the man who was thursday-第29部分

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I　don't　care　who　knows　it；　I　always　had　a　sympathy　for　old　Sunday　himself；　wicked　as　he　was。　Just　as　if　he　was　a　great　bouncing　baby。　How　can　I　explain　what　my　queer　sympathy　was？　It　didn't　prevent　my　fighting　him　like　hell！　Shall　I　make　it　clear　if　I　say　that　I　liked　him　because　he　was　so　fat？〃

〃You　will　not；〃　said　the　Secretary。

〃I've　got　it　now；〃　cried　Bull；　〃it　was　because　he　was　so　fat　and　so　light。　Just　like　a　balloon。　We　always　think　of　fat　people　as　heavy；　but　he　could　have　danced　against　a　sylph。　I　see　now　what　I　mean。　Moderate　strength　is　shown　in　violence；　supreme　strength　is　shown　in　levity。　It　was　like　the　old　speculationswhat　would　happen　if　an　elephant　could　leap　up　in　the　sky　like　a　grasshopper？〃

〃Our　elephant；〃　said　Syme；　looking　upwards；　〃has　leapt　into　the　sky　like　a　grasshopper。〃

〃And　somehow；〃　concluded　Bull；　〃that's　why　I　can't　help　liking　old　Sunday。　No；　it's　not　an　admiration　of　force；　or　any　silly　thing　like　that。　There　is　a　kind　of　gaiety　in　the　thing；　as　if　he　were　bursting　with　some　good　news。　Haven't　you　sometimes　felt　it　on　a　spring　day？　You　know　Nature　plays　tricks；　but　somehow　that　day　proves　they　are　good…natured　tricks。　I　never　read　the　Bible　myself；　but　that　part　they　laugh　at　is　literal　truth；　'Why　leap　ye；　ye　high　hills？'　The　hills　do　leapat　least；　they　try　to。　。　。　。　Why　do　I　like　Sunday？　。　。　。　how　can　I　tell　you？　。　。　。　because　he's　such　a　Bounder。〃

There　was　a　long　silence；　and　then　the　Secretary　said　in　a　curious；　strained　voice

〃You　do　not　know　Sunday　at　all。　Perhaps　it　is　because　you　are　better　than　I；　and　do　not　know　hell。　I　was　a　fierce　fellow；　and　a　trifle　morbid　from　the　first。　The　man　who　sits　in　darkness；　and　who　chose　us　all；　chose　me　because　I　had　all　the　crazy　look　of　a　conspiratorbecause　my　smile　went　crooked；　and　my　eyes　were　gloomy；　even　when　I　smiled。　But　there　must　have　been　something　in　me　that　answered　to　the　nerves　in　all　these　anarchic　men。　For　when　I　first　saw　Sunday　he　expressed　to　me；　not　your　airy　vitality；　but　something　both　gross　and　sad　in　the　Nature　of　Things。　I　found　him　smoking　in　a　twilight　room；　a　room　with　brown　blind　down；　infinitely　more　depressing　than　the　genial　darkness　in　which　our　master　lives。　He　sat　there　on　a　bench；　a　huge　heap　of　a　man；　dark　and　out　of　shape。　He　listened　to　all　my　words　without　speaking　or　even　stirring。　I　poured　out　my　most　passionate　appeals；　and　asked　my　most　eloquent　questions。　Then；　after　a　long　silence；　the　Thing　began　to　shake；　and　I　thought　it　was　shaken　by　some　secret　malady。　It　shook　like　a　loathsome　and　living　jelly。　It　reminded　me　of　everything　I　had　ever　read　about　the　base　bodies　that　are　the　origin　of　lifethe　deep　sea　lumps　and　protoplasm。　It　seemed　like　the　final　form　of　matter；　the　most　shapeless　and　the　most　shameful。　I　could　only　tell　myself；　from　its　shudderings；　that　it　was　something　at　least　that　such　a　monster　could　be　miserable。　And　then　it　broke　upon　me　that　the　bestial　mountain　was　shaking　with　a　lonely　laughter；　and　the　laughter　was　at　me。　Do　you　ask　me　to　forgive　him　that？　It　is　no　small　thing　to　be　laughed　at　by　something　at　once　lower　and　stronger　than　oneself。〃

