《代号星期四》03第一章 塞夫伦庄园的两位诗人（在线收听）

CHAPTER I. THE TWO POETS OF SAFFRON PARK

 THE suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset. It was built of a bright brick throughout; its sky-line was fantastic, and even its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, apparently under the impression that the two sovereigns were identical. It was described with some justice as an artistic colony, though it never in any definable way produced any art. But although its pretensions to be an intellectual centre were a little vague, its pretensions to be a pleasant place were quite indisputable. The stranger who looked for the first time at the quaint red houses could only think how very oddly shaped the people must be who could fit in to them. Nor when he met the people was he disappointed in this respect. The place was not only pleasant, but perfect, if once he could regard it not as a deception but rather as a dream. Even if the people were not “artists,” the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face—that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat—that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bird-like neck had no real right to the airs of science that he assumed. He had not discovered anything new in biology; but what biological creature could he have discovered more singular than himself? Thus, and thus only, the whole place had properly to be regarded; it had to be considered not so much as a workshop for artists, but as a frail but finished work of art. A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a written comedy.

More especially this attractive unreality fell upon it about nightfall, when the extravagant roofs were dark against the afterglow and the whole insane village seemed as separate as a drifting cloud. This again was more strongly true of the many nights of local festivity, when the little gardens were often illuminated, and the big Chinese lanterns glowed in the dwarfish trees like some fierce and monstrous fruit. And this was strongest of all on one particular evening, still vaguely remembered in the locality, of which the auburn-haired poet was the hero. It was not by any means the only evening of which he was the hero. On many nights those passing by his little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of lawlessness with a certain impudent freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair parted in the middle was literally like a woman’s, and curved into the slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel and the ape.

This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers, and of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of it covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy. The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed small.

I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned without a rival; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised his entrance by differing with the established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.

In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two events.

“It may well be,” he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, “it may well be on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this garden.”

The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of the group, Gregory’s sister Rosamond, who had her brother’s braids of red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the family oracle.

Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

“An artist is identical with an anarchist,” he cried. “You might transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Syme.

“Nonsense!” said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else attempted paradox. “Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! oh, their eyes like stars and their souls again in Eden, if the next station were unaccountably Baker Street!”

“It is you who are unpoetical,” replied the poet Syme. “If what you say of clerks is true, they can only be as prosaic as your poetry. The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! it is Victoria. No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride. Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say!”

“Must you go?” inquired Gregory sarcastically.

“I tell you,” went on Syme with passion, “that every time a train comes in I feel that it has broken past batteries of besiegers, and that man has won a battle against chaos. You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. And when I hear the guard shout out the word ‘Victoria,’ it is not an unmeaning word. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest. It is to me indeed ‘Victoria’; it is the victory of Adam.”

Gregory wagged his heavy, red head with a slow and sad smile.

“And even then,” he said, “we poets always ask the question, ‘And what is Victoria now that you have got there?’ You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt.”

“There again,” said Syme irritably, “what is there poetical about being in revolt? You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desperate occasions; but I’m hanged if I can see why they are poetical. Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. It’s mere vomiting.”

The girl winced for a flash at the unpleasant word, but Syme was too hot to heed her.

“It is things going right,” he cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions, for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.”

“Really,” said Gregory superciliously, “the examples you choose—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Syme grimly, “I forgot we had abolished all conventions.”

For the first time a red patch appeared on Gregory’s forehead.

“You don’t expect me,” he said, “to revolutionise society on this lawn?”

Syme looked straight into his eyes and smiled sweetly.

“No, I don’t,” he said; “but I suppose that if you were serious about your anarchism, that is exactly what you would do.”

Gregory’s big bull’s eyes blinked suddenly like those of an angry lion, and one could almost fancy that his red mane rose.

“Don’t you think, then,” he said in a dangerous voice, “that I am serious about my anarchism?”

“I beg your pardon?” said Syme.

“Am I not serious about my anarchism?” cried Gregory, with knotted fists.

“My dear fellow!” said Syme, and strolled away.

With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company.

“Mr. Syme,” she said, “do the people who talk like you and my brother often mean what they say? Do you mean what you say now?”

Syme smiled.

“Do you?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” asked the girl, with grave eyes.

“My dear Miss Gregory,” said Syme gently, “there are many kinds of sincerity and insincerity. When you say ‘thank you’ for the salt, do you mean what you say? No. When you say ‘the world is round,’ do you mean what you say? No. It is true, but you don’t mean it. Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it.”

