《代号星期四》10第八章 教授的解释（在线收听）

CHAPTER VIII. THE PROFESSOR EXPLAINS

 WHEN Gabriel Syme found himself finally established in a chair, and opposite to him, fixed and final also, the lifted eyebrows and leaden eyelids of the Professor, his fears fully returned. This incomprehensible man from the fierce council, after all, had certainly pursued him. If the man had one character as a paralytic and another character as a pursuer, the antithesis might make him more interesting, but scarcely more soothing. It would be a very small comfort that he could not find the Professor out, if by some serious accident the Professor should find him out. He emptied a whole pewter pot of ale before the professor had touched his milk.

One possibility, however, kept him hopeful and yet helpless. It was just possible that this escapade signified something other than even a slight suspicion of him. Perhaps it was some regular form or sign. Perhaps the foolish scamper was some sort of friendly signal that he ought to have understood. Perhaps it was a ritual. Perhaps the new Thursday was always chased along Cheapside, as the new Lord Mayor is always escorted along it. He was just selecting a tentative inquiry, when the old Professor opposite suddenly and simply cut him short. Before Syme could ask the first diplomatic question, the old anarchist had asked suddenly, without any sort of preparation—

“Are you a policeman?”

Whatever else Syme had expected, he had never expected anything so brutal and actual as this. Even his great presence of mind could only manage a reply with an air of rather blundering jocularity.

“A policeman?” he said, laughing vaguely. “Whatever made you think of a policeman in connection with me?”

“The process was simple enough,” answered the Professor patiently. “I thought you looked like a policeman. I think so now.”

“Did I take a policeman’s hat by mistake out of the restaurant?” asked Syme, smiling wildly. “Have I by any chance got a number stuck on to me somewhere? Have my boots got that watchful look? Why must I be a policeman? Do, do let me be a postman.”

The old Professor shook his head with a gravity that gave no hope, but Syme ran on with a feverish irony.

“But perhaps I misunderstood the delicacies of your German philosophy. Perhaps policeman is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense, sir, the ape fades so gradually into the policeman, that I myself can never detect the shade. The monkey is only the policeman that may be. Perhaps a maiden lady on Clapham Common is only the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being the policeman that might have been. I don’t mind being anything in German thought.”

“Are you in the police service?” said the old man, ignoring all Syme’s improvised and desperate raillery. “Are you a detective?”

Syme’s heart turned to stone, but his face never changed.

“Your suggestion is ridiculous,” he began. “Why on earth—”

The old man struck his palsied hand passionately on the rickety table, nearly breaking it.

“Did you hear me ask a plain question, you pattering spy?” he shrieked in a high, crazy voice. “Are you, or are you not, a police detective?”

“No!” answered Syme, like a man standing on the hangman’s drop.

“You swear it,” said the old man, leaning across to him, his dead face becoming as it were loathsomely alive. “You swear it! You swear it! If you swear falsely, will you be damned? Will you be sure that the devil dances at your funeral? Will you see that the nightmare sits on your grave? Will there really be no mistake? You are an anarchist, you are a dynamiter! Above all, you are not in any sense a detective? You are not in the British police?”

He leant his angular elbow far across the table, and put up his large loose hand like a flap to his ear.

“I am not in the British police,” said Syme with insane calm.

Professor de Worms fell back in his chair with a curious air of kindly collapse.

“That’s a pity,” he said, “because I am.”

Syme sprang up straight, sending back the bench behind him with a crash.

“Because you are what?” he said thickly. “You are what?”

“I am a policeman,” said the Professor with his first broad smile, and beaming through his spectacles. “But as you think policeman only a relative term, of course I have nothing to do with you. I am in the British police force; but as you tell me you are not in the British police force, I can only say that I met you in a dynamiters’ club. I suppose I ought to arrest you.” And with these words he laid on the table before Syme an exact facsimile of the blue card which Syme had in his own waistcoat pocket, the symbol of his power from the police.

Syme had for a flash the sensation that the cosmos had turned exactly upside down, that all trees were growing downwards and that all stars were under his feet. Then came slowly the opposite conviction. For the last twenty-four hours the cosmos had really been upside down, but now the capsized universe had come right side up again. This devil from whom he had been fleeing all day was only an elder brother of his own house, who on the other side of the table lay back and laughed at him. He did not for the moment ask any questions of detail; he only knew the happy and silly fact that this shadow, which had pursued him with an intolerable oppression of peril, was only the shadow of a friend trying to catch him up. He knew simultaneously that he was a fool and a free man. For with any recovery from morbidity there must go a certain healthy humiliation. There comes a certain point in such conditions when only three things are possible: first a perpetuation of Satanic pride, secondly tears, and third laughter. Syme’s egotism held hard to the first course for a few seconds, and then suddenly adopted the third. Taking his own blue police ticket from his own waist coat pocket, he tossed it on to the table; then he flung his head back until his spike of yellow beard almost pointed at the ceiling, and shouted with a barbaric laughter.

Even in that close den, perpetually filled with the din of knives, plates, cans, clamorous voices, sudden struggles and stampedes, there was something Homeric in Syme’s mirth which made many half-drunken men look round.

“What yer laughing at, guv’nor?” asked one wondering labourer from the docks.

