversario, esitò, e il Colonnello gli si trovò faccia a faccia con frenetici gesti di rimostranza.

«Non serve a nulla», disse Syme. «Non caverà mai niente da quel vecchio pagano. Propongo di sfondare di netto in mezzo al gruppo, di netto come le pallottole passarono attraverso il cappello di Bull. Potremo restarci tutti, ma dobbiamo abbatterne un bel numero.»

«Non lo permetterò», disse il dottor Bull, facendosi più volgare nella sincerità della sua virtù. «I poveri diavoli potrebbero commettere un errore. Diamo una possibilità al Colonnello.»

«Torniamo indietro, allora?» chiese il Professore.

«No», disse Ratcliffe con voce gelida, «anche la strada dietro di noi è occupata. Anzi, mi pare di scorgere laggiù un altro vostro amico, Syme.»

Syme si voltò di scatto e guardò indietro, verso il tratto che avevano percorso. Vide un drappello disordinato di cavalieri che si raccoglieva e galoppava verso di loro nell’oscurità. Vide sopra la sella più avanzata il bagliore argenteo di una spada, e poi, man mano che si avvicinava, il bagliore argenteo dei capelli di un vecchio. Un istante dopo, con violenza fragorosa, aveva sterzato l’automobile e l’aveva lanciata giù per la ripida stradina laterale verso il mare, come un uomo che non desiderasse altro che morire.

«Che diavolo succede?» gridò il Professore, afferrandogli il braccio.

«La stella del mattino è caduta!» disse Syme, mentre la propria auto scendeva nelle tenebre come una stella cadente.

Gli altri non compresero le sue parole, ma quando volsero lo sguardo alla strada là sopra videro la cavalleria nemica sbucare dall’angolo e scendere lungo i pendii al loro inseguimento; e primo fra tutti cavalcava il buon locandiere, avvampato dall’ardente innocenza della luce serale.

«Il mondo è impazzito!» disse il Professore, e affondò il viso tra le mani.

«No», disse il dottor Bull in adamantina umiltà, «sono io.»

«Che cosa faremo?» chiese il Professore.

«In questo momento», disse Syme, con distacco scientifico, «credo che stiamo per schiantarci contro un lampione.»

L’istante successivo l’automobile si abbatté con urto catastrofico contro un oggetto di ferro. L’istante dopo, quattro uomini erano strisciati fuori da un caos di metallo, e un alto e sottile lampione che si era ergiuto ritto sull’orlo della passeggiata a mare spiccava, piegato e contorto, come il ramo di un albero spezzato.

«Be’, qualcosa l’abbiamo sfasciato», disse il Professore, con un pallido sorriso. «È già una consolazione.»

«Stai diventando un anarchico», disse Syme, spazzolandosi i vestiti con il suo istinto di raffinatezza.

«Lo sono tutti», disse Ratcliffe.

Mentre parlavano, il cavaliere dai capelli bianchi e i suoi seguaci giunsero tuonando dall’alto, e quasi nello stesso istante una scura fila di uomini corse urlando lungo il fronte del mare. Syme afferrò una spada, e la strinse fra i denti; se ne cacciò altre due sotto le ascelle, prese una quarta nella mano sinistra e la lanterna nella destra, e balzò giù dall’alta passeggiata sulla spiaggia sottostante.

Gli altri balzarono dietro di lui, con una comune accettazione di un’azione tanto risoluta, lasciandosi alle spalle i rottami e la folla che si andava radunando là sopra.

«Ci resta un’ultima possibilità», disse Syme, togliendosi l’acciaio dalla bocca. «Qualunque cosa significhi tutto questo pandemonio, suppongo che la stazione di polizia ci sarà d’aiuto. Non possiamo raggiungerla, perché tengono la via. Ma proprio qui c’è un pontile, o frangiflutti, che si spinge nel mare, e che potremmo difendere più a lungo di ogni altra cosa, come Orazio e il suo ponte. Dobbiamo difenderlo finché non accorre la Gendarmeria. State dietro a me.»

Lo seguirono mentre scendeva scricchiolando lungo la spiaggia, e nel giro di un secondo o due i loro stivali non calpestarono più la ghiaia del mare, ma pietre larghe e piatte. Percorsero un lungo, basso molo, che si protendeva come un braccio nel mare scuro e ribollente, e quando ne raggiunsero l’estremità sentirono di essere giunti all’estremità della loro storia. Si voltarono e fronteggiarono la città.

Quella città era trasfigurata dal frastuono. Lungo tutta l’alta passeggiata da cui erano appena discesi si stendeva un fiume oscuro e ruggente di umanità, con braccia agitate e volti infuocati, che brancolava e li fissava con occhi ardenti. La lunga linea scura era punteggiata di torce e lanterne; ma persino dove nessuna fiamma illuminava un volto furibondo, essi potevano scorgere nella figura più remota, nel gesto più indistinto, un odio organizzato. Era chiaro che essi erano i maledetti fra tutti gli uomini, e non sapevano perché.

Due o tre uomini, piccoli e neri come scimmie, scavalcarono l’orlo come avevano fatto loro e si lasciarono cadere sulla spiaggia. Vennero avanti solcando la sabbia profonda, urlando orribilmente, e si sforzarono di inoltrarsi a caso nel mare. L’esempio fu seguito, e l’intera massa nera di uomini prese a correre e a gocciolare oltre l’orlo come nera melassa.

Primo fra gli uomini sulla spiaggia, Syme vide il contadino che aveva guidato il loro carro. Sguazzava nella risacca su un enorme cavallo da tiro, e agitava la scure contro di loro.

«Il contadino!» gridò Syme. «Non si sollevavano dai tempi del Medioevo.»

«Anche se la polizia arrivasse adesso», disse il Professore con voce afflitta, «non potrebbe far nulla contro questa folla.»

«Sciocchezze!» disse Bull disperatamente; «ci devono essere delle persone rimaste in città che sono umane.»

«No», disse l’Ispettore senza speranza, «l’essere umano sarà presto estinto. Noi siamo gli ultimi del genere umano.»

«Può darsi», disse il Professore distrattamente. Poi aggiunse con la sua voce sognante: «Come fa quel passo alla fine della “Dunciad”?

«“Non fiamma pubblica; né privata, osa splendere; Non resta luce umana, né barlume divino! Ecco! il tuo tremendo Impero, o Caos, è restaurato; La luce muore innanzi alla tua parola che disfà: La tua mano, grande Anarca, lascia calare il sipario; E una tenebra universale seppellisce ogni cosa.”»

“Stop!” cried Bull suddenly, “the gendarmes are out.”

The low lights of the police station were indeed blotted and broken with hurrying figures, and they heard through the darkness the clash and jingle of a disciplined cavalry.

“They are charging the mob!” cried Bull in ecstacy or alarm.

“No,” said Syme, “they are formed along the parade.”

“They have unslung their carbines,” cried Bull dancing with excitement.

“Yes,” said Ratcliffe, “and they are going to fire on us.”

As he spoke there came a long crackle of musketry, and bullets seemed to hop like hailstones on the stones in front of them.

“The gendarmes have joined them!” cried the Professor, and struck his forehead.

“I am in the padded cell,” said Bull solidly.

There was a long silence, and then Ratcliffe said, looking out over the swollen sea, all a sort of grey purple—

“What does it matter who is mad or who is sane? We shall all be dead soon.”

Syme turned to him and said—

“You are quite hopeless, then?”

Mr. Ratcliffe kept a stony silence; then at last he said quietly—

“No; oddly enough I am not quite hopeless. There is one insane little hope that I cannot get out of my mind. The power of this whole planet is against us, yet I cannot help wondering whether this one silly little hope is hopeless yet.”

“In what or whom is your hope?” asked Syme with curiosity.

“In a man I never saw,” said the other, looking at the leaden sea.

“I know what you mean,” said Syme in a low voice, “the man in the dark room. But Sunday must have killed him by now.”

“Perhaps,” said the other steadily; “but if so, he was the only man whom Sunday found it hard to kill.”

“I heard what you said,” said the Professor, with his back turned. “I also am holding hard on to the thing I never saw.”

All of a sudden Syme, who was standing as if blind with introspective thought, swung round and cried out, like a man waking from sleep—

“Where is the Colonel? I thought he was with us!”

“The Colonel! Yes,” cried Bull, “where on earth is the Colonel?”

“He went to speak to Renard,” said the Professor.

“We cannot leave him among all those beasts,” cried Syme. “Let us die like gentlemen if—”

“Do not pity the Colonel,” said Ratcliffe, with a pale sneer. “He is extremely comfortable. He is—”

“No! no! no!” cried Syme in a kind of frenzy, “not the Colonel too! I will never believe it!”

“Will you believe your eyes?” asked the other, and pointed to the beach.

Many of their pursuers had waded into the water shaking their fists, but the sea was rough, and they could not reach the pier. Two or three figures, however, stood on the beginning of the stone footway, and seemed to be cautiously advancing down it. The glare of a chance lantern lit up the faces of the two foremost. One face wore a black half-mask, and under it the mouth was twisting about in such a madness of nerves that the black tuft of beard wriggled round and round like a restless, living thing. The other was the red face and white moustache of Colonel Ducroix. They were in earnest consultation.

“Yes, he is gone too,” said the Professor, and sat down on a stone. “Everything’s gone. I’m gone! I can’t trust my own bodily machinery. I feel as if my own hand might fly up and strike me.”

“When my hand flies up,” said Syme, “it will strike somebody else,” and he strode along the pier towards the Colonel, the sword in one hand and the lantern in the other.

As if to destroy the last hope or doubt, the Colonel, who saw him coming, pointed his revolver at him and fired. The shot missed Syme, but struck his sword, breaking it short at the hilt. Syme rushed on, and swung the iron lantern above his head.

“Judas before Herod!” he said, and struck the Colonel down upon the stones. Then he turned to the Secretary, whose frightful mouth was almost foaming now, and held the lamp high with so rigid and arresting a gesture, that the man was, as it were, frozen for a moment, and forced to hear.

“Do you see this lantern?” cried Syme in a terrible voice. “Do you see the cross carved on it, and the flame inside? You did not make it. You did not light it. Better men than you, men who could believe and obey, twisted the entrails of iron and preserved the legend of fire. There is not a street you walk on, there is not a thread you wear, that was not made as this lantern was, by denying your philosophy of dirt and rats. You can make nothing. You can only destroy. You will destroy mankind; you will destroy the world. Let that suffice you. Yet this one old Christian lantern you shall not destroy. It shall go where your empire of apes will never have the wit to find it.”

He struck the Secretary once with the lantern so that he staggered; and then, whirling it twice round his head, sent it flying far out to sea, where it flared like a roaring rocket and fell.

“Swords!” shouted Syme, turning his flaming face to the three behind him. “Let us charge these dogs, for our time has come to die.”

His three companions came after him sword in hand. Syme’s sword was broken, but he rent a bludgeon from the fist of a fisherman, flinging him down. In a moment they would have flung themselves upon the face of the mob and perished, when an interruption came. The Secretary, ever since Syme’s speech, had stood with his hand to his stricken head as if dazed; now he suddenly pulled off his black mask.

The pale face thus peeled in the lamplight revealed not so much rage as astonishment. He put up his hand with an anxious authority.

“There is some mistake,” he said. “Mr. Syme, I hardly think you understand your position. I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“Of the law?” said Syme, and dropped his stick.

“Certainly!” said the Secretary. “I am a detective from Scotland Yard,” and he took a small blue card from his pocket.

“And what do you suppose we are?” asked the Professor, and threw up his arms.

“You,” said the Secretary stiffly, “are, as I know for a fact, members of the Supreme Anarchist Council. Disguised as one of you, I—”

Dr. Bull tossed his sword into the sea.

“There never was any Supreme Anarchist Council,” he said. “We were all a lot of silly policemen looking at each other. And all these nice people who have been peppering us with shot thought we were the dynamiters. I knew I couldn’t be wrong about the mob,” he said, beaming over the enormous multitude, which stretched away to the distance on both sides. “Vulgar people are never mad. I’m vulgar myself, and I know. I am now going on shore to stand a drink to everybody here.”

«Fermi!» gridò a un tratto Bull, «sono usciti i gendarmi».

Le luci basse della stazione di polizia erano infatti offuscate e spezzate da figure frettolose, e attraverso il buio essi udirono il cozzare e il tintinnare di una cavalleria ordinata.

«Stanno caricando la folla!» gridò Bull, tra l’estasi e lo sgomento.

«No» disse Syme, «si sono schierati lungo il lungomare».

«Hanno imbracciato le carabine!» gridò Bull, danzando per l’eccitazione.

«Sì» disse Ratcliffe, «e stanno per fare fuoco su di noi».

Mentre parlava vi fu un lungo crepitìo di moschetteria, e le pallottole parvero rimbalzare come chicchi di grandine sulle pietre davanti a loro.

«I gendarmi si sono uniti a loro!» gridò il Professore, e si percosse la fronte.

«Io mi trovo nella cella imbottita» disse Bull, con solidità.

Vi fu un lungo silenzio, e poi Ratcliffe disse, guardando verso il mare gonfio, tutto d’una sorta di grigio purpureo:

«Che importa chi sia pazzo e chi sano di mente? Presto saremo tutti morti».

Syme si voltò verso di lui e disse:

«Sei del tutto senza speranza, dunque?»

Il signor Ratcliffe serbò un silenzio di pietra; poi finalmente disse con calma:

«No; per quanto strano, non sono del tutto senza speranza. C’è una piccola, folle speranza che non riesco a togliermi dalla mente. La potenza dell’intero pianeta è contro di noi, eppure non posso fare a meno di domandarmi se questa unica, sciocca piccola speranza sia davvero perduta».

«In che cosa, o in chi, riponi la tua speranza?» chiese Syme con curiosità.

«In un uomo che non ho mai visto» disse l’altro, guardando il mare plumbeo.

«So che cosa intendi» disse Syme a bassa voce, «l’uomo nella stanza buia. Ma Sunday a quest’ora l’avrà certamente ucciso».

«Forse» disse l’altro con fermezza; «ma se così è, egli era l’unico uomo che Sunday trovò difficile uccidere».

«Ho udito ciò che hai detto» disse il Professore, con le spalle rivolte. «Anch’io mi tengo saldamente aggrappato alla cosa che non ho mai visto».

D’un tratto Syme, che se ne stava come cieco d’introspettiva meditazione, si volse di scatto e gridò, come un uomo che si desta dal sonno:

«Dov’è il Colonnello? Credevo fosse con noi!»

«Il Colonnello! Già» gridò Bull, «dove diavolo è finito il Colonnello?»

«È andato a parlare con Renard» disse il Professore.

«Non possiamo lasciarlo in mezzo a tutte quelle bestie» gridò Syme. «Moriamo da gentiluomini, se…»

«Non compiangere il Colonnello» disse Ratcliffe, con un pallido ghigno. «È estremamente comodo. Egli è…»

«No! no! no!» gridò Syme in una specie di frenesia, «non anche il Colonnello! Non lo crederò mai!»

«Vuoi credere ai tuoi occhi?» chiese l’altro, e indicò la spiaggia.

