《代号星期四》16第十四章 六位哲学家（在线收听）

CHAPTER XIV. THE SIX PHILOSOPHERS

 ACROSS green fields, and breaking through blooming hedges, toiled six draggled detectives, about five miles out of London. The optimist of the party had at first proposed that they should follow the balloon across South England in hansom-cabs. But he was ultimately convinced of the persistent refusal of the balloon to follow the roads, and the still more persistent refusal of the cabmen to follow the balloon. Consequently the tireless though exasperated travellers broke through black thickets and ploughed through ploughed fields till each was turned into a figure too outrageous to be mistaken for a tramp. Those green hills of Surrey saw the final collapse and tragedy of the admirable light grey suit in which Syme had set out from Saffron Park. His silk hat was broken over his nose by a swinging bough, his coat-tails were torn to the shoulder by arresting thorns, the clay of England was splashed up to his collar; but he still carried his yellow beard forward with a silent and furious determination, and his eyes were still fixed on that floating ball of gas, which in the full flush of sunset seemed coloured like a sunset cloud.

“After all,” he said, “it is very beautiful!”

“It is singularly and strangely beautiful!” said the Professor. “I wish the 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’d hurt 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 tale about his being our man in the dark room? Sunday would say he was anybody.”

“I don’t know whether I believe it or not,” said Dr. Bull. “But it isn’t that 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. Bull desperately. “I don’t understand a word of all that idea of his being the same man who gave us all our blue cards. It seems to make everything nonsense. But I don’t care who knows it, I always had a sympathy for old Sunday himself, wicked as he was. Just as if he was a great bouncing baby. How can I explain what my queer sympathy was? It didn’t prevent my fighting him like hell! Shall I make it clear if I say that I liked him because 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 so light. Just like a balloon. We always think of fat people as heavy, but he could have danced against a sylph. I see now what I mean. Moderate strength is shown in violence, supreme strength is shown in levity. It was like the old speculations—what would happen if an elephant could leap up in the sky like a grasshopper?”

“Our elephant,” said Syme, looking upwards, “has leapt into the sky like a grasshopper.”

“And somehow,” concluded Bull, “that’s why I can’t help liking old Sunday. No, it’s not an admiration of force, or any silly thing like that. There is a kind of gaiety in the thing, as if he were bursting with some good news. Haven’t you sometimes felt it on a spring day? You know Nature plays tricks, but somehow that day proves they are good-natured tricks. I never read the Bible myself, but that part they laugh at is literal truth, ‘Why leap ye, ye high hills?’ The hills do leap—at least, they try to.... Why do I like Sunday?... how can I tell you?... 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 better than I, and do not know hell. I was a fierce fellow, and a trifle morbid from 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 my smile went crooked, and my eyes were gloomy, even when I smiled. But there must have been something in me that answered to the nerves in all these anarchic men. For when I first saw Sunday he expressed to me, not your airy vitality, but something both gross and sad in the Nature of Things. I found him smoking in a twilight room, a room with brown blind down, infinitely more depressing than the genial darkness in which our master lives. He sat there on a bench, a huge heap of a man, dark and out of shape. He listened to all my words without speaking or even stirring. I poured out my most passionate appeals, and asked my most eloquent questions. Then, after a long silence, the Thing began to shake, and I thought it was shaken by some secret malady. It shook like a loathsome and living jelly. It reminded me of everything I had ever read about the base bodies that are the origin of life—the deep sea lumps and protoplasm. It seemed like the final form of matter, the most shapeless and the most shameful. I could only tell myself, from its shudderings, that it was something at least that such a monster could be miserable. And then it broke upon me that the bestial mountain was shaking with a lonely laughter, and the laughter was at me. Do you ask me to forgive him that? It is no small thing to be laughed at by something at once lower and stronger than oneself.”