〃Surely　you　fellows　are　exaggerating　wildly；〃　cut　in　the　clear　voice　of　Inspector　Ratcliffe。　〃President　Sunday　is　a　terrible　fellow　for　one's　intellect；　but　he　is　not　such　a　Barnum's　freak　physically　as　you　make　out。　He　received　me　in　an　ordinary　office；　in　a　grey　check　coat；　in　broad　daylight。　He　talked　to　me　in　an　ordinary　way。　But　I'll　tell　you　what　is　a　trifle　creepy　about　Sunday。　His　room　is　neat；　his　clothes　are　neat；　everything　seems　in　order；　but　he's　absent…minded。　Sometimes　his　great　bright　eyes　go　quite　blind。　For　hours　he　forgets　that　you　are　there。　Now　absent…mindedness　is　just　a　bit　too　awful　in　a　bad　man。　We　think　of　a　wicked　man　as　vigilant。　We　can't　think　of　a　wicked　man　who　is　honestly　and　sincerely　dreamy；　because　we　daren't　think　of　a　wicked　man　alone　with　himself。　An　absentminded　man　means　a　good…natured　man。　It　means　a　man　who；　if　he　happens　to　see　you；　will　apologise。　But　how　will　you　bear　an　absentminded　man　who；　if　he　happens　to　see　you；　will　kill　you？　That　is　what　tries　the　nerves；　abstraction　combined　with　cruelty。　Men　have　felt　it　sometimes　when　they　went　through　wild　forests；　and　felt　that　the　animals　there　were　at　once　innocent　and　pitiless。　They　might　ignore　or　slay。　How　would　you　like　to　pass　ten　mortal　hours　in　a　parlour　with　an　absent…minded　tiger？〃

〃And　what　do　you　think　of　Sunday；　Gogol？〃　asked　Syme。

〃I　don't　think　of　Sunday　on　principle；〃　said　Gogol　simply；　〃any　more　than　I　stare　at　the　sun　at　noonday。〃

〃Well；　that　is　a　point　of　view；〃　said　Syme　thoughtfully。　〃What　do　you　say；　Professor？〃

The　Professor　was　walking　with　bent　head　and　trailing　stick；　and　he　did　not　answer　at　all。

〃Wake　up；　Professor！〃　said　Syme　genially。　〃Tell　us　what　you　think　of　Sunday。〃

The　Professor　spoke　at　last　very　slowly。

〃I　think　something；〃　he　said；　〃that　I　cannot　say　clearly。　Or；　rather；　I　think　something　that　I　cannot　even　think　clearly。　But　it　is　something　like　this。　My　early　life；　as　you　know；　was　a　bit　too　large　and　loose。

Well；　when　I　saw　Sunday's　face　I　thought　it　was　too　large　everybody　does；　but　I　also　thought　it　was　too　loose。　The　face　was　so　big；　that　one　couldn't　focus　it　or　make　it　a　face　at　all。　The　eye　was　so　far　away　from　the　nose；　that　it　wasn't　an　eye。　The　mouth　was　so　much　by　itself；　that　one　had　to　think　of　it　by　itself。　The　whole　thing　is　too　hard　to　explain。〃

He　paused　for　a　little；　still　trailing　his　stick；　and　then　went　on

〃But　put　it　this　way。　Walking　up　a　road　at　night；　I　have　seen　a　lamp　and　a　lighted　window　and　a　cloud　make　together　a　most　complete　and　unmistakable　face。　If　anyone　in　heaven　has　that　face　I　shall　know　him　again。　Yet　when　I　walked　a　little　farther　I　found　that　there　was　no　face；　that　the　window　was　ten　yards　away；　the　lamp　ten　hundred　yards；　the　cloud　beyond　the　world。　Well；　Sunday's　face　escaped　me；　it　ran　away　to　right　and　left；　as　such　chance　pictures　run　away。　And　so　his　face　has　made　me；　somehow；　doubt　whether　there　are　any　faces。　I　don't　know　whether　your　face；　Bull；　is　a　face　or　a　combination　in　perspective。　Perhaps　one　black　disc　of　your　beastly　glasses　is　quite　close　and　another　fifty　miles　away。　Oh；　the　doubts　of　a　materialist　are　not　worth　a　dump。　Sunday　has　taught　me　the　last　and　the　worst　doubts；　the　doubts　of　a　spiritualist。　I　am　a　Buddhist；　I　suppose；　and　Buddhism　is　not　a　creed；　it　is　a　doubt。　My　poor　dear　Bull；　I　do　not　believe　that　you　really　have　a　face。　I　have　not　faith　enough　to　believe　in　matter。〃

Syme's　eyes　were　still　fixed　upon　the　errant　orb；　which；　reddened　in　the　evening　light；　looked　like　some　rosier　and　more　innocent　world。

