《代号星期四》17第十五章 指控者（在线收听）

CHAPTER XV. THE ACCUSER

 AS Syme strode along the corridor he saw the Secretary standing at the top of a great flight of stairs. The man had never looked so noble. He was draped in a long robe of starless black, down the centre of which fell a band or broad stripe of pure white, like a single shaft of light. The whole looked like some very severe ecclesiastical vestment. There was no need for Syme to search his memory or the Bible in order to remember that the first day of creation marked the mere creation of light out of darkness. The vestment itself would alone have suggested the symbol; and Syme felt also how perfectly this pattern of pure white and black expressed the soul of the pale and austere Secretary, with his inhuman veracity and his cold frenzy, which made him so easily make war on the anarchists, and yet so easily pass for one of them. Syme was scarcely surprised to notice that, amid all the ease and hospitality of their new surroundings, this man’s eyes were still stern. No smell of ale or orchards could make the Secretary cease to ask a reasonable question.

If Syme had been able to see himself, he would have realised that he, too, seemed to be for the first time himself and no one else. For if the Secretary stood for that philosopher who loves the original and formless light, Syme was a type of the poet who seeks always to make the light in special shapes, to split it up into sun and star. The philosopher may sometimes love the infinite; the poet always loves the finite. For him the great moment is not the creation of light, but the creation of the sun and moon.

As they descended the broad stairs together they overtook Ratcliffe, who was clad in spring green like a huntsman, and the pattern upon whose garment was a green tangle of trees. For he stood for that third day on which the earth and green things were made, and his square, sensible face, with its not unfriendly cynicism, seemed appropriate enough to it.

They were led out of another broad and low gateway into a very large old English garden, full of torches and bonfires, by the broken light of which a vast carnival of people were dancing in motley dress. Syme seemed to see every shape in Nature imitated in some crazy costume. There was a man dressed as a windmill with enormous sails, a man dressed as an elephant, a man dressed as a balloon; the two last, together, seemed to keep the thread of their farcical adventures. Syme even saw, with a queer thrill, one dancer dressed like an enormous hornbill, with a beak twice as big as himself—the queer bird which had fixed itself on his fancy like a living question while he was rushing down the long road at the Zoological Gardens. There were a thousand other such objects, however. There was a dancing lamp-post, a dancing apple tree, a dancing ship. One would have thought that the untamable tune of some mad musician had set all the common objects of field and street dancing an eternal jig. And long afterwards, when Syme was middle-aged and at rest, he could never see one of those particular objects—a lamppost, or an apple tree, or a windmill—without thinking that it was a strayed reveller from that revel of masquerade.

On one side of this lawn, alive with dancers, was a sort of green bank, like the terrace in such old-fashioned gardens.

Along this, in a kind of crescent, stood seven great chairs, the thrones of the seven days. Gogol and Dr. Bull were already in their seats; the Professor was just mounting to his. Gogol, or Tuesday, had his simplicity well symbolised by a dress designed upon the division of the waters, a dress that separated upon his forehead and fell to his feet, grey and silver, like a sheet of rain. The Professor, whose day was that on which the birds and fishes—the ruder forms of life—were created, had a dress of dim purple, over which sprawled goggle-eyed fishes and outrageous tropical birds, the union in him of unfathomable fancy and of doubt. Dr. Bull, the last day of Creation, wore a coat covered with heraldic animals in red and gold, and on his crest a man rampant. He lay back in his chair with a broad smile, the picture of an optimist in his element.

One by one the wanderers ascended the bank and sat in their strange seats. As each of them sat down a roar of enthusiasm rose from the carnival, such as that with which crowds receive kings. Cups were clashed and torches shaken, and feathered hats flung in the air. The men for whom these thrones were reserved were men crowned with some extraordinary laurels. But the central chair was empty.

Syme was on the left hand of it and the Secretary on the right. The Secretary looked across the empty throne at Syme, and said, compressing his lips—

“We do not know yet that he is not dead in a field.”