Molti dei loro inseguitori erano entrati nell’acqua scuotendo i pugni, ma il mare era grosso, ed essi non riuscivano a raggiungere il pontile. Due o tre figure, tuttavia, stavano all’imbocco della passerella di pietra, e parevano avanzarvi con cautela. Il bagliore di una lanterna casuale illuminò i volti dei due che stavano davanti. Uno di essi portava una mezza maschera nera, e sotto di essa la bocca si torceva in una tale follia di nervi che il nero ciuffo di barba si contorceva e si riavvolgeva come una cosa inquieta e viva. L’altro era il volto rosso e i baffi bianchi del colonnello Ducroix. Erano in seria consultazione.

«Sì, se n’è andato anche lui» disse il Professore, e sedette su una pietra. «Tutto se n’è andato. Me ne sono andato anch’io! Non posso fidarmi del mio stesso meccanismo corporeo. Sento come se la mia stessa mano potesse levarsi di scatto e colpirmi».

«Quando la mia mano si leverà di scatto» disse Syme, «colpirà qualcun altro»; e s’incamminò a grandi passi lungo il pontile verso il Colonnello, la spada in una mano e la lanterna nell’altra.

Come per distruggere l’ultima speranza o l’ultimo dubbio, il Colonnello, che lo vide venire, gli puntò contro la rivoltella e fece fuoco. Il colpo mancò Syme, ma colpì la sua spada, spezzandola di netto all’impugnatura. Syme si slanciò avanti, e brandì la lanterna di ferro sopra il capo.

«Giuda dinanzi a Erode!» disse, e abbatté il Colonnello sulle pietre. Poi si volse verso il Segretario, la cui bocca spaventosa quasi schiumava ormai, e tenne alta la lampada con gesto tanto rigido e imperioso che l’uomo restò, per così dire, agghiacciato per un istante, e costretto ad ascoltare.

«Vedi questa lanterna?» gridò Syme con voce terribile. «Vedi la croce intagliata su di essa, e la fiamma dentro? Non l’hai fatta tu. Non l’hai accesa tu. Uomini migliori di te, uomini capaci di credere e di obbedire, hanno attorcigliato le viscere del ferro e conservato la leggenda del fuoco. Non c’è una strada su cui tu cammini, non c’è un filo che tu indossi, che non sia stato fatto come fu fatta questa lanterna, negando la tua filosofia di sporcizia e di topi. Tu non puoi creare nulla. Puoi soltanto distruggere. Distruggerai l’umanità; distruggerai il mondo. Che questo ti basti. Eppure questa sola, vecchia lanterna cristiana non la distruggerai. Andrà dove il tuo impero di scimmie non avrà mai l’ingegno di trovarla».

Colpì il Segretario una volta con la lanterna, sì che quello barcollò; e poi, facendola roteare due volte sopra il capo, la scagliò lontano in mare, dove avvampò come un razzo ruggente e cadde.

«Alle spade!» gridò Syme, volgendo il volto fiammeggiante ai tre che gli stavano dietro. «Carichiamo questi cani, ché è giunto il nostro tempo di morire».

I suoi tre compagni gli vennero dietro con la spada in pugno. La spada di Syme era spezzata, ma egli strappò un randello dal pugno di un pescatore, gettandolo a terra. In un istante si sarebbero avventati contro la faccia della folla e sarebbero periti, quando sopraggiunse un’interruzione. Il Segretario, fin dal discorso di Syme, era rimasto con la mano alla testa colpita come stordito; ora d’un tratto si strappò la maschera nera.

Il volto pallido, così scoperto alla luce della lampada, rivelava non tanto rabbia quanto stupore. Alzò la mano con ansiosa autorità.

«C’è un equivoco» disse. «Signor Syme, non credo che lei comprenda bene la sua posizione. La arresto in nome della legge».

«Della legge?» disse Syme, e lasciò cadere il bastone.

«Certamente!» disse il Segretario. «Sono un investigatore di Scotland Yard»; e trasse di tasca una piccola tessera azzurra.

«E che cosa suppone che siamo noi?» chiese il Professore, e gettò le braccia in alto.

«Voi» disse il Segretario con rigidità, «siete, come so per certo, membri del Supremo Consiglio Anarchico. Travestito da uno di voi, io…»

Il dottor Bull scagliò la sua spada in mare.

«Non è mai esistito alcun Supremo Consiglio Anarchico» disse. «Eravamo tutti quanti un branco di sciocchi poliziotti che si guardavano l’un l’altro. E tutta questa brava gente che ci ha crivellati di colpi credeva che fossimo noi i dinamitardi. Sapevo di non potermi sbagliare sulla folla» disse, raggiante, contemplando l’enorme moltitudine che si stendeva in lontananza da entrambi i lati. «La gente volgare non è mai pazza. Io stesso sono volgare, e lo so. Adesso vado a terra a offrire da bere a tutti quanti».

CHAPTER XIII

THE PURSUIT OF THE PRESIDENT

NEXT morning five bewildered but hilarious people took the boat for Dover. The poor old Colonel might have had some cause to complain, having been first forced to fight for two factions that didn’t exist, and then knocked down with an iron lantern. But he was a magnanimous old gentleman, and being much relieved that neither party had anything to do with dynamite, he saw them off on the pier with great geniality.

The five reconciled detectives had a hundred details to explain to each other. The Secretary had to tell Syme how they had come to wear masks originally in order to approach the supposed enemy as fellow-conspirators.

Syme had to explain how they had fled with such swiftness through a civilised country. But above all these matters of detail which could be explained, rose the central mountain of the matter that they could not explain. What did it all mean? If they were all harmless officers, what was Sunday? If he had not seized the world, what on earth had he been up to? Inspector Ratcliffe was still gloomy about this.

“I can’t make head or tail of old Sunday’s little game any more than you can,” he said. “But whatever else Sunday is, he isn’t a blameless citizen. Damn it! do you remember his face?”

“I grant you,” answered Syme, “that I have never been able to forget it.”

“Well,” said the Secretary, “I suppose we can find out soon, for to-morrow we have our next general meeting. You will excuse me,” he said, with a rather ghastly smile, “for being well acquainted with my secretarial duties.”

“I suppose you are right,” said the Professor reflectively. “I suppose we might find it out from him; but I confess that I should feel a bit afraid of asking Sunday who he really is.”

“Why,” asked the Secretary, “for fear of bombs?”

“No,” said the Professor, “for fear he might tell me.”

“Let us have some drinks,” said Dr. Bull, after a silence.

Throughout their whole journey by boat and train they were highly convivial, but they instinctively kept together. Dr. Bull, who had always been the optimist of the party, endeavoured to persuade the other four that the whole company could take the same hansom cab from Victoria; but this was over-ruled, and they went in a four-wheeler, with Dr. Bull on the box, singing. They finished their journey at an hotel in Piccadilly Circus, so as to be close to the early breakfast next morning in Leicester Square. Yet even then the adventures of the day were not entirely over. Dr. Bull, discontented with the general proposal to go to bed, had strolled out of the hotel at about eleven to see and taste some of the beauties of London. Twenty minutes afterwards, however, he came back and made quite a clamour in the hall. Syme, who tried at first to soothe him, was forced at last to listen to his communication with quite new attention.

“I tell you I’ve seen him!” said Dr. Bull, with thick emphasis.

“Whom?” asked Syme quickly. “Not the President?”

“Not so bad as that,” said Dr. Bull, with unnecessary laughter, “not so bad as that. I’ve got him here.”

“Got whom here?” asked Syme impatiently.

“Hairy man,” said the other lucidly, “man that used to be hairy man—Gogol. Here he is,” and he pulled forward by a reluctant elbow the identical young man who five days before had marched out of the Council with thin red hair and a pale face, the first of all the sham anarchists who had been exposed.

“Why do you worry with me?” he cried. “You have expelled me as a spy.”

“We are all spies!” whispered Syme.

“We’re all spies!” shouted Dr. Bull. “Come and have a drink.”

Next morning the battalion of the reunited six marched stolidly towards the hotel in Leicester Square.

“This is more cheerful,” said Dr. Bull; “we are six men going to ask one man what he means.”

“I think it is a bit queerer than that,” said Syme. “I think it is six men going to ask one man what they mean.”

They turned in silence into the Square, and though the hotel was in the opposite corner, they saw at once the little balcony and a figure that looked too big for it. He was sitting alone with bent head, poring over a newspaper. But all his councillors, who had come to vote him down, crossed that Square as if they were watched out of heaven by a hundred eyes.

They had disputed much upon their policy, about whether they should leave the unmasked Gogol without and begin diplomatically, or whether they should bring him in and blow up the gunpowder at once. The influence of Syme and Bull prevailed for the latter course, though the Secretary to the last asked them why they attacked Sunday so rashly.

“My reason is quite simple,” said Syme. “I attack him rashly because I am afraid of him.”

They followed Syme up the dark stair in silence, and they all came out simultaneously into the broad sunlight of the morning and the broad sunlight of Sunday’s smile.

“Delightful!” he said. “So pleased to see you all. What an exquisite day it is. Is the Czar dead?”

The Secretary, who happened to be foremost, drew himself together for a dignified outburst.

“No, sir,” he said sternly “there has been no massacre. I bring you news of no such disgusting spectacles.”

“Disgusting spectacles?” repeated the President, with a bright, inquiring smile. “You mean Dr. Bull’s spectacles?”

The Secretary choked for a moment, and the President went on with a sort of smooth appeal—

“Of course, we all have our opinions and even our eyes, but really to call them disgusting before the man himself—”

Dr. Bull tore off his spectacles and broke them on the table.

“My spectacles are blackguardly,” he said, “but I’m not. Look at my face.”

“I dare say it’s the sort of face that grows on one,” said the President, “in fact, it grows on you; and who am I to quarrel with the wild fruits upon the Tree of Life? I dare say it will grow on me some day.”

CAPITOLO XIII

L’INSEGUIMENTO DEL PRESIDENTE

IL mattino seguente cinque persone sbalordite ma ilari presero il battello per Dover. Il povero vecchio Colonnello avrebbe forse avuto qualche motivo di lagnarsi, essendo stato dapprima costretto a battersi per due fazioni che non esistevano, e poi steso a terra con una lanterna di ferro. Ma era un vecchio gentiluomo magnanimo, e assai sollevato che nessuna delle due parti avesse a che fare con la dinamite, li accompagnò con grande cordialità sul molo.

I cinque detective riconciliati avevano cento particolari da spiegarsi a vicenda. Il Segretario dovette raccontare a Syme come fossero giunti a portare le maschere in origine, per avvicinare il presunto nemico da compagni cospiratori.

Syme dovette spiegare come fossero fuggiti con tanta rapidità attraverso un paese civile. Ma al di sopra di tutti questi particolari che si potevano spiegare, si ergeva la montagna centrale della faccenda, quella che non si poteva spiegare. Che cosa significava tutto ciò? Se erano tutti innocui funzionari, che cos’era Sunday? Se non si era impadronito del mondo, che diamine aveva combinato? L’ispettore Ratcliffe rimaneva cupo su questo punto.

«Non ci capisco un’acca del giochetto del vecchio Sunday, più di quanto ci capiate voi», disse. «Ma qualunque cosa sia Sunday, di certo non è un cittadino irreprensibile. Diavolo! vi ricordate la sua faccia?»

«Vi concedo», rispose Syme, «che non sono mai riuscito a dimenticarla.»

«Ebbene», disse il Segretario, «suppongo che potremo saperlo presto, perché domani abbiamo la nostra prossima riunione generale. Mi scuserete», disse, con un sorriso piuttosto spettrale, «se conosco bene i miei doveri di segretario.»

«Suppongo che abbiate ragione», disse il Professore pensoso. «Suppongo che potremmo saperlo da lui; ma confesso che avrei un po’ paura a chiedere a Sunday chi sia realmente.»

«Perché», domandò il Segretario, «per paura delle bombe?»

«No», disse il Professore, «per paura che me lo dica.»

«Beviamo qualcosa», disse il dottor Bull, dopo un silenzio.

Durante tutto il viaggio in battello e in treno furono oltremodo festosi, ma istintivamente rimasero uniti. Il dottor Bull, che era sempre stato l’ottimista della compagnia, si sforzò di persuadere gli altri quattro che l’intera brigata potesse prendere lo stesso hansom da Victoria; ma la proposta fu respinta, e andarono con una carrozza a quattro ruote, col dottor Bull a cassetta, che cantava. Conclusero il loro viaggio in un albergo di Piccadilly Circus, così da essere vicini alla prima colazione, l’indomani mattina, a Leicester Square. Eppure persino allora le avventure della giornata non erano del tutto finite. Il dottor Bull, scontento della proposta generale di andare a letto, era uscito a passeggio dall’albergo verso le undici per vedere e assaporare qualcuna delle bellezze di Londra. Venti minuti dopo, tuttavia, tornò e fece un gran baccano nell’atrio. Syme, che dapprima tentò di calmarlo, alla fine fu costretto ad ascoltare la sua comunicazione con un’attenzione affatto nuova.

«Vi dico che l’ho visto!» disse il dottor Bull, con enfasi impastata.

«Chi?» chiese Syme in fretta. «Non il Presidente?»

«Non così grave», disse il dottor Bull, con una risata superflua, «non così grave. L’ho qui.»

«Chi hai qui?» chiese Syme spazientito.

«L’uomo peloso», disse l’altro lucidamente, «l’uomo che era l’uomo peloso… Gogol. Eccolo qui», e trascinò avanti per un gomito riluttante l’identico giovane che cinque giorni prima era uscito marciando dal Consiglio con radi capelli rossi e il volto pallido, il primo di tutti i finti anarchici che erano stati smascherati.

«Perché vi impicciate con me?» gridò. «Mi avete espulso come spia.»

«Siamo tutti spie!» sussurrò Syme.

«Siamo tutti spie!» gridò il dottor Bull. «Vieni a bere qualcosa.»

Il mattino seguente il battaglione dei sei riuniti marciò impassibile verso l’albergo di Leicester Square.

«Questo è più allegro», disse il dottor Bull; «siamo sei uomini che vanno a chiedere a un uomo che cosa vuol dire.»

«Credo sia una faccenda un po’ più strana», disse Syme. «Credo siano sei uomini che vanno a chiedere a un uomo che cosa vogliono dire loro.»

Svoltarono in silenzio nella piazza, e sebbene l’albergo fosse nell’angolo opposto, videro subito il piccolo balcone e una figura che pareva troppo grande per esso. Sedeva solo a capo chino, chinato su un giornale. Ma tutti i suoi consiglieri, che erano venuti a metterlo in minoranza, attraversarono quella piazza come se fossero spiati dal cielo da cento occhi.

Avevano molto discusso sulla loro tattica, se cioè dovessero lasciare fuori il Gogol smascherato e cominciare diplomaticamente, oppure introdurlo e far saltare la polvere da sparo all’istante. Prevalse l’influenza di Syme e di Bull per quest’ultima soluzione, benché il Segretario chiedesse loro fino all’ultimo perché attaccassero Sunday con tanta avventatezza.

«La mia ragione è semplicissima», disse Syme. «Lo attacco avventatamente perché ho paura di lui.»