〃Have　you　noticed　an　odd　thing；〃　he　said；　〃about　all　your　descriptions？　Each　man　of　you　finds　Sunday　quite　different；　yet　each　man　of　you　can　only　find　one　thing　to　compare　him　tothe　universe　itself。　Bull　finds　him　like　the　earth　in　spring；　Gogol　like　the　sun　at　noonday。　The　Secretary　is　reminded　of　the　shapeless　protoplasm；　and　the　Inspector　of　the　carelessness　of　virgin　forests。　The　Professor　says　he　is　like　a　changing　landscape。　This　is　queer；　but　it　is　queerer　still　that　I　also　have　had　my　odd　notion　about　the　President；　and　I　also　find　that　I　think　of　Sunday　as　I　think　of　the　whole　world。〃

〃Get　on　a　little　faster；　Syme；〃　said　Bull；　〃never　mind　the　balloon。〃

〃When　I　first　saw　Sunday；〃　said　Syme　slowly；　〃I　only　saw　his　back；　and　when　I　saw　his　back；　I　knew　he　was　the　worst　man　in　the　world。　His　neck　and　shoulders　were　brutal；　like　those　of　some　apish　god。　His　head　had　a　stoop　that　was　hardly　human；　like　the　stoop　of　an　ox。　In　fact；　I　had　at　once　the　revolting　fancy　that　this　was　not　a　man　at　all；　but　a　beast　dressed　up　in　men's　clothes。〃

〃Get　on；〃　said　Dr。　Bull。

〃And　then　the　queer　thing　happened。　I　had　seen　his　back　from　the　street；　as　he　sat　in　the　balcony。　Then　I　entered　the　hotel；　and　coming　round　the　other　side　of　him；　saw　his　face　in　the　sunlight。　His　face　frightened　me；　as　it　did　everyone；　but　not　because　it　was　brutal；　not　because　it　was　evil。　On　the　contrary；　it　frightened　me　because　it　was　so　beautiful；　because　it　was　so　good。〃

〃Syme；〃　exclaimed　the　Secretary；　〃are　you　ill？〃

〃It　was　like　the　face　of　some　ancient　archangel；　judging　justly　after　heroic　wars。　There　was　laughter　in　the　eyes；　and　in　the　mouth　honour　and　sorrow。　There　was　the　same　white　hair；　the　same　great；　grey…clad　shoulders　that　I　had　seen　from　behind。　But　when　I　saw　him　from　behind　I　was　certain　he　was　an　animal；　and　when　I　saw　him　in　front　I　knew　he　was　a　god。〃

〃Pan；〃　said　the　Professor　dreamily；　〃was　a　god　and　an　animal。〃

〃Then；　and　again　and　always；〃　went　on　Syme　like　a　man　talking　to　himself；　〃that　has　been　for　me　the　mystery　of　Sunday；　and　it　is　also　the　mystery　of　the　world。　When　I　see　the　horrible　back；　I　am　sure　the　noble　face　is　but　a　mask。　When　I　see　the　face　but　for　an　instant；　I　know　the　back　is　only　a　jest。　Bad　is　so　bad；　that　we　cannot　but　think　good　an　accident；　good　is　so　good；　that　we　feel　certain　that　evil　could　be　explained。　But　the　whole　came　to　a　kind　of　crest　yesterday　when　I　raced　Sunday　for　the　cab；　and　was　just　behind　him　all　the　way。〃

〃Had　you　time　for　thinking　then？〃　asked　Ratcliffe。

〃Time；〃　replied　Syme；　〃for　one　outrageous　thought。　I　was　suddenly　possessed　with　the　idea　that　the　blind；　blank　back　of　his　head　really　was　his　facean　awful；　eyeless　face　staring　at　me！　And　I　fancied　that　the　figure　running　in　front　of　me　was　really　a　figure　running　backwards；　and　dancing　as　he　ran。〃

〃Horrible！〃　said　Dr。　Bull；　and　shuddered。

〃Horrible　is　not　the　word；〃　said　Syme。　〃It　was　exactly　the　worst　instant　of　my　life。　And　yet　ten　minutes　afterwards；　when　he　put　his　head　out　of　the　cab　and　made　a　grimace　like　a　gargoyle；　I　knew　that　he　was　only　like　a　father　playing　hide…and…seek　with　his　children。〃

〃It　is　a　long　game；〃　said　the　Secretary；　and　frowned　at　his　broken　boots。

〃Listen　to　me；〃　cried　Syme　with　extraordinary　emphasis。　〃Shall　I　tell　you　the　secret　of　the　whole　world？　It　is　that　we　have　only　known　the　back　of　the　world。　We　see　everything　from　behind；　and　it　looks　brutal。　That　is　not　a　tree；　but　the　back　of　a　tree。　That　is　not　a　cloud；　but　the　back　of　a　cloud。　C