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TheProjectGutenbergeBook,TheSecretAgent,byJosephConrad
ThiseBookisfortheuseofanyoneanywhereatnocostandwith
almostnorestrictionswhatsoever.Youmaycopyit,giveitawayor
re-useitunderthetermsoftheProjectGutenbergLicenseincluded
withthiseBookoronlineatwww.gutenberg.org
Title:TheSecretAgent
ASimpleTale
Author:JosephConrad
ReleaseDate:December24,2010[eBook#974]
Firstreleased:June28,1997
Language:English
Charactersetencoding:ISO-646-US(US-ASCII)
***STARTOFTHEPROJECTGUTENBERGEBOOKTHESECRETAGENT***
Transcribed from the 1907 Methuen & Co edition by David Price, [email protected]
THE
SECRETAGENTASIMPLETALE
BY
JOSEPHCONRADSECONDEDITION
METHUEN&CO.,36ESSEXSTREETWC.
LONDON
FirstPublished...September1907
SecondEdition...October1907
TOH.G.WELLS
THECHRONICLEROFMRLEWISHAM’SLOVETHEBIOGRAPHEROFKIPPSANDTHEHISTORIANOFTHEAGESTOCOME
THISSIMPLETALEOFTHEXIXCENTURYISAFFECTIONATELYOFFERED
CHAPTERI
Mr Verloc, going out in the morning, left his shop nominally in charge of hisbrother-in-law.Itcouldbedone,becausetherewasverylittlebusinessatanytime,andpracticallynoneatallbeforetheevening.MrVerloccaredbutlittleabouthisostensiblebusiness.And,moreover,hiswifewasinchargeofhisbrother-in-law.
Theshopwassmall,andsowasthehouse.Itwasoneofthosegrimybrickhouseswhich existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction dawned uponLondon. The shop was a square box of a place, with the front glazed in smallpanes. In thedaytimethedoorremainedclosed; in theeveningitstooddiscreetlybutsuspiciouslyajar.
The window contained photographs of more or less undressed dancing girls;nondescript packages in wrappers like patent medicines; closed yellow paperenvelopes, very flimsy, and marked two-and-six in heavy black figures; a fewnumbersofancientFrenchcomicpublicationshungacrossastringas if todry;adingybluechinabowl,acasketofblackwood,bottlesofmarkingink,andrubberstamps;afewbooks,withtitleshintingatimpropriety;afewapparentlyoldcopiesofobscurenewspapers,badlyprinted,withtitleslikeTheTorch,TheGong—rousingtitles. And the two gas jets inside the panes were always turned low, either foreconomy’ssakeorforthesakeofthecustomers.
These customerswere either very youngmen,whohung about thewindow for atime before slipping in suddenly; or men of a more mature age, but lookinggenerallyasiftheywerenotinfunds.Someofthatlastkindhadthecollarsoftheirovercoatsturnedrightuptotheirmoustaches,andtracesofmudonthebottomoftheirnethergarments,whichhadtheappearanceofbeingmuchwornandnotveryvaluable.Andthelegsinsidethemdidnot,asageneralrule,seemofmuchaccounteither.Withtheirhandsplungeddeepinthesidepocketsoftheircoats,theydodgedinsideways,oneshoulderfirst,asifafraidtostartthebellgoing.
Thebell,hungon thedoorbymeansofacurved ribbonof steel,wasdifficult tocircumvent. It was hopelessly cracked; but of an evening, at the slightestprovocation,itclatteredbehindthecustomerwithimpudentvirulence.
Itclattered;andatthatsignal,throughthedustyglassdoorbehindthepainteddealcounter,MrVerlocwouldissuehastilyfromtheparlourattheback.Hiseyeswerenaturally heavy; he had an air of having wallowed, fully dressed, all day on anunmade bed. Another man would have felt such an appearance a distinctdisadvantage.Inacommercialtransactionoftheretailordermuchdependsontheseller ’s engaging and amiable aspect. But Mr Verloc knew his business, andremainedundisturbedbyany sortofæstheticdoubt abouthis appearance. Withafirm, steady-eyed impudence, which seemed to hold back the threat of someabominablemenace,hewouldproceedtoselloverthecountersomeobjectlookingobviouslyandscandalouslynotworththemoneywhichpassedinthetransaction:asmall cardboardboxwithapparentlynothing inside, for instance,oroneof thosecarefullyclosedyellowflimsyenvelopes,orasoiledvolumeinpapercoverswithapromising title. Now and then it happened that one of the faded, yellow dancinggirlswouldgetsoldtoanamateur,asthoughshehadbeenaliveandyoung.
Sometimes it wasMrs Verloc whowould appear at the call of the cracked bell.WinnieVerlocwasayoungwomanwithafullbust,inatightbodice,andwithbroadhips.Herhairwasverytidy.Steady-eyedlikeherhusband,shepreservedanairofunfathomableindifferencebehindtherampartofthecounter.Thenthecustomerofcomparativelytenderyearswouldgetsuddenlydisconcertedathavingtodealwithawoman,andwithrageinhisheartwouldprofferarequestforabottleofmarkingink, retail value sixpence (price inVerloc’s shop one-and-sixpence), which, onceoutside,hewoulddropstealthilyintothegutter.
Theeveningvisitors—themenwithcollarsturnedupandsofthatsrammeddown—noddedfamiliarlytoMrsVerloc,andwithamutteredgreeting,lifteduptheflapattheendofthecounterinordertopassintothebackparlour,whichgaveaccesstoapassageandtoasteepflightofstairs.Thedooroftheshopwastheonlymeansofentrance to the house in whichMr Verloc carried on his business of a seller ofshady wares, exercised his vocation of a protector of society, and cultivated hisdomesticvirtues. These lastwerepronounced. Hewas thoroughlydomesticated.Neitherhisspiritual,norhismental,norhisphysicalneedswereofthekindtotakehimmuch abroad. He found at home the ease of his body and the peace of hisconscience,togetherwithMrsVerloc’swifelyattentionsandMrsVerloc’smother ’sdeferentialregard.
Winnie’smotherwasastout,wheezywoman,withalargebrownface.Sheworeablack wig under a white cap. Her swollen legs rendered her inactive. SheconsideredherselftobeofFrenchdescent,whichmighthavebeentrue;andafteragoodmany years ofmarried lifewith a licensed victualler of themore commonsort,sheprovidedfortheyearsofwidowhoodbylettingfurnishedapartmentsforgentlemennearVauxhallBridgeRoadinasquareonceofsomesplendourandstill
includedinthedistrictofBelgravia.Thistopographicalfactwasofsomeadvantageinadvertisingherrooms;butthepatronsoftheworthywidowwerenotexactlyofthefashionablekind.Suchastheywere,herdaughterWinniehelpedtolookafterthem. Tracesof theFrenchdescentwhich thewidowboastedofwereapparent inWinnietoo. Theywereapparent intheextremelyneatandartisticarrangementofherglossydarkhair. Winniehadalsoothercharms:heryouth;her full, roundedform; her clear complexion; the provocation of her unfathomable reserve,whichneverwentso faras topreventconversation,carriedonon the lodgers’partwithanimation,andonherswithanequableamiability. Itmustbe thatMrVerlocwassusceptible to these fascinations. MrVerlocwas an intermittentpatron. Hecameandwentwithoutanyveryapparentreason. Hegenerallyarrived inLondon(liketheinfluenza)fromtheContinent,onlyhearrivedunheraldedbythePress;andhisvisitationssetinwithgreatseverity.Hebreakfastedinbed,andremainedwallowingtherewithanairofquietenjoymenttillnooneveryday—andsometimeseventoalater hour. But when he went out he seemed to experience a great difficulty infindinghiswaybacktohistemporaryhomeintheBelgraviansquare.Heleftitlate,andreturnedtoitearly—asearlyasthreeorfourinthemorning;andonwakingupat ten addressed Winnie, bringing in the breakfast tray, with jocular, exhaustedcivility,inthehoarse,failingtonesofamanwhohadbeentalkingvehementlyformanyhourstogether.Hisprominent,heavy-liddedeyesrolledsidewaysamorouslyand languidly, the bedclothes were pulled up to his chin, and his dark smoothmoustachecoveredhisthicklipscapableofmuchhoneyedbanter.
InWinnie’smother ’sopinionMrVerlocwasaverynicegentleman.Fromherlife’sexperiencegathered invarious“businesshouses” thegoodwomanhad taken intoher retirement an ideal of gentlemanliness as exhibited by the patrons of private-saloonbars.MrVerlocapproachedthatideal;heattainedit,infact.
“Ofcourse,we’lltakeoveryourfurniture,mother,”Winniehadremarked.
Thelodging-housewastobegivenup.Itseemsitwouldnotanswertocarryiton.It would have been too much trouble for Mr Verloc. It would not have beenconvenientforhisotherbusiness. Whathisbusinesswashedidnotsay;butafterhisengagementtoWinniehetookthetroubletogetupbeforenoon,anddescendingthebasementstairs,makehimselfpleasanttoWinnie’smotherinthebreakfast-roomdownstairswhereshehadhermotionlessbeing.Hestrokedthecat,pokedthefire,hadhis lunchserved tohim there. He left its slightlystuffycosinesswithevidentreluctance,but,allthesame,remainedouttillthenightwasfaradvanced.HeneverofferedtotakeWinnietotheatres,assuchanicegentlemanoughttohavedone.Hiseveningswereoccupied.Hisworkwasinawaypolitical,hetoldWinnieonce.Shewouldhave,hewarnedher,tobeverynicetohispoliticalfriends.
Andwithherstraight,unfathomableglancesheanswered thatshewouldbeso,ofcourse.
Howmuchmore he told her as to his occupation itwas impossible forWinnie’smothertodiscover.Themarriedcoupletookheroverwiththefurniture.Themeanaspect of the shop surprised her. The change from the Belgravian square to thenarrow street inSoho affectedher legs adversely. Theybecameof an enormoussize.Ontheotherhand,sheexperiencedacompleterelieffrommaterialcares.Herson-in-law’s heavygoodnature inspiredherwith a sense of absolute safety. Herdaughter ’s futurewas obviously assured, and even as to her son Stevie she needhavenoanxiety.Shehadnotbeenabletoconcealfromherselfthathewasaterribleencumbrance, thatpoorStevie. But inviewofWinnie’s fondness forherdelicatebrother,andofMrVerloc’skindandgenerousdisposition,shefeltthatthepoorboywasprettysafeinthisroughworld.AndinherheartofheartsshewasnotperhapsdispleasedthattheVerlocshadnochildren.AsthatcircumstanceseemedperfectlyindifferenttoMrVerloc,andasWinniefoundanobjectofquasi-maternalaffectioninherbrother,perhapsthiswasjustaswellforpoorStevie.
For hewas difficult to dispose of, that boy. Hewas delicate and, in a frailway,good-lookingtoo,exceptforthevacantdroopofhislowerlip.Underourexcellentsystemofcompulsoryeducationhehadlearnedtoreadandwrite,notwithstandingtheunfavourableaspectof the lower lip. But as errand-boyhedidnot turnout agreatsuccess.Heforgothismessages;hewaseasilydivertedfromthestraightpathofdutyby theattractionsof straycatsanddogs,whichhe followeddownnarrowalleysintounsavourycourts;bythecomediesofthestreets,whichhecontemplatedopen-mouthed, to the detriment of his employer ’s interests; or by the dramas offallen horses, whose pathos and violence induced him sometimes to shriekpierceingly inacrowd,whichdisliked tobedisturbedbysoundsofdistress in itsquietenjoymentofthenationalspectacle.Whenledawaybyagraveandprotectingpoliceman, it would often become apparent that poor Stevie had forgotten hisaddress—atleastforatime.Abrusquequestioncausedhimtostuttertothepointofsuffocation. When startled by anything perplexing he used to squint horribly.However, he never had any fits (whichwas encouraging); and before the naturaloutburstsofimpatienceonthepartofhisfatherhecouldalways,inhischildhood’sdays, runforprotectionbehind theshortskirtsofhissisterWinnie. On theotherhand,hemighthavebeensuspectedofhidingafundofrecklessnaughtiness.Whenhehadreachedtheageoffourteenafriendofhislatefather,anagentforaforeignpreservedmilkfirm,havinggivenhimanopeningasoffice-boy,hewasdiscoveredone foggy afternoon, in his chief’s absence, busy letting off fireworks on thestaircase.Hetouchedoffinquicksuccessionasetoffiercerockets,angrycatherinewheels, loudly exploding squibs—and the matter might have turned out very
serious. An awful panic spread through thewhole building. Wild-eyed, chokingclerksstampededthroughthepassagesfullofsmoke,silkhatsandelderlybusinessmen could be seen rolling independently down the stairs. Stevie did not seem toderive any personal gratification from what he had done. His motives for thisstroke of originality were difficult to discover. It was only later on thatWinnieobtainedfromhimamistyandconfusedconfession.Itseemsthattwootheroffice-boys in the building had worked upon his feelings by tales of injustice andoppressiontilltheyhadwroughthiscompassiontothepitchofthatfrenzy.Buthisfather ’sfriend,ofcourse,dismissedhimsummarilyaslikelytoruinhisbusiness.After that altruistic exploitSteviewasput tohelpwash thedishes in thebasementkitchen, and to black the boots of the gentlemen patronising the Belgravianmansion.Therewasobviouslynofutureinsuchwork.Thegentlementippedhimashillingnowand then. MrVerlocshowedhimself themostgenerousof lodgers.Butaltogetherallthatdidnotamounttomucheitherinthewayofgainorprospects;sothatwhenWinnieannouncedherengagementtoMrVerlochermothercouldnothelpwondering,withasighandaglancetowardsthescullery,whatwouldbecomeofpoorStephennow.
It appeared that Mr Verloc was ready to take him over together with his wife’smotherandwith the furniture,whichwas thewholevisible fortuneof the family.MrVerlocgatheredeverythingas it came tohisbroad,good-naturedbreast. Thefurniturewas disposed to the best advantage all over the house, butMrsVerloc’smotherwasconfinedtotwobackroomsonthefirstfloor.ThelucklessSteviesleptinoneof them. Bythis timeagrowthof thinfluffyhairhadcometoblur, likeagoldenmist,thesharplineofhissmalllowerjaw.Hehelpedhissisterwithblindloveanddocilityinherhouseholdduties.MrVerlocthoughtthatsomeoccupationwould be good for him. His spare time he occupied by drawing circles withcompass and pencil on a piece of paper. He applied himself to that pastimewithgreat industry,with his elbows spread out and bowed lowover the kitchen table.Through the open door of the parlour at the back of the shopWinnie, his sister,glancedathimfromtimetotimewithmaternalvigilance.
CHAPTERII
Suchwasthehouse,thehousehold,andthebusinessMrVerlocleftbehindhimonhiswaywestwardatthehourofhalf-pastteninthemorning.Itwasunusuallyearlyforhim;hiswholepersonexhaledthecharmofalmostdewyfreshness;heworehisblue cloth overcoat unbuttoned; his bootswere shiny; his cheeks, freshly shaven,hadasortofgloss;andevenhisheavy-liddedeyes,refreshedbyanightofpeacefulslumber,sentoutglancesofcomparativealertness.Throughtheparkrailingstheseglances beheld men and women riding in the Row, couples cantering pastharmoniously, others advancing sedately at a walk, loitering groups of three orfour,solitaryhorsemenlookingunsociable,andsolitarywomenfollowedatalongdistancebyagroomwithacockadetohishatandaleatherbeltoverhistight-fittingcoat.Carriageswentbowlingby,mostlytwo-horsebroughams,withhereandtherea victoria with the skin of some wild beast inside and a woman’s face and hatemerging above the folded hood. And a peculiarly London sun—against whichnothingcouldbesaidexceptthatitlookedbloodshot—glorifiedallthisbyitsstare.IthungatamoderateelevationaboveHydeParkCornerwithanairofpunctualandbenignvigilance.TheverypavementunderMrVerloc’sfeethadanold-goldtingein that diffused light, in which neither wall, nor tree, nor beast, nor man cast ashadow. Mr Verloc was going westward through a town without shadows in anatmosphereofpowderedoldgold.Therewerered,copperygleamsontheroofsofhouses,onthecornersofwalls,onthepanelsofcarriages,ontheverycoatsofthehorses,andonthebroadbackofMrVerloc’sovercoat,wheretheyproducedadulleffect of rustiness. ButMr Verloc was not in the least conscious of having gotrusty. Hesurveyedthroughtheparkrailingstheevidencesofthetown’sopulenceandluxurywithanapprovingeye.Allthesepeoplehadtobeprotected.Protectionis the first necessity of opulence and luxury. Theyhad to be protected; and theirhorses, carriages, houses, servants had to be protected; and the source of theirwealthhadtobeprotected in theheartof thecityandtheheartof thecountry; thewholesocialorderfavourabletotheirhygienicidlenesshadtobeprotectedagainsttheshallowenviousnessofunhygieniclabour.Ithadto—andMrVerlocwouldhaverubbed his hands with satisfaction had he not been constitutionally averse fromevery superfluous exertion. His idlenesswasnot hygienic, but it suitedhimverywell. Hewasinamannerdevotedto itwithasortof inertfanaticism,orperhaps
ratherwitha fanatical inertness. Bornof industriousparents fora lifeof toil,hehad embraced indolence from an impulse as profound as inexplicable and asimperious as the impulse which directs a man’s preference for one particularwoman in agiven thousand. Hewas too lazyeven for ameredemagogue, for aworkmanorator, for a leaderof labour. Itwas toomuch trouble. He requiredamore perfect form of ease; or it might have been that he was the victim of aphilosophicalunbelief intheeffectivenessofeveryhumaneffort. Suchaformofindolence requires, implies, a certain amount of intelligence. MrVerlocwas notdevoid of intelligence—and at the notion of a menaced social order he wouldperhapshavewinkedtohimselfiftherehadnotbeenanefforttomakeinthatsignof scepticism. His big, prominent eyeswere notwell adapted towinking. Theywereratherofthesortthatclosessolemnlyinslumberwithmajesticeffect.
Undemonstrativeandburlyinafat-pigstyle,MrVerloc,withouteitherrubbinghishandswithsatisfactionorwinkingscepticallyathisthoughts,proceededonhisway.Hetrodthepavementheavilywithhisshinyboots,andhisgeneralget-upwasthatofawell-to-domechanicinbusinessforhimself.Hemighthavebeenanythingfromapicture-framemaker to a lock-smith; an employerof labour in a smallway. Butthere was also about him an indescribable air which no mechanic could haveacquired in the practice of his handicraft however dishonestly exercised: the aircommontomenwholiveonthevices,thefollies,orthebaserfearsofmankind;theairofmoralnihilismcommontokeepersofgamblinghellsanddisorderlyhouses;to private detectives and inquiry agents; to drink sellers and, I should say, to thesellersofinvigoratingelectricbeltsandtotheinventorsofpatentmedicines.ButofthatlastIamnotsure,nothavingcarriedmyinvestigationssofarintothedepths.ForallIknow,theexpressionoftheselastmaybeperfectlydiabolic.Ishouldn’tbesurprised. What Iwant toaffirmis thatMrVerloc’sexpressionwasbynomeansdiabolic.
Before reachingKnightsbridge,MrVerloc took a turn to the left out of the busymain thoroughfare,uproariouswith the trafficof swayingomnibusesand trottingvans,inthealmostsilent,swiftflowofhansoms.Underhishat,wornwithaslightbackwardtilt,hishairhadbeencarefullybrushedintorespectfulsleekness;forhisbusinesswaswithanEmbassy. AndMrVerloc,steadylikearock—asoftkindofrock—marchednowalongastreetwhichcouldwitheveryproprietybedescribedasprivate.Initsbreadth,emptiness,andextentithadthemajestyofinorganicnature,ofmatterthatneverdies.Theonlyreminderofmortalitywasadoctor ’sbroughamarrested in august solitude close to the curbstone. The polished knockers of thedoorsgleamedasfarastheeyecouldreach,thecleanwindowsshonewithadarkopaque lustre. Andallwas still. But amilkcart rattlednoisily across thedistantperspective; a butcher boy, drivingwith the noble recklessness of a charioteer at
OlympicGames,dashedroundthecornersittinghighaboveapairofredwheels.Aguilty-looking cat issuing from under the stones ran for a while in front ofMrVerloc, then dived into another basement; and a thick police constable, looking astranger to every emotion, as if he too were part of inorganic nature, surgingapparentlyoutof a lamp-post, tooknot the slightest noticeofMrVerloc. With aturn to the leftMrVerlocpursuedhiswayalonganarrow street by the sideof ayellowwallwhich,forsomeinscrutablereason,hadNo.1CheshamSquarewrittenonitinblackletters.CheshamSquarewasatleastsixtyyardsaway,andMrVerloc,cosmopolitanenoughnottobedeceivedbyLondon’stopographicalmysteries,heldon steadily,without a sign of surprise or indignation. At last,with business-likepersistency,he reached theSquare,andmadediagonally for thenumber10. Thisbelongedtoanimposingcarriagegateinahigh,cleanwallbetweentwohouses,ofwhichonerationallyenoughborethenumber9andtheotherwasnumbered37;butthe fact that this last belonged to Porthill Street, a street well known in theneighbourhood,was proclaimed by an inscription placed above the ground-floorwindowsbywhateverhighlyefficientauthorityischargedwiththedutyofkeepingtrackofLondon’sstrayedhouses.WhypowersarenotaskedofParliament(ashortactwoulddo)forcompellingthoseedificestoreturnwheretheybelongisoneofthemysteriesofmunicipaladministration.MrVerlocdidnottroublehisheadaboutit, his mission in life being the protection of the social mechanism, not itsperfectionmentorevenitscriticism.
ItwassoearlythattheporteroftheEmbassyissuedhurriedlyoutofhislodgestillstrugglingwiththeleftsleeveofhisliverycoat.Hiswaistcoatwasred,andheworeknee-breeches, but his aspectwas flustered. MrVerloc, aware of the rush on hisflank,droveitoffbysimplyholdingoutanenvelopestampedwiththearmsoftheEmbassy,andpassedon. Heproducedthesametalismanalsotothefootmanwhoopenedthedoor,andstoodbacktolethimenterthehall.
Aclearfireburnedinatallfireplace,andanelderlymanstandingwithhisbacktoit,ineveningdressandwithachainroundhisneck,glancedupfromthenewspaperhewasholdingspreadoutinbothhandsbeforehiscalmandsevereface.Hedidn’tmove;butanotherlackey,inbrowntrousersandclaw-hammercoatedgedwiththinyellow cord, approaching Mr Verloc listened to the murmur of his name, andturningroundonhisheelinsilence,begantowalk,withoutlookingbackonce.MrVerloc, thus led along a ground-floor passage to the left of the great carpetedstaircase,wassuddenlymotionedtoenteraquitesmallroomfurnishedwithaheavywriting-tableandafewchairs.Theservantshutthedoor,andMrVerlocremainedalone. Hedidnot takeaseat. Withhishatandstickheld inonehandheglancedabout,passinghisotherpodgyhandoverhisuncoveredsleekhead.
Another door opened noiselessly, andMrVerloc immobilising his glance in that
directionsawatfirstonlyblackclothes,thebaldtopofahead,andadroopingdarkgreywhiskeroneachsideofapairofwrinkledhands.Thepersonwhohadenteredwas holding a batch of papers before his eyes andwalked up to the tablewith arathermincing step, turning the papers over thewhile. PrivyCouncillorWurmt,Chancelierd’Ambassade,wasrathershort-sighted.Thismeritoriousofficiallayingthe papers on the table, disclosed a face of pasty complexion and ofmelancholyuglinesssurroundedbyalotoffine,longdarkgreyhairs,barredheavilybythickand bushy eyebrows. He put on a black-framed pince-nez upon a blunt andshapelessnose,andseemedstruckbyMrVerloc’sappearance.Undertheenormouseyebrowshisweakeyesblinkedpatheticallythroughtheglasses.
Hemadenosignofgreeting;neitherdidMrVerloc,whocertainlyknewhisplace;butasubtlechangeaboutthegeneraloutlinesofhisshouldersandbacksuggestedaslight bending ofMrVerloc’s spine under the vast surface of his overcoat. Theeffectwasofunobtrusivedeference.
“Ihaveheresomeofyourreports,”saidthebureaucratinanunexpectedlysoftandweary voice, and pressing the tip of his forefinger on the paperswith force. Hepaused;andMrVerloc,whohadrecognisedhisownhandwritingverywell,waitedinanalmostbreathless silence. “Wearenotverysatisfiedwith theattitudeof thepolicehere,”theothercontinued,witheveryappearanceofmentalfatigue.
TheshouldersofMrVerloc,withoutactuallymoving,suggestedashrug.Andforthefirsttimesincehelefthishomethatmorninghislipsopened.
“Every countryhas its police,” he saidphilosophically. But as theofficial of theEmbassywentonblinkingathimsteadilyhefeltconstrainedtoadd:“AllowmetoobservethatIhavenomeansofactionuponthepolicehere.”
“Whatisdesired,”saidthemanofpapers,“istheoccurrenceofsomethingdefinitewhichshouldstimulatetheirvigilance.Thatiswithinyourprovince—isitnotso?”
MrVerlocmadenoanswerexceptbyasigh,whichescapedhiminvoluntarily,forinstantly he tried to give his face a cheerful expression. The official blinkeddoubtfully,asifaffectedbythedimlightoftheroom.Herepeatedvaguely.
“The vigilance of the police—and the severity of the magistrates. The generalleniency of the judicial procedure here, and the utter absence of all repressivemeasures,areascandaltoEurope.Whatiswishedforjustnowistheaccentuationoftheunrest—ofthefermentationwhichundoubtedlyexists—”
“Undoubtedly, undoubtedly,” broke inMrVerloc in a deep deferential bass of anoratoricalquality,soutterlydifferentfromthetoneinwhichhehadspokenbeforethat his interlocutor remained profoundly surprised. “It exists to a dangerous
degree.Myreportsforthelasttwelvemonthsmakeitsufficientlyclear.”
“Your reports for the last twelve months,” State CouncillorWurmt began in hisgentleanddispassionatetone,“havebeenreadbyme.Ifailedtodiscoverwhyyouwrotethematall.”
Asadsilencereignedforatime.MrVerlocseemedtohaveswallowedhistongue,andtheothergazedatthepapersonthetablefixedly.Atlasthegavethemaslightpush.
“Thestateofaffairsyouexpose there isassumed toexistas thefirstconditionofyour employment. What is required at present is notwriting, but thebringing tolightofadistinct,significantfact—Iwouldalmostsayofanalarmingfact.”
“Ineednotsaythatallmyendeavoursshallbedirectedtothatend,”MrVerlocsaid,with convinced modulations in his conversational husky tone. But the sense ofbeingblinkedatwatchfullybehindtheblindglitteroftheseeye-glassesontheotherside of the table disconcerted him. He stopped short with a gesture of absolutedevotion.Theuseful,hard-working,ifobscurememberoftheEmbassyhadanairofbeingimpressedbysomenewly-bornthought.
“Youareverycorpulent,”hesaid.
This observation, really of a psychological nature, and advancedwith themodesthesitation of an officeman more familiar with ink and paper than with therequirements of active life, stung Mr Verloc in the manner of a rude personalremark.Hesteppedbackapace.
“Eh?Whatwereyoupleasedtosay?”heexclaimed,withhuskyresentment.
TheChancelierd’Ambassadeentrustedwiththeconductofthisinterviewseemedtofindittoomuchforhim.
“Ithink,”hesaid,“thatyouhadbetterseeMrVladimir.Yes,decidedlyIthinkyouought toseeMrVladimir. Begoodenoughtowaithere,”headded,andwentoutwithmincingsteps.
AtonceMrVerlocpassedhishandoverhishair.Aslightperspirationhadbrokenout on his forehead. He let the air escape from his pursed-up lips like a manblowingataspoonfulofhotsoup.Butwhentheservantinbrownappearedatthedoor silently,MrVerloc had notmoved an inch from the place he had occupiedthroughout the interview. He had remained motionless, as if feeling himselfsurroundedbypitfalls.
Hewalkedalongapassagelightedbyalonelygas-jet, thenupaflightofwindingstairs,andthroughaglazedandcheerfulcorridoronthefirstfloor.Thefootman
threwopenadoor,andstoodaside.ThefeetofMrVerlocfeltathickcarpet.Theroomwas large, with three windows; and a youngmanwith a shaven, big face,sittinginaroomyarm-chairbeforeavastmahoganywriting-table,saidinFrenchtotheChancelierd’Ambassade,whowasgoingoutwiththepapersinhishand:
“Youarequiteright,moncher.He’sfat—theanimal.”
MrVladimir,FirstSecretary,hadadrawing-room reputationas anagreeable andentertainingman.Hewassomethingofafavouriteinsociety.Hiswitconsistedindiscoveringdrollconnectionsbetweenincongruousideas;andwhentalkinginthatstrainhesatwellforwardofhisseat,withhislefthandraised,asifexhibitinghisfunnydemonstrationsbetweenthethumbandforefinger,whilehisroundandclean-shavenfaceworeanexpressionofmerryperplexity.
But there was no trace of merriment or perplexity in the way he looked at MrVerloc. Lying far back in the deep arm-chair, with squarely spread elbows, andthrowingonelegovera thickknee,hehadwithhissmoothandrosycountenancetheairofapreternaturallythrivingbabythatwillnotstandnonsensefromanybody.
“YouunderstandFrench,Isuppose?”hesaid.
MrVerlocstatedhuskilythathedid.Hiswholevastbulkhadaforwardinclination.Hestoodonthecarpetinthemiddleoftheroom,clutchinghishatandstickinonehand;theotherhunglifelesslybyhisside. Hemutteredunobtrusivelysomewheredeep down in his throat something about having done hismilitary service in theFrenchartillery. Atonce,withcontemptuousperversity,MrVladimirchangedthelanguage, and began to speak idiomatic English without the slightest trace of aforeignaccent.
“Ah!Yes.Ofcourse.Let’ssee.Howmuchdidyougetforobtainingthedesignoftheimprovedbreech-blockoftheirnewfield-gun?”
“Fiveyears’rigorousconfinementinafortress,”MrVerlocansweredunexpectedly,butwithoutanysignoffeeling.
“Yougot off easily,”wasMrVladimir ’s comment. “And, anyhow, it served yourightforlettingyourselfgetcaught.Whatmadeyougoinforthatsortofthing—eh?”
Mr Verloc’s husky conversational voice was heard speaking of youth, of a fatalinfatuationforanunworthy—
“Aha! Cherchez la femme,” Mr Vladimir deigned to interrupt, unbending, butwithout affability; there was, on the contrary, a touch of grimness in hiscondescension. “How long have you been employed by the Embassy here?” he
asked.
“Ever since the timeof the lateBaronStott-Wartenheim,”MrVerloc answered insubdued tones, and protruding his lips sadly, in sign of sorrow for the deceaseddiplomat.TheFirstSecretaryobservedthisplayofphysiognomysteadily.
“Ah!eversince.Well!Whathaveyougottosayforyourself?”heaskedsharply.
MrVerlocansweredwithsomesurprise thathewasnotawareofhavinganythingspecialtosay.Hehadbeensummonedbyaletter—Andheplungedhishandbusilyintothesidepocketofhisovercoat,butbeforethemocking,cynicalwatchfulnessofMrVladimir,concludedtoleaveitthere.
“Bah!” said that latter. “Whatdoyoumeanbygettingoutofcondition like this?You haven’t got even the physique of your profession. You—a member of astarvingproletariat—never!You—adesperatesocialistoranarchist—whichisit?”
