The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare. Гилберт Кит Честертон

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