Seguirono Syme su per la buia scala in silenzio, e sbucarono tutti simultaneamente nell’ampia luce del sole del mattino e nell’ampia luce del sole del sorriso di Sunday.

«Delizioso!» disse. «Così lieto di vedervi tutti. Che giornata squisita. È morto lo Zar?»

Il Segretario, che si trovava per caso in prima fila, si raccolse per una dignitosa sfuriata.

«No, signore», disse severamente, «non c’è stato alcun massacro. Non vi reco notizia di simili disgustosi spettacoli.»

«Disgustosi spettacoli?» ripeté il Presidente, con un sorriso vivace e indagatore. «Intendete gli occhiali del dottor Bull?»

Il Segretario s’intruppò per un momento, e il Presidente proseguì con una sorta di suadente appello…

«Certo, tutti abbiamo le nostre opinioni e persino i nostri occhi, ma dirli davvero disgustosi davanti all’uomo stesso…»

Il dottor Bull si strappò gli occhiali e li spezzò sul tavolo.

«I miei occhiali sono da furfante», disse, «ma io no. Guardate la mia faccia.»

«Direi che è il tipo di faccia che finisce col piacere», disse il Presidente, «anzi, cresce su di voi; e chi sono io per litigare coi frutti selvatici dell’Albero della Vita? Direi che un giorno finirà col piacere anche a me.»

“We have no time for tomfoolery,” said the Secretary, breaking in savagely. “We have come to know what all this means. Who are you? What are you? Why did you get us all here? Do you know who and what we are? Are you a half-witted man playing the conspirator, or are you a clever man playing the fool? Answer me, I tell you.”

“Candidates,” murmured Sunday, “are only required to answer eight out of the seventeen questions on the paper. As far as I can make out, you want me to tell you what I am, and what you are, and what this table is, and what this Council is, and what this world is for all I know. Well, I will go so far as to rend the veil of one mystery. If you want to know what you are, you are a set of highly well-intentioned young jackasses.”

“And you,” said Syme, leaning forward, “what are you?”

“I? What am I?” roared the President, and he rose slowly to an incredible height, like some enormous wave about to arch above them and break. “You want to know what I am, do you? Bull, you are a man of science. Grub in the roots of those trees and find out the truth about them. Syme, you are a poet. Stare at those morning clouds. But I tell you this, that you will have found out the truth of the last tree and the top-most cloud before the truth about me. You will understand the sea, and I shall be still a riddle; you shall know what the stars are, and not know what I am. Since the beginning of the world all men have hunted me like a wolf— kings and sages, and poets and lawgivers, all the churches, and all the philosophies. But I have never been caught yet, and the skies will fall in the time I turn to bay. I have given them a good run for their money, and I will now.”

Before one of them could move, the monstrous man had swung himself like some huge ourang-outang over the balustrade of the balcony. Yet before he dropped he pulled himself up again as on a horizontal bar, and thrusting his great chin over the edge of the balcony, said solemnly—

“There’s one thing I’ll tell you though about who I am. I am the man in the dark room, who made you all policemen.”

With that he fell from the balcony, bouncing on the stones below like a great ball of india-rubber, and went bounding off towards the corner of the Alhambra, where he hailed a hansom-cab and sprang inside it. The six detectives had been standing thunderstruck and livid in the light of his last assertion; but when he disappeared into the cab, Syme’s practical senses returned to him, and leaping over the balcony so recklessly as almost to break his legs, he called another cab.

He and Bull sprang into the cab together, the Professor and the Inspector into another, while the Secretary and the late Gogol scrambled into a third just in time to pursue the flying Syme, who was pursuing the flying President. Sunday led them a wild chase towards the north-west, his cabman, evidently under the influence of more than common inducements, urging the horse at breakneck speed. But Syme was in no mood for delicacies, and he stood up in his own cab shouting, “Stop thief!” until crowds ran along beside his cab, and policemen began to stop and ask questions. All this had its influence upon the President’s cabman, who began to look dubious, and to slow down to a trot. He opened the trap to talk reasonably to his fare, and in so doing let the long whip droop over the front of the cab. Sunday leant forward, seized it, and jerked it violently out of the man’s hand. Then standing up in front of the cab himself, he lashed the horse and roared aloud, so that they went down the streets like a flying storm. Through street after street and square after square went whirling this preposterous vehicle, in which the fare was urging the horse and the driver trying desperately to stop it. The other three cabs came after it (if the phrase be permissible of a cab) like panting hounds. Shops and streets shot by like rattling arrows.

At the highest ecstacy of speed, Sunday turned round on the splashboard where he stood, and sticking his great grinning head out of the cab, with white hair whistling in the wind, he made a horrible face at his pursuers, like some colossal urchin. Then raising his right hand swiftly, he flung a ball of paper in Syme’s face and vanished. Syme caught the thing while instinctively warding it off, and discovered that it consisted of two crumpled papers. One was addressed to himself, and the other to Dr. Bull, with a very long, and it is to be feared partly ironical, string of letters after his name. Dr. Bull’s address was, at any rate, considerably longer than his communication, for the communication consisted entirely of the words:—

“What about Martin Tupper now?”

“What does the old maniac mean?” asked Bull, staring at the words. “What does yours say, Syme?”

Syme’s message was, at any rate, longer, and ran as follows:—

“No one would regret anything in the nature of an interference by the Archdeacon more than I. I trust it will not come to that. But, for the last time, where are your goloshes? The thing is too bad, especially after what uncle said.”

The President’s cabman seemed to be regaining some control over his horse, and the pursuers gained a little as they swept round into the Edgware Road. And here there occurred what seemed to the allies a providential stoppage. Traffic of every kind was swerving to right or left or stopping, for down the long road was coming the unmistakable roar announcing the fire-engine, which in a few seconds went by like a brazen thunderbolt. But quick as it went by, Sunday had bounded out of his cab, sprung at the fire-engine, caught it, slung himself on to it, and was seen as he disappeared in the noisy distance talking to the astonished fireman with explanatory gestures.

«Non abbiamo tempo per buffonate», disse il Segretario, interrompendo ferocemente. «Siamo venuti a sapere che cosa significa tutto questo. Chi siete voi? Che cosa siete? Perché ci avete radunati tutti qui? Sapete chi e che cosa siamo noi? Siete un mezzo scemo che gioca al cospiratore, o un uomo intelligente che fa lo sciocco? Rispondetemi, vi dico.»

«I candidati», mormorò Sunday, «sono tenuti a rispondere soltanto a otto delle diciassette domande del foglio. Per quanto riesco a capire, volete che vi dica che cosa sono io, e che cosa siete voi, e che cos’è questo tavolo, e che cos’è questo Consiglio, e a che cosa serva questo mondo, per quanto ne so io. Ebbene, mi spingerò fino a squarciare il velo di un mistero. Se volete sapere che cosa siete, siete un gruppo di giovani bene intenzionati asini.»

«E voi», disse Syme, sporgendosi in avanti, «che cosa siete?»

«Io? Che cosa sono io?» ruggì il Presidente, e si levò lentamente a un’altezza incredibile, come un’onda enorme sul punto d’inarcarsi sopra di loro e infrangersi. «Volete sapere che cosa sono io, eh? Bull, voi siete un uomo di scienza. Frugate nelle radici di quegli alberi e scoprite la verità su di essi. Syme, voi siete un poeta. Fissate quelle nuvole del mattino. Ma vi dico questo, che avrete scoperto la verità dell’ultimo albero e della nuvola più alta prima della verità su di me. Comprenderete il mare, e io sarò ancora un enigma; saprete che cosa sono le stelle, e non saprete che cosa sono io. Fin dal principio del mondo tutti gli uomini mi hanno dato la caccia come a un lupo… re e savi, e poeti e legislatori, tutte le chiese, e tutte le filosofie. Ma non sono mai stato preso finora, e i cieli crolleranno nel momento in cui mi volterò a far fronte. Li ho fatti correre parecchio per i loro soldi, e continuerò a farlo.»

Prima che uno di loro potesse muoversi, il mostruoso uomo si era slanciato come un enorme orango oltre la balaustra del balcone. Eppure, prima di lasciarsi cadere, si tirò su di nuovo come a una sbarra orizzontale, e spingendo il suo gran mento oltre l’orlo del balcone, disse solennemente…

«C’è una cosa però che vi dirò su chi sono. Sono l’uomo nella stanza buia, quello che vi ha fatti tutti poliziotti.»

Con ciò cadde dal balcone, rimbalzando sulle pietre sottostanti come una gran palla di caucciù, e si allontanò a balzi verso l’angolo dell’Alhambra, dove chiamò un hansom e vi balzò dentro. I sei detective erano rimasti impietriti e lividi alla luce della sua ultima affermazione; ma quando egli scomparve nella carrozza, il senso pratico di Syme gli tornò, e scavalcando il balcone così sconsideratamente da quasi rompersi le gambe, chiamò un’altra carrozza.

Lui e Bull balzarono insieme nella carrozza, il Professore e l’Ispettore in un’altra, mentre il Segretario e l’ex Gogol si arrampicarono in una terza appena in tempo per inseguire il volante Syme, che inseguiva il volante Presidente. Sunday li condusse in una caccia sfrenata verso nord-ovest, il suo cocchiere, evidentemente sotto l’influsso di incentivi più che comuni, spronando il cavallo a velocità da rompicollo. Ma Syme non era in vena di delicatezze, e si alzò in piedi nella propria carrozza gridando: «Al ladro!» finché la folla accorse lungo la sua carrozza, e i poliziotti presero a fermarsi e a far domande. Tutto ciò ebbe il suo effetto sul cocchiere del Presidente, che cominciò a farsi dubbioso, e a rallentare al trotto. Aprì la botola per parlare ragionevolmente al suo cliente, e così facendo lasciò penzolare la lunga frusta sul davanti della carrozza. Sunday si sporse in avanti, l’afferrò, e la strappò con violenza di mano all’uomo. Poi, ergendosi in piedi davanti alla carrozza, sferzò il cavallo e ruggì a gran voce, sicché scesero per le vie come una tempesta volante. Attraverso strada dopo strada e piazza dopo piazza andava turbinando quel veicolo assurdo, in cui il cliente spronava il cavallo e il conducente cercava disperatamente di fermarlo. Le altre tre carrozze lo seguivano (se la frase è lecita per una carrozza) come segugi ansanti. Botteghe e strade sfrecciavano via come frecce sferraglianti.

Al massimo dell’estasi della velocità, Sunday si voltò sul predellino dove stava, e sporgendo la sua gran testa ghignante dalla carrozza, coi capelli bianchi fischianti nel vento, fece una faccia orribile ai suoi inseguitori, come un colossale monello. Poi, alzando rapidamente la mano destra, scagliò in faccia a Syme una palla di carta e sparì. Syme afferrò l’oggetto mentre istintivamente lo parava, e scoprì che consisteva di due fogli spiegazzati. Uno era indirizzato a lui stesso, e l’altro al dottor Bull, con una lunghissima, e c’è da temere in parte ironica, sfilza di lettere dopo il nome. L’indirizzo del dottor Bull era, in ogni caso, notevolmente più lungo della sua comunicazione, poiché la comunicazione consisteva interamente nelle parole:…

«E adesso che ne dite di Martin Tupper?»

«Che cosa vuol dire il vecchio maniaco?» chiese Bull, fissando le parole. «Che cosa dice la tua, Syme?»

Il messaggio di Syme era, in ogni caso, più lungo, e diceva così:…

«Nessuno rimpiangerebbe qualcosa nella natura di un’interferenza da parte dell’Arcidiacono più di me. Confido che non si arrivi a tanto. Ma, per l’ultima volta, dove sono le vostre galosce? La cosa è troppo grave, specie dopo quel che ha detto lo zio.»

Il cocchiere del Presidente pareva riacquistare un certo controllo sul suo cavallo, e gli inseguitori guadagnarono un poco mentre svoltavano nella Edgware Road. E qui accadde ciò che agli alleati parve un provvidenziale intoppo. Il traffico di ogni genere sterzava a destra o a sinistra o si arrestava, poiché giù per la lunga via veniva l’inconfondibile fragore che annunciava l’autopompa dei pompieri, che in pochi secondi passò come un fulmine di bronzo. Ma per quanto rapida passasse, Sunday era balzato fuori dalla sua carrozza, si era slanciato sull’autopompa dei pompieri, l’aveva afferrata, vi si era issato, e mentre spariva nella rumorosa lontananza lo si vide parlare allo stupito pompiere con gesti esplicativi.

“After him!” howled Syme. “He can’t go astray now. There’s no mistaking a fire-engine.”

The three cabmen, who had been stunned for a moment, whipped up their horses and slightly decreased the distance between themselves and their disappearing prey. The President acknowledged this proximity by coming to the back of the car, bowing repeatedly, kissing his hand, and finally flinging a neatly-folded note into the bosom of Inspector Ratcliffe. When that gentleman opened it, not without impatience, he found it contained the words:—

“Fly at once. The truth about your trouser-stretchers is known. —A FRIEND.”

The fire-engine had struck still farther to the north, into a region that they did not recognise; and as it ran by a line of high railings shadowed with trees, the six friends were startled, but somewhat relieved, to see the President leap from the fire-engine, though whether through another whim or the increasing protest of his entertainers they could not see. Before the three cabs, however, could reach up to the spot, he had gone up the high railings like a huge grey cat, tossed himself over, and vanished in a darkness of leaves.

Syme with a furious gesture stopped his cab, jumped out, and sprang also to the escalade. When he had one leg over the fence and his friends were following, he turned a face on them which shone quite pale in the shadow.

“What place can this be?” he asked. “Can it be the old devil’s house? I’ve heard he has a house in North London.”

“All the better,” said the Secretary grimly, planting a foot in a foothold, “we shall find him at home.”

“No, but it isn’t that,” said Syme, knitting his brows. “I hear the most horrible noises, like devils laughing and sneezing and blowing their devilish noses!”

“His dogs barking, of course,” said the Secretary.

“Why not say his black-beetles barking!” said Syme furiously, “snails barking! geraniums barking! Did you ever hear a dog bark like that?”

He held up his hand, and there came out of the thicket a long growling roar that seemed to get under the skin and freeze the flesh— a low thrilling roar that made a throbbing in the air all about them.

“The dogs of Sunday would be no ordinary dogs,” said Gogol, and shuddered.

Syme had jumped down on the other side, but he still stood listening impatiently.

“Well, listen to that,” he said, “is that a dog—anybody’s dog?”

There broke upon their ear a hoarse screaming as of things protesting and clamouring in sudden pain; and then, far off like an echo, what sounded like a long nasal trumpet.

“Well, his house ought to be hell!” said the Secretary; “and if it is hell, I’m going in!” and he sprang over the tall railings almost with one swing.

The others followed. They broke through a tangle of plants and shrubs, and came out on an open path. Nothing was in sight, but Dr. Bull suddenly struck his hands together.

“Why, you asses,” he cried, “it’s the Zoo!”

As they were looking round wildly for any trace of their wild quarry, a keeper in uniform came running along the path with a man in plain clothes.

“Has it come this way?” gasped the keeper.

“Has what?” asked Syme.