“Anarchist,”statedMrVerlocinadeadenedtone.
“Bosh!”wentonMrVladimir,withoutraisinghisvoice.“YoustartledoldWurmthimself.Youwouldn’tdeceiveanidiot.Theyallarethatby-the-by,butyouseemtome simply impossible. So you began your connection with us by stealing theFrench gun designs. And you got yourself caught. That must have been verydisagreeabletoourGovernment.Youdon’tseemtobeverysmart.”
MrVerloctriedtoexculpatehimselfhuskily.
“AsI’vehadoccasiontoobservebefore,afatalinfatuationforanunworthy—”
MrVladimirraisedalargewhite,plumphand.“Ah,yes.Theunluckyattachment—ofyouryouth.Shegotholdofthemoney,andthensoldyoutothepolice—eh?”
Thedolefulchange inMrVerloc’sphysiognomy, themomentarydroopingofhiswhole person, confessed that suchwas the regrettable case. MrVladimir ’s handclaspedtheanklereposingonhisknee.Thesockwasofdarkbluesilk.
“Yousee,thatwasnotverycleverofyou.Perhapsyouaretoosusceptible.”
MrVerlocintimatedinathroaty,veiledmurmurthathewasnolongeryoung.
“Oh! That’s a failing which age does not cure,” Mr Vladimir remarked, withsinisterfamiliarity.“Butno!Youaretoofatforthat.Youcouldnothavecometolook like this if you had been at all susceptible. I’ll tell you what I think is thematter: you are a lazy fellow. How long have you been drawing pay from thisEmbassy?”
“Eleven years,” was the answer, after a moment of sulky hesitation. “I’ve been
charged with several missions to London while His Excellency Baron Stott-WartenheimwasstillAmbassadorinParis.ThenbyhisExcellency’sinstructionsIsettleddowninLondon.IamEnglish.”
“Youare!Areyou?Eh?”
“A natural-born British subject,” Mr Verloc said stolidly. “But my father wasFrench,andso—”
“Nevermind explaining,” interrupted the other. “I daresay you could have beenlegally aMarshal of France and aMember of Parliament in England—and then,indeed,youwouldhavebeenofsomeusetoourEmbassy.”
ThisflightoffancyprovokedsomethinglikeafaintsmileonMrVerloc’sface.MrVladimirretainedanimperturbablegravity.
“But,asI’vesaid,youarea lazyfellow;youdon’tuseyouropportunities. In thetime of Baron Stott-Wartenheimwe had a lot of soft-headed people running thisEmbassy.Theycausedfellowsofyoursorttoformafalseconceptionofthenatureofasecretservicefund.Itismybusinesstocorrectthismisapprehensionbytellingyouwhatthesecretserviceisnot.Itisnotaphilanthropicinstitution.I’vehadyoucalledhereonpurposetotellyouthis.”
MrVladimirobservedtheforcedexpressionofbewildermentonVerloc’sface,andsmiledsarcastically.
“I see that youunderstandmeperfectly. I daresayyou are intelligent enough foryourwork.Whatwewantnowisactivity—activity.”
OnrepeatingthislastwordMrVladimirlaidalongwhiteforefingerontheedgeofthedesk. EverytraceofhuskinessdisappearedfromVerloc’svoice. Thenapeofhis gross neck became crimson above the velvet collar of his overcoat. His lipsquiveredbeforetheycamewidelyopen.
“Ifyou’llonlybegoodenoughtolookupmyrecord,”heboomedoutinhisgreat,clearoratoricalbass, “you’ll see Igaveawarningonly threemonths ago,on theoccasionoftheGrandDukeRomuald’svisittoParis,whichwastelegraphedfromheretotheFrenchpolice,and—”
“Tut, tut!”brokeoutMrVladimir,with a frowninggrimace. “TheFrenchpolicehadnouseforyourwarning.Don’troarlikethis.Whatthedevildoyoumean?”
With a note of proud humilityMrVerloc apologised for forgetting himself. Hisvoice,—famous for years at open-air meetings and at workmen’s assemblies inlarge halls, had contributed, he said, to his reputation of a good and trustworthycomrade. Itwas, therefore,apartofhisusefulness. Ithadinspiredconfidencein
hisprinciples. “Iwasalwaysputuptospeakbytheleadersatacriticalmoment,”MrVerlocdeclared,withobvioussatisfaction.Therewasnouproarabovewhichhecouldnotmakehimselfheard,headded;andsuddenlyhemadeademonstration.
“Allow me,” he said. With lowered forehead, without looking up, swiftly andponderouslyhecrossedtheroomtooneoftheFrenchwindows.Asifgivingwaytoanuncontrollableimpulse,heopeneditalittle.MrVladimir,jumpingupamazedfromthedepthsof thearm-chair, lookedoverhisshoulder;andbelow,across thecourtyardoftheEmbassy,wellbeyondtheopengate,couldbeseenthebroadbackofapolicemanwatching idly thegorgeousperambulatorofawealthybabybeingwheeledinstateacrosstheSquare.
“Constable!”saidMrVerloc,withnomoreeffort thanifhewerewhispering;andMrVladimirburstintoalaughonseeingthepolicemanspinroundasifproddedbyasharpinstrument.MrVerlocshutthewindowquietly,andreturnedtothemiddleoftheroom.
“Withavoicelikethat,”hesaid,puttingonthehuskyconversationalpedal,“Iwasnaturallytrusted.AndIknewwhattosay,too.”
MrVladimir,arranginghiscravat,observedhimintheglassoverthemantelpiece.
“Idaresayyouhavethesocialrevolutionaryjargonbyheartwellenough,”hesaidcontemptuously.“Voxet...Youhaven’teverstudiedLatin—haveyou?”
“No,” growledMr Verloc. “You did not expect me to know it. I belong to themillion. WhoknowsLatin? Onlya fewhundred imbecileswhoaren’t fit to takecareofthemselves.”
For some thirty seconds longer Mr Vladimir studied in the mirror the fleshyprofile, the gross bulk, of themanbehind him. And at the same timehe had theadvantageofseeinghisownface,clean-shavedandround,rosyaboutthegills,andwith the thin sensitive lips formed exactly for the utterance of those delicatewitticismswhichhadmadehimsuchafavouriteintheveryhighestsociety.Thenheturned,andadvancedintotheroomwithsuchdeterminationthattheveryendsofhisquaintly old-fashioned bow necktie seemed to bristle with unspeakable menaces.Themovementwas so swift and fierce thatMrVerloc, castinganobliqueglance,quailedinwardly.
“Aha! You dare be impudent,” Mr Vladimir began, with an amazingly gutturalintonation not only utterly un-English, but absolutely un-European, and startlingeven toMrVerloc’s experience of cosmopolitan slums. “You dare! Well, I amgoing to speak plainEnglish to you. Voicewon’t do. We have no use for yourvoice. We don’t want a voice. We want facts—startling facts—damn you,” he
added,withasortofferociousdiscretion,rightintoMrVerloc’sface.
“Don’t you try to come over me with your Hyperborean manners,” Mr Verlocdefended himself huskily, looking at the carpet. At this his interlocutor, smilingmockingly above the bristling bow of his necktie, switched the conversation intoFrench.
“Yougiveyourself foran ‘agentprovocateur.’ Theproperbusinessofan ‘agentprovocateur ’istoprovoke.AsfarasIcanjudgefromyourrecordkepthere,youhavedonenothingtoearnyourmoneyforthelastthreeyears.”
“Nothing!”exclaimedVerloc,stirringnotalimb,andnotraisinghiseyes,butwiththenoteofsincerefeelinginhistone.“Ihaveseveraltimespreventedwhatmighthavebeen—”
“There is a proverb in this country which says prevention is better than cure,”interruptedMr Vladimir, throwing himself into the arm-chair. “It is stupid in ageneralway. Thereisnoendtoprevention. But it ischaracteristic. Theydislikefinalityinthiscountry. Don’tyoubetooEnglish. Andinthisparticularinstance,don’t be absurd. The evil is already here. We don’t want prevention—wewantcure.”
Hepaused,turnedtothedesk,andturningoversomepaperslyingthere,spokeinachangedbusiness-liketone,withoutlookingatMrVerloc.
“Youknow,ofcourse,oftheInternationalConferenceassembledinMilan?”
MrVerloc intimatedhoarsely thathewas in thehabitof reading thedailypapers.Toafurtherquestionhisanswerwasthat,ofcourse,heunderstoodwhatheread.AtthisMrVladimir, smiling faintlyat thedocumentshewas still scanningoneafteranother,murmured“AslongasitisnotwritteninLatin,Isuppose.”
“OrChinese,”addedMrVerlocstolidly.
“H’m. Some of your revolutionary friends’ effusions are written in a charabiaevery bit as incomprehensible asChinese—” MrVladimir let fall disdainfully agrey sheet of printed matter. “What are all these leaflets headed F. P., with ahammer, pen, and torch crossed? What does it mean, this F. P.?” Mr Verlocapproachedtheimposingwriting-table.
“TheFutureoftheProletariat.It’sasociety,”heexplained,standingponderouslybythe side of the arm-chair, “not anarchist in principle, but open to all shades ofrevolutionaryopinion.”
“Areyouinit?”
“One of the Vice-Presidents,” Mr Verloc breathed out heavily; and the FirstSecretaryoftheEmbassyraisedhisheadtolookathim.
“Thenyououghttobeashamedofyourself,”hesaidincisively.“Isn’tyoursocietycapableofanythingelsebutprintingthispropheticboshinblunttypeonthisfilthypapereh?Whydon’tyoudosomething?Lookhere.I’vethismatterinhandnow,andI tellyouplainly thatyouwillhave toearnyourmoney. ThegoodoldStott-Wartenheimtimesareover.Nowork,nopay.”
MrVerlocfeltaqueersensationoffaintnessinhisstoutlegs.Hesteppedbackonepace,andblewhisnoseloudly.
Hewas,intruth,startledandalarmed.TherustyLondonsunshinestrugglingclearof the Londonmist shed a lukewarm brightness into the First Secretary’s privateroom;andinthesilenceMrVerlocheardagainstawindow-panethefaintbuzzingofafly—hisfirstflyoftheyear—heraldingbetterthananynumberofswallowstheapproach of spring. The useless fussing of that tiny energetic organism affectedunpleasantlythisbigmanthreatenedinhisindolence.
In thepauseMrVladimir formulated inhismindaseriesofdisparaging remarksconcerning Mr Verloc’s face and figure. The fellow was unexpectedly vulgar,heavy,andimpudentlyunintelligent.Helookeduncommonlylikeamasterplumbercometopresenthisbill. TheFirstSecretaryof theEmbassy,fromhisoccasionalexcursionsintothefieldofAmericanhumour,hadformedaspecialnotionofthatclassofmechanicastheembodimentoffraudulentlazinessandincompetency.
This was then the famous and trusty secret agent, so secret that he was neverdesignatedotherwisebutbythesymbol[delta]inthelateBaronStott-Wartenheim’sofficial,semi-official,andconfidentialcorrespondence;thecelebratedagent[delta],whose warnings had the power to change the schemes and the dates of royal,imperial, grand ducal journeys, and sometimes caused them to be put offaltogether!Thisfellow!AndMrVladimirindulgedmentallyinanenormousandderisivefitofmerriment,partlyathisownastonishment,whichhejudgednaive,butmostlyattheexpenseoftheuniversallyregrettedBaronStott-Wartenheim.HislateExcellency, whom the august favour of his Imperial master had imposed asAmbassadoruponseveralreluctantMinistersofForeignAffairs,hadenjoyedinhislifetimeafameforanowlish,pessimisticgullibility.HisExcellencyhadthesocialrevolution on the brain. He imagined himself to be a diplomatist set apart by aspecialdispensationtowatchtheendofdiplomacy,andprettynearlytheendoftheworld, inahorriddemocraticupheaval. HispropheticanddolefuldespatcheshadbeenforyearsthejokeofForeignOffices.Hewassaidtohaveexclaimedonhisdeathbed(visitedbyhisImperialfriendandmaster):“UnhappyEurope!Thoushaltperishbythemoralinsanityofthychildren!”Hewasfatedtobethevictimofthe
firsthumbuggingrascalthatcamealong,thoughtMrVladimir,smilingvaguelyatMrVerloc.
“You ought to venerate the memory of Baron Stott-Wartenheim,” he exclaimedsuddenly.
TheloweredphysiognomyofMrVerlocexpressedasombreandwearyannoyance.
“Permitmetoobservetoyou,”hesaid,“thatIcameherebecauseIwassummonedbyaperemptoryletter.Ihavebeenhereonlytwicebeforeinthelastelevenyears,andcertainlyneverateleven in themorning. It isn’tverywise tocallmeup likethis.Thereisjustachanceofbeingseen.Andthatwouldbenojokeforme.”
MrVladimirshruggedhisshoulders.
“Itwoulddestroymyusefulness,”continuedtheotherhotly.
“That’syouraffair,”murmuredMrVladimir,withsoftbrutality.“Whenyouceasetobeusefulyoushallceasetobeemployed.Yes.Rightoff.Cutshort.Youshall—”MrVladimir,frowning,paused,atalossforasufficientlyidiomaticexpression,and instantly brightened up,with a grin of beautifullywhite teeth. “You shall bechucked,”hebroughtoutferociously.
Once more Mr Verloc had to react with all the force of his will against thatsensationoffaintnessrunningdownone’slegswhichonceuponatimehadinspiredsome poor devil with the felicitous expression: “My heart went down into myboots.”MrVerloc,awareofthesensation,raisedhisheadbravely.
MrVladimirborethelookofheavyinquirywithperfectserenity.
“WhatwewantistoadministeratonictotheConferenceinMilan,”hesaidairily.“Its deliberations upon international action for the suppression of political crimedon’t seem to get anywhere. England lags. This country is absurd with itssentimental regard for individual liberty. It’s intolerable to think that all yourfriendshavegotonlytocomeoverto—”
“InthatwayIhavethemallundermyeye,”MrVerlocinterruptedhuskily.
“Itwouldbemuchmoretothepointtohavethemallunderlockandkey.Englandmust be brought into line. The imbecile bourgeoisie of this country makethemselves theaccomplicesof theverypeoplewhoseaim is todrive themoutoftheirhousestostarveinditches.Andtheyhavethepoliticalpowerstill,iftheyonlyhad thesense touse it for theirpreservation. Isupposeyouagree that themiddleclassesarestupid?”
MrVerlocagreedhoarsely.
“Theyare.”
“Theyhavenoimagination.Theyareblindedbyanidioticvanity.Whattheywantjustnowisajollygoodscare.Thisisthepsychologicalmomenttosetyourfriendstowork.Ihavehadyoucalledheretodeveloptoyoumyidea.”
AndMrVladimirdevelopedhisideafromonhigh,withscornandcondescension,displayingat the same timeanamountof ignoranceas to the realaims, thoughts,and methods of the revolutionary world which filled the silent Mr Verloc withinwardconsternation.Heconfoundedcauseswitheffectsmorethanwasexcusable;the most distinguished propagandists with impulsive bomb throwers; assumedorganisationwhere in the nature of things it could not exist; spoke of the socialrevolutionarypartyonemomentasofaperfectlydisciplinedarmy,wherethewordof chiefswas supreme, and at another as if it had been the loosest association ofdesperate brigands that ever camped in amountain gorge. OnceMrVerloc hadopened his mouth for a protest, but the raising of a shapely, large white handarrestedhim.Verysoonhebecametooappalledtoeventrytoprotest.Helistenedinastillnessofdreadwhichresembledtheimmobilityofprofoundattention.
“A series of outrages,” Mr Vladimir continued calmly, “executed here in thiscountry; not onlyplanned here—thatwould not do—theywould notmind. Yourfriendscouldsethalf theContinenton firewithout influencing thepublicopinionhereinfavourofauniversalrepressivelegislation.Theywillnotlookoutsidetheirbackyardhere.”
MrVerlocclearedhisthroat,buthisheartfailedhim,andhesaidnothing.
“These outrages need not be especially sanguinary,”Mr Vladimir went on, as ifdelivering a scientific lecture, “but theymust be sufficiently startling—effective.Letthembedirectedagainstbuildings,forinstance.Whatisthefetishofthehourthatallthebourgeoisierecognise—eh,MrVerloc?”
MrVerlocopenedhishandsandshruggedhisshouldersslightly.
“Youare too lazy to think,”wasMrVladimir ’scommentuponthatgesture. “Payattention to what I say. The fetish of to-day is neither royalty nor religion.Therefore the palace and the church should be left alone. You understandwhat Imean,MrVerloc?”
ThedismayandthescornofMrVerlocfoundventinanattemptatlevity.
“Perfectly. But what of the Embassies? A series of attacks on the variousEmbassies,”hebegan;buthecouldnotwithstandthecold,watchfulstareoftheFirstSecretary.
“Youcanbefacetious,Isee,”thelatterobservedcarelessly.“That’sallright.Itmayenlivenyouroratoryatsocialisticcongresses. Butthisroomisnoplaceforit. ItwouldbeinfinitelysaferforyoutofollowcarefullywhatIamsaying.Asyouarebeingcalledupontofurnishfactsinsteadofcock-and-bullstories,youhadbettertryto make your profit off what I am taking the trouble to explain to you. Thesacrosanctfetishofto-dayisscience. Whydon’tyougetsomeofyourfriendstogoforthatwooden-facedpanjandrum—eh?IsitnotpartoftheseinstitutionswhichmustbesweptawaybeforetheF.P.comesalong?”
MrVerlocsaidnothing.Hewasafraidtoopenhislipslestagroanshouldescapehim.
“Thisiswhatyoushouldtryfor.Anattemptuponacrownedheadoronapresidentissensationalenoughinaway,butnotsomuchasitusedtobe.Ithasenteredintothe general conception of the existence of all chiefs of state. It’s almostconventional—especiallysincesomanypresidentshavebeenassassinated.Nowletustakeanoutrageupon—sayachurch.Horribleenoughatfirstsight,nodoubt,andyetnot soeffectiveasapersonofanordinarymindmight think. Nomatterhowrevolutionaryandanarchistininception,therewouldbefoolsenoughtogivesuchanoutragethecharacterofareligiousmanifestation.Andthatwoulddetractfromtheespecialalarmingsignificancewewishtogivetotheact.Amurderousattemptona restaurantor a theatrewould suffer in the sameway from the suggestionofnon-politicalpassion:theexasperationofahungryman,anactofsocialrevenge.All this isusedup; it isno longer instructiveasanobject lesson in revolutionaryanarchism. Every newspaper has ready-made phrases to explain suchmanifestationsaway.Iamabouttogiveyouthephilosophyofbombthrowingfrommypointofview;fromthepointofviewyoupretendtohavebeenservingforthelast eleven years. Iwill try not to talk above your head. The sensibilities of theclassyouareattackingaresoonblunted.Propertyseemstothemanindestructiblething.Youcan’tcountupontheiremotionseitherofpityorfearforverylong.Abomb outrage to have any influence on public opinion nowmust go beyond theintentionofvengeanceorterrorism.Itmustbepurelydestructive.Itmustbethat,and only that, beyond the faintest suspicion of any other object. You anarchistsshouldmakeitclearthatyouareperfectlydeterminedtomakeacleansweepofthewholesocialcreation.Buthowtogetthatappallinglyabsurdnotionintotheheadsof themiddleclassessothat thereshouldbenomistake? That’s thequestion. Bydirectingyourblowsatsomethingoutsidetheordinarypassionsofhumanityistheanswer.Ofcourse,thereisart.AbombintheNationalGallerywouldmakesomenoise.Butitwouldnotbeseriousenough.Arthasneverbeentheirfetish.It’slikebreakingafewbackwindowsinaman’shouse;whereas,ifyouwanttomakehimreallysitup,youmusttryatleasttoraisetheroof.Therewouldbesomescreaming
of course, but from whom? Artists—art critics and such like—people of noaccount. Nobody minds what they say. But there is learning—science. Anyimbecile that has got an income believes in that. He does not knowwhy, but hebelievesitmatterssomehow.Itisthesacrosanctfetish.Allthedamnedprofessorsareradicalsatheart.Letthemknowthattheirgreatpanjandrumhasgottogotoo,tomakeroomfor theFutureof theProletariat. Ahowlfromall theseintellectualidiotsisboundtohelpforwardthelaboursoftheMilanConference.Theywillbewriting to the papers. Their indignation would be above suspicion, no materialinterestsbeingopenlyatstake,anditwillalarmeveryselfishnessoftheclasswhichshouldbe impressed. Theybelieve that in somemysteriousway science is at thesource of theirmaterial prosperity. They do. And the absurd ferocity of such ademonstrationwillaffectthemmoreprofoundlythanthemanglingofawholestreet—ortheatre—fulloftheirownkind.Tothatlasttheycanalwayssay:‘Oh!it’smereclasshate.’Butwhatisonetosaytoanactofdestructiveferocitysoabsurdastobeincomprehensible,inexplicable,almostunthinkable;infact,mad?Madnessaloneistrulyterrifying, inasmuchasyoucannotplacateiteitherbythreats,persuasion,orbribes. Moreover,Iamacivilisedman.Iwouldneverdreamofdirectingyoutoorganiseamerebutchery,evenifIexpectedthebestresultsfromit.ButIwouldn’texpectfromabutcherytheresultIwant.Murderisalwayswithus.Itisalmostaninstitution. The demonstrationmust be against learning—science. But not everysciencewilldo. Theattackmusthaveall theshockingsenselessnessofgratuitousblasphemy.Sincebombsareyourmeansofexpression,itwouldbereallytellingifonecouldthrowabombintopuremathematics.Butthatisimpossible.Ihavebeentrying to educate you; I have expounded to you the higher philosophy of yourusefulness, and suggested to you some serviceable arguments. The practicalapplication of my teaching interests you mostly. But from the moment I haveundertakentointerviewyouIhavealsogivensomeattentiontothepracticalaspectofthequestion.Whatdoyouthinkofhavingagoatastronomy?”
For sometime already Mr Verloc’s immobility by the side of the arm-chairresembledastateofcollapsedcoma—asortofpassiveinsensibilityinterruptedbyslight convulsive starts, such as may be observed in the domestic dog having anightmareonthehearthrug.Anditwasinanuneasydoglikegrowlthatherepeatedtheword:
“Astronomy.”
He had not recovered thoroughly as yet from that state of bewilderment broughtabout by the effort to follow Mr Vladimir ’s rapid incisive utterance. It hadovercome his power of assimilation. It had made him angry. This anger wascomplicatedby incredulity. Andsuddenly itdawneduponhimthatall thiswasanelaboratejoke.MrVladimirexhibitedhiswhiteteethinasmile,withdimplesonhis
round,fullfaceposedwithacomplacentinclinationabovethebristlingbowofhisneck-tie. The favourite of intelligent society women had assumed his drawing-room attitude accompanying the delivery of delicate witticisms. Sitting wellforward,hiswhitehandupraised,heseemed toholddelicatelybetweenhis thumbandforefingerthesubtletyofhissuggestion.
“There could be nothing better. Such an outrage combines the greatest possibleregardforhumanitywiththemostalarmingdisplayofferociousimbecility.Idefythe ingenuityof journalists topersuade theirpublic thatanygivenmemberof theproletariatcanhaveapersonalgrievanceagainstastronomy.Starvationitselfcouldhardly be dragged in there—eh? And there are other advantages. The wholecivilisedworldhasheardofGreenwich. Theveryboot-blacksin thebasementofCharingCrossStationknowsomethingofit.See?”
ThefeaturesofMrVladimir,sowellknowninthebestsocietybytheirhumorousurbanity, beamed with cynical self-satisfaction, which would have astonished theintelligent women his wit entertained so exquisitely. “Yes,” he continued, with acontemptuoussmile,“theblowingupofthefirstmeridianisboundtoraiseahowlofexecration.”
“Adifficultbusiness,”MrVerlocmumbled,feelingthatthiswastheonlysafethingtosay.
“Whatisthematter?Haven’tyouthewholegangunderyourhand?Theverypickofthebasket?ThatoldterroristYundtishere.IseehimwalkingaboutPiccadillyinhisgreenhavelockalmosteveryday.AndMichaelis,theticket-of-leaveapostle—youdon’tmeantosayyoudon’tknowwhereheis?Becauseifyoudon’t,Icantellyou,”MrVladimirwentonmenacingly.“Ifyouimaginethatyouaretheonlyoneonthesecretfundlist,youaremistaken.”
ThisperfectlygratuitoussuggestioncausedMrVerloctoshufflehisfeetslightly.
“AndthewholeLausannelot—eh?Haven’ttheybeenflockingoverhereatthefirsthintoftheMilanConference?Thisisanabsurdcountry.”
“Itwillcostmoney,”MrVerlocsaid,byasortofinstinct.
“Thatcockwon’tfight,”MrVladimirretorted,withanamazinglygenuineEnglishaccent.“You’llgetyourscreweverymonth,andnomoretillsomethinghappens.Andifnothinghappensverysoonyouwon’tgeteventhat.What’syourostensibleoccupation?Whatareyousupposedtoliveby?”
“Ikeepashop,”answeredMrVerloc.
“Ashop!Whatsortofshop?”
“Stationery,newspapers.Mywife—”
“Yourwhat?”interruptedMrVladimirinhisgutturalCentralAsiantones.
“Mywife.”MrVerlocraisedhishuskyvoiceslightly.“Iammarried.”
“That be damned for a yarn,” exclaimed the other in unfeigned astonishment.“Married!Andyouaprofessedanarchist,too!Whatisthisconfoundednonsense?ButIsupposeit’smerelyamannerofspeaking.Anarchistsdon’tmarry.It’swellknown.Theycan’t.Itwouldbeapostasy.”
“Mywife isn’t one,”MrVerlocmumbled sulkily. “Moreover, it’s no concernofyours.”
“Ohyes,itis,”snappedMrVladimir.“Iambeginningtobeconvincedthatyouarenot at all theman for thework you’ve been employed on. Why, youmust havediscreditedyourselfcompletelyinyourownworldbyyourmarriage.Couldn’tyouhavemanagedwithout?Thisisyourvirtuousattachment—eh?Whatwithonesortofattachmentandanotheryouaredoingawaywithyourusefulness.”
MrVerloc,puffingouthischeeks,lettheairescapeviolently,andthatwasall.Hehad armed himselfwith patience. It was not to be triedmuch longer. The FirstSecretarybecamesuddenlyverycurt,detached,final.
“Youmaygonow,”hesaid.“Adynamiteoutragemustbeprovoked.Igiveyouamonth.ThesittingsoftheConferencearesuspended.Beforeitreassemblesagainsomethingmusthavehappenedhere,oryourconnectionwithusceases.”
Hechangedthenoteoncemorewithanunprincipledversatility.
“Think over my philosophy, Mr—Mr—Verloc,” he said, with a sort of chaffingcondescension,wavinghishandtowardsthedoor.“Goforthefirstmeridian.Youdon’tknow themiddleclasses aswell as Ido. Their sensibilities are jaded. Thefirstmeridian.Nothingbetter,andnothingeasier,Ishouldthink.”
Hehadgotup,andwithhisthinsensitivelipstwitchinghumorously,watchedintheglassoverthemantelpieceMrVerlocbackingoutoftheroomheavily,hatandstickinhand.Thedoorclosed.
Thefootmanintrousers,appearingsuddenlyinthecorridor,letMrVerlocanotherway out and through a small door in the corner of the courtyard. The porterstandingatthegateignoredhisexitcompletely;andMrVerlocretracedthepathofhismorning’spilgrimageasifinadream—anangrydream.Thisdetachmentfromthematerialworldwassocompletethat,thoughthemortalenvelopeofMrVerlochad not hastened unduly along the streets, that part of him to which it would beunwarrantablyrudetorefuseimmortality,founditselfattheshopdoorallatonce,
as if borne fromwest to east on thewings of a great wind. Hewalked straightbehind the counter, and sat down on a wooden chair that stood there. No oneappeared to disturb his solitude. Stevie, put into a green baize apron, was nowsweepinganddustingupstairs,intentandconscientious,asthoughhewereplayingat it;andMrsVerloc,warned in thekitchenby theclatterof thecrackedbell,hadmerelycometotheglazeddooroftheparlour,andputtingthecurtainasidealittle,hadpeeredintothedimshop.Seeingherhusbandsittingthereshadowyandbulky,withhishat tiltedfarbackonhishead,shehadatoncereturned toherstove. Anhour or more later she took the green baize apron off her brother Stevie, andinstructedhimtowashhishandsandfaceintheperemptorytoneshehadusedinthatconnectionforfifteenyearsorso—eversinceshehad, infact,ceased toattend tothe boy’s hands and face herself. She spared presently a glance away from herdishing-upfortheinspectionofthatfaceandthosehandswhichStevie,approachingthe kitchen table, offered for her approvalwith an air of self-assurance hiding aperpetual residueof anxiety. Formerly theangerof the fatherwas the supremelyeffective sanction of these rites, butMrVerloc’s placidity in domestic lifewouldhavemadeallmentionofangerincredibleeventopoorStevie’snervousness.Thetheorywas thatMrVerlocwould have been inexpressibly pained and shocked byany deficiency of cleanliness atmeal times. Winnie after the death of her fatherfoundconsiderableconsolation in the feeling that sheneedno longer tremble forpoorStevie.Shecouldnotbeartoseetheboyhurt.Itmaddenedher.Asalittlegirlshehadoftenfacedwithblazingeyestheirasciblelicensedvictuallerindefenceofherbrother. Nothingnow inMrsVerloc’s appearance could leadone to supposethatshewascapableofapassionatedemonstration.
Shefinishedherdishing-up.Thetablewaslaidintheparlour.Goingtothefootofthestairs,shescreamedout“Mother!”Thenopeningtheglazeddoorleadingtotheshop,shesaidquietly“Adolf!”MrVerlochadnotchangedhisposition;hehadnotapparentlystirredalimbforanhourandahalf.Hegotupheavily,andcametohisdinnerinhisovercoatandwithhishaton,withoututteringaword. Hissilenceinitselfhadnothingstartlinglyunusualinthishousehold,hiddenintheshadesofthesordid street seldom touched by the sun, behind the dim shop with its wares ofdisreputable rubbish. Only that day Mr Verloc’s taciturnity was so obviouslythoughtful that the twowomenwere impressed by it. They sat silent themselves,keepingawatchfuleyeonpoorStevie,lestheshouldbreakoutintooneofhisfitsof loquacity. He facedMrVerloc across the table, and remained very good andquiet, staring vacantly. The endeavour to keep him from making himselfobjectionable inanyway to themasterof thehouseputno inconsiderableanxietyinto these twowomen’s lives. “That boy,” as they alluded to him softly betweenthemselves,hadbeenasourceofthatsortofanxietyalmostfromtheverydayofhisbirth.Thelatelicensedvictualler ’shumiliationathavingsuchaverypeculiarboy
forasonmanifesteditselfbyapropensitytobrutaltreatment;forhewasapersonof fine sensibilities, and his sufferings as a man and a father were perfectlygenuine. AfterwardsSteviehad tobekept frommakinghimselfanuisance to thesinglegentlemenlodgers,whoarethemselvesaqueerlot,andareeasilyaggrieved.And there was always the anxiety of his mere existence to face. Visions of aworkhouse infirmary for her child had haunted the old woman in the basementbreakfast-room of the decayed Belgravian house. “If you had not found such agoodhusband,mydear,”sheusedtosaytoherdaughter,“Idon’tknowwhatwouldhavebecomeofthatpoorboy.”
