The Man Who Was Thursday | Page 5

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 lawlessness with a certain impudent
freshness which gave at least a momentary pleasure. He was helped in
some degree by the arresting oddity of his appearance, which he
worked, as the phrase goes, for all it was worth. His dark red hair
parted in the middle was literally like a woman's, and curved into the
slow curls of a virgin in a pre-Raphaelite picture. From within this
almost saintly oval, however, his face projected suddenly broad and
brutal, the chin carried forward with a look of cockney contempt. This

combination at once tickled and terrified the nerves of a neurotic
population. He seemed like a walking blasphemy, a blend of the angel
and the ape.
This particular evening, if it is remembered for nothing else, will be
remembered in that place for its strange sunset. It looked like the end of
the world. All the heaven seemed covered with a quite vivid and
palpable plumage; you could only say that the sky was full of feathers,
and 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 covered up the sun like something too good to be seen. The whole
was so close about the earth, as to express nothing but a violent secrecy.
The very empyrean seemed to be a secret. It expressed that splendid
smallness which is the soul of local patriotism. The very sky seemed
small.
I say that there are some inhabitants who may remember the evening if
only by that oppressive sky. There are others who may remember it
because it marked the first appearance in the place of the second poet of
Saffron Park. For a long time the red-haired revolutionary had reigned
without a rival; 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 his entrance by differing with the
established poet, Gregory, upon the whole nature of poetry. He said
that he (Syme) was poet of law, a poet of order; nay, he said he was a
poet of respectability. So all the Saffron Parkers looked at him as if he
had that moment fallen out of that impossible sky.
In fact, Mr. Lucian Gregory, the anarchic poet, connected the two
events.
"It may well be," he said, in his sudden lyrical manner, "it may well be
on such a night of clouds and cruel colours that 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 a contradiction in terms. I only wonder there
were not comets and earthquakes on the night you appeared in this
garden."
The man with the meek blue eyes and the pale, pointed beard endured
these thunders with a certain submissive solemnity. The third party of
the group, Gregory's sister Rosamond, who had her brother's braids of
red hair, but a kindlier face underneath them, laughed with such
mixture of admiration and disapproval as she gave commonly to the
family oracle.
Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.
"An artist is identical with an anarchist," he cried. "You might
transpose the words anywhere. An anarchist is an artist. The man who
throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a 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 artist disregards all governments,
abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were
not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground
Railway."
"So it is," said Mr. Syme.
"Nonsense!" said Gregory, who was very rational when anyone else
attempted paradox. "Why do all the clerks and navvies in the railway
trains look so sad and tired, so very sad and tired? I will tell you. It 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 they know
that the next station must be