“The elephant!” cried the keeper. “An elephant has gone mad and run away!”

“He has run away with an old gentleman,” said the other stranger breathlessly, “a poor old gentleman with white hair!”

“What sort of old gentleman?” asked Syme, with great curiosity.

“A very large and fat old gentleman in light grey clothes,” said the keeper eagerly.

“Well,” said Syme, “if he’s that particular kind of old gentleman, if you’re quite sure that he’s a large and fat old gentleman in grey clothes, you may take my word for it that the elephant has not run away with him. He has run away with the elephant. The elephant is not made by God that could run away with him if he did not consent to the elopement. And, by thunder, there he is!”

There was no doubt about it this time. Clean across the space of grass, about two hundred yards away, with a crowd screaming and scampering vainly at his heels, went a huge grey elephant at an awful stride, with his trunk thrown out as rigid as a ship’s bowsprit, and trumpeting like the trumpet of doom. On the back of the bellowing and plunging animal sat President Sunday with all the placidity of a sultan, but goading the animal to a furious speed with some sharp object in his hand.

“Stop him!” screamed the populace. “He’ll be out of the gate!”

“Stop a landslide!” said the keeper. “He is out of the gate!”

And even as he spoke, a final crash and roar of terror announced that the great grey elephant had broken out of the gates of the Zoological Gardens, and was careening down Albany Street like a new and swift sort of omnibus.

“Great Lord!” cried Bull, “I never knew an elephant could go so fast. Well, it must be hansom-cabs again if we are to keep him in sight.”

As they raced along to the gate out of which the elephant had vanished, Syme felt a glaring panorama of the strange animals in the cages which they passed. Afterwards he thought it queer that he should have seen them so clearly. He remembered especially seeing pelicans, with their preposterous, pendant throats. He wondered why the pelican was the symbol of charity, except it was that it wanted a good deal of charity to admire a pelican. He remembered a hornbill, which was simply a huge yellow beak with a small bird tied on behind it. The whole gave him a sensation, the vividness of which he could not explain, that Nature was always making quite mysterious jokes. Sunday had told them that they would understand him when they had understood the stars. He wondered whether even the archangels understood the hornbill.

The six unhappy detectives flung themselves into cabs and followed the elephant sharing the terror which he spread through the long stretch of the streets. This time Sunday did not turn round, but offered them the solid stretch of his unconscious back, which maddened them, if possible, more than his previous mockeries. Just before they came to Baker Street, however, he was seen to throw something far up into the air, as a boy does a ball meaning to catch it again. But at their rate of racing it fell far behind, just by the cab containing Gogol; and in faint hope of a clue or for some impulse unexplainable, he stopped his cab so as to pick it up. It was addressed to himself, and was quite a bulky parcel. On examination, however, its bulk was found to consist of thirty-three pieces of paper of no value wrapped one round the other. When the last covering was torn away it reduced itself to a small slip of paper, on which was written:—

«Dietro a lui!» urlò Syme. «Ora non può sviarci. Non ci si sbaglia su un’autopompa dei pompieri.»

I tre cocchieri, che per un momento erano rimasti storditi, frustarono i cavalli e diminuirono di poco la distanza tra sé e la loro preda sfuggente. Il Presidente riconobbe questa prossimità venendo sul retro dell’autopompa, inchinandosi ripetutamente, mandando baci con la mano, e infine gettando un biglietto piegato con cura nel petto dell’ispettore Ratcliffe. Quando quel signore lo aprì, non senza impazienza, lo trovò contenente le parole:…

«Fuggite subito. La verità sui vostri tendipantaloni è nota. — UN AMICO.»

L’autopompa dei pompieri aveva puntato ancor più a nord, in una regione che essi non riconoscevano; e mentre correva lungo una fila di alte cancellate ombreggiate di alberi, i sei amici trasalirono, ma alquanto sollevati, al vedere il Presidente balzare giù dall’autopompa dei pompieri, anche se non poterono vedere se per un altro capriccio o per la crescente protesta dei suoi ospiti. Prima però che le tre carrozze potessero raggiungere il punto, egli aveva scalato le alte cancellate come un enorme gatto grigio, si era gettato dall’altra parte, ed era scomparso in un buio di foglie.

Syme con un gesto furioso fermò la sua carrozza, ne balzò fuori, e si slanciò anch’egli alla scalata. Quando ebbe una gamba oltre lo steccato e i suoi amici lo seguivano, volse verso di loro un volto che spiccava tutto pallido nell’ombra.

«Che posto può mai essere questo?» chiese. «Che sia la casa del vecchio diavolo? Ho sentito che ha una casa nella parte nord di Londra.»

«Tanto meglio», disse il Segretario cupamente, piantando un piede in un appiglio, «lo troveremo a casa.»

«No, ma non è questo», disse Syme, aggrottando le sopracciglia. «Sento i rumori più orribili, come diavoli che ridono e starnutiscono e si soffiano i loro nasi diabolici!»

«I suoi cani che abbaiano, naturalmente», disse il Segretario.

«Perché non dire i suoi scarafaggi neri che abbaiano!» disse Syme furiosamente, «le lumache che abbaiano! i gerani che abbaiano! Avete mai sentito un cane abbaiare a quel modo?»

Alzò la mano, e dal folto venne un lungo ringhio ruggente che pareva penetrare sotto la pelle e agghiacciare la carne… un basso, fremente ruggito che faceva vibrare l’aria tutt’intorno a loro.

«I cani di Sunday non sarebbero cani comuni», disse Gogol, e rabbrividì.

Syme era saltato giù dall’altra parte, ma stava ancora lì in ascolto, spazientito.

«Ebbene, ascoltate quello», disse, «è un cane… il cane di qualcuno?»

Giunse al loro orecchio uno strido rauco, come di creature che protestano e reclamano in un dolore improvviso; e poi, lontano come un’eco, qualcosa che suonava come una lunga tromba nasale.

«Ebbene, la sua casa dev’essere l’inferno!» disse il Segretario; «e se è l’inferno, io ci entro!» e scavalcò le alte cancellate quasi con un solo slancio.

Gli altri lo seguirono. Si aprirono un varco tra un groviglio di piante e arbusti, e sbucarono su un sentiero aperto. Nulla era in vista, ma il dottor Bull d’un tratto batté le mani l’una contro l’altra.

«Ma insomma, asini che siete», gridò, «è lo Zoo!»

Mentre si guardavano attorno freneticamente in cerca di una traccia della loro selvaggia preda, un guardiano in uniforme venne correndo lungo il sentiero con un uomo in abiti civili.

«È venuto di qua?» ansimò il guardiano.

«Chi?» chiese Syme.

«L’elefante!» gridò il guardiano. «Un elefante è impazzito ed è scappato!»

«È scappato con un vecchio gentiluomo», disse l’altro sconosciuto senza fiato, «un povero vecchio gentiluomo dai capelli bianchi!»

«Che sorta di vecchio gentiluomo?» chiese Syme, con grande curiosità.

«Un vecchio gentiluomo assai grande e grasso, in abiti grigio chiaro», disse il guardiano con foga.

«Ebbene», disse Syme, «se è quel particolare tipo di vecchio gentiluomo, se siete ben sicuro che si tratta di un vecchio gentiluomo grande e grasso in abiti grigi, potete credermi sulla parola: l’elefante non è scappato con lui. È lui che è scappato con l’elefante. Non è stato fatto da Dio un elefante capace di scappare con lui, se lui non acconsentisse alla fuga. E, per mille tuoni, eccolo là!»

Non c’era dubbio, questa volta. Attraverso tutta la distesa d’erba, a circa duecento metri di distanza, con una folla che strillava e correva invano alle sue calcagna, andava un enorme elefante grigio a un passo terribile, con la proboscide protesa rigida come il bompresso di una nave, e barrendo come la tromba del giudizio. Sul dorso della bestia che muggiva e s’impennava sedeva il Presidente Sunday con tutta la placidità di un sultano, ma pungolando l’animale a una velocità furiosa con qualche oggetto aguzzo in mano.

«Fermatelo!» strillava la gente. «Uscirà dal cancello!»

«Fermate una frana!» disse il guardiano. «È già fuori dal cancello!»

E mentre ancora parlava, un ultimo schianto e ruggito di terrore annunciò che il grande elefante grigio aveva sfondato i cancelli dei Giardini Zoologici, e sfrecciava giù per Albany Street come una nuova e velocissima specie di omnibus.

«Gran Dio!» gridò Bull, «non ho mai saputo che un elefante potesse andare così veloce. Ebbene, dovremo tornare agli hansom se vogliamo tenerlo d’occhio.»

Mentre correvano verso il cancello dal quale l’elefante era sparito, Syme provò un abbagliante panorama degli strani animali nelle gabbie che passavano. In seguito gli parve strano di averli visti così nitidamente. Ricordava in particolare di aver visto i pellicani, con le loro assurde, pendenti gole. Si domandò perché il pellicano fosse il simbolo della carità, se non forse perché ci voleva parecchia carità per ammirare un pellicano. Ricordava un bucero, che era semplicemente un enorme becco giallo con un uccellino legato dietro. L’insieme gli diede una sensazione, la cui vividezza non seppe spiegare, che la Natura stesse sempre facendo scherzi assai misteriosi. Sunday aveva detto loro che lo avrebbero compreso quando avessero compreso le stelle. Si domandò se persino gli arcangeli comprendessero il bucero.

I sei infelici detective si gettarono nelle carrozze e seguirono l’elefante, condividendo il terrore che esso spargeva per il lungo tratto delle strade. Questa volta Sunday non si voltò, ma offrì loro la solida distesa della sua schiena inconsapevole, il che li faceva impazzire, se possibile, più delle sue precedenti beffe. Poco prima che giungessero a Baker Street, tuttavia, lo si vide lanciare qualcosa in alto nell’aria, come un ragazzo fa con una palla intendendo riprenderla. Ma alla loro andatura di corsa cadde molto indietro, proprio accanto alla carrozza che conteneva Gogol; e nella fioca speranza di un indizio o per qualche impulso inspiegabile, egli fermò la carrozza per raccoglierlo. Era indirizzato a lui stesso, ed era un pacco piuttosto voluminoso. All’esame, tuttavia, si trovò che la sua mole consisteva di trentatré pezzi di carta senza valore avvolti l’uno intorno all’altro. Quando fu strappato l’ultimo involucro si ridusse a un piccolo foglietto di carta, sul quale era scritto:…

“The word, I fancy, should be ‘pink’.”

The man once known as Gogol said nothing, but the movements of his hands and feet were like those of a man urging a horse to renewed efforts.

Through street after street, through district after district, went the prodigy of the flying elephant, calling crowds to every window, and driving the traffic left and right. And still through all this insane publicity the three cabs toiled after it, until they came to be regarded as part of a procession, and perhaps the advertisement of a circus. They went at such a rate that distances were shortened beyond belief, and Syme saw the Albert Hall in Kensington when he thought that he was still in Paddington. The animal’s pace was even more fast and free through the empty, aristocratic streets of South Kensington, and he finally headed towards that part of the sky-line where the enormous Wheel of Earl’s Court stood up in the sky. The wheel grew larger and larger, till it filled heaven like the wheel of stars.

The beast outstripped the cabs. They lost him round several corners, and when they came to one of the gates of the Earl’s Court Exhibition they found themselves finally blocked. In front of them was an enormous crowd; in the midst of it was an enormous elephant, heaving and shuddering as such shapeless creatures do. But the President had disappeared.

“Where has he gone to?” asked Syme, slipping to the ground.

“Gentleman rushed into the Exhibition, sir!” said an official in a dazed manner. Then he added in an injured voice: “Funny gentleman, sir. Asked me to hold his horse, and gave me this.”

He held out with distaste a piece of folded paper, addressed: “To the Secretary of the Central Anarchist Council.”

The Secretary, raging, rent it open, and found written inside it:—

“When the herring runs a mile, Let the Secretary smile; When the herring tries to fly, Let the Secretary die. Rustic Proverb.”

“Why the eternal crikey,” began the Secretary, “did you let the man in? Do people commonly come to your Exhibition riding on mad elephants? Do—”

“Look!” shouted Syme suddenly. “Look over there!”

“Look at what?” asked the Secretary savagely.

“Look at the captive balloon!” said Syme, and pointed in a frenzy.

“Why the blazes should I look at a captive balloon?” demanded the Secretary. “What is there queer about a captive balloon?”

“Nothing,” said Syme, “except that it isn’t captive!”

They all turned their eyes to where the balloon swung and swelled above the Exhibition on a string, like a child’s balloon. A second afterwards the string came in two just under the car, and the balloon, broken loose, floated away with the freedom of a soap bubble.

“Ten thousand devils!” shrieked the Secretary. “He’s got into it!” and he shook his fists at the sky.

The balloon, borne by some chance wind, came right above them, and they could see the great white head of the President peering over the side and looking benevolently down on them.

“God bless my soul!” said the Professor with the elderly manner that he could never disconnect from his bleached beard and parchment face. “God bless my soul! I seemed to fancy that something fell on the top of my hat!”

He put up a trembling hand and took from that shelf a piece of twisted paper, which he opened absently only to find it inscribed with a true lover’s knot and, the words:—

“Your beauty has not left me indifferent.—From LITTLE SNOWDROP.”

There was a short silence, and then Syme said, biting his beard—

“I’m not beaten yet. The blasted thing must come down somewhere. Let’s follow it!”

«La parola, immagino, dovrebbe essere “rosa”.»

L’uomo un tempo noto come Gogol non disse nulla, ma i movimenti delle sue mani e dei suoi piedi erano quelli di un uomo che spinge un cavallo a rinnovati sforzi.

Attraverso strada dopo strada, attraverso quartiere dopo quartiere, andava il prodigio dell’elefante volante, richiamando folle a ogni finestra, e cacciando il traffico a destra e a sinistra. E ancora, attraverso tutta questa insana pubblicità, le tre carrozze arrancavano dietro di esso, finché non furono considerate parte di un corteo, e forse la réclame di un circo. Andavano a una tale andatura che le distanze si accorciavano oltre ogni credere, e Syme vide la Albert Hall a Kensington quando credeva di essere ancora a Paddington. L’andatura dell’animale era persino più rapida e libera per le vuote, aristocratiche vie di South Kensington, e alla fine puntò verso quella parte dell’orizzonte dove l’enorme Ruota di Earl’s Court si ergeva nel cielo. La ruota cresceva sempre più grande, finché non riempì il cielo come la ruota delle stelle.

La bestia distanziò le carrozze. Lo persero di vista a diversi angoli, e quando giunsero a uno dei cancelli dell’Esposizione di Earl’s Court si trovarono infine bloccati. Davanti a loro c’era una folla enorme; in mezzo ad essa c’era un enorme elefante, che ansimava e fremeva come fanno tali creature informi. Ma il Presidente era scomparso.

«Dov’è andato?» chiese Syme, scivolando a terra.

«Il gentiluomo si è precipitato dentro l’Esposizione, signore!» disse un funzionario in modo stordito. Poi aggiunse con voce offesa: «Buffo gentiluomo, signore. Mi ha chiesto di tenergli il cavallo, e mi ha dato questo.»

