the man who was thursday-第12节

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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　tablecold　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　vent　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