The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

its ground plan was wild. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who called its architecture sometimes Elizabethan and sometimes Queen Anne, app

s a dream. Even if the people were not "artists," the whole was nevertheless artistic. That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face-that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem. That old gentleman with the wild, white beard and the wild, white hat-that venerable humbug was not really a philosopher; but at least he was the cause of philosophy in others. That scientific gentleman with the bald, egg-like head and the bare, bi

s little back garden might hear his high, didactic voice laying down the law to men and particularly to women. The attitude of women in such cases was indeed one of the paradoxes of the place. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. Yet these new women would always pay to a man the extravagant compliment which no ordinary woman ever pays to him, that of listening while he is talking. And Mr. Lucian Gregory, the red-haired poet, was really (in some sense) a man worth listening to, even if one only laughed at the end of it. He put the old cant of the lawlessness of art and the art of

of feathers that almost brushed the face. Across the great part of the dome they were grey, with the strangest tints of violet and mauve and an unnatural pink or pale green; but towards the west the whole grew past description, transparent and passionate, and the last red-hot plumes of

; it was upon the night of the sunset that his solitude suddenly ended. The new poet, who introduced himself by the name of Gabriel Syme was a very mild-looking mortal, with a fair, pointed beard and faint, yellow hair. But an impression grew that he was less meek than he looked. He signalised h

ory, the anarchic poet,

there is brought forth upon the earth such a portent as a respectable poet. You say you are a poet of law; I say you are

. The third party of the group, Gregory's sister Rosamond, who had her brother's braids of red hair, but a kindlier fa

in high orator

great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An art

s," said

is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square the

ow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station? Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he

inquired Gregor

y that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. A

eavy, red head with

there?' You think Victoria is like the New Jerusalem. We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like

l to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt. Both being sick and being rebellious may be the wholesome thing on certain desper

at the unpleasant word, but

and silently right, that is the foundation of all poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical

y superciliously, "th

yme grimly, "I forgot we ha

red patch appeared

e said, "to revolutionis

ht into his eyes a

hat if you were serious about your anarc

ly like those of an angry lion, and one

d in a dangerous voice, "that I

r pardon?"

my anarchism?" cried Gre

!" said Syme, a

ous pleasure, he found Rosamon

alk like you and my brother often mean wha

smi

u?" he

?" asked the girl

say? No. When you say 'the world is round,' do you mean what you say? No. It is true, but you don't mean it. Now, sometimes a man like your brother really

re had fallen upon it the shadow of that unreasoning responsibility which is at the

n anarchist, th

f," replied Syme; "or if you

d brows together

ly use-bombs or t

hat seemed too large for his sli

said, "that has to b

to a smile, and she thought with a simultaneous p

the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety. All the time there

imself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over. And yet, in some indescribable

the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shad

salute, which Syme somewh

aid Gregory. "Might I have

at?" asked Syme in a

ried; "about order and anarchy. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren;

amp. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree." Then after a pause he said

g down the street, "I did not stand here to

ing, listened instinctively for something serious. Gregory

something rather remarkable. You did something to me tha

dee

erson succeeded in doing it. The captain of a penny steamer

y," replied Sym

ould wipe it out. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and tha

hat I

t serious about be

ou were perfectly sincere in this sense, that you thought what you said well w

at him steadily

think me a flaneur who lets fall occasional truths. You do n

ck violently on the

comes here and talks a pack of bosh, and perhaps some sense as well, but I should think very little of a man who didn't keep something

rkening, "you shall see something more

usual air of mildness until

ing a religion. Is it real

a beaming smile, "we

any son of Adam, and especially not to the police? Will you swear that! If you will take upon yourself this awful abnegation if you will co

n return?" inquired Sy

entertaining evening." Syme

least that he is always a sportsman. Permit me, here and now, to swear as a Christian, and promise as a good comrade and a fellow

with placid irrelevancy,

Gregory gave through the trap the address of an obscure public-house on the Chiswick bank of the ri