“Surely you fellows are exaggerating wildly,” cut in the clear voice of Inspector Ratcliffe. “President Sunday is a terrible fellow for one’s intellect, but he is not such a Barnum’s freak physically as you make out. He received me in an ordinary office, in a grey check coat, in broad daylight. He talked to me in an ordinary way. But I’ll tell you what is a trifle creepy about Sunday. His room is neat, his clothes are neat, everything seems in order; but he’s absent-minded. Sometimes his great bright eyes go quite blind. For hours he forgets that you are there. Now absent-mindedness is just a bit too awful in a bad man. We think of a wicked man as vigilant. We can’t think of a wicked man who is honestly and sincerely dreamy, because we daren’t think of a wicked man alone with himself. An absentminded man means a good-natured man. It means a man who, if he happens to see you, will apologise. But how will you bear an absentminded man who, if he happens to see you, will kill you? That is what tries the nerves, abstraction combined with cruelty. Men have felt it sometimes when they went through wild forests, and felt that the animals there were at once innocent and pitiless. They might ignore or slay. How would you like to pass ten mortal hours in a parlour with 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 more than I stare at the sun at noonday.”

“Well, that is a point of view,” said Syme thoughtfully. “What do you say, Professor?”

The Professor was walking with bent head and trailing stick, and he did not answer at all.

“Wake up, Professor!” said Syme genially. “Tell us what you think of Sunday.”

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 something like 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—everybody does, but I also thought it was too loose. The face was so big, that one couldn’t focus it or make it a face at all. The eye was so far away from the 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 to explain.”

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 lamp and a lighted window and a cloud make together a most complete and unmistakable face. If anyone in heaven has that face I shall know him again. Yet when I walked a little farther I found that there was no face, 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 away to right and left, as such chance pictures run away. And so his face has made me, somehow, doubt whether there are any faces. I don’t know whether your face, Bull, is a face or a combination in perspective. Perhaps one black disc of your beastly glasses is quite close and another fifty miles away. Oh, the doubts of a materialist are not worth a dump. Sunday has taught me the last and the worst doubts, the doubts of a spiritualist. I am a Buddhist, I suppose; and Buddhism is not a creed, it is a doubt. My poor dear Bull, I do not believe that you really 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 the evening 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 can only find one thing to compare him to—the universe itself. Bull finds him like the earth in spring, Gogol like the sun at noonday. The Secretary is reminded of the shapeless protoplasm, and the Inspector of the carelessness of virgin forests. The Professor says he is like a changing landscape. This is queer, but it is queerer still that I also have had my odd notion about the President, and I also find that I think of 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; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed 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 the other 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 was evil. 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 after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.”

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

“Then, and again and always,” went on Syme like a man talking to himself, “that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday 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 suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face—an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the 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 instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children.”

“It is a long game,” said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots.

“Listen to me,” cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. “Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back 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 the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? 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 off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun.

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

“He is dead!” he cried. “And now I know he was my friend—my friend in the dark!”

“Dead!” snorted the Secretary. “You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun.”

“Clashing his hoofs,” said the Professor. “The colts do, and so did Pan.”

“Pan again!” said Dr. Bull irritably. “You seem to think Pan is everything.”

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

“Don’t forget,” said the Secretary, looking down, “that he also means Panic.”

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 of his larks.”

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

Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road 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 master has only just come home.”

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

He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man’s coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man’s face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky.

“Show us the place,” Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the 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 the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row 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, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered 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 this another joke of Sunday’s?”

“I don’t know,” said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; “but if it is, it’s one of the jokes you talk about. It’s a good-natured one.”

The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly 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 forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken 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 the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his 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 mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother.

When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme—

“Refreshments are provided for you in your room.”

Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was—blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him, his hair standing out like yellow rags of rank grass, his clothes torn into long, wavering tatters. At once the whole enigma sprang up, simply as the question of how he had got there, and how 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,” and he lifted two long strips of his frock-coat in fascinating festoons, and made a movement as if to twirl like a ballet girl.

