The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare Read online

  CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO WAS THURSDAY

  BEFORE one of the fresh faces could appear at the doorway, Gregory'sstunned surprise had fallen from him. He was beside the table with abound, and a noise in his throat like a wild beast. He caught up theColt's revolver and took aim at Syme. Syme did not flinch, but he put upa pale and polite hand.

  "Don't be such a silly man," he said, with the effeminate dignity of acurate. "Don't you see it's not necessary? Don't you see that we're bothin the same boat? Yes, and jolly sea-sick."

  Gregory could not speak, but he could not fire either, and he looked hisquestion.

  "Don't you see we've checkmated each other?" cried Syme. "I can't tellthe police you are an anarchist. You can't tell the anarchists I'm apoliceman. I can only watch you, knowing what you are; you can onlywatch me, knowing what I am. In short, it's a lonely, intellectualduel, my head against yours. I'm a policeman deprived of the help of thepolice. You, my poor fellow, are an anarchist deprived of the help ofthat law and organisation which is so essential to anarchy. The onesolitary difference is in your favour. You are not surrounded byinquisitive policemen; I am surrounded by inquisitive anarchists. Icannot betray you, but I might betray myself. Come, come! wait and seeme betray myself. I shall do it so nicely."

  Gregory put the pistol slowly down, still staring at Syme as if he werea sea-monster.

  "I don't believe in immortality," he said at last, "but if, after allthis, you were to break your word, God would make a hell only for you,to howl in for ever."

  "I shall not break my word," said Syme sternly, "nor will you breakyours. Here are your friends."

  The mass of the anarchists entered the room heavily, with a slouchingand somewhat weary gait; but one little man, with a black beard andglasses--a man somewhat of the type of Mr. Tim Healy--detached himself,and bustled forward with some papers in his hand.

  "Comrade Gregory," he said, "I suppose this man is a delegate?"

  Gregory, taken by surprise, looked down and muttered the name of Syme;but Syme replied almost pertly--

  "I am glad to see that your gate is well enough guarded to make it hardfor anyone to be here who was not a delegate."

  The brow of the little man with the black beard was, however, stillcontracted with something like suspicion.

  "What branch do you represent?" he asked sharply.

  "I should hardly call it a branch," said Syme, laughing; "I should callit at the very least a root."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The fact is," said Syme serenely, "the truth is I am a Sabbatarian. Ihave been specially sent here to see that you show a due observance ofSunday."

  The little man dropped one of his papers, and a flicker of fear wentover all the faces of the group. Evidently the awful President, whosename was Sunday, did sometimes send down such irregular ambassadors tosuch branch meetings.

  "Well, comrade," said the man with the papers after a pause, "I supposewe'd better give you a seat in the meeting?"

  "If you ask my advice as a friend," said Syme with severe benevolence,"I think you'd better."

  When Gregory heard the dangerous dialogue end, with a sudden safety forhis rival, he rose abruptly and paced the floor in painful thought. Hewas, indeed, in an agony of diplomacy. It was clear that Syme's inspiredimpudence was likely to bring him out of all merely accidental dilemmas.Little was to be hoped from them. He could not himself betray Syme,partly from honour, but partly also because, if he betrayed him and forsome reason failed to destroy him, the Syme who escaped would be a Symefreed from all obligation of secrecy, a Syme who would simply walkto the nearest police station. After all, it was only one night'sdiscussion, and only one detective who would know of it. He would letout as little as possible of their plans that night, and then let Symego, and chance it.

  He strode across to the group of anarchists, which was alreadydistributing itself along the benches.

  "I think it is time we began," he said; "the steam-tug is waiting on theriver already. I move that Comrade Buttons takes the chair."

  This being approved by a show of hands, the little man with the papersslipped into the presidential seat.

  "Comrades," he began, as sharp as a pistol-shot, "our meeting tonightis important, though it need not be long. This branch has always had thehonour of electing Thursdays for the Central European Council. We haveelected many and splendid Thursdays. We all lament the sad decease ofthe heroic worker who occupied the post until last week. As you know,his services to the cause were considerable. He organised the greatdynamite coup of Brighton which, under happier circumstances, ought tohave killed everybody on the pier. As you also know, his death was asself-denying as his life, for he died through his faith in a hygienicmixture of chalk and water as a substitute for milk, which beverage heregarded as barbaric, and as involving cruelty to the cow. Cruelty, oranything approaching to cruelty, revolted him always. But it is notto acclaim his virtues that we are met, but for a harder task. It isdifficult properly to praise his qualities, but it is more difficult toreplace them. Upon you, comrades, it devolves this evening to chooseout of the company present the man who shall be Thursday. If any comradesuggests a name I will put it to the vote. If no comrade suggests aname, I can only tell myself that that dear dynamiter, who is gonefrom us, has carried into the unknowable abysses the last secret of hisvirtue and his innocence."

