Chapter 9 Chapter 8 Professor's Explanation

Syme's terror returned when he found himself at last sitting in a chair opposite the professor with the raised eyebrows and leaden eyelids.This creepy fellow from the brutal council must be stalking him.If the guy is both a stroke patient and a stalker, the contrast between the two might make him more interested, but never more calm.It was a little consolation that he had discovered the professor, who probably could only have discovered him by some serious accident.Before the professor drank the milk, he had finished a whole pitcher of ale. But there was one possibility that made him both hopeful and helpless.It is possible that this mischief meant that there was no suspicion of him, that it was just a normal practice or a precursor to something.Maybe this stupid bouncing, he should understand it as some kind of friendly signal.Maybe it's a routine.It may be that newly appointed Thursdays are always chased down Cheapside, as new mayors are always escorted through there.Before Syme could ask strategically, the aged anarchist asked suddenly, unpreparedly—

"Are you a policeman?" Whatever Syme's assumptions, he did not wish to be confronted with such a harsh and practical problem.His state of mind happened to be such that he answered with a rude and comical air. "Police?" he said with an ambiguous smile, "what on earth reminds you that I'm a policeman?" "The process is simple," the professor replied patiently. "I thought you looked like a policeman before. I think so now." "Did I mistakenly wear a police cap when I walked out of the restaurant earlier?" asked Syme, smiling excitedly. "Did I have my number taped somewhere on my body? Did my boots look very defensive?" ? Why do I have to be a cop? Let me be a postman."

The old professor shook his head with disapproving seriousness, but Syme went on with feverish sarcasm: "But I may have misunderstood the subtleties of your German philosophy. Possibly police is a relative term. In an evolutionary sense Say, sir, apes degenerate into cops fairly slowly, so I can never see the nuances of them myself. Monkeys might turn into cops. Maybe girls on the Clapham Common could turn into cops. I don't mind the possibility of Become a policeman. I don't mind becoming anything in the German mind." "Did you join the police?" asked the old man, ignoring all of Syme's off-the-cuff, desperate jests. "Are you a detective?"

Syme's heart froze, but his face did not change. "Your insinuation is ridiculous," he began, "why on earth—" Excitedly, the old man slammed his apoplectic hand on the rickety table, nearly breaking it. "Didn't you hear me ask a clear question, you glib spy?" he cried frantically. "Are you a police detective?" "No!" replied Syme, as if standing on the steps of the scaffold. "You swear," said the old man, leaning over him, his lifeless face becoming sickeningly alive. "You swear! You swear! If you swear falsely, you will be cast into hell! The devil will surely dance at your funeral! Nightmares will rise on your grave! No mistake! You are an anarchist Or, you are a bomber! Aren't you definitely a detective? Aren't you an English policeman?"

He thrust his clumsy elbow far across the table, and extended a large, loose-skinned hand to his ear like the brim of a hat. "I'm not a British policeman," replied Syme, with uncanny composure. Professor de Worms leaned back in his chair with a broken look of incomprehensible kindness. "Unfortunately," he said, "because I am." Syme jumped upright, knocking the chair back behind him. "Because what are you?" he asked hoarsely, "What are you?" "I'm a policeman," said the professor, smiling for the first time, even through his glasses. "But since you think policeman is a relative term, I have nothing to do with you. I'm from the British policeman." One, but since you told me you were not a British policeman, I can only say that I met you earlier at a club of bomb assassins. I think I should arrest you." With these words, he put a blue He placed on the table the same card as the one in Syme's own waistcoat pocket, a symbol of his police power.

For a time Syme thought the universe was really upside down, with all the trees growing downwards and all the stars at the bottom of his feet.Slowly, however, contrary beliefs emerged.In the past twenty-four hours, the universe has literally been turned upside down, but now the upside-down universe is back again.This devil he's been running away from all day is just a regular Big Brother who's sitting on the other side of the table laughing at him.For the moment he asked no detailed questions, and he knew only the pleasant, foolish fact that the ghost that was following him with dangerous urgency was a shadowy friend trying to overtake him.At the same time he understood that he was a fool and a free man.There is bound to be a healthy shaming in the process of recovering from a sickness.At such a tipping point there are only three possibilities: first, immortal satanic pride, second, tears, and third, laughter.Syme's ego made him insist on the first course for a few seconds, and then he suddenly resorted to the third.He took his blue police certificate out of his waistcoat pocket and flung it on the table; then he threw his head back until his fringed yellow beard almost pointed to the ceiling, and laughed wildly.

