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_ " . . . All idealisation makes life poorer. To beautify it is to
take away its character of complexity - it is to destroy it. Leave
that to the moralists, my boy. History is made by men, but they do
not make it in their heads. The ideas that are born in their
consciousness play an insignificant part in the march of events.
History is dominated and determined by the tool and the production
- by the force of economic conditions. Capitalism has made
socialism, and the laws made by the capitalism for the protection
of property are responsible for anarchism. No one can tell what
form the social organisation may take in the future. Then why
indulge in prophetic phantasies? At best they can only interpret
the mind of the prophet, and can have no objective value. Leave
that pastime to the moralists, my boy."
Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, was speaking in an even
voice, a voice that wheezed as if deadened and oppressed by the
layer of fat on his chest. He had come out of a highly hygienic
prison round like a tub, with an enormous stomach and distended
cheeks of a pale, semi-transparent complexion, as though for
fifteen years the servants of an outraged society had made a point
of stuffing him with fattening foods in a damp and lightless
cellar. And ever since he had never managed to get his weight down
as much as an ounce.
It was said that for three seasons running a very wealthy old lady
had sent him for a cure to Marienbad - where he was about to share
the public curiosity once with a crowned head - but the police on
that occasion ordered him to leave within twelve hours. His
martyrdom was continued by forbidding him all access to the healing
waters. But he was resigned now.
With his elbow presenting no appearance of a joint, but more like a
bend in a dummy's limb, thrown over the back of a chair, he leaned
forward slightly over his short and enormous thighs to spit into
the grate.
"Yes! I had the time to think things out a little," he added
without emphasis. "Society has given me plenty of time for
meditation."
On the other side of the fireplace, in the horse-hair arm-chair
where Mrs Verloc's mother was generally privileged to sit, Karl
Yundt giggled grimly, with a faint black grimace of a toothless
mouth. The terrorist, as he called himself, was old and bald, with
a narrow, snow-white wisp of a goatee hanging limply from his chin.
An extraordinary expression of underhand malevolence survived in
his extinguished eyes. When he rose painfully the thrusting
forward of a skinny groping hand deformed by gouty swellings
suggested the effort of a moribund murderer summoning all his
remaining strength for a last stab. He leaned on a thick stick,
which trembled under his other hand.
"I have always dreamed," he mouthed fiercely, "of a band of men
absolute in their resolve to discard all scruples in the choice of
means, strong enough to give themselves frankly the name of
destroyers, and free from the taint of that resigned pessimism
which rots the world. No pity for anything on earth, including
themselves, and death enlisted for good and all in the service of
humanity - that's what I would have liked to see."
His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration to the
wisp of white goatee. His enunciation would have been almost
totally unintelligible to a stranger. His worn-out passion,
resembling in its impotent fierceness the excitement of a senile
sensualist, was badly served by a dried throat and toothless gums
which seemed to catch the tip of his tongue. Mr Verloc,
established in the corner of the sofa at the other end of the room,
emitted two hearty grunts of assent.
The old terrorist turned slowly his head on his skinny neck from
side to side.
"And I could never get as many as three such men together. So much
for your rotten pessimism," he snarled at Michaelis, who uncrossed
his thick legs, similar to bolsters, and slid his feet abruptly
under his chair in sign of exasperation.
He a pessimist! Preposterous! He cried out that the charge was
outrageous. He was so far from pessimism that he saw already the
end of all private property coming along logically, unavoidably, by
the mere development of its inherent viciousness. The possessors
of property had not only to face the awakened proletariat, but they
had also to fight amongst themselves. Yes. Struggle, warfare, was
the condition of private ownership. It was fatal. Ah! he did not
depend upon emotional excitement to keep up his belief, no
declamations, no anger, no visions of blood-red flags waving, or
metaphorical lurid suns of vengeance rising above the horizon of a
doomed society. Not he! Cold reason, he boasted, was the basis of
his optimism. Yes, optimism -
His laborious wheezing stopped, then, after a gasp or two, he
added:
"Don't you think that, if I had not been the optimist I am, I could
not have found in fifteen years some means to cut my throat? And,
in the last instance, there were always the walls of my cell to
dash my head against."
