the man who was thursday-第2节

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e　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　isrevolting。　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　I　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　starsthe　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　meansfrom　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　usebombs　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　fa