“My master asks me to say,” said the attendant, “that there is a fancy dress ball tonight, and that he desires you to put on the costume that I have laid out. Meanwhile, sir, there is a bottle of Burgundy and some cold pheasant, which he hopes you will not refuse, as it is some hours before supper.”

“Cold pheasant is a good thing,” said Syme reflectively, “and Burgundy is a spanking good thing. But really I do not want either of them so much as I want to know what the devil all this means, and what sort of costume 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 emblazoned a large golden sun, and which was splashed here and there with flaming stars and crescents.

“You’re to be dressed as Thursday, sir,” said the valet somewhat affably.

“Dressed as Thursday!” said Syme in meditation. “It doesn’t sound a warm costume.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the other eagerly, “the Thursday costume is quite warm, sir. It fastens up to the chin.”

“Well, I don’t understand anything,” said Syme, sighing. “I have been used so long to uncomfortable adventures that comfortable adventures knock me out. Still, I may be allowed to ask why I should be particularly like Thursday in a green frock spotted all over with the sun and moon. Those orbs, I think, shine on other days. I once saw the moon on Tuesday, I remember.”

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

“This is getting wilder and wilder,” said Syme, as he sat down in a chair. “Who are these people who provide cold pheasant and Burgundy, and green clothes and Bibles? Do they provide everything?”

“Yes, sir, everything,” said the attendant gravely. “Shall I help you on with your costume?”

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

But though he affected to despise the mummery, he felt a curious freedom and naturalness in his movements as the blue and gold garment fell about him; and when he found that he had to wear a sword, it stirred a boyish dream. As he passed out of the room he flung the folds across his shoulder with a gesture, his sword stood out at an angle, and he had all the swagger of a troubadour. For these disguises did not disguise, but reveal.

第十四章 六位哲学家

    六个全身湿透的侦探走过绿色的田野，又穿过开着花的树篱，来到了伦敦城五英里之外的地方。他们中的一个乐天派起初建议他们应该乘马车跟着气球穿过英格兰南部，但他最后确信，气球始终不会顺着马路飞行，而马车夫更是严辞拒绝要跟上气球。结果，这些恼火但孜孜不倦的旅行者穿过黑色的灌木丛，又走过一片又一片的田野，直到他们每个人的样子变得连流浪汉都不如。萨里的青山目睹了赛姆从塞夫伦庄园出发就穿着的那套极好的淡灰色西装的最后崩溃的悲剧。他的丝帽被摇晃的树枝划开了，他的衣服被缠人的荆棘一直从后摆撕到肩膀，英格兰的烂泥溅到了他的衣领，但他仍然以沉默而狂暴的决心挺着黄色的胡子前行，他的眼睛仍然盯着那个飘浮的，在日落的万丈红光中看起来就像一朵着色的云彩的气球。

    “毕竟，”他说道，“它很美！”

    “它美得奇特而不可思议！”教授说道，“我希望这个可恶的气球会爆炸！”

    “不，”布尔医生说道，“我希望它不会。那可能会伤到这个老家伙。”

    “伤到他！”教授恨恨地说道，“伤到他！还不如我登上气球揍他一顿。小雪莲！”

    “不知怎么的，我不想他受到伤害。”布尔医生说。

    “什么！”秘书痛苦地叫道，“你相信那个关于他是坐在黑屋里的我们自己人的故事吗？星期天可以说他是任何人。”

    “我不知道我是否相信它，”布尔医生说，“但它不符合我的本意。我不能希望星期天的气球爆炸是因为——”

    “嗯，”赛姆不耐烦道，“因为什么？”

    “好吧，是因为他就像一只快乐的气球。”布尔医生不顾一切地说道。“关于他是发给我们蓝色卡片说法，我并不理解。这似乎使一切都讲不通了。但我不介意谁理解这一点，我总是对星期天怀有同情，尽管他很邪恶。但他就像一个巨大的蹦蹦跳跳的婴孩。我该如何解释我这奇怪的同情是怎么一回事？这并没有阻止我拼死和他搏斗！如果我说我喜欢他是因为他很胖，我应该把这挑明吗？”