The shortness of breath took all fire, all animation out of his
voice; his great, pale cheeks hung like filled pouches, motionless,
without a quiver; but in his blue eyes, narrowed as if peering,
there was the same look of confident shrewdness, a little crazy in
its fixity, they must have had while the indomitable optimist sat
thinking at night in his cell. Before him, Karl Yundt remained
standing, one wing of his faded greenish havelock thrown back
cavalierly over his shoulder. Seated in front of the fireplace,
Comrade Ossipon, ex-medical student, the principal writer of the F.
P. leaflets, stretched out his robust legs, keeping the soles of
his boots turned up to the glow in the grate. A bush of crinkly
yellow hair topped his red, freckled face, with a flattened nose
and prominent mouth cast in the rough mould of the negro type. His
almond-shaped eyes leered languidly over the high cheek-bones. He
wore a grey flannel shirt, the loose ends of a black silk tie hung
down the buttoned breast of his serge coat; and his head resting on
the back of his chair, his throat largely exposed, he raised to his
lips a cigarette in a long wooden tube, puffing jets of smoke
straight up at the ceiling.
Michaelis pursued his idea - THE idea of his solitary reclusion -
the thought vouchsafed to his captivity and growing like a faith
revealed in visions. He talked to himself, indifferent to the
sympathy or hostility of his hearers, indifferent indeed to their
presence, from the habit he had acquired of thinking aloud
hopefully in the solitude of the four whitewashed walls of his
cell, in the sepulchral silence of the great blind pile of bricks
near a river, sinister and ugly like a colossal mortuary for the
socially drowned.
He was no good in discussion, not because any amount of argument
could shake his faith, but because the mere fact of hearing another
voice disconcerted him painfully, confusing his thoughts at once -
these thoughts that for so many years, in a mental solitude more
barren than a waterless desert, no living voice had ever combatted,
commented, or approved.
No one interrupted him now, and he made again the confession of his
faith, mastering him irresistible and complete like an act of
grace: the secret of fate discovered in the material side of life;
the economic condition of the world responsible for the past and
shaping the future; the source of all history, of all ideas,
guiding the mental development of mankind and the very impulses of
their passion -
A harsh laugh from Comrade Ossipon cut the tirade dead short in a
sudden faltering of the tongue and a bewildered unsteadiness of the
apostle's mildly exalted eyes. He closed them slowly for a moment,
as if to collect his routed thoughts. A silence fell; but what
with the two gas-jets over the table and the glowing grate the
little parlour behind Mr Verloc's shop had become frightfully hot.
Mr Verloc, getting off the sofa with ponderous reluctance, opened
the door leading into the kitchen to get more air, and thus
disclosed the innocent Stevie, seated very good and quiet at a deal
table, drawing circles, circles, circles; innumerable circles,
concentric, eccentric; a coruscating whirl of circles that by their
tangled multitude of repeated curves, uniformity of form, and
confusion of intersecting lines suggested a rendering of cosmic
chaos, the symbolism of a mad art attempting the inconceivable.
The artist never turned his head; and in all his soul's application
to the task his back quivered, his thin neck, sunk into a deep
hollow at the base of the skull, seemed ready to snap.
Mr Verloc, after a grunt of disapproving surprise, returned to the
sofa. Alexander Ossipon got up, tall in his threadbare blue serge
suit under the low ceiling, shook off the stiffness of long
immobility, and strolled away into the kitchen (down two steps) to
look over Stevie's shoulder. He came back, pronouncing oracularly:
"Very good. Very characteristic, perfectly typical."
"What's very good?" grunted inquiringly Mr Verloc, settled again in
the corner of the sofa. The other explained his meaning
negligently, with a shade of condescension and a toss of his head
towards the kitchen:
"Typical of this form of degeneracy - these drawings, I mean."
"You would call that lad a degenerate, would you?" mumbled Mr
Verloc.
Comrade Alexander Ossipon - nicknamed the Doctor, ex-medical
student without a degree; afterwards wandering lecturer to working-
men's associations upon the socialistic aspects of hygiene; author
of a popular quasi-medical study (in the form of a cheap pamphlet
seized promptly by the police) entitled "The Corroding Vices of the
Middle Classes"; special delegate of the more or less mysterious
Red Committee, together with Karl Yundt and Michaelis for the work
of literary propaganda - turned upon the obscure familiar of at
least two Embassies that glance of insufferable, hopelessly dense
sufficiency which nothing but the frequentation of science can give
to the dulness of common mortals.