Almost as Syme heard the words, he saw on the sea of human faces in front of him a frightful and beautiful alteration, as if heaven had opened behind his head. But Sunday had only passed silently along the front like a shadow, and had sat in the central seat. He was draped plainly, in a pure and terrible white, and his hair was like a silver flame on his forehead.

For a long time—it seemed for hours—that huge masquerade of mankind swayed and stamped in front of them to marching and exultant music. Every couple dancing seemed a separate romance; it might be a fairy dancing with a pillar-box, or a peasant girl dancing with the moon; but in each case it was, somehow, as absurd as Alice in Wonderland, yet as grave and kind as a love story. At last, however, the thick crowd began to thin itself. Couples strolled away into the garden-walks, or began to drift towards that end of the building where stood smoking, in huge pots like fish-kettles, some hot and scented mixtures of old ale or wine. Above all these, upon a sort of black framework on the roof of the house, roared in its iron basket a gigantic bonfire, which lit up the land for miles. It flung the homely effect of firelight over the face of vast forests of grey or brown, and it seemed to fill with warmth even the emptiness of upper night. Yet this also, after a time, was allowed to grow fainter; the dim groups gathered more and more round the great cauldrons, or passed, laughing and clattering, into the inner passages of that ancient house. Soon there were only some ten loiterers in the garden; soon only four. Finally the last stray merry-maker ran into the house whooping to his companions. The fire faded, and the slow, strong stars came out. And the seven strange men were left alone, like seven stone statues on their chairs of stone. Not one of them had spoken a word.

They seemed in no haste to do so, but heard in silence the hum of insects and the distant song of one bird. Then Sunday spoke, but so dreamily that he might have been continuing a conversation rather than beginning one.

“We will eat and drink later,” he said. “Let us remain together a little, we who have loved each other so sadly, and have fought so long. I seem to remember only centuries of heroic war, in which you were always heroes—epic on epic, iliad on iliad, and you always brothers in arms. Whether it was but recently (for time is nothing), or at the beginning of the world, I sent you out to war. I sat in the darkness, where there is not any created thing, and to you I was only a voice commanding valour and an unnatural virtue. You heard the voice in the dark, and you never heard it again. The sun in heaven denied it, the earth and sky denied it, all human wisdom denied it. And when I met you in the daylight I denied it myself.”

Syme stirred sharply in his seat, but otherwise there was silence, and the incomprehensible went on.

“But you were men. You did not forget your secret honour, though the whole cosmos turned an engine of torture to tear it out of you. I knew how near you were to hell. I know how you, Thursday, crossed swords with King Satan, and how you, Wednesday, named me in the hour without hope.”

There was complete silence in the starlit garden, and then the black-browed Secretary, implacable, turned in his chair towards Sunday, and said in a harsh voice—

“Who and what are you?”

“I am the Sabbath,” said the other without moving. “I am the peace of God.”

The Secretary started up, and stood crushing his costly robe in his hand.

“I know what you mean,” he cried, “and it is exactly that that I cannot forgive you. I know you are contentment, optimism, what do they call the thing, an ultimate reconciliation. Well, I am not reconciled. If you were the man in the dark room, why were you also Sunday, an offense to the sunlight? If you were from the first our father and our friend, why were you also our greatest enemy? We wept, we fled in terror; the iron entered into our souls—and you are the peace of God! Oh, I can forgive God His anger, though it destroyed nations; but I cannot forgive Him His peace.”

Sunday answered not a word, but very slowly he turned his face of stone upon Syme as if asking a question.

“No,” said Syme, “I do not feel fierce like that. I am grateful to you, not only for wine and hospitality here, but for many a fine scamper and free fight. But I should like to know. My soul and heart are as happy and quiet here as this old garden, but my reason is still crying out. I should like to know.”

Sunday looked at Ratcliffe, whose clear voice said—

“It seems so silly that you should have been on both sides and fought yourself.”

Bull said—

“I understand nothing, but I am happy. In fact, I am going to sleep.”

“I am not happy,” said the Professor with his head in his hands, “because I do not understand. You let me stray a little too near to hell.”