She was looking at him from under level brows; her face was grave and open, and there had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the bottom of the most frivolous woman, the maternal watch which is as old as the world.

“Is he really an anarchist, then?” she asked.

“Only in that sense I speak of,” replied Syme; “or if you prefer it, in that nonsense.”

She drew her broad brows together and said abruptly—

“He wouldn’t really use—bombs or that sort of thing?”

Syme broke into a great laugh, that seemed too large for his slight and somewhat dandified figure.

“Good Lord, no!” he said, “that has to be done anonymously.”

And at that the corners of her own mouth broke into a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous pleasure of Gregory’s absurdity and of his safety.

Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions. For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.

He stared and talked at the girl’s red hair and amused face for what seemed to be a few minutes; and then, feeling that the groups in such a place should mix, rose to his feet. To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night. For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream.

When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised (in some odd way) that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one. Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory. He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.

He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned.

“I was waiting for you,” said Gregory. “Might I have a moment’s conversation?”

“Certainly. About what?” asked Syme in a sort of weak wonder.

Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. “About this and this,” he cried; “about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold.”

“All the same,” replied Syme patiently, “just at present you only see the tree by the light of the lamp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree.” Then after a pause he said, “But may I ask if you have been standing out here in the dark only to resume our little argument?”

“No,” cried out Gregory, in a voice that rang down the street, “I did not stand here to resume our argument, but to end it for ever.”

The silence fell again, and Syme, though he understood nothing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.

“Mr. Syme,” he said, “this evening you succeeded in doing something rather remarkable. You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before.”

“Indeed!”

“Now I remember,” resumed Gregory reflectively, “one other person succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer (if I remember correctly) at Southend. You have irritated me.”

“I am very sorry,” replied Syme with gravity.

“I am afraid my fury and your insult are too shocking to be wiped out even with an apology,” said Gregory very calmly. “No duel could wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said.”

“In what I said?”

“You said I was not serious about being an anarchist.”

“There are degrees of seriousness,” replied Syme. “I have never doubted that you were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well worth saying, that you thought a paradox might wake men up to a neglected truth.”

Gregory stared at him steadily and painfully.

“And in no other sense,” he asked, “you think me serious? You think me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths. You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious.”

Syme struck his stick violently on the stones of the road.

“Serious!” he cried. “Good Lord! is this street serious? Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? One comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn’t keep something in the background of his life that was more serious than all this talking—something more serious, whether it was religion or only drink.”

“Very well,” said Gregory, his face darkening, “you shall see something more serious than either drink or religion.”

Syme stood waiting with his usual air of mildness until Gregory again opened his lips.

“You spoke just now of having a religion. Is it really true that you have one?”

“Oh,” said Syme with a beaming smile, “we are all Catholics now.”

“Then may I ask you to swear by whatever gods or saints your religion involves that you will not reveal what I am now going to tell you to any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will consent to burden your soul with a vow that you should never make and a knowledge you should never dream about, I will promise you in return—”

“You will promise me in return?” inquired Syme, as the other paused.

“I will promise you a very entertaining evening.” Syme suddenly took off his hat.

“Your offer,” he said, “is far too idiotic to be declined. You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow-artist, that I will not report anything of this, whatever it is, to the police. And now, in the name of Colney Hatch, what is it?”

“I think,” said Gregory, with placid irrelevancy, “that we will call a cab.”

He gave two long whistles, and a hansom came rattling down the road. The two got into it in silence. Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the river. The cab whisked itself away again, and in it these two fantastics quitted their fantastic town.

第一章 塞夫伦庄园的两位诗人

    伦敦郊区傍晚时分的塞夫伦庄园，鲜红的颜色及不规则的外形犹如日落时天际的云彩。塞夫伦庄园全由鲜亮的砖头砌成，整体构造轮廓怪异，甚至连平面图都显得狂放不羁。这是一位略带艺术气息的投机建筑商才情爆发的结果，他有时把这建筑风格称为伊丽莎白一世式，有时也称为安妮女王式，显然他认为这两位君主的风格完全一样。尽管这儿从未正儿八经地生产过任何艺术作品，但公正地说这儿可以描述为一种艺术群落；虽然自诩为知识分子聚集地的说法有点模棱两可，但自称乐园却无可争议。对于陌生人来说，第一次看到这奇异的红房子肯定会想适应这儿的一定也是古怪的人。当他遇到这儿的居民时他肯定不会失望。如果有朝一日他把这个地方当作是梦境，而不是一个假象时，那么它不仅令人愉快，而且完美无缺。