"That's what he may be called scientifically. Very good type too,
altogether, of that sort of degenerate. It's enough to glance at
the lobes of his ears. If you read Lombroso - "
Mr Verloc, moody and spread largely on the sofa, continued to look
down the row of his waistcoat buttons; but his cheeks became tinged
by a faint blush. Of late even the merest derivative of the word
science (a term in itself inoffensive and of indefinite meaning)
had the curious power of evoking a definitely offensive mental
vision of Mr Vladimir, in his body as he lived, with an almost
supernatural clearness. And this phenomenon, deserving justly to
be classed amongst the marvels of science, induced in Mr Verloc an
emotional state of dread and exasperation tending to express itself
in violent swearing. But he said nothing. It was Karl Yundt who
was heard, implacable to his last breath.
"Lombroso is an ass."
Comrade Ossipon met the shock of this blasphemy by an awful, vacant
stare. And the other, his extinguished eyes without gleams
blackening the deep shadows under the great, bony forehead,
mumbled, catching the tip of his tongue between his lips at every
second word as though he were chewing it angrily:
"Did you ever see such an idiot? For him the criminal is the
prisoner. Simple, is it not? What about those who shut him up
there - forced him in there? Exactly. Forced him in there. And
what is crime? Does he know that, this imbecile who has made his
way in this world of gorged fools by looking at the ears and teeth
of a lot of poor, luckless devils? Teeth and ears mark the
criminal? Do they? And what about the law that marks him still
better - the pretty branding instrument invented by the overfed to
protect themselves against the hungry? Red-hot applications on
their vile skins - hey? Can't you smell and hear from here the
thick hide of the people burn and sizzle? That's how criminals are
made for your Lombrosos to write their silly stuff about."
The knob of his stick and his legs shook together with passion,
whilst the trunk, draped in the wings of the havelock, preserved
his historic attitude of defiance. He seemed to sniff the tainted
air of social cruelty, to strain his ear for its atrocious sounds.
There was an extraordinary force of suggestion in this posturing.
The all but moribund veteran of dynamite wars had been a great
actor in his time - actor on platforms, in secret assemblies, in
private interviews. The famous terrorist had never in his life
raised personally as much as his little finger against the social
edifice. He was no man of action; he was not even an orator of
torrential eloquence, sweeping the masses along in the rushing
noise and foam of a great enthusiasm. With a more subtle
intention, he took the part of an insolent and venomous evoker of
sinister impulses which lurk in the blind envy and exasperated
vanity of ignorance, in the suffering and misery of poverty, in all
the hopeful and noble illusions of righteous anger, pity, and
revolt. The shadow of his evil gift clung to him yet like the
smell of a deadly drug in an old vial of poison, emptied now,
useless, ready to be thrown away upon the rubbish-heap of things
that had served their time.
Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle, smiled vaguely with his
glued lips; his pasty moon face drooped under the weight of
melancholy assent. He had been a prisoner himself. His own skin
had sizzled under the red-hot brand, he murmured softly. But
Comrade Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, had got over the shock by
that time.
"You don't understand," he began disdainfully, but stopped short,
intimidated by the dead blackness of the cavernous eyes in the face
turned slowly towards him with a blind stare, as if guided only by
the sound. He gave the discussion up, with a slight shrug of the
shoulders.
Stevie, accustomed to move about disregarded, had got up from the
kitchen table, carrying off his drawing to bed with him. He had
reached the parlour door in time to receive in full the shock of
Karl Yundt's eloquent imagery. The sheet of paper covered with
circles dropped out of his fingers, and he remained staring at the
old terrorist, as if rooted suddenly to the spot by his morbid
horror and dread of physical pain. Stevie knew very well that hot
iron applied to one's skin hurt very much. His scared eyes blazed
with indignation: it would hurt terribly. His mouth dropped open.
Michaelis by staring unwinkingly at the fire had regained that
sentiment of isolation necessary for the continuity of his thought.