Even in this closed tavern, permanently filled with the clinking of knives and forks, plates, cans, and human uproars, and sudden scuffles and escapes, Syme's laughter had a certain Homeric quality to it. The magic made many half-drunk men turn their heads. "What are you laughing at, friend?" a dock worker asked curiously. "Laugh at myself," replied Syme, returning to the agony of his trance. "Cheer up," said the professor, "or you'll be hysterical. Have some more beer. I'll drink it too." "You haven't had your milk yet," said Syme.

"My milk!" said the professor, with aggressive, unfathomable contempt, "my milk! Do you think I'll look at this obnoxious thing out of sight of those ruthless anarchists? We're all Christians in this room, though we may be," he added, glancing at the din of the surrounding crowd, "not absolute Christians. Finish my milk? Damn it! Well, I'll finish it off!" After he finished speaking, he pushed the tumbler off the table, the glass shattered, and the milky white liquid spilled out. Syme stared at him with pleasure and curiosity. "I see now," he cried, "you are certainly not an old man."

"I cannot tear off the mask here," replied Professor de Worms, "it is an elaborate disguise. Whether I am an old man is not for me to say. I was thirty-eight last year. " "Yes, but I mean," said Syme impatiently, "it doesn't matter to you." "Yes," replied the professor indifferently, "I catch colds very easily." Syme laughed, and there was a wild, fragile relief in his laughter.It amused him to think that the stroked professor was really a young actor dressed up by a stage career.But he felt that he would have laughed just as loudly if a peppershaker had fallen.

"Did you know," he asked, "that Gogol is one of our own?" "You ask me? No, I don't know!" said Syme in amazement. "Don't you know?" "I know no more than the dead," replied the man who called himself Professor de Worms. "I thought Sunday was talking about me. I was terrified." "I thought he was talking about me, too," said Syme, laughing recklessly. "I kept my hand on my revolver." "Me too," said the professor gravely, "and obviously Gogol too." Syme sighed and tapped on the table.

