The three who had risen fell away from Gogol, and that equivocal person himself resumed his seat.
“Well, my man,” said the President briskly, addressing him as one addresses a total stranger, “will you oblige me by putting your hand in your upper waistcoat pocket and showing me what you have there?”
The alleged2 Pole was a little pale under his tangle3 of dark hair, but he put two fingers into the pocket with apparent coolness and pulled out a blue strip of card. When Syme saw it lying on the table, he woke up again to the world outside him. For although the card lay at the other extreme of the table, and he could read nothing of the inscription4 on it, it bore a startling resemblance to the blue card in his own pocket, the card which had been given to him when he joined the anti-anarchist5 constabulary.
“Pathetic Slav,” said the President, “tragic child of Poland, are you prepared in the presence of that card to deny that you are in this company—shall we say de trop?”
“Right oh!” said the late Gogol. It made everyone jump to hear a clear, commercial and somewhat cockney voice coming out of that forest of foreign hair. It was irrational6, as if a Chinaman had suddenly spoken with a Scotch7 accent.
“You bet,” answered the Pole. “I see it’s a fair cop. All I say is, I don’t believe any Pole could have imitated my accent like I did his.”
“I concede the point,” said Sunday. “I believe your own accent to be inimitable, though I shall practise it in my bath. Do you mind leaving your beard with your card?”
“Not a bit,” answered Gogol; and with one finger he ripped off the whole of his shaggy head-covering, emerging with thin red hair and a pale, pert face. “It was hot,” he added.
“I will do you the justice to say,” said Sunday, not without a sort of brutal9 admiration10, “that you seem to have kept pretty cool under it. Now listen to me. I like you. The consequence is that it would annoy me for just about two and a half minutes if I heard that you had died in torments11. Well, if you ever tell the police or any human soul about us, I shall have that two and a half minutes of discomfort12. On your discomfort I will not dwell. Good day. Mind the step.”
The red-haired detective who had masqueraded as Gogol rose to his feet without a word, and walked out of the room with an air of perfect nonchalance13. Yet the astonished Syme was able to realise that this ease was suddenly assumed; for there was a slight stumble outside the door, which showed that the departing detective had not minded the step.
“Time is flying,” said the President in his gayest manner, after glancing at his watch, which like everything about him seemed bigger than it ought to be. “I must go off at once; I have to take the chair at a Humanitarian14 meeting.”
“Would it not be better,” he said a little sharply, “to discuss further the details of our project, now that the spy has left us?”
“No, I think not,” said the President with a yawn like an unobtrusive earthquake. “Leave it as it is. Let Saturday settle it. I must be off. Breakfast here next Sunday.”
But the late loud scenes had whipped up the almost naked nerves of the Secretary. He was one of those men who are conscientious16 even in crime.
“I must protest, President, that the thing is irregular,” he said. “It is a fundamental rule of our society that all plans shall be debated in full council. Of course, I fully appreciate your forethought when in the actual presence of a traitor—”
“Secretary,” said the President seriously, “if you’d take your head home and boil it for a turnip17 it might be useful. I can’t say. But it might.”
The Secretary reared back in a kind of equine anger.
“That’s it, that’s it,” said the President, nodding a great many times. “That’s where you fail right enough. You fail to understand. Why, you dancing donkey,” he roared, rising, “you didn’t want to be overheard by a spy, didn’t you? How do you know you aren’t overheard now?”
And with these words he shouldered his way out of the room, shaking with incomprehensible scorn.
Four of the men left behind gaped19 after him without any apparent glimmering20 of his meaning. Syme alone had even a glimmering, and such as it was it froze him to the bone. If the last words of the President meant anything, they meant that he had not after all passed unsuspected. They meant that while Sunday could not denounce him like Gogol, he still could not trust him like the others.
The other four got to their feet grumbling21 more or less, and betook themselves elsewhere to find lunch, for it was already well past midday. The Professor went last, very slowly and painfully. Syme sat long after the rest had gone, revolving22 his strange position. He had escaped a thunderbolt, but he was still under a cloud. At last he rose and made his way out of the hotel into Leicester Square. The bright, cold day had grown increasingly colder, and when he came out into the street he was surprised by a few flakes23 of snow. While he still carried the sword-stick and the rest of Gregory’s portable luggage, he had thrown the cloak down and left it somewhere, perhaps on the steam-tug, perhaps on the balcony. Hoping, therefore, that the snow-shower might be slight, he stepped back out of the street for a moment and stood up under the doorway24 of a small and greasy25 hair-dresser’s shop, the front window of which was empty, except for a sickly wax lady in evening dress.
Snow, however, began to thicken and fall fast; and Syme, having found one glance at the wax lady quite sufficient to depress his spirits, stared out instead into the white and empty street. He was considerably26 astonished to see, standing27 quite still outside the shop and staring into the window, a man. His top hat was loaded with snow like the hat of Father Christmas, the white drift was rising round his boots and ankles; but it seemed as if nothing could tear him away from the contemplation of the colourless wax doll in dirty evening dress. That any human being should stand in such weather looking into such a shop was a matter of sufficient wonder to Syme; but his idle wonder turned suddenly into a personal shock; for he realised that the man standing there was the paralytic28 old Professor de Worms. It scarcely seemed the place for a person of his years and infirmities.