His optimism had begun to flow from his lips. He saw Capitalism
doomed in its cradle, born with the poison of the principle of
competition in its system. The great capitalists devouring the
little capitalists, concentrating the power and the tools of
production in great masses, perfecting industrial processes, and in
the madness of self-aggrandisement only preparing, organising,
enriching, making ready the lawful inheritance of the suffering
proletariat. Michaelis pronounced the great word "Patience" - and
his clear blue glance, raised to the low ceiling of Mr Verloc's
parlour, had a character of seraphic trustfulness. In the doorway
Stevie, calmed, seemed sunk in hebetude.
Comrade Ossipon's face twitched with exasperation.
"Then it's no use doing anything - no use whatever."
"I don't say that," protested Michaelis gently. His vision of
truth had grown so intense that the sound of a strange voice failed
to rout it this time. He continued to look down at the red coals.
Preparation for the future was necessary, and he was willing to
admit that the great change would perhaps come in the upheaval of a
revolution. But he argued that revolutionary propaganda was a
delicate work of high conscience. It was the education of the
masters of the world. It should be as careful as the education
given to kings. He would have it advance its tenets cautiously,
even timidly, in our ignorance of the effect that may be produced
by any given economic change upon the happiness, the morals, the
intellect, the history of mankind. For history is made with tools,
not with ideas; and everything is changed by economic conditions -
art, philosophy, love, virtue - truth itself!
The coals in the grate settled down with a slight crash; and
Michaelis, the hermit of visions in the desert of a penitentiary,
got up impetuously. Round like a distended balloon, he opened his
short, thick arms, as if in a pathetically hopeless attempt to
embrace and hug to his breast a self-regenerated universe. He
gasped with ardour.
"The future is as certain as the past - slavery, feudalism,
individualism, collectivism. This is the statement of a law, not
an empty prophecy."
The disdainful pout of Comrade Ossipon's thick lips accentuated the
negro type of his face.
"Nonsense," he said calmly enough. "There is no law and no
certainty. The teaching propaganda be hanged. What the people
knows does not matter, were its knowledge ever so accurate. The
only thing that matters to us is the emotional state of the masses.
Without emotion there is no action."
He paused, then added with modest firmness:
"I am speaking now to you scientifically - scientifically - Eh?
What did you say, Verloc?"
"Nothing," growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, provoked by the
abhorrent sound, had merely muttered a "Damn."
The venomous spluttering of the old terrorist without teeth was
heard.
"Do you know how I would call the nature of the present economic
conditions? I would call it cannibalistic. That's what it is!
They are nourishing their greed on the quivering flesh and the warm
blood of the people - nothing else."
Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible gulp, and
at once, as though it had been swift poison, sank limply in a
sitting posture on the steps of the kitchen door.
Michaelis gave no sign of having heard anything. His lips seemed
glued together for good; not a quiver passed over his heavy cheeks.
With troubled eyes he looked for his round, hard hat, and put it on
his round head. His round and obese body seemed to float low
between the chairs under the sharp elbow of Karl Yundt. The old
terrorist, raising an uncertain and clawlike hand, gave a
swaggering tilt to a black felt sombrero shading the hollows and
ridges of his wasted face. He got in motion slowly, striking the
floor with his stick at every step. It was rather an affair to get
him out of the house because, now and then, he would stop, as if to
think, and did not offer to move again till impelled forward by
Michaelis. The gentle apostle grasped his arm with brotherly care;
and behind them, his hands in his pockets, the robust Ossipon
yawned vaguely. A blue cap with a patent leather peak set well at
the back of his yellow bush of hair gave him the aspect of a
Norwegian sailor bored with the world after a thundering spree. Mr
Verloc saw his guests off the premises, attending them bareheaded,
his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on the ground.
He closed the door behind their backs with restrained violence,
turned the key, shot the bolt. He was not satisfied with his
friends. In the light of Mr Vladimir's philosophy of bomb throwing
they appeared hopelessly futile. The part of Mr Verloc in
revolutionary politics having been to observe, he could not all at
once, either in his own home or in larger assemblies, take the
initiative of action. He had to be cautious. Moved by the just
indignation of a man well over forty, menaced in what is dearest to
him - his repose and his security - he asked himself scornfully
what else could have been expected from such a lot, this Karl
Yundt, this Michaelis - this Ossipon.