MrVerlocextendedasmuchrecognitiontoStevieasamannotparticularlyfondofanimalsmay give to hiswife’s beloved cat; and this recognition, benevolent andperfunctory, was essentially of the same quality. Both women admitted tothemselvesthatnotmuchmorecouldbereasonablyexpected.Itwasenoughtoearnfor Mr Verloc the old woman’s reverential gratitude. In the early days, madescepticalbythetrialsoffriendlesslife,sheusedsometimestoaskanxiously:“Youdon’tthink,mydear,thatMrVerlocisgettingtiredofseeingStevieabout?”TothisWinnierepliedhabituallybyaslighttossofherhead.Once,however,sheretorted,with a rather grimpertness: “He’ll have to get tiredofme first.” A long silenceensued.Themother,withherfeetproppeduponastool,seemedtobetryingtogetto the bottom of that answer, whose feminine profundity had struck her all of aheap.ShehadneverreallyunderstoodwhyWinniehadmarriedMrVerloc.Itwasvery sensibleofher, andevidentlyhad turnedout for thebest, buthergirlmighthavenaturallyhoped to findsomebodyofamoresuitableage. Therehadbeenasteadyyoungfellow,onlysonofabutcher in thenextstreet,helpinghis father inbusiness, with whomWinnie had been walking out with obvious gusto. He wasdependent on his father, it is true; but the business was good, and his prospectsexcellent. He took her girl to the theatre on several evenings. Then just as shebegantodreadtohearoftheirengagement(forwhatcouldshehavedonewiththatbighousealone,withStevieonherhands),thatromancecametoanabruptend,andWinniewentaboutlookingverydull. ButMrVerloc,turningupprovidentiallytooccupythefirst-floorfrontbedroom,therehadbeennomorequestionoftheyoungbutcher.Itwasclearlyprovidential.
CHAPTERIII
“...Allidealisationmakeslifepoorer.Tobeautifyitistotakeawayitscharacterofcomplexity—it is todestroyit. Leavethat to themoralists,myboy. Historyismadebymen,buttheydonotmakeitintheirheads.Theideasthatarebornintheirconsciousness play an insignificant part in the march of events. History isdominated and determined by the tool and the production—by the force ofeconomic conditions. Capitalism hasmade socialism, and the lawsmade by thecapitalismfortheprotectionofpropertyareresponsibleforanarchism.Noonecantellwhatformthesocialorganisationmaytakeinthefuture.Thenwhyindulgeinpropheticphantasies? Atbest theycanonlyinterpret themindof theprophet,andcanhavenoobjectivevalue.Leavethatpastimetothemoralists,myboy.”
Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle,was speaking in an even voice, a voice thatwheezedasifdeadenedandoppressedbythelayeroffatonhischest.Hehadcomeout of a highly hygienic prison round like a tub,with an enormous stomach anddistendedcheeksofapale,semi-transparentcomplexion,asthoughforfifteenyearstheservantsofanoutragedsocietyhadmadeapointofstuffinghimwithfatteningfoodsinadampandlightlesscellar. Andeversincehehadnevermanagedtogethisweightdownasmuchasanounce.
Itwassaidthatforthreeseasonsrunningaverywealthyoldladyhadsenthimforacure toMarienbad—wherehewas about to share thepublic curiosityoncewith acrownedhead—butthepoliceonthatoccasionorderedhimtoleavewithintwelvehours. Hismartyrdomwascontinuedby forbiddinghimall access to thehealingwaters.Buthewasresignednow.
With his elbow presenting no appearance of a joint, but more like a bend in adummy’slimb,thrownoverthebackofachair,heleanedforwardslightlyoverhisshortandenormousthighstospitintothegrate.
“Yes! I had the time to think things out a little,” he added without emphasis.“Societyhasgivenmeplentyoftimeformeditation.”
Ontheothersideofthefireplace,inthehorse-hairarm-chairwhereMrsVerloc’smotherwasgenerallyprivilegedtosit,KarlYundtgiggledgrimly,withafaintblack
grimaceofatoothlessmouth.Theterrorist,ashecalledhimself,wasoldandbald,with a narrow, snow-white wisp of a goatee hanging limply from his chin. Anextraordinary expression of underhandmalevolence survived in his extinguishedeyes. When he rose painfully the thrusting forward of a skinny groping handdeformed by gouty swellings suggested the effort of a moribund murderersummoningallhis remaining strength for a last stab. He leanedona thick stick,whichtrembledunderhisotherhand.
“Ihavealwaysdreamed,”hemouthedfiercely,“ofabandofmenabsoluteintheirresolve to discard all scruples in the choice of means, strong enough to givethemselvesfranklythenameofdestroyers,andfreefromthetaintofthatresignedpessimism which rots the world. No pity for anything on earth, includingthemselves, anddeathenlisted forgoodandall in the serviceofhumanity—that’swhatIwouldhavelikedtosee.”
His little bald head quivered, imparting a comical vibration to thewisp of whitegoatee.Hisenunciationwouldhavebeenalmosttotallyunintelligibletoastranger.His worn-out passion, resembling in its impotent fierceness the excitement of asenile sensualist, was badly served by a dried throat and toothless gums whichseemed tocatch the tipofhis tongue. MrVerloc,established in thecornerof thesofaattheotherendoftheroom,emittedtwoheartygruntsofassent.
Theoldterroristturnedslowlyhisheadonhisskinnyneckfromsidetoside.
“And I could never get asmany as three suchmen together. Somuch for yourrottenpessimism,”hesnarledatMichaelis,whouncrossedhisthicklegs,similartobolsters,andslidhisfeetabruptlyunderhischairinsignofexasperation.
Heapessimist!Preposterous!Hecriedoutthatthechargewasoutrageous.Hewassofar frompessimismthathesawalreadytheendofallprivatepropertycomingalonglogically,unavoidably,bythemeredevelopmentofitsinherentviciousness.Thepossessorsofpropertyhadnotonlytofacetheawakenedproletariat,buttheyhadalsotofightamongstthemselves.Yes.Struggle,warfare,wastheconditionofprivateownership.Itwasfatal.Ah!hedidnotdependuponemotionalexcitementtokeepuphisbelief,nodeclamations,noanger,novisionsofblood-redflagswaving,or metaphorical lurid suns of vengeance rising above the horizon of a doomedsociety. Not he! Cold reason, he boasted, was the basis of his optimism. Yes,optimism—
Hislaboriouswheezingstopped,then,afteragasportwo,headded:
“Don’tyouthinkthat,ifIhadnotbeentheoptimistIam,Icouldnothavefoundinfifteen years somemeans to cutmy throat? And, in the last instance, therewerealwaysthewallsofmycelltodashmyheadagainst.”
Theshortnessofbreathtookallfire,allanimationoutofhisvoice;hisgreat,palecheekshunglikefilledpouches,motionless,withoutaquiver;butinhisblueeyes,narrowed as if peering, therewas the same look of confident shrewdness, a littlecrazyinitsfixity,theymusthavehadwhiletheindomitableoptimistsatthinkingatnightinhiscell.Beforehim,KarlYundtremainedstanding,onewingofhisfadedgreenishhavelockthrownbackcavalierlyoverhisshoulder.Seatedinfrontofthefireplace, Comrade Ossipon, ex-medical student, the principal writer of the F. P.leaflets,stretchedouthisrobustlegs,keepingthesolesofhisbootsturneduptotheglowinthegrate.Abushofcrinklyyellowhairtoppedhisred,freckledface,withaflattenednoseandprominentmouthcastintheroughmouldofthenegrotype.Hisalmond-shapedeyes leered languidlyover thehighcheek-bones. Heworeagreyflannelshirt,thelooseendsofablacksilktiehungdownthebuttonedbreastofhissergecoat;andhisheadrestingonthebackofhischair,histhroatlargelyexposed,heraisedtohislipsacigaretteinalongwoodentube,puffingjetsofsmokestraightupattheceiling.
Michaelis pursued his idea—the idea of his solitary reclusion—the thoughtvouchsafedtohiscaptivityandgrowinglikeafaithrevealedinvisions.Hetalkedtohimself,indifferenttothesympathyorhostilityofhishearers,indifferentindeedtotheir presence, from the habit he had acquired of thinking aloud hopefully in thesolitudeof the fourwhitewashedwallsofhiscell, in the sepulchral silenceof thegreatblindpileofbricksnearariver,sinisteranduglylikeacolossalmortuaryforthesociallydrowned.
Hewasnogoodindiscussion,notbecauseanyamountofargumentcouldshakehisfaith,butbecausethemerefactofhearinganothervoicedisconcertedhimpainfully,confusinghisthoughtsatonce—thesethoughtsthatforsomanyyears,inamentalsolitudemorebarren thanawaterlessdesert,no livingvoicehadevercombatted,commented,orapproved.
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 fatediscovered in the material side of life; the economic condition of the worldresponsibleforthepastandshapingthefuture;thesourceofallhistory,ofallideas,guidingthementaldevelopmentofmankindandtheveryimpulsesoftheirpassion—
AharshlaughfromComradeOssiponcutthetiradedeadshortinasuddenfalteringofthetongueandabewilderedunsteadinessoftheapostle’smildlyexaltedeyes.Heclosedthemslowlyforamoment,asiftocollecthisroutedthoughts.Asilencefell;butwhatwiththetwogas-jetsoverthetableandtheglowinggratethelittleparlourbehindMrVerloc’s shop had become frightfully hot. MrVerloc, getting off the
sofa with ponderous reluctance, opened the door leading into the kitchen to getmoreair,andthusdisclosedtheinnocentStevie,seatedverygoodandquietatadealtable,drawingcircles,circles,circles;innumerablecircles,concentric,eccentric;acoruscating whirl of circles that by their tangled multitude of repeated curves,uniformity of form, and confusion of intersecting lines suggested a rendering ofcosmicchaos,thesymbolismofamadartattemptingtheinconceivable.Theartistneverturnedhishead;andinallhissoul’sapplicationtothetaskhisbackquivered,histhinneck,sunkintoadeephollowatthebaseoftheskull,seemedreadytosnap.
MrVerloc,afteragruntofdisapprovingsurprise,returnedtothesofa.AlexanderOssipongotup, tall inhis threadbarebluesergesuitunder the lowceiling,shookoff thestiffnessof long immobility,andstrolledaway into thekitchen(down twosteps)tolookoverStevie’sshoulder.Hecameback,pronouncingoracularly:“Verygood.Verycharacteristic,perfectlytypical.”
“What’sverygood?”gruntedinquiringlyMrVerloc,settledagaininthecornerofthe sofa. The other explained his meaning negligently, with a shade ofcondescensionandatossofhisheadtowardsthekitchen:
“Typicalofthisformofdegeneracy—thesedrawings,Imean.”
“Youwouldcallthatladadegenerate,wouldyou?”mumbledMrVerloc.
ComradeAlexanderOssipon—nicknamedtheDoctor,ex-medicalstudentwithoutadegree; afterwards wandering lecturer to working-men’s associations upon thesocialisticaspectsofhygiene;authorofapopularquasi-medicalstudy(intheformofacheappamphletseizedpromptlybythepolice)entitled“TheCorrodingVicesof the Middle Classes”; special delegate of the more or less mysterious RedCommittee, together with Karl Yundt and Michaelis for the work of literarypropaganda—turnedupontheobscurefamiliarofatleasttwoEmbassiesthatglanceofinsufferable,hopelesslydensesufficiencywhichnothingbutthefrequentationofsciencecangivetothedulnessofcommonmortals.
“That’swhathemaybecalledscientifically.Verygoodtypetoo,altogether,ofthatsort of degenerate. It’s enough to glance at the lobes of his ears. If you readLombroso—”
MrVerloc,moodyandspreadlargelyonthesofa,continuedtolookdowntherowofhiswaistcoatbuttons;buthischeeksbecametingedbyafaintblush.Oflateeventhe merest derivative of the word science (a term in itself inoffensive and ofindefinitemeaning)hadthecuriouspowerofevokingadefinitelyoffensivementalvision of Mr Vladimir, in his body as he lived, with an almost supernaturalclearness. And this phenomenon, deserving justly to be classed amongst themarvels of science, induced in Mr Verloc an emotional state of dread and
exasperation tending toexpress itself inviolentswearing. Buthesaidnothing. ItwasKarlYundtwhowasheard,implacabletohislastbreath.
“Lombrosoisanass.”
ComradeOssiponmettheshockofthisblasphemybyanawful,vacantstare.Andtheother,hisextinguishedeyeswithoutgleamsblackeningthedeepshadowsunderthegreat,bonyforehead,mumbled,catchingthetipofhistonguebetweenhislipsateverysecondwordasthoughhewerechewingitangrily:
“Didyoueverseesuchanidiot?Forhimthecriminalistheprisoner.Simple,isitnot? What about those who shut him up there—forced him in there? Exactly.Forcedhiminthere.Andwhatiscrime?Doesheknowthat,thisimbecilewhohasmadehiswayinthisworldofgorgedfoolsbylookingattheearsandteethofalotofpoor, lucklessdevils? Teethandearsmark thecriminal? Do they? Andwhataboutthelawthatmarkshimstillbetter—theprettybrandinginstrumentinventedbytheoverfedtoprotectthemselvesagainstthehungry?Red-hotapplicationsontheirvileskins—hey?Can’tyousmellandhearfromherethethickhideof thepeopleburnandsizzle?That’showcriminalsaremadeforyourLombrosostowritetheirsillystuffabout.”
The knob of his stick and his legs shook togetherwith passion,whilst the trunk,drapedinthewingsofthehavelock,preservedhishistoricattitudeofdefiance.Heseemed to sniff the tainted air of social cruelty, to strain his ear for its atrocioussounds.Therewasanextraordinaryforceofsuggestioninthisposturing.Theallbutmoribundveteranofdynamitewarshadbeenagreatactorinhistime—actoronplatforms, in secret assemblies, in private interviews. The famous terrorist hadnever in his life raised personally as much as his little finger against the socialedifice.Hewasnomanofaction;hewasnotevenanoratoroftorrentialeloquence,sweeping themasses along in the rushingnoise and foamof a great enthusiasm.Withamoresubtleintention,hetookthepartofaninsolentandvenomousevokerof sinister impulses which lurk in the blind envy and exasperated vanity ofignorance, in the suffering and misery of poverty, in all the hopeful and nobleillusionsofrighteousanger,pity,andrevolt. Theshadowofhisevilgiftclungtohim yet like the smell of a deadly drug in an old vial of poison, emptied now,useless, ready tobe thrownawayupon the rubbish-heapof things thathad servedtheirtime.
Michaelis, theticket-of-leaveapostle,smiledvaguelywithhisgluedlips;hispastymoonfacedroopedundertheweightofmelancholyassent.Hehadbeenaprisonerhimself.Hisownskinhadsizzledunderthered-hotbrand,hemurmuredsoftly.ButComradeOssipon,nicknamedtheDoctor,hadgotovertheshockbythattime.
“Youdon’tunderstand,”hebegandisdainfully,butstoppedshort,intimidatedbythedeadblacknessofthecavernouseyesinthefaceturnedslowlytowardshimwithablindstare,asifguidedonlybythesound.Hegavethediscussionup,withaslightshrugoftheshoulders.
Stevie,accustomed tomoveaboutdisregarded,hadgotup from thekitchen table,carryingoffhisdrawingtobedwithhim.Hehadreachedtheparlourdoorintimetoreceive infull theshockofKarlYundt’seloquent imagery. Thesheetofpapercoveredwithcirclesdroppedoutofhisfingers,andheremainedstaringattheoldterrorist, as if rooted suddenly to the spot by his morbid horror and dread ofphysicalpain. Stevieknewverywell thathot ironapplied toone’sskinhurtverymuch. Hisscaredeyesblazedwith indignation: itwouldhurt terribly. Hismouthdroppedopen.
Michaelisbystaringunwinkinglyatthefirehadregainedthatsentimentofisolationnecessaryforthecontinuityofhisthought.Hisoptimismhadbeguntoflowfromhis lips. He saw Capitalism doomed in its cradle, born with the poison of theprinciple of competition in its system. The great capitalists devouring the littlecapitalists, concentrating the power and the tools of production in great masses,perfecting industrial processes, and in the madness of self-aggrandisement onlypreparing, organising, enriching, making ready the lawful inheritance of thesuffering proletariat. Michaelis pronounced the great word “Patience”—and hisclearblueglance,raisedtothelowceilingofMrVerloc’sparlour,hadacharacterofseraphictrustfulness.InthedoorwayStevie,calmed,seemedsunkinhebetude.
ComradeOssipon’sfacetwitchedwithexasperation.
“Thenit’snousedoinganything—nousewhatever.”
“I don’t say that,” protestedMichaelis gently. His vision of truth had grown sointensethatthesoundofastrangevoicefailedtoroutitthistime.Hecontinuedtolookdownat the redcoals. Preparation for the futurewasnecessary,andhewaswilling to admit that the great change would perhaps come in the upheaval of arevolution. But he argued that revolutionary propagandawas a delicatework ofhighconscience. Itwastheeducationofthemastersoftheworld. Itshouldbeascareful as the education given to kings. He would have it advance its tenetscautiously,eventimidly,inourignoranceoftheeffectthatmaybeproducedbyanygiveneconomicchangeuponthehappiness,themorals,theintellect,thehistoryofmankind.Forhistoryismadewithtools,notwithideas;andeverythingischangedbyeconomicconditions—art,philosophy,love,virtue—truthitself!
Thecoalsinthegratesettleddownwithaslightcrash;andMichaelis,thehermitofvisionsinthedesertofapenitentiary,gotupimpetuously. Roundlikeadistended
balloon,heopenedhisshort, thickarms,asif inapatheticallyhopelessattempttoembraceandhugtohisbreastaself-regenerateduniverse.Hegaspedwithardour.
“The future is as certain as the past—slavery, feudalism, individualism,collectivism.Thisisthestatementofalaw,notanemptyprophecy.”
ThedisdainfulpoutofComradeOssipon’sthicklipsaccentuatedthenegrotypeofhisface.
“Nonsense,” he said calmly enough. “There is no law and no certainty. Theteachingpropagandabehanged. What thepeopleknowsdoesnotmatter,were itsknowledgeeversoaccurate.Theonlythingthatmatterstousistheemotionalstateofthemasses.Withoutemotionthereisnoaction.”
Hepaused,thenaddedwithmodestfirmness:
“I am speakingnow to you scientifically—scientifically—Eh? What did you say,Verloc?”
“Nothing,” growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, provoked by the abhorrentsound,hadmerelymuttereda“Damn.”
Thevenomoussplutteringoftheoldterroristwithoutteethwasheard.
“DoyouknowhowIwouldcall thenatureof thepresenteconomicconditions? Iwouldcallitcannibalistic.That’swhatitis!Theyarenourishingtheirgreedonthequiveringfleshandthewarmbloodofthepeople—nothingelse.”
Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible gulp, and at once, asthoughithadbeenswiftpoison,sanklimplyinasittingpostureonthestepsofthekitchendoor.
Michaelisgavenosignofhavingheardanything. His lipsseemedgluedtogetherforgood;notaquiverpassedoverhisheavycheeks.Withtroubledeyeshelookedfor his round, hardhat, andput it onhis roundhead. His round andobesebodyseemedtofloat lowbetweenthechairsunderthesharpelbowofKarlYundt. Theold terrorist, raising an uncertain and clawlike hand, gave a swaggering tilt to ablackfeltsombreroshading thehollowsandridgesofhiswastedface. Hegot inmotionslowly,strikingthefloorwithhisstickateverystep.Itwasratheranaffairtogethimoutofthehousebecause,nowandthen,hewouldstop,asiftothink,anddidnotoffertomoveagaintillimpelledforwardbyMichaelis.Thegentleapostlegraspedhisarmwithbrotherlycare;andbehindthem,hishandsinhispockets,therobustOssiponyawnedvaguely.Abluecapwithapatentleatherpeaksetwellatthebackofhisyellowbushofhairgavehim theaspectofaNorwegiansailorboredwiththeworldafterathunderingspree.MrVerlocsawhisguestsoffthepremises,
attending them bareheaded, his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on theground.
Heclosedthedoorbehindtheirbackswithrestrainedviolence,turnedthekey,shotthe bolt. He was not satisfied with his friends. In the light of Mr Vladimir ’sphilosophy of bomb throwing they appeared hopelessly futile. The part of MrVerloc in revolutionarypolitics havingbeen toobserve, he couldnot all at once,eitherinhisownhomeorinlargerassemblies,taketheinitiativeofaction.Hehadtobecautious.Movedbythejustindignationofamanwelloverforty,menacedinwhat is dearest to him—his repose and his security—he asked himself scornfullywhatelsecouldhavebeenexpectedfromsuchalot,thisKarlYundt,thisMichaelis—thisOssipon.
Pausing inhis intention to turnoff thegasburning in themiddleof the shop,MrVerlocdescendedintotheabyssofmoralreflections.Withtheinsightofakindredtemperamenthepronouncedhisverdict. A lazy lot—thisKarlYundt,nursedbyablear-eyedoldwoman,awomanhehadyearsagoenticedawayfromafriend,andafterwards had triedmore than once to shake off into the gutter. Jolly lucky forYundtthatshehadpersistedincominguptimeaftertime,orelsetherewouldhavebeennoonenowtohelphimoutofthe’busbytheGreenParkrailings,wherethatspectre took its constitutional crawl every fine morning. When that indomitablesnarling old witch died the swaggering spectre would have to vanish too—therewouldbeanendtofieryKarlYundt.AndMrVerloc’smoralitywasoffendedalsobytheoptimismofMichaelis,annexedbyhiswealthyoldlady,whohadtakenlatelyto sendinghim to a cottage shehad in the country. The ex-prisoner couldmoonabouttheshadylanesfordaystogetherinadeliciousandhumanitarianidleness.AstoOssipon, that beggarwas sure towant for nothing as long as therewere sillygirls with savings-bank books in the world. And Mr Verloc, temperamentallyidenticalwith his associates, drew fine distinctions in hismindon the strength ofinsignificant differences. He drew themwith a certain complacency, because theinstinctofconventionalrespectabilitywasstrongwithinhim,beingonlyovercomebyhisdislikeofallkindsofrecognisedlabour—atemperamentaldefectwhichhesharedwithalargeproportionofrevolutionaryreformersofagivensocialstate.Forobviouslyonedoesnotrevoltagainsttheadvantagesandopportunitiesofthatstate,butagainstthepricewhichmustbepaidforthesameinthecoinofacceptedmorality,self-restraint,andtoil.Themajorityofrevolutionistsaretheenemiesofdisciplineandfatiguemostly. Therearenaturestoo,towhosesenseofjusticetheprice exacted looms up monstrously enormous, odious, oppressive, worrying,humiliating, extortionate, intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remainingportionofsocialrebelsisaccountedforbyvanity,themotherofallnobleandvileillusions,thecompanionofpoets,reformers,charlatans,prophets,andincendiaries.
Lost for awholeminute in the abyss ofmeditation,MrVerloc did not reach thedepthoftheseabstractconsiderations.Perhapshewasnotable.Inanycasehehadnotthetime.HewaspulleduppainfullybythesuddenrecollectionofMrVladimir,anotherofhisassociates,whominvirtueofsubtlemoralaffinitieshewascapableofjudgingcorrectly.Heconsideredhimasdangerous.Ashadeofenvycreptintohis thoughts. Loafing was all very well for these fellows, who knew not MrVladimir,andhadwomentofallbackupon;whereashehadawomantoprovidefor—
Atthispoint,byasimpleassociationofideas,MrVerlocwasbroughtfacetofacewiththenecessityofgoingtobedsometimeorotherthatevening.Thenwhynotgonow—atonce?Hesighed.Thenecessitywasnotsonormallypleasurableasitoughttohavebeenforamanofhisageandtemperament.Hedreadedthedemonofsleeplessness,whichhe felt hadmarkedhim for its own. He raisedhis arm, andturnedofftheflaringgas-jetabovehishead.
Abrightbandoflightfellthroughtheparlourdoorintothepartoftheshopbehindthecounter.ItenabledMrVerloctoascertainataglancethenumberofsilvercoinsin the till. Thesewerebutfew;andfor thefirst timesinceheopenedhisshophetookacommercialsurveyofitsvalue.Thissurveywasunfavourable.Hehadgoneintotradefornocommercialreasons. Hehadbeenguidedintheselectionofthispeculiarlineofbusinessbyaninstinctiveleaningtowardsshadytransactions,wheremoneyispickedupeasily.Moreover,itdidnottakehimoutofhisownsphere—thesphere which is watched by the police. On the contrary, it gave him a publiclyconfessedstandinginthatsphere,andasMrVerlochadunconfessedrelationswhichmadehimfamiliarwithyetcarelessofthepolice,therewasadistinctadvantageinsuchasituation.Butasameansoflivelihooditwasbyitselfinsufficient.
Hetookthecash-boxoutofthedrawer,andturningtoleavetheshop,becameawarethatSteviewasstilldownstairs.
Whatonearthishedoingthere?MrVerlocaskedhimself.What’sthemeaningoftheseantics?Helookeddubiouslyathisbrother-in-law,buthedidnotaskhimforinformation.MrVerloc’sintercoursewithSteviewaslimitedtothecasualmutterofamorning,afterbreakfast,“Myboots,”andeventhatwasmoreacommunicationatlarge of a need than a direct order or request. Mr Verloc perceived with somesurprise that he did not know really what to say to Stevie. He stood still in themiddleoftheparlour,andlookedintothekitcheninsilence.Noryetdidheknowwhat would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared very queer toMrVerlocinviewofthefact,borneuponhimsuddenly,thathehadtoprovideforthisfellow too. He had never given a moment’s thought till then to that aspect ofStevie’sexistence.
Positivelyhedidnotknowhowtospeaktothelad. Hewatchedhimgesticulatingandmurmuringinthekitchen.Stevieprowledroundthetablelikeanexcitedanimalin a cage. A tentative “Hadn’t you better go to bed now?” produced no effectwhatever; andMr Verloc, abandoning the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law’sbehaviour, crossed theparlourwearily, cash-box inhand. Thecauseof thegeneral lassitudehe feltwhileclimbing thestairsbeingpurelymental,hebecamealarmedbyitsinexplicablecharacter.Hehopedhewasnotsickeningforanything.He stopped on the dark landing to examine his sensations. But a slight andcontinuous sound of snoring pervading the obscurity interfered with theirclearness. The sound came from his mother-in-law’s room. Another one toprovidefor,hethought—andonthisthoughtwalkedintothebedroom.
MrsVerlochadfallenasleepwiththelamp(nogaswaslaidupstairs)turnedupfullon the table by the side of the bed. The light thrown down by the shade felldazzlinglyonthewhitepillowsunkbytheweightofherheadreposingwithclosedeyes and dark hair done up in several plaits for the night. Shewokeupwith thesoundofhernameinherears,andsawherhusbandstandingoverher.
“Winnie!Winnie!”
Atfirstshedidnotstir,lyingveryquietandlookingatthecash-boxinMrVerloc’shand. Butwhen sheunderstood that herbrotherwas “capering all over theplacedownstairs”sheswungoutinonesuddenmovementontotheedgeofthebed.Herbare feet, as if poked through the bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sackbuttoned tightly at neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the slippers while shelookedupwardintoherhusband’sface.
“Idon’tknowhowtomanagehim,”MrVerlocexplainedpeevishly.“Won’tdotoleavehimdownstairsalonewiththelights.”
She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door closed upon herwhiteform.
MrVerloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began the operation ofundressing by flinging his overcoat on to a distant chair. His coat andwaistcoatfollowed. Hewalkedabout the room inhis stockinged feet, andhisburly figure,withthehandsworryingnervouslyathisthroat,passedandrepassedacrossthelongstripof looking-glass in thedoorofhiswife’swardrobe. Thenafterslippinghisbraces off his shoulders he pulled up violently the venetian blind, and leaned hisforeheadagainst thecoldwindow-pane—afragile filmofglass stretchedbetweenhim and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable accumulation ofbricks,slates,andstones,thingsinthemselvesunlovelyandunfriendlytoman.
MrVerlocfeltthelatentunfriendlinessofalloutofdoorswithaforceapproaching
topositivebodilyanguish.Thereisnooccupationthatfailsamanmorecompletelythanthatofasecretagentofpolice.It’slikeyourhorsesuddenlyfallingdeadunderyou in themidstofanuninhabitedand thirstyplain. Thecomparisonoccurred toMrVerlocbecausehehadsatastridevariousarmyhorsesinhistime,andhadnowthe sensation of an incipient fall. The prospectwas as black as thewindow-paneagainstwhichhewasleaninghisforehead.AndsuddenlythefaceofMrVladimir,clean-shavedandwitty,appearedenhaloedintheglowofitsrosycomplexionlikeasortofpinkseal,impressedonthefataldarkness.
ThisluminousandmutilatedvisionwassoghastlyphysicallythatMrVerlocstartedaway from the window, letting down the venetian blind with a great rattle.Discomposedandspeechlesswiththeapprehensionofmoresuchvisions,hebeheldhiswife re-enter the roomandget intobed inacalmbusiness-likemannerwhichmadehimfeelhopelesslylonelyintheworld.MrsVerlocexpressedhersurpriseatseeinghimupyet.
“Idon’tfeelverywell,”hemuttered,passinghishandsoverhismoistbrow.
“Giddiness?”
“Yes.Notatallwell.”
Mrs Verloc, with all the placidity of an experienced wife, expressed a confidentopinionastothecause,andsuggestedtheusualremedies;butherhusband,rootedinthemiddleoftheroom,shookhisloweredheadsadly.
“You’llcatchcoldstandingthere,”sheobserved.
MrVerlocmadeaneffort,finishedundressing,andgotintobed.Downbelowinthequiet, narrow street measured footsteps approached the house, then died awayunhurriedandfirm,asifthepasser-byhadstartedtopaceoutalleternity,fromgas-lamptogas-lampinanightwithoutend;andthedrowsytickingoftheoldclockonthelandingbecamedistinctlyaudibleinthebedroom.
MrsVerloc,onherback,andstaringattheceiling,madearemark.
“Takingsverysmallto-day.”
MrVerloc,inthesameposition,clearedhisthroatasifforanimportantstatement,butmerelyinquired:
“Didyouturnoffthegasdownstairs?”
“Yes; I did,” answeredMrsVerloc conscientiously. “That poor boy is in a veryexcitedstateto-night,”shemurmured,afterapausewhichlastedforthreeticksoftheclock.
MrVerloccarednothingforStevie’sexcitement,buthefelthorriblywakeful,anddreadedfacingthedarknessandsilencethatwouldfollowtheextinguishingofthelamp. This dread led him to make the remark that Stevie had disregarded hissuggestiontogotobed.MrsVerloc,fallingintothetrap,startedtodemonstrateatlength to her husband that this was not “impudence” of any sort, but simply“excitement.” Therewas no youngman of his age in Londonmorewilling anddocilethanStephen,sheaffirmed;nonemoreaffectionateandreadytoplease,andeven useful, as long as people did not upset his poor head. MrsVerloc, turningtowardsherrecumbenthusband,raisedherselfonherelbow,andhungoverhiminheranxietythatheshouldbelieveStevietobeausefulmemberofthefamily.Thatardourofprotectingcompassionexaltedmorbidlyinherchildhoodbythemiseryof another child tinged her sallow cheekswith a faint dusky blush,made her bigeyes gleamunder the dark lids. MrsVerloc then looked younger; she looked asyoung asWinnie used to look, andmuchmore animated than theWinnie of theBelgravianmansiondayshadeverallowedherselftoappeartogentlemenlodgers.MrVerloc’sanxietieshadpreventedhimfromattachinganysensetowhathiswifewas saying. Itwas as if her voicewere talking on the other side of a very thickwall.Itwasheraspectthatrecalledhimtohimself.
