The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare
the Lord, and Satan came also among them.’”
“You are right,” said Gregory, and gazed all round. “I am a destroyer.
I would destroy the world if I could.”
A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he
spoke brokenly and without sequence.
“Oh, most unhappy man,” he cried, “try to be happy! You have red hair
like your sister.”
“My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world,” said Gregory.
“I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything;
but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!”
“I never hated you,” said Syme very sadly.
Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.
“You!” he cried. “You never hated because you never lived. I know what
you are all of you, from first to last—you are the people in power! You
are the police—the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are
the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive
that does not long to break you, only because you have never been
broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this
crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime
of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the
supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being
cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you
for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come
down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no
troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all
mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a
real agony such as I—”
Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.
“I see everything,” he cried, “everything that there is. Why does each
thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small
thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a
fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to
fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in
the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may
have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man
fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So
that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this
blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say
to this man, ‘You lie!’ No agonies can be too great to buy the right to
say to this accuser, ‘We also have suffered.’
“It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken
upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from these
thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of
unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man entered
insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander; we have not
been happy. I can answer for every one of the great guards of Law whom
he has accused. At least—”
He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of Sunday,
which wore a strange smile.
“Have you,” he cried in a dreadful voice, “have you ever suffered?”
As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than the
colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child. It grew
larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything went black.
Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his brain he seemed
to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text that he had heard
somewhere, “Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?”
When men in books awake from a vision, they commonly find themselves in
some place in which they might have fallen asleep; they yawn in a
chair, or lift themselves with bruised limbs from a field. Syme’s
experience was something much more psychologically strange if there was
indeed anything unreal, in the earthly sense, about the things he had
gone through. For while he could always remember afterwards that he had
swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever
come to at all. He could only remember that gradually and naturally he
knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy
and conversational companion. That companion had been a part of his
recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory. They were walking
like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some
triviality. But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body
and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to
everything that he said or did. He felt he was in possession of some
impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an
adorable triviality.
Dawn was breaking over everything in colours at once clear and timid;
as if Nature made a first attempt at yellow and a first attempt at
rose. A breeze blew so clean and sweet, that one could not think that
it blew from the sky; it blew rather through some hole in the sky. Syme
felt a simple surprise when he saw rising all round him on both sides
of the road the red, irregular buildings of Saffron Park. He had no
idea that he had walked so near London. He walked by instinct along one
white road, on which early birds hopped and sang, and found himself
outside a fenced garden. There he saw the sister of Gregory, the girl
with the gold-red hair, cutting lilac before breakfast, with the great
unconscious gravity of a girl.