Syme was ready to believe anything about the perversions29 of this dehumanized brotherhood30; but even he could not believe that the Professor had fallen in love with that particular wax lady. He could only suppose that the man’s malady31 (whatever it was) involved some momentary32 fits of rigidity34 or trance. He was not inclined, however, to feel in this case any very compassionate35 concern. On the contrary, he rather congratulated himself that the Professor’s stroke and his elaborate and limping walk would make it easy to escape from him and leave him miles behind. For Syme thirsted first and last to get clear of the whole poisonous atmosphere, if only for an hour. Then he could collect his thoughts, formulate36 his policy, and decide finally whether he should or should not keep faith with Gregory.
He strolled away through the dancing snow, turned up two or three streets, down through two or three others, and entered a small Soho restaurant for lunch. He partook reflectively of four small and quaint37 courses, drank half a bottle of red wine, and ended up over black coffee and a black cigar, still thinking. He had taken his seat in the upper room of the restaurant, which was full of the chink of knives and the chatter38 of foreigners. He remembered that in old days he had imagined that all these harmless and kindly39 aliens were anarchists40. He shuddered41, remembering the real thing. But even the shudder42 had the delightful43 shame of escape. The wine, the common food, the familiar place, the faces of natural and talkative men, made him almost feel as if the Council of the Seven Days had been a bad dream; and although he knew it was nevertheless an objective reality, it was at least a distant one. Tall houses and populous44 streets lay between him and his last sight of the shameful45 seven; he was free in free London, and drinking wine among the free. With a somewhat easier action, he took his hat and stick and strolled down the stair into the shop below.
When he entered that lower room he stood stricken and rooted to the spot. At a small table, close up to the blank window and the white street of snow, sat the old anarchist Professor over a glass of milk, with his lifted livid face and pendent eyelids46. For an instant Syme stood as rigid33 as the stick he leant upon. Then with a gesture as of blind hurry, he brushed past the Professor, dashing open the door and slamming it behind him, and stood outside in the snow.
“Can that old corpse47 be following me?” he asked himself, biting his yellow moustache. “I stopped too long up in that room, so that even such leaden feet could catch me up. One comfort is, with a little brisk walking I can put a man like that as far away as Timbuctoo. Or am I too fanciful? Was he really following me? Surely Sunday would not be such a fool as to send a lame48 man?”
He set off at a smart pace, twisting and whirling his stick, in the direction of Covent Garden. As he crossed the great market the snow increased, growing blinding and bewildering as the afternoon began to darken. The snow-flakes tormented49 him like a swarm50 of silver bees. Getting into his eyes and beard, they added their unremitting futility51 to his already irritated nerves; and by the time that he had come at a swinging pace to the beginning of Fleet Street, he lost patience, and finding a Sunday teashop, turned into it to take shelter. He ordered another cup of black coffee as an excuse. Scarcely had he done so, when Professor de Worms hobbled heavily into the shop, sat down with difficulty and ordered a glass of milk.
Syme’s walking-stick had fallen from his hand with a great clang, which confessed the concealed52 steel. But the Professor did not look round. Syme, who was commonly a cool character, was literally53 gaping54 as a rustic55 gapes56 at a conjuring57 trick. He had seen no cab following; he had heard no wheels outside the shop; to all mortal appearances the man had come on foot. But the old man could only walk like a snail58, and Syme had walked like the wind. He started up and snatched his stick, half crazy with the contradiction in mere59 arithmetic, and swung out of the swinging doors, leaving his coffee untasted. An omnibus going to the Bank went rattling60 by with an unusual rapidity. He had a violent run of a hundred yards to reach it; but he managed to spring, swaying upon the splash-board and, pausing for an instant to pant, he climbed on to the top. When he had been seated for about half a minute, he heard behind him a sort of heavy and asthmatic breathing.
Turning sharply, he saw rising gradually higher and higher up the omnibus steps a top hat soiled and dripping with snow, and under the shadow of its brim the short-sighted face and shaky shoulders of Professor de Worms. He let himself into a seat with characteristic care, and wrapped himself up to the chin in the mackintosh rug.
Every movement of the old man’s tottering61 figure and vague hands, every uncertain gesture and panic-stricken pause, seemed to put it beyond question that he was helpless, that he was in the last imbecility of the body. He moved by inches, he let himself down with little gasps62 of caution. And yet, unless the philosophical63 entities64 called time and space have no vestige65 even of a practical existence, it appeared quite unquestionable that he had run after the omnibus.
Syme sprang erect66 upon the rocking car, and after staring wildly at the wintry sky, that grew gloomier every moment, he ran down the steps. He had repressed an elemental impulse to leap over the side.