He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this appreciation, stirred by adisplayof something resemblingemotion,only addedanotherpang tohismentalanguish.Whenhervoiceceasedhemoveduneasily,andsaid:
“Ihaven’tbeenfeelingwellforthelastfewdays.”
Hemighthavemeantthisasanopeningtoacompleteconfidence;butMrsVerloclaidherheadonthepillowagain,andstaringupward,wenton:
“Thatboyhears toomuchofwhat is talkedabouthere. If Ihadknowntheywerecomingto-nightIwouldhaveseentoitthathewenttobedatthesametimeIdid.Hewasoutofhismindwith somethingheoverheardabouteatingpeople’s fleshanddrinkingblood.What’sthegoodoftalkinglikethat?”
Therewasanoteofindignantscorninhervoice.MrVerlocwasfullyresponsivenow.
“AskKarlYundt,”hegrowledsavagely.
MrsVerloc,with great decision, pronouncedKarlYundt “a disgustingoldman.”ShedeclaredopenlyheraffectionforMichaelis. OftherobustOssipon,inwhosepresenceshealwaysfeltuneasybehindanattitudeofstonyreserve,shesaidnothingwhatever.Andcontinuingtotalkofthatbrother,whohadbeenforsomanyyearsanobjectofcareandfears:
“Heisn’tfittohearwhat’ssaidhere.Hebelievesit’salltrue.Heknowsnobetter.Hegetsintohispassionsoverit.”
MrVerlocmadenocomment.
“Heglaredatme,asifhedidn’tknowwhoIwas,whenIwentdownstairs.Hisheartwasgoing likeahammer. Hecan’thelpbeingexcitable. Iwokemotherup, andaskedhertositwithhimtillhewenttosleep.Itisn’thisfault.He’snotroublewhenhe’sleftalone.”
MrVerlocmadenocomment.
“Iwish he had never been to school,”MrsVerloc began again brusquely. “He’salwaystakingawaythosenewspapersfromthewindowtoread.Hegetsaredfaceporingoverthem.Wedon’tgetridofadozennumbersinamonth.Theyonlytakeuproominthefrontwindow.AndMrOssiponbringseveryweekapileoftheseF.P.tractstosellatahalfpennyeach.Iwouldn’tgiveahalfpennyforthewholelot.It’ssillyreading—that’swhatitis.There’snosaleforit.TheotherdaySteviegotholdofone,andtherewasastoryinitofaGermansoldierofficertearinghalf-offtheearofarecruit,andnothingwasdonetohimforit. Thebrute! Icouldn’tdoanything with Stevie that afternoon. The story was enough, too, to make one’sbloodboil.Butwhat’stheuseofprintingthingslikethat?Wearen’tGermanslaveshere,thankGod.It’snotourbusiness—isit?”
MrVerlocmadenoreply.
“Ihadtotakethecarvingknifefromtheboy,”MrsVerloccontinued,alittlesleepilynow.“Hewasshoutingandstampingandsobbing.Hecan’tstandthenotionofanycruelty.Hewouldhavestuckthatofficerlikeapigifhehadseenhimthen.It’strue,too!Somepeopledon’tdeservemuchmercy.”MrsVerloc’svoiceceased,andtheexpressionofhermotionlesseyesbecamemoreandmorecontemplativeandveiledduringthelongpause.“Comfortable,dear?”sheaskedinafaint,far-awayvoice.“ShallIputoutthelightnow?”
The dreary conviction that therewas no sleep for him heldMrVerlocmute andhopelesslyinertinhisfearofdarkness.Hemadeagreateffort.
“Yes.Putitout,”hesaidatlastinahollowtone.
CHAPTERIV
Mostofthethirtyorsolittletablescoveredbyredclothswithawhitedesignstoodranged at right angles to the deep brown wainscoting of the underground hall.Bronze chandeliers with many globes depended from the low, slightly vaultedceiling, and the fresco paintings ran flat and dull all round the walls withoutwindows, representing scenes of the chase and of outdoor revelry in mediævalcostumes. Varlets in green jerkins brandished hunting knives and raised on hightankardsoffoamingbeer.
“UnlessIamverymuchmistaken,youarethemanwhowouldknowtheinsideofthisconfoundedaffair,”saidtherobustOssipon,leaningover,hiselbowsfaroutonthetableandhisfeettuckedbackcompletelyunderhischair. Hiseyesstaredwithwildeagerness.
Anuprightsemi-grandpianonearthedoor,flankedbytwopalmsinpots,executedsuddenlyallbyitselfavalsetunewithaggressivevirtuosity.Thedinitraisedwasdeafening. When it ceased, as abruptly as it had started, the be-spectacled, dingylittlemanwhofacedOssiponbehindaheavyglassmugfullofbeeremittedcalmlywhathadthesoundofageneralproposition.
“Inprinciplewhatoneofusmayormaynotknowas toanygivenfactcan’tbeamatterforinquirytotheothers.”
“Certainlynot,”ComradeOssiponagreedinaquietundertone.“Inprinciple.”
Withhisbigfloridfaceheldbetweenhishandshecontinuedtostarehard,whilethedingylittlemaninspectaclescoollytookadrinkofbeerandstoodtheglassmugbackonthe table. Hisflat, largeearsdepartedwidelyfromthesidesofhisskull,whichlookedfrailenoughforOssipontocrushbetweenthumbandforefinger;thedomeoftheforeheadseemedtorestontherimofthespectacles;theflatcheeks,ofagreasy,unhealthycomplexion,weremerelysmudgedbythemiserablepovertyofa thin darkwhisker. The lamentable inferiority of thewhole physiquewasmadeludicrousbythesupremelyself-confidentbearingoftheindividual.Hisspeechwascurt,andhehadaparticularlyimpressivemannerofkeepingsilent.
Ossiponspokeagainfrombetweenhishandsinamutter.
“Haveyoubeenoutmuchto-day?”
“No.Istayedinbedallthemorning,”answeredtheother.“Why?”
“Oh! Nothing,” said Ossipon, gazing earnestly and quivering inwardly with thedesire to find out something, but obviously intimidated by the little man’soverwhelmingairofunconcern.Whentalkingwiththiscomrade—whichhappenedbut rarely—the big Ossipon suffered from a sense of moral and even physicalinsignificance.However,heventuredanotherquestion.“Didyouwalkdownhere?”
“No; omnibus,” the little man answered readily enough. He lived far away inIslington,inasmallhousedownashabbystreet,litteredwithstrawanddirtypaper,where out of school hours a troopof assorted children ran and squabbledwith ashrill, joyless, rowdy clamour. His single back room, remarkable for having anextremely large cupboard, he rented furnished from two elderly spinsters,dressmakers in a humblewaywith a clientele of servant girlsmostly. He had aheavypadlockputonthecupboard,butotherwisehewasamodellodger,givingnotrouble,andrequiringpracticallynoattendance. Hisodditieswerethatheinsistedon being present when his roomwas being swept, and that when hewent out helockedhisdoor,andtookthekeyawaywithhim.
Ossiponhadavisionoftheseroundblack-rimmedspectaclesprogressingalongthestreetsonthetopofanomnibus,theirself-confidentglitterfallinghereandthereonthewallsofhousesorloweredupontheheadsoftheunconsciousstreamofpeopleonthepavements.TheghostofasicklysmilealteredthesetofOssipon’sthicklipsatthethoughtofthewallsnodding,ofpeoplerunningforlifeatthesightofthosespectacles.Iftheyhadonlyknown!Whatapanic!Hemurmuredinterrogatively:“Beensittinglonghere?”
“Anhourormore,”answeredtheothernegligently,andtookapullatthedarkbeer.Allhismovements—thewayhegraspedthemug,theactofdrinking,thewayhesetthe heavy glass down and folded his arms—had a firmness, an assured precisionwhichmade thebigandmuscularOssipon, leaning forwardwithstaringeyesandprotrudinglips,lookthepictureofeagerindecision.
“Anhour,”hesaid.“Thenitmaybeyouhaven’theardyetthenewsI’veheardjustnow—inthestreet.Haveyou?”
Thelittlemanshookhisheadnegativelytheleastbit.ButashegavenoindicationofcuriosityOssiponventuredtoaddthathehadheardit justoutside theplace. Anewspaperboyhadyelledthethingunderhisverynose,andnotbeingpreparedforanythingofthatsort,hewasverymuchstartledandupset.Hehadtocomeintherewith a drymouth. “I never thought of finding you here,” he added,murmuringsteadily,withhiselbowsplantedonthetable.
“I come here sometimes,” said the other, preserving his provoking coolness ofdemeanour.
“It’s wonderful that you of all people should have heard nothing of it,” the bigOssiponcontinued.Hiseyelidssnappednervouslyupontheshiningeyes.“Youofallpeople,”herepeatedtentatively.Thisobviousrestraintarguedanincredibleandinexplicabletimidityofthebigfellowbeforethecalmlittleman,whoagainliftedtheglassmug,drank,andput itdownwithbrusqueandassuredmovements. Andthatwasall.
Ossipon after waiting for something, word or sign, that did not come, made anefforttoassumeasortofindifference.
“Do you,” he said, deadening his voice still more, “give your stuff to anybodywho’suptoaskingyouforit?”
“Myabsolute rule isnever to refuseanybody—as longas Ihaveapinchbyme,”answeredthelittlemanwithdecision.
“That’saprinciple?”commentedOssipon.
“It’saprinciple.”
“Andyouthinkit’ssound?”
The large round spectacles, which gave a look of staring self-confidence to thesallowface,confrontedOssiponlikesleepless,unwinkingorbsflashingacoldfire.
“Perfectly.Always.Undereverycircumstance.Whatcouldstopme?WhyshouldInot?WhyshouldIthinktwiceaboutit?”
Ossipongasped,asitwere,discreetly.
“Doyoumeantosayyouwouldhanditovertoa‘teck’ifonecametoaskyouforyourwares?”
Theothersmiledfaintly.
“Let them come and try it on, and youwill see,” he said. “They knowme, but Iknowalsoeveryoneofthem.Theywon’tcomenearme—notthey.”
Histhinlividlipssnappedtogetherfirmly.Ossiponbegantoargue.
“But theycouldsendsomeone—rigaplantonyou. Don’tyousee? Get thestufffromyouinthatway,andthenarrestyouwiththeproofintheirhands.”
“Proofofwhat?Dealinginexplosiveswithoutalicenceperhaps.”Thiswasmeantfor a contemptuous jeer, though the expression of the thin, sickly face remained
unchanged, and the utterance was negligent. “I don’t think there’s one of themanxioustomakethatarrest.Idon’tthinktheycouldgetoneofthemtoapplyforawarrant.Imeanoneofthebest.Notone.”
“Why?”Ossiponasked.
“BecausetheyknowverywellItakecarenevertopartwiththelasthandfulofmywares.I’veitalwaysbyme.”Hetouchedthebreastofhiscoatlightly.“Inathickglassflask,”headded.
“So Ihavebeen told,” saidOssipon,with a shadeofwonder inhisvoice. “But Ididn’tknowif—”
“They know,” interrupted the littleman crisply, leaning against the straight chairback,whichrosehigherthanhisfragilehead.“Ishallneverbearrested.Thegameisn’tgoodenoughforanypolicemanofthemall.Todealwithamanlikemeyourequire sheer, naked, inglorious heroism.” Again his lips closed with a self-confidentsnap.Ossiponrepressedamovementofimpatience.
“Or recklessness—or simply ignorance,” he retorted. “They’ve only to getsomebodyforthejobwhodoesnotknowyoucarryenoughstuffinyourpockettoblowyourselfandeverythingwithinsixtyyardsofyoutopieces.”
“IneveraffirmedIcouldnotbeeliminated,”rejoinedtheother.“Butthatwouldn’tbeanarrest.Moreover,it’snotsoeasyasitlooks.”
“Bah!”Ossiponcontradicted.“Don’tbetoosureofthat.What’stopreventhalf-a-dozenofthemjumpinguponyoufrombehindinthestreet?Withyourarmspinnedtoyoursidesyoucoulddonothing—couldyou?”
“Yes; I could. I am seldom out in the streets after dark,” said the little manimpassively,“andneververylate. Iwalkalwayswithmyrighthandclosedroundtheindia-rubberballwhichIhaveinmytrouserpocket. Thepressingof thisballactuatesadetonator inside the flask Icarry inmypocket. It’s theprincipleof thepneumaticinstantaneousshutterforacameralens.Thetubeleadsup—”
WithaswiftdisclosinggesturehegaveOssiponaglimpseofanindia-rubbertube,resemblingaslenderbrownworm,issuingfromthearmholeofhiswaistcoatandplunging into the inner breast pocket of his jacket. His clothes, of a nondescriptbrownmixture, were threadbare and marked with stains, dusty in the folds, withragged button-holes. “The detonator is partly mechanical, partly chemical,” heexplained,withcasualcondescension.
“Itisinstantaneous,ofcourse?”murmuredOssipon,withaslightshudder.
“Far from it,” confessed the other, with a reluctance which seemed to twist his
mouthdolorously.“AfulltwentysecondsmustelapsefromthemomentIpresstheballtilltheexplosiontakesplace.”
“Phew!”whistledOssipon,completelyappalled.“Twentyseconds!Horrors!Youmeantosaythatyoucouldfacethat?Ishouldgocrazy—”
“Wouldn’tmatterifyoudid. Ofcourse, it’s theweakpointofthisspecialsystem,whichisonlyformyownuse.Theworstisthatthemannerofexplodingisalwaystheweakpointwithus.Iamtryingtoinventadetonatorthatwouldadjustitselftoallconditionsofaction,andeventounexpectedchangesofconditions.Avariableandyetperfectlyprecisemechanism.Areallyintelligentdetonator.”
“Twentyseconds,”mutteredOssiponagain.“Ough!Andthen—”
WithaslightturnoftheheadtheglitterofthespectaclesseemedtogaugethesizeofthebeersalooninthebasementoftherenownedSilenusRestaurant.
“Nobodyinthisroomcouldhopetoescape,”wastheverdictofthatsurvey.“Noryetthiscouplegoingupthestairsnow.”
The piano at the foot of the staircase clanged through a mazurka with brazenimpetuosity, as though avulgar and impudent ghostwere showingoff. Thekeyssank and rose mysteriously. Then all became still. For a moment Ossiponimaginedtheoverlightedplacechangedintoadreadfulblackholebelchinghorriblefumes chokedwith ghastly rubbish of smashedbrickwork andmutilated corpses.Hehad suchadistinct perceptionof ruin anddeath that he shudderedagain. Theotherobserved,withanairofcalmsufficiency:
“Inthelastinstanceitischaracteralonethatmakesforone’ssafety.Thereareveryfewpeopleintheworldwhosecharacterisaswellestablishedasmine.”
“Iwonderhowyoumanagedit,”growledOssipon.
“Forceofpersonality,”saidtheother,withoutraisinghisvoice;andcomingfromthe mouth of that obviously miserable organism the assertion caused the robustOssipontobitehislowerlip.“Forceofpersonality,”herepeated,withostentatiouscalm.“Ihavethemeanstomakemyselfdeadly,butthatbyitself,youunderstand,isabsolutely nothing in theway of protection. What is effective is the belief thosepeoplehave inmywill touse themeans. That’s their impression. It isabsolute.ThereforeIamdeadly.”
“There are individuals of character amongst that lot too,” muttered Ossiponominously.
“Possibly. But it is a matter of degree obviously, since, for instance, I am notimpressedbythem.Thereforetheyareinferior.Theycannotbeotherwise.Their
character is built upon conventionalmorality. It leans on the social order. Minestandsfreefromeverythingartificial.Theyareboundinallsortsofconventions.Theydependonlife,which,inthisconnection,isahistoricalfactsurroundedbyallsorts of restraints and considerations, a complex organised fact open to attack atevery point; whereas I depend on death, which knows no restraint and cannot beattacked.Mysuperiorityisevident.”
“Thisisatranscendentalwayofputtingit,”saidOssipon,watchingthecoldglitteroftheroundspectacles. “I’veheardKarlYundtsaymuchthesamethingnotverylongago.”
“KarlYundt,”mumbledtheothercontemptuously,“thedelegateoftheInternationalRedCommittee,hasbeenaposturingshadowallhis life. Thereare threeofyoudelegates,aren’tthere?Iwon’tdefinetheothertwo,asyouareoneofthem.Butwhat you say means nothing. You are the worthy delegates for revolutionarypropaganda,butthetroubleisnotonlythatyouareasunabletothinkindependentlyasanyrespectablegroceror journalistof themall,but thatyouhavenocharacterwhatever.”
Ossiponcouldnotrestrainastartofindignation.
“Butwhatdoyouwantfromus?”heexclaimedinadeadenedvoice.“Whatisityouareafteryourself?”
“Aperfectdetonator,”wastheperemptoryanswer.“Whatareyoumakingthatfacefor?Yousee,youcan’tevenbearthementionofsomethingconclusive.”
“Iamnotmakingaface,”growledtheannoyedOssiponbearishly.
“You revolutionists,” the other continued, with leisurely self-confidence, “are theslavesofthesocialconvention,whichisafraidofyou;slavesofitasmuchastheverypolicethatstandsupinthedefenceofthatconvention.Clearlyyouare,sinceyouwant to revolutionise it. It governsyour thought, of course, andyour actiontoo, and thus neither your thought nor your action can ever be conclusive.” Hepaused, tranquil, with that air of close, endless silence, then almost immediatelywent on. “You are not a bit better than the forces arrayed against you—than thepolice,forinstance.TheotherdayIcamesuddenlyuponChiefInspectorHeatatthecornerofTottenhamCourtRoad.Helookedatmeverysteadily.ButIdidnotlookat him. Why should I give himmore than a glance? Hewas thinking ofmanythings—of his superiors, of his reputation, of the law courts, of his salary, ofnewspapers—ofahundredthings.ButIwasthinkingofmyperfectdetonatoronly.Hemeantnothingtome.Hewasasinsignificantas—Ican’tcalltomindanythinginsignificant enough to compare him with—except Karl Yundt perhaps. Like tolike.Theterroristandthepolicemanbothcomefromthesamebasket.Revolution,
legality—countermoves in thesamegame;formsof idlenessatbottomidentical.He plays his little game—so do you propagandists. But I don’t play; I workfourteenhoursaday,andgohungrysometimes.Myexperimentscostmoneynowandagain,andthenImustdowithoutfoodforadayortwo.You’relookingatmybeer.Yes.Ihavehadtwoglassesalready,andshallhaveanotherpresently.Thisisalittleholiday,andIcelebrateitalone.Whynot?I’vethegrittoworkalone,quitealone,absolutelyalone.I’veworkedaloneforyears.”
Ossipon’sfacehadturnedduskyred.
“Attheperfectdetonator—eh?”hesneered,verylow.
“Yes,”retortedtheother.“Itisagooddefinition.Youcouldn’tfindanythinghalfso precise to define the nature of your activity with all your committees anddelegations.ItisIwhoamthetruepropagandist.”
“Wewon’tdiscuss thatpoint,” saidOssipon,with an air of rising abovepersonalconsiderations. “I am afraid I’ll have to spoil your holiday for you, though.There’samanblownupinGreenwichParkthismorning.”
“Howdoyouknow?”
“They have been yelling the news in the streets since two o’clock. I bought thepaper,and just ran inhere. Then I sawyousittingat this table. I’vegot it inmypocketnow.”
Hepulled thenewspaperout. Itwasagood-sized rosy sheet, as if flushedby thewarmth of its own convictions, which were optimistic. He scanned the pagesrapidly.
“Ah! Here it is. Bomb inGreenwich Park. There isn’tmuch so far. Half-pasteleven.Foggymorning.EffectsofexplosionfeltasfarasRomneyRoadandParkPlace. Enormous hole in the ground under a tree filledwith smashed roots andbrokenbranches.Allroundfragmentsofaman’sbodyblowntopieces.That’sall.The rest’s mere newspaper gup. No doubt a wicked attempt to blow up theObservatory,theysay.H’m.That’shardlycredible.”
Helookedatthepaperforawhilelongerinsilence,thenpassedittotheother,whoaftergazingabstractedlyattheprintlaiditdownwithoutcomment.
ItwasOssiponwhospokefirst—stillresentful.
“Thefragmentsofonlyoneman,younote.Ergo:blewhimselfup.Thatspoilsyourday off for you—don’t it? Were you expecting that sort ofmove? I hadn’t theslightest idea—not the ghost of a notion of anything of the sort being planned tocomeoffhere—inthiscountry.Underthepresentcircumstancesit’snothingshort
ofcriminal.”
Thelittlemanliftedhisthinblackeyebrowswithdispassionatescorn.
“Criminal! What is that? What is crime? What can be themeaning of such anassertion?”
“How am I to express myself? One must use the current words,” said Ossiponimpatiently. “The meaning of this assertion is that this business may affect ourposition very adversely in this country. Isn’t that crime enough for you? I amconvincedyouhavebeengivingawaysomeofyourstufflately.”
Ossipon stared hard. The other, without flinching, lowered and raised his headslowly.
“Youhave!”burstouttheeditoroftheF.P.leafletsinanintensewhisper.“No!Andareyoureallyhandingitoveratlargelikethis,fortheasking,tothefirstfoolthatcomesalong?”
“Justso!Thecondemnedsocialorderhasnotbeenbuiltuponpaperandink,andIdon’tfancythatacombinationofpaperandinkwilleverputanendtoit,whateveryoumaythink.Yes,Iwouldgivethestuffwithbothhandstoeveryman,woman,orfool that likes tocomealong. Iknowwhatyouare thinkingabout. But IamnottakingmycuefromtheRedCommittee.Iwouldseeyouallhoundedoutofhere,orarrested—orbeheadedforthatmatter—withoutturningahair.Whathappenstousasindividualsisnotoftheleastconsequence.”
He spoke carelessly, without heat, almost without feeling, and Ossipon, secretlymuchaffected,triedtocopythisdetachment.
“If the police here knew their business they would shoot you full of holes withrevolvers,orelsetrytosand-bagyoufrombehindinbroaddaylight.”
The little man seemed already to have considered that point of view in hisdispassionateself-confidentmanner.
“Yes,”heassentedwiththeutmostreadiness.“Butforthattheywouldhavetofacetheirowninstitutions.Doyousee?Thatrequiresuncommongrit.Gritofaspecialkind.”
Ossiponblinked.
“I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you if you were to set up yourlaboratoryintheStates.Theydon’tstandonceremonywiththeirinstitutionsthere.”
“Iamnotlikelytogoandsee.Otherwiseyourremarkisjust,”admittedtheother.“Theyhavemorecharacteroverthere,andtheircharacterisessentiallyanarchistic.
Fertileground forus, theStates—verygoodground. ThegreatRepublichas theroot of the destructive matter in her. The collective temperament is lawless.Excellent.Theymayshootusdown,but—”
“Youaretootranscendentalforme,”growledOssipon,withmoodyconcern.
“Logical,” protested the other. “There are several kinds of logic. This is theenlightenedkind.Americaisallright.Itisthiscountrythatisdangerous,withheridealisticconceptionof legality. Thesocial spiritof thispeople iswrappedup inscrupulousprejudices,andthatisfataltoourwork.YoutalkofEnglandbeingouronlyrefuge!Somuchtheworse.Capua!Whatdowewantwithrefuges?Hereyoutalk, print, plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very convenient for such KarlYundts.”
He shruggedhis shoulders slightly, then addedwith the same leisurely assurance:“Tobreakupthesuperstitionandworshipoflegalityshouldbeouraim.NothingwouldpleasememorethantoseeInspectorHeatandhislikestaketoshootingusdown inbroaddaylightwith theapprovalof thepublic. Halfourbattlewouldbewonthen;thedisintegrationoftheoldmoralitywouldhavesetininitsverytemple.Thatiswhatyououghttoaimat.Butyourevolutionistswillneverunderstandthat.Youplanthefuture,youloseyourselvesinreveriesofeconomicalsystemsderivedfromwhat is;whereaswhat’swanted is a clean sweepanda clear start for anewconceptionoflife.Thatsortoffuturewilltakecareofitselfifyouwillonlymakeroomforit.ThereforeIwouldshovelmystuffinheapsatthecornersofthestreetsif I had enough for that; and as I haven’t, I do my best by perfecting a reallydependabledetonator.”
Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized upon the lastwordasifitwereasavingplank.
“Yes.Yourdetonators.Ishouldn’twonderifitweren’toneofyourdetonatorsthatmadeacleansweepofthemaninthepark.”
AshadeofvexationdarkenedthedeterminedsallowfaceconfrontingOssipon.
“My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting practically with the variouskinds.Theymustbetriedafterall.Besides—”
Ossiponinterrupted.
“Whocould that fellowbe? Iassureyou thatwe inLondonhadnoknowledge—Couldn’tyoudescribethepersonyougavethestuffto?”
TheotherturnedhisspectaclesuponOssiponlikeapairofsearchlights.
“Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t think there can be the slightest
objectionnow.Iwilldescribehimtoyouinoneword—Verloc.”
Ossipon,whomcuriosityhadliftedafewinchesoffhisseat,droppedback,asifhitintheface.
“Verloc!Impossible.”
Theself-possessedlittlemannoddedslightlyonce.
“Yes.He’stheperson.Youcan’tsaythatinthiscaseIwasgivingmystufftothefirst fool that came along. Hewas a prominentmember of the group as far as Iunderstand.”
“Yes,”saidOssipon. “Prominent. No,notexactly. Hewasthecentreforgeneralintelligence, andusually received comrades comingover here. More useful thanimportant.Manofnoideas.Yearsagoheusedtospeakatmeetings—inFrance,Ibelieve.Notverywell,though.HewastrustedbysuchmenasLatorre,Moserandall that old lot. The only talent he showed really was his ability to elude theattentionsofthepolicesomehow.Here,forinstance,hedidnotseemtobelookedafter very closely. Hewas regularlymarried, you know. I suppose it’swith hermoneythathestartedthatshop.Seemedtomakeitpay,too.”
Ossiponpaused abruptly,muttered tohimself “Iwonderwhat thatwomanwill donow?”andfellintothought.
Theotherwaitedwithostentatiousindifference.Hisparentagewasobscure,andhewas generally known only by his nickname of Professor. His title to thatdesignationconsistedinhishavingbeenonceassistantdemonstratorinchemistryatsometechnicalinstitute.Hequarrelledwiththeauthoritiesuponaquestionofunfairtreatment. Afterwards he obtained a post in the laboratory of a manufactory ofdyes. There too he had been treated with revolting injustice. His struggles, hisprivations, his hardwork to raise himself in the social scale, had filled himwithsuchanexaltedconvictionofhismeritsthatitwasextremelydifficultfortheworldto treathimwith justice—thestandardof thatnotiondependingsomuchupon thepatience of the individual. The Professor had genius, but lacked the great socialvirtueofresignation.
“Intellectually a nonentity,” Ossipon pronounced aloud, abandoning suddenly theinward contemplation ofMrs Verloc’s bereaved person and business. “Quite anordinary personality. You are wrong in not keeping more in touch with thecomrades,Professor,”headdedinareprovingtone.“Didhesayanythingtoyou—give you some idea of his intentions? I hadn’t seen him for amonth. It seemsimpossiblethatheshouldbegone.”
“He told me it was going to be a demonstration against a building,” said the
Professor.“Ihadtoknowthatmuchtopreparethemissile.IpointedouttohimthatIhadhardlyasufficientquantityforacompletelydestructiveresult,buthepressedme very earnestly to domy best. As hewanted something that could be carriedopenlyinthehand,Iproposedtomakeuseofanoldone-galloncopalvarnishcanIhappened to have byme. Hewas pleased at the idea. It gaveme some trouble,because Ihad tocutout thebottomfirstandsolder itonagainafterwards. Whenpreparedforuse, thecanenclosedawide-mouthed,well-corked jarof thickglasspacked around with some wet clay and containing sixteen ounces of X2 greenpowder. The detonator was connected with the screw top of the can. It wasingenious—acombinationoftimeandshock.Iexplainedthesystemtohim.Itwasathintubeoftinenclosinga—”
Ossipon’sattentionhadwandered.
“Whatdoyouthinkhashappened?”heinterrupted.
“Can’t tell. Screwed the topon tight,whichwouldmake theconnection,and thenforgotthetime.Itwassetfortwentyminutes.Ontheotherhand,thetimecontactbeingmade,asharpshockwouldbringabouttheexplosionatonce.Heeitherranthe time tooclose,or simply let the thing fall. Thecontactwasmadeall right—that’sclear tomeatanyrate. Thesystem’sworkedperfectly. Andyetyouwouldthinkthatacommonfoolinahurrywouldbemuchmorelikelytoforgettomakethecontactaltogether.Iwasworryingmyselfaboutthatsortoffailuremostly.Butthere are more kinds of fools than one can guard against. You can’t expect adetonatortobeabsolutelyfool-proof.”
He beckoned to a waiter. Ossipon sat rigid, with the abstracted gaze of mentaltravail.Afterthemanhadgoneawaywiththemoneyherousedhimself,withanairofprofounddissatisfaction.
“It’sextremelyunpleasantforme,”hemused.“Karlhasbeeninbedwithbronchitisfor aweek. There’s an even chance that hewill never get up again. Michaelis’sluxuriatinginthecountrysomewhere.Afashionablepublisherhasofferedhimfivehundredpounds for abook. Itwill be aghastly failure. Hehas lost thehabit ofconsecutivethinkinginprison,youknow.”
TheProfessor onhis feet, nowbuttoninghis coat, looked about himwithperfectindifference.
“Whatareyougoingtodo?”askedOssiponwearily.HedreadedtheblameoftheCentral Red Committee, a body which had no permanent place of abode, and ofwhosemembership he was not exactly informed. If this affair eventuated in thestoppageofthemodestsubsidyallottedtothepublicationoftheF.P.pamphlets,thenindeedhewouldhavetoregretVerloc’sinexplicablefolly.
“Solidaritywiththeextremestformofactionisonething,andsillyrecklessnessisanother,” he said, with a sort of moody brutality. “I don’t know what came toVerloc.There’ssomemysterythere.However,he’sgone.Youmaytakeitasyoulike, but under the circumstances the only policy for the militant revolutionarygroupistodisclaimallconnectionwiththisdamnedfreakofyours.Howtomakethedisclaimerconvincingenoughiswhatbothersme.”
Thelittlemanonhisfeet,buttonedupandreadytogo,wasnotallerthantheseatedOssipon.Helevelledhisspectaclesatthelatter ’sfacepoint-blank.
“Youmight ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They knowwhereeveryoneofyousleptlastnight.Perhapsifyouaskedthemtheywouldconsenttopublishsomesortofofficialstatement.”
“No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with this,”mumbled Ossipon bitterly. “What they will say is another thing.” He remainedthoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish, shabby figure standing by his side. “ImustlayhandsonMichaelisatonce,andgethimtospeakfromhisheartatoneofour gatherings. The public has a sort of sentimental regard for that fellow. Hisnameisknown.AndIamintouchwithafewreportersonthebigdailies.Whathewouldsaywouldbeutterbosh,buthehasaturnoftalkthatmakesitgodownallthesame.”
“Like treacle,” interjected the Professor, rather low, keeping an impassiveexpression.