Porse con disgusto un pezzo di carta piegato, indirizzato: «Al Segretario del Consiglio Anarchico Centrale.»

Il Segretario, infuriato, lo squarciò, e vi trovò scritto dentro:…

«Quando l’aringa corre un miglio, Rida pure il Segretario; Quando l’aringa prova a volare, Muoia pure il Segretario. Proverbio campagnolo.»

«Perché diavolo mai», cominciò il Segretario, «avete lasciato entrare quell’uomo? La gente viene forse comunemente alla vostra Esposizione a cavallo di elefanti impazziti? Ma…»

«Guardate!» gridò Syme d’improvviso. «Guardate laggiù!»

«Guardare che cosa?» chiese il Segretario ferocemente.

«Guardate il pallone frenato!» disse Syme, e indicò in preda al furore.

«Perché diamine dovrei guardare un pallone frenato?» domandò il Segretario. «Che c’è di strano in un pallone frenato?»

«Nulla», disse Syme, «se non che non è frenato!»

Tutti volsero gli occhi là dove il pallone oscillava e si gonfiava sopra l’Esposizione a un filo, come il pallone di un bambino. Un attimo dopo il filo si spezzò in due proprio sotto la navicella, e il pallone, sciolto, se ne andò fluttuando con la libertà di una bolla di sapone.

«Diecimila diavoli!» strillò il Segretario. «C’è salito dentro!» e agitò i pugni contro il cielo.

Il pallone, portato da qualche vento casuale, giunse proprio sopra di loro, ed essi poterono vedere la grande testa bianca del Presidente sbirciare oltre il bordo e guardarli benevolmente dall’alto.

«Dio benedica la mia anima!» disse il Professore con quell’aria attempata che non riusciva mai a disgiungere dalla barba scolorita e dal volto pergamenaceo. «Dio benedica la mia anima! M’è parso che qualcosa cadesse sulla cima del mio cappello!»

Alzò una mano tremante e prese da quel ripiano un pezzo di carta attorcigliato, che aprì distrattamente solo per trovarlo iscritto con un vero nodo d’amante e le parole:…

«La vostra bellezza non mi ha lasciato indifferente. — Dalla PICCOLA CAMPANELLINA.»

Ci fu un breve silenzio, e poi Syme disse, mordendosi la barba…

«Non sono ancora battuto. Quel maledetto affare dovrà pur scendere da qualche parte. Seguiamolo!»

CHAPTER XIV

THE SIX PHILOSOPHERS

ACROSS green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled six draggled detectives, about five miles out of London. The optimist of the party had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon across South England in hansom-cabs. But he was ultimately convinced of the persistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and the still more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon. Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke through black thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp. Those green hills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirable light grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park. His silk hat was broken over his nose by a swinging bough, his coat-tails were torn to the shoulder by arresting thorns, the clay of England was splashed up to his collar; but he still carried his yellow beard forward with a silent and furious determination, and his eyes were still fixed on that floating ball of gas, which in the full flush of sunset seemed coloured like a sunset cloud.

“After all,” he said, “it is very beautiful!”

“It is singularly and strangely beautiful!” said the Professor. “I wish the beastly gas-bag would burst!”

“No,” said Dr. Bull, “I hope it won’t. It might hurt the old boy.”

“Hurt him!” said the vindictive Professor, “hurt him! Not as much as I’d hurt him if I could get up with him. Little Snowdrop!”

“I don’t want him hurt, somehow,” said Dr. Bull.

“What!” cried the Secretary bitterly. “Do you believe all that tale about his being our man in the dark room? Sunday would say he was anybody.”

“I don’t know whether I believe it or not,” said Dr. Bull. “But it isn’t that that I mean. I can’t wish old Sunday’s balloon to burst because—”

“Well,” said Syme impatiently, “because?”

“Well, because he’s so jolly like a balloon himself,” said Dr. Bull desperately. “I don’t understand a word of all that idea of his being the same man who gave us all our blue cards. It seems to make everything nonsense. But I don’t care who knows it, I always had a sympathy for old Sunday himself, wicked as he was. Just as if he was a great bouncing baby. How can I explain what my queer sympathy was? It didn’t prevent my fighting him like hell! Shall I make it clear if I say that I liked him because he was so fat?”

“You will not,” said the Secretary.

“I’ve got it now,” cried Bull, “it was because he was so fat and so light. Just like a balloon. We always think of fat people as heavy, but he could have danced against a sylph. I see now what I mean. Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity. It was like the old speculations—what would happen if an elephant could leap up in the sky like a grasshopper?”

“Our elephant,” said Syme, looking upwards, “has leapt into the sky like a grasshopper.”

“And somehow,” concluded Bull, “that’s why I can’t help liking old Sunday. No, it’s not an admiration of force, or any silly thing like that. There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were bursting with some good news. Haven’t you sometimes felt it on a spring day? You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they are good-natured tricks. I never read the Bible myself, but that part they laugh at is literal truth, ‘Why leap ye, ye high hills?’ The hills do leap—at least, they try to… Why do I like Sunday?… how can I tell you?… because he’s such a Bounder.”

There was a long silence, and then the Secretary said in a curious, strained voice—

“You do not know Sunday at all. Perhaps it is because you are better than I, and do not know hell. I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbid from the first. The man who sits in darkness, and who chose us all, chose me because I had all the crazy look of a conspirator—because my smile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled. But there must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in all these anarchic men. For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, not your airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature of Things. I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blind down, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which our master lives. He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark and out of shape. He listened to all my words without speaking or even stirring. I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my most eloquent questions. Then, after a long silence, the Thing began to shake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady. It shook like a loathsome and living jelly. It reminded me of everything I had ever read about the base bodies that are the origin of life— the deep sea lumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do you ask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself.”

“Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly,” cut in the clear voice of Inspector Ratcliffe. “President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one’s intellect, but he is not such a Barnum’s freak physically as you make out. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I’ll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he’s absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can’t think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren’t think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with an absent-minded tiger?”

CAPITOLO XIV

I SEI FILOSOFI

ATTRAVERSO verdi campi, e sfondando siepi in fiore, arrancavano sei sudici detective, a circa cinque miglia da Londra. L’ottimista della compagnia aveva dapprima proposto di seguire il pallone attraverso l’Inghilterra meridionale a bordo di carrozze da nolo. Ma alla fine dovette arrendersi all’ostinato rifiuto del pallone di seguire le strade, e all’ancor più ostinato rifiuto dei vetturini di seguire il pallone. Di conseguenza gli instancabili benché esasperati viaggiatori sfondarono neri roveti e ararono campi già arati finché ciascuno di loro non fu ridotto a una figura troppo scandalosa per essere scambiata anche solo per un vagabondo. Quelle verdi colline del Surrey videro il crollo finale e la tragedia dell’ammirevole abito grigio chiaro con cui Syme era partito da Saffron Park. Il suo cilindro di seta gli si spezzò sul naso a causa di un ramo oscillante, le falde della giacca gli furono strappate fino alla spalla da spine avide, la creta d’Inghilterra gli schizzò fin sul colletto; ma egli portava ancora avanti la sua barba gialla con una determinazione silenziosa e furiosa, e i suoi occhi restavano fissi su quella sfera di gas galleggiante, che nel pieno rossore del tramonto sembrava colorata come una nube al tramonto.

«Dopotutto», disse, «è bellissimo!»

«È singolarmente e stranamente bello!» disse il Professore. «Vorrei che quel dannato otre di gas scoppiasse!»

«No», disse il dottor Bull, «io spero di no. Potrebbe far male al vecchio.»

«Fargli male!» disse il vendicativo Professore, «fargli male! Non tanto quanto gliene farei io se riuscissi a raggiungerlo. Piccolo Bucaneve!»

«In qualche modo, non voglio che gli si faccia del male», disse il dottor Bull.

«Come!» gridò amaramente il Segretario. «Credi davvero a tutta quella storia che sia lui il nostro uomo nella stanza buia? Sunday direbbe che è chiunque.»

«Non so se ci credo o no», disse il dottor Bull. «Ma non è questo che intendo. Non posso desiderare che il pallone del vecchio Sunday scoppi perché…»

«Allora», disse Syme spazientito, «perché?»

«Allora, perché lui stesso è così maledettamente simile a un pallone», disse disperatamente il dottor Bull. «Non capisco una sola parola di tutta quell’idea che sia lo stesso uomo che ci ha dato le nostre tessere azzurre. Sembra rendere ogni cosa un’assurdità. Ma non m’importa chi lo sappia, io ho sempre avuto una simpatia per il vecchio Sunday in persona, malvagio com’era. Proprio come se fosse un grande bimbo tutto ciccia. Come posso spiegare che cosa fosse la mia bizzarra simpatia? Non m’ha impedito di combatterlo come un demonio! Renderò tutto più chiaro se dico che mi piaceva perché era così grasso?»

«No di certo», disse il Segretario.

«Ci sono arrivato adesso», gridò Bull, «era perché era così grasso e così leggero. Proprio come un pallone. Pensiamo sempre ai grassi come pesanti, ma lui avrebbe potuto danzare in gara con una silfide. Ora vedo che cosa intendo. La forza moderata si mostra nella violenza, la forza suprema si mostra nella leggerezza. Era come le vecchie speculazioni: che cosa accadrebbe se un elefante potesse saltare in cielo come una cavalletta?»

«Il nostro elefante», disse Syme, guardando in alto, «è saltato in cielo come una cavalletta.»

«E in qualche modo», concluse Bull, «è per questo che non posso fare a meno di provare simpatia per il vecchio Sunday. No, non è ammirazione per la forza, o qualche altra sciocchezza del genere. C’è una specie di allegria nella cosa, come se stesse scoppiando per qualche buona notizia. Non l’avete mai sentito, in un giorno di primavera? Sapete, la Natura fa i suoi scherzi, ma in qualche modo quel giorno prova che sono scherzi di buona indole. Non ho mai letto io stesso la Bibbia, ma quella parte di cui ridono è verità letterale: “Perché saltate, o alti monti?” I monti saltano davvero; almeno, ci provano…. Perché mi piace Sunday?… come posso dirvelo?… perché è un tale Zoticone.»

Ci fu un lungo silenzio, e poi il Segretario disse con una voce curiosa, tesa…

«Tu non conosci Sunday affatto. Forse è perché sei migliore di me, e non conosci l’inferno. Io ero un tipo feroce, e un po’ morboso fin dall’inizio. L’uomo che siede nell’oscurità, e che ci scelse tutti, scelse me perché avevo tutto l’aspetto folle di un cospiratore: perché il mio sorriso andava storto, e i miei occhi erano tetri, anche quando sorridevo. Ma dev’esserci stato qualcosa in me che rispondeva ai nervi di tutti quegli uomini anarchici. Perché quando vidi Sunday per la prima volta egli mi espresse, non la tua aerea vitalità, ma qualcosa insieme di grossolano e di triste nella Natura delle Cose. Lo trovai che fumava in una stanza al crepuscolo, una stanza con una tenda scura abbassata, infinitamente più deprimente della genìale oscurità in cui vive il nostro padrone. Sedeva là su una panca, un enorme mucchio d’uomo, oscuro e informe. Ascoltò tutte le mie parole senza parlare né muoversi. Riversai i miei appelli più appassionati, e posi le mie domande più eloquenti. Poi, dopo un lungo silenzio, quella Cosa cominciò a tremare, e pensai che fosse scossa da qualche segreto malessere. Tremava come una gelatina ripugnante e viva. Mi ricordò tutto ciò che avessi mai letto sui bassi corpi che sono all’origine della vita: i grumi degli abissi marini e il protoplasma. Sembrava la forma ultima della materia, la più informe e la più vergognosa. Potevo solo dirmi, dai suoi rabbrividimenti, che era già qualcosa che un simile mostro potesse essere infelice. E poi mi si rivelò d’un tratto che quella montagna bestiale tremava per un riso solitario, e il riso era rivolto a me. Mi chiedete di perdonargliela? Non è cosa da poco essere derisi da qualcosa che è insieme più basso e più forte di te.»

«Certamente voialtri esagerate a dismisura», tagliò corto la voce limpida dell’ispettore Ratcliffe. «Il presidente Sunday è un tipo terribile per l’intelletto, ma fisicamente non è quel fenomeno da baraccone che voi fate credere. Mi ricevette in un ufficio ordinario, con un cappotto a quadretti grigi, in pieno giorno. Mi parlò in modo ordinario. Ma vi dirò io che cosa c’è di un po’ inquietante in Sunday. La sua stanza è ordinata, i suoi abiti sono ordinati, tutto sembra in ordine; ma lui è distratto. A volte i suoi grandi occhi lucenti diventano del tutto ciechi. Per ore dimentica che sei lì. Ora, la distrazione è proprio un po’ troppo tremenda in un uomo malvagio. Pensiamo a un malvagio come a un uomo vigile. Non riusciamo a pensare a un malvagio che sia onestamente e sinceramente sognante, perché non osiamo pensare a un malvagio solo con se stesso. Un uomo distratto significa un uomo di buona indole. Significa un uomo che, se per caso ti scorge, si scuserà. Ma come sopporterai un uomo distratto che, se per caso ti scorge, ti ucciderà? È questo che mette alla prova i nervi, l’astrazione unita alla crudeltà. Gli uomini l’hanno sentito a volte attraversando foreste selvagge, avvertendo che gli animali là dentro erano insieme innocenti e spietati. Potevano ignorarti o ucciderti. Come vi piacerebbe trascorrere dieci ore mortali in un salotto con una tigre distratta?»

“And what do you think of Sunday, Gogol?” asked Syme.

“I don’t think of Sunday on principle,” said Gogol simply, “any more than I stare at the sun at noonday.”

“Well, that is a point of view,” said Syme thoughtfully. “What do you say, Professor?”

The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all.

“Wake up, Professor!” said Syme genially. “Tell us what you think of Sunday.”

The Professor spoke at last very slowly.

“I think something,” he said, “that I cannot say clearly. Or, rather, I think something that I cannot even think clearly. But it is something like this. My early life, as you know, was a bit too large and loose.

“Well, when I saw Sunday’s face I thought it was too large— everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn’t focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the nose, that it wasn’t an eye. The mouth was so much by itself, that one had to think of it by itself. The whole thing is too hard to explain.”

He paused for a little, still trailing his stick, and then went on—

“But put it this way. Walking up a road at night, I have seen a lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, that the window was ten yards away, the lamp ten hundred yards, the cloud beyond the world. Well, Sunday’s face escaped me; it ran away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don’t know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective. Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really have a face. I have not faith enough to believe in matter.”

Syme’s eyes were still fixed upon the errant orb, which, reddened in the evening light, looked like some rosier and more innocent world.

“Have you noticed an odd thing,” he said, “about all your descriptions? Each man of you finds Sunday quite different, yet each man of you can only find one thing to compare him to—the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like a changing landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of Sunday as I think of the whole world.”

“Get on a little faster, Syme,” said Bull; “never mind the balloon.”

“When I first saw Sunday,” said Syme slowly, “I only saw his back; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men’s clothes.”

“Get on,” said Dr. Bull.

“And then the queer thing happened. I had seen his back from the street, as he sat in the balcony. Then I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight. His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil. On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good.”