Too bewildered to look back or to reason, he rushed into one of the little courts at the side of Fleet Street as a rabbit rushes into a hole. He had a vague idea, if this incomprehensible old Jack-in-the-box was really pursuing him, that in that labyrinth67 of little streets he could soon throw him off the scent68. He dived in and out of those crooked69 lanes, which were more like cracks than thoroughfares; and by the time that he had completed about twenty alternate angles and described an unthinkable polygon70, he paused to listen for any sound of pursuit. There was none; there could not in any case have been much, for the little streets were thick with the soundless snow. Somewhere behind Red Lion Court, however, he noticed a place where some energetic citizen had cleared away the snow for a space of about twenty yards, leaving the wet, glistening71 cobble-stones. He thought little of this as he passed it, only plunging72 into yet another arm of the maze73. But when a few hundred yards farther on he stood still again to listen, his heart stood still also, for he heard from that space of rugged74 stones the clinking crutch75 and labouring feet of the infernal cripple.
The sky above was loaded with the clouds of snow, leaving London in a darkness and oppression premature76 for that hour of the evening. On each side of Syme the walls of the alley77 were blind and featureless; there was no little window or any kind of eve. He felt a new impulse to break out of this hive of houses, and to get once more into the open and lamp-lit street. Yet he rambled78 and dodged79 for a long time before he struck the main thoroughfare. When he did so, he struck it much farther up than he had fancied. He came out into what seemed the vast and void of Ludgate Circus, and saw St. Paul’s Cathedral sitting in the sky.
At first he was startled to find these great roads so empty, as if a pestilence80 had swept through the city. Then he told himself that some degree of emptiness was natural; first because the snow-storm was even dangerously deep, and secondly81 because it was Sunday. And at the very word Sunday he bit his lip; the word was henceforth for hire like some indecent pun. Under the white fog of snow high up in the heaven the whole atmosphere of the city was turned to a very queer kind of green twilight82, as of men under the sea. The sealed and sullen83 sunset behind the dark dome84 of St. Paul’s had in it smoky and sinister85 colours—colours of sickly green, dead red or decaying bronze, that were just bright enough to emphasise86 the solid whiteness of the snow. But right up against these dreary87 colours rose the black bulk of the cathedral; and upon the top of the cathedral was a random88 splash and great stain of snow, still clinging as to an Alpine89 peak. It had fallen accidentally, but just so fallen as to half drape the dome from its very topmost point, and to pick out in perfect silver the great orb90 and the cross. When Syme saw it he suddenly straightened himself, and made with his sword-stick an involuntary salute91.
He knew that that evil figure, his shadow, was creeping quickly or slowly behind him, and he did not care.
It seemed a symbol of human faith and valour that while the skies were darkening that high place of the earth was bright. The devils might have captured heaven, but they had not yet captured the cross. He had a new impulse to tear out the secret of this dancing, jumping and pursuing paralytic; and at the entrance of the court as it opened upon the Circus he turned, stick in hand, to face his pursuer.
Professor de Worms came slowly round the corner of the irregular alley behind him, his unnatural92 form outlined against a lonely gas-lamp, irresistibly93 recalling that very imaginative figure in the nursery rhymes, “the crooked man who went a crooked mile.” He really looked as if he had been twisted out of shape by the tortuous94 streets he had been threading. He came nearer and nearer, the lamplight shining on his lifted spectacles, his lifted, patient face. Syme waited for him as St. George waited for the dragon, as a man waits for a final explanation or for death. And the old Professor came right up to him and passed him like a total stranger, without even a blink of his mournful eyelids.
There was something in this silent and unexpected innocence95 that left Syme in a final fury. The man’s colourless face and manner seemed to assert that the whole following had been an accident. Syme was galvanised with an energy that was something between bitterness and a burst of boyish derision. He made a wild gesture as if to knock the old man’s hat off, called out something like “Catch me if you can,” and went racing96 away across the white, open Circus. Concealment97 was impossible now; and looking back over his shoulder, he could see the black figure of the old gentleman coming after him with long, swinging strides like a man winning a mile race. But the head upon that bounding body was still pale, grave and professional, like the head of a lecturer upon the body of a harlequin.
This outrageous98 chase sped across Ludgate Circus, up Ludgate Hill, round St. Paul’s Cathedral, along Cheapside, Syme remembering all the nightmares he had ever known. Then Syme broke away towards the river, and ended almost down by the docks. He saw the yellow panes99 of a low, lighted public-house, flung himself into it and ordered beer. It was a foul100 tavern101, sprinkled with foreign sailors, a place where opium102 might be smoked or knives drawn.
A moment later Professor de Worms entered the place, sat down carefully, and asked for a glass of milk.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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8
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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offense
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| n.犯规，违法行为；冒犯，得罪 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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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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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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paralytic
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| adj. 瘫痪的 n. 瘫痪病人 | |
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perversions
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| n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 )；变坏；变态心理 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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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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rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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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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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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41
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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42
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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43
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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46
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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47
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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48
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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51
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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52
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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53
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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54
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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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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gapes
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 )；张开，张大 | |
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conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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59
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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61
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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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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entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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polygon
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| n.多边形；多角形 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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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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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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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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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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