The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half audibly, after themannerofamanreflectinginperfectsolitude.
“Confoundedass! To leavesuchan imbecilebusinessonmyhands. And Idon’tevenknowif—”
Hesatwithcompressedlips.Theideaofgoingfornewsstraighttotheshoplackedcharm. His notionwas thatVerloc’s shopmight have been turned already into apolicetrap.Theywillbeboundtomakesomearrests,hethought,withsomethingresembling virtuous indignation, for the even tenor of his revolutionary lifewasmenaced by no fault of his. And yet unless he went there he ran the risk ofremaininginignoranceofwhatperhapsitwouldbeverymaterialforhimtoknow.Thenhereflectedthat,ifthemanintheparkhadbeensoverymuchblowntopiecesastheeveningpaperssaid,hecouldnothavebeenidentified.Andifso,thepolicecould have no special reason for watching Verloc’s shopmore closely than anyotherplaceknowntobefrequentedbymarkedanarchists—nomorereason,infact,than forwatching thedoorsof theSilenus. Therewouldbea lotofwatchingallround,nomatterwherehewent.Still—
“IwonderwhatIhadbetterdonow?”hemuttered,takingcounselwithhimself.
Araspingvoiceathiselbowsaid,withsedatescorn:
“Fastenyourselfuponthewomanforallshe’sworth.”
After uttering these words the Professor walked away from the table. Ossipon,whom that piece of insight had taken unawares, gave one ineffectual start, andremained still,with ahelplessgaze, as thoughnailed fast to the seatofhis chair.Thelonelypiano,withoutasmuchasamusicstooltohelpit,struckafewchordscourageously,andbeginningaselectionofnationalairs,playedhimoutat last tothetuneof“BlueBellsofScotland.”Thepainfullydetachednotesgrewfaintbehindhisbackwhilehewentslowlyupstairs,acrossthehall,andintothestreet.
Infrontofthegreatdoorwayadismalrowofnewspapersellersstandingclearofthepavementdealtouttheirwaresfromthegutter.Itwasaraw,gloomydayoftheearly spring;and thegrimysky, themudof the streets, the ragsof thedirtymen,harmonised excellently with the eruption of the damp, rubbishy sheets of papersoiledwithprinters’ink.Theposters,maculatedwithfilth,garnishedliketapestrythe sweep of the curbstone. The trade in afternoon papers was brisk, yet, incomparison with the swift, constant march of foot traffic, the effect was ofindifference, of a disregarded distribution. Ossipon looked hurriedly both waysbefore stepping out into the cross-currents, but the Professor was already out ofsight.
CHAPTERV
TheProfessorhad turned intoastreet to the left,andwalkedalong,withhisheadcarried rigidly erect, in a crowd whose every individual almost overtopped hisstuntedstature.Itwasvaintopretendtohimselfthathewasnotdisappointed.Butthatwasmerefeeling;thestoicismofhisthoughtcouldnotbedisturbedbythisorany other failure. Next time, or the time after next, a telling stroke would bedelivered—something really startling—a blow fit to open the first crack in theimposing front of the great edifice of legal conceptions sheltering the atrociousinjusticeofsociety.Ofhumbleorigin,andwithanappearancereallysomeanastostandinthewayofhisconsiderablenaturalabilities,hisimaginationhadbeenfiredearlybythetalesofmenrisingfromthedepthsofpovertytopositionsofauthorityandaffluence.Theextreme,almostasceticpurityofhisthought,combinedwithanastounding ignorance ofworldly conditions, had set before him a goal of powerandprestigetobeattainedwithoutthemediumofarts,graces,tact,wealth—bysheerweight ofmerit alone. On that viewhe consideredhimself entitled to undisputedsuccess.Hisfather,adelicatedarkenthusiastwithaslopingforehead,hadbeenanitinerant and rousing preacher of some obscure but rigid Christian sect—a mansupremelyconfidentintheprivilegesofhisrighteousness.Intheson,individualistbytemperament,oncethescienceofcollegeshadreplacedthoroughlythefaithofconventicles, this moral attitude translated itself into a frenzied puritanism ofambition.Henurseditassomethingsecularlyholy.Toseeitthwartedopenedhiseyes to the true nature of the world, whose morality was artificial, corrupt, andblasphemous. The way of even the most justifiable revolutions is prepared bypersonal impulses disguised into creeds. The Professor ’s indignation found initself a final cause that absolvedhim from the sinof turning todestructionas theagentofhisambition.Todestroypublicfaithinlegalitywastheimperfectformulaofhispedanticfanaticism;butthesubconsciousconvictionthattheframeworkofanestablished social order cannot be effectually shattered except by some form ofcollectiveorindividualviolencewaspreciseandcorrect.Hewasamoralagent—that was settled in his mind. By exercising his agency with ruthless defiance heprocured for himself the appearances of power and personal prestige. Thatwasundeniabletohisvengefulbitterness.Itpacifieditsunrest;andintheirownwaythemostardentofrevolutionariesareperhapsdoingnomorebutseekingforpeacein
common with the rest of mankind—the peace of soothed vanity, of satisfiedappetites,orperhapsofappeasedconscience.
Lostinthecrowd,miserableandundersized,hemeditatedconfidentlyonhispower,keepinghishandintheleftpocketofhistrousers,graspinglightlytheindia-rubberball, the supreme guarantee of his sinister freedom; but after a while he becamedisagreeablyaffectedbythesightoftheroadwaythrongedwithvehiclesandofthepavementcrowdedwithmenandwomen.Hewasinalong,straightstreet,peopledbyamerefractionofanimmensemultitude;butallroundhim,onandon,eventothelimitsofthehorizonhiddenbytheenormouspilesofbricks,hefeltthemassofmankindmightyinitsnumbers.Theyswarmednumerouslikelocusts,industriouslike ants, thoughtless like a natural force, pushing on blind and orderly andabsorbed,impervioustosentiment,tologic,toterrortooperhaps.
That was the form of doubt he feared most. Impervious to fear! Often whilewalking abroad, when he happened also to come out of himself, he had suchmomentsofdreadful and sanemistrustofmankind. What ifnothingcouldmovethem?Suchmomentscometoallmenwhoseambitionaimsatadirectgraspuponhumanity—to artists, politicians, thinkers, reformers, or saints. A despicableemotionalstate this,againstwhichsolitudefortifiesasuperiorcharacter;andwithsevere exultation the Professor thought of the refuge of his room, with itspadlocked cupboard, lost in a wilderness of poor houses, the hermitage of theperfect anarchist. In order to reach sooner the point where he could take hisomnibus, he turnedbrusquely out of the populous street into a narrowandduskyalleypavedwith flagstones. Onone side the lowbrickhouses had in their dustywindows the sightless,moribund look of incurable decay—empty shells awaitingdemolition.Fromtheothersidelifehadnotdepartedwhollyasyet.Facingtheonlygas-lampyawned thecavernofasecond-handfurnituredealer,where,deep in thegloomofasortofnarrowavenuewindingthroughabizarreforestofwardrobes,withanundergrowthtangleoftablelegs,atallpier-glassglimmeredlikeapoolofwater in a wood. An unhappy, homeless couch, accompanied by two unrelatedchairs,stoodintheopen.TheonlyhumanbeingmakinguseofthealleybesidestheProfessor, coming stalwart and erect from the opposite direction, checked hisswingingpacesuddenly.
“Hallo!”hesaid,andstoodalittleononesidewatchfully.
The Professor had already stopped, with a ready half turn which brought hisshouldersverynear theotherwall. His right hand fell lightlyon thebackof theoutcastcouch, the left remainedpurposefullyplungeddeep in the trouserspocket,andtheroundnessoftheheavyrimmedspectaclesimpartedanowlishcharactertohismoody,unperturbedface.
Itwaslikeameetinginasidecorridorofamansionfulloflife.Thestalwartmanwasbuttonedup inadarkovercoat,andcarriedanumbrella. Hishat, tiltedback,uncoveredagooddealofforehead,whichappearedverywhiteinthedusk.Inthedark patches of the orbits the eyeballs glimmered piercingly. Long, droopingmoustaches,thecolourofripecorn,framedwiththeirpointsthesquareblockofhisshavedchin.
“Iamnotlookingforyou,”hesaidcurtly.
TheProfessordidnotstiraninch.Theblendednoisesoftheenormoustownsankdown to an inarticulate lowmurmur. Chief InspectorHeat of theSpecialCrimesDepartmentchangedhistone.
“Notinahurrytogethome?”heasked,withmockingsimplicity.
Theunwholesome-looking littlemoral agent of destruction exulted silently in thepossessionofpersonalprestige,keepingincheckthismanarmedwiththedefensivemandateofamenacedsociety. Morefortunate thanCaligula,whowished that theRoman Senate had only one head for the better satisfaction of his cruel lust, hebeheld in that one man all the forces he had set at defiance: the force of law,property, oppression, and injustice. He beheld all his enemies, and fearlesslyconfronted themall inasupremesatisfactionofhisvanity. Theystoodperplexedbeforehimasifbeforeadreadfulportent.Hegloatedinwardlyoverthechanceofthismeetingaffirminghissuperiorityoverallthemultitudeofmankind.
Itwasinrealityachancemeeting.ChiefInspectorHeathadhadadisagreeablybusydaysincehisdepartmentreceivedthefirsttelegramfromGreenwichalittlebeforeeleveninthemorning.Firstofall,thefactoftheoutragebeingattemptedlessthanaweekafterhehadassuredahighofficialthatnooutbreakofanarchistactivitywasto be apprehendedwas sufficiently annoying. If he ever thought himself safe inmakingastatement,itwasthen.Hehadmadethatstatementwithinfinitesatisfactiontohimself,becauseitwasclearthatthehighofficialdesiredgreatlytohearthatverything.Hehadaffirmedthatnothingofthesortcouldevenbethoughtofwithoutthedepartmentbeingawareof itwithin twenty-fourhours;andhehadspoken thus inhisconsciousnessofbeingthegreatexpertofhisdepartment.Hehadgoneevensofarastoutterwordswhichtruewisdomwouldhavekeptback.ButChiefInspectorHeatwasnotverywise—atleastnottrulyso.Truewisdom,whichisnotcertainofanythinginthisworldofcontradictions,wouldhavepreventedhimfromattaininghispresentposition. Itwouldhavealarmedhissuperiors,anddoneawaywithhischancesofpromotion.Hispromotionhadbeenveryrapid.
“Thereisn’toneofthem,sir,thatwecouldn’tlayourhandsonatanytimeofnightandday.Weknowwhateachofthemisdoinghourbyhour,”hehaddeclared.And
thehighofficialhaddeignedtosmile.ThiswassoobviouslytherightthingtosayforanofficerofChief InspectorHeat’s reputation that itwasperfectlydelightful.The high official believed the declaration, which chimed in with his idea of thefitness of things. His wisdom was of an official kind, or else he might havereflecteduponamatternotoftheorybutofexperiencethatintheclose-wovenstuffof relations between conspirator and police there occur unexpected solutions ofcontinuity,suddenholesinspaceandtime.Agivenanarchistmaybewatchedinchbyinchandminutebyminute,butamomentalwayscomeswhensomehowallsightand touchofhimare lost fora fewhours,duringwhichsomething (generallyanexplosion)moreorlessdeplorabledoeshappen.Butthehighofficial,carriedawaybyhis sense of the fitness of things, had smiled, andnow the recollectionof thatsmile was very annoying to Chief Inspector Heat, principal expert in anarchistprocedure.
Thiswasnottheonlycircumstancewhoserecollectiondepressedtheusualserenityoftheeminentspecialist.Therewasanotherdatingbackonlytothatverymorning.ThethoughtthatwhencalledurgentlytohisAssistantCommissioner ’sprivateroomhehadbeenunabletoconcealhisastonishmentwasdistinctlyvexing.Hisinstinctofasuccessfulmanhadtaughthimlongagothat,asageneralrule,areputationisbuiltonmannerasmuchasonachievement.Andhefeltthathismannerwhenconfrontedwiththetelegramhadnotbeenimpressive.Hehadopenedhiseyeswidely,andhadexclaimed“Impossible!”exposinghimself thereby to theunanswerable retortofafinger-tip laid forcibly on the telegram which the Assistant Commissioner, afterreadingitaloud,hadflungonthedesk.Tobecrushed,asitwere,underthetipofaforefingerwasanunpleasantexperience.Verydamaging,too!Furthermore,ChiefInspectorHeatwasconsciousofnothavingmendedmattersbyallowinghimselftoexpressaconviction.
“OnethingIcantellyouatonce:noneofourlothadanythingtodowiththis.”
He was strong in his integrity of a good detective, but he saw now that animpenetrably attentive reserve towards this incident would have served hisreputationbetter. Ontheotherhand,headmitted tohimself that itwasdifficult topreserve one’s reputation if rank outsiders were going to take a hand in thebusiness.Outsidersarethebaneofthepoliceasofotherprofessions.ThetoneoftheAssistantCommissioner ’s remarkshadbeensourenough tosetone’s teethonedge.
AndsincebreakfastChiefInspectorHeathadnotmanagedtogetanythingtoeat.
Starting immediately to begin his investigation on the spot, he had swallowed agooddealof raw,unwholesomefog in thepark. Thenhehadwalkedover to thehospital;andwhentheinvestigationinGreenwichwasconcludedatlasthehadlost
hisinclinationforfood.Notaccustomed,asthedoctorsare,toexaminecloselythemangled remainsofhumanbeings,hehadbeenshockedby thesightdisclosed tohisviewwhenawaterproofsheethadbeenliftedoffatableinacertainapartmentofthehospital.
Anotherwaterproofsheetwasspreadoverthattableinthemannerofatable-cloth,with the corners turned up over a sort ofmound—a heap of rags, scorched andbloodstained, half concealing what might have been an accumulation of rawmaterial for a cannibal feast. It required considerable firmness of mind not torecoilbeforethatsight.ChiefInspectorHeat,anefficientofficerofhisdepartment,stoodhisground,butforawholeminutehedidnotadvance.Alocalconstableinuniformcastasidelongglance,andsaid,withstolidsimplicity:
“He’sallthere.Everybitofhim.Itwasajob.”
Hehadbeen the firstmanon the spot after the explosion. Hementioned the factagain.Hehadseensomethinglikeaheavyflashoflightninginthefog.AtthattimehewasstandingatthedooroftheKingWilliamStreetLodgetalkingtothekeeper.The concussionmade him tingle all over. He ran between the trees towards theObservatory.“Asfastasmylegswouldcarryme,”herepeatedtwice.
Chief InspectorHeat, bending forward over the table in a gingerly and horrifiedmanner, let him run on. The hospital porter and another man turned down thecorners of the cloth, and stepped aside. The Chief Inspector ’s eyes searched thegruesomedetailofthatheapofmixedthings,whichseemedtohavebeencollectedinshamblesandragshops.
“You used a shovel,” he remarked, observing a sprinkling of small gravel, tinybrownbitsofbark,andparticlesofsplinteredwoodasfineasneedles.
“Hadto inoneplace,”saidthestolidconstable. “Isentakeeper tofetchaspade.Whenheheardmescrapingthegroundwithitheleanedhisforeheadagainstatree,andwasassickasadog.”
TheChiefInspector,stoopingguardedlyoverthetable,foughtdowntheunpleasantsensation inhis throat. Theshatteringviolenceofdestructionwhichhadmadeofthatbodyaheapofnamelessfragmentsaffectedhisfeelingswithasenseofruthlesscruelty,thoughhisreasontoldhimtheeffectmusthavebeenasswiftasaflashoflightning. Theman,whoeverhewas,haddied instantaneously;andyet it seemedimpossible to believe that a human body could have reached that state ofdisintegration without passing through the pangs of inconceivable agony. Nophysiologist, and still less of a metaphysician, Chief Inspector Heat rose by theforceofsympathy,which isa formof fear,above thevulgarconceptionof time.Instantaneous!Herememberedallhehadeverreadinpopularpublicationsoflong
andterrifyingdreamsdreamedintheinstantofwaking;ofthewholepastlifelivedwithfrightfulintensitybyadrowningmanashisdoomedheadbobsup,streaming,for the last time. The inexplicable mysteries of conscious existence beset ChiefInspector Heat till he evolved a horrible notion that ages of atrocious pain andmental torture could be contained between two successivewinks of an eye. AndmeantimetheChiefInspectorwenton,peeringatthetablewithacalmfaceandtheslightlyanxiousattentionofanindigentcustomerbendingoverwhatmaybecalledtheby-productsofabutcher ’sshopwithaview toan inexpensiveSundaydinner.Allthetimehistrainedfacultiesofanexcellentinvestigator,whoscornsnochanceofinformation,followedtheself-satisfied,disjointedloquacityoftheconstable.
“A fair-haired fellow,” the last observed in a placid tone, and paused. “The oldwomanwhospoketothesergeantnoticedafair-hairedfellowcomingoutofMazeHillStation.”Hepaused.“Andhewasafair-hairedfellow.Shenoticedtwomencomingoutofthestationaftertheuptrainhadgoneon,”hecontinuedslowly.“Shecouldn’ttelliftheyweretogether.Shetooknoparticularnoticeofthebigone,butthe other was a fair, slight chap, carrying a tin varnish can in one hand.” Theconstableceased.
“Knowthewoman?”mutteredtheChiefInspector,withhiseyesfixedonthetable,and a vague notion in hismind of an inquest to be held presently upon a personlikelytoremainforeverunknown.
“Yes.She’shousekeepertoaretiredpublican,andattendsthechapelinParkPlacesometimes,” the constable uttered weightily, and paused, with another obliqueglanceatthetable.
Then suddenly: “Well, here he is—all of him I could see. Fair. Slight—slightenough.Lookatthatfootthere.Ipickedupthelegsfirst,oneafteranother.Hewasthatscatteredyoudidn’tknowwheretobegin.”
Theconstablepaused;theleastflickerofaninnocentself-laudatorysmileinvestedhisroundfacewithaninfantileexpression.
“Stumbled,”heannouncedpositively.“Istumbledoncemyself,andpitchedonmyheadtoo,whilerunningup.Themrootsdostickoutallabouttheplace.Stumbledagainsttherootofatreeandfell,andthatthinghewascarryingmusthavegoneoffrightunderhischest,Iexpect.”
Theechoofthewords“Personunknown”repeatingitselfinhisinnerconsciousnessbotheredtheChiefInspectorconsiderably.Hewouldhavelikedtotracethisaffairback to its mysterious origin for his own information. He was professionallycurious. Before the public hewould have liked to vindicate the efficiency of hisdepartmentbyestablishingtheidentityof thatman. Hewasaloyalservant. That,
however, appeared impossible. The first term of the problemwas unreadable—lackedallsuggestionbutthatofatrociouscruelty.
Overcominghis physical repugnance,Chief InspectorHeat stretchedout his handwithoutconvictionforthesalvingofhisconscience,andtookuptheleastsoiledoftherags.Itwasanarrowstripofvelvetwithalargertriangularpieceofdarkblueclothhangingfromit.Heheldituptohiseyes;andthepoliceconstablespoke.
“Velvetcollar. Funny theoldwomanshouldhavenoticed thevelvetcollar. Darkblueovercoatwithavelvetcollar,shehastoldus.Hewasthechapshesaw,andnomistake.Andhereheisallcomplete,velvetcollarandall.Idon’tthinkImissedasinglepieceasbigasapostagestamp.”
AtthispointthetrainedfacultiesoftheChiefInspectorceasedtohearthevoiceoftheconstable. Hemovedtooneofthewindowsforbetterlight. Hisface,avertedfromtheroom,expressedastartledintenseinterestwhileheexaminedcloselythetriangular piece of broad-cloth. By a sudden jerk he detached it, and only afterstuffingitintohispocketturnedroundtotheroom,andflungthevelvetcollarbackonthetable—
“Coverup,”hedirectedtheattendantscurtly,withoutanotherlook,and,salutedbytheconstable,carriedoffhisspoilhastily.
Aconvenienttrainwhirledhimuptotown,aloneandponderingdeeply,inathird-class compartment. That singed piece of cloth was incredibly valuable, and hecouldnotdefendhimselffromastonishmentatthecasualmannerithadcomeintohispossession. Itwasas ifFatehad thrust thatclue intohishands. Andafter themanner of the averageman, whose ambition is to command events, he began tomistrust such a gratuitous and accidental success—just because it seemed forceduponhim.Thepracticalvalueofsuccessdependsnotalittleonthewayyoulookatit. But Fate looks at nothing. It has no discretion. He no longer considered iteminentlydesirableallroundtoestablishpubliclytheidentityofthemanwhohadblown himself up thatmorningwith such horrible completeness. But hewas notcertainoftheviewhisdepartmentwouldtake.Adepartmentistothoseitemploysacomplexpersonalitywith ideas andeven fadsof its own. It dependson the loyaldevotion of its servants, and the devoted loyalty of trusted servants is associatedwithacertainamountofaffectionatecontempt,whichkeepsitsweet,asitwere.ByabenevolentprovisionofNaturenomanisahero tohisvalet,orelse theheroeswouldhave tobrush theirownclothes. Likewisenodepartmentappearsperfectlywisetotheintimacyofitsworkers.Adepartmentdoesnotknowsomuchassomeofitsservants.Beingadispassionateorganism,itcanneverbeperfectlyinformed.Itwouldnotbegoodforitsefficiencytoknowtoomuch.ChiefInspectorHeatgotoutofthetraininastateofthoughtfulnessentirelyuntaintedwithdisloyalty,butnot
quitefreeof that jealousmistrustwhichsooftenspringsonthegroundofperfectdevotion,whethertowomenortoinstitutions.
Itwasinthismentaldisposition,physicallyveryempty,butstillnauseatedbywhathehad seen, that hehad comeupon theProfessor. Under these conditionswhichmakeforirascibilityinasound,normalman,thismeetingwasspeciallyunwelcometoChiefInspectorHeat.HehadnotbeenthinkingoftheProfessor;hehadnotbeenthinking of any individual anarchist at all. The complexion of that case hadsomehowforceduponhimthegeneralideaoftheabsurdityofthingshuman,whichin the abstract is sufficiently annoying to anunphilosophical temperament, and inconcreteinstancesbecomesexasperatingbeyondendurance.AtthebeginningofhiscareerChiefInspectorHeathadbeenconcernedwith themoreenergeticformsofthieving.Hehadgainedhisspursinthatsphere,andnaturallyenoughhadkeptforit,afterhispromotiontoanotherdepartment,afeelingnotveryfarremovedfromaffection. Thievingwas not a sheer absurdity. Itwas a formof human industry,perverseindeed,butstillanindustryexercisedinanindustriousworld;itwasworkundertakenforthesamereasonastheworkinpotteries,incoalmines,infields,intool-grindingshops.Itwaslabour,whosepracticaldifferencefromtheotherformsoflabourconsistedinthenatureofitsrisk,whichdidnotlieinankylosis,orleadpoisoning,orfire-damp,orgrittydust,butinwhatmaybebrieflydefinedinitsownspecialphraseologyas“Sevenyearshard.”ChiefInspectorHeatwas,ofcourse,notinsensibletothegravityofmoraldifferences. Butneitherwerethethieveshehadbeenlookingafter.TheysubmittedtotheseveresanctionsofamoralityfamiliartoChiefInspectorHeatwithacertainresignation.
Theywere his fellow-citizens gonewrong because of imperfect education, ChiefInspectorHeat believed; but allowing for that difference, he could understand themind of a burglar, because, as a matter of fact, the mind and the instincts of aburglarareofthesamekindasthemindandtheinstinctsofapoliceofficer.Bothrecognise the same conventions, and have a working knowledge of each other ’smethodsandoftheroutineoftheirrespectivetrades.Theyunderstandeachother,whichisadvantageoustoboth,andestablishesasortofamenityintheirrelations.Productsofthesamemachine,oneclassedasusefulandtheotherasnoxious,theytakethemachineforgrantedindifferentways,butwithaseriousnessessentiallythesame.ThemindofChiefInspectorHeatwasinaccessibletoideasofrevolt.Buthisthieveswerenotrebels.Hisbodilyvigour,hiscoolinflexiblemanner,hiscourageandhisfairness,hadsecuredforhimmuchrespectandsomeadulationinthesphereof his early successes. He had felt himself revered and admired. And ChiefInspectorHeat,arrestedwithinsixpacesoftheanarchistnick-namedtheProfessor,gave a thought of regret to the world of thieves—sane, without morbid ideals,workingbyroutine,respectfulofconstitutedauthorities,freefromalltaintofhate
anddespair.
Afterpayingthistributetowhatisnormalintheconstitutionofsociety(fortheideaof thieving appeared to his instinct as normal as the idea of property), ChiefInspectorHeatfeltveryangrywithhimselfforhavingstopped,forhavingspoken,forhavingtakenthatwayatallonthegroundofitbeingashortcutfromthestationtotheheadquarters.Andhespokeagaininhisbigauthoritativevoice,which,beingmoderated,hadathreateningcharacter.
“Youarenotwanted,Itellyou,”herepeated.
Theanarchistdidnotstir.Aninwardlaughofderisionuncoverednotonlyhisteethbut his gums as well, shook him all over, without the slightest sound. ChiefInspectorHeatwasledtoadd,againsthisbetterjudgment:
“Notyet.WhenIwantyouIwillknowwheretofindyou.”
Thosewereperfectlyproperwords,withinthetraditionandsuitabletohischaracterofapoliceofficeraddressingoneofhisspecialflock. But thereceptiontheygotdeparted from tradition and propriety. It was outrageous. The stunted, weaklyfigurebeforehimspokeatlast.
“I’venodoubt thepaperswouldgiveyouanobituarynoticethen. Youknowbestwhatthatwouldbeworthtoyou.Ishouldthinkyoucanimagineeasilythesortofstuffthatwouldbeprinted.Butyoumaybeexposedtotheunpleasantnessofbeingburiedtogetherwithme,thoughIsupposeyourfriendswouldmakeanefforttosortusoutasmuchaspossible.”
With all his healthy contempt for the spirit dictating such speeches, the atrociousallusivenessofthewordshaditseffectonChiefInspectorHeat. Hehadtoomuchinsight,andtoomuchexactinformationaswell,todismissthemasrot.Theduskofthisnarrowlanetookonasinistertintfromthedark,fraillittlefigure,itsbacktothewall,andspeakingwithaweak,self-confidentvoice.Tothevigorous,tenaciousvitalityoftheChiefInspector,thephysicalwretchednessofthatbeing,soobviouslynotfittolive,wasominous;foritseemedtohimthatifhehadthemisfortunetobesuchamiserableobjecthewouldnothavecaredhowsoonhedied.Lifehadsuchastrongholduponhimthata freshwaveofnauseabrokeout inslightperspirationuponhisbrow.Themurmuroftownlife,thesubduedrumbleofwheelsinthetwoinvisiblestreetstotherightandleft,camethroughthecurveofthesordidlanetohisearswithaprecious familiarityandanappealing sweetness. Hewashuman. ButChiefInspectorHeatwasalsoaman,andhecouldnotletsuchwordspass.
“Allthisisgoodtofrightenchildrenwith,”hesaid.“I’llhaveyouyet.”
Itwasverywellsaid,withoutscorn,withanalmostausterequietness.
“Doubtless,”wastheanswer;“butthere’snotimelikethepresent,believeme.Foramanofrealconvictionsthisisafineopportunityofself-sacrifice.Youmaynotfindanother so favourable, so humane. There isn’t even a cat near us, and thesecondemnedoldhouseswouldmakeagoodheapofbrickswhereyoustand.You’llnevergetmeatsolittlecosttolifeandproperty,whichyouarepaidtoprotect.”
“Youdon’tknowwhoyou’respeakingto,”saidChiefInspectorHeatfirmly. “IfIweretolaymyhandsonyounowIwouldbenobetterthanyourself.”
“Ah!Thegame!’
“Youmaybe sure our sidewillwin in the end. Itmayyet benecessary tomakepeoplebelievethatsomeofyououghttobeshotatsightlikemaddogs.Thenthatwillbethegame.ButI’llbedamnedifIknowwhatyoursis. Idon’tbelieveyouknowyourselves.You’llnevergetanythingbyit.”
“Meantimeit’syouwhogetsomethingfromit—sofar.Andyougetiteasily,too.Iwon’t speak of your salary, but haven’t you made your name simply by notunderstandingwhatweareafter?”
“Whatareyouafter, then?”askedChiefInspectorHeat,withscornfulhaste, likeamaninahurrywhoperceivesheiswastinghistime.
The perfect anarchist answered by a smilewhich did not part his thin colourlesslips; and the celebratedChief Inspector felt a sense of superioritywhich inducedhimtoraiseawarningfinger.
“Giveitup—whateveritis,”hesaidinanadmonishingtone,butnotsokindlyasifhewerecondescendingtogivegoodadvicetoacracksmanofrepute.“Giveitup.You’llfindwearetoomanyforyou.”
ThefixedsmileontheProfessor ’slipswavered,asifthemockingspiritwithinhadlostitsassurance.ChiefInspectorHeatwenton:
“Don’tyoubelievemeeh?Well,you’veonlygottolookaboutyou.Weare.Andanyway,you’renotdoingitwell.You’realwaysmakingamessofit.Why,ifthethievesdidn’tknowtheirworkbettertheywouldstarve.”
The hint of an invincible multitude behind that man’s back roused a sombreindignationinthebreastof theProfessor. Hesmilednolongerhisenigmaticandmocking smile. The resisting power of numbers, the unattackable stolidity of agreatmultitude,wasthehauntingfearofhissinister loneliness. His lips trembledforsometimebeforehemanagedtosayinastrangledvoice:
“Iamdoingmyworkbetterthanyou’redoingyours.”
“That’ll do now,” interrupted Chief Inspector Heat hurriedly; and the Professorlaughedrightoutthistime.Whilestilllaughinghemovedon;buthedidnotlaughlong. It was a sad-faced, miserable little man who emerged from the narrowpassageintothebustleofthebroadthoroughfare.Hewalkedwiththenervelessgaitof a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinisterdetachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief InspectorHeat, on theotherhand,afterwatchinghimforawhile,steppedoutwiththepurposefulbrisknessofamandisregardingindeedtheinclemenciesof theweather,butconsciousofhavingan authorised mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind. All theinhabitantsoftheimmensetown,thepopulationofthewholecountry,andeventheteeming millions struggling upon the planet, were with him—down to the verythievesandmendicants.Yes,thethievesthemselvesweresuretobewithhiminhispresent work. The consciousness of universal support in his general activityheartenedhimtograpplewiththeparticularproblem.
The problem immediately before the Chief Inspector was that of managing theAssistant Commissioner of his department, his immediate superior. This is theperennial problem of trusty and loyal servants; anarchism gave it its particularcomplexion,butnothingmore.Truthtosay,ChiefInspectorHeatthoughtbutlittleof anarchism. He did not attach undue importance to it, and could never bringhimself to consider it seriously. Ithadmore thecharacterofdisorderlyconduct;disorderly without the human excuse of drunkenness, which at any rate impliesgood feeling and an amiable leaning towards festivity. As criminals, anarchistswere distinctly no class—no class at all. And recalling the Professor, ChiefInspectorHeat,withoutcheckinghisswingingpace,mutteredthroughhisteeth:
“Lunatic.”