    “你不必。”秘书说道。

    “现在我明白了，”布尔叫道，“这是因为他那么胖又那么轻，就像一个气球。我们总是认为胖子很笨重，但他可以和一个窈窕淑女跳舞。我现在明白了我的意思。中等的力量在暴力中显露出来，而最大的力量则在轻浮中显露出来。这就像古老的猜想——如果大象能像蚱蜢一样跳到天上，那么会发生什么？”

    “我们的大象，”赛姆边说边朝天上看，“已经像蚱蜢一样跳到了天上。”

    “不知怎么的，”布尔总结道，“那就是我忍不住要喜欢星期天的原因。不，这不是赞美力量，也不是赞美任何诸如此类的蠢东西。在这件事物上存在着一种快乐，就好像他会带着某种好消息爆炸。你有没有在某个春日感受过这种情况？你知道自然也会玩花招，但无论如何，有朝一日会证明它们是善意的花招。我从不看圣经，但他们嘲笑的那部分却句句是真，‘为什么跳跃，你们这些高山？’这些山确实在跳跃——至少，它们试图……我为什么喜欢星期天？……我如何告诉你？……因为他是这样的一个粗人。”

    长时间的沉默，然后秘书以紧张而好奇的嗓音说道：“你们都不了解星期天。也许这是因为你们比我善良，而且不了解地狱。我当时是一个狂热的家伙，而且从一开始就有点病态。那个坐在黑暗中选择了我们所有人的那个人，他选择我是因为我具有一个阴谋者的全部疯狂的外表——因为甚至连我微笑时，我的笑容都是扭曲的，我的眼神很忧郁。我身上肯定有某样东西切合所有这些无政府主义者的神经。当我第一次见到星期天时，他跟我讲的，不是你们轻佻的活力，而是煞有介事的粗俗而可悲的东西。我发现他在一个微明的房间里抽烟，棕色的百叶窗已经关上了，这使得整个屋子比我们的主人常年居住的环境压抑得多。他坐在一条长椅上，块头很大，黑蒙蒙、病恹恹的样子。他倾听我的一切，自己一言不发，一动不动。我倾诉着我最恳切的请求，也询问了我最有说服力的问题。然后，在长久的沉默之后，那个家伙开始抖动起来，我认为这是某种隐秘的疾病导致的抖动，抖动的样子就像一只可恶的使用中的夜壶。这使我想起了所有我读过的作为生命起源的基本物质——深海块状物和原生质，就像物质的最终形式，最难看、最可耻的形式。从他的抖动中，我只能告诉自己，这至少表明这样一个怪物也可能会痛苦。然后，我突然看到这个巨大的野兽一边颤抖，一边独自笑起来，而且他是在笑我。你让我为这而原谅他吗？被那个比你低俗而强壮的东西嘲笑不是一件小事。”

    “你们这些家伙肯定是在疯狂地说大话，”拉特克利夫巡官清脆地插嘴道说，“星期天是一个挑战我们智力的可怕家伙，但在肉体上他并不是一个巴纳姆的怪物（Barnum's freak），他在一间普通的办公室接待了我，当时穿着棕色的格子图案外套，当时是大白天。他用很平常的方式和我谈话。但我要告诉你们，星期天令人毛骨悚然的地方。他的屋子和衣服很整洁，一切显得有条不紊；但他却心不在焉。有时候，他明亮的大眼睛恍然无神，在好几个小时里，他忘记了你人在那儿。现在心不在焉对一个坏人来说，有点太糟糕了。我们认为一个坏人应该很警惕。我们无法想象一个真诚爱做白日梦的坏人，因为我们不敢想象会有一个独处的坏人。一个心不在焉的人意味着一个善良的人。这意味着，他与你不期而遇时会向你道歉。但是你怎么能忍受一个与你不期而遇时会干掉你的心不在焉的人？心不在焉和残忍掺和在一起就会折磨人的神经。当人们经过原始森林时，有时候就会有这种感受，而且他们会觉得动物既无辜又残酷。他们可以不理睬这些动物，也可以杀死它们。你怎么会喜欢和一头心不在焉的老虎一起在客厅里度过要命的十个小时？”

