The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

  CHAPTER XIV. THE SIX PHILOSOPHERS

  ACROSS green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled sixdraggled detectives, about five miles out of London. The optimist of theparty had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon acrossSouth England in hansom-cabs. But he was ultimately convinced of thepersistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and thestill more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon.Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke throughblack thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turnedinto a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp. Those greenhills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirablelight grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park. His silkhat was broken over his nose by a swinging bough, his coat-tails weretorn to the shoulder by arresting thorns, the clay of England wassplashed up to his collar; but he still carried his yellow beard forwardwith a silent and furious determination, and his eyes were still fixedon that floating ball of gas, which in the full flush of sunset seemedcoloured like a sunset cloud.

  "After all," he said, "it is very beautiful!"

  "It is singularly and strangely beautiful!" said the Professor. "I wishthe beastly gas-bag would burst!"

  "No," said Dr. Bull, "I hope it won't. It might hurt the old boy."

  "Hurt him!" said the vindictive Professor, "hurt him! Not as much as I'dhurt him if I could get up with him. Little Snowdrop!"

  "I don't want him hurt, somehow," said Dr. Bull.

  "What!" cried the Secretary bitterly. "Do you believe all that taleabout his being our man in the dark room? Sunday would say he wasanybody."

  "I don't know whether I believe it or not," said Dr. Bull. "But it isn'tthat that I mean. I can't wish old Sunday's balloon to burst because--"

  "Well," said Syme impatiently, "because?"

  "Well, because he's so jolly like a balloon himself," said Dr. Bulldesperately. "I don't understand a word of all that idea of his beingthe same man who gave us all our blue cards. It seems to make everythingnonsense. But I don't care who knows it, I always had a sympathy forold Sunday himself, wicked as he was. Just as if he was a great bouncingbaby. How can I explain what my queer sympathy was? It didn't prevent myfighting him like hell! Shall I make it clear if I say that I liked himbecause 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 solight. Just like a balloon. We always think of fat people as heavy, buthe could have danced against a sylph. I see now what I mean. Moderatestrength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity. Itwas like the old speculations--what would happen if an elephant couldleap up in the sky like a grasshopper?"

  "Our elephant," said Syme, looking upwards, "has leapt into the sky likea grasshopper."

  "And somehow," concluded Bull, "that's why I can't help liking oldSunday. No, it's not an admiration of force, or any silly thing likethat. There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were burstingwith some good news. Haven't you sometimes felt it on a spring day?You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they aregood-natured tricks. I never read the Bible myself, but that part theylaugh at is literal truth, 'Why leap ye, ye high hills?' The hills doleap--at least, they try to.... Why do I like Sunday?... how can I tellyou?... 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 betterthan I, and do not know hell. I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbidfrom the first. The man who sits in darkness, and who chose us all,chose me because I had all the crazy look of a conspirator--because mysmile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled. Butthere must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in allthese anarchic men. For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, notyour airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature ofThings. I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blinddown, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which ourmaster lives. He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark andout of shape. He listened to all my words without speaking or evenstirring. I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my mosteloquent questions. Then, after a long silence, the Thing began toshake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady. It shook likea loathsome and living jelly. It reminded me of everything I had everread about the base bodies that are the origin of life--the deep sealumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the mostshapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from itsshudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster couldbe miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain wasshaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do youask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at bysomething at once lower and stronger than oneself."

  "Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly," cut in the clear voice ofInspector Ratcliffe. "President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one'sintellect, but he is not such a Barnum's freak physically as you makeout. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, inbroad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I'll tell youwhat is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes areneat, everything seems in order; but he's absent-minded. Sometimes hisgreat bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you arethere. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. Wethink of a wicked man as vigilant. We can't think of a wicked man who ishonestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren't think of a wicked manalone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. Itmeans a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how willyou bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will killyou? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty.Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and feltthat the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They mightignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlourwith 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 morethan I stare at the sun at noonday."

  "Well, that is a point of view," said Syme thoughtfully. "What do yousay, Professor?"

  The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he didnot answer at all.

  "Wake up, Professor!" said Syme genially. "Tell us what you think ofSunday."

  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 somethinglike 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--everybodydoes, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that onecouldn't focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away fromthe 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 toexplain."

  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 lampand a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete andunmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know himagain. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was noface, 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 awayto right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his facehas made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don't knowwhether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective.Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close andanother fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not wortha dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubtsof a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism
is nota creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that youreally 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 theevening 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 canonly find one thing to compare him to--the universe itself. Bullfinds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. TheSecretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspectorof the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like achanging landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I alsohave had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I thinkof 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; andwhen I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neckand shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had astoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I hadat once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beastdressed 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 theother 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 wasevil. 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 afterheroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honourand sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-cladshoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind Iwas certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he wasa god."