Pausing in his intention to turn off the gas burning in the middle
of the shop, Mr Verloc descended into the abyss of moral
reflections. With the insight of a kindred temperament he
pronounced his verdict. A lazy lot - this Karl Yundt, nursed by a
blear-eyed old woman, a woman he had years ago enticed away from a
friend, and afterwards had tried more than once to shake off into
the gutter. Jolly lucky for Yundt that she had persisted in coming
up time after time, or else there would have been no one now to
help him out of the `bus by the Green Park railings, where that
spectre took its constitutional crawl every fine morning. When
that indomitable snarling old witch died the swaggering spectre
would have to vanish too - there would be an end to fiery Karl
Yundt. And Mr Verloc's morality was offended also by the optimism
of Michaelis, annexed by his wealthy old lady, who had taken lately
to sending him to a cottage she had in the country. The ex-
prisoner could moon about the shady lanes for days together in a
delicious and humanitarian idleness. As to Ossipon, that beggar
was sure to want for nothing as long as there were silly girls with
savings-bank books in the world. And Mr Verloc, temperamentally
identical with his associates, drew fine distinctions in his mind
on the strength of insignificant differences. He drew them with a
certain complacency, because the instinct of conventional
respectability was strong within him, being only overcome by his
dislike of all kinds of recognised labour - a temperamental defect
which he shared with a large proportion of revolutionary reformers
of a given social state. For obviously one does not revolt against
the advantages and opportunities of that state, but against the
price which must be paid for the same in the coin of accepted
morality, self-restraint, and toil. The majority of revolutionises
are the enemies of discipline and fatigue mostly. There are
natures too, to whose sense of justice the price exacted looms up
monstrously enormous, odious, oppressive, worrying, humiliating,
extortionate, intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remaining
portion of social rebels is accounted for by vanity, the mother of
all noble and vile illusions, the companion of poets, reformers,
charlatans, prophets, and incendiaries.
Lost for a whole minute in the abyss of meditation, Mr Verloc did
not reach the depth of these abstract considerations. Perhaps he
was not able. In any case he had not the time. He was pulled up
painfully by the sudden recollection of Mr Vladimir, another of his
associates, whom in virtue of subtle moral affinities he was
capable of judging correctly. He considered him as dangerous. A
shade of envy crept into his thoughts. Loafing was all very well
for these fellows, who knew not Mr Vladimir, and had women to fall
back upon; whereas he had a woman to provide for -
At this point, by a simple association of ideas, Mr Verloc was
brought face to face with the necessity of going to bed some time
or other that evening. Then why not go now - at once? He sighed.
The necessity was not so normally pleasurable as it ought to have
been for a man of his age and temperament. He dreaded the demon of
sleeplessness, which he felt had marked him for its own. He raised
his arm, and turned off the flaring gas-jet above his head.
A bright band of light fell through the parlour door into the part
of the shop behind the counter. It enabled Mr Verloc to ascertain
at a glance the number of silver coins in the till. These were but
few; and for the first time since he opened his shop he took a
commercial survey of its value. This survey was unfavourable. He
had gone into trade for no commercial reasons. He had been guided
in the selection of this peculiar line of business by an
instinctive leaning towards shady transactions, where money is
picked up easily. Moreover, it did not take him out of his own
sphere - the sphere which is watched by the police. On the
contrary, it gave him a publicly confessed standing in that sphere,
and as Mr Verloc had unconfessed relations which made him familiar
with yet careless of the police, there was a distinct advantage in
such a situation. But as a means of livelihood it was by itself
insufficient.
He took the cash-box out of the drawer, and turning to leave the
shop, became aware that Stevie was still downstairs.
What on earth is he doing there? Mr Verloc asked himself. What's
the meaning of these antics? He looked dubiously at his brother-
in-law, but he did not ask him for information. Mr Verloc's
intercourse with Stevie was limited to the casual mutter of a
morning, after breakfast, "My boots," and even that was more a
communication at large of a need than a direct order or request.
Mr Verloc perceived with some surprise that he did not know really
what to say to Stevie. He stood still in the middle of the
parlour, and looked into the kitchen in silence. Nor yet did he
know what would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared
very queer to Mr Verloc in view of the fact, borne upon him
suddenly, that he had to provide for this fellow too. He had never
given a moment's thought till then to that aspect of Stevie's
existence.