“At myself,” answered Syme, and went off again into the agony of his ecstatic reaction.

“Pull yourself together,” said the Professor, “or you’ll get hysterical. Have some more beer. I’ll join you.”

“You haven’t drunk your milk,” said Syme.

“My milk!” said the other, in tones of withering and unfathomable contempt, “my milk! Do you think I’d look at the beastly stuff when I’m out of sight of the bloody anarchists? We’re all Christians in this room, though perhaps,” he added, glancing around at the reeling crowd, “not strict ones. Finish my milk? Great blazes! yes, I’ll finish it right enough!” and he knocked the tumbler off the table, making a crash of glass and a splash of silver fluid.

Syme was staring at him with a happy curiosity.

“I understand now,” he cried; “of course, you’re not an old man at all.”

“I can’t take my face off here,” replied Professor de Worms. “It’s rather an elaborate make-up. As to whether I’m an old man, that’s not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last birthday.”

“Yes, but I mean,” said Syme impatiently, “there’s nothing the matter with you.”

“Yes,” answered the other dispassionately. “I am subject to colds.”

Syme’s laughter at all this had about it a wild weakness of relief. He laughed at the idea of the paralytic Professor being really a young actor dressed up as if for the foot-lights. But he felt that he would have laughed as loudly if a pepperpot had fallen over.

The false Professor drank and wiped his false beard.

“Did you know,” he asked, “that that man Gogol was one of us?”

“I? No, I didn’t know it,” answered Syme in some surprise. “But didn’t you?”

“I knew no more than the dead,” replied the man who called himself de Worms. “I thought the President was talking about me, and I rattled in my boots.”

“And I thought he was talking about me,” said Syme, with his rather reckless laughter. “I had my hand on my revolver all the time.”

“So had I,” said the Professor grimly; “so had Gogol evidently.”

Syme struck the table with an exclamation.

“Why, there were three of us there!” he cried. “Three out of seven is a fighting number. If we had only known that we were three!”

The face of Professor de Worms darkened, and he did not look up.

“We were three,” he said. “If we had been three hundred we could still have done nothing.”

“Not if we were three hundred against four?” asked Syme, jeering rather boisterously.

“No,” said the Professor with sobriety, “not if we were three hundred against Sunday.”

And the mere name struck Syme cold and serious; his laughter had died in his heart before it could die on his lips. The face of the unforgettable President sprang into his mind as startling as a coloured photograph, and he remarked this difference between Sunday and all his satellites, that their faces, however fierce or sinister, became gradually blurred by memory like other human faces, whereas Sunday’s seemed almost to grow more actual during absence, as if a man’s painted portrait should slowly come alive.

They were both silent for a measure of moments, and then Syme’s speech came with a rush, like the sudden foaming of champagne.

“Professor,” he cried, “it is intolerable. Are you afraid of this man?”

The Professor lifted his heavy lids, and gazed at Syme with large, wide-open, blue eyes of an almost ethereal honesty.

“Yes, I am,” he said mildly. “So are you.”

Syme was dumb for an instant. Then he rose to his feet erect, like an insulted man, and thrust the chair away from him.

“Yes,” he said in a voice indescribable, “you are right. I am afraid of him. Therefore I swear by God that I will seek out this man whom I fear until I find him, and strike him on the mouth. If heaven were his throne and the earth his footstool, I swear that I would pull him down.”

“How?” asked the staring Professor. “Why?”

“Because I am afraid of him,” said Syme; “and no man should leave in the universe anything of which he is afraid.”

De Worms blinked at him with a sort of blind wonder. He made an effort to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice, but with an undercurrent of inhuman exaltation—

“Who would condescend to strike down the mere things that he does not fear? Who would debase himself to be merely brave, like any common prizefighter? Who would stoop to be fearless—like a tree? Fight the thing that you fear. You remember the old tale of the English clergyman who gave the last rites to the brigand of Sicily, and how on his death-bed the great robber said, ‘I can give you no money, but I can give you advice for a lifetime: your thumb on the blade, and strike upwards.’ So I say to you, strike upwards, if you strike at the stars.”

The other looked at the ceiling, one of the tricks of his pose.

“Sunday is a fixed star,” he said.

“You shall see him a falling star,” said Syme, and put on his hat.

The decision of his gesture drew the Professor vaguely to his feet.

“Have you any idea,” he asked, with a sort of benevolent bewilderment, “exactly where you are going?”

“Yes,” replied Syme shortly, “I am going to prevent this bomb being thrown in Paris.”

“Have you any conception how?” inquired the other.

“No,” said Syme with equal decision.

“You remember, of course,” resumed the soi-disant de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, “that when we broke up rather hurriedly the whole arrangements for the atrocity were left in the private hands of the Marquis and Dr. Bull. The Marquis is by this time probably crossing the Channel. But where he will go and what he will do it is doubtful whether even the President knows; certainly we don’t know. The only man who does know is Dr. Bull.”

“Confound it!” cried Syme. “And we don’t know where he is.”

“Yes,” said the other in his curious, absent-minded way, “I know where he is myself.”

“Will you tell me?” asked Syme with eager eyes.

“I will take you there,” said the Professor, and took down his own hat from a peg.

Syme stood looking at him with a sort of rigid excitement.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply. “Will you join me? Will you take the risk?”