And then Gogol said, with the absolute simplicity of a child—

“I wish I knew why I was hurt so much.”

Still Sunday said nothing, but only sat with his mighty chin upon his hand, and gazed at the distance. Then at last he said—

“I have heard your complaints in order. And here, I think, comes another to complain, and we will hear him also.”

The falling fire in the great cresset threw a last long gleam, like a bar of burning gold, across the dim grass. Against this fiery band was outlined in utter black the advancing legs of a black-clad figure. He seemed to have a fine close suit with knee-breeches such as that which was worn by the servants of the house, only that it was not blue, but of this absolute sable. He had, like the servants, a kind of sword by his side. It was only when he had come quite close to the crescent of the seven and flung up his face to look at them, that Syme saw, with thunder-struck clearness, that the face was the broad, almost ape-like face of his old friend Gregory, with its rank red hair and its insulting smile.

“Gregory!” gasped Syme, half-rising from his seat. “Why, this is the real anarchist!”

“Yes,” said Gregory, with a great and dangerous restraint, “I am the real anarchist.”

“‘Now there was a day,’” murmured Bull, who seemed really to have fallen asleep, “‘when the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan came also among them.’”

“You are right,” said Gregory, and gazed all round. “I am a destroyer. I would destroy the world if I could.”

A sense of a pathos far under the earth stirred up in Syme, and he spoke brokenly and without sequence.

“Oh, most unhappy man,” he cried, “try to be happy! You have red hair like your sister.”

“My red hair, like red flames, shall burn up the world,” said Gregory. “I thought I hated everything more than common men can hate anything; but I find that I do not hate everything so much as I hate you!”

“I never hated you,” said Syme very sadly.

Then out of this unintelligible creature the last thunders broke.

“You!” he cried. “You never hated because you never lived. I know what you are all of you, from first to last—you are the people in power! You are the police—the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly! The only crime of the Government is that it governs. The unpardonable sin of the supreme power is that it is supreme. I do not curse you for being cruel. I do not curse you (though I might) for being kind. I curse you for being safe! You sit in your chairs of stone, and have never come down from them. You are the seven angels of heaven, and you have had no troubles. Oh, I could forgive you everything, you that rule all mankind, if I could feel for once that you had suffered for one hour a real agony such as I—”

Syme sprang to his feet, shaking from head to foot.

“I see everything,” he cried, “everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, ‘You lie!’ No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser, ‘We also have suffered.’

“It is not true that we have never been broken. We have been broken upon the wheel. It is not true that we have never descended from these thrones. We have descended into hell. We were complaining of unforgettable miseries even at the very moment when this man entered insolently to accuse us of happiness. I repel the slander; we have not been happy. I can answer for every one of the great guards of Law whom he has accused. At least—”

He had turned his eyes so as to see suddenly the great face of Sunday, which wore a strange smile.

“Have you,” he cried in a dreadful voice, “have you ever suffered?”

As he gazed, the great face grew to an awful size, grew larger than the colossal mask of Memnon, which had made him scream as a child. It grew larger and larger, filling the whole sky; then everything went black. Only in the blackness before it entirely destroyed his brain he seemed to hear a distant voice saying a commonplace text that he had heard somewhere, “Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of?”

* * *

When men in books awake from a vision, they commonly find themselves in some place in which they might have fallen asleep; they yawn in a chair, or lift themselves with bruised limbs from a field. Syme’s experience was something much more psychologically strange if there was indeed anything unreal, in the earthly sense, about the things he had gone through. For while he could always remember afterwards that he had swooned before the face of Sunday, he could not remember having ever come to at all. He could only remember that gradually and naturally he knew that he was and had been walking along a country lane with an easy and conversational companion. That companion had been a part of his recent drama; it was the red-haired poet Gregory. They were walking like old friends, and were in the middle of a conversation about some triviality. But Syme could only feel an unnatural buoyancy in his body and a crystal simplicity in his mind that seemed to be superior to everything that he said or did. He felt he was in possession of some impossible good news, which made every other thing a triviality, but an adorable triviality.