Catching thieveswas anothermatter altogether. It had that quality of seriousnessbelonging to every form of open sport where the bestmanwins under perfectlycomprehensible rules. Therewereno rules fordealingwithanarchists. And thatwas distasteful to theChief Inspector. It was all foolishness, but that foolishnessexcited the public mind, affected persons in high places, and touched uponinternational relations. A hard, merciless contempt settled rigidly on the ChiefInspector ’sfaceashewalkedon.Hismindranoveralltheanarchistsofhisflock.Notoneofthemhadhalfthespunkofthisorthatburglarhehadknown.Nothalf—notone-tenth.
At headquarters the Chief Inspector was admitted at once to the AssistantCommissioner ’sprivateroom.Hefoundhim,peninhand,bentoveragreattablebestrewnwithpapers,asifworshippinganenormousdoubleinkstandofbronzeandcrystal.Speakingtubesresemblingsnakesweretiedbytheheadstothebackofthe
Assistant Commissioner ’s wooden arm-chair, and their gaping mouths seemedready to bite his elbows. And in this attitude he raised only his eyes,whose lidsweredarkerthanhisfaceandverymuchcreased.Thereportshadcomein:everyanarchisthadbeenexactlyaccountedfor.
Aftersayingthisheloweredhiseyes,signedrapidlytwosinglesheetsofpaper,andonly then laiddownhis pen, and satwell back, directing an inquiringgaze at hisrenownedsubordinate.TheChiefInspectorstooditwell,deferentialbutinscrutable.
“Idaresayyouwereright,”saidtheAssistantCommissioner,“intellingmeatfirstthat the London anarchists had nothing to do with this. I quite appreciate theexcellentwatchkeptonthembyyourmen.Ontheotherhand,this,forthepublic,doesnotamounttomorethanaconfessionofignorance.”
The Assistant Commissioner ’s delivery was leisurely, as it were cautious. Histhoughtseemedtorestpoisedonawordbeforepassingtoanother,asthoughwordshadbeen the stepping-stones for his intellect picking itsway across thewaters oferror.“UnlessyouhavebroughtsomethingusefulfromGreenwich,”headded.
TheChiefInspectorbeganatoncetheaccountofhisinvestigationinaclearmatter-of-factmanner. His superior turninghis chair a little, andcrossinghis thin legs,leanedsidewaysonhiselbow,withonehandshadinghiseyes.Hislisteningattitudehadasortofangularandsorrowfulgrace. Gleamsasofhighlyburnishedsilverplayedonthesidesofhisebonyblackheadwhenheinclineditslowlyattheend.
ChiefInspectorHeatwaitedwiththeappearanceofturningoverinhismindallhehad just said, but, as a matter of fact, considering the advisability of sayingsomethingmore.TheAssistantCommissionercuthishesitationshort.
“Youbelievethereweretwomen?”heasked,withoutuncoveringhiseyes.
TheChiefInspectorthoughtitmorethanprobable.Inhisopinion,thetwomenhadparted from each other within a hundred yards from the Observatory walls. Heexplainedalsohowtheothermancouldhavegotoutof theparkspeedilywithoutbeingobserved.Thefog,thoughnotverydense,wasinhisfavour.Heseemedtohave escorted the other to the spot, and then to have left him there to do the jobsingle-handed. Taking the time those two were seen coming out of Maze HillStation by the oldwoman, and the timewhen the explosionwas heard, theChiefInspectorthoughtthattheothermanmighthavebeenactuallyattheGreenwichParkStation,readytocatchthenexttrainup,atthemomenthiscomradewasdestroyinghimselfsothoroughly.
“Very thoroughly—eh?” murmured the Assistant Commissioner from under theshadowofhishand.
TheChiefInspectorinafewvigorouswordsdescribedtheaspectof theremains.“Thecoroner ’sjurywillhaveatreat,”headdedgrimly.
TheAssistantCommissioneruncoveredhiseyes.
“Weshallhavenothingtotellthem,”heremarkedlanguidly.
He lookedup, and for a timewatched themarkedlynon-committal attitudeof hisChief Inspector. His naturewas one that is not easily accessible to illusions. Heknew that adepartment is at themercyof its subordinateofficers,whohave theirownconceptionsofloyalty.Hiscareerhadbeguninatropicalcolony.Hehadlikedhiswork there. Itwaspolicework. Hehadbeenvery successful in trackingandbreakingupcertainnefarioussecretsocietiesamongstthenatives.Thenhetookhislongleave,andgotmarriedratherimpulsively.Itwasagoodmatchfromaworldlypointofview,buthiswifeformedanunfavourableopinionofthecolonialclimateonhearsayevidence.Ontheotherhand,shehadinfluentialconnections.Itwasanexcellentmatch. Buthedidnot like theworkhehad todonow. He felt himselfdependentontoomanysubordinatesandtoomanymasters. Thenearpresenceofthatstrangeemotionalphenomenoncalledpublicopinionweigheduponhisspirits,and alarmed him by its irrational nature. No doubt that from ignorance heexaggerated to himself its power for good and evil—especially for evil; and therougheastwindsoftheEnglishspring(whichagreedwithhiswife)augmentedhisgeneralmistrustofmen’smotivesandoftheefficiencyoftheirorganisation.Thefutility of office work especially appalled him on those days so trying to hissensitiveliver.
He got up, unfolding himself to his full height, and with a heaviness of stepremarkableinsoslenderaman,movedacrosstheroomtothewindow.Thepanesstreamedwithrain,andtheshortstreethelookeddownintolaywetandempty,asifsweptclearsuddenlybyagreatflood.Itwasaverytryingday,chokedinrawfogtobeginwith,andnowdrownedincoldrain. Theflickering,blurredflamesofgas-lampsseemedtobedissolvinginawateryatmosphere.Andtheloftypretensionsofa mankind oppressed by the miserable indignities of the weather appeared as acolossalandhopelessvanitydeservingofscorn,wonder,andcompassion.
“Horrible,horrible!”thoughttheAssistantCommissionertohimself,withhisfacenear thewindow-pane. “Wehavebeenhavingthissortof thingnowfor tendays;no,afortnight—afortnight.”Heceasedtothinkcompletelyforatime.Thatutterstillnessofhisbrain lastedabout threeseconds. Thenhesaidperfunctorily:“Youhavesetinquiriesonfootfortracingthatothermanupanddowntheline?”
Hehadnodoubtthateverythingneedfulhadbeendone.ChiefInspectorHeatknew,of course, thoroughly the business of man-hunting. And these were the routine
steps,too,thatwouldbetakenasamatterofcoursebythemerestbeginner.Afewinquiries amongst the ticket collectors and the porters of the two small railwaystations would give additional details as to the appearance of the two men; theinspectionof thecollected ticketswould showatoncewhere theycame from thatmorning. Itwaselementary,andcouldnothavebeenneglected. Accordingly theChief Inspector answered that all this had been done directly the oldwoman hadcomeforwardwithherdeposition.Andhementionedthenameofastation.“That’swheretheycamefrom,sir,”hewenton.“TheporterwhotooktheticketsatMazeHill remembers twochapsanswering to thedescriptionpassing thebarrier. Theyseemed tohim two respectableworkingmenof a superior sort—signpaintersorhousedecorators.Thebigmangotoutofathird-classcompartmentbackward,withabright tincaninhishand. Ontheplatformhegaveit tocarrytothefairyoungfellowwhofollowedhim.AllthisagreesexactlywithwhattheoldwomantoldthepolicesergeantinGreenwich.”
TheAssistantCommissioner,stillwithhisfaceturnedtothewindow,expressedhisdoubt as to these twomen having had anything to do with the outrage. All thistheory rested upon the utterances of an old charwoman who had been nearlyknockeddownbyamaninahurry.Notaverysubstantialauthorityindeed,unlessonthegroundofsuddeninspiration,whichwashardlytenable.
“Franklynow,couldshehavebeenreallyinspired?”hequeried,withgraveirony,keeping his back to the room, as if entranced by the contemplation of the town’scolossalformshalflostinthenight.Hedidnotevenlookroundwhenheheardthemutteroftheword“Providential”fromtheprincipalsubordinateofhisdepartment,whosename, printed sometimes in the papers,was familiar to the great public asthatofoneofitszealousandhard-workingprotectors.ChiefInspectorHeatraisedhisvoicealittle.
“Strips and bits of bright tinwere quite visible tome,” he said. “That’s a prettygoodcorroboration.”
“Andthesemencamefromthatlittlecountrystation,”theAssistantCommissionermusedaloud,wondering.Hewastoldthatsuchwasthenameontwoticketsoutofthreegivenupoutof that trainatMazeHill. The thirdpersonwhogotoutwasahawkerfromGravesendwellknownto theporters. TheChiefInspector impartedthatinformationinatoneoffinalitywithsomeillhumour,asloyalservantswilldoin theconsciousnessof their fidelityandwith thesenseof thevalueof their loyalexertions. And still the Assistant Commissioner did not turn away from thedarknessoutside,asvastasasea.
“Two foreign anarchists coming from that place,” he said, apparently to thewindow-pane.“It’sratherunaccountable.”’
“Yes,sir.ButitwouldbestillmoreunaccountableifthatMichaelisweren’tstayinginacottageintheneighbourhood.”
At the sound of that name, falling unexpectedly into this annoying affair, theAssistantCommissionerdismissedbrusquely thevague remembranceofhisdailywhist party at his club. Itwas themost comforting habit of his life, in amainlysuccessfuldisplayofhisskillwithouttheassistanceofanysubordinate.Heenteredhis club to play from five to seven, before going home to dinner, forgetting forthose two hours whatever was distasteful in his life, as though the game were abeneficentdrugforallaying thepangsofmoraldiscontent. Hispartnerswere thegloomilyhumorouseditorofacelebratedmagazine;asilent,elderlybarristerwithmaliciouslittleeyes;andahighlymartial,simple-mindedoldColonelwithnervousbrown hands. They were his club acquaintances merely. He never met themelsewhereexceptatthecard-table.Buttheyallseemedtoapproachthegameinthespiritofco-sufferers,asifitwereindeedadrugagainstthesecretillsofexistence;andeverydayas thesundeclinedover thecountless roofsof the town,amellow,pleasurableimpatience,resemblingtheimpulseofasureandprofoundfriendship,lightenedhisprofessionallabours.Andnowthispleasurablesensationwentoutofhimwith something resembling a physical shock, and was replaced by a specialkind of interest in his work of social protection—an improper sort of interest,whichmaybedefinedbestasasuddenandalertmistrustoftheweaponinhishand.
CHAPTERVI
TheladypatronessofMichaelis,theticket-of-leaveapostleofhumanitarianhopes,was one of the most influential and distinguished connections of the AssistantCommissioner ’swife,whomshecalledAnnie,andtreatedstillratherasanotverywiseandutterlyinexperiencedyounggirl.Butshehadconsentedtoaccepthimonafriendlyfooting,whichwasbynomeansthecasewithallofhiswife’s influentialconnections.Marriedyoungandsplendidlyatsomeremoteepochofthepast,shehadhadforatimeacloseviewofgreataffairsandevenofsomegreatmen.Sheherselfwasagreatlady.Oldnowinthenumberofheryears,shehadthatsortofexceptionaltemperamentwhichdefiestimewithscornfuldisregard,asifitwerearathervulgarconventionsubmittedtobythemassofinferiormankind.Manyotherconventions easier to set aside, alas! failed to obtain her recognition, also ontemperamentalgrounds—eitherbecausetheyboredher,orelsebecausetheystoodinthewayofherscornsandsympathies.Admirationwasasentimentunknowntoher(itwasoneofthesecretgriefsofhermostnoblehusbandagainsther)—first,asalways more or less tainted with mediocrity, and next as being in a way anadmissionofinferiority.Andbothwerefranklyinconceivabletohernature.Tobefearlessly outspoken in her opinions came easily to her, since she judged solelyfrom the standpoint of her social position. Shewas equally untrammelled in heractions;andashertactfulnessproceededfromgenuinehumanity,herbodilyvigourremainedremarkableandhersuperioritywassereneandcordial,threegenerationshadadmiredherinfinitely,andthelastshewaslikelytoseehadpronouncedherawonderfulwoman.Meantimeintelligent,withasortofloftysimplicity,andcuriousatheart,butnotlikemanywomenmerelyofsocialgossip,sheamusedheragebyattractingwithinherken through thepowerofhergreat, almosthistorical, socialprestige everything that rose above the dead level of mankind, lawfully orunlawfully, by position, wit, audacity, fortune or misfortune. Royal Highnesses,artists,menofscience,youngstatesmen,andcharlatansofallagesandconditions,who,unsubstantialandlight,bobbinguplikecorks,showbest thedirectionof thesurface currents, had been welcomed in that house, listened to, penetrated,understood, appraised, for her own edification. In her own words, she liked towatchwhattheworldwascomingto.Andasshehadapracticalmindherjudgmentofmenandthings, thoughbasedonspecialprejudices,wasseldomtotallywrong,
andalmostneverwrong-headed.Herdrawing-roomwasprobablytheonlyplaceinthewideworldwhere anAssistantCommissioner of Police couldmeet a convictliberatedonaticket-of-leaveonotherthanprofessionalandofficialground.Whohad brought Michaelis there one afternoon the Assistant Commissioner did notremember very well. He had a notion it must have been a certain Member ofParliamentofillustriousparentageandunconventionalsympathies,whichwerethestandingjokeofthecomicpapers.Thenotabilitiesandeventhesimplenotorietiesofthedaybroughteachotherfreelytothattempleofanoldwoman’snotignoblecuriosity. You never could guess whom you were likely to come upon beingreceivedinsemi-privacywithinthefadedbluesilkandgiltframescreen,makingacosy nook for a couch and a few arm-chairs in the great drawing-room,with itshumofvoicesand thegroupsofpeople seatedor standing in the lightof six tallwindows.
Michaelis had been the object of a revulsion of popular sentiment, the samesentimentwhich years ago had applauded the ferocity of the life sentence passeduponhimforcomplicityinarathermadattempttorescuesomeprisonersfromapolice van. The plan of the conspirators had been to shoot down the horses andoverpowertheescort.Unfortunately,oneofthepoliceconstablesgotshottoo.Heleftawifeandthreesmallchildren,andthedeathofthatmanarousedthroughthelengthandbreadthofarealmforwhosedefence,welfare,andglorymendieeverydayasmatterofduty,anoutburstoffuriousindignation,ofaragingimplacablepityfor the victim. Three ring-leaders got hanged. Michaelis, young and slim,locksmithbytrade,andgreatfrequenterofeveningschools,didnotevenknowthatanybodyhadbeenkilled,hispartwithafewothersbeingtoforceopenthedooratthebackofthespecialconveyance.Whenarrestedhehadabunchofskeletonkeysinonepocket, aheavychisel in another, anda short crowbar inhishand:neithermore nor less than a burglar. But no burglarwould have received such a heavysentence.Thedeathoftheconstablehadmadehimmiserableatheart,butthefailureoftheplotalso.Hedidnotconcealeitherofthesesentimentsfromhisempanelledcountrymen, and that sort of compunction appeared shockingly imperfect to thecrammed court. The judge on passing sentence commented feelingly upon thedepravityandcallousnessoftheyoungprisoner.
Thatmade thegroundless fameofhis condemnation; the fameofhis releasewasmadeforhimonnobettergroundsbypeoplewhowishedtoexploitthesentimentalaspectofhis imprisonmenteither forpurposesof theirownor forno intelligiblepurpose. Helet themdosoin theinnocenceofhisheartandthesimplicityofhismind.Nothingthathappenedtohimindividuallyhadanyimportance.Hewaslikethosesaintlymenwhosepersonalityislostinthecontemplationoftheirfaith.Hisideaswerenot inthenatureofconvictions. Theywereinaccessibletoreasoning.
They formed in all their contradictions and obscurities an invincible andhumanitarian creed, which he confessed rather than preached, with an obstinategentleness, a smile of pacific assuranceonhis lips, andhis candidblue eyes castdownbecause thesightof faces troubledhis inspirationdeveloped insolitude. Inthatcharacteristicattitude,patheticinhisgrotesqueandincurableobesitywhichhehad to drag like a galley slave’s bullet to the end of his days, the AssistantCommissionerofPolicebeheldtheticket-of-leaveapostlefillingaprivilegedarm-chair within the screen. He sat there by the head of the old lady’s couch, mild-voicedandquiet,withnomoreself-consciousnessthanaverysmallchild,andwithsomethingof a child’s charm—theappealingcharmof trustfulness. Confidentofthe future,whosesecretwayshadbeen revealed tohimwithin the fourwallsofawell-knownpenitentiary,hehadnoreasontolookwithsuspicionuponanybody.Ifhecouldnotgivethegreatandcuriousladyaverydefiniteideaastowhattheworldwascomingto,hehadmanagedwithouteffort toimpressherbyhisunembitteredfaith,bythesterlingqualityofhisoptimism.
Acertainsimplicityofthoughtiscommontoserenesoulsatbothendsofthesocialscale.Thegreatladywassimpleinherownway.Hisviewsandbeliefshadnothingin them to shockor startle her, since she judged them from the standpoint of herloftyposition.Indeed,hersympathieswereeasilyaccessibletoamanofthatsort.Shewasnotanexploitingcapitalistherself;shewas,as itwere,above theplayofeconomic conditions. And shehad agreat capacityof pity for themoreobviousforms of common human miseries, precisely because she was such a completestranger to them that she had to translate her conception into terms of mentalsuffering before she could grasp the notion of their cruelty. The AssistantCommissionerrememberedverywelltheconversationbetweenthesetwo.Hehadlistenedinsilence.Itwassomethingasexcitinginaway,andeventouchinginitsforedoomed futility, as the efforts atmoral intercoursebetween the inhabitants ofremote planets. But this grotesque incarnation of humanitarian passion appealedsomehow,toone’simagination.AtlastMichaelisrose,andtakingthegreatlady’sextendedhand,shookit,retaineditforamomentinhisgreatcushionedpalmwithunembarrassedfriendliness,andturneduponthesemi-privatenookofthedrawing-roomhis back, vast and square, and as if distendedunder the short tweed jacket.Glancingaboutinserenebenevolence,hewaddledalongtothedistantdoorbetweentheknotsofothervisitors. Themurmurofconversationspausedonhispassage.He smiled innocently at a tall, brilliant girl,whose eyesmet his accidentally, andwent out unconscious of the glances following him across the room. Michaelis’first appearance in theworldwas a success—a success of esteem unmarred by asinglemurmur of derision. The interrupted conversationswere resumed in theirpropertone,graveorlight.Onlyawell-set-up,long-limbed,active-lookingmanofforty talkingwith two ladies near awindow remarked aloud,with an unexpected
depthoffeeling:“Eighteenstone,Ishouldsay,andnotfivefootsix.Poorfellow!It’sterrible—terrible.”
The lady of the house, gazing absently at theAssistant Commissioner, left alonewith her on the private side of the screen, seemed to be rearranging her mentalimpressionsbehindher thoughtful immobilityofahandsomeold face. Menwithgrey moustaches and full, healthy, vaguely smiling countenances approached,circling round the screen; two mature women with a matronly air of graciousresolution; a clean-shaved individual with sunken cheeks, and dangling a gold-mountedeyeglassonabroadblackribbonwithanold-world,dandifiedeffect. Asilencedeferential, but full of reserves, reigned for amoment, and then thegreatladyexclaimed,notwithresentment,butwithasortofprotestingindignation:
“Andthatofficiallyissupposedtobearevolutionist!Whatnonsense.”ShelookedhardattheAssistantCommissioner,whomurmuredapologetically:
“Notadangerousoneperhaps.”
“Not dangerous—I should think not indeed. He is a mere believer. It’s thetemperamentofasaint,”declaredthegreatladyinafirmtone.“Andtheykepthimshutupfortwentyyears.Oneshuddersatthestupidityofit.Andnowtheyhavelethimouteverybodybelongingtohimisgoneawaysomewhereordead.Hisparentsaredead;thegirlhewastomarryhasdiedwhilehewasinprison;hehaslosttheskill necessary for his manual occupation. He told me all this himself with thesweetestpatience;butthen,hesaid,hehadhadplentyoftimetothinkoutthingsforhimself.Aprettycompensation!Ifthat’sthestuffrevolutionistsaremadeofsomeof usmaywell go on their knees to them,” she continued in a slightly banteringvoice,whilethebanalsocietysmileshardenedontheworldlyfacesturnedtowardsherwithconventionaldeference. “Thepoorcreature isobviouslyno longer inapositiontotakecareofhimself.Somebodywillhavetolookafterhimalittle.”
“He should be recommended to follow a treatment of some sort,” the soldierlyvoiceoftheactive-lookingmanwasheardadvisingearnestlyfromadistance.Hewasinthepinkofconditionforhisage,andeventhetextureofhislongfrockcoathad a character of elastic soundness, as if it were a living tissue. “The man isvirtuallyacripple,”headdedwithunmistakablefeeling.
Other voices, as if glad of the opening, murmured hasty compassion. “Quitestartling,”“Monstrous,”“Mostpainfultosee.”Thelankman,withtheeyeglassonabroad ribbon, pronounced mincingly the word “Grotesque,” whose justness wasappreciatedbythosestandingnearhim.Theysmiledateachother.
The Assistant Commissioner had expressed no opinion either then or later, hispositionmakingitimpossibleforhimtoventilateanyindependentviewofaticket-
of-leaveconvict. But, in truth,he shared theviewofhiswife’s friendandpatronthatMichaeliswas a humanitarian sentimentalist, a littlemad, but upon thewholeincapableofhurtingaflyintentionally.Sowhenthatnamecroppedupsuddenlyinthis vexing bomb affair he realised all the danger of it for the ticket-of-leaveapostle,andhismindrevertedatoncetotheoldlady’swell-establishedinfatuation.Herarbitrarykindnesswouldnotbrookpatientlyany interferencewithMichaelis’freedom.Itwasadeep,calm,convincedinfatuation.Shehadnotonlyfelthimtobeinoffensive,but shehad said so,which lastbya confusionofher absolutistmindbecameasortofincontrovertibledemonstration.Itwasasifthemonstrosityoftheman,withhiscandidinfant’seyesandafatangelicsmile,hadfascinatedher. Shehadcometobelievealmosthistheoryofthefuture,sinceitwasnotrepugnanttoherprejudices.Shedislikedthenewelementofplutocracyinthesocialcompound,andindustrialism as a method of human development appeared to her singularlyrepulsiveinitsmechanicalandunfeelingcharacter.Thehumanitarianhopesofthemild Michaelis tended not towards utter destruction, but merely towards thecompleteeconomic ruinof the system. Andshedidnot really seewherewas themoralharmofit.Itwoulddoawaywithallthemultitudeofthe“parvenus,”whomshedislikedandmistrusted,notbecausetheyhadarrivedanywhere(shedeniedthat),butbecauseof theirprofoundunintelligenceof theworld,whichwas theprimarycause of the crudity of their perceptions and the aridity of their hearts. With theannihilation of all capital theywould vanish too; but universal ruin (providing itwas universal, as it was revealed to Michaelis) would leave the social valuesuntouched.Thedisappearanceofthelastpieceofmoneycouldnotaffectpeopleofposition.Shecouldnotconceivehowitcouldaffectherposition,forinstance.Shehaddevelopedthesediscoveries to theAssistantCommissionerwithall theserenefearlessnessofanoldwomanwhohadescapedtheblightof indifference. Hehadmade forhimself the rule to receiveeverythingof that sort in a silencewhichhetookcare frompolicyand inclinationnot tomakeoffensive. Hehadanaffectionfor the aged disciple ofMichaelis, a complex sentiment depending a little on herprestige,onherpersonality,butmostofallontheinstinctofflatteredgratitude.Hefelthimselfreallylikedinherhouse.Shewaskindnesspersonified.Andshewaspracticallywisetoo,afterthemannerofexperiencedwomen.ShemadehismarriedlifemucheasierthanitwouldhavebeenwithouthergenerouslyfullrecognitionofhisrightsasAnnie’shusband.Herinfluenceuponhiswife,awomandevouredbyall sorts of small selfishnesses, small envies, small jealousies, was excellent.Unfortunately, both her kindness and her wisdom were of unreasonablecomplexion,distinctlyfeminine,anddifficulttodealwith.Sheremainedaperfectwomanallalongherfulltaleofyears,andnotassomeofthemdobecome—asortof slippery, pestilential oldman in petticoats. And itwas as of awoman that hethought of her—the specially choice incarnation of the feminine, wherein is
recruitedthetender,ingenuous,andfiercebodyguardforallsortsofmenwhotalkundertheinfluenceofanemotion,trueorfraudulent;forpreachers,seers,prophets,orreformers.
Appreciatingthedistinguishedandgoodfriendofhiswife,andhimself,inthatway,theAssistantCommissionerbecamealarmedattheconvictMichaelis’possiblefate.Oncearrestedonsuspicionofbeinginsomeway,howeverremote,apartytothisoutrage,themancouldhardlyescapebeingsentbacktofinishhissentenceatleast.And that would kill him; he would never come out alive. The AssistantCommissioner made a reflection extremely unbecoming his official positionwithoutbeingreallycreditabletohishumanity.
“Ifthefellowislaidholdofagain,”hethought,“shewillneverforgiveme.”
The frankness of such a secretly outspoken thought could not go without somederisive self-criticism. Nomanengaged inaworkhedoesnot likecanpreservemanysavingillusionsabouthimself. Thedistaste,theabsenceofglamour,extendfromtheoccupationtothepersonality.Itisonlywhenourappointedactivitiesseembya luckyaccident toobey theparticularearnestnessofour temperament thatwecantastethecomfortofcompleteself-deception.TheAssistantCommissionerdidnotlikehisworkathome.Thepoliceworkhehadbeenengagedoninadistantpartoftheglobehadthesavingcharacterofanirregularsortofwarfareoratleasttheriskandexcitementofopen-airsport. Hisrealabilities,whichweremainlyofanadministrativeorder,werecombinedwithanadventurousdisposition.Chainedtoadesk in the thickof fourmillionsofmen,heconsideredhimself thevictimof anironic fate—the same, no doubt, which had brought about his marriage with awoman exceptionally sensitive in the matter of colonial climate, besides otherlimitations testifying to the delicacy of her nature—and her tastes. Though hejudged his alarm sardonically he did not dismiss the improper thought from hismind.Theinstinctofself-preservationwasstrongwithinhim.Onthecontrary,herepeateditmentallywithprofaneemphasisandafullerprecision:“Damnit!IfthatinfernalHeathashiswaythefellow’lldieinprisonsmotheredinhisfat,andshe’llneverforgiveme.”
Hisblack,narrowfigure,withthewhitebandofthecollarunderthesilverygleamsontheclose-croppedhairatthebackofthehead,remainedmotionless.Thesilencehad lastedsucha long time thatChief InspectorHeatventured toclearhis throat.Thisnoiseproduceditseffect.Thezealousandintelligentofficerwasaskedbyhissuperior,whosebackremainedturnedtohimimmovably:
“YouconnectMichaeliswiththisaffair?”
ChiefInspectorHeatwasverypositive,butcautious.
“Well,sir,”hesaid,“wehaveenoughtogoupon.Amanlikethathasnobusinesstobeatlarge,anyhow.”
“Youwillwantsomeconclusiveevidence,”cametheobservationinamurmur.
ChiefInspectorHeatraisedhiseyebrowsattheblack,narrowback,whichremainedobstinatelypresentedtohisintelligenceandhiszeal.
“Therewillbenodifficultyingettingupsufficientevidenceagainsthim,”hesaid,with virtuous complacency. “You may trust me for that, sir,” he added, quiteunnecessarily,outofthefulnessofhisheart;foritseemedtohimanexcellentthingtohavethatmaninhandtobethrowndowntothepublicshoulditthinkfittoroarwith any special indignation in this case. Itwas impossible to say yetwhether itwouldroarornot.Thatinthelastinstancedepended,ofcourse,onthenewspaperpress. But in anycase,Chief InspectorHeat, purveyorofprisonsby trade, andamanof legal instincts,did logicallybelieve that incarcerationwas theproper fateforeverydeclaredenemyofthelaw.Inthestrengthofthatconvictionhecommittedafaultoftact.Heallowedhimselfalittleconceitedlaugh,andrepeated:
“Trustmeforthat,sir.”
This was too much for the forced calmness under which the AssistantCommissionerhadforupwardsofeighteenmonthsconcealedhisirritationwiththesystemandthesubordinatesofhisoffice.Asquarepegforcedintoaroundhole,hehad felt like a daily outrage that long established smooth roundness intowhich aman of less sharply angular shape would have fitted himself, with voluptuousacquiescence,afterashrugortwo.Whatheresentedmostwasjustthenecessityoftakingsomuchontrust.AtthelittlelaughofChiefInspectorHeat’shespunswiftlyon his heels, as ifwhirled away from thewindow-pane by an electric shock. Hecaughtonthelatter ’sfacenotonlythecomplacencypropertotheoccasionlurkingunder the moustache, but the vestiges of experimental watchfulness in the roundeyes,whichhadbeen,nodoubt,fastenedonhisback,andnowmethisglanceforasecondbeforetheintentcharacteroftheirstarehadthetimetochangetoamerelystartledappearance.
TheAssistantCommissionerofPolicehadreallysomequalificationsforhispost.Suddenlyhissuspicionwasawakened.Itisbutfairtosaythathissuspicionsofthepolicemethods(unlessthepolicehappenedtobeasemi-militarybodyorganisedbyhimself)wasnotdifficult toarouse. If iteverslumberedfromsheerweariness, itwas but lightly; and his appreciation of Chief Inspector Heat’s zeal and ability,moderate in itself, excluded all notion of moral confidence. “He’s up tosomething,”heexclaimedmentally,andatoncebecameangry.Crossingovertohisdeskwithheadlong strides, he sat downviolently. “Here I am stuck in a litter of
paper,”hereflected,withunreasonableresentment,“supposedtoholdallthethreadsinmyhands,andyetIcanbutholdwhatisputinmyhand,andnothingelse.Andtheycanfastentheotherendsofthethreadswheretheyplease.”
Heraisedhishead,andturnedtowardshissubordinatealong,meagrefacewiththeaccentuatedfeaturesofanenergeticDonQuixote.
“Nowwhatisityou’vegotupyoursleeve?”
Theotherstared. Hestaredwithoutwinking inaperfect immobilityofhis roundeyes, as hewas used to stare at the variousmembers of the criminal classwhen,after being duly cautioned, they made their statements in the tones of injuredinnocence,or false simplicity,or sullen resignation. Butbehind thatprofessionalandstonyfixitytherewassomesurprisetoo,forinsuchatone,combiningnicelythenoteofcontemptandimpatience,ChiefInspectorHeat,theright-handmanofthedepartment,wasnotused tobeaddressed. Hebegan inaprocrastinatingmanner,likeamantakenunawaresbyanewandunexpectedexperience.
“WhatI’vegotagainstthatmanMichaelisyoumean,sir?”
The Assistant Commissioner watched the bullet head; the points of that Norserover ’smoustache,fallingbelowthelineoftheheavyjaw;thewholefullandpalephysiognomy,whose determined characterwasmarred by toomuch flesh; at thecunning wrinkles radiating from the outer corners of the eyes—and in thatpurposefulcontemplationof thevaluableand trustedofficerhedrewaconvictionsosuddenthatitmovedhimlikeaninspiration.
“I have reason to think thatwhenyou came into this room,”he said inmeasuredtones,“itwasnotMichaeliswhowasinyourmind;notprincipally—perhapsnotatall.”