“Syme,” exclaimed the Secretary, “are you ill?”

“It was like the face of some ancient archangel, judging justly after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.”

“Pan,” said the Professor dreamily, “was a god and an animal.”

“Then, and again and always,” went on Syme like a man talking to himself, “that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way.”

“Had you time for thinking then?” asked Ratcliffe.

“Time,” replied Syme, “for one outrageous thought. I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face—an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran.”

“Horrible!” said Dr. Bull, and shuddered.

“Horrible is not the word,” said Syme. “It was exactly the worst instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children.”

“It is a long game,” said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots.

“Listen to me,” cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. “Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front—”

«E tu che cosa pensi di Sunday, Gogol?» chiese Syme.

«Per principio non penso a Sunday», disse Gogol semplicemente, «non più di quanto fissi il sole a mezzogiorno.»

«Beh, questo è un punto di vista», disse Syme pensieroso. «Che cosa dici tu, Professore?»

Il Professore camminava a capo chino trascinando il bastone, e non rispose affatto.

«Sveglia, Professore!» disse Syme cordialmente. «Diteci che cosa pensate di Sunday.»

Il Professore parlò infine molto lentamente.

«Penso qualcosa», disse, «che non so dire chiaramente. O, meglio, penso qualcosa che non riesco neppure a pensare chiaramente. Ma è qualcosa di simile a questo. La mia prima vita, come sapete, fu un po’ troppo ampia e slegata.

«Ebbene, quando vidi il volto di Sunday lo pensai troppo ampio: lo pensano tutti, ma lo pensai anche troppo slegato. Il volto era così grande che non si riusciva a metterlo a fuoco né a farne affatto un volto. L’occhio era così lontano dal naso, che non era un occhio. La bocca era così tanto per conto suo, che bisognava pensarla per conto suo. L’intera cosa è troppo difficile da spiegare.»

Si fermò un poco, sempre trascinando il bastone, e poi proseguì…

«Ma mettetela così. Salendo per una strada di notte, ho visto un lampione e una finestra illuminata e una nube comporre insieme un volto compiutissimo e inconfondibile. Se qualcuno in cielo ha quel volto, lo riconoscerò. Eppure quando camminai un poco più avanti scoprii che non c’era alcun volto, che la finestra era lontana dieci metri, il lampione mille metri, la nube al di là del mondo. Ebbene, il volto di Sunday mi sfuggì; scappò a destra e a sinistra, come scappano tali immagini fortuite. E così il suo volto mi ha fatto, in qualche modo, dubitare che esistano dei volti. Non so se il tuo volto, Bull, sia un volto o una combinazione in prospettiva. Forse un disco nero dei tuoi orribili occhiali è vicinissimo e l’altro a cinquanta miglia. Oh, i dubbi di un materialista non valgono un fico secco. Sunday mi ha insegnato gli ultimi e i peggiori dubbi, i dubbi di uno spiritualista. Sono un buddista, suppongo; e il buddismo non è un credo, è un dubbio. Mio povero caro Bull, io non credo che tu abbia davvero un volto. Non ho abbastanza fede per credere nella materia.»

Gli occhi di Syme erano ancora fissi sull’orbe errante, che, arrossato dalla luce serale, sembrava un mondo più roseo e più innocente.

«Avete notato una cosa strana», disse, «in tutte le vostre descrizioni? Ciascuno di voi trova Sunday del tutto diverso, eppure ciascuno di voi riesce a trovare una sola cosa a cui paragonarlo: l’universo stesso. Bull lo trova come la terra in primavera, Gogol come il sole a mezzogiorno. Al Segretario ricorda l’informe protoplasma, e all’Ispettore la noncuranza delle foreste vergini. Il Professore dice che è come un paesaggio che muta. Questo è strano, ma è ancora più strano che anch’io abbia avuto la mia bizzarra idea sul Presidente, e anch’io scopro di pensare a Sunday come penso al mondo intero.»

«Vai un po’ più svelto, Syme», disse Bull; «lascia perdere il pallone.»

«Quando vidi Sunday per la prima volta», disse Syme lentamente, «ne vidi solo la schiena; e quando ne vidi la schiena, seppi che era l’uomo peggiore del mondo. Il collo e le spalle erano brutali, come quelli di un dio scimmiesco. La testa aveva una curvatura appena umana, come la curvatura di un bue. Anzi, ebbi subito la ripugnante fantasticheria che quello non fosse affatto un uomo, ma una bestia travestita da uomo.»

«Vai avanti», disse il dottor Bull.

«E poi accadde la cosa strana. Ne avevo visto la schiena dalla strada, mentre sedeva sul balcone. Poi entrai nell’albergo, e girandogli intorno dall’altra parte, gli vidi il volto alla luce del sole. Il suo volto mi spaventò, come spaventava tutti; ma non perché fosse brutale, non perché fosse malvagio. Al contrario, mi spaventò perché era così bello, perché era così buono.»

«Syme», esclamò il Segretario, «sei malato?»

«Era come il volto di qualche antico arcangelo, che giudica con giustizia dopo eroiche guerre. C’era riso negli occhi, e nella bocca onore e dolore. C’erano gli stessi capelli bianchi, le stesse grandi spalle vestite di grigio che avevo visto da dietro. Ma quando lo vidi da dietro ero certo che fosse un animale, e quando lo vidi di fronte seppi che era un dio.»

«Pan», disse il Professore sognante, «era un dio e un animale.»

«Allora, e ancora e sempre», proseguì Syme come un uomo che parla a se stesso, «questo è stato per me il mistero di Sunday, ed è anche il mistero del mondo. Quando vedo l’orribile schiena, sono certo che il nobile volto non sia che una maschera. Quando vedo il volto anche solo per un istante, so che la schiena è soltanto uno scherzo. Il male è così malvagio, che non possiamo che ritenere il bene un accidente; il bene è così buono, che siamo certi che il male potrebbe essere spiegato. Ma il tutto giunse a una specie di cresta ieri, quando corsi con Sunday per la carrozza, e gli fui subito alle spalle per tutto il tragitto.»

«Avesti tempo di pensare, allora?» chiese Ratcliffe.

«Tempo», rispose Syme, «per un solo pensiero mostruoso. Fui d’un tratto posseduto dall’idea che la cieca, vuota nuca della sua testa fosse davvero il suo volto: un volto spaventoso, senza occhi, che mi fissava! E immaginai che la figura che correva davanti a me fosse in realtà una figura che correva all’indietro, e danzava mentre correva.»

«Orribile!» disse il dottor Bull, e rabbrividì.

«Orribile non è la parola giusta», disse Syme. «Fu esattamente l’istante peggiore della mia vita. Eppure dieci minuti dopo, quando egli mise la testa fuori dalla carrozza e fece una smorfia come un gargoyle, seppi che era soltanto come un padre che gioca a nascondino coi suoi figli.»

«È un gioco lungo», disse il Segretario, e aggrottò le ciglia guardando i suoi stivali rotti.

«Ascoltatemi», gridò Syme con straordinaria enfasi. «Volete che vi dica il segreto del mondo intero? È che noi abbiamo conosciuto soltanto la schiena del mondo. Vediamo tutto da dietro, e ci appare brutale. Quello non è un albero, ma la schiena di un albero. Quella non è una nube, ma la schiena di una nube. Non vedete che ogni cosa è curva e nasconde un volto? Se solo potessimo passare davanti…»

“Look!” cried out Bull clamorously, “the balloon is coming down!”

There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun.

The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit.

“He is dead!” he cried. “And now I know he was my friend— my friend in the dark!”

“Dead!” snorted the Secretary. “You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun.”

“Clashing his hoofs,” said the Professor. “The colts do, and so did Pan.”

“Pan again!” said Dr. Bull irritably. “You seem to think Pan is everything.”

“So he is,” said the Professor, “in Greek. He means everything.”

“Don’t forget,” said the Secretary, looking down, “that he also means Panic.”

Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations.

“It fell over there,” he said shortly. “Let us follow it!”

Then he added with an indescribable gesture—

“Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks.”

He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field.

Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by.”

“Who is your master?” asked Syme, standing quite still.

“I was told you knew his name,” said the man respectfully.

There was a silence, and then the Secretary said—

“Where is this carriage?”

“It has been waiting only a few moments,” said the stranger. “My master has only just come home.”

Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland.

He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man’s coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man’s face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky.

“Show us the place,” Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road.

As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel.

“What can it all mean?” asked Bull of Syme as they separated. “Is this another joke of Sunday’s?”

“I don’t know,” said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; “but if it is, it’s one of the jokes you talk about. It’s a good-natured one.”

The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the carriages.

Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment. It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse.

Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother.

«Guardate!» gridò Bull a gran voce, «il pallone sta scendendo!»

Non c’era bisogno di gridarlo a Syme, che non ne aveva mai staccato gli occhi. Vide il grande globo luminoso vacillare d’un tratto nel cielo, raddrizzarsi, e poi affondare lentamente dietro gli alberi come un sole al tramonto.

L’uomo chiamato Gogol, che aveva parlato a malapena durante tutte le loro estenuanti peregrinazioni, d’un tratto levò le mani in alto come uno spirito perduto.

«È morto!» gridò. «E ora so che era mio amico: il mio amico nell’oscurità!»

«Morto!» sbuffò il Segretario. «Non lo troverai morto tanto facilmente. Se è stato sbalzato fuori dalla navicella, lo troveremo che si rotola come un puledro si rotola in un campo, sgambettando per divertimento.»

«Battendo gli zoccoli», disse il Professore. «I puledri lo fanno, e così faceva Pan.»

«Ancora Pan!» disse il dottor Bull irritato. «Sembra che per te Pan sia tutto.»

«E infatti lo è», disse il Professore, «in greco. Vuol dire tutto.»

«Non dimenticare», disse il Segretario, guardando in basso, «che vuol dire anche Panico.»

Syme era rimasto lì senza udire alcuna di quelle esclamazioni.

«È caduto laggiù», disse brevemente. «Seguiamolo!»

Poi aggiunse con un gesto indescrivibile…

«Oh, se ci avesse ingannati tutti facendosi ammazzare! Sarebbe proprio uno dei suoi scherzi.»

Mosse a grandi passi verso gli alberi lontani con nuova energia, i suoi cenci e nastri sventolanti nel vento. Gli altri lo seguirono in modo più stanco e dubbioso, con i piedi indolenziti. E quasi nello stesso istante tutti e sei gli uomini si resero conto che non erano soli nel piccolo campo.

Attraverso il quadrato di zolle un uomo alto avanzava verso di loro, appoggiandosi a uno strano bastone lungo come uno scettro. Era vestito con un abito raffinato ma all’antica, con calzoni al ginocchio; il suo colore era quella sfumatura tra il blu, il violetto e il grigio che si può scorgere in certe ombre del bosco. I suoi capelli erano biancastri, e a prima vista, insieme ai calzoni al ginocchio, sembravano incipriati. Il suo avanzare era assai silenzioso; se non fosse stato per la brina d’argento sul capo, egli avrebbe potuto essere una delle ombre del bosco.

«Signori», disse, «il mio padrone ha una carrozza che vi aspetta sulla strada qui accanto.»

«Chi è il vostro padrone?» chiese Syme, restando immobile.

«Mi hanno detto che ne conoscevate il nome», disse l’uomo rispettosamente.

Ci fu un silenzio, e poi il Segretario disse…

«Dov’è questa carrozza?»

«Aspetta solo da pochi istanti», disse lo straniero. «Il mio padrone è appena tornato a casa.»

Syme guardò a destra e a sinistra la chiazza di campo verde in cui si trovava. Le siepi erano siepi ordinarie, gli alberi sembravano alberi ordinari; eppure si sentiva come un uomo intrappolato nel paese delle fate.

Squadrò da capo a piedi il misterioso ambasciatore, ma non poté scoprire altro se non che la giacca dell’uomo era esattamente del colore delle ombre purpuree, e che il volto dell’uomo era esattamente del colore del cielo rosso, bruno e dorato.

«Mostraci il luogo», disse Syme brevemente, e senza una parola l’uomo dalla giacca violetta voltò le spalle e camminò verso una breccia nella siepe, che lasciò entrare d’improvviso la luce di una bianca strada.

Mentre i sei erranti sbucavano su questa carreggiata, videro la bianca strada bloccata da quella che sembrava una lunga fila di carrozze, una fila di carrozze quale avrebbe potuto sbarrare l’accesso a qualche casa di Park Lane. Lungo il fianco di queste carrozze stava schierata una fila di splendidi servitori, tutti vestiti dell’uniforme grigio-azzurra, e tutti dotati di una certa qualità di solennità e libertà che non apparterrebbe comunemente ai servitori di un gentiluomo, ma piuttosto ai funzionari e agli ambasciatori di un grande re. Non c’erano meno di sei carrozze in attesa, una per ciascuno della cenciosa e miserabile brigata. Tutti gli attendenti (come in abito di corte) portavano spade, e mentre ciascun uomo si trascinava dentro la propria carrozza le sguainarono, e salutarono con un’improvvisa vampata d’acciaio.

«Che cosa può mai significare tutto questo?» chiese Bull a Syme mentre si separavano. «È un altro scherzo di Sunday?»

«Non lo so», disse Syme mentre si lasciava affondare stancamente all’indietro tra i cuscini della sua carrozza; «ma se lo è, è uno di quegli scherzi di cui parli tu. È uno scherzo di buona indole.»

I sei avventurieri erano passati attraverso molte avventure, ma nessuna li aveva sconvolti tanto completamente quanto questa ultima avventura di comodità. Si erano tutti abituati a che le cose andassero per il ruvido; ma le cose che d’un tratto andavano lisce li sommergevano. Non riuscivano neppure a immaginare vagamente che cosa fossero le carrozze; bastava loro sapere che erano carrozze, e carrozze con i cuscini. Non riuscivano a concepire chi fosse il vecchio uomo che li aveva guidati; ma bastava largamente che di certo li avesse condotti alle carrozze.

Syme viaggiava attraverso un’oscurità fluttuante d’alberi in totale abbandono. Era tipico di lui che, mentre aveva portato avanti fieramente il mento barbuto finché qualcosa si poteva fare, quando l’intera faccenda gli fu tolta di mano ricadde sui cuscini in un franco cedimento.

Assai gradualmente e assai vagamente si rese conto verso quali ricche strade la carrozza lo stesse conducendo. Vide che oltrepassavano i cancelli di pietra di quello che avrebbe potuto essere un parco, che cominciavano a poco a poco a salire una collina che, benché boscosa da entrambi i lati, era in qualche modo più ordinata di una foresta. Poi cominciò a crescere in lui, come in un uomo che si desta lentamente da un sano sonno, un piacere in ogni cosa. Sentì che le siepi erano ciò che le siepi dovrebbero essere, mura viventi; che una siepe è come un esercito umano, disciplinato, ma tanto più vivo. Vide alti olmi dietro le siepi, e vagamente pensò quanto sarebbero stati felici i ragazzi ad arrampicarvisi. Poi la sua carrozza prese una svolta del sentiero, ed egli vide d’un tratto e quietamente, come una lunga, bassa nube al tramonto, una lunga, bassa casa, morbida nella mite luce del tramonto. Tutti e sei gli amici confrontarono poi le loro impressioni e litigarono; ma furono tutti d’accordo che, in qualche modo inspiegabile, il luogo ricordava loro la fanciullezza. Era o quella cima d’olmo o quel sentiero storto, era o quel lembo di frutteto o quella forma di finestra; ma ciascuno di loro dichiarò di poter ricordare quel luogo prima di poter ricordare la propria madre.