Dawn was breaking over everything in colours at once clear and timid; as if Nature made a first attempt at yellow and a first attempt at rose. A breeze blew so clean and sweet, that one could not think that it blew from the sky; it blew rather through some hole in the sky. Syme felt a simple surprise when he saw rising all round him on both sides of the road the red, irregular buildings of Saffron Park. He had no idea that he had walked so near London. He walked by instinct along one white road, on which early birds hopped and sang, and found himself outside a fenced garden. There he saw the sister of Gregory, the girl with the gold-red hair, cutting lilac before breakfast, with the great unconscious gravity of a girl.

第十五章 指控者

    当赛姆大步地走到走廊上时，发现秘书已经站在巨大楼梯顶端的平台上。他从未如此的高贵。他披着一件没有点缀星星的黑色长袍，长袍中央从上到下垂挂着一条纯白色的带子，就像独立的一道光。整件衣服看起来就像是非常严肃的教士的法衣。赛姆不必搜寻记忆或者查看圣经记住创世纪的第一天标志着光的出现，法衣本身就是象征。赛姆同时觉得，这种纯白和黑色的图案完美地表现了苍白而禁欲的秘书的灵魂，而且他有一种超人的诚实和冷酷的疯狂，这使他能轻易地和无政府主义者进行战斗，同时也轻易地被误认是无政府主义者中的一员。赛姆注意到，在这个舒适而好客的新环境中，这个人的眼神仍然严峻。麦芽啤酒和果园的风味都无法使秘书不问一个理性的问题。

    如果赛姆能够看清他自己，他就会意识到，他也第一次成为自己，而不是别人。如果秘书代表着热爱最初的杂乱之光的哲学家，那么赛姆就是那种追求使光产生特殊的形态，使它分化成太阳和星星的诗人。哲学家有时候会热爱无限世界；但诗人总是热爱有限世界。对他来说，伟大的时刻不在于创造了光，而在于创造了太阳和月亮。

    他们一起走下宽阔的楼梯，赶上了拉特克利夫，他就像一个猎人穿着春绿色的衣服，衣服上的图案是绿色的树丛。他代表着创世纪的第三天，此日造出了地球和绿色植物，而他的方正、理智的脸庞连同他的善意的愤世嫉俗的态度，都和衣服相配。

    他们被人领着走出另一个宽阔而低矮的门道，进入了一个非常大的英格兰旧式花园，里面点着很多火把，在或明或暗的光影下，一大群狂欢的人们穿着五颜六色的衣服正在跳舞。赛姆觉得，这些古怪的服装模仿了自然界的每一种形状。有一个人打扮成像一座有着巨大叶子的风车，有一个人打扮成一头大象，有一个人打扮得像一只气球，最后两个人似乎一起保留着他们滑稽的冒险经历的线索。赛姆带着一种奇怪的激动，他甚至看到一个舞者打扮成一只巨大的犀鸟，鸟嘴是他自身的两倍大——当他跑出公园时，这只奇怪的鸟就像一个问题定格在他的想象中。还有一千种其他的物件。有舞动着的路灯柱，有舞动着的苹果树，有舞动着的船。人们不禁会想到某个疯狂的音乐家的狂放的旋律使得所有这些田野上和街道上的普通物件跳起了一支永恒的吉格舞。很久以后，当赛姆已届中年而且不再奔波时，他再也看不到那些特别的物件了——路灯柱，苹果树，或者风车——也不会想到，一个寻欢作乐者从假面舞会的狂欢中迷失了。

    在草地的一边，伴随舞者的是绿色的陡坡，就像旧式花园中的一个台地。

    沿着这个陡坡，呈新月形摆放着七把巨大的椅子，那是属于七天的宝座。果戈理和布尔医生已经坐在了椅子上，教授正要落座。果戈理或者星期二的简洁被一件设计为以水域划分的图案的衣服极好地象征着，这件衣服在他的额头上分叉，一直通到他的脚面，灰银色的，就像一阵雨。教授代表的那一天鸟和鱼——生命的较低等形式——被创造出来。他穿着一件淡紫色的衣服，衣服上点缀着凸眼的鱼和令人吃惊的热带鸟类，这两者象征着深不可测的想象和怀疑的结合。布尔医生代表着创世纪的最后一天，他穿的衣服上装饰着红色和金色的动物纹章，在他的头冠上装饰着一个跃立作扑击状的男子。他靠在椅子上满面笑容，是一个极有特点的乐天派。