  There was a stir of almost inaudible applause, such as is sometimesheard in church. Then a large old man, with a long and venerable whitebeard, perhaps the only real working-man present, rose lumberingly andsaid--

  "I move that Comrade Gregory be elected Thursday," and sat lumberinglydown again.

  "Does anyone second?" asked the chairman.

  A little man with a velvet coat and pointed beard seconded.

  "Before I put the matter to the vote," said the chairman, "I will callon Comrade Gregory to make a statement."

  Gregory rose amid a great rumble of applause. His face was deadly pale,so that by contrast his queer red hair looked almost scarlet. But he wassmiling and altogether at ease. He had made up his mind, and he sawhis best policy quite plain in front of him like a white road. His bestchance was to make a softened and ambiguous speech, such as would leaveon the detective's mind the impression that the anarchist brotherhoodwas a very mild affair after all. He believed in his own literary power,his capacity for suggesting fine shades and picking perfect words. Hethought that with care he could succeed, in spite of all the peoplearound him, in conveying an impression of the institution, subtly anddelicately false. Syme had once thought that anarchists, under all theirbravado, were only playing the fool. Could he not now, in the hour ofperil, make Syme think so again?

  "Comrades," began Gregory, in a low but penetrating voice, "it is notnecessary for me to tell you what is my policy, for it is your policyalso. Our belief has been slandered, it has been disfigured, it has beenutterly confused and concealed, but it has never been altered. Those whotalk about anarchism and its dangers go everywhere and anywhere to gettheir information, except to us, except to the fountain head. They learnabout anarchists from sixpenny novels; they learn about anarchists fromtradesmen's newspapers; they learn about anarchists from Ally Sloper'sHalf-Holiday and the Sporting Times. They never learn about anarchistsfrom anarchists. We have no chance of denying the mountainous slanderswhich are heaped upon our heads from one end of Europe to another. Theman who has always heard that we are walking plagues has never heard ourreply. I know that he will not hear it tonight, though my passionwere to rend the roof. For it is deep, deep under the earth that thepersecuted are permitted to assemble, as the Christians assembled in theCatacombs. But if, by some incredible accident, there were here tonighta man who all his life had thus immensely misunderstood us, I would putthis question to him: 'When those Christians met in those Catacombs,what sort of moral reputation had they in the streets above? What taleswere told of their atrocities by one educated Roman to another? Suppose'(I would say to him), 'suppose that we are only repeatin
g that stillmysterious paradox of history. Suppose we seem as shocking as theChristians because we are really as harmless as the Christians. Supposewe seem as mad as the Christians because we are really as meek."'

  The applause that had greeted the opening sentences had been graduallygrowing fainter, and at the last word it stopped suddenly. In the abruptsilence, the man with the velvet jacket said, in a high, squeaky voice--

  "I'm not meek!"

  "Comrade Witherspoon tells us," resumed Gregory, "that he is not meek.Ah, how little he knows himself! His words are, indeed, extravagant; hisappearance is ferocious, and even (to an ordinary taste) unattractive.But only the eye of a friendship as deep and delicate as mine canperceive the deep foundation of solid meekness which lies at the base ofhim, too deep even for himself to see. I repeat, we are the true earlyChristians, only that we come too late. We are simple, as they reveresimple--look at Comrade Witherspoon. We are modest, as they weremodest--look at me. We are merciful--"

  "No, no!" called out Mr. Witherspoon with the velvet jacket.

  "I say we are merciful," repeated Gregory furiously, "as the earlyChristians were merciful. Yet this did not prevent their being accusedof eating human flesh. We do not eat human flesh--"

  "Shame!" cried Witherspoon. "Why not?"

  "Comrade Witherspoon," said Gregory, with a feverish gaiety, "is anxiousto know why nobody eats him (laughter). In our society, at any rate,which loves him sincerely, which is founded upon love--"

  "No, no!" said Witherspoon, "down with love."

  "Which is founded upon love," repeated Gregory, grinding his teeth,"there will be no difficulty about the aims which we shall pursue as abody, or which I should pursue were I chosen as the representativeof that body. Superbly careless of the slanders that represent us asassassins and enemies of human society, we shall pursue with moralcourage and quiet intellectual pressure, the permanent ideals ofbrotherhood and simplicity."

