Being surrounded with every conceivable kind of revolt from infancy12, Gabriel had to revolt into something, so he revolted into the only thing left—sanity. But there was just enough in him of the blood of these fanatics13 to make even his protest for common sense a little too fierce to be sensible. His hatred of modern lawlessness had been crowned also by an accident. It happened that he was walking in a side street at the instant of a dynamite14 outrage15. He had been blind and deaf for a moment, and then seen, the smoke clearing, the broken windows and the bleeding faces. After that he went about as usual—quiet, courteous16, rather gentle; but there was a spot on his mind that was not sane17. He did not regard anarchists18, as most of us do, as a handful of morbid20 men, combining ignorance with intellectualism. He regarded them as a huge and pitiless peril21, like a Chinese invasion.
He poured perpetually into newspapers and their waste-paper baskets a torrent22 of tales, verses and violent articles, warning men of this deluge23 of barbaric denial. But he seemed to be getting no nearer his enemy, and, what was worse, no nearer a living. As he paced the Thames embankment, bitterly biting a cheap cigar and brooding on the advance of Anarchy, there was no anarchist19 with a bomb in his pocket so savage24 or so solitary25 as he. Indeed, he always felt that Government stood alone and desperate, with its back to the wall. He was too quixotic to have cared for it otherwise.
He walked on the Embankment once under a dark red sunset. The red river reflected the red sky, and they both reflected his anger. The sky, indeed, was so swarthy, and the light on the river relatively26 so lurid27, that the water almost seemed of fiercer flame than the sunset it mirrored. It looked like a stream of literal fire winding28 under the vast caverns29 of a subterranean30 country.
Syme was shabby in those days. He wore an old-fashioned black chimney-pot hat; he was wrapped in a yet more old-fashioned cloak, black and ragged31; and the combination gave him the look of the early villains32 in Dickens and Bulwer Lytton. Also his yellow beard and hair were more unkempt and leonine than when they appeared long afterwards, cut and pointed33, on the lawns of Saffron Park. A long, lean, black cigar, bought in Soho for twopence, stood out from between his tightened34 teeth, and altogether he looked a very satisfactory specimen35 of the anarchists upon whom he had vowed36 a holy war. Perhaps this was why a policeman on the Embankment spoke37 to him, and said “Good evening.”
Syme, at a crisis of his morbid fears for humanity, seemed stung by the mere1 stolidity38 of the automatic official, a mere bulk of blue in the twilight39.
“A good evening is it?” he said sharply. “You fellows would call the end of the world a good evening. Look at that bloody40 red sun and that bloody river! I tell you that if that were literally41 human blood, spilt and shining, you would still be standing42 here as solid as ever, looking out for some poor harmless tramp whom you could move on. You policemen are cruel to the poor, but I could forgive you even your cruelty if it were not for your calm.”
“If we are calm,” replied the policeman, “it is the calm of organised resistance.”
“Eh?” said Syme, staring.
“The soldier must be calm in the thick of the battle,” pursued the policeman. “The composure of an army is the anger of a nation.”
“Good God, the Board Schools!” said Syme. “Is this undenominational education?”
“No,” said the policeman sadly, “I never had any of those advantages. The Board Schools came after my time. What education I had was very rough and old-fashioned, I am afraid.”
“Where did you have it?” asked Syme, wondering.
“Oh, at Harrow,” said the policeman
The class sympathies which, false as they are, are the truest things in so many men, broke out of Syme before he could control them.
“But, good Lord, man,” he said, “you oughtn’t to be a policeman!”
The policeman sighed and shook his head.
“But why did you join the police?” asked Syme with rude curiosity.
“For much the same reason that you abused the police,” replied the other. “I found that there was a special opening in the service for those whose fears for humanity were concerned rather with the aberrations45 of the scientific intellect than with the normal and excusable, though excessive, outbreaks of the human will. I trust I make myself clear.”
“If you mean that you make your opinion clear,” said Syme, “I suppose you do. But as for making yourself clear, it is the last thing you do. How comes a man like you to be talking philosophy in a blue helmet on the Thames embankment?”
“You have evidently not heard of the latest development in our police system,” replied the other. “I am not surprised at it. We are keeping it rather dark from the educated class, because that class contains most of our enemies. But you seem to be exactly in the right frame of mind. I think you might almost join us.”
“Join you in what?” asked Syme.
“I will tell you,” said the policeman slowly. “This is the situation: The head of one of our departments, one of the most celebrated46 detectives in Europe, has long been of opinion that a purely47 intellectual conspiracy48 would soon threaten the very existence of civilisation49. He is certain that the scientific and artistic50 worlds are silently bound in a crusade against the Family and the State. He has, therefore, formed a special corps51 of policemen, policemen who are also philosophers. It is their business to watch the beginnings of this conspiracy, not merely in a criminal but in a controversial sense. I am a democrat52 myself, and I am fully53 aware of the value of the ordinary man in matters of ordinary valour or virtue54. But it would obviously be undesirable55 to employ the common policeman in an investigation56 which is also a heresy57 hunt.”