Positively he did not know how to speak to the lad. He watched him
gesticulating and murmuring in the kitchen. Stevie prowled round
the table like an excited animal in a cage. A tentative "Hadn't
you better go to bed now?" produced no effect whatever; and Mr
Verloc, abandoning the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law's
behaviour, crossed the parlour wearily, cash-box in hand. The
cause of the general lassitude he felt while climbing the stairs
being purely mental, he became alarmed by its inexplicable
character. He hoped he was not sickening for anything. He stopped
on the dark landing to examine his sensations. But a slight and
continuous sound of snoring pervading the obscurity interfered with
their clearness. The sound came from his mother-in-law's room.
Another one to provide for, he thought - and on this thought walked
into the bedroom.
Mrs Verloc had fallen asleep with the lamp (no gas was laid
upstairs) turned up full on the table by the side of the bed. The
light thrown down by the shade fell dazzlingly on the white pillow
sunk by the weight of her head reposing with closed eyes and dark
hair done up in several plaits for the night. She woke up with the
sound of her name in her ears, and saw her husband standing over
her.
"Winnie! Winnie!"
At first she did not stir, lying very quiet and looking at the
cash-box in Mr Verloc's hand. But when she understood that her
brother was "capering all over the place downstairs" she swung out
in one sudden movement on to the edge of the bed. Her bare feet,
as if poked through the bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sack
buttoned tightly at neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the
slippers while she looked upward into her husband's face.
"I don't know how to manage him," Mr Verloc explained peevishly.
"Won't do to leave him downstairs alone with the lights."
She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door
closed upon her white form.
Mr Verloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began the
operation of undressing by flinging his overcoat on to a distant
chair. His coat and waistcoat followed. He walked about the room
in his stockinged feet, and his burly figure, with the hands
worrying nervously at his throat, passed and repassed across the
long strip of looking-glass in the door of his wife's wardrobe.
Then after slipping his braces off his shoulders he pulled up
violently the venetian blind, and leaned his forehead against the
cold window-pane - a fragile film of glass stretched between him
and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable
accumulation of bricks, slates, and stones, things in themselves
unlovely and unfriendly to man.
Mr Verloc felt the latent unfriendliness of all out of doors with a
force approaching to positive bodily anguish. There is no
occupation that fails a man more completely than that of a secret
agent of police. It's like your horse suddenly falling dead under
you in the midst of an uninhabited and thirsty plain. The
comparison occurred to Mr Verloc because he had sat astride various
army horses in his time, and had now the sensation of an incipient
fall. The prospect was as black as the window-pane against which
he was leaning his forehead. And suddenly the face of Mr Vladimir,
clean-shaved and witty, appeared enhaloed in the glow of its rosy
complexion like a sort of pink seal, impressed on the fatal
darkness.
This luminous and mutilated vision was so ghastly physically that
Mr Verloc started away from the window, letting down the venetian
blind with a great rattle. Discomposed and speechless with the
apprehension of more such visions, he beheld his wife re-enter the
room and get into bed in a calm business-like manner which made him
feel hopelessly lonely in the world. Mrs Verloc expressed her
surprise at seeing him up yet.
"I don't feel very well," he muttered, passing his hands over his
moist brow.
"Giddiness?"
"Yes. Not at all well."
Mrs Verloc, with all the placidity of an experienced wife,
expressed a confident opinion as to the cause, and suggested the
usual remedies; but her husband, rooted in the middle of the room,
shook his lowered head sadly.
"You'll catch cold standing there," she observed.
Mr Verloc made an effort, finished undressing, and got into bed.
Down below in the quiet, narrow street measured footsteps
approached the house, then died away unhurried and firm, as if the
passer-by had started to pace out all eternity, from gas-lamp to
gas-lamp in a night without end; and the drowsy ticking of the old
clock on the landing became distinctly audible in the bedroom.
Mrs Verloc, on her back, and staring at the ceiling, made a remark.
"Takings very small to-day."
Mr Verloc, in the same position, cleared his throat as if for an
important statement, but merely inquired:
"Did you turn off the gas downstairs?"
"Yes; I did," answered Mrs Verloc conscientiously. "That poor boy
is in a very excited state to-night," she murmured, after a pause
which lasted for three ticks of the clock.