  "Pan," said the Professor dreamily, "was a god and an animal."

  "Then, and again and always," went on Syme like a man talking tohimself, "that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also themystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the nobleface is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know theback is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good anaccident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could beexplained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I racedSunday 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 suddenlypossessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head reallywas his face--an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied thatthe 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 instantof my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out ofthe cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only likea father playing hide-and-seek with his children."

  "It is a long game," said the Secretary, and frowned at his brokenboots.

  "Listen to me," cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. "Shall I tellyou the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known theback 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 theback of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding aface? If we could only get round in front--"

  "Look!" cried out Bull clamorously, "the balloon is coming down!"

  There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes offit. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, rightitself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun.

  The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their wearytravels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit.

  "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend--my friend inthe dark!"

  "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. Ifhe has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a coltrolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun."

  "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so didPan."

  "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan iseverything."

  "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything."

  "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also meansPanic."

  Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations.

  "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!"

  Then he added with an indescribable gesture--

  "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one ofhis larks."

  He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his ragsand ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a morefootsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six menrealised that they were not alone in the little field.

  Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaningon a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine butold-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade betweenblue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of thewoodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, takenalong with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advancewas very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might havebeen one to the shadows of the wood.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in theroad just by."

  "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still.

  "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully.

  There was a silence, and then the Secretary said--

  "Where is this carriage?"

  "It has been waiting only a few moments," said the stranger. "My masterhas only just come home."

  Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in whichhe found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemedordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland.

  He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discovernothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purpleshadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red andbrown and golden sky.

  "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man inthe violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge,which let in suddenly the light of a white road.

  As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw thewhite road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such arow of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane.Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, alldressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality ofstateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servantsof a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a greatking. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of thetattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress)wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them,and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel.

  "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is thisanother joke of Sunday's?"

  "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of hiscarriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's agood-natured one."

  The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not onehad carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure ofcomfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but thingssuddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imaginewhat the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that t
hey werecarriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive whothe old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he hadcertainly led them to the carriages.

  Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment.It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forwardfiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business wastaken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse.

  Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads thecarriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates ofwhat might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hillwhich, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than aforest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly wakingfrom a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedgeswere what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a humanarmy, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind thehedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Thenhis carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly,like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mildlight of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards andquarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way theplace reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or thatcrooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of awindow; but each man of them declared that he could remember this placebefore he could remember his mother.

  When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernousgateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver staron the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressiveperson said to the bewildered Syme--

  "Refreshments are provided for you in your room."

  Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, wentup the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered asplendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially forhim. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of hisclass, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he sawthe frightful figure that he was--blood running down his face from wherethe bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rankgrass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the wholeenigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, andhow he was to get out again. Exactly at the same moment a man in blue,who had been appointed as his valet, said very solemnly--

  "I have put out your clothes, sir."

  "Clothes!" said Syme sardonically. "I have no clothes except these," andhe lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, andmade a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl.

  "My master asks me to say," said the attendant, "that there is a fancydress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume thatI have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and somecold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hoursbefore supper."

  "Cold pheasant is a good thing," said Syme reflectively, "and Burgundyis a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them somuch as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort ofcostume you have got laid out for me. Where is it?"

  The servant lifted off a kind of ottoman a long peacock-blue drapery,rather of the nature of a domino, on the front of which was emblazoneda large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flamingstars and crescents.

  "You're to be dressed as Thursday, sir," said the valet somewhataffably.

  "Dressed as Thursday!" said Syme in meditation. "It doesn't sound a warmcostume."

  "Oh, yes, sir," said the other eagerly, "the Thursday costume is quitewarm, sir. It fastens up to the chin."

  "Well, I don't understand anything," said Syme, sighing. "I have beenused so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventuresknock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should beparticularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with thesun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw themoon on Tuesday, I remember."

  "Beg pardon, sir," said the valet, "Bible also provided for you," andwith a respectful and rigid finger he pointed out a passage in the firstchapter of Genesis. Syme read it wondering. It was that in which thefourth day of the week is associated with the creation of the sun andmoon. Here, however, they reckoned from a Christian Sunday.

  "This is getting wilder and wilder," said Syme, as he sat down in achair. "Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, andgreen clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?"

  "Yes, sir, everything," said the attendant gravely. "Shall I help you onwith your costume?"

  "Oh, hitch the bally thing on!" said Syme impatiently.

  But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedomand naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell abouthim; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyishdream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across hisshoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had allthe swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, butreveal.