  Gregory resumed his seat and passed his hand across his forehead. Thesilence was sudden and awkward, but the chairman rose like an automaton,and said in a colourless voice--

  "Does anyone oppose the election of Comrade Gregory?"

  The assembly seemed vague and sub-consciously disappointed, and ComradeWitherspoon moved restlessly on his seat and muttered in his thickbeard. By the sheer rush of routine, however, the motion would have beenput and carried. But as the chairman was opening his mouth to put it,Syme sprang to his feet and said in a small and quiet voice--

  "Yes, Mr. Chairman, I oppose."

  The most effective fact in oratory is an unexpected change in the voice.Mr. Gabriel Syme evidently understood oratory. Having said these firstformal words in a moderated tone and with a brief simplicity, he madehis next word ring and volley in the vault as if one of the guns hadgone off.

  "Comrades!" he cried, in a voice that made every man jump out of hisboots, "have we come here for this? Do we live underground like rats inorder to listen to talk like this? This is talk we might listen towhile eating buns at a Sunday School treat. Do we line these walls withweapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hearComrade Gregory saying to us, 'Be good, and you will be happy,' 'Honestyis the best policy,' and 'Virtue is its own reward'? There was nota word in Comrade Gregory's address to which a curate could not havelistened with pleasure (hear, hear). But I am not a curate (loudcheers), and I did not listen to it with pleasure (renewed cheers).The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make aresolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday (hear, hear)."

  "Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that weare not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemiesof society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies ofsociety, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its mostpitiless enemy (hear, hear). Comrade Gregory has told us (apologeticallyagain) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers,we are executioners (cheers)."

  Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his faceidiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, andhe said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness--

  "You damnable hypocrite!"

  Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blueones, and said with dignity--

  "Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do thatI am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do notmince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfitto be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursdaybecause of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council ofAnarchy infected with a maudlin mercy (hear, hear). This is no time forceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. Iset myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all theGovernments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himselfto anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride(cheers). I am not a man at all. I am a cause (renewed cheers). I setmyself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I shouldchoose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall;and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methodson the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election--"

  His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces,that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew moreand more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipationor cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himselfas ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement andassent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same momentGregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shoutedagainst the shouting.

  "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that torehis throat. "Stop, you--"

  But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the roomcame the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder--

  "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls usmurderers; I go to earn it (loud and prolonged cheering). To the priestwho says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who saysthese men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who saysthese men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these Iwill reply, 'You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am cometo destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies.'"

  The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceasedWitherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, andhad said--

  "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post."

  "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands."Stop it, it is all--"

  The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent.

  "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, withmelancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the backbench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming forsome time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking thanany scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone.

  "This man cannot be elected. He is a--"

  "Yes," said Syme, quite motionless, "what is he?" Gregory's mouth workedtwice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into hisdead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, andsat down abruptly.

  Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard wasagain upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone--

  "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme."

  "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, thechairman, with mechanical rapidity.

  "The question is that Comrade Syme--"

  Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate.

  "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman."

  "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon.

  "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sinceritywhich for a moment staggered the
room, "but I give you a counsel whichyou can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for Ican give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a madcommand, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Donot elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that fora moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But youcould not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began--

  "Comrade Gregory commands--"

  Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory--

  "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in aheavier voice, "And you are not Thursday."

  "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in anecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether youdetest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take mycommand, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at yourfeet. I implore you. Do not elect this man."

  "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this isreally not quite dignified."

  For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a realsilence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man,and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly startedagain--

  "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday onthe General Council."

  The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and threeminutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, waselected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchistsof Europe.

  Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, thesword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant theelection was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paperproving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fierygroups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow orother, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare ofstunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes.

  "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last.

  "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity.

  "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head tofoot, "entrapped me into--"

  "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliamenthave you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear beforeI made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what wethink right is so damned different that there can be nothing betweenus in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us buthonour and death," and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders andpicked up the flask from the table.

  "The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be goodenough to step this way."

  With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short,iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly attheir heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons openedsharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river,that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark,dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye.

  Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to thegaping Gregory.

  "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "Youare a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to asmall particular. There was one special thing you promised me at thebeginning of the affair, and which you have certainly given me by theend of it."

  "What do you mean?" cried the chaotic Gregory. "What did I promise you?"

  "A very entertaining evening," said Syme, and he made a military salutewith the sword-stick as the steamboat slid away.