“Young man,” said the Professor pleasantly, “I am amused to observe that you think I am a coward. As to that I will say only one word, and that shall be entirely in the manner of your own philosophical rhetoric. You think that it is possible to pull down the President. I know that it is impossible, and I am going to try it,” and opening the tavern door, which let in a blast of bitter air, they went out together into the dark streets by the docks.

Most of the snow was melted or trampled to mud, but here and there a clot of it still showed grey rather than white in the gloom. The small streets were sloppy and full of pools, which reflected the flaming lamps irregularly, and by accident, like fragments of some other and fallen world. Syme felt almost dazed as he stepped through this growing confusion of lights and shadows; but his companion walked on with a certain briskness, towards where, at the end of the street, an inch or two of the lamplit river looked like a bar of flame.

“Where are you going?” Syme inquired.

“Just now,” answered the Professor, “I am going just round the corner to see whether Dr. Bull has gone to bed. He is hygienic, and retires early.”

“Dr. Bull!” exclaimed Syme. “Does he live round the corner?”

“No,” answered his friend. “As a matter of fact he lives some way off, on the other side of the river, but we can tell from here whether he has gone to bed.”

Turning the corner as he spoke, and facing the dim river, flecked with flame, he pointed with his stick to the other bank. On the Surrey side at this point there ran out into the Thames, seeming almost to overhang it, a bulk and cluster of those tall tenements, dotted with lighted windows, and rising like factory chimneys to an almost insane height. Their special poise and position made one block of buildings especially look like a Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes. Syme had never seen any of the sky-scraping buildings in America, so he could only think of the buildings in a dream.

Even as he stared, the highest light in this innumerably lighted turret abruptly went out, as if this black Argus had winked at him with one of his innumerable eyes.

Professor de Worms swung round on his heel, and struck his stick against his boot.

“We are too late,” he said, “the hygienic Doctor has gone to bed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Syme. “Does he live over there, then?”

“Yes,” said de Worms, “behind that particular window which you can’t see. Come along and get some dinner. We must call on him tomorrow morning.”

Without further parley, he led the way through several by-ways until they came out into the flare and clamour of the East India Dock Road. The Professor, who seemed to know his way about the neighbourhood, proceeded to a place where the line of lighted shops fell back into a sort of abrupt twilight and quiet, in which an old white inn, all out of repair, stood back some twenty feet from the road.

“You can find good English inns left by accident everywhere, like fossils,” explained the Professor. “I once found a decent place in the West End.”

“I suppose,” said Syme, smiling, “that this is the corresponding decent place in the East End?”

“It is,” said the Professor reverently, and went in.

In that place they dined and slept, both very thoroughly. The beans and bacon, which these unaccountable people cooked well, the astonishing emergence of Burgundy from their cellars, crowned Syme’s sense of a new comradeship and comfort. Through all this ordeal his root horror had been isolation, and there are no words to express the abyss between isolation and having one ally. It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one. That is why, in spite of a hundred disadvantages, the world will always return to monogamy.

Syme was able to pour out for the first time the whole of his outrageous tale, from the time when Gregory had taken him to the little tavern by the river. He did it idly and amply, in a luxuriant monologue, as a man speaks with very old friends. On his side, also, the man who had impersonated Professor de Worms was not less communicative. His own story was almost as silly as Syme’s.

“That’s a good get-up of yours,” said Syme, draining a glass of Macon; “a lot better than old Gogol’s. Even at the start I thought he was a bit too hairy.”

“A difference of artistic theory,” replied the Professor pensively. “Gogol was an idealist. He made up as the abstract or platonic ideal of an anarchist. But I am a realist. I am a portrait painter. But, indeed, to say that I am a portrait painter is an inadequate expression. I am a portrait.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Syme.

“I am a portrait,” repeated the Professor. “I am a portrait of the celebrated Professor de Worms, who is, I believe, in Naples.”

“You mean you are made up like him,” said Syme. “But doesn’t he know that you are taking his nose in vain?”

“He knows it right enough,” replied his friend cheerfully.

“Then why doesn’t he denounce you?”

“I have denounced him,” answered the Professor.

“Do explain yourself,” said Syme.

“With pleasure, if you don’t mind hearing my story,” replied the eminent foreign philosopher. “I am by profession an actor, and my name is Wilks. When I was on the stage I mixed with all sorts of Bohemian and blackguard company. Sometimes I touched the edge of the turf, sometimes the riff-raff of the arts, and occasionally the political refugee. In some den of exiled dreamers I was introduced to the great German Nihilist philosopher, Professor de Worms. I did not gather much about him beyond his appearance, which was very disgusting, and which I studied carefully. I understood that he had proved that the destructive principle in the universe was God; hence he insisted on the need for a furious and incessant energy, rending all things in pieces. Energy, he said, was the All. He was lame, shortsighted, and partially paralytic. When I met him I was in a frivolous mood, and I disliked him so much that I resolved to imitate him. If I had been a draughtsman I would have drawn a caricature. I was only an actor, I could only act a caricature. I made myself up into what was meant for a wild exaggeration of the old Professor’s dirty old self. When I went into the room full of his supporters I expected to be received with a roar of laughter, or (if they were too far gone) with a roar of indignation at the insult. I cannot describe the surprise I felt when my entrance was received with a respectful silence, followed (when I had first opened my lips) with a murmur of admiration. The curse of the perfect artist had fallen upon me. I had been too subtle, I had been too true. They thought I really was the great Nihilist Professor. I was a healthy-minded young man at the time, and I confess that it was a blow. Before I could fully recover, however, two or three of these admirers ran up to me radiating indignation, and told me that a public insult had been put upon me in the next room. I inquired its nature. It seemed that an impertinent fellow had dressed himself up as a preposterous parody of myself. I had drunk more champagne than was good for me, and in a flash of folly I decided to see the situation through. Consequently it was to meet the glare of the company and my own lifted eyebrows and freezing eyes that the real Professor came into the room.

