“Don’t be such a silly man,” he said, with the effeminate dignity of a curate. “Don’t you see it’s not necessary? Don’t you see that we’re both in the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick.”
Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked his question.
“Don’t you see we’ve checkmated each other?” cried Syme. “I can’t tell the police you are an anarchist4. You can’t tell the anarchists5 I’m a policeman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can only watch me, knowing what I am. In short, it’s a lonely, intellectual duel6, my head against yours. I’m a policeman deprived of the help of the police. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help of that law and organisation7 which is so essential to anarchy8. The one solitary9 difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded by inquisitive10 policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. I cannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and see me betray myself. I shall do it so nicely.”
Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he were a sea-monster.
“I don’t believe in immortality,” he said at last, “but if, after all this, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you, to howl in for ever.”
“I shall not break my word,” said Syme sternly, “nor will you break yours. Here are your friends.”
The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouching and somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard and glasses—a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy—detached himself, and bustled11 forward with some papers in his hand.
“Comrade Gregory,” he said, “I suppose this man is a delegate?”
Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme; but Syme replied almost pertly—
“I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hard for anyone to be here who was not a delegate.”
The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, still contracted with something like suspicion.
“What branch do you represent?” he asked sharply.
“I should hardly call it a branch,” said Syme, laughing; “I should call it at the very least a root.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fact is,” said Syme serenely12, “the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. I have been specially13 sent here to see that you show a due observance of Sunday.”
The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker14 of fear went over all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whose name was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors to such branch meetings.
“Well, comrade,” said the man with the papers after a pause, “I suppose we’d better give you a seat in the meeting?”
“If you ask my advice as a friend,” said Syme with severe benevolence15, “I think you’d better.”
When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety for his rival, he rose abruptly17 and paced the floor in painful thought. He was, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy18. It was clear that Syme’s inspired impudence19 was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas20. Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme, partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and for some reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Syme freed from all obligation of secrecy21, a Syme who would simply walk to the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night’s discussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would let out as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Syme go, and chance it.
He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was already distributing itself along the benches.
“I think it is time we began,” he said; “the steam-tug22 is waiting on the river already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair.”
This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papers slipped into the presidential seat.
“Comrades,” he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, “our meeting tonight is important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had the honour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We have elected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament23 the sad decease of the heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know, his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the great dynamite24 coup25 of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought to have killed everybody on the pier26. As you also know, his death was as self-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienic mixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage27 he regarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, or anything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is not to acclaim28 his virtues29 that we are met, but for a harder task. It is difficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult to replace them. Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to choose out of the company present the man who shall be Thursday. If any comrade suggests a name I will put it to the vote. If no comrade suggests a name, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter31, who is gone from us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of his virtue30 and his innocence32.”
There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimes heard in church. Then a large old man, with a long and venerable white beard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly and said—
“I move that Comrade Gregory be elected Thursday,” and sat lumberingly down again.
“Does anyone second?” asked the chairman.
“Before I put the matter to the vote,” said the chairman, “I will call on Comrade Gregory to make a statement.”
Gregory rose amid a great rumble35 of applause. His face was deadly pale, so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet36. But he was smiling and altogether at ease. He had made up his mind, and he saw his best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road. His best chance was to make a softened37 and ambiguous speech, such as would leave on the detective’s mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhood38 was a very mild affair after all. He believed in his own literary power, his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words. He thought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the people around him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly and delicately false. Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all their bravado39, were only playing the fool. Could he not now, in the hour of peril40, make Syme think so again?
“Comrades,” began Gregory, in a low but penetrating41 voice, “it is not necessary for me to tell you what is my policy, for it is your policy also. Our belief has been slandered42, it has been disfigured, it has been utterly44 confused and concealed45, but it has never been altered. Those who talk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to get their information, except to us, except to the fountain head. They learn about anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists from tradesmen’s newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper’s Half-Holiday and the Sporting Times. They never learn about anarchists from anarchists. We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanders46 which are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another. The man who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard our reply. I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passion were to rend47 the roof. For it is deep, deep under the earth that the persecuted48 are permitted to assemble, as the Christians49 assembled in the Catacombs. But if, by some incredible accident, there were here tonight a man who all his life had thus immensely misunderstood us, I would put this question to him: ‘When those Christians met in those Catacombs, what sort of moral reputation had they in the streets above? What tales were told of their atrocities50 by one educated Roman to another? Suppose’ (I would say to him), ‘suppose that we are only repeating that still mysterious paradox51 of history. Suppose we seem as shocking as the Christians because we are really as harmless as the Christians. Suppose we seem as mad as the Christians because we are really as meek52.”’
The applause that had greeted the opening sentences had been gradually growing fainter, and at the last word it stopped suddenly. In the abrupt16 silence, the man with the velvet jacket said, in a high, squeaky voice—
“I’m not meek!”
“Comrade Witherspoon tells us,” resumed Gregory, “that he is not meek. Ah, how little he knows himself! His words are, indeed, extravagant53; his appearance is ferocious54, and even (to an ordinary taste) unattractive. But only the eye of a friendship as deep and delicate as mine can perceive the deep foundation of solid meekness55 which lies at the base of him, too deep even for himself to see. I repeat, we are the true early Christians, only that we come too late. We are simple, as they revere56 simple—look at Comrade Witherspoon. We are modest, as they were modest—look at me. We are merciful—”
“No, no!” called out Mr. Witherspoon with the velvet jacket.