    这些漫游者一个接一个登上斜坡，坐到他们奇特的位子上。随着他们依次坐下，狂欢的人群中传来了热情的欢呼声，如同群众迎接国王。人们碰杯，摇动火把，把装饰羽毛的帽子抛向空中。拥有这些宝座的人都被戴上了特殊的桂冠。但中央的椅子却空着。

    赛姆在这把椅子的左手边，秘书在右手边。秘书扫视了一下空着的宝座望着赛姆，然后压紧了嘴唇说道：“我们还不知道他有没有在田野上死掉。”

    就在赛姆听到这句话时，他看见他面前的人脸出现了惊人而完美的变化，仿佛天空在他脑后裂开。只见星期天像影子一样无声地走上前来，坐在了中央的位子上。他穿的衣服很简单，就是令人恐怖的纯白色，他的头发就像额头上的银色火焰。

    在很长的一段时间里——似乎是好几个小时——那个参加假面舞会的庞大的人群随着进行曲和欢快的音乐在他们面前摇摆和跺脚。每一对舞伴都别具情调：一位仙女可能和一只邮筒在跳，或者一个务农的少女和月亮在跳；每一对都像爱丽丝漫游奇境一样荒唐，但又像爱情故事一样严肃而温和。最后，拥挤的人群开始消散。一对对的舞伴走向花园的小路，或者开始走向房子的后面，在那里，一些热气腾腾的过气啤酒或者葡萄酒的混合物在煮鱼锅似的大锅里冒着热气。在这些东西的上方，在屋顶上的黑色铁架子上，巨大的篝火在铁筐子里呼啸着，它照亮了方圆几英里之内的田地。它向巨大的灰棕色森林投上家园般的火光，给空洞的夜空洒满了温暖。不过，一段时间之后，这个篝火自然地变得微弱了。影影绰绰的人群逐渐向几口大锅围拢，或者欢笑喧闹着走进那所古宅的内部通道。很快的，花园里只剩下十个闲荡的人，接着只剩下四个。最终，最后一个迷路的寻欢作乐者呼喊着同伴跑进了古宅。火光逐渐暗淡，明亮的星星慢悠悠地出来了。这七个古怪的人留了下来，就像坐在石椅上的七尊石雕。他们一言不发。

    他们都不着急说话，在静默中听昆虫的嗡嗡声和远处传来的鸟鸣。然后，星期天开口了，不过他的语气如梦似幻，使人觉得他仿佛在恢复谈话，而不是在作开场白。

    “我们过一会儿再喝酒吃饭，”他说道，“让我们先一起待一会儿，我们彼此爱得那么悲切，又厮杀得那么持久。我似乎记得连绵数世纪的伟大战争，在这之中你们都是英雄——一部接一部的史诗，一个接一个的伊里亚特，而你们始终是手挽着手的兄弟。不是最近（因为时间不算什么），就是世界的原初，我派遣你们出战。我坐在黑暗中，那里没有任何创造之物，对你们而言，我只是一个命令你们勇敢的声音和一种反常的美德。你们听到了黑暗中的声音，但你们随后再也没有听到过。天上的太阳否定它，地球和天空否定它，所有人类的智慧否定它。当我在白天遇到你们时，我自己也否定它。”

    赛姆恼火地在座位上动了动身子，在一阵寂静之后，那不可思议的声音又继续了。

    “但你们是人。你们没有忘记你们秘密的荣耀，尽管整个宇宙开动了磨人的机器要剥夺你们的荣耀。我知道你们曾怎样地接近地狱。我知道你，星期四，如何与撒旦斗剑，以及你，星期三，如何在绝望之时谩骂我。”

