"G.K.Chesterton. The man who was Thursday. A nightmare (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

intellectual to think that man upon this earth can ever be quite free of
original sin and the struggle. And they mean death. When they say that
mankind shall be free at last, they mean that mankind shall commit suicide.
When they talk of a paradise without right or wrong, they mean the grave.
They have but two objects, to destroy first humanity and then
themselves. That is why they throw bombs instead of firing pistols. The
innocent rank and file are disappointed because the bomb has not killed the
king; but the high-priesthood are happy because it has killed somebody."
"How can I join you?" asked Syme, with a sort of passion.
"I know for a fact that there is a vacancy at the moment," said the
policeman, "as I have the honour to be somewhat in the confidence of the
chief of whom I have spoken. You should really come and see him. Or rather,
I should not say see him, nobody ever sees him; but you can talk to him if
you like."
"Telephone?" inquired Syme, with interest.
"No," said the policeman placidly, "he has a fancy for always sitting
in a pitch-dark room. He says it makes his thoughts brighter. Do come
along."
Somewhat dazed and considerably excited, Syme allowed himself to be led
to a side-door in the long row of buildings of Scotland Yard. Almost before
he knew what he was doing, he had been passed through the hands of about
four intermediate officials, and was suddenly shown into a room, the abrupt
blackness of which startled him like a blaze of light. It was not the
ordinary darkness, in which forms can be faintly traced; it was like going
suddenly stone-blind.
"Are you the new recruit?" asked a heavy voice.
And in some strange way, though there was not the shadow of a shape in
the gloom, Syme knew two things: first, that it came from a man of massive
stature; and second, that the man had his back to him.
"Are you the new recruit?" said the invisible chief, who seemed to have
heard all about it. "All right. You are engaged."
Syme, quite swept off his feet, made a feeble fight against this
irrevocable phrase.
"I really have no experience," he began.
"No one has any experience," said the other, "of the Battle of
Armageddon."
"But I am really unfit--"
"You are willing, that is enough," said the unknown.
"Well, really," said Syme, "I don't know any profession of which mere
willingness is the final test."
"I do," said the other--"martyrs. I am condemning you to death. Good
day."
Thus it was that when Gabriel Syme came out again into the crimson
light of evening, in his shabby black hat and shabby, lawless cloak, he came
out a member of the New Detective Corps for the frustration of the great
conspiracy. Acting under the advice of his friend the policeman (who was
professionally inclined to neatness), he trimmed his hair and beard, bought
a good hat, clad himself in an exquisite summer suit of light blue-grey,
with a pale yellow flower in the button-hole, and, in short, became that
elegant and rather insupportable person whom Gregory had first encountered