“I need hardly say there was a collision. The pessimists all round me looked anxiously from one Professor to the other Professor to see which was really the more feeble. But I won. An old man in poor health, like my rival, could not be expected to be so impressively feeble as a young actor in the prime of life. You see, he really had paralysis, and working within this definite limitation, he couldn’t be so jolly paralytic as I was. Then he tried to blast my claims intellectually. I countered that by a very simple dodge. Whenever he said something that nobody but he could understand, I replied with something which I could not even understand myself. ‘I don’t fancy,’ he said, ‘that you could have worked out the principle that evolution is only negation, since there inheres in it the introduction of lacuna, which are an essential of differentiation.’ I replied quite scornfully, ‘You read all that up in Pinckwerts; the notion that involution functioned eugenically was exposed long ago by Glumpe.’ It is unnecessary for me to say that there never were such people as Pinckwerts and Glumpe. But the people all round (rather to my surprise) seemed to remember them quite well, and the Professor, finding that the learned and mysterious method left him rather at the mercy of an enemy slightly deficient in scruples, fell back upon a more popular form of wit. ‘I see,’ he sneered, ‘you prevail like the false pig in Aesop.’ ‘And you fail,’ I answered, smiling, ‘like the hedgehog in Montaigne.’ Need I say that there is no hedgehog in Montaigne? ‘Your claptrap comes off,’ he said; ‘so would your beard.’ I had no intelligent answer to this, which was quite true and rather witty. But I laughed heartily, answered, ‘Like the Pantheist’s boots,’ at random, and turned on my heel with all the honours of victory. The real Professor was thrown out, but not with violence, though one man tried very patiently to pull off his nose. He is now, I believe, received everywhere in Europe as a delightful impostor. His apparent earnestness and anger, you see, make him all the more entertaining.”

“Well,” said Syme, “I can understand your putting on his dirty old beard for a night’s practical joke, but I don’t understand your never taking it off again.”

“That is the rest of the story,” said the impersonator. “When I myself left the company, followed by reverent applause, I went limping down the dark street, hoping that I should soon be far enough away to be able to walk like a human being. To my astonishment, as I was turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, and turning, found myself under the shadow of an enormous policeman. He told me I was wanted. I struck a sort of paralytic attitude, and cried in a high German accent, ‘Yes, I am wanted—by the oppressed of the world. You are arresting me on the charge of being the great anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ The policeman impassively consulted a paper in his hand, ‘No, sir,’ he said civilly, ‘at least, not exactly, sir. I am arresting you on the charge of not being the celebrated anarchist, Professor de Worms.’ This charge, if it was criminal at all, was certainly the lighter of the two, and I went along with the man, doubtful, but not greatly dismayed. I was shown into a number of rooms, and eventually into the presence of a police officer, who explained that a serious campaign had been opened against the centres of anarchy, and that this, my successful masquerade, might be of considerable value to the public safety. He offered me a good salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of very massive common sense and humour; but I cannot tell you much about him personally, because—”

Syme laid down his knife and fork.

“I know,” he said, “because you talked to him in a dark room.”

Professor de Worms nodded and drained his glass.

第八章 教授的解释

    当赛姆发现自己终于坐在一把椅子上，并且对面落座的是那个有着上扬眉毛和铅色眼皮的教授时，他的恐惧感又回来了。来自残酷的理事会的这个诡异的家伙肯定是在跟踪他。假如这个家伙兼具中风病人和跟踪者的角色，那么这两者巨大的反差可能会使他更感兴趣，但绝不会更镇静。稍稍有些安慰的是他发现了这个教授，而教授也许只能通过某起严重的事故才能发现他。在教授喝牛奶之前，他已经喝完了整整一壶的麦芽啤酒。

    不过有一种可能性使他既抱有希望，又无可奈何。有可能这种恶作剧意味着对他并没有任何怀疑，这只是某种正常的做法或前兆。可能这愚蠢的蹦蹦跳跳，他应当理解成某种友好的信号。可能它是一种例行公事。可能新任命的星期四总是被人沿着奇普赛德追赶，就像新任市长总是被人护送着通过那里。在赛姆能够策略性地发问之前，这位年老的无政府主义者未作任何准备地突然问道——

    “你是不是警察？”

    无论赛姆怎样预设，他都不希望会遇到这么一个严酷而实际的问题。他当时的心态恰巧能够使他带着一种粗鲁而滑稽的神色作出回答。

    “警察？”他边说边暧昧地笑，“到底是什么使你联想到我是警察？”

    “过程很简单，”教授耐心地答道，“我先前认为你看起来像个警察。我现在也这么认为。”