    这儿的居民不是艺术家，可这儿却充满了艺术气息。那个有渴望的、长着红褐色头发和无耻脸庞的年轻人——他不是一个真正的诗人，但他肯定是首诗。那个狂野的、长着狂放的纯白胡子、带着白色帽子的老绅士——令人尊敬的骗子不是一个哲学家，可至少他是其他人开始思考哲学观的起因。那个有着像鸡蛋的光秃秃的脑袋和像鸟类的脖颈的科学家似的绅士，尽管他摆出一副科学家的严谨姿态，但他并没有发现过任何新物种，而且他能发现比他自己更奇异的生物吗？

    因此，也仅仅是因此之故，这个地方就应当受到恰如其分的关注。它不应该被视为一个艺术家的作坊，而应该被视为一件脆弱的艺术成品。人们走进它的社交环境犹如踏入了一部已完稿的喜剧。

    最特别的是，当奢侈的暗黑色屋顶映衬着落日的余晖，整个疯狂的庄园如飘浮的云朵般疏离时，楚楚动人的虚幻之境就降临了。这种景象在庆典之夜时更是如此，那时小花园里会张灯结彩，而树上挂着闪闪发光的中式大灯笼犹如某种狰狞而怪异的果实。

    当地居民的记忆中，这个特别的夜晚这一幕最为抢眼——那位红褐色头发的诗人成了英雄。这不是他成为英雄的唯一的一个夜晚，许多时候只要经过他小小的后花园都会听到他对人，尤其是女人发号施令时高亢的说教嗓音。在这种情况下，女人的态度是这儿怪异的现象之一。这些女人大多数属于可以含糊地称为已获得解放、会公开抗议大男子主义的类型，但她们常常会通过倾听演讲的方式恭维一个男子，普通妇女绝不会这么做。卢西安·格里高利先生，这位红头发的诗人，确实（在某种意义上）是一位值得倾听的男子，尽管他在演讲结束时会受到嘲笑。他以卑鄙又带有某种新意的虚伪腔调演讲那种陈腐的关于艺术的无法无天和那些无法无天的艺术的话题，给听众些许的欢乐。他迷人而怪异的外表在某种程度上对他有所帮助，伴随着演讲的风格，他把他的外表价值推到极致。他的中分的暗红色头发简直跟女人的一模一样，如同拉斐尔前派画作中处女令人乏味的卷发。可是，在这种几乎是圣徒般的椭圆形范围之内，他的脸蓦然突起，变得开阔而冷酷，下巴向前突出带上了一种伦敦佬轻蔑的神色。这种外表的组合马上使神经质的听众神经瘙痒难耐、一片恐怖。他看起来就像一个活生生的亵渎神明的例子，一个天使与猿猴的混合体。

    这个特殊的夜晚，即使当地的居民忘记任何事物，也不会忘记那天奇怪的日落景象。那时看起来就像世界末日，整个天空仿佛盖满鲜艳的羽毛；你只能说天空布满了羽毛，那种几乎能拂到脸颊的羽毛。天穹下，这些羽毛大多数是灰色带着最奇怪的紫色和淡紫色以及一种反常的粉红或淡绿色；但往西，整片天空变得难以形容的透明和热烈，最后几朵火红的云彩遮住了太阳，使其成为看不到的美丽事物。一切都贴近地球，仿佛是在述说一个暴烈的秘密。天顶似乎是个秘密。它述说着那种辉煌的渺小，这种渺小正是当地爱国精神的灵魂。天空看起来很小。

    我要是说有些人仅仅通过那个压抑的天空就能记住那个夜晚，其他人能记住是因为它是塞夫伦庄园第二位诗人首次露面的标志。长久以来，这儿全由那位红头发的诗人独自掌控，就在这个特别的日落，这种状态戛然而止。这位自称盖布利尔·赛姆的新诗人有着一副外表温和的凡人相，长着突出的胡子和淡黄色的头发。不过人们注意到他并未像外表般温和，他公然阐述了与这位久负盛名的诗人格里高利截然不同的对于诗歌本质的意见，并以此来炫示他的登场。赛姆说他是一位注重法律的诗人，一位注重秩序的诗人；不，他是一位可敬的诗人。所以，所有在场的塞夫伦庄园的居民看着他，就像他刚从难以置信的天空跌落。