“I say we are merciful,” repeated Gregory furiously, “as the early Christians were merciful. Yet this did not prevent their being accused of eating human flesh. We do not eat human flesh—”
“Shame!” cried Witherspoon. “Why not?”
“Comrade Witherspoon,” said Gregory, with a feverish57 gaiety, “is anxious to know why nobody eats him (laughter). In our society, at any rate, which loves him sincerely, which is founded upon love—”
“No, no!” said Witherspoon, “down with love.”
“Which is founded upon love,” repeated Gregory, grinding his teeth, “there will be no difficulty about the aims which we shall pursue as a body, or which I should pursue were I chosen as the representative of that body. Superbly careless of the slanders that represent us as assassins and enemies of human society, we shall pursue with moral courage and quiet intellectual pressure, the permanent ideals of brotherhood and simplicity58.”
Gregory resumed his seat and passed his hand across his forehead. The silence was sudden and awkward, but the chairman rose like an automaton59, and said in a colourless voice—
“Does anyone oppose the election of Comrade Gregory?”
The assembly seemed vague and sub-consciously disappointed, and Comrade Witherspoon moved restlessly on his seat and muttered in his thick beard. By the sheer rush of routine, however, the motion would have been put and carried. But as the chairman was opening his mouth to put it, Syme sprang to his feet and said in a small and quiet voice—
“Yes, Mr. Chairman, I oppose.”
The most effective fact in oratory60 is an unexpected change in the voice. Mr. Gabriel Syme evidently understood oratory. Having said these first formal words in a moderated tone and with a brief simplicity, he made his next word ring and volley in the vault61 as if one of the guns had gone off.
“Comrades!” he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of his boots, “have we come here for this? Do we live underground like rats in order to listen to talk like this? This is talk we might listen to while eating buns at a Sunday School treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, ‘Be good, and you will be happy,’ ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ and ‘Virtue is its own reward’? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory’s address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure (hear, hear). But I am not a curate (loud cheers), and I did not listen to it with pleasure (renewed cheers). The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute62, forcible, and efficient Thursday (hear, hear).”
“Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy (hear, hear). Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers).”
Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic63 with astonishment64. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness—
“You damnable hypocrite!”
Syme looked straight into those frightful65 eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity—
“Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy66. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince67 words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable68 qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme69 Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin70 mercy (hear, hear). This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty71. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride (cheers). I am not a man at all. I am a cause (renewed cheers). I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally72 and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election—”
His sentence was drowned in a deafening73 cataract74 of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade75 grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation76 or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent78 broke forth79, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam80 upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting.
“Stop, you blasted madmen!” he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. “Stop, you—”
But louder than Gregory’s shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal81 of pitiless thunder—
“I do not go to the Council to rebut82 that slander43 that calls us murderers; I go to earn it (loud and prolonged cheering). To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency83, to all these I will reply, ‘You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies.’”
The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said—
“Does anyone second this amendment?” he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy86 eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. “I end all this!” he said, in a voice as heavy as stone.
“This man cannot be elected. He is a—”
“Yes,” said Syme, quite motionless, “what is he?” Gregory’s mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. “He is a man quite inexperienced in our work,” he said, and sat down abruptly.
Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone—
“I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme.”
“The amendment will, as usual, be put first,” said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity.
“The question is that Comrade Syme—”
Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate87.
“Comrades,” he cried out, “I am not a madman.”
“Oh, oh!” said Mr. Witherspoon.
“I am not a madman,” reiterated88 Gregory, with a frightful sincerity89 which for a moment staggered the room, “but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man.” Truth is so terrible, even in fetters90, that for a moment Syme’s slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme’s bleak91 blue eyes. He merely began—
“Comrade Gregory commands—”
Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory—
“Who are you? You are not Sunday;” and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, “And you are not Thursday.”
“Comrades,” cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr92 who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, “it is nothing to me whether you detest93 me as a tyrant94 or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation95. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore96 you. Do not elect this man.”
For the first time in the proceedings98 there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck99 of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again—
“The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council.”
The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe.
Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery100 groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred101. They were silent for many minutes.
“You are a devil!” said Gregory at last.
“And you are a gentleman,” said Syme with gravity.
“Talk sense,” said Syme shortly. “Into what sort of devils’ parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession103. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death,” and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask104 from the table.
With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly106 at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish107 steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye.
“You have kept your word,” he said gently, with his face in shadow. “You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by the end of it.”
“A very entertaining evening,” said Syme, and he made a military salute110 with the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away.
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1
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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dilemmas
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| n.左右为难( dilemma的名词复数 )；窘境，困境 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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tug
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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dynamite
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coup
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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dynamiter
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| n.炸药使用者（尤指革命者） | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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velvet
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pointed
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rumble
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scarlet
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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brotherhood
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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slanders
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| 诽谤，诋毁( slander的名词复数 ) | |
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rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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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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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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53
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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55
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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58
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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59
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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60
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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67
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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impersonally
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| ad.非人称地 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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rebut
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| v.辩驳，驳回 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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102
entrapped
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| v.使陷入圈套，使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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104
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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105
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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106
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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107
dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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108
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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109
chaotic
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| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
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110
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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