When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme—

“Refreshments are provided for you in your room.”

Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was—blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue, who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly—

“I have put out your clothes, sir.”

“Clothes!” said Syme sardonically. “I have no clothes except these,” and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl.

“My master asks me to say,” said the attendant, “that there is a fancy dress ball to-night, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper.”

“Cold pheasant is a good thing,” said Syme reflectively, “and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?”

The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery, rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents.

“You’re to be dressed as Thursday, sir,” said the valet somewhat affably.

“Dressed as Thursday!” said Syme in meditation. “It doesn’t sound a warm costume.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the other eagerly, “the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin.”

“Well, I don’t understand anything,” said Syme, sighing. “I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the valet, “Bible also provided for you,” and with a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the first chapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which the fourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun and moon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday.

“This is getting wilder and wilder,” said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. “Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?”

“Yes, sir, everything,” said the attendant gravely. “Shall I help you on with your costume?”

“Oh, hitch the bally thing on!” said Syme impatiently.

But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal.

Quando le carrozze infine giunsero a un ampio, basso, cavernoso portale, un altro uomo nella stessa uniforme, ma con una stella d’argento sul grigio petto della giacca, uscì a incontrarli. Questa imponente persona disse allo sconcertato Syme…

«Nella vostra stanza vi sono preparati dei rinfreschi.»

Syme, sotto l’influsso dello stesso mesmerico sonno di stupore, salì l’ampia scala di quercia dietro il rispettoso attendente. Entrò in una splendida suite di appartamenti che sembrava progettata apposta per lui. Si avvicinò a un lungo specchio con l’ordinario istinto della sua classe, per raddrizzarsi la cravatta o lisciarsi i capelli; e là vide la spaventosa figura che era: sangue che gli colava lungo il volto dal punto in cui il ramo l’aveva colpito, i capelli ritti come gialli cenci d’erba rigogliosa, gli abiti strappati in lunghi, ondeggianti brandelli. D’un tratto l’intero enigma si presentò, semplicemente come la questione di come fosse arrivato lì, e di come dovesse uscirne di nuovo. Esattamente nello stesso momento un uomo in blu, che era stato designato come suo cameriere, disse molto solennemente…

«Vi ho preparato i vestiti, signore.»

«Vestiti!» disse Syme sardonicamente. «Non ho altri vestiti che questi», e sollevò due lunghe strisce del suo tight in affascinanti festoni, e fece un movimento come per piroettare al modo di una ballerina.

«Il mio padrone mi chiede di dirvi», disse l’attendente, «che questa notte c’è un ballo in maschera, e che egli desidera che indossiate il costume che ho steso. Nel frattempo, signore, c’è una bottiglia di Borgogna e un po’ di fagiano freddo, che egli spera non rifiuterete, poiché mancano ancora alcune ore alla cena.»

«Il fagiano freddo è una buona cosa», disse Syme riflessivo, «e il Borgogna è una cosa magnificamente buona. Ma in verità non desidero nessuno dei due tanto quanto desidero sapere che diavolo significhi tutto questo, e che genere di costume avete steso per me. Dov’è?»

Il servitore sollevò da una specie di ottomana un lungo drappeggio blu pavone, piuttosto della natura di un domino, sul davanti del quale era blasonato un grande sole d’oro, e che era spruzzato qua e là di fiammeggianti stelle e falci di luna.

«Dovete essere vestito da Giovedì, signore», disse il valletto con una certa affabilità.

«Vestito da Giovedì!» disse Syme meditando. «Non suona come un costume caldo.»

«Oh, sì, signore», disse l’altro con premura, «il costume da Giovedì è assai caldo, signore. Si allaccia fino al mento.»

«Ebbene, non capisco nulla», disse Syme sospirando. «Sono stato abituato così a lungo ad avventure scomode che le avventure comode mi mettono al tappeto. Eppure mi sia concesso di chiedere perché io debba somigliare in modo particolare a Giovedì in una veste verde tutta macchiata di sole e di luna. Quegli astri, credo, splendono anche in altri giorni. Una volta vidi la luna di martedì, ricordo.»

«Chiedo scusa, signore», disse il valletto, «vi è stata provvista anche la Bibbia», e con un dito rispettoso e rigido indicò un passo nel primo capitolo della Genesi. Syme lo lesse meravigliato. Era quello in cui il quarto giorno della settimana è associato alla creazione del sole e della luna. Qui, tuttavia, contavano a partire da una domenica cristiana.

«Questo si fa sempre più folle», disse Syme, sedendosi su una sedia. «Chi è questa gente che provvede fagiano freddo e Borgogna, e vesti verdi e Bibbie? Provvedono a tutto?»

«Sì, signore, a tutto», disse l’attendente gravemente. «Vi aiuto a indossare il costume?»

«Oh, appioppami addosso quell’accidente!» disse Syme spazientito.

Ma benché fingesse di disprezzare la mascherata, sentì una curiosa libertà e naturalezza nei suoi movimenti mentre l’abito blu e oro gli cadeva intorno; e quando scoprì di dover portare una spada, si ridestò in lui un sogno fanciullesco. Mentre usciva dalla stanza gettò le pieghe attraverso la spalla con un gesto, la sua spada sporgeva ad angolo, ed egli aveva tutta la spavalderia di un trovatore. Poiché quei travestimenti non travestivano, ma rivelavano.

CHAPTER XV

THE ACCUSER

AS Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man’s eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question.

If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon.

As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees. For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it.

They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself—the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects—a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill—without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.

On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens.

Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days. Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his. Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain. The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes— the ruder forms of life—were created, had a dress of dim purple, over which sprawled goggle-eyed fishes and outrageous tropical birds, the union in him of unfathomable fancy and of doubt. Dr. Bull, the last day of Creation, wore a coat covered with heraldic animals in red and gold, and on his crest a man rampant. He lay back in his chair with a broad smile, the picture of an optimist in his element.

One by one the wanderers ascended the bank and sat in their strange seats. As each of them sat down a roar of enthusiasm rose from the carnival, such as that with which crowds receive kings. Cups were clashed and torches shaken, and feathered hats flung in the air. The men for whom these thrones were reserved were men crowned with some extraordinary laurels. But the central chair was empty.

Syme was on the left hand of it and the Secretary on the right. The Secretary looked across the empty throne at Syme, and said, compressing his lips—

“We do not know yet that he is not dead in a field.”

Almost as Syme heard the words, he saw on the sea of human faces in front of him a frightful and beautiful alteration, as if heaven had opened behind his head. But Sunday had only passed silently along the front like a shadow, and had sat in the central seat. He was draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead.

For a long time—it seemed for hours—that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music. Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story. At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself. Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine. Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles. It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night. Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house. Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four. Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions. The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out. And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone. Not one of them had spoken a word.

CAPITOLO XV

L’ACCUSATORE

MENTRE Syme avanzava a grandi passi lungo il corridoio, vide il Segretario in piedi in cima a una vasta gradinata. Mai quell’uomo era apparso tanto nobile. Era avvolto in una lunga veste di nero senza stelle, lungo il cui centro scendeva una fascia o larga striscia di puro bianco, come un unico dardo di luce. L’insieme somigliava a un paramento ecclesiastico severissimo. Non c’era bisogno che Syme frugasse nella sua memoria o nella Bibbia per ricordare che il primo giorno della creazione segnò la mera creazione della luce dalle tenebre. Il paramento stesso da solo avrebbe suggerito il simbolo; e Syme sentì anche quanto perfettamente questo disegno di puro bianco e nero esprimesse l’anima del pallido e austero Segretario, con la sua veracità disumana e la sua fredda frenesia, che gli rendevano tanto facile muover guerra agli anarchici, e pure tanto facile passare per uno di loro. Syme non si stupì gran che nel notare che, in mezzo a tutto l’agio e l’ospitalità del nuovo ambiente, gli occhi di quest’uomo restavano severi. Nessun sentore di birra o di frutteti poteva far cessare al Segretario di porre una domanda ragionevole.

Se Syme fosse stato in grado di vedere se stesso, avrebbe capito che anche lui, per la prima volta, sembrava essere se stesso e nessun altro. Poiché se il Segretario stava per quel filosofo che ama la luce originaria e informe, Syme era un tipo di poeta che cerca sempre di dare alla luce forme particolari, di scinderla in sole e stella. Il filosofo può talvolta amare l’infinito; il poeta ama sempre il finito. Per lui il grande momento non è la creazione della luce, ma la creazione del sole e della luna.

Mentre insieme discendevano l’ampia scalinata, raggiunsero Ratcliffe, che era vestito di verde di primavera come un cacciatore, e il cui disegno sulla veste era un verde groviglio d’alberi. Poiché egli stava per quel terzo giorno in cui furono create la terra e le cose verdi, e la sua faccia quadrata e assennata, col suo cinismo non del tutto scortese, gli sembrava abbastanza appropriata.

Furono condotti fuori per un’altra ampia e bassa cancellata in un vastissimo antico giardino all’inglese, pieno di torce e falò, alla luce spezzata dei quali un immenso carnevale di gente danzava in variopinti costumi. A Syme parve di vedere ogni forma della Natura imitata in qualche folle travestimento. C’era un uomo vestito da mulino a vento con enormi pale, un uomo vestito da elefante, un uomo vestito da pallone; gli ultimi due, insieme, parevano tenere il filo delle loro farsesche avventure. Syme vide addirittura, con uno strano brivido, un danzatore vestito da enorme bucero, con un becco grande il doppio di lui stesso: quel bizzarro uccello che gli si era fissato nella fantasia come una domanda vivente mentre correva giù per la lunga strada ai Giardini Zoologici. C’erano però mille altri simili oggetti. C’era un lampione che danzava, un melo che danzava, una nave che danzava. Si sarebbe detto che l’indomabile melodia di qualche folle musicista avesse messo tutti i comuni oggetti dei campi e delle strade a danzare una giga eterna. E molto tempo dopo, quando Syme fu di mezza età e in pace, non poté mai vedere uno di quei particolari oggetti — un lampione, o un melo, o un mulino a vento — senza pensare che fosse un festaiolo smarrito da quella festa in maschera.

Su un lato di questo prato, brulicante di danzatori, c’era una sorta di verde argine, come la terrazza di quei giardini d’un tempo.

Lungo di esso, disposti a mezzaluna, stavano sette grandi seggi, i troni dei sette giorni. Gogol e il dottor Bull erano già ai loro posti; il Professore stava proprio salendo al suo. Gogol, ossia Martedì, aveva la sua semplicità ben simboleggiata da un abito ideato secondo la divisione delle acque, un abito che si separava sulla sua fronte e gli cadeva ai piedi, grigio e argento, come un velo di pioggia. Il Professore, il cui giorno era quello in cui furono creati gli uccelli e i pesci — le forme più rozze di vita — aveva un abito di viola smorto, su cui sguazzavano pesci dagli occhi sporgenti e oltraggiosi uccelli tropicali, l’unione in lui di insondabile fantasia e di dubbio. Il dottor Bull, l’ultimo giorno della Creazione, indossava una giubba coperta di animali araldici in rosso e oro, e sulla cimiera un uomo rampante. Se ne stava adagiato nella sua sedia con un ampio sorriso, l’immagine di un ottimista nel suo elemento.

A uno a uno i vagabondi salirono l’argine e sedettero nei loro strani seggi. Al sedersi di ciascuno un ruggito d’entusiasmo si levava dal carnevale, simile a quello con cui le folle accolgono i re. Si urtavano coppe e si scuotevano torce, e cappelli piumati venivano lanciati in aria. Gli uomini per cui questi troni erano riservati erano uomini incoronati di qualche straordinario alloro. Ma il seggio centrale era vuoto.

Syme era alla sua sinistra e il Segretario alla sua destra. Il Segretario guardò Syme attraverso il trono vuoto, e disse, comprimendo le labbra:

«Non sappiamo ancora ch’egli non giaccia morto in un campo».

Quasi nell’udire le parole, Syme vide sul mare di volti umani davanti a lui una terribile e bella trasformazione, come se il cielo si fosse aperto dietro il suo capo. Ma Domenica era soltanto passato in silenzio lungo la fronte come un’ombra, e s’era seduto nel seggio centrale. Era vestito con semplicità, di un bianco puro e terribile, e i suoi capelli erano come una fiamma d’argento sulla sua fronte.

Per lungo tempo — parvero ore — quell’immensa mascherata dell’umanità ondeggiò e batté i piedi davanti a loro a un ritmo marziale ed esultante. Ogni coppia danzante pareva un romanzo a sé; poteva essere una fata che danzava con una cassetta delle lettere, o una contadinella che danzava con la luna; ma in ogni caso era, in qualche modo, tanto assurda quanto Alice nel Paese delle Meraviglie, e pure tanto solenne e gentile come una storia d’amore. Alla fine, tuttavia, la fitta folla cominciò a diradarsi. Le coppie s’allontanavano a passeggio nei viali del giardino, o cominciavano a spostarsi verso quell’estremità dell’edificio dove fumavano, in enormi pentoloni simili a pesciaie, certe calde e profumate mescolanze di birra vecchia o vino. Al di sopra di tutto questo, su una sorta di nera armatura sul tetto della casa, ruggiva nel suo cesto di ferro un gigantesco falò, che rischiarava la campagna per miglia. Spandeva l’effetto domestico del fuoco di focolare sul volto di vaste foreste grigie o brune, e pareva riempire di calore perfino il vuoto dell’alta notte. Eppure anche questo, dopo un po’, fu lasciato affievolire; i gruppi indistinti si radunavano sempre più intorno ai grandi calderoni, o passavano, ridendo e schiamazzando, negli anditi interni di quell’antica casa. Presto rimasero solo una decina di ritardatari nel giardino; presto solo quattro. Infine l’ultimo festaiolo sperduto corse dentro la casa gridando ai suoi compagni. Il fuoco si spense, e le lente, forti stelle uscirono. E i sette uomini strani rimasero soli, come sette statue di pietra sulle loro sedie di pietra. Nessuno di loro aveva pronunciato parola.

They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird. Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one.

“We will eat and drink later,” he said. “Let us remain together a little, we who have loved each other so sadly, and have fought so long. I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes—epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself.”

Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on.

“But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope.”

There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice—

“Who and what are you?”

“I am the Sabbath,” said the other without moving. “I am the peace of God.”

The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.

“I know what you mean,” he cried, “and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls— and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace.”

Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.

“No,” said Syme, “I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know.”

Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said—

“It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself.”

Bull said—

“I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep.”

“I am not happy,” said the Professor with his head in his hands, “because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell.”

And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child—

“I wish I knew why I was hurt so much.”

Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said—

“I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also.”

The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile.

“Gregory!” gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. “Why, this is the real anarchist!”