    事实上，卢西安·格里高利先生，这位主张无政府主义的诗人，把两件事串联起来。

    “很有可能，”他突然以抒情诗般的风格说，“在这云彩密布和令人痛苦的夜晚很有可能会有一位可敬的诗人如凶兆般在大地上出现。你说你是一位注重法律的诗人；我说你措辞矛盾。我只是惊讶你在这个花园出现的晚上并没有彗星和地震。”

    那个长着温顺的蓝眼睛和灰白胡子的男人以一种顺从而庄重的神情忍受这些斥责。在人群中，跟她哥哥一样长着红色头发，但脸庞却和善的格里高利的妹妹罗莎蒙德夹杂着赞赏和非难笑起来，这种赞赏和非难她通常只会给予家庭中的智者。

    事实上，格里高利恢复了演说家高涨的好心情。

    “一位艺术家和一个无政府主义者一样，”他说道，“你可以在任何地方替换这两个词。一个无政府主义者是一位艺术家。扔炸弹的人是艺术家，因为他偏爱任何事物的精彩时刻。他懂得火光的一次爆炸，完美雷声的一次轰响远比几个普通警察的奇形怪状的尸体更有价值。一位艺术家忽视一切政权，废除一切规矩。诗人只以混乱为乐。如果不是这样，世界上最有诗意的东西就会变成地下铁路。”

    “确实如此。”赛姆先生说。

    “胡说八道！”格里高利说。任何人要说稀奇古怪的话，格里高利就会变得理性。“为什么火车上所有的职员和劳工神色那么哀伤而疲惫，相当的哀伤而疲惫？我来告诉你们，这是因为他们知道火车在正常行驶，无论他们买了到什么地方的票他们总会到达。他们经过了斯洛恩广场之后就知道下一站一定是维多利亚，一定是。哦，他们狂喜，眼睛就像星星闪烁，而他们的灵魂就像再次回到伊甸园，如果下一站毫无悬念是贝克街的话！”

    “你是没有诗意的人，”诗人赛姆回答道，“关于职员们的话如果你说的是真的，它们就会像你的诗歌一样乏味。击中目标是罕见而离奇的事，而错失目标是荒唐而明显的事。当一个男子用一支野蛮的箭击中了远处的一只鸟，我们认为这如同史诗般壮丽；当一个男子用一个野蛮的火车头击中了远方的一个车站，这难道不也如同史诗般壮丽吗？混乱是愚蠢的，因为在混乱中火车实际上可能会驶向任何地方，贝克街或者巴格达。可人就是魔术师，他全部的魔力就在于此，他说维多利亚，瞧，维多利亚站就到了！不，带上你微不足道的诗集和散文集，让我带着骄傲的泪水念一张火车时刻表。带上你的拜伦，他庆贺人类的溃败；给我布拉德肖，他庆祝他的胜利。我要说，给我布拉德肖！”

    “你必须要走吗？”格里高利语带讽刺地问。

    “我告诉你，”赛姆继续激动地说，“每一列火车到来，我认为它突破了围攻者的排炮，而人也战胜了混乱。你轻蔑地说当一个人离开斯洛恩广场，他必定会到维多利亚。我要说一个人可以做一千件不同的事，而且每当我真的到了那儿，我总有一种侥幸逃脱的感觉。当我听到列车长喊出‘维多利亚’这个词，它并不是一个无意义的词，对我来说这是一个信使宣告征服的叫喊。对我来说它真的是‘维多利亚’，这是亚当的胜利。”

    格里高利摇了摇他笨重的红色头颅，脸上带着冷漠而黯淡的微笑。“即使在那时，”他说，“我们诗人总是要问这个问题，‘既然你到了那里，那么维多利亚是什么？’你认为维多利亚就像新耶路撒冷。我们知道新耶路撒冷只不过就像维多利亚。是的，诗人甚至在天堂的街道上也不会满足。诗人永远要造反。”

    “那么，”赛姆急躁地说，“造反会有什么诗意？你不妨说晕船富有诗意。恶心就是造反。恶心和造反两者在特定的危急场合都是有益健康的事情；可如果我能明白它们为什么富有诗意，我就该被吊死。抽象地说造反就是——令人作呕。它仅仅是呕吐。”

    听到那个令人厌恶的词汇，那个姑娘的脸部肌肉抽搐了一下，可赛姆过于慷慨激昂，并未注意到她。

    “事情走了正道，”他喊道，“那才叫富有诗意！比如，我们的消化能力神圣而安静地正常运转，这才是所有诗歌的基础。是的，最富有诗意的事，比鲜花还要富有诗意，比星星还要富有诗意——世界上最富有诗意的事就是不要恶心。”