    “你对星期天怎么看，果戈理？”赛姆问道。

    “基本上我跟星期天的认识，”果戈理简洁地说道，“并没有超过正午我看太阳时的感受。”

    “不错，这也是一种观点。”赛姆沉思着说道，“你怎么看，教授？”

    教授正低着头拖着手杖向前走着，他没有回答。

    “醒醒，教授！”赛姆和蔼地说道，“告诉我们，你对星期天的看法。”

    教授终于慢悠悠地开了口。

    “我想到一件，”他说道，“我说不清楚的事情。或者，我想到一件我甚至无法想清楚的事情。不过这件事是这样的。我年轻时的生活，正如你们所知，有点太放肆和放荡了。”

    “嗯，当初我看到星期天的脸时，我觉得它太大了——每个人都这么认为，而且我还觉得它太松弛了。这张脸那么大，以至于别人无法看清它或者把它当作一张脸。眼睛离鼻子那么远，所以就不像是眼睛。嘴也很大，所以别人以为它自成一体。所有这些很难说清。”

    他停顿了一下，仍然拖着他的手杖，然后继续说道——

    “不过这么说吧。夜里走在马路上，我看见一盏灯、一扇亮灯的窗户和一朵云彩共同构成了一张最完整、最明确无误的脸。如果天堂里有那张脸，我就会再度认识他。可是当我走得稍远一些，我才发现并没有什么脸，那扇窗户离我十码远，那盏灯离我一千码远，而那朵云彩远离世界。嗨，我没有看清星期天的脸，他的脸忽左忽右地摇晃，就像我无意中看到的图景离我而去。所以，他的脸至少使我怀疑是否真的有脸存在。我不知道是否你的脸，布尔，是一张脸或者一个恰当的组合体。也许你那副可憎的眼镜，一块黑色镜片很近，而另一块有五十英里远。哦，一个唯物论者的怀疑连一堆垃圾都不值。星期天教会了我最终和最糟糕的怀疑，一个唯心论者的怀疑。我想我是一个佛教徒，佛教不是一种信念，它是一种怀疑。我可怜而亲爱的布尔，我认为你实际上没有脸。我没有足够的信仰来相信物质。”

    赛姆的双眼仍然紧盯着飘浮的气球，气球被夜光染红了，看起来就像一个更美好、更纯洁的世界。

    “你们在你们的叙述中，”他说道，“有没有注意到一个奇怪的现象？你们每个人发现的都是不一样的星期天，然而你们每个人只能把他比作一样东西——宇宙本身。布尔发现他就像春天的大地，果戈理发现他就像正午的太阳。秘书联想到了丑陋的原生质，而巡官想到了未开发的原始森林，教授说他就像不断变化的景致。这很怪异，但更为怪异的是我也有我自己关于星期天的奇特看法，我也发现我对于星期天的看法就像我对整个世界的看法。”

    “讲得稍微快一点，赛姆，”布尔说，“别在乎那个气球。”

    “当我第一次看见星期天，”赛姆慢悠悠地说道，“我只看见了他的后背，当我看到他的后背时，我就知道他就是世界上最坏的那个人。他的脖子和肩膀是野蛮的，脑袋弯下去时几乎没有人样，就像一头低着头的牛。事实上，我马上厌恶地想到这不是一个人，而是一头披着人装的野兽。”

    “继续。”布尔医生说道。

    “然后，奇怪的事情发生了。他坐在阳台上时，我从街上看到了他的后背。然后我走进饭店，绕到了他的另一边，看到了他阳光照耀的脸。他的脸使我害怕，正如它使每个人害怕一样，不过这不是因为它是野蛮的，也不是因为它是邪恶的。相反，它使我害怕是因为它是那么漂亮，那么和善。”