"Yes, there were three of us!" he cried. "Three out of seven is enough to fight. If only we knew there were three!" Professor de Worms' face darkened, his eyes lowered. "There are three of us," he said, "and even if we were three hundred, we still wouldn't get anywhere." "Even if we were three hundred against four?" asked Syme, with a mocking look on his face. "No," said the professor calmly, "even with three hundred of us we can't do one Sunday." The mere mention of the name made Syme cold and sad; the smile was gone from his heart, and from his lips.The face of an unforgettable Sunday jumped into his mind like a colored photograph, and terrified him.The difference he noticed between Sunday and all his followers was that the faces of these followers, no matter how cruel or evil, gradually faded in memory like the faces of ordinary people, while Sunday's face It will become clearer and clearer, like a portrait of a person slowly resurrecting in memory. They were all silent for a while, and then, like champagne suddenly bubbling, Syme's words burst forth. "Professor," he cried, "this is unbearable. Are you afraid of this man?" The professor lifted his heavy eyelids and opened his blue eyes wide, staring at Syme with detached sincerity. "Yes, I am afraid," he said gently, "and you are too." Syme was silent.Then he straightened up, like an insulted man, and pushed the chair violently aside. "Yes," he said in an indescribable voice, "you're right. I'm afraid of him. So I swear to God I'm going to catch this man who frightens me and slap him. Even if The sky is his throne, the earth is his footstool, and I swear I'll bring him down too." "How?" The professor stared at him and asked, "Why did you pull him down?" "Because I'm afraid of him," said Syme, "and no man should leave in the universe what he's afraid of." Professor de Worms blinked at him in secret surprise.He tried to speak, but Syme went on in a low voice with a hint of savage delight— "Who would condescend to knock down what he's not afraid of? Who would demean himself to be as brave as the average professional boxer? Who would stoop fearlessly—like a tree? Fight what you fear. You don't Will forget that there is an old story about an English priest who gave the last funeral for a thief in Sicily, and the famous thief said on his deathbed, 'I can't give you money, but I can give you a Advice for life: put your thumb on the sword, and stab up'. So I tell you, if you're going to stab a star, stab up." The professor looked at the ceiling, a gesture he was used to. "Sunday was a stellar," he said. "You should think him a fallen star," said Syme, putting on his hat. His resolute posture made the professor vaguely want to stand up too. "Have you ever wondered," he asked generously, perplexed, "where you're going?" "Yes," said Syme at once, "I'm going to stop them dropping bombs in Paris." "Have you thought about how to do it?" asked the professor. "No," said Syme with equal determination. "Of course you remember," said Professor de Worms, pulling his beard and looking out of the window, "that the whole arrangement of the atrocities was under the control of the Marquis and Dr. Bull when we broke up in such haste. The Marquis may be crossing the Channel now. But where he is going and what he is doing may not be known even on Friday; certainly we do not know. The only person who knows is Dr. Bull." "Damn it!" cried Syme, "we don't know where he is yet." "Yes," said the professor inexplicably absent-mindedly, "but I know where he is." "Will you tell me?" asked Syme, staring at him eagerly. "I'll take you there," said the professor, taking his hat from the pegs. Syme stood staring at him ecstatically. "What do you mean?" he asked sternly. "Will you take part in my operation? Are you willing to take the risk?" "Young man," said the professor cheerfully, "I am glad to note that you think me a coward. I have only one word for that, and that is exactly in line with your philosophical rhetoric. You think it is possible to overthrow It's Friday. I know it's impossible, but I'm going to try." They pushed open the door of the tavern, and a biting wind blew in.They went out into the dark street by the quay. Most of the snow on the ground has melted or been trampled into mud, and from time to time there is a piece of snow that appears gray in the dark, but it is not white.The narrow streets are dank and full of puddles that reflect the shimmering streetlights in a haphazard manner, occasionally resembling fragments of some fallen world.Syme felt dizzy as he passed through this mingling of light and shadow; but his companion walked with ease, and at the end of the street the lighted patch of the river looked like a tongue of burning flame. "Where are you going?" asked Syme. "Just now," replied the professor, "I looked around the corner to see if Dr. Bull had gone to bed. He is very healthy and went to bed early." "Doctor Bull!" exclaimed Syme. "Does he live around the corner?" "No," answered his friend, "in fact he lives quite far away, on the other side of the river, but here we can see whether he is asleep or not." As he spoke, he turned the corner of the street, facing a dark river surface sprinkled with dots of light, and pointed to the opposite bank with his cane.On the Salisbury side, which seemed to overlook the Thames estuary, was a row of tall, massive tenement blocks rising to insane heights like factory chimneys and dotted with flashing windows.Their special posture and position make the buildings of the whole block look like the Tower of Babel with a hundred eyes.Syme had never seen American skyscrapers, so he could only imagine them in his dreams. As he gazed, the tallest light in the building with countless lights went out suddenly, as if this black Argus was winking at him. Professor de Worms turned and tapped his boot with his cane. "We came too late," he said, "doctors who know how to preserve health have already gone to bed." "What do you say?" asked Syme. "Does he live there?" "Yes," said Professor de Worms, "behind a window you cannot see. Let's go and have some supper. We must visit him tomorrow morning." After speaking, he led Syme through some back roads to the splendid and noisy East India Dock Road.The Professor, who knew the country well, came to a row of lighted places, suddenly twilight and quiet, where an old white inn in disrepair stood twenty feet from the road. "You can be surprised to find nice old English inns here like fossils," explained the professor. "I found a decent one in the West End once." "I suppose," said Syme, smiling, "that it's a similarly decent inn in the East End?" "Yes." The professor said solemnly and walked into the inn. There they ate well and slept well.The beans and bacon cooked so well by these wonderful people, and the astonishing clarets they brought from their cellars, made Syme extremely excited about a new friendship and comfort.In all these ordeals his deep-rooted fear was isolation, and no words could express the difference between isolation and having an ally at this moment.A mathematician might admit that four is twice two.But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one.This is why the world is going back to monogamy despite a hundred