Syme’s eyes were bright with a sympathetic curiosity.
“What do you do, then?” he said.
“The work of the philosophical59 policeman,” replied the man in blue, “is at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The ordinary detective goes to pot-houses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic tea-parties to detect pessimists60. The ordinary detective discovers from a ledger61 or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a book of sonnets62 that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual fanaticism63 and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the assassination64 at Hartlepool, and that was entirely65 due to the fact that our Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly66 understood a triolet.”
“Do you mean,” asked Syme, “that there is really as much connection between crime and the modern intellect as all that?”
“You are not sufficiently67 democratic,” answered the policeman, “but you were right when you said just now that our ordinary treatment of the poor criminal was a pretty brutal68 business. I tell you I am sometimes sick of my trade when I see how perpetually it means merely a war upon the ignorant and the desperate. But this new movement of ours is a very different affair. We deny the snobbish69 English assumption that the uneducated are the dangerous criminals. We remember the Roman Emperors. We remember the great poisoning princes of the Renaissance70. We say that the dangerous criminal is the educated criminal. We say that the most dangerous criminal now is the entirely lawless modern philosopher. Compared to him, burglars and bigamists are essentially71 moral men; my heart goes out to them. They accept the essential ideal of man; they merely seek it wrongly. Thieves respect property. They merely wish the property to become their property that they may more perfectly72 respect it. But philosophers dislike property as property; they wish to destroy the very idea of personal possession. Bigamists respect marriage, or they would not go through the highly ceremonial and even ritualistic formality of bigamy. But philosophers despise marriage as marriage. Murderers respect human life; they merely wish to attain6 a greater fulness of human life in themselves by the sacrifice of what seems to them to be lesser73 lives. But philosophers hate life itself, their own as much as other people’s.”
Syme struck his hands together.
“How true that is,” he cried. “I have felt it from my boyhood, but never could state the verbal antithesis74. The common criminal is a bad man, but at least he is, as it were, a conditional75 good man. He says that if only a certain obstacle be removed—say a wealthy uncle—he is then prepared to accept the universe and to praise God. He is a reformer, but not an anarchist. He wishes to cleanse76 the edifice77, but not to destroy it. But the evil philosopher is not trying to alter things, but to annihilate78 them. Yes, the modern world has retained all those parts of police work which are really oppressive and ignominious79, the harrying80 of the poor, the spying upon the unfortunate. It has given up its more dignified81 work, the punishment of powerful traitors82 in the State and powerful heresiarchs in the Church. The moderns say we must not punish heretics. My only doubt is whether we have a right to punish anybody else.”
“But this is absurd!” cried the policeman, clasping his hands with an excitement uncommon83 in persons of his figure and costume, “but it is intolerable! I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re wasting your life. You must, you shall, join our special army against anarchy. Their armies are on our frontiers. Their bolt is ready to fall. A moment more, and you may lose the glory of working with us, perhaps the glory of dying with the last heroes of the world.”
“It is a chance not to be missed, certainly,” assented84 Syme, “but still I do not quite understand. I know as well as anybody that the modern world is full of lawless little men and mad little movements. But, beastly as they are, they generally have the one merit of disagreeing with each other. How can you talk of their leading one army or hurling85 one bolt. What is this anarchy?”
“Do not confuse it,” replied the constable86, “with those chance dynamite outbreaks from Russia or from Ireland, which are really the outbreaks of oppressed, if mistaken, men. This is a vast philosophic58 movement, consisting of an outer and an inner ring. You might even call the outer ring the laity87 and the inner ring the priesthood. I prefer to call the outer ring the innocent section, the inner ring the supremely88 guilty section. The outer ring—the main mass of their supporters—are merely anarchists; that is, men who believe that rules and formulas have destroyed human happiness. They believe that all the evil results of human crime are the results of the system that has called it crime. They do not believe that the crime creates the punishment. They believe that the punishment has created the crime. They believe that if a man seduced89 seven women he would naturally walk away as blameless as the flowers of spring. They believe that if a man picked a pocket he would naturally feel exquisitely90 good. These I call the innocent section.”
“Oh!” said Syme.
“Naturally, therefore, these people talk about ‘a happy time coming’; ‘the paradise of the future’; ‘mankind freed from the bondage92 of vice44 and the bondage of virtue,’ and so on. And so also the men of the inner circle speak—the sacred priesthood. They also speak to applauding crowds of the happiness of the future, and of mankind freed at last. But in their mouths”—and the policeman lowered his voice—“in their mouths these happy phrases have a horrible meaning. They are under no illusions; they are too intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide. When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave.
“They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody.”
“How can I join you?” asked Syme, with a sort of passion.
“I know for a fact that there is a vacancy93 at the moment,” said the policeman, “as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather, I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if you like.”