Mr Verloc cared nothing for Stevie's excitement, but he felt
horribly wakeful, and dreaded facing the darkness and silence that
would follow the extinguishing of the lamp. This dread led him to
make the remark that Stevie had disregarded his suggestion to go to
bed. Mrs Verloc, falling into the trap, started to demonstrate at
length to her husband that this was not "impudence" of any sort,
but simply "excitement." There was no young man of his age in
London more willing and docile than Stephen, she affirmed; none
more affectionate and ready to please, and even useful, as long as
people did not upset his poor head. Mrs Verloc, turning towards
her recumbent husband, raised herself on her elbow, and hung over
him in her anxiety that he should believe Stevie to be a useful
member of the family. That ardour of protecting compassion exalted
morbidly in her childhood by the misery of another child tinged her
sallow cheeks with a faint dusky blush, made her big eyes gleam
under the dark lids. Mrs Verloc then looked younger; she looked as
young as Winnie used to look, and much more animated than the
Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days had ever allowed herself to
appear to gentlemen lodgers. Mr Verloc's anxieties had prevented
him from attaching any sense to what his wife was saying. It was
as if her voice were talking on the other side of a very thick
wall. It was her aspect that recalled him to himself.
He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this appreciation,
stirred by a display of something resembling emotion, only added
another pang to his mental anguish. When her voice ceased he moved
uneasily, and said:
"I haven't been feeling well for the last few days."
He might have meant this as an opening to a complete confidence;
but Mrs Verloc laid her head on the pillow again, and staring
upward, went on:
"That boy hears too much of what is talked about here. If I had
known they were coming to-night I would have seen to it that he
went to bed at the same time I did. He was out of his mind with
something he overheard about eating people's flesh and drinking
blood. What's the good of talking like that?"
There was a note of indignant scorn in her voice. Mr Verloc was
fully responsive now.
"Ask Karl Yundt," he growled savagely.
Mrs Verloc, with great decision, pronounced Karl Yundt "a
disgusting old man." She declared openly her affection for
Michaelis. Of the robust Ossipon, in whose presence she always
felt uneasy behind an attitude of stony reserve, she said nothing
whatever. And continuing to talk of that brother, who had been for
so many years an object of care and fears:
"He isn't fit to hear what's said here. He believes it's all true.
He knows no better. He gets into his passions over it."
Mr Verloc made no comment.
"He glared at me, as if he didn't know who I was, when I went
downstairs. His heart was going like a hammer. He can't help
being excitable. I woke mother up, and asked her to sit with him
till he went to sleep. It isn't his fault. He's no trouble when
he's left alone."
Mr Verloc made no comment.
"I wish he had never been to school," Mrs Verloc began again
brusquely. "He's always taking away those newspapers from the
window to read. He gets a red face poring over them. We don't get
rid of a dozen numbers in a month. They only take up room in the
front window. And Mr Ossipon brings every week a pile of these F.
P. tracts to sell at a halfpenny each. I wouldn't give a halfpenny
for the whole lot. It's silly reading - that's what it is.
There's no sale for it. The other day Stevie got hold of one, and
there was a story in it of a German soldier officer tearing half-
off the ear of a recruit, and nothing was done to him for it. The
brute! I couldn't do anything with Stevie that afternoon. The
story was enough, too, to make one's blood boil. But what's the
use of printing things like that? We aren't German slaves here,
thank God. It's not our business - is it?"
Mr Verloc made no reply.
"I had to take the carving knife from the boy," Mrs Verloc
continued, a little sleepily now. "He was shouting and stamping
and sobbing. He can't stand the notion of any cruelty. He would
have stuck that officer like a pig if he had seen him then. It's
true, too! Some people don't deserve much mercy." Mrs Verloc's
voice ceased, and the expression of her motionless eyes became more
and more contemplative and veiled during the long pause.
"Comfortable, dear?" she asked in a faint, far-away voice. "Shall
I put out the light now?"
The dreary conviction that there was no sleep for him held Mr
Verloc mute and hopelessly inert in his fear of darkness. He made
a great effort.
"Yes. Put it out," he said at last in a hollow tone. _
Read next: CHAPTER IV
Read previous: CHAPTER II
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