    “确实，”格里高利傲慢地说，“你选的例子——”

    “我请求你的谅解，”赛姆冷冷地说，“我忘了我们已经废除了所有的规矩。”

    一块红斑第一次出现在格里高利的额头。“你不是指望我，”他说，“在这块草地上彻底变革社会吧？”

    赛姆直视他的眼睛，惬意地笑了。“不，我不是，”他说，“但我猜，如果你严肃对待你的无政府主义的话，变革社会恰恰是你将会做的事。”

    格里高利公牛般的大眼睛像发怒的狮子一样突然眨了眨，旁人几乎可以设想他的红色鬃毛竖了起来。

    “那么，难道你不认为，”他以一种危险的腔调说道，“我是严肃对待我的无政府主义？”

    “请再说一遍。”赛姆道。

    “难道我不严肃对待我的无政府主义吗？”格里高利握紧拳头叫道。

    “我亲爱的朋友！”赛姆说完走到一边，带着惊讶，也带着一种好奇的愉悦，他发现罗莎蒙德·格里高利还在他身边。

    “赛姆先生，”她说，“像你和我哥哥一样说话的人会说真心话吗？你现在说的就是你的真心话吗？”

    赛姆微笑，“你呢？”他问道。

    “你的意思是？”姑娘问道，她的眼神很严肃。

    “我亲爱的格里高利小姐，”赛姆温和地说，“真诚和虚伪有很多种。当你因为侍者给你盐而说‘谢谢’时，你是真心的吗？不。当你说‘地球是圆的’时，你是真心的吗？不。事实确实如此，但你不是这个意思。好吧，有时候像你哥哥一样的男子确实发现了一种他意指的东西，它可能仅仅是二分之一真实，四分之一真实，十分之一真实，但他所说的要超过他的本意——这完全是受真诚表达的需要所驱使。”

    她平静地注视着他，脸上严肃而开阔，上面却落下了无理性的责任感的阴影，这种无理性的责任感是最轻佻的女性的本质，也如世界上古老的母性关爱的本质。

    “他真的是一位无政府主义者，对吗？”她问道。

    “只是在我提到的那种意义上，”赛姆答道，“或者如你所愿，只不过是胡说八道。”

    她蹙起了宽宽的额头突然说道：“他该不会真的使用——炸弹或者诸如此类的东西吧？”

    赛姆大笑起来，这架势似乎和他瘦小的花花公子般的体格不相称。

    “天哪，不！”他说，“那种事要匿名才能做。”

    听到这句话，她咧开嘴笑了，格里高利的荒唐和他的安然无恙都使她心喜。

    赛姆和她在花园一角散步，继续滔滔不绝地讲述他的观点。尽管他表现得肤浅做作，根本上是一个谦卑的人，可他很真诚。谦卑的人总是讲得太多，而骄傲的人会把自己看得太严密。他用暴力和夸张来保卫体面，在赞美整洁和得体时激情洋溢。紫丁香的香气自始至终围绕着他。他一旦隐隐约约地听到在远处的街道上手风琴开始弹奏的声音，他就会觉得他夸张的语言在地下或者世界之外逐渐转变为微弱的腔调。他凝视着这姑娘的红头发和顽皮的脸蛋聊了几分钟，然后，他意识到应该跟这儿的人混熟，于是站了起来，可令他惊讶的是花园里面的人早已离开。就在他急匆匆离开时，他脑子里还残存着香槟酒的酒意，这是他后来无法解释的。随后而来的狂乱事件，这位姑娘都没有参与，直到他的故事结束，他们才再次相见。不过，他随后而来的所有的狂热和冒险，她都以像音乐一样的某种无法言明的方式反复出现，她耀眼的奇特头发就像一条红线贯穿那些黑色的、粗制滥造的夜之繁景。下面的故事未必会发生，它可能不过是个梦。

    当赛姆走出花园到星光照耀的街上时，寂静而空旷的街道使他意识到（以某种奇特的方式），这儿寂静是活生生的，而不是死气沉沉的。花园门口耸立着一盏街灯，将他身后栅栏的树叶染得金黄。就在灯柱大约一英尺远的地方，有个人僵直地站在那儿，黑色的高礼帽和长礼服，处在被截断的阴影中的脸也几乎一样黑。通过灯光下火红的刘海和那种咄咄逼人的气势才知道这是诗人格里高利。他的外表有点像蒙着脸、手拿剑等待敌人的暴徒。