    星光照耀的花园里一片寂静，然后阴沉着脸、毫不宽容的秘书转身，朝向星期天，用刺耳的嗓音说道：“你是谁，你是干什么的？”

    “我是安息日，”对方一动不动说道，“我是上帝的安宁。”

    秘书站了起来，手把他昂贵的长袍弄皱了。

    “我明白你的意思，”他叫道，“恰恰因为这个，我无法原谅你。我明白你是满足、乐观，他们怎么说来着，你是最后的和解。不过，我不想和解。如果你是黑屋里的那个人，为何你还是星期天，那个冒犯阳光的人？如果你一开始就是我们的父亲和朋友，为何你还是我们最大的敌人？我们流过泪，我们在恐惧中逃窜，钢铁刺入了我们的灵魂——而你是上帝的安宁！哦，我可以原谅上帝的怒火，尽管它毁灭了许多国家，但我无法原谅他的安宁。”

    星期天没有回答，但他缓缓地把他石雕般的脸转向赛姆，仿佛在问问题。

    “不，”赛姆说道，“我没有那么激烈的感受。我要感谢你，不仅仅是因为我在这里享受的美酒和款待，还因为多次精彩的追逐和自由的打斗。但是我想知道。我的灵魂和心灵此刻如同这个古老花园一样快乐和安宁，但我的理性仍然在呼喊。我想知道。”

    星期天又去看拉特克利夫，拉特克利夫清楚地说道：“你支持争斗的双方，而且与你自己作战，这很愚蠢。”

    布尔说：“我一点也不明白，可我很快乐。实际上，我想睡了。”

    “我不快乐，”教授双手抱着头说，“因为我不明白。你让我迷失得离地狱太近了。”

    然后果戈理带着孩子般全然的单纯说道：“我希望我能知道为什么我会受那么多的伤害。”

    可星期天仍然一言不发，他坐着，手托着强有力的下巴，眼睛盯着远处。最后他说道：“我听见了你们所有的抱怨。我想，这里有另一个人要来抱怨了，让我们听听他怎么说。”

    逐渐熄灭的巨大篝火在暗淡的草地上投下了最后一束微光。映衬着这个燃烧的光带，在漆黑的夜幕中走来的是一个穿黑衣服的人。他似乎穿着精致合身的西装和齐膝短裤，行头和这所古宅的仆人一样，只不过他的衣服不是蓝色，而是黑色。就像这里的仆人一样，他的腰侧也佩着一把剑。只是，当他走近这七个人并仰起脸看着他们时，赛姆才惊讶地发现这张宽阔、猿猴似的脸是他的老朋友——格里高利的脸，上面有浓密的红头发和侮辱人的微笑。

    “格里高利！”赛姆倒吸一口气，几乎要从椅子上站起来。“嗨，这是真正的无政府主义者！”

    “是的，”格里高利带着巨大而危险的克制说道，“我就是真正的无政府主义者。”

    “有那么一天，”布尔咕哝着，他似乎真的要睡着了，“上帝的儿子们置身于他的面前，而撒旦也在他们其中。”

    “没错，”格里高利说道，扫视四周。“我是一个破坏者。如果有可能，我就要毁灭全世界。”

    一种来自地底深处的怜悯之情在赛姆心里蹿起，他断续而凌乱地说道：“哦，最痛苦的人。”

    他叫道：“你要快乐起来！你的红头发就像你妹妹。”

    “我的红头发就像红色的火焰要烧毁全世界。”格里高利说道，“我想我对一切事物的仇恨要超过普通人的所有仇恨，但我发现我对一切事物的仇恨比不上我对你的仇恨！”