“You have reason to think, sir?” muttered Chief Inspector Heat, with everyappearanceofastonishment,whichup toacertainpointwasgenuineenough. Hehad discovered in this affair a delicate and perplexing side, forcing upon thediscovereracertainamountofinsincerity—thatsortofinsinceritywhich,underthenamesofskill,prudence,discretion,turnsupatonepointoranotherinmosthumanaffairs. Hefeltat themomentlikeatight-ropeartistmightfeelifsuddenly,inthemiddleoftheperformance,themanageroftheMusicHallweretorushoutofthepropermanagerialseclusionandbegintoshaketherope.Indignation,thesenseofmoral insecurity engendered by such a treacherous proceeding joined to theimmediateapprehensionofabrokenneck,would,inthecolloquialphrase,puthiminastate.Andtherewouldbealsosomescandalisedconcernforhisarttoo,sinceamanmustidentifyhimselfwithsomethingmoretangiblethanhisownpersonality,andestablishhispridesomewhere,eitherinhissocialposition,orinthequalityof
theworkheisobligedtodo,orsimplyinthesuperiorityoftheidlenesshemaybefortunateenoughtoenjoy.
“Yes,”saidtheAssistantCommissioner;“Ihave.Idonotmeantosaythatyouhavenot thought ofMichaelis at all. But you are giving the fact you’vementioned aprominencewhichstrikesmeasnotquitecandid,InspectorHeat.Ifthatisreallythetrackofdiscovery,whyhaven’tyoufolloweditupatonce,eitherpersonallyorbysendingoneofyourmentothatvillage?”
“Doyouthink,sir,Ihavefailedinmydutythere?”theChiefInspectorasked,inatonewhichhesoughttomakesimplyreflective.Forcedunexpectedlytoconcentratehisfacultiesuponthetaskofpreservinghisbalance,hehadseizeduponthatpoint,andexposedhimselftoarebuke;for,theAssistantCommissionerfrowningslightly,observedthatthiswasaveryimproperremarktomake.
“But since you’vemade it,” he continued coldly, “I’ll tell you that this is notmymeaning.”
Hepaused,withastraightglanceofhissunkeneyeswhichwasafullequivalentofthe unspoken termination “and you know it.” The head of the so-called SpecialCrimesDepartmentdebarredbyhispositionfromgoingoutofdoorspersonallyinquest of secrets locked up in guilty breasts, had a propensity to exercise hisconsiderable gifts for the detection of incriminating truth upon his ownsubordinates. That peculiar instinct could hardly be called a weakness. It wasnatural. Hewas aborndetective. It hadunconsciouslygovernedhis choiceof acareer, and if it ever failed him in life it was perhaps in the one exceptionalcircumstance of hismarriage—whichwas also natural. It fed, since it could notroam abroad, upon the human material which was brought to it in its officialseclusion.Wecanneverceasetobeourselves.
Hiselbowonthedesk,histhinlegscrossed,andnursinghischeekinthepalmofhis meagre hand, the Assistant Commissioner in charge of the Special Crimesbranchwasgettingholdof thecasewithgrowing interest. HisChief Inspector, ifnotanabsolutelyworthyfoemanofhispenetration,wasatanyratethemostworthyofallwithinhisreach.AmistrustofestablishedreputationswasstrictlyincharacterwiththeAssistantCommissioner ’sabilityasdetector.Hismemoryevokedacertainoldfatandwealthynativechiefinthedistantcolonywhomitwasatraditionforthesuccessive Colonial Governors to trust and make much of as a firm friend andsupporter of the order and legality established by white men; whereas, whenexaminedsceptically,hewasfoundouttobeprincipallyhisowngoodfriend,andnobody else’s. Not precisely a traitor, but still a man of many dangerousreservationsinhisfidelity,causedbyadueregardforhisownadvantage,comfort,and safety. A fellow of some innocence in his naive duplicity, but none the less
dangerous. He took some finding out. He was physically a big man, too, and(allowingforthedifferenceofcolour,ofcourse)ChiefInspectorHeat’sappearancerecalled him to thememory of his superior. Itwas not the eyes nor yet the lipsexactly.Itwasbizarre.ButdoesnotAlfredWallacerelateinhisfamousbookontheMalayArchipelagohow,amongsttheAruIslanders,hediscoveredinanoldandnakedsavagewithasootyskinapeculiarresemblancetoadearfriendathome?
ForthefirsttimesincehetookuphisappointmenttheAssistantCommissionerfeltasifheweregoingtodosomerealworkforhissalary.Andthatwasapleasurablesensation. “I’ll turn him inside out like an old glove,” thought the AssistantCommissioner,withhiseyesrestingpensivelyuponChiefInspectorHeat.
“No, that was not my thought,” he began again. “There is no doubt about youknowingyourbusiness—nodoubtatall;andthat’spreciselywhyI—”Hestoppedshort, and changing his tone: “What could you bring up against Michaelis of adefinite nature? I mean apart from the fact that the two men under suspicion—you’re certain there were two of them—came last from a railway station withinthreemilesofthevillagewhereMichaelisislivingnow.”
“Thisbyitselfisenoughforustogoupon,sir,withthatsortofman,”saidtheChiefInspector, with returning composure. The slight approving movement of theAssistantCommissioner ’sheadwentfartopacifytheresentfulastonishmentoftherenownedofficer.ForChiefInspectorHeatwasakindman,anexcellenthusband,adevoted father; and the public and departmental confidence he enjoyed actingfavourably upon an amiable nature, disposed him to feel friendly towards thesuccessive Assistant Commissioners he had seen pass through that very room.There had been three in his time. The first one, a soldierly, abrupt, red-facedperson, with white eyebrows and an explosive temper, could be managed with asilkenthread.Heleftonreachingtheagelimit. Thesecond,aperfectgentleman,knowinghisownandeverybodyelse’splacetoanicety,onresigningtotakeupahigher appointment out of England got decorated for (really) Inspector Heat’sservices.Toworkwithhimhadbeenaprideandapleasure.Thethird,abitofadarkhorse from the first,wasat theendofeighteenmonths somethingofadarkhorsestilltothedepartment.UponthewholeChiefInspectorHeatbelievedhimtobeinthemainharmless—odd-looking,butharmless.Hewasspeakingnow,andtheChief Inspector listened with outward deference (which means nothing, being amatterofduty)andinwardlywithbenevolenttoleration.
“MichaelisreportedhimselfbeforeleavingLondonforthecountry?”
“Yes,sir.Hedid.”
“Andwhatmayhebedoingthere?”continuedtheAssistantCommissioner,whowas
perfectly informedon thatpoint. Fittedwithpainful tightness intoanoldwoodenarm-chair, before aworm-eaten oak table in an upstairs room of a four-roomedcottagewitharoofofmoss-growntiles,Michaeliswaswritingnightanddayinashaky,slantinghandthat“AutobiographyofaPrisoner”whichwastobelikeabookof Revelation in the history of mankind. The conditions of confined space,seclusion, and solitude in a small four-roomed cottage were favourable to hisinspiration.Itwaslikebeinginprison,exceptthatonewasneverdisturbedfortheodiouspurposeoftakingexerciseaccordingtothetyrannicalregulationsofhisoldhomeinthepenitentiary.Hecouldnottellwhetherthesunstillshoneontheearthornot.Theperspirationoftheliterarylabourdroppedfromhisbrow.Adelightfulenthusiasmurgedhimon.Itwastheliberationofhisinnerlife,thelettingoutofhissoulintothewideworld.Andthezealofhisguilelessvanity(firstawakenedbytheofferoffivehundredpoundsfromapublisher)seemedsomethingpredestinedandholy.
“It would be, of course, most desirable to be informed exactly,” insisted theAssistantCommissioneruncandidly.
Chief Inspector Heat, conscious of renewed irritation at this display ofscrupulousness, said that the county police had been notified from the first ofMichaelis’arrival,andthatafullreportcouldbeobtainedinafewhours.Awiretothesuperintendent—
Thus he spoke, rather slowly,while hismind seemed already to beweighing theconsequences. Aslightknittingof thebrowwas theoutwardsignof this. Buthewasinterruptedbyaquestion.
“You’vesentthatwirealready?”
“No,sir,”heanswered,asifsurprised.
The Assistant Commissioner uncrossed his legs suddenly. The briskness of thatmovementcontrastedwiththecasualwayinwhichhethrewoutasuggestion.
“Would you think thatMichaelis had anything to do with the preparation of thatbomb,forinstance?”
TheChiefInspectorassumedareflectivemanner.
“Iwouldn’tsayso. There’snonecessitytosayanythingatpresent. Heassociateswith men who are classed as dangerous. He was made a delegate of the RedCommittee less than a year after his release on licence. A sort of compliment, Isuppose.”
AndtheChiefInspector laugheda littleangrily,a littlescornfully. Withamanofthat sort scrupulousness was a misplaced and even an illegal sentiment. ThecelebritybestoweduponMichaelisonhisreleasetwoyearsagobysomeemotionaljournalists in want of special copy had rankled ever since in his breast. It wasperfectlylegaltoarrestthatmanonthebarestsuspicion.Itwaslegalandexpedientonthefaceofit.Histwoformerchiefswouldhaveseenthepointatonce;whereasthisone,withoutsayingeitheryesorno,satthere,asiflostinadream.Moreover,besides being legal and expedient, the arrest ofMichaelis solved a little personaldifficulty which worried Chief Inspector Heat somewhat. This difficulty had itsbearing upon his reputation, upon his comfort, and even upon the efficientperformanceofhisduties. For, ifMichaelisnodoubtknewsomethingabout thisoutrage,theChiefInspectorwasfairlycertainthathedidnotknowtoomuch.Thiswas just as well. He knew much less—the Chief Inspector was positive—thancertain other individuals he had in his mind, but whose arrest seemed to himinexpedient,besidesbeingamorecomplicatedmatter,onaccountoftherulesofthe
game. The rulesof thegamedidnotprotect somuchMichaelis,whowasanex-convict. It would be stupid not to take advantage of legal facilities, and thejournalistswho hadwritten him upwith emotional gushwould be ready towritehimdownwithemotionalindignation.
Thisprospect,viewedwithconfidence,hadtheattractionofapersonaltriumphforChief Inspector Heat. And deep down in his blameless bosom of an averagemarried citizen, almost unconscious but potent nevertheless, the dislike of beingcompelledbyeventstomeddlewiththedesperateferocityoftheProfessorhaditssay. This dislike had been strengthened by the chancemeeting in the lane. Theencounterdidnot leavebehindwithChiefInspectorHeat thatsatisfactorysenseofsuperioritythemembersofthepoliceforcegetfromtheunofficialbutintimatesideof their intercourse with the criminal classes, by which the vanity of power issoothed,andthevulgarloveofdominationoverourfellow-creaturesisflatteredasworthilyasitdeserves.
The perfect anarchistwas not recognised as a fellow-creature byChief InspectorHeat.Hewasimpossible—amaddogtobeleftalone.NotthattheChiefInspectorwasafraidofhim;onthecontrary,hemeanttohavehimsomeday.Butnotyet;hemeanttogetholdofhiminhisowntime,properlyandeffectivelyaccordingtotherulesofthegame.Thepresentwasnottherighttimeforattemptingthatfeat,nottherighttimeformanyreasons,personalandofpublicservice.ThisbeingthestrongfeelingofInspectorHeat,itappearedtohimjustandproperthatthisaffairshouldbeshuntedoff itsobscureandinconvenient track, leadinggoodnessknowswhere,into a quiet (and lawful) siding called Michaelis. And he repeated, as ifreconsideringthesuggestionconscientiously:
“Thebomb.No,Iwouldnotsaythatexactly.Wemayneverfindthatout.Butit’sclearthatheisconnectedwiththisinsomeway,whichwecanfindoutwithoutmuchtrouble.”
Hiscountenancehadthatlookofgrave,overbearingindifferenceoncewellknownandmuchdreadedbythebettersortofthieves.ChiefInspectorHeat,thoughwhatiscalledaman,wasnotasmilinganimal.Buthisinwardstatewasthatofsatisfactionat the passively receptive attitude of theAssistant Commissioner, whomurmuredgently:
“Andyoureallythinkthattheinvestigationshouldbemadeinthatdirection?”
“Ido,sir.”
“Quiteconvinced?
“Iam,sir.That’sthetruelineforustotake.”
TheAssistantCommissionerwithdrew the supportofhishand fromhis recliningheadwithasuddennessthat,consideringhislanguidattitude,seemedtomenacehiswholepersonwithcollapse.But,onthecontrary,hesatup,extremelyalert,behindthegreatwriting-tableonwhichhishandhadfallenwiththesoundofasharpblow.
“WhatIwanttoknowiswhatputitoutofyourheadtillnow.”
“Putitoutofmyhead,”repeatedtheChiefInspectorveryslowly.
“Yes.Tillyouwerecalledintothisroom—youknow.”
TheChiefInspectorfeltasiftheairbetweenhisclothingandhisskinhadbecomeunpleasantly hot. It was the sensation of an unprecedented and incredibleexperience.
“Of course,” he said, exaggerating the deliberation of his utterance to the utmostlimits of possibility, “if there is a reason, of which I know nothing, for notinterfering with the convict Michaelis, perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t start thecountypoliceafterhim.”
This took such a long time to say that the unflagging attention of the AssistantCommissioner seemed a wonderful feat of endurance. His retort came withoutdelay.
“NoreasonwhateverthatIknowof.Come,ChiefInspector,thisfinessingwithmeishighlyimproperonyourpart—highlyimproper.Andit’salsounfair,youknow.You shouldn’t leave me to puzzle things out for myself like this. Really, I amsurprised.”
Hepaused, thenaddedsmoothly:“Ineedscarcelytellyouthat thisconversationisaltogetherunofficial.”
These words were far from pacifying the Chief Inspector. The indignation of abetrayed tight-rope performer was strong within him. In his pride of a trustedservant he was affected by the assurance that the rope was not shaken for thepurpose of breaking his neck, as by an exhibition of impudence. As if anybodywereafraid!AssistantCommissionerscomeandgo,butavaluableChiefInspectoris not an ephemeral office phenomenon. He was not afraid of getting a brokenneck. Tohavehisperformancespoiledwasmore thanenough toaccount for theglowofhonestindignation.Andasthoughtisnorespecterofpersons,thethoughtofChiefInspectorHeattookathreateningandpropheticshape.“You,myboy,”hesaid to himself, keeping his round and habitually roving eyes fastened upon theAssistant Commissioner ’s face—“you, my boy, you don’t know your place, andyourplacewon’tknowyouverylongeither,Ibet.”
Asif inprovokinganswer to that thought,somethinglike theghostofanamiablesmilepassedonthelipsoftheAssistantCommissioner.Hismannerwaseasyandbusiness-likewhilehepersistedinadministeringanothershaketothetightrope.
“Let us come now towhat you have discovered on the spot,Chief Inspector,” hesaid.
“Afoolandhisjobaresoonparted,”wentonthetrainofpropheticthoughtinChiefInspector Heat’s head. But it was immediately followed by the reflection that ahigherofficial,evenwhen“firedout”(thiswasthepreciseimage),hasstillthetimeas he flies through the door to launch a nasty kick at the shin-bones of asubordinate. Withoutsofteningverymuch thebasilisknatureofhisstare,hesaidimpassively:
“Wearecomingtothatpartofmyinvestigation,sir.”
“That’sright.Well,whathaveyoubroughtawayfromit?”
TheChiefInspector,whohadmadeuphismindtojumpoff therope,cametothegroundwithgloomyfrankness.
“I’vebroughtawayanaddress,”hesaid,pullingoutofhispocketwithouthasteasinged ragof darkblue cloth. “This belongs to the overcoat the fellowwhogothimselfblowntopieceswaswearing. Ofcourse, theovercoatmaynothavebeenhis, andmay even have been stolen. But that’s not at all probable if you look atthis.”
TheChiefInspector,steppinguptothetable,smoothedoutcarefullytheragofbluecloth. He had picked it up from the repulsive heap in the mortuary, because atailor ’snameisfoundsometimesunderthecollar.Itisnotoftenofmuchuse,butstill—Heonlyhalfexpectedtofindanythinguseful,butcertainlyhedidnotexpectto find—notunder thecollar at all,but stitchedcarefullyon theunder sideof thelapel—asquarepieceofcalicowithanaddresswrittenonitinmarkingink.
TheChiefInspectorremovedhissmoothinghand.
“Icarrieditoffwithmewithoutanybodytakingnotice,”hesaid.“Ithoughtitbest.Itcanalwaysbeproducedifrequired.”
TheAssistantCommissioner,risingalittleinhischair,pulledtheclothovertohissideofthetable.Hesatlookingatitinsilence.Onlythenumber32andthenameofBrettStreetwerewritteninmarkinginkonapieceofcalicoslightlylargerthananordinarycigarettepaper.Hewasgenuinelysurprised.
“Can’t understand why he should have gone about labelled like this,” he said,lookingupatChiefInspectorHeat.“It’samostextraordinarything.”
“Imetonceinthesmoking-roomofahotelanoldgentlemanwhowentaboutwithhis name and address sewn on in all his coats in case of an accident or suddenillness,”saidtheChiefInspector.“Heprofessedtobeeighty-fouryearsold,buthedidn’tlookhisage.Hetoldmehewasalsoafraidoflosinghismemorysuddenly,likethosepeoplehehasbeenreadingofinthepapers.”
AquestionfromtheAssistantCommissioner,whowantedtoknowwhatwasNo.32Brett Street, interrupted that reminiscence abruptly. The Chief Inspector, drivendownto thegroundbyunfairartifices,hadelected towalk thepathofunreservedopenness. If he believed firmly that to know too much was not good for thedepartment,thejudiciousholdingbackofknowledgewasasfarashisloyaltydaredto go for the good of the service. If the Assistant Commissioner wanted tomismanagethisaffairnothing,ofcourse,couldpreventhim.But,onhisownpart,henowsawnoreasonforadisplayofalacrity.Soheansweredconcisely:
“It’sashop,sir.”
TheAssistantCommissioner,withhiseyesloweredontheragofbluecloth,waitedformoreinformation.Asthatdidnotcomeheproceededtoobtainitbyaseriesofquestionspropoundedwithgentlepatience.ThusheacquiredanideaofthenatureofMrVerloc’scommerce,ofhispersonalappearance,andheardatlasthisname.In a pause the Assistant Commissioner raised his eyes, and discovered someanimationontheChiefInspector ’sface.Theylookedateachotherinsilence.
“Ofcourse,”saidthelatter,“thedepartmenthasnorecordofthatman.”
“Didanyofmypredecessorshaveanyknowledgeofwhatyouhavetoldmenow?”asked theAssistantCommissioner, puttinghis elbowson the table and raisinghisjoinedhandsbeforehisface,asifabouttoofferprayer,onlythathiseyeshadnotapiousexpression.
“No,sir;certainlynot.Whatwouldhavebeentheobject?Thatsortofmancouldneverbeproducedpubliclytoanygoodpurpose.Itwassufficientformetoknowwhohewas,andtomakeuseofhiminawaythatcouldbeusedpublicly.”
“And do you think that sort of private knowledge consistent with the officialpositionyouoccupy?”
“Perfectly,sir.Ithinkit’squiteproper.Iwilltakethelibertytotellyou,sir,thatitmakesmewhatIam—andIamlookeduponasamanwhoknowshiswork.It’saprivateaffairofmyown.ApersonalfriendofmineintheFrenchpolicegavemethehintthatthefellowwasanEmbassyspy.Privatefriendship,privateinformation,privateuseofit—that’showIlookuponit.”
TheAssistantCommissionerafterremarkingtohimselfthatthementalstateofthe
renownedChief Inspector seemed to affect the outline of his lower jaw, as if thelivelysenseofhishighprofessionaldistinctionhadbeenlocatedinthatpartofhisanatomy,dismissedthepointforthemomentwithacalm“Isee.”Thenleaninghischeekonhisjoinedhands:
“Well then—speaking privately if you like—how long have you been in privatetouchwiththisEmbassyspy?”
TothisinquirytheprivateansweroftheChiefInspector,soprivatethatitwasnevershapedintoaudiblewords,was:
“Longbeforeyouwereeventhoughtofforyourplacehere.”
Theso-to-speakpublicutterancewasmuchmoreprecise.
“Isawhimforthefirsttimeinmylifealittlemorethansevenyearsago,whentwoImperialHighnessesandtheImperialChancellorwereonavisithere.Iwasputinchargeofallthearrangementsforlookingafterthem.BaronStott-WartenheimwasAmbassadorthen.Hewasaverynervousoldgentleman.Oneevening,threedaysbeforetheGuildhallBanquet,hesentwordthathewantedtoseemeforamoment.Iwasdownstairs,andthecarriageswereatthedoortotaketheImperialHighnessesandtheChancellortotheopera. Iwentupatonce. IfoundtheBaronwalkingupanddownhisbedroominapitiablestateofdistress,squeezinghishandstogether.Heassuredmehehadthefullestconfidenceinourpoliceandinmyabilities,buthehad there a man just come over from Paris whose information could be trustedimplicity.Hewantedmetohearwhatthatmanhadtosay.Hetookmeatonceintoadressing-roomnextdoor,whereIsawabigfellowinaheavyovercoatsittingallaloneonachair,andholdinghishatandstickinonehand.TheBaronsaidtohiminFrench‘Speak,myfriend.’ Thelightinthatroomwasnotverygood. I talkedwith him for some fiveminutes perhaps. He certainly gaveme a piece of verystartlingnews.ThentheBarontookmeasidenervouslytopraisehimuptome,andwhen I turned roundagain Idiscovered that the fellowhadvanished likeaghost.Gotupandsneakedoutdownsomebackstairs,Isuppose.Therewasnotimetorunafterhim,asIhadtohurryoffaftertheAmbassadordownthegreatstaircase,andseethepartystartedsafefortheopera.However,Iactedupontheinformationthatvery night. Whether itwas perfectly correct or not, it did look serious enough.VerylikelyitsavedusfromanuglytroubleonthedayoftheImperialvisittotheCity.
“Sometimelater,amonthorsoaftermypromotiontoChiefInspector,myattentionwasattractedtoabigburlyman,IthoughtIhadseensomewherebefore,comingoutinahurryfromajeweller ’sshopintheStrand. Iwentafterhim,asitwasonmywaytowardsCharingCross,andthereseeingoneofourdetectivesacrosstheroad,
Ibeckonedhimover,andpointedoutthefellowtohim,withinstructionstowatchhis movements for a couple of days, and then report to me. No later than nextafternoonmyman turnedup to tellme that the fellowhadmarriedhis landlady’sdaughterataregistrar ’sofficethatverydayat11.30a.m.,andhadgoneoffwithhertoMargateforaweek.Ourmanhadseentheluggagebeingputonthecab.ThereweresomeoldParislabelsononeofthebags.SomehowIcouldn’tgetthefellowoutofmyhead,andtheverynexttimeIhadtogotoParisonserviceIspokeabouthimtothatfriendofmineintheParispolice.Myfriendsaid:‘Fromwhatyoutellme I think you must mean a rather well-known hanger-on and emissary of theRevolutionaryRedCommittee.HesaysheisanEnglishmanbybirth.WehaveanideathathehasbeenforagoodfewyearsnowasecretagentofoneoftheforeignEmbassies in London.’ This woke up my memory completely. He was thevanishingfellowIsawsittingonachairinBaronStott-Wartenheim’sbathroom.Itoldmyfriendthathewasquiteright.Thefellowwasasecretagenttomycertainknowledge.Afterwardsmyfriendtookthetroubletoferretoutthecompleterecordofthatmanforme.I thoughtIhadbetterknowall therewastoknow;butIdon’tsupposeyouwanttohearhishistorynow,sir?”
The Assistant Commissioner shook his supported head. “The history of yourrelationswiththatusefulpersonageistheonlythingthatmattersjustnow,”hesaid,closing slowly his weary, deep-set eyes, and then opening them swiftly with agreatlyrefreshedglance.
“There’snothingofficialaboutthem,”saidtheChiefInspectorbitterly.“Iwentintohisshoponeevening,toldhimwhoIwas,andremindedhimofourfirstmeeting.Hedidn’t asmuchas twitch aneyebrow. He said thathewasmarried and settlednow,andthatallhewantedwasnottobeinterferedinhislittlebusiness. I tookituponmyselftopromisehimthat,aslongashedidn’tgoinforanythingobviouslyoutrageous,hewouldbeleftalonebythepolice.Thatwasworthsomethingtohim,becauseawordfromustotheCustom-Housepeoplewouldhavebeenenoughtogetsome of these packages he gets from Paris and Brussels opened in Dover, withconfiscation tofollowforcertain,andperhapsaprosecutionaswellat theendofit.”
“That’saveryprecarioustrade,”murmuredtheAssistantCommissioner.“Whydidhegoinforthat?”
TheChiefInspectorraisedscornfuleyebrowsdispassionately.
“Mostlikelygotaconnection—friendsontheContinent—amongstpeoplewhodealinsuchwares.Theywouldbejustthesorthewouldconsortwith.He’salazydog,too—liketherestofthem.”
“Whatdoyougetfromhiminexchangeforyourprotection?”
The Chief Inspector was not inclined to enlarge on the value of Mr Verloc’sservices.
“Hewouldnotbemuchgoodtoanybodybutmyself.Onehasgottoknowagooddealbeforehandtomakeuseofamanlikethat.Icanunderstandthesortofhinthecangive.AndwhenIwantahinthecangenerallyfurnishittome.”
The Chief Inspector lost himself suddenly in a discreet reflectivemood; and theAssistantCommissionerrepressedasmileatthefleetingthoughtthatthereputationofChiefInspectorHeatmightpossiblyhavebeenmadeinagreatpartbytheSecretAgentVerloc.
“Inamoregeneralwayofbeingofuse,allourmenoftheSpecialCrimessectionondutyatCharingCrossandVictoriahaveorderstotakecarefulnoticeofanybodytheymayseewithhim.Hemeetsthenewarrivalsfrequently,andafterwardskeepstrackofthem.Heseemstohavebeentoldoffforthatsortofduty.WhenIwantanaddressinahurry,Icanalwaysgetitfromhim.Ofcourse,Iknowhowtomanageourrelations.Ihaven’tseenhimtospeaktothreetimesinthelasttwoyears.Idrophimaline,unsigned,andheanswersmeinthesamewayatmyprivateaddress.”
FromtimetotimetheAssistantCommissionergaveanalmostimperceptiblenod.The Chief Inspector added that he did not suppose Mr Verloc to be deep in theconfidenceof theprominentmembersof theRevolutionary InternationalCouncil,but thathewasgenerally trustedof that therecouldbenodoubt. “Whenever I’vehad reason to think therewas something in thewind,”heconcluded,“I’vealwaysfoundhecouldtellmesomethingworthknowing.”
TheAssistantCommissionermadeasignificantremark.
“Hefailedyouthistime.”
“NeitherhadIwindofanythinginanyotherway,”retortedChiefInspectorHeat.“Iaskedhimnothing,sohecouldtellmenothing.Heisn’toneofourmen.Itisn’tasifhewereinourpay.”
“No,”muttered theAssistantCommissioner. “He’s a spy in the pay of a foreigngovernment.Wecouldneverconfesstohim.”
“Imustdomyworkinmyownway,”declaredtheChiefInspector.“Whenitcomesto that Iwoulddealwith thedevil himself, and take the consequences. There arethingsnotfitforeverybodytoknow.”
“Yourideaofsecrecyseemstoconsist inkeepingthechiefofyourdepartmentinthe dark. That’s stretching it perhaps a little too far, isn’t it? He lives over his
shop?”
“Who—Verloc?Ohyes.Helivesoverhisshop.Thewife’smother,Ifancy,liveswiththem.”
“Isthehousewatched?”
“Oh dear, no. Itwouldn’t do. Certain peoplewho come there arewatched. Myopinionisthatheknowsnothingofthisaffair.”
“Howdoyouaccountfor this?” TheAssistantCommissionernoddedat theclothraglyingbeforehimonthetable.
“Idon’taccountforitatall,sir.It’ssimplyunaccountable.Itcan’tbeexplainedbywhatIknow.”TheChiefInspectormadethoseadmissionswiththefranknessofamanwhosereputationisestablishedasifonarock.“Atanyratenotatthispresentmoment. I think that the man who had most to do with it will turn out to beMichaelis.”
“Youdo?”
“Yes,sir;becauseIcananswerforalltheothers.”
“Whataboutthatothermansupposedtohaveescapedfromthepark?”
“Ishouldthinkhe’sfarawaybythistime,”opinedtheChiefInspector.
The Assistant Commissioner looked hard at him, and rose suddenly, as thoughhavingmadeuphismindtosomecourseofaction.Asamatteroffact,hehadthatvery moment succumbed to a fascinating temptation. The Chief Inspector heardhimself dismissed with instructions to meet his superior early next morning forfurther consultation upon the case. He listened with an impenetrable face, andwalkedoutoftheroomwithmeasuredsteps.
Whatever might have been the plans of the Assistant Commissioner they hadnothingtodowiththatdeskwork,whichwasthebaneofhisexistencebecauseofitsconfined nature and apparent lack of reality. It could not have had, or else thegeneralairofalacritythatcameupontheAssistantCommissionerwouldhavebeeninexplicable.Assoonashewasleftalonehelookedforhishatimpulsively,andputitonhishead.Havingdonethat,hesatdownagaintoreconsiderthewholematter.But as hismindwas alreadymade up, this did not take long. And before ChiefInspectorHeathadgoneveryfaronthewayhome,healsoleftthebuilding.
CHAPTERVII
The Assistant Commissioner walked along a short and narrow street like a wet,muddytrench,thencrossingaverybroadthoroughfareenteredapublicedifice,andsoughtspeechwithayoungprivatesecretary(unpaid)ofagreatpersonage.
Thisfair,smooth-facedyoungman,whosesymmetricallyarrangedhairgavehimtheairofalargeandneatschoolboy,mettheAssistantCommissioner ’srequestwithadoubtfullook,andspokewithbatedbreath.
“Wouldheseeyou?Idon’tknowaboutthat.HehaswalkedoverfromtheHouseanhouragototalkwiththepermanentUnder-Secretary,andnowhe’sreadytowalkback again. He might have sent for him; but he does it for the sake of a littleexercise,Isuppose.It’salltheexercisehecanfindtimeforwhilethissessionlasts.Idon’tcomplain;Iratherenjoytheselittlestrolls.Heleansonmyarm,anddoesn’topenhislips.But,Isay,he’sverytired,and—well—notinthesweetestoftempersjustnow.”
“It’sinconnectionwiththatGreenwichaffair.”
“Oh!Isay!He’sverybitteragainstyoupeople.ButIwillgoandsee,ifyouinsist.”
“Do.That’sagoodfellow,”saidtheAssistantCommissioner.
Theunpaidsecretaryadmiredthispluck.Composingforhimselfaninnocentface,heopenedadoor,andwentinwiththeassuranceofaniceandprivilegedchild.Andpresently he reappeared, with a nod to the Assistant Commissioner, who passingthroughthesamedoorleftopenforhim,foundhimselfwiththegreatpersonageinalargeroom.
Vast inbulkandstature,witha longwhiteface,which,broadenedat thebasebyabig double chin, appeared egg-shaped in the fringe of thin greyish whisker, thegreatpersonageseemedanexpandingman.Unfortunatefromatailoringpointofview,thecross-foldsinthemiddleofabuttonedblackcoataddedtotheimpression,as if the fastenings of the garment were tried to the utmost. From the head, setupwardonathickneck,theeyes,withpuffylowerlids,staredwithahaughtydroopon each side of a hooked aggressive nose, nobly salient in the vast pale
circumferenceoftheface.Ashinysilkhatandapairofworngloveslyingreadyontheendofalongtablelookedexpandedtoo,enormous.
