the man who was thursday-第18节

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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　tomorrow　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　fingerslike　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　wasthe　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　Dosition　gave　him　a　somewhat　new　appearance。　The　strong；　white　light　of　morning