    “我先前走出餐馆时错误地戴了顶警察的帽子吗？”赛姆激动地微笑着问道，“难道我在身上的某个部位贴了号码吗？难道我的靴子看起来戒备心十足吗？我为什么必须是一个警察？让我做一个邮差吧。”

    老教授带着不以为然的严肃摇了摇头，可赛姆带着狂热的嘲讽继续说：“不过我可能误解了你的德国哲学的微妙之处。可能警察是一个相对的术语。从进化的意义上来讲，先生，猿猴相当缓慢地蜕变成警察，所以我本人绝对看不出他们细微的差别。猴子或许会变成警察。可能克拉彭公共草地上的少女也会变成警察。我不介意可能变成一个警察。我不介意变成德国思想中的任何东西。”

    “你参加了警队吗？”老人问道，不理睬赛姆所有即兴的孤注一掷的玩笑话，“你是一个侦探吗？”

    赛姆的心脏凝固了，但他的脸色没变。

    “你的暗示很可笑，”他开口道，“究竟为什么——”

    老人兴奋地用他中风的手猛敲了一下摇摇晃晃的桌子，差点把它打碎。

    “难道你没有听到我问了一个清楚的问题，你这个油嘴滑舌的间谍？”他疯狂地高声叫道，“你是不是一个警方的侦探？”

    “不是！”赛姆答道，仿佛站在绞刑台的踏板上。

    “你发誓，”老人说，把身子向他侧过来，他的死气沉沉的脸变得令人作呕地鲜活。“你发誓！你发誓！如果你发了假誓，你就会被打入地狱！魔鬼肯定会在你的葬礼上跳舞！噩梦将浮现在你的坟头！不会错！你是一个无政府主义者，你是一个炸弹刺客！难道你绝对不是一个侦探吗？难道你不是一名英国警察吗？”

    他把笨拙的手肘远远地横过桌子，把一只皮肤松弛的大手像帽檐一样伸到耳边。

    “我不是英国警察。”赛姆带着离奇的镇静答道。

    德·沃姆斯教授带着一种难懂的和善而崩溃的神色靠回到椅子上。

    “很遗憾，”他说道，“因为我是。”

    赛姆的身子笔直地跳起来，把身后的椅子撞退了。

    “因为你是什么？”他沙哑地问道，“你是什么？”

    “我是一名警察，”教授第一次满面堆笑，连眼镜片都透着笑意，“不过因为你认为警察只是一个相对的术语，我就和你没什么关系了。我是英国警察的一员，不过因为你告诉我，你不是一名英国警察，我只能说我先前是在一个炸弹刺客俱乐部遇到你。我认为我应该逮捕你。”说完这些话，他把一张蓝色的卡片放到桌上，这张卡片和赛姆自己马甲口袋里的那张一模一样，这是他警察权力的象征。

    赛姆一度以为宇宙真的颠倒了，所有的树木都向下生长，所有的星星都位于他的脚底。然而，相反的信念慢慢地浮现了。在过去的二十四小时里，宇宙真的颠倒了，不过现在颠倒的宇宙又恢复过来了。这个他一整天都在逃避的魔鬼只是一个寻常的老大哥，他在桌子的另一边坐着嘲笑他。这一刻他没有问任何细节化的问题，他只知道一个愉快而愚蠢的事实，那就是，这个以危险的逼人之势追踪他的幽灵，竟是一个企图赶上他的影子般的朋友。同时他明白他是一个笨蛋和自由人。从病态恢复过来的过程中，一定会有益于健康的蒙羞。在这样的临界点上只有三种可能：首先是不朽的撒旦式的自豪，其次是眼泪，第三是欢笑。赛姆的自负使他把第一种过程坚持了几秒钟，然后他突然采取了第三种方式。他把自己蓝色的警察证书从马甲口袋里掏出来甩在桌上；然后他把头猛地往后仰，直到穗状的黄胡子几乎直指天花板，就粗野地狂笑起来。

    甚至在这个封闭的恒久地充斥着刀叉、盘子、罐头的叮当声和人的喧嚷声，以及突发的扭打和逃窜的小酒馆里，赛姆的笑声所具有的某种荷马式的魔力使得许多半醉的男子扭过头来看。

    “你在笑什么，朋友？”一个码头工人好奇地问。

    “笑我自己。”赛姆答道，又回到了他出神反应的痛苦中。

    “振作起来，”教授说道，“不然你会变得歇斯底里。再喝点啤酒。我也喝。”

    “你还没有喝你的牛奶。”赛姆道。

    “我的牛奶！”教授以咄咄逼人的、深不可测的轻蔑语气说道，“我的牛奶！你认为我离开了那帮残忍的无政府主义者的视线就会正眼瞧这讨厌的东西吗？在这个屋子里，我们都是基督徒，尽管可能，”他扫了一眼周围喧嚣的人群补充道，“不是绝对的基督徒。喝完我的牛奶？该死！好，我就把它搞完！”他说完，就把平底无脚杯推下了桌子，玻璃撞碎，奶白色的液体洒了出来。

    赛姆愉快而好奇地盯着他。

    “我现在明白了，”他叫道，“你肯定不是一个老人。”