Hestoodonthehearthruginbig,roomyboots,andutterednowordofgreeting.
“Iwould like toknow if this is thebeginningof anotherdynamite campaign,”heaskedatonceinadeep,verysmoothvoice.“Don’tgointodetails.Ihavenotimeforthat.”
TheAssistant Commissioner ’s figure before this big and rustic Presence had thefrailslendernessofareedaddressinganoak.Andindeedtheunbrokenrecordofthatman’sdescentsurpassedinthenumberofcenturiestheageoftheoldestoakinthecountry.
“No.AsfarasonecanbepositiveaboutanythingIcanassureyouthatitisnot.”
“Yes. But your idea of assurances over there,” said the great man, with acontemptuous wave of his hand towards a window giving on the broadthoroughfare, “seems to consist mainly in making the Secretary of State look afool. I have been told positively in this very room less than a month ago thatnothingofthesortwasevenpossible.”
TheAssistantCommissionerglancedinthedirectionofthewindowcalmly.
“Youwillallowmetoremark,SirEthelred,thatsofarIhavehadnoopportunitytogiveyouassurancesofanykind.”
ThehaughtydroopoftheeyeswasfocussednowupontheAssistantCommissioner.
“True,”confessedthedeep,smoothvoice. “IsentforHeat. Youarestill ratheranoviceinyournewberth.Andhowareyougettingonoverthere?”
“IbelieveIamlearningsomethingeveryday.”
“Ofcourse,ofcourse.Ihopeyouwillgeton.”
“Thankyou,SirEthelred. I’ve learnedsomething to-day,andevenwithin the lasthourorso. There ismuch in thisaffairofakind thatdoesnotmeet theeye inausualanarchistoutrage,evenifonelookedintoitasdeepascanbe.That’swhyIamhere.”
Thegreatmanputhisarmsakimbo,thebacksofhisbighandsrestingonhiships.
“Verywell.Goon.Onlynodetails,pray.Sparemethedetails.”
“You shall not be troubledwith them, Sir Ethelred,” the Assistant Commissionerbegan,withacalmanduntroubledassurance.Whilehewasspeakingthehandsonthe face of the clock behind the great man’s back—a heavy, glistening affair of
massive scrolls in the same dark marble as the mantelpiece, and with a ghostly,evanescenttick—hadmovedthroughthespaceofsevenminutes. Hespokewithastudiousfidelitytoaparentheticalmanner,intowhicheverylittlefact—thatis,everydetail—fittedwith delightful ease. Not amurmurnor even amovement hinted atinterruption. The great Personagemight have been the statue of one of his ownprincely ancestors strippedof a crusader ’swar harness, andput into an ill-fittingfrockcoat.TheAssistantCommissionerfeltasthoughhewereatlibertytotalkforanhour.Buthekepthishead,andattheendofthetimementionedabovehebrokeoffwithasuddenconclusion,which,reproducingtheopeningstatement,pleasantlysurprisedSirEthelredbyitsapparentswiftnessandforce.
“Thekindofthingwhichmeetsusunderthesurfaceofthisaffair,otherwisewithoutgravity,isunusual—inthispreciseformatleast—andrequiresspecialtreatment.”
ThetoneofSirEthelredwasdeepened,fullofconviction.
“Ishouldthinkso—involvingtheAmbassadorofaforeignpower!”
“Oh!TheAmbassador!”protestedtheother,erectandslender,allowinghimselfamerehalfsmile.“Itwouldbestupidofmetoadvanceanythingofthekind.Anditis absolutely unnecessary, because if I am right in my surmises, whetherambassadororhallporterit’sameredetail.”
Sir Ethelred opened a wide mouth, like a cavern, into which the hooked noseseemed anxious to peer; there came from it a subdued rolling sound, as from adistantorganwiththescornfulindignationstop.
“No! These people are too impossible. What do they mean by importing theirmethodsofCrim-Tartaryhere?ATurkwouldhavemoredecency.”
“You forget, Sir Ethelred, that strictly speaking we know nothing positively—asyet.”
“No!Buthowwouldyoudefineit?Shortly?”
“Barefacedaudacityamountingtochildishnessofapeculiarsort.”
“We can’t put up with the innocence of nasty little children,” said the great andexpanded personage, expanding a little more, as it were. The haughty droopingglancestruckcrushinglythecarpetat theAssistantCommissioner ’sfeet. “They’llhavetogetahardrapontheknucklesoverthisaffair.Wemustbeinapositionto—Whatisyourgeneralidea,statedshortly?Noneedtogointodetails.”
“No, Sir Ethelred. In principle, I should lay it down that the existence of secretagentsshouldnotbetolerated,astendingtoaugmentthepositivedangersoftheevilagainstwhichtheyareused. That thespywill fabricatehis informationisamere
commonplace. But in the sphere of political and revolutionary action, relyingpartlyonviolence,theprofessionalspyhaseveryfacilitytofabricatetheveryfactsthemselves, andwill spread the double evil of emulation in one direction, and ofpanic, hasty legislation, unreflecting hate, on the other. However, this is animperfectworld—”
Thedeep-voicedPresenceonthehearthrug,motionless,withbigelbowsstuckout,saidhastily:
“Belucid,please.”
“Yes, Sir Ethelred—An imperfectworld. Therefore directly the character of thisaffairsuggesteditselftome,Ithoughtitshouldbedealtwithwithspecialsecrecy,andventuredtocomeoverhere.”
“That’sright,”approvedthegreatPersonage,glancingdowncomplacentlyoverhisdouble chin. “I amglad there’s somebodyover at your shopwho thinks that theSecretaryofStatemaybetrustednowandthen.”
TheAssistantCommissionerhadanamusedsmile.
“IwasreallythinkingthatitmightbebetteratthisstageforHeattobereplacedby—”
“What!Heat?Anass—eh?”exclaimedthegreatman,withdistinctanimosity.
“Notatall.Pray,SirEthelred,don’tputthatunjustinterpretationonmyremarks.”
“Thenwhat?Toocleverbyhalf?”
“Neither—atleastnotasarule.AllthegroundsofmysurmisesIhavefromhim.TheonlythingI’vediscoveredbymyselfisthathehasbeenmakinguseofthatmanprivately. Whocouldblamehim? He’sanoldpolicehand. He toldmevirtuallythat hemust have tools toworkwith. It occurred tome that this tool should besurrendered to the Special Crimes division as a whole, instead of remaining theprivate property of Chief Inspector Heat. I extend my conception of ourdepartmentaldutiestothesuppressionofthesecretagent.ButChiefInspectorHeatis an old departmental hand. Hewould accuseme of perverting itsmorality andattacking its efficiency. Hewould define it bitterly as protection extended to thecriminalclassofrevolutionists.Itwouldmeanjustthattohim.”
“Yes.Butwhatdoyoumean?”
“Imeantosay,first,thatthere’sbutpoorcomfortinbeingabletodeclarethatanygiven act of violence—damagingpropertyor destroying life—isnot theworkofanarchism at all, but of something else altogether—some species of authorised
scoundrelism. This, I fancy, ismuchmore frequent thanwe suppose. Next, it’sobvious that the existence of these people in the pay of foreign governmentsdestroys in a measure the efficiency of our supervision. A spy of that sort canaffordtobemorerecklessthanthemostrecklessofconspirators.Hisoccupationisfree from all restraint. He’s without asmuch faith as is necessary for completenegation, and without that much law as is implied in lawlessness. Thirdly, theexistenceofthesespiesamongsttherevolutionarygroups,whichwearereproachedforharbouringhere,doesawaywithallcertitude.YouhavereceivedareassuringstatementfromChiefInspectorHeatsometimeago.Itwasbynomeansgroundless—andyetthisepisodehappens.Icallitanepisode,becausethisaffair,Imakeboldto say, is episodic; it is no part of any general scheme, howeverwild. The verypeculiaritieswhichsurpriseandperplexChiefInspectorHeatestablishitscharacterinmyeyes.Iamkeepingclearofdetails,SirEthelred.”
ThePersonageonthehearthrughadbeenlisteningwithprofoundattention.
“Justso.Beasconciseasyoucan.”
TheAssistantCommissionerintimatedbyanearnestdeferentialgesturethathewasanxioustobeconcise.
“Thereisapeculiarstupidityandfeeblenessintheconductofthisaffairwhichgivesme excellent hopes of getting behind it and finding there something else than anindividual freakof fanaticism. For it isaplanned thing,undoubtedly. Theactualperpetrator seems to have been led by the hand to the spot, and then abandonedhurriedly tohisowndevices. The inference is thathewas imported fromabroadforthepurposeofcommittingthisoutrage. AtthesametimeoneisforcedtotheconclusionthathedidnotknowenoughEnglishtoaskhisway,unlessoneweretoacceptthefantastictheorythathewasadeafmute.Iwondernow—Butthisisidle.Hehasdestroyedhimselfbyanaccident,obviously.Notanextraordinaryaccident.Butanextraordinary little fact remains: theaddressonhisclothingdiscoveredbythe merest accident, too. It is an incredible little fact, so incredible that theexplanationwhichwill account for it is bound to touch the bottomof this affair.Instead of instructing Heat to go on with this case, my intention is to seek thisexplanationpersonally—bymyself,Imean—whereitmaybepickedup.ThatisinacertainshopinBrettStreet,andonthelipsofacertainsecretagentonceuponatimetheconfidentialandtrustedspyofthelateBaronStott-Wartenheim,AmbassadorofaGreatPowertotheCourtofStJames.”
The Assistant Commissioner paused, then added: “Those fellows are a perfectpest.”Inordertoraisehisdroopingglancetothespeaker ’sface,thePersonageonthehearthrughadgraduallytiltedhisheadfartherback,whichgavehimanaspectofextraordinaryhaughtiness.
“WhynotleaveittoHeat?”
“Becauseheisanolddepartmentalhand.Theyhavetheirownmorality.Mylineofinquirywouldappeartohimanawfulperversionofduty.Forhimtheplaindutyisto fasten the guilt upon as many prominent anarchists as he can on some slightindicationshehadpickedupinthecourseofhisinvestigationonthespot;whereasI,hewouldsay,ambentuponvindicatingtheirinnocence.IamtryingtobeaslucidasIcaninpresentingthisobscuremattertoyouwithoutdetails.”
“He would, would he?” muttered the proud head of Sir Ethelred from its loftyelevation.
“I am afraid so—with an indignation and disgust ofwhich you or I can have noidea. He’s an excellent servant. Wemust not put an undue strain on his loyalty.That’salwaysamistake.Besides,Iwantafreehand—afreerhandthanitwouldbeperhapsadvisabletogiveChiefInspectorHeat.Ihaven’ttheslightestwishtosparethismanVerloc. Hewill, I imagine, be extremely startled to find his connectionwiththisaffair,whatever itmaybe,broughthometohimsoquickly. Frighteninghimwillnotbeverydifficult.Butourtrueobjectiveliesbehindhimsomewhere.Iwantyourauthority togivehimsuchassurancesofpersonalsafetyasImaythinkproper.”
“Certainly,” said thePersonage on the hearthrug. “Find out asmuch as you can;finditoutinyourownway.”
“I must set about it without loss of time, this very evening,” said the AssistantCommissioner.
SirEthelredshiftedonehandunderhiscoattails,andtiltingbackhishead,lookedathimsteadily.
“We’ll have a late sitting to-night,” he said. “Come to the House with yourdiscoveriesifwearenotgonehome.I’llwarnToodlestolookoutforyou.He’lltakeyouintomyroom.”
The numerous family and the wide connections of the youthful-looking PrivateSecretarycherishedforhimthehopeofanaustereandexalteddestiny. Meantimethe social sphere he adorned in his hours of idleness chose to pet him under theabovenickname.AndSirEthelred,hearingitonthelipsofhiswifeandgirlseveryday (mostly at breakfast-time), had conferred upon it the dignity of unsmilingadoption.
TheAssistantCommissionerwassurprisedandgratifiedextremely.
“IshallcertainlybringmydiscoveriestotheHouseonthechanceofyouhavingthe
timeto—”
“Iwon’t have the time,” interrupted the great Personage. “But I will see you. Ihaven’tthetimenow—Andyouaregoingyourself?”
“Yes,SirEthelred.Ithinkitthebestway.”
ThePersonage had tilted his head so far back that, in order to keep theAssistantCommissionerunderhisobservation,hehadtonearlyclosehiseyes.
“H’m.Ha!Andhowdoyoupropose—Willyouassumeadisguise?”
“Hardlyadisguise!I’llchangemyclothes,ofcourse.”
“Of course,” repeated the greatman, with a sort of absent-minded loftiness. Heturnedhisbigheadslowly,andoverhisshouldergaveahaughtyobliquestaretotheponderousmarbletimepiecewiththesly,feebletick. Thegilthandshadtakentheopportunitytostealthroughnolessthanfiveandtwentyminutesbehindhisback.
TheAssistantCommissioner,whocouldnotsee them,grewalittlenervousin theinterval.Butthegreatmanpresentedtohimacalmandundismayedface.
“Verywell,”hesaid,andpaused,asifindeliberatecontemptoftheofficialclock.“Butwhatfirstputyouinmotioninthisdirection?”
“Ihavebeenalwaysofopinion,”begantheAssistantCommissioner.
“Ah.Yes!Opinion.That’sofcourse.Buttheimmediatemotive?”
“WhatshallIsay,SirEthelred?Anewman’santagonismtooldmethods.Adesireto know something at first hand. Some impatience. It’s my old work, but theharnessisdifferent.Ithasbeenchafingmealittleinoneortwotenderplaces.”
“Ihopeyou’llgetonoverthere,”saidthegreatmankindly,extendinghishand,softto the touch, but broad and powerful like the hand of a glorified farmer. TheAssistantCommissionershookit,andwithdrew.
In theouter roomToodles,whohadbeenwaitingperchedon theedgeofa table,advancedtomeethim,subduinghisnaturalbuoyancy.
“Well?Satisfactory?”heasked,withairyimportance.
“Perfectly. You’ve earned my undying gratitude,” answered the AssistantCommissioner, whose long face looked wooden in contrast with the peculiarcharacter of the other ’s gravity, which seemed perpetually ready to break intoripplesandchuckles.
“That’sallright.Butseriously,youcan’timaginehowirritatedheisbytheattacks
onhisBillfortheNationalisationofFisheries.Theycallitthebeginningofsocialrevolution. Of course, it is a revolutionarymeasure. But these fellows have nodecency.Thepersonalattacks—”
“Ireadthepapers,”remarkedtheAssistantCommissioner.
“Odious? Eh? And you have no notionwhat amass ofwork he has got to getthrougheveryday.Hedoesitallhimself.SeemsunabletotrustanyonewiththeseFisheries.”
“Andyethe’sgivenawholehalfhourtotheconsiderationofmyverysmallsprat,”interjectedtheAssistantCommissioner.
“Small!Isit?I’mgladtohearthat.Butit’sapityyoudidn’tkeepaway,then.Thisfight takes itoutofhimfrightfully. Theman’sgettingexhausted. I feel itby theway he leans onmy arm aswewalk over. And, I say, is he safe in the streets?Mullins has beenmarching his men up here this afternoon. There’s a constablestuckbyeverylamp-post,andeverysecondpersonwemeetbetweenthisandPalaceYard is anobvious ‘tec.’ Itwill get onhis nerves presently. I say, these foreignscoundrels aren’t likely to throw something at him—are they? It would be anationalcalamity.Thecountrycan’tsparehim.”
“Not to mention yourself. He leans on your arm,” suggested the AssistantCommissionersoberly.“Youwouldbothgo.”
“Itwouldbeaneasywayforayoungmantogodownintohistory?NotsomanyBritish Ministers have been assassinated as to make it a minor incident. Butseriouslynow—”
“Iamafraidthat ifyouwanttogodownintohistoryyou’llhavetodosomethingforit.Seriously,there’snodangerwhateverforbothofyoubutfromoverwork.”
ThesympatheticToodleswelcomedthisopeningforachuckle.
“TheFisherieswon’tkillme.Iamusedtolatehours,”hedeclared,withingenuouslevity.But,feelinganinstantcompunction,hebegantoassumeanairofstatesman-like moodiness, as one draws on a glove. “His massive intellect will stand anyamountofwork.It’shisnervesthatIamafraidof.Thereactionarygang,withthatabusivebruteCheesemanattheirhead,insulthimeverynight.”
“If he will insist on beginning a revolution!” murmured the AssistantCommissioner.
“Thetimehascome,andheistheonlymangreatenoughforthework,”protestedthe revolutionary Toodles, flaring up under the calm, speculative gaze of theAssistantCommissioner. Somewhere inacorridoradistantbell tinkledurgently,
andwithdevotedvigilancetheyoungmanprickeduphisearsatthesound.“He’sreadytogonow,”heexclaimedinawhisper,snatcheduphishat,andvanishedfromtheroom.
The Assistant Commissioner went out by another door in a less elastic manner.Again he crossed the wide thoroughfare, walked along a narrow street, and re-enteredhastilyhisowndepartmentalbuildings.Hekeptupthisacceleratedpacetothe door of his private room. Before he had closed it fairly his eyes sought hisdesk.Hestoodstillforamoment,thenwalkedup,lookedallroundonthefloor,satdowninhischair,rangabell,andwaited.
“ChiefInspectorHeatgoneyet?”
“Yes,sir.Wentawayhalf-an-hourago.”
Henodded.“Thatwilldo.”Andsittingstill,withhishatpushedoffhisforehead,hethought that itwas just likeHeat’s confoundedcheek tocarryoffquietly theonlypieceofmaterialevidence.Buthethoughtthiswithoutanimosity.Oldandvaluedservantswill take liberties. The piece of overcoatwith the address sewn onwascertainlynotathingtoleaveabout.DismissingfromhismindthismanifestationofChiefInspectorHeat’smistrust,hewroteanddespatchedanotetohiswife,charginghertomakehisapologiestoMichaelis’greatlady,withwhomtheywereengagedtodinethatevening.
The short jacket and the low, round hat he assumed in a sort of curtained alcovecontainingawashstand,arowofwoodenpegsandashelf,broughtoutwonderfullythelengthofhisgrave,brownface.Hesteppedbackintothefulllightoftheroom,lookinglikethevisionofacool,reflectiveDonQuixote,withthesunkeneyesofadarkenthusiastandaverydeliberatemanner.Heleftthesceneofhisdailylaboursquicklylikeanunobtrusiveshadow.Hisdescentintothestreetwaslikethedescentintoa slimyaquariumfromwhich thewaterhadbeen runoff. Amurky,gloomydampness enveloped him. The walls of the houses were wet, the mud of theroadwayglistenedwithaneffectofphosphorescence,andwhenheemergedintotheStrandoutofanarrowstreetbythesideofCharingCrossStationthegeniusofthelocalityassimilatedhim.Hemighthavebeenbutonemoreofthequeerforeignfishthatcanbeseenofaneveningaboutthereflittingroundthedarkcorners.
Hecametoastandontheveryedgeofthepavement,andwaited.Hisexercisedeyeshad made out in the confused movements of lights and shadows thronging theroadway thecrawlingapproachofahansom. Hegavenosign;butwhen the lowstepglidingalongthecurbstonecametohisfeethedodgedinskilfullyinfrontofthebig turningwheel,andspokeup through the little trapdooralmostbefore themangazingsupinelyaheadfromhisperchwasawareofhavingbeenboardedbya
fare.
Itwasnotalongdrive.Itendedbysignalabruptly,nowhereinparticular,betweentwo lamp-posts before a large drapery establishment—a long range of shopsalready lapped up in sheets of corrugated iron for the night. Tendering a cointhrough the trapdoor thefareslippedoutandaway, leavinganeffectofuncanny,eccentric ghastliness upon the driver ’s mind. But the size of the coin wassatisfactory to his touch, and his education not being literary, he remaineduntroubledby the fear of finding it presently turned to a dead leaf in his pocket.Raisedabovetheworldoffaresbythenatureofhiscalling,hecontemplatedtheiractionswithalimitedinterest.Thesharppullingofhishorserightroundexpressedhisphilosophy.
MeantimetheAssistantCommissionerwasalreadygivinghisordertoawaiterinalittle Italian restaurant round the corner—one of those traps for the hungry, longandnarrow,baitedwithaperspectiveofmirrorsandwhitenapery;withoutair,butwithanatmosphereoftheirown—anatmosphereoffraudulentcookerymockinganabjectmankind in themost pressingof itsmiserablenecessities. In this immoralatmosphere theAssistantCommissioner, reflectinguponhisenterprise, seemed tolosesomemoreofhis identity. Hehadasenseof loneliness,ofevil freedom. Itwasratherpleasant.When,afterpayingforhisshortmeal,hestoodupandwaitedforhischange,hesawhimselfinthesheetofglass,andwasstruckbyhisforeignappearance. He contemplated his own image with a melancholy and inquisitivegaze, thenbysudden inspirationraised thecollarofhis jacket. Thisarrangementappearedtohimcommendable,andhecompleteditbygivinganupwardtwisttotheends of his blackmoustache. He was satisfied by the subtlemodification of hispersonalaspectcausedbythesesmallchanges.“That’lldoverywell,”hethought.“I’llgetalittlewet,alittlesplashed—”
Hebecameawareofthewaiterathiselbowandofasmallpileofsilvercoinsontheedge of the table before him. Thewaiter kept one eye on it,while his other eyefollowed the long back of a tall, not very young girl,who passed up to a distanttablelookingperfectlysightlessandaltogetherunapproachable.Sheseemedtobeahabitualcustomer.
OngoingouttheAssistantCommissionermadetohimselftheobservationthatthepatrons of the place had lost in the frequentation of fraudulent cookery all theirnationalandprivatecharacteristics.Andthiswasstrange,sincetheItalianrestaurantissuchapeculiarlyBritish institution. But thesepeoplewereasdenationalisedasthe dishes set before them with every circumstance of unstamped respectability.Neither was their personality stamped in any way, professionally, socially orracially.TheyseemedcreatedfortheItalianrestaurant,unlesstheItalianrestaurant
hadbeenperchancecreatedforthem.Butthatlasthypothesiswasunthinkable,sinceonecouldnotplacethemanywhereoutsidethosespecialestablishments.Onenevermettheseenigmaticalpersonselsewhere.Itwasimpossibletoformapreciseideawhatoccupationstheyfollowedbydayandwheretheywenttobedatnight.Andhehimselfhadbecomeunplaced.Itwouldhavebeenimpossibleforanybodytoguesshisoccupation. Astogoingtobed,therewasadoubteveninhisownmind. Notindeedinregardtohisdomicileitself,butverymuchsoinrespectofthetimewhenhewouldbeabletoreturnthere.Apleasurablefeelingofindependencepossessedhimwhenheheardtheglassdoorsswingtobehindhisbackwithasortofimperfectbaffled thud. He advanced at once into an immensity of greasy slime and dampplasterinterspersedwithlamps,andenveloped,oppressed,penetrated,choked,andsuffocatedbytheblacknessofawetLondonnight,whichiscomposedofsootanddropsofwater.
BrettStreetwasnotveryfaraway.Itbranchedoff,narrow,fromthesideofanopentriangular space surrounded by dark and mysterious houses, temples of pettycommerce emptied of traders for the night. Only a fruiterer ’s stall at the cornermadeaviolentblazeoflightandcolour.Beyondallwasblack,andthefewpeoplepassinginthatdirectionvanishedatonestridebeyondtheglowingheapsoforangesand lemons. No footsteps echoed. They would never be heard of again. Theadventurousheadof theSpecialCrimesDepartmentwatched thesedisappearancesfromadistancewithaninterestedeye.Hefeltlight-hearted,asthoughhehadbeenambushedall alone in a junglemany thousandsofmiles away fromdepartmentaldesks andofficial inkstands. This joyousness anddispersion of thought before ataskofsomeimportanceseemstoprovethatthisworldofoursisnotsuchaveryserious affair after all. For the Assistant Commissioner was not constitutionallyinclinedtolevity.
The policeman on the beat projected his sombre and moving form against theluminousgloryoforangesandlemons,andenteredBrettStreetwithouthaste.TheAssistant Commissioner, as though he were a member of the criminal classes,lingeredoutofsight,awaitinghisreturn. Butthisconstableseemedtobelostforevertotheforce. Heneverreturned:musthavegoneoutattheotherendofBrettStreet.
TheAssistantCommissioner,reachingthisconclusion,enteredthestreetinhisturn,and came upon a large van arrested in front of the dimly lit window-panes of acarter ’seating-house.Themanwasrefreshinghimselfinside,andthehorses,theirbigheadsloweredtotheground,fedoutofnose-bagssteadily.Fartheron,ontheopposite side of the street, another suspect patch of dim light issued from MrVerloc’sshopfront,hungwithpapers,heavingwithvaguepilesofcardboardboxesandtheshapesofbooks.TheAssistantCommissionerstoodobservingitacrossthe
roadway.Therecouldbenomistake.Bythesideofthefrontwindow,encumberedby the shadows of nondescript things, the door, standing ajar, let escape on thepavementanarrow,clearstreakofgas-lightwithin.
Behind the Assistant Commissioner the van and horses, merged into one mass,seemed something alive—a square-backed blackmonster blocking half the street,with sudden iron-shod stampings, fierce jingles, and heavy, blowing sighs. Theharshlyfestive,ill-omenedglareofalargeandprosperouspublic-housefacedtheother end of Brett Street across a wide road. This barrier of blazing lights,opposing the shadows gathered about the humble abode ofMrVerloc’s domestichappiness,seemedtodrivetheobscurityofthestreetbackuponitself,makeitmoresullen,brooding,andsinister.
CHAPTERVIII
Havinginfusedbypersistentimportunitiessomesortofheatintothechillyinterestof several licensed victuallers (the acquaintances once upon a time of her lateunluckyhusband),MrsVerloc’smotherhadatlastsecuredheradmissiontocertainalmshousesfoundedbyawealthyinnkeeperforthedestitutewidowsofthetrade.
This end, conceived in the astuteness of her uneasy heart, the old woman hadpursued with secrecy and determination. That was the time when her daughterWinnie could not help passing a remark to Mr Verloc that “mother has beenspending half-crowns and five shillings almost every day this last week in cabfares.” But the remarkwasnotmadegrudgingly. Winnie respectedhermother ’sinfirmities.Shewasonlyalittlesurprisedatthissuddenmaniaforlocomotion.MrVerloc, who was sufficiently magnificent in his way, had grunted the remarkimpatientlyasideasinterferingwithhismeditations.Thesewerefrequent,deep,andprolonged; theyboreuponamattermoreimportant thanfiveshillings. Distinctlymore important, and beyond all comparison more difficult to consider in all itsaspectswithphilosophicalserenity.
Herobjectattainedinastutesecrecy,theheroicoldwomanhadmadeacleanbreastofittoMrsVerloc.Hersoulwastriumphantandherhearttremulous.Inwardlyshequaked,becauseshedreadedandadmiredthecalm,self-containedcharacterofherdaughter Winnie, whose displeasure was made redoubtable by a diversity ofdreadfulsilences.Butshedidnotallowherinwardapprehensionstorobheroftheadvantageofvenerableplacidityconferreduponheroutwardpersonbyher triplechin,thefloatingamplenessofherancientform,andtheimpotentconditionofherlegs.
TheshockoftheinformationwassounexpectedthatMrsVerloc,againstherusualpractice when addressed, interrupted the domestic occupation she was engagedupon.Itwasthedustingofthefurnitureintheparlourbehindtheshop.Sheturnedherheadtowardshermother.
“Whateverdidyouwanttodothatfor?”sheexclaimed,inscandalisedastonishment.
The shock must have been severe to make her depart from that distant and
uninquiringacceptanceoffactswhichwasherforceandhersafeguardinlife.
“Weren’tyoumadecomfortableenoughhere?”
Shehad lapsed into these inquiries,butnextmoment she saved theconsistencyofher conduct by resuming her dusting, while the oldwoman sat scared and dumbunderherdingywhitecapandlustrelessdarkwig.
Winniefinishedthechair,andranthedusteralongthemahoganyatthebackofthehorse-hairsofaonwhichMrVerloclovedtotakehiseaseinhatandovercoat.Shewasintentonherwork,butpresentlyshepermittedherselfanotherquestion.
“Howintheworlddidyoumanageit,mother?”
As not affecting the inwardness of things,which itwasMrsVerloc’s principle toignore, this curiosity was excusable. It bore merely on the methods. The oldwomanwelcomed it eagerly as bringing forward something that could be talkedaboutwithmuchsincerity.
Shefavouredherdaughterbyanexhaustiveanswer,fullofnamesandenrichedbyside comments upon the ravages of time as observed in the alteration of humancountenances. The names were principally the names of licensed victuallers—“poordaddy’sfriends,mydear.” Sheenlargedwithspecialappreciationonthekindnessandcondescensionofalargebrewer,aBaronetandanM.P.,theChairmanoftheGovernorsoftheCharity.Sheexpressedherselfthuswarmlybecauseshehadbeen allowed to interview by appointment his Private Secretary—“a very politegentleman,allinblack,withagentle,sadvoice,butsovery,verythinandquiet.Hewaslikeashadow,mydear.”
Winnie,prolongingherdustingoperations till the talewastold to theend,walkedoutoftheparlourintothekitchen(downtwosteps)inherusualmanner,withouttheslightestcomment.
Shedding a few tears in sign of rejoicing at her daughter ’s mansuetude in thisterribleaffair,MrsVerloc’smothergaveplay toherastuteness in thedirectionofher furniture, because itwas her own; and sometimes shewished it hadn’t been.Heroism is all verywell, but there are circumstanceswhen the disposal of a fewtablesandchairs,brassbedsteads,andsoon,maybebigwithremoteanddisastrousconsequences.Sherequiredafewpiecesherself,theFoundationwhich,aftermanyimportunities, had gathered her to its charitable breast, giving nothing but bareplanks and cheaply papered bricks to the objects of its solicitude. The delicacyguiding her choice to the least valuable and most dilapidated articles passedunacknowledged,becauseWinnie’sphilosophyconsistedinnottakingnoticeoftheinsideoffacts;sheassumedthatmothertookwhatsuitedherbest.AstoMrVerloc,
hisintensemeditation,likeasortofChinesewall,isolatedhimcompletelyfromthephenomenaofthisworldofvaineffortandillusoryappearances.
Her selection made, the disposal of the rest became a perplexing question in aparticular way. She was leaving it in Brett Street, of course. But she had twochildren. Winnie was provided for by her sensible union with that excellenthusband,MrVerloc.Steviewasdestitute—andalittlepeculiar.Hispositionhadtobe considered before the claims of legal justice and even the promptings ofpartiality. Thepossessionof thefurniturewouldnotbe inanysenseaprovision.Heoughttohaveit—thepoorboy. Buttogiveit tohimwouldbeliketamperingwithhispositionofcompletedependence.Itwasasortofclaimwhichshefearedtoweaken.Moreover,thesusceptibilitiesofMrVerlocwouldperhapsnotbrookbeingbeholden to his brother-in-law for the chairs he sat on. In a long experience ofgentlemenlodgers,MrsVerloc’smotherhadacquiredadismalbutresignednotionofthefantasticsideofhumannature. WhatifMrVerlocsuddenlytookit intohisheadtotellStevietotakehisblessedstickssomewhereoutofthat?Adivision,onthe other hand, however carefully made, might give some cause of offence toWinnie. No, Steviemust remain destitute and dependent. And at themoment ofleavingBrettStreetshehadsaidtoherdaughter:“NousewaitingtillIamdead,isthere?