    “赛姆，”秘书叫道，“你病了吗？”

    “它就像某个年老的天使长的一张脸，对宏大的战争进行着公正的评判。那双眼睛带着笑意，嘴上带着荣耀和哀伤。那白头发，穿着灰色衣服的宽阔肩膀和我从后背看到的是一样的。但是当我从后面看他时，我肯定他是一头野兽；当我从前面看他时，我明白他是一位神明。”

    “潘”教授幽幽地说道，“既是神明又是野兽。”

    “然后，再次，而且一直以来，”赛姆继续仿佛自言自语地说道，“那对我就是一个谜的星期天，对世界也是一个谜。当我看见那个可怕的后背，我相信那张高贵的脸不过是一副面具。当我看着那张脸时，我知道他的后背仅仅是一个玩笑。坏人是那么坏，所以我们不得不认为好人就是意外；好人是那么好，所以我们确信坏人是有理由的。但是昨天，当我乘马车追赶星期天，而且一直紧跟在他后面时，整件事情就发展到了极致。”

    “当时你有时间思考吗？”拉特克利夫问道。

    “时间，”赛姆答道，“使我有了一种可怕的想法。我当时突然想到，他无意识的空洞的后脑勺就是他的脸——一张吓人的没有眼睛的脸盯着我看！而且我想到，在我前面逃窜的那个人就是一个向后跑而且边跑边手舞足蹈的人。”

    “可怕！”布尔医生说着，颤抖了。

    “不能说可怕，”赛姆道。“这恰恰是我一生中最糟糕的时刻。可是十分钟之后，当他把头伸出马车，并且像个怪人一样做鬼脸时，我明白他就像一个和孩子们玩捉迷藏的父亲。”

    “这个游戏太长了。”秘书说道，朝他的破靴子皱起了眉头。

    “听我说，”赛姆反常地强调道，“我该把全世界的秘密都告诉你吗？我们只了解世界的背面。我们从后背看一切，我们看到了野蛮。那不是一棵树，那是树的后背。那不是一朵云，那是云的后背。难道你们没看到一切都俯身藏起了脸？如果我们只能绕到前面——”

    “快看！”布尔大声叫道，“气球正在下降！”

    赛姆无需听他的喊叫，因为他的眼睛一直盯着气球。他看见巨大的圆球突然在空中摇晃，矫正了姿态，然后像落日一样在树林背后缓缓落下。

    果戈理在他们乏味的旅程中几乎没说过什么话，这时突然举起了双手。

    “他死定了！”他叫道，“现在我明白他以前是我的朋友——我在黑暗中的朋友！”

    “死定了！”秘书轻蔑地哼了一声，“你不会那么轻易就发现他死掉的。要是他跌出了气球吊舱，我们就会看到他如同小马驹一般在地里打滚，并且高兴地踢着腿。”

    “还会砰砰地甩他的蹄子，”教授说道，“马驹如此，而且潘也这么干过。”

    “又是潘！”布尔医生恼火地说道，“你似乎认为潘就是一切。”

    “他就是一切，”教授说，“在希腊语中。他意味着一切。”

    “别忘了，”秘书头朝下说道，“他也意味着恐慌。”

    赛姆站在那里，他们的话一句也没听进去。

    “它落在那边了，”他迅速说道。“让我们追上它！”

    然后他做了个莫名其妙的手势补充道：“哦，他也许会装死骗我们！这仿佛就是他的一种游戏。”

    他带着新生的力量大步走向远处的树林，他的破衣服和碎布条在风中招展。其他人跟着他，脚更痛了，心里也更起疑了。六个人几乎在同一时间意识到，他们在这片不大的田野上并不孤单。