    “我从未恨过你。”赛姆难过地说道。

    然后，这个莫名其妙的家伙最后一次怒喝。

    “你！”他叫道，“你从未恨过因为你从未生活过。我知道你们所有人是干什么的，从开始直到最后——你们是掌权者！你们是警察——肥胖、微笑的穿着蓝色双排扣制服的了不起的人们！你们就是法律，没有人违背过你们。仅仅因为没有人违背过你们，那么有没有不想违背你们的活生生的自由灵魂？我们这些造反者谈论政府的这个、那个的罪行，确实是无疑的蠢话。这些都是愚蠢的行为！政府唯一的罪行就是它施行了统治。最高权力的不可饶恕的罪恶就在于它是最高权力。我没有因为你们的残忍而诅咒你们，也没有因为你们的仁慈而诅咒你们（尽管我可以这样）。我诅咒你们是因为你们过于安然！你们坐在石椅子里从未下来。你们是天堂的七个天使，你们没有烦恼。哦，我可以原谅你们的一切，你们这些人类的统治者，如果我能有一次体会到你们也有片刻忍受了我所遭遇的真正痛苦——”

    赛姆猛地站了起来，从头到脚都在发抖。

    “我明了一切，”他叫道，“存在的一切。为何地球上的一切事物要彼此对抗？为何世界上的每一样小东西要反抗世界本身？为何一只苍蝇要反抗整个宇宙？为何一株蒲公英要反抗整个宇宙？因为同样的理由，我独处于那个可怕的最高理事会。所以，遵守法律的一切事物就拥有荣耀，并孤立无政府主义者。所以，为秩序而战的每个人就会像炸弹刺客一样勇敢而执着。所以，撒旦真正的谎言就会被扔回到这个亵渎神灵者的脸上。所以，我们抛洒热泪、忍受折磨就能拥有权利对这个人说，‘你撒谎！’我们忍受巨大的痛苦就是要对这个指控者说，‘我们也受过苦。’”

    “如果说没有人违背过我们，其实并不是这样。我们也经历过生命危险。有人说我们从未从这些宝座上下来，这也不是真的。我们下来过，而且进了地狱。就在这个人无礼地进来指责我们的快乐的那一刻，我们还在抱怨难以忘怀的痛苦。我反对诽谤；我们并不快乐。我可以为他所指控的每一个伟大的法律守护者申辩。至少——”

    他转过头去，忽然看见星期天的大脸上带着奇怪的微笑。

    “你，”他以骇人的嗓音叫道，“你也受过苦吗？”

    在他凝视的时候，那张大脸变得大得出奇，大过了门农的巨型面具，这使他像孩子一样尖叫起来。那脸变得越来越大，充满了整个天空，然后一切都变成了黑色。就在他失去神志陷入昏天暗地之前，他似乎听到远处有个声音在述说着他曾经听到过的一句家常话——“你能像我一样喝一杯吗？”

    当书中的人物从幻觉中苏醒过来，他们往往发现自己身处于自己习惯入睡的地方：他们坐在椅子里打哈欠，或者用受伤的四肢把自己从地上托起。如果在世俗的意义上，赛姆的奇遇中确实有虚幻的成分，那么他的经历着实在心理上会使人感到怪异。尽管后来他一直记得他在星期天面前昏倒了，他却记不得曾经醒来过。他只记得他逐渐而自然知道他和一个随和而健谈的同伴走在一条乡间的小路上。那个同伴是他最近的一出戏中的一个角色，他就是红头发的诗人格里高利。他们像老朋友一样走着，兴奋地谈论着某件小事。但是赛姆只感到身体异常的轻松，心里透明而单纯，这身心的舒爽比他说过的、做过的一切都更有价值。他觉得他获得了某种难以置信的好消息，这使其他的一切都成了可推崇的琐屑之事。

    黎明降临，给一切都染上了清晰而羞怯的颜色，仿佛自然首先弄出了黄色，也弄出了玫瑰红。一阵清爽而甜蜜的微风吹来，人们无法想象它来自天空，来自天上的某个空洞。当赛姆看见在路的两边围绕他的四周耸立着塞夫伦庄园的怪异的大楼时，他感到生生的惊奇。他没想到他离伦敦那么近。他走在一条白色的马路上，路上早起的鸟儿跳跃着唱着歌，然后他发现自己站在了一个有围栏花园的外面。在那里，他看见了格里高利的妹妹，一个长着金红色头发的姑娘，她带着一个姑娘无意识的认真劲儿在早餐前修剪紫丁香。