    “我不能在这儿把面具撕下来，”德·沃姆斯教授答道，“它是一个精心制作的伪装。至于我是不是一个老人，这不能由我来说。去年我三十八岁。”

    “不错，不过我的意思是，”赛姆不耐烦地道，“这对你无关紧要。”

    “对，”教授漠然答道，“我很容易得感冒。”

    赛姆笑了起来，他的笑声里有一种疯狂而脆弱的解脱感。一想起中风的教授其实是一个被舞台生涯精心装扮起来的年轻演员，他就觉得好笑。可是他觉得，即使一只胡椒瓶掉到地上，他也会笑得同样响亮。

    “你知不知道，”他问道，“那个果戈理是我们自己人？”

    “你问我？不，我不知道！”赛姆惊讶地说道，“难道你不知道吗？”

    “我不比死人知道得更多，”自称为德·沃姆斯教授的人答道，“我原先以为星期天在说我，我怕得要死。”

    “我当时也以为他在说我，”赛姆鲁莽地笑着说，“我一直把手搭在我的左轮手枪上。”

    “我也是，”教授严肃地说，“果戈理明显也是。”

    赛姆感叹着在桌上敲了一下。

    “是呀，那里有我们三个人！”他叫道，“七人中有三人足以搏一下了。要是我们当时就知道有三个人就好了！”

    德·沃姆斯教授的脸阴沉下来，他的目光低垂着。

    “我们是三个人，”他说，“即使我们是三百个人，我们仍然干不成事。”

    “即使我们三百对四个也不能成事？”赛姆问道，一脸嘲弄的神色。

    “不能，”教授冷静地说道，“即使我们三百人对星期天一个也不能成事。”

    只提到这个名字，赛姆就会又冷又愁；他心里的笑意消失了，嘴唇上的笑意也在消失。难忘的星期天的面孔像一幅彩色照片，跃入他的心中，令他惊恐。他注意到星期天和他的所有追随者的区别，那就是，这些追随者的面孔，不论多么残酷或邪恶，都会像普通人的面孔一样逐渐在记忆中变得模糊不清，而星期天的面孔则会变得越来越清晰，就像一个人的画像慢慢在记忆中复活。

    他们都沉默了好一会儿，然后就像香槟酒突然冒泡一样，赛姆的话语喷涌而出。

    “教授，”他叫道，“这让人无法忍受。你害怕这个人吗？”

    教授提起了他沉重的眼皮，张大了蓝色的眼睛，以一种超然的真诚盯着赛姆。

    “是的，我害怕，”他温和地说，“你也害怕。”

    赛姆沉默了。然后他站直身子，就像一个被侮辱的人，接着用力地把椅子推到一边。

    “是的，”他以一种难以形容的嗓音说道，“你是对的。我怕他。所以我对上帝发誓，我一定要抓住这个让我害怕的人，并且扇他的嘴巴。即使天空是他的宝座，地球是他的脚凳，我发誓也要把他拉下来。”

    “怎么拉？”教授盯着他问道，“为什么要把他拉下来？”

    “因为我怕他，”赛姆道，“任何人都不应该在宇宙里留下他害怕的东西。”

    德·沃姆斯教授暗暗地惊讶着对他眨了眨眼睛。他想要开口，可是赛姆低声地带着一种野蛮而欣喜的暗示继续说道——

    “谁愿意屈尊打倒那些他不害怕的东西？谁愿意贬低自己变得像普通的职业拳击手一样勇敢？谁愿意无畏地弯腰——就像一棵树？和你害怕的事物搏斗。你不会忘记有一个古老的故事，讲的是一位英国教士为西西里岛上的盗贼作了最后一次葬礼，而这个着名盗贼临死时说道，‘我不能给你钱财，但我可以给你一个终生的建议：把拇指按在剑上，然后向上刺’。所以我告诉你，如果你要刺星星就向上刺。”

    教授看着天花板，这是他习惯的一种姿态。

    “星期天是一颗恒星。”他说道。

    “你该把他看作一颗坠落的星星。”赛姆说着戴上了帽子。

    他决然的姿势使教授也茫然地想站起来。

    “你有没有想过，”他宽厚而困惑地问道，“你将去哪里？”

    “是的，”赛姆马上答道，“我将去阻止他们在巴黎扔出炸弹。”

    “你想过如何做吗？”教授问。

    “没有。”赛姆同样决然地说道。

    “你当然记得，”德·沃姆斯教授一边说，一边拉了拉胡子朝窗外望去，“当我们匆匆忙忙地解散时，对于暴行的整个安排还控制在那位侯爵和布尔医生的手中。侯爵现在可能正在渡过海峡。不过他去哪里、做什么，可能连星期五也不清楚；当然我们也不知道。唯一的知情者是布尔医生。”

    “去它的！”赛姆叫道，“我们还不知道他在哪里。”

    “是的，”教授令人费解而心不在焉地说道，“可我知道他在哪里。”

    “你会告诉我吗？”赛姆热切地盯着他问。

    “我带你去那儿。”教授说完，从衣帽钉上拿下他的帽子。

    赛姆站着大喜过望地盯着他。

    “你什么意思？”他严厉地问，“你会参加我的行动吗？你愿意承担风险？”