“Yes,” said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, “I am the real anarchist.”

“‘Now there was a day,’” murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, “‘when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.’”

“You are right,” said Gregory, and gazed all round. “I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could.”

A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence.

“Oh, most unhappy man,” he cried, “try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister.”

“My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world,” said Gregory. “I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!”

“I never hated you,” said Syme very sadly.

Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.

“You!” he cried. “You never hated because you never lived. I know what you are all of you, from first to last— you are the people in power! You are the police—the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I—”

Non parevano avere alcuna fretta di farlo, ma ascoltavano in silenzio il ronzio degli insetti e il lontano canto di un uccello. Poi Domenica parlò, ma con tale sognante lentezza che avrebbe potuto star proseguendo una conversazione piuttosto che cominciarne una.

«Mangeremo e berremo più tardi», disse. «Restiamo un poco insieme, noi che ci siamo amati così tristemente, e abbiamo combattuto così a lungo. Mi par di ricordare soltanto secoli di guerra eroica, in cui voi foste sempre eroi — epica su epica, iliade su iliade, e voi sempre fratelli d’armi. Che fosse solo di recente (poiché il tempo non è nulla), o al principio del mondo, io vi mandai in guerra. Sedevo nelle tenebre, dove non v’è alcuna cosa creata, e per voi io ero soltanto una voce che comandava valore e una virtù innaturale. Udiste la voce nel buio, e non la udiste mai più. Il sole in cielo la negò, la terra e il cielo la negarono, ogni umana saggezza la negò. E quando v’incontrai alla luce del giorno io stesso la negai».

Syme si mosse bruscamente nel suo seggio, ma per il resto vi fu silenzio, e l’incomprensibile proseguì.

«Ma voi eravate uomini. Non dimenticaste il vostro segreto onore, benché l’intero cosmo si mutasse in un ordigno di tortura per strapparvelo. Io sapevo quanto foste vicini all’inferno. So come tu, Giovedì, incrociasti le spade con re Satana, e come tu, Mercoledì, mi nominasti nell’ora senza speranza».

Vi fu completo silenzio nel giardino stellato, e allora il Segretario dalle nere sopracciglia, implacabile, si volse nel suo seggio verso Domenica, e disse con voce aspra:

«Chi e che cosa sei tu?»

«Io sono il Sabato», disse l’altro senza muoversi. «Io sono la pace di Dio».

Il Segretario balzò in piedi, e rimase stringendo nella mano la sua veste sontuosa.

«So cosa intendi», gridò, «ed è esattamente questo che non posso perdonarti. So che tu sei l’appagamento, l’ottimismo, come lo chiamano, un’ultima riconciliazione. Ebbene, io non sono riconciliato. Se eri l’uomo nella stanza buia, perché eri anche Domenica, un affronto alla luce del sole? Se dal principio eri il nostro padre e il nostro amico, perché eri anche il nostro più grande nemico? Piangemmo, fuggimmo in preda al terrore; il ferro ci penetrò nell’anima — e tu sei la pace di Dio! Oh, posso perdonare a Dio la Sua ira, benché abbia distrutto nazioni; ma non posso perdonarGli la Sua pace».

Domenica non rispose una parola, ma lentissimamente volse il suo volto di pietra verso Syme come a porre una domanda.

«No», disse Syme, «io non provo una simile ferocia. Ti sono grato, non solo per il vino e l’ospitalità qui, ma per più d’una bella scorribanda e d’un franco combattimento. Ma mi piacerebbe sapere. La mia anima e il mio cuore sono felici e quieti qui come questo vecchio giardino, ma la mia ragione grida ancora. Mi piacerebbe sapere».

Domenica guardò Ratcliffe, la cui chiara voce disse:

«Sembra così sciocco che tu sia stato da entrambe le parti e abbia combattuto contro te stesso».

Bull disse:

«Non capisco nulla, ma sono felice. Anzi, sto per addormentarmi nel sonno».

«Io non sono felice», disse il Professore col capo tra le mani, «perché non capisco. Mi hai lasciato vagare un poco troppo vicino all’inferno».

E allora Gogol disse, con l’assoluta semplicità di un bambino:

«Vorrei sapere perché sono stato ferito tanto».

Ancora Domenica non disse nulla, ma sedeva soltanto col possente mento sulla mano, e fissava la lontananza. Poi finalmente disse:

«Ho ascoltato le vostre lagnanze in ordine. Ed ecco, credo, giungerne un altro a lagnarsi, e ascolteremo anche lui».

Il fuoco morente nel grande braciere gettò un ultimo lungo bagliore, come una sbarra d’oro ardente, attraverso l’erba fioca. Contro questa fascia di fuoco si stagliavano in nero assoluto le gambe avanzanti di una figura vestita di nero. Pareva indossare un fine abito attillato con calzoni al ginocchio come quello portato dai servitori della casa, solo che non era azzurro, ma di questo assoluto nero corvino. Aveva, come i servitori, una specie di spada al fianco. Fu solo quando fu giunto proprio vicino alla mezzaluna dei sette e alzò il volto a guardarli, che Syme vide, con folgorante chiarezza, che quel volto era la larga, quasi scimmiesca faccia del suo vecchio amico Gregory, coi suoi ispidi capelli rossi e il suo sorriso insolente.

«Gregory!» ansimò Syme, sollevandosi a metà dal suo seggio. «Ma questo è il vero anarchico!»

«Sì», disse Gregory, con un grande e pericoloso ritegno, «io sono il vero anarchico».

«“Or avvenne un giorno”», mormorò Bull, che pareva davvero essersi addormentato, «“in cui i figli di Dio vennero a presentarsi davanti al Signore, e Satana venne anch’egli in mezzo a loro”».

«Hai ragione», disse Gregory, e si guardò tutt’attorno. «Io sono un distruttore. Distruggerei il mondo se potessi».

Un senso di un pathos sepolto assai sotto la terra si destò in Syme, ed egli parlò con voce rotta e senza filo.

«Oh, uomo infelicissimo», gridò, «cerca di essere felice! Hai i capelli rossi come tua sorella».

«I miei capelli rossi, come rosse fiamme, incendieranno il mondo», disse Gregory. «Credevo di odiare ogni cosa più di quanto un uomo comune possa odiare alcunché; ma scopro che non odio ogni cosa tanto quanto odio te!»

«Io non ti ho mai odiato», disse Syme tristissimamente.

Allora da questa incomprensibile creatura eruppero gli ultimi tuoni.

«Tu!» gridò. «Tu non hai mai odiato perché non hai mai vissuto. So cosa siete tutti voi, dal primo all’ultimo: siete la gente al potere! Siete la polizia — i grandi uomini grassi e sorridenti in azzurro e bottoni! Siete la Legge, e non siete mai stati infranti. Ma c’è forse un’anima libera al mondo che non brami d’infrangervi, solo perché non siete mai stati infranti? Noi in rivolta blateriamo senza dubbio ogni sorta di sciocchezze su questo o quel crimine del Governo. È tutta follia! L’unico crimine del Governo è che governa. Il peccato imperdonabile del potere supremo è che è supremo. Non vi maledico per essere crudeli. Non vi maledico (benché potrei) per essere gentili. Vi maledico per essere al sicuro! Sedete sulle vostre sedie di pietra, e non ne siete mai discesi. Siete i sette angeli del cielo, e non avete avuto tribolazioni. Oh, potrei perdonarvi ogni cosa, voi che governate tutta l’umanità, se potessi sentire per una volta che avete sofferto per un’ora una vera agonia come la mia…»

Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.

“I see everything,” he cried, “everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, ‘You lie!’ No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser, ‘We also have suffered.’

“It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from these thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man entered insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander; we have not been happy. I can answer for every one of the great guards of Law whom he has accused. At least—”

He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of Sunday, which wore a strange smile.

“Have you,” he cried in a dreadful voice, “have you ever suffered?”

As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child. It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything went black. Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text that he had heard somewhere, “Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?”

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When men in books awake from a vision, they commonly find themselves in some place in which they might have fallen asleep; they yawn in a chair, or lift themselves with bruised limbs from a field. Syme’s experience was something much more psychologically strange if there was indeed anything unreal, in the earthly sense, about the things he had gone through. For while he could always remember afterwards that he had swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever come to at all. He could only remember that gradually and naturally he knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy and conversational companion. That companion had been a part of his recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory. They were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality. But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did. He felt he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality.

Dawn was breaking over everything in colours at once clear and timid; as if Nature made a first attempt at yellow and a first attempt at rose. A breeze blew so clean and sweet, that one could not think that it blew from the sky; it blew rather through some hole in the sky. Syme felt a simple surprise when he saw rising all round him on both sides of the road the red, irregular buildings of Saffron Park. He had no idea that he had walked so near London. He walked by instinct along one white road, on which early birds hopped and sang, and found himself outside a fenced garden. There he saw the sister of Gregory, the girl with the gold-red hair, cutting lilac before breakfast, with the great unconscious gravity of a girl.

THE END

A WILD, MAD, HILARIOUS AND PROFOUNDLY MOVING TALE

THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

by G. K. Chesterton

author of the Father Brown stories

It is very difficult to classify THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY. It is possible to say that it is a gripping adventure story of murderous criminals and brilliant policemen; but it was to be expected that the author of the Father Brown stories should tell a detective story like no-one else. On this level, therefore, THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY succeeds superbly; if nothing else, it is a magnificent tour-de-force of suspense-writing.

However, the reader will soon discover that it is much more than that. Carried along on the boisterous rush of the narrative by Chesterton’s wonderful high-spirited style, he will soon see that he is being carried into much deeper waters than he had planned on; and the totally unforeseeable denouement will prove for the modern reader, as it has for thousands of others since 1908 when the book was first published, an inevitable and moving experience, as the investigators finally discover who Sunday is.

Syme balzò in piedi, tremando da capo a piedi.

«Io vedo ogni cosa», gridò, «ogni cosa che esiste. Perché ogni cosa sulla terra fa guerra a ogni altra cosa? Perché ogni piccola cosa nel mondo deve lottare contro il mondo stesso? Perché una mosca deve combattere l’intero universo? Perché un soffione deve combattere l’intero universo? Per la stessa ragione per cui io dovetti essere solo nel terribile Consiglio dei Giorni. Affinché ogni cosa che obbedisce alla legge possa avere la gloria e l’isolamento dell’anarchico. Affinché ogni uomo che combatte per l’ordine possa essere un uomo tanto prode e buono quanto il dinamitardo. Affinché la vera menzogna di Satana possa essere scagliata in faccia a questo bestemmiatore, affinché con lacrime e tortura possiamo guadagnarci il diritto di dire a quest’uomo: “Tu menti!” Nessuna agonia può essere troppo grande per comprare il diritto di dire a questo accusatore: “Anche noi abbiamo sofferto”.

«Non è vero che non siamo mai stati infranti. Siamo stati spezzati sulla ruota. Non è vero che non siamo mai discesi da questi troni. Siamo discesi all’inferno. Ci lagnavamo di indimenticabili miserie proprio nel momento in cui quest’uomo entrò insolentemente ad accusarci di felicità. Respingo la calunnia; noi non siamo stati felici. Posso rispondere per ciascuna delle grandi guardie della Legge ch’egli ha accusato. Almeno…»

Aveva volto gli occhi in modo da veder d’un tratto il grande volto di Domenica, che portava uno strano sorriso.

«Hai tu», gridò con voce terribile, «hai tu mai sofferto?»

Mentre fissava, il grande volto crebbe a una dimensione spaventosa, crebbe più grande della colossale maschera di Memnone, che lo aveva fatto gridare da bambino. Crebbe sempre più grande, riempiendo l’intero cielo; poi tutto si fece nero. Solo nella tenebra, prima che gli distruggesse del tutto il cervello, gli parve di udire una voce lontana che diceva un testo banale che aveva udito da qualche parte: «Potete voi bere il calice ch’io bevo?»

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Quando gli uomini nei libri si destano da una visione, comunemente si trovano in qualche luogo in cui avrebbero potuto addormentarsi; sbadigliano su una sedia, o si sollevano con le membra ammaccate da un campo. L’esperienza di Syme fu qualcosa di assai più psicologicamente strano, se pure c’era davvero qualcosa d’irreale, in senso terreno, nelle cose che aveva attraversato. Poiché, mentre poteva sempre ricordare in seguito d’essere svenuto davanti al volto di Domenica, non poteva ricordare d’essersi mai riavuto affatto. Poteva soltanto ricordare che gradualmente e naturalmente seppe che stava, e che era stato, camminando lungo una viottola di campagna con un compagno disinvolto e conversevole. Quel compagno era stato parte del suo recente dramma; era il poeta dai capelli rossi Gregory. Camminavano come vecchi amici, ed erano nel mezzo di una conversazione su qualche inezia. Ma Syme poteva soltanto sentire un’innaturale leggerezza nel suo corpo e una cristallina semplicità nella sua mente che pareva superiore a tutto ciò che diceva o faceva. Sentiva d’essere in possesso di qualche impossibile buona novella, che rendeva ogni altra cosa un’inezia, ma un’inezia adorabile.

L’alba spuntava su ogni cosa in colori insieme chiari e timidi; come se la Natura facesse un primo tentativo di giallo e un primo tentativo di rosa. Spirava una brezza così pura e dolce che non si sarebbe potuto pensare ch’essa spirasse dal cielo; spirava piuttosto attraverso qualche foro nel cielo. Syme provò una semplice sorpresa quando vide sorgere tutt’intorno a lui su entrambi i lati della strada i rossi, irregolari edifici di Saffron Park. Non aveva idea d’aver camminato tanto vicino a Londra. Camminò d’istinto lungo una bianca strada, su cui i primi uccelli saltellavano e cantavano, e si trovò fuori da un giardino recintato. Là vide la sorella di Gregory, la ragazza dai capelli d’oro rosso, che recideva lillà prima di colazione, con la grande, inconsapevole gravità di una ragazza.

FINE

UN RACCONTO SFRENATO, FOLLE, ESILARANTE E PROFONDAMENTE COMMOVENTE

L’UOMO CHE FU GIOVEDÌ

di G. K. Chesterton

autore dei racconti di Father Brown

È assai difficile classificare L’UOMO CHE FU GIOVEDÌ. È possibile dire che è un’avvincente storia d’avventura di criminali assassini e brillanti poliziotti; ma c’era da aspettarsi che l’autore dei racconti di Father Brown raccontasse una storia poliziesca come nessun altro. A questo livello, dunque, L’UOMO CHE FU GIOVEDÌ riesce superbamente; se non altro, è un magnifico tour-de-force di scrittura di suspense.

Tuttavia, il lettore scoprirà presto che è molto più di questo. Trascinato dall’impetuoso slancio della narrazione dal meraviglioso stile brioso di Chesterton, vedrà presto d’essere condotto in acque assai più profonde di quanto avesse previsto; e il tutto imprevedibile scioglimento si rivelerà per il lettore moderno, come si è rivelato per migliaia di altri dal 1908, quando il libro fu pubblicato per la prima volta, un’esperienza inevitabile e commovente, allorché gli investigatori finalmente scoprono chi sia Domenica.