    他犹疑着敬了个礼，而赛姆规规矩矩地还礼。

    “我一直在等你，”格里高利说，“我可以和你聊一会儿吗？”

    “当然可以。聊什么？”赛姆带着淡淡的惊奇问。

    格里高利用他的手杖敲了敲灯柱，然后敲了敲树。“聊这个和这个，”他说道，“聊秩序和无政府状态。这是你宝贵的秩序，一盏细瘦的铁灯，丑陋而不能生育；这是无政府状态，富足，活泼，能繁殖自我——这就是无政府状态，有着辉煌的绿色和金色。”

    “都一样，”赛姆耐心答道，“目前你借助灯光只看到了这棵树。我想知道你何时可以借助这棵树的反射光看见灯。”他稍稍停了一下，继续说：“我想问的是，你一直站在此处的黑暗中，是否只是为了要继续我们那小小的争论？”

    “不，”格里高利叫道，高扬的嗓音在整条街上回响，“我站在这里不是为了继续我们的争论，而是为了永远结束它。”

    又是一片寂静。尽管赛姆什么也没听懂，却本能地等他说出严肃的事情。格里高利以一种平静的嗓音带着令人困惑的微笑开始说话了。“赛姆先生，”他说，“今天晚上你成功地做了一件非凡的事情。你对我做的事以前没有任何男子成功地做过。”

    “千真万确！”

    “现在我记得，”格里高利边想边说，“有另外一个人也这样成功做过，那是南区的一艘廉价渡船的船长（如果我没记错的话）。你已经惹恼了我。”

    “非常抱歉！”赛姆严肃地回答。

    “我的愤怒和你的侮辱过于惊人，恐怕一句道歉无法消除，”格里高利非常平静地说道，“决斗也难以消除。即使打死你，我也不能消气。只有我选择的方式才可以消除这种侮辱，我将以我的生命和荣誉为代价向你证明你所说的是错的。”

    “我说错什么了？”

    “你说我不是一个严肃的无政府主义者。”

    “严肃也有程度上的差别，”赛姆答道，“我从不怀疑你在这个意义上是完全真诚的，你所认为、所说的话是完全值得的，也从不怀疑你认为一个悖论会使人们意识到一个被忽视的真相。”

    格里高利平静而痛苦地注视着他。“在其他意义上，”他问道，“你认为我不是严肃的吗？你认为我是一个偶尔说出真相的浪荡子。你认为在更深刻、更致命的意义上我并不严肃。”

    赛姆猛烈地用手杖击打路上的石头。“严肃！”他喊道，“天哪！这条街严肃吗？这些该死的中式灯笼严肃吗？这儿所有的人严肃吗？有人来这儿胡扯一通，或许有几分道理，但我相当鄙视那些谈论比他人生经历还要更严肃的事情的人——不管这更严肃的事情是关于宗教，或者仅仅是饮酒。”

    “很好，”格里高利脸色阴沉地说道，“你会看到某种比饮酒或宗教更为严肃的事情。”

    赛姆静静地站着，用他平常的温和神色等待着，一直到格里高利重新开口。

    “你刚才讲信仰宗教，你真的信仰某种宗教吗？”

    “哦，”赛姆眉开眼笑地说，“我们现在都是天主教徒。”

    “那么你可不可以以你所信仰的宗教中的任何神明或者圣徒的名义发誓，你不会把我将要告诉你的事情透露给任何亚当的子孙，尤其是不会透露给警方？如果你会承担这种可怕的自我克制，如果你同意让你的灵魂承担一个你绝不会发出的誓言以及一个你绝不会想到的真相，我将回报你一个保证——”

    “你将回报我一个保证？”就在对方停顿时，赛姆问道。

    “我将向你保证，这将是一个非常愉快的夜晚。”说完，赛姆突然脱下了他的帽子。

    “你的提议，”他说，“太过愚蠢以至我无法拒绝。你说一个诗人总是一个无政府主义者，我不同意；不过我至少希望他总是一个运动家。请允许我，此时此地，作为一个基督徒、一个好同志和一个同行艺术家发誓，我不会把这一切报告给警方，不管这是什么事。现在，我来说句疯话，这到底是什么事？”

    “我想，”格里高利平静地顾左右而言他，“我们得叫一辆马车。”他吹了两声长长的口哨，一辆马车驶了过来，两人不发一言地上了车。格里高利把切斯克地区泰晤士河岸边的一家偏僻的小酒馆的地址交给了车夫。马车迅速向前驶去，车里的两个怪人就这样离开了他们古怪的庄园。