More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant13 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 illuminated14, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish15 trees like some fierce and monstrous16 fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely17 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 paradoxes19 of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated20, and professed21 some protest against male supremacy22. 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 cant23 of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary24 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 literally25 like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin26 in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal27, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled28 and terrified the nerves of a neurotic29 population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy30, 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 dome31 they were grey, with the strangest tints32 of violet and mauve and an unnatural33 pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent34 and passionate35, and the last red-hot plumes36 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 secrecy37. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism38. 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 reigned39 without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude40 suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed8 beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek41 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; nay42, 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 forth43 upon the earth such a portent44 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 underneath45 them, laughed with such mixture of admiration46 and disapproval47 as she gave commonly to the family oracle48.
Gregory resumed in high oratorical49 good humour.
“An artist is identical with an anarchist50,” 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 peal51 of perfect thunder, than the mere52 common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder53 only. If it were not so, the most poetical54 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 paradox18. “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 rapture55! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker56 Street!”
“It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic57 as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical58 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? Chaos59 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 commemorates60 the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!”
“Must you go?” inquired Gregory sarcastically61.
“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 herald62 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 irritably63, “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 rebellious64 may be the wholesome65 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 vomiting66.”
“It is things going right,” he cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions69, 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 superciliously70, “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 sincerity71 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 frivolous72 woman, the maternal73 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 anonymously75.”
And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory’s absurdity76 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 humble77 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 propriety78. 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 tune79 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 astonishment80, 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 champagne81 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 recurring82 like a motive83 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 tapestries84 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 gilded85 the leaves of the tree that bent86 out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid87 and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt74 shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery88 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 foe89.
“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 anarchy91. 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 standing92 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 instinctively93 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 remarkable94. 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 duel95 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 erased96, 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 perfectly97 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.”
“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.
“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 vow100 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 idiotic101 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 Christian102, 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?”
He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling105 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.
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1
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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51
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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52
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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53
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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55
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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epical
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| adj.叙事诗的，英勇的 | |
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59
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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60
commemorates
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| n.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的名词复数 )v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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62
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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vomiting
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| 吐 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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digestions
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| n.消化能力( digestion的名词复数 )；消化，领悟 | |
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superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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irrelevancy
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| n.不恰当，离题，不相干的事物 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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