“Telephone?” inquired Syme, with interest.
“No,” said the policeman placidly94, “he has a fancy for always sitting in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come along.”
Somewhat dazed and considerably95 excited, Syme allowed himself to be led to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt96 blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going suddenly stone-blind.
“Are you the new recruit?” asked a heavy voice.
And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive stature97; and second, that the man had his back to him.
“Are you the new recruit?” said the invisible chief, who seemed to have heard all about it. “All right. You are engaged.”
Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this irrevocable phrase.
“I really have no experience,” he began.
“No one has any experience,” said the other, “of the Battle of Armageddon.”
“But I am really unfit—”
“You are willing, that is enough,” said the unknown.
“Well, really,” said Syme, “I don’t know any profession of which mere willingness is the final test.”
“I do,” said the other—“martyrs. I am condemning98 you to death. Good day.”
Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson99 light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration100 of the great conspiracy. Acting101 under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite91 summer suit of light blue-grey, with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered in the little garden of Saffron Park. Before he finally left the police premises102 his friend provided him with a small blue card, on which was written, “The Last Crusade,” and a number, the sign of his official authority. He put this carefully in his upper waistcoat pocket, lit a cigarette, and went forth103 to track and fight the enemy in all the drawing-rooms of London. Where his adventure ultimately led him we have already seen. At about half-past one on a February night he found himself steaming in a small tug104 up the silent Thames, armed with swordstick and revolver, the duly elected Thursday of the Central Council of Anarchists.
When Syme stepped out on to the steam-tug he had a singular sensation of stepping out into something entirely new; not merely into the landscape of a new land, but even into the landscape of a new planet. This was mainly due to the insane yet solid decision of that evening, though partly also to an entire change in the weather and the sky since he entered the little tavern105 some two hours before. Every trace of the passionate106 plumage of the cloudy sunset had been swept away, and a naked moon stood in a naked sky. The moon was so strong and full that (by a paradox107 often to be noticed) it seemed like a weaker sun. It gave, not the sense of bright moonshine, but rather of a dead daylight.
Over the whole landscape lay a luminous108 and unnatural109 discoloration, as of that disastrous110 twilight which Milton spoke of as shed by the sun in eclipse; so that Syme fell easily into his first thought, that he was actually on some other and emptier planet, which circled round some sadder star. But the more he felt this glittering desolation in the moonlit land, the more his own chivalric111 folly glowed in the night like a great fire. Even the common things he carried with him—the food and the brandy and the loaded pistol—took on exactly that concrete and material poetry which a child feels when he takes a gun upon a journey or a bun with him to bed. The sword-stick and the brandy-flask, though in themselves only the tools of morbid conspirators112, became the expressions of his own more healthy romance. The sword-stick became almost the sword of chivalry113, and the brandy the wine of the stirrup-cup. For even the most dehumanised modern fantasies depend on some older and simpler figure; the adventures may be mad, but the adventurer must be sane. The dragon without St. George would not even be grotesque114. So this inhuman115 landscape was only imaginative by the presence of a man really human. To Syme’s exaggerative mind the bright, bleak116 houses and terraces by the Thames looked as empty as the mountains of the moon. But even the moon is only poetical117 because there is a man in the moon.
The tug was worked by two men, and with much toil118 went comparatively slowly. The clear moon that had lit up Chiswick had gone down by the time that they passed Battersea, and when they came under the enormous bulk of Westminster day had already begun to break. It broke like the splitting of great bars of lead, showing bars of silver; and these had brightened like white fire when the tug, changing its onward119 course, turned inward to a large landing stage rather beyond Charing120 Cross.
The great stones of the Embankment seemed equally dark and gigantic as Syme looked up at them. They were big and black against the huge white dawn. They made him feel that he was landing on the colossal121 steps of some Egyptian palace; and, indeed, the thing suited his mood, for he was, in his own mind, mounting to attack the solid thrones of horrible and heathen kings. He leapt out of the boat on to one slimy step, and stood, a dark and slender figure, amid the enormous masonry122. The two men in the tug put her off again and turned up stream. They had never spoken a word.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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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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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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5
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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hygiene
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| n.健康法，卫生学 （a.hygienic） | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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vegetarianism
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| n.素食，素食主义 | |
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cannibalism
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| n.同类相食；吃人肉 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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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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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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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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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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specimen
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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45
aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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46
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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48
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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51
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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52
democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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53
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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54
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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55
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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56
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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57
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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60
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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65
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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67
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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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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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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cleanse
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| vt.使清洁，使纯洁，清洗 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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harrying
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| v.使苦恼( harry的现在分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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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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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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101
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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102
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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104
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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106
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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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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108
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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109
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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110
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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111
chivalric
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| 有武士气概的，有武士风范的 | |
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112
conspirators
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| n.共谋者，阴谋家( conspirator的名词复数 ) | |
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113
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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114
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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115
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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116
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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117
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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118
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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119
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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120
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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121
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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122
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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