    “年轻人，”教授愉快地说道，“我很高兴注意到你认为我是一个懦夫。对此我只会说一个字，而这也完全符合你的哲学辞令的表达方式。你以为有可能扳倒星期五。我知道这是不可能的，不过我要去试一下。”他们推开了酒馆的门，一阵刺骨的寒风吹了进来。他们走出去，来到码头边黑暗的大街上。

    地上的积雪大多已融化，或是被人踩成了烂泥，时不时也有一块积雪在黑暗中显露出灰白，但不是白色。狭窄的街道潮湿而且充满了水洼，水洼凌乱地映射着闪亮的路灯，偶尔就像某个堕落的世界的碎片。赛姆穿过这光与影的交集时，感到一阵晕眩；但他的同伴走得很轻松，在街的尽头，灯光照耀下的些许河面看起来就像一条燃烧的火舌。

    “你去哪里？”赛姆问。

    “就在刚才，”教授答道，“我绕过街角看了看布尔医生是否已经上床睡觉。他很会养生，早早就睡了。”

    “布尔医生！”赛姆不禁惊叫，“他就住在街角附近吗？”

    “不，”他的朋友回答，“事实上他住得挺远，在河的那一边，不过在这儿，我们可以看清他是否已经睡觉。”

    说着他就转过了街角，面对着一个洒着点点光斑的阴暗的河面，他用手杖指向了河对岸。在似乎俯瞰泰晤士河口的萨利这一边，有一排又高又大的廉价公寓楼，像工厂的烟囱一样升到一个疯狂的高度，上面点缀着闪灯的窗户。它们特别的姿态和位置使整个街区的大楼看起来就像长着一百只眼睛的巴别塔。赛姆从未见到过美国的摩天大楼，所以他只能在梦境里想象这些大楼。

    当他凝视时，这幢亮着无数个灯的大楼，最高的一盏灯突然熄灭了，仿佛这个黑色的阿耳戈斯在对他眨眼。

    德·沃姆斯教授转过身来，用手杖敲了一下靴子。

    “我们来得太晚了，”他说，“懂养生的医生已经睡觉了。”

    “你说什么？”赛姆问，“他就住在那里吗？”

    “是的，”德·沃姆斯教授说，“就住在你看不见的一扇窗子的后面。一起去吃点晚餐吧。我们必须在明天早上拜访他。”

    说完，他就带着赛姆穿过几条偏僻小路，来到辉煌而喧嚣的东印度码头路。对这一带很熟悉的教授来到了一排点灯的，蓦然展现微明和宁静的地方，在那里一家年久失修的古老的白色小客栈就伫立在离路边二十英尺远的地方。

    “你可以意外，在这儿找到不错的英国客栈老得就像化石，”教授解释道，“我有一次在伦敦西区找到一家像样的客栈。”

    “我猜，”赛姆微笑着说，“这是伦敦东区的一家同样像样的客栈？”

    “是的。”教授一本正经地说完，走进了客栈。

    在那里他们吃得很痛快，睡得也很痛快。这些神奇的人们精心煮就的豆子和咸肉，以及他们从地窖中取出的令人惊讶的法国勃艮地红葡萄酒使赛姆极为兴奋地感受到一种新的友谊和舒适。在所有这些严峻考验中，他根深蒂固的恐惧就是孤立，此刻没有任何言语可以表达孤立和拥有一个同盟者之间的天渊之别。数学家也许会承认四是二的两倍。但二不是一的两倍；二是一的两千倍。这就是为什么尽管有上百种的不利条件，世界仍然要回归一夫一妻制的原因。

    赛姆第一次可以尽情地倾诉他整个令人吃惊的故事，就从格里高利把他带到河边的小酒馆开始讲起。他悠闲而详细地演讲，就像一个人对着他的老友讲话。他旁边扮作德·沃姆斯教授的那个人也一样健谈。他的故事几乎跟赛姆一样的愚蠢。

    “你打扮得太好了，”赛姆道，喝光了一杯马孔葡萄酒。“比上了年纪的果戈理好得多。我一开始就认为他的毛发太多了。”

    “这是艺术观点上的差异，”教授沉静地答道。“果戈理是一个空想家。他伪装成一个不切实际的或者具有柏拉图式理念的无政府主义者。但我是一个现实主义者。我是一个肖像画家。但实际上，把我说成一个肖像画家还不充分。我就是一幅肖像。”

    “我听不懂你的话。”赛姆道。

    “我就是一幅肖像，”教授重复道，“我就是着名的德·沃姆斯教授的肖像，我认为他现在在那布勒斯。”

    “你是说你伪装成他，”赛姆道，“可是难道他不知道你在白白地冒他的名？”

    “他当然知道。”他的朋友高兴地说。

    “那他为什么不告发你？”