    一个高个男子正在穿过草地向他们走来，他拄着一根节杖似的奇怪长棍，穿着一件制作精良但显得老式的西装配齐膝短裤，颜色介于蓝，紫罗兰和灰色之间，这在林地的某些阴暗部分可以看到。他的头发灰白，不过乍看之下，配上他的齐膝短裤，就头发就跟搽过粉一样。他的脚步很安静，但就他头上的银霜而言，他可能就是林荫中的一个怪人。

    “先生们，”他说道，“我的主人安排一辆四轮马车在旁边的马路上等你们。”

    “你的主人是谁？”赛姆问道，站着一动不动。

    “我被告知你们知道他的名字。”这个男子恭敬地说。

    片刻沉默之后，秘书开了口——

    “这辆四轮马车什么时候在这儿等的？”

    “它只等了一会儿，”陌生人说道。“我的主人刚刚到家。”

    赛姆忽左忽右地看了一下他身处其间的那块绿色田野。树篱是普通的树篱，树木是普通的树木，可他觉得像落入了仙境。

    他把这个神秘的使者上下打量了一下，可什么也没发现，只知道他的衣服恰恰是这紫色树荫的颜色，他的脸恰恰是红、棕、金三色天空的颜色。

    “给我们带路。”赛姆简略地说道。而后，这个穿紫罗兰外套的男子一言不发转过身，走向树篱间的一个缺口，骤然出现泛着白光的马路。

    当这六个漫游者走到这条大道上，他们看见白色的马路被一长排的四轮马车堵住了，这些四轮马车似乎封闭了通往帕克巷的某幢房子的通道。在这些马车的一边站着一排衣着光鲜的仆人，他们都穿着灰蓝色的制服，都带有某种威严和特权的气质，这种气质不属于某位寻常绅士的仆人，而应属于一位伟大国王的官员和使节。至少有六辆四轮马车等在那里，似乎是那衣衫褴褛、痛苦不堪的六个人每人一辆。所有的侍从（仿佛都穿着宫廷制服）都佩着剑，当他们人钻进马车时，侍从们拔出剑敬礼，剑上闪耀着钢铁的光辉。

    “这都是什么意思？”他们分开时，布尔问赛姆。“这是星期天的另一个玩笑吗？”

    “我不知道，”赛姆边说边疲倦地坐到马车里的坐垫上，“如果这是一个玩笑，它就是你开过的玩笑之一。它会是一个善意的玩笑。”

    这六个冒险者经历了许多，但是没有一件像这最后的舒适之旅令他们激动。他们都习惯了狂野的经历，这突然的舒适使他们都很茫然。他们甚至无法稍微地想象一下这些马车有什么含义，但他们完全明白它们是马车，而且是配有坐垫的马车。他们无法想象这个老男人是谁，谁在给他们带路，但他们完全明白是他带着他们走向马车。

    赛姆在完全狂放的状态中乘车经过浮光掠影的树林。这是他固有的做派，当他长着长胡子的下巴激烈地伸向前方，时间之长足以做任何事情时，当整件事情脱离他的控制时，他瘫倒在了坐垫上。

    他逐渐模糊地意识到，这辆四轮马车载着他走过了五花八门的路。他看到他们经过了貌似公园的石门，开始在慢慢地爬一座山，这座山两边都长满了树，似乎比森林更整齐。然后他身上开始出现了在一个慢悠悠地从良好的睡眠中醒来的人身上才会出现的对一切事物的喜爱。他觉得树篱有树篱应该成为的样子，即有生命的墙。树篱就像一支军队，严守纪律，但更活跃。他看到树篱背后高高的榆树，含糊地想着爬树的男孩该有多高兴。接着，他的马车在小路上转了个弯，他在这静谧之中突然看到，一座长长的、低低的房子在柔和的日落之光中显得平易近人。这六个朋友随后交换意见，并争吵起来，但他们都同意，某个无法解释的原因，这个地方使他们想起了他们的童年。这不是因为这个榆树顶，就是因为那条蜿蜒的小路；不是因为这片果园，就是因为那扇窗子的形状。他们每个人都宣称，在他能够记住他的母亲之前，他已经记住了这个地方。