disadvantages. For the first time Syme was at liberty to tell his whole astonishing story, beginning with the tavern by the river where Gregory had brought him.He spoke leisurely and at length, like one addressing an old friend.The man next to him posing as Professor de Worms was just as chatty.His story is almost as stupid as Syme's. "You're very well dressed," said Syme, finishing his glass of Macon. "Much better than the older Gogol. I thought he had too much hair at first." "It's a difference in artistic point of view," replied the professor calmly. "Gogol was a visionary. He pretended to be an anarchist who was unrealistic or platonic. But I am a realist. I am a portraitist. But really, say I am A portrait painter is not enough. I am a portrait." "I don't understand you," said Syme. "I am a portrait," repeated the professor, "I am a portrait of the famous Professor de Worms, who I think is now in Naples." "You mean you're pretending to be him," said Syme, "but doesn't he know you're taking his name for nothing?" "Of course he does," said his friend cheerfully. "Then why didn't he report on you?" "I have denounced him," replied the professor. "You must explain," said Syme. "I'll be happy to explain, if you don't mind hearing my story," replied the famous foreign philosopher. "I'm an actor by profession, and my name is Wilkes. As an actor, I made friends with all kinds of bohemians and thugs. Sometimes I got on the outskirts of the gang, sometimes I got into people in the art world. A rabble, with occasional exposure to political refugees. In a lair of exiled dreamers, I was introduced to the great German nihilistic philosopher, Professor de Worms. I didn't know much about him other than his appearance. I thought about it carefully, and his appearance is very annoying. I understand that he proved that the principle of destruction in the universe is God; so he emphasized that there must be a violent and continuous energy to tear everything. He said that energy is everything. He was limping and short-sighted and had a stroke. When I met him, I was in a bad mood. I hated him so much that I decided to imitate him. If I were a painter, I would draw a caricature. But I am only an actor, I I had no choice but to act out the caricature. I was disguising myself in a deliberate and wildly exaggerated way of presenting the obscene and decrepit image of the old professor. When I walked into a room full of his supporters, I expected to be greeted with laughing, or (if they were more extreme) being insulted by their snarling rage. I cannot describe the astonishment I felt when I entered and was met with respectful silence followed by (when I When I first opened my lips) whispers of admiration. The curse on the perfect artist fell on me. I was too perceptive, too sincere. They thought I was really that great nihilistic professor. I was A mentally healthy young man, I admit it was a blow to me. However, before I could fully recover, two or three of my admirers came up to express their outrage and told me that the abuse was being played out against me in the next room. Public insult. I inquired about this at length. Probably some brash fellow dressed himself up to do a ludicrous parody of me. I drank too much champagne that I shouldn't have, and on a foolish whim I decided to take a look at the situation ...and then, facing the glaring audience and my raised eyebrows and icy eyes, the real professor walked into the room." "I hardly need to say that a conflict arose. The misanthropists surrounding me anxiously looked from one professor to the next to figure out which was more indefensible. But I won. My opponent was An old man in unhealthy condition will never look weaker than a young actor in the prime of life like myself. You see, he really suffered from a stroke, which, within these definite constraints, looks more like a stroke than a Not as serious as mine. Then he tried to intellectually criticize my claims. I countered with very simple pretexts. Whenever he said something that no one but himself could understand, I responded with something even Something I don't understand myself.' I can't imagine,' he said, 'that you would conjure up a principle that evolution is negation, because the defect inherent in that principle is an element of variation.' I contemptuously replied, 'You read these things in Pinkworth; the idea that degeneration works in eugenics was revealed long ago by Grump.' I needn't say that Pinkworth never existed. People like Woz and Grump. But those around them (to my surprise) seem to be impressed by them, and the professor finds that academic arcane methods put him at a disadvantage against a more daring opponent , a more popular expression for appealing to wit. 'I see,' he sneered, 'you won like the hypocritical pig in Aesop's fables.' 'And you're like,' I smile replied, 'The porcupine in Montaigne's prose failed as well.' Need I point out that there is no porcupine in Montaigne's prose? 'Your stunt succeeded,' he said, 'and so did your beard.' For this True and witty words, I can't give a smart answer. But I laughed heartily, and said ramblingly 'like a pantheist's boot,' and turned swiftly away in all triumphant glory. The real The professor was thrown out, and although no one used violence against him, a man tried very patiently to rip his nose off. I believe he is now being treated all over Europe as a cute liar. You see, he is obviously serious And anger makes him more interesting." "Well," said Syme, "I can understand you putting on his dirty old mustache for an evening of mischief, but I can't understand you never taking it off again." "That's the second half of the story," the actor said. "With reverent applause behind me as I left the scene, I limped out onto the street, hoping to get far enough quickly to walk like a normal person. To my amazement, when I Turning the corner, I felt a touch on the shoulder, turned around and found myself in the shadow of a tall policeman. He told me that I was wanted. Immediately, I assumed the appearance of a stroke patient, with a strong expression shouted in a German accent, 'By the way, the oppressed all over the world need me. And you arrested me on the charge that I am the great anarchist Professor de Worms.' The police looked over the A piece of paper in his hand, 'No, sir,' he said politely, 'you are completely wrong, sir. I am arresting you on the charge that you are not the famous anarchist Professor de Worms.' The charge, even if criminal, was certainly the lesser of the two, so I went with him, not alarmed, though skeptical. I was taken into several rooms and finally Brought before a police officer, he explained that they were waging a serious campaign against the core of anarchism, and that my successful disguise could be of great value to public safety. He gave me a A handsome salary and this little blue card. Though our conversation was short, he struck me as a man of great knowledge and many eccentricities; but I cannot tell you much about him personally. ,because--" Syme put down his fork and knife. "I understand," he said, "because you were talking to him in a dark room." Professor de Worms nodded and drank the wine in his glass.

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