The Man Who Was Thursday (Penguin ed)

by G. K. Chesterton

Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures – the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand.

  He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooden hills looked down upon this imbecile scene.

  The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice.

  ‘If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow,’ he said, ‘he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It’s the kind of thing that might come in useful any day,’ and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage.

  ‘If I had known,’ he spluttered, ‘that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight—’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know!’ said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. ‘You are making a mistake; but it can’t be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dr Bull fiercely, ‘and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil’s work—’

  The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow, standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.

  ‘Will you drive me mad?’ he cried. ‘The train—’

  ‘You shall not go by the train,’ said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword.

  The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking.

  ‘You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, God-forsaken, doddering, damned fool!’ he said without taking breath. ‘You great silly, pink-faced tow-headed turnip! You—’

  ‘You shall not go by this train,’ repeated Syme.

  ‘And why the infernal blazes,’ roared the other, ‘should I want to go by this train?’

  ‘We know all,’ said the Professor sternly. ‘You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!’

  ‘Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!’6 cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily. ‘Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don’t realize what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!’

  ‘Then what did you care about?’ began the Professor.

  ‘What did I care about? I didn’t care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me.’

  ‘I regret to inform you,’ said Syme with restraint, ‘that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portions of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something.’

  ‘It means everything,’ said the other, ‘and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand.’

  ‘Us!’ repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. ‘What do you mean by “us”?’

  ‘The police, of course!’ said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face.

  The head which emerged was the blond, well-brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English contabulary, but the face was terribly pale.

  ‘I am Inspector Ratcliffe,’ he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. ‘My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card –’ and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket.

  The Professor gave a tired gesture.

  ‘Oh, don’t show it us,’ he said wearily; ‘we’ve got enough of them to equip a paper-chase.’7

  The little man named Bull had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism, which holds it holy to destroy mankind like vermin. How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologize, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer.’

  The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said:

  ‘Of course, I accept the apology; but you will in your turn forgive me if I decline to follow you further into your difficulties, and permit myself to say good morning! The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day. Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town.’

  Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out:

  ‘No, by George, I won’t! If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I’ll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can’t fight for civilization.’

  Dr Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting.

  ‘Don’t make too much noise,’ said Inspector Ratcliffe, ‘Sunday may hear you.’

  ‘Sunday!’ cried Bull, and dropped his hat.

  ‘Yes,’ retorted Ratcliffe, ‘he may be with them.’

  ‘With whom?’ asked Syme.

  ‘With the people out of that train,’ said the other.

  ‘What you say seems utterly wild,’ began Syme. ‘Why, as a matter of fact – But, my God,’ he cried out suddenly, like a man who sees an explosion a long way off, ‘by God! if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy! Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary. What can it mean?’

  ‘Mean!’ said the new policeman with incredible violence. ‘It means that we are struck dead! Don’t you know Sunday? Don’t you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one had never thought of them? Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme? I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line – especially of that railway line!’ and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station. ‘The whole movement was controlled by him; half the world was ready to rise for him. But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him … and the old devil put them on the Supreme Council, to waste their time in watching each other. Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies! Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France. And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man’s buff.’8

  ‘Well!’ asked Syme with a sort
of steadiness,

  ‘Well,’ replied the other with sudden serenity, ‘he has found us playing blind man’s buff today in a field of great rustic beauty and extreme solitude. He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it.’

  Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way.

  ‘It was a habit of the late Marquis de St Eustache,’ said the new policeman, producing a leather case, ‘always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles.’

  He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes.

  ‘It cannot be as bad as you say,’ said the Professor, somewhat shaken. ‘There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists.’

  ‘Do ordinary tourists,’ asked Bull, with the field-glass to his eyes, ‘wear black masks half-way down the face?’

  Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled, and one of them smiled on one side.

  11

  The Criminals Chase the Police

  Syme put the field-glass from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.

  ‘The President is not with them, anyhow,’ he said, and wiped his forehead.

  ‘But surely they are right away on the horizon,’ said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull’s hasty though polite explanation. ‘Could you possibly know your President among all those people?’

  ‘Could I know a white elephant among all those people!’ answered Syme, somewhat irritably. ‘As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them … by God! I believe this ground would shake.’

  After an instant’s pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision:

  ‘Of course the President isn’t with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St Paul’s Cathedral.’

  ‘This is absurd!’ said Syme. ‘Something may have happened in our absence: but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true,’ he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, ‘it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out.’

  ‘Oh, they,’ said the new detective contemptuously; ‘no, they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value – we are not much, my boy, in Sunday’s universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a postcard; it may be left to his private secretary,’ and he spat on the grass.

  Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely:

  ‘There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me.’

  With those words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black dots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees.

  The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph.1 Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man’s head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a Negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme’s overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men’s faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside) seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism,2 which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

  As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis’s straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation.

  ‘May I ask,’ he said, ‘where on earth we are all going to?’

  So genuine had been the doubts of his soul that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy human voice.

  ‘We must get down through the town of Lancy3 to the sea,’ he said, ‘I think that part of the country is least likely to be with them.’

  ‘What can you mean by all this?’ cried Syme. ‘They can’t be running the real world in that way. Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely, if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police!’

  ‘Mere mobs!’ repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn. ‘So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You’ve got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists: they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons’ wars.’4

  ‘As a lecture on English history for the little ones,’ said Syme,
‘this is all very nice, but I have not yet grasped its application.’

  ‘Its application is,’ said his informant, ‘that most of old Sunday’s right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That is why he has got hold of the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits.’

  ‘Millionaires I can understand,’ said Syme thoughtfully, ‘they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere.’

  ‘Well,’ said the other, ‘it rather depends what sort of person you mean.’

  ‘Well, for instance,’ said Syme, ‘we could never convert that person,’ and he pointed straight in front of him.

  They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.

  ‘Mr Syme is saying,’ called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, ‘that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist.’

  ‘Mr Syme is right enough there,’ answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, ‘if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy.’