    “我已经告发过他。”教授答道。

    “你务必解释一.下。”赛姆说。

    “我很乐意解释，如果你不介意听听我的故事的话。”这位着名的外国哲学家答道。“我本身的职业是演员，我的名字叫威尔克斯。当演员时，我结交各种各样放荡不羁的文化人和恶棍朋友。有时我接触黑帮的外围分子，有时我接触到艺术界的乌合之众，偶尔也会接触政治难民。在一个流亡的梦想家的巢穴里，我被引见给伟大的德国虚无主义哲学家，德·沃姆斯教授。除了他的外表，我对他了解不多。我仔细地琢磨过，他的外表非常令人讨厌。我明白，他证明了宇宙间的毁灭原则就是上帝；因此他强调要有一种狂暴而持续的能量来撕毁一切事物。他说能量就是一切。他又瘸又近视又有点中风。我遇到他时心情浮躁，我厌恶他到了极致，于是就决定模仿他。如果我是一个画家，我就会画一幅漫画。可我只是一个演员，我就只能把这幅漫画表演出来。我伪装自己，有意要疯狂而夸张地表现这位老教授下流而衰老的形象。当我走进满是他的支持者的房间时，我期待着会受到哄笑，或者（如果他们更过分的话）遭受到他们咆哮般的愤怒的侮辱之辞。我无法描述我感受到的惊讶，因为我进去时面对的是带着敬意的沉默，接着是（当我第一次张开嘴唇时）仰慕的低语声。对于完美艺术家的诅咒降临到我身上。我太敏锐，太真诚了。他们以为我真的是那位伟大的崇尚虚无主义的教授。当时我是一个心理健康的年轻人，我承认这对我是个打击。然而，在我能够完全恢复过来之前，我的两三个仰慕者跑过来表达愤怒，他们告诉我，隔壁房间里正上演着对我的公开侮辱。我详细地询问这件事。可能是一个莽撞的家伙装扮好自己对我进行可笑的模仿。我喝了太多不该喝的香槟酒，在愚蠢的一念之下，我决定观察一下形势。结果正对着听众的怒视以及我扬起的眉毛和冰冷的眼神，那位真正的教授走进了房间。”

    “我几乎不需要说产生了冲突。围在我身边的厌世主义者焦急地从一个教授看向另一个教授，想想明白哪一个更站不住脚。但我赢了。我的对手是这样一个不健康的老人，和我这样一个正处在壮年的年轻演员相比绝不会显得更虚弱。你看，他真的患有中风，在这种确定的限制条件下，他中风的样子就比不上我的严重。然后，他企图在思想上批判我的主张。我借用非常简单的托词进行反驳。每当他述说除他之外无人能懂的东西时，我就答以某样连我自己也不懂的东西。‘我无法想象，’他说道，‘你会臆想出这么一条进化即否定的原理，因为这条原理中固有的缺陷是构成变异的一项要素。’我轻蔑地答道，‘你是在品克沃兹的着作中读到这些东西的；退化在优生学上起作用的观点很久以前就被格鲁姆普揭示了。’我不必说世上从没有品克沃兹和格鲁姆普那样的人。但是周围的人（着实令我惊讶）却似乎对他们印象很深，这位教授发觉学术性的神秘方法使他在一个更为大胆的对手面前处于下风，就诉诸才智的一种更为大众化的表达方式。‘我明白了，’他冷笑道，‘你像伊索寓言中那头虚伪的猪一样获胜了。’‘而你像，’我微笑着答道，‘蒙田散文中的豪猪一样失败了。’我需要指出蒙田散文中没有豪猪吗？‘你的噱头成功了，’他说，‘你的胡子也成功了。’对于这种真实而机智的话语，我无法进行聪明的回答。不过我尽情地笑了，并胡乱地答道‘就像泛神论者的靴子，’然后带着所有胜利的荣耀迅速转身走了。这位真正的教授被扔了出去，尽管没人对他使用暴力，但一个男子非常耐心地企图扯下他的鼻子。我相信，现在他在欧洲到处被当作一个可爱的骗子。你瞧，他明显的认真和愤怒使他更显得有趣了。”

    “嗯，”赛姆说道，“我能够理解你为了一个晚上的恶作剧戴上他肮脏的老胡子，可是我无法理解你再也没把它摘下来。”

    “这就是故事的后半部了。”这位演员说道。“我离开现场时，身后是虔诚的鼓掌欢呼声，我一瘸一拐地走到街道上，盼望着能快点走得足够远，以便像正常人一样走路。令我惊讶的是，当我转过街角时，我觉得肩头被人一碰，转过身去却发现自己正处于一个高大警察的阴影下。他告诉我，我被通缉了。我立刻摆出中风病人的样子，以浓重的德国口音高叫道，‘对了，全世界被压迫者都需要我。而你拘捕我是基于我是伟大的无政府主义者德·沃姆斯教授的指控。’警察面无表情地查看了他手中的一张纸，‘不，先生，’他礼貌地说，‘你完全错了，先生。我拘捕你是基于你不是着名的无政府主义者德·沃姆斯教授的指控。’这种指控，即使是刑事上的，也肯定是两者中较轻的一种，所以我跟他走了，尽管心有疑虑，但并不惊慌。我被带进了几个房间，最后被带到一位警官的面前，他解释说他们正对无政府主义的核心层展开一场严肃的战役，而我的这种成功的伪装，可能对公共安全具有极大的价值。他给我一份丰厚的薪水和这张蓝色的小卡片。虽然我们的谈话不长，他给我的印象是一个具有丰富的知识和众多古怪念头的人；但我不能告诉你太多关于他个人的事，因为——”

    赛姆放下了他的刀叉。

    “我明白，”他说，“因为你是在一间黑屋子里和他谈的话。”

    德·沃姆斯教授点了点头喝光了杯子里的酒。