    当这些马车最后来到一个巨大、低矮、洞穴状的门道前时，另外一个穿着同样制服但在外套的灰色胸口上别着一颗银星的男子出来迎接他们。这个仪表非凡的男子对困惑的赛姆说道：

    “茶点在房间里为您准备好了。”

    沉浸在梦幻般的惊诧中的赛姆跟着恭敬的侍从登上了巨大的栎木楼梯。他走进了一个华丽的似乎专门为他设计的套房，并带着寻常的阶级本能走到长镜前拉直领结，抚平头发。此刻，他看到了自己的可怕样子——血从他脸上被树枝划开的地方流了下来，他竖立的头发就像繁茂丛生的黄色野草，衣服被扯成了长而摇摆的碎布条。同时，疑问也油然而生，诸如他如何到达此地，随后又将如何离开的问题。这时，那个被指定为他的贴身男仆、穿着蓝色衣服的男子严肃地对他说道：

    “我已取来您的衣服，先生。”

    “衣服！”赛姆讥讽道，“除了这些，我没有别的衣服。”他拉起已经有迷人的穗边的长礼服的两块长长的布条，然后做了个芭蕾舞女的旋转动作。

    “我的主人让我告诉您，”侍从说道，“今天晚上有一个化装舞会，他希望您穿上我摆出的那件服装。同时，先生，还有一瓶法国勃艮地红葡萄酒和一些冷雉肉，他希望您不会拒绝。现在离晚饭还有几个小时。”

    “冷雉肉是好东西，”赛姆沉思着说道，“而勃艮地红葡萄酒是令人爽快的好东西。但其实，相对这两样东西，我更想知道这一切到底是什么意思，你为我摆出的是哪一种衣服。衣服在哪里？”

    这个仆人从软垫椅子上拿起一件孔雀蓝打褶衣服，样子就像连帽化装斗篷，在衣服的正面装饰着一个巨大的金色太阳，而且衣服上处处点缀着火红的星星和新月。

    “您应该打扮成星期四，先生。”贴身男仆和蔼地说道。

    “打扮成星期四！”赛姆沉思着说道，“听起来这件衣服不太暖和。”

    “哦，先生，”仆人急切地说道，“这件星期四的衣服相当暖和，先生。它可以系到下巴。”

    “嗨，我什么都不明白，”赛姆说着叹了口气，“我习惯了艰苦的冒险，所以舒适的经历会令我惊讶。而且，我想请问你，为何我要特别打扮成星期四，为何要穿上一件洒满太阳和月亮的服装。我认为这些天体也在其他日子放光。我记得有一次我是在星期二看见月亮的。”

    “请原谅，先生，”贴身男仆说道，“我们也为您准备了圣经。”接着，他恭敬而僵硬地用手指指出了创世纪第一章的某一段。赛姆边读边觉得惊奇。确实，一周的第四天正是创造太阳和月亮的日子。不过，他们是从基督教的星期天开始推算的。

    “这真是越来越疯狂了，”赛姆说着坐在了椅子上，“这些提供冷雉肉、勃艮地红葡萄酒以及蓝色衣服和圣经的人是谁？他们提供一切东西吗？”

    “是的，先生，一切东西，”侍从严肃地说道，“让我帮你穿上衣服，好吗？”

    “哦，套上吧！”赛姆不耐烦地说道。

    尽管他假装鄙视这可笑的仪式，当这蓝金色的衣服穿到他身上时，他对自己的举止还是感到一种莫名的自由和自然。当他发现他还要佩一把剑时，这激起了他童年的梦想。当他走出房间时，他一抖肩膀甩开了衣服上的褶痕，他的剑向前斜伸，他就像一个神气活现的吟游诗人。这些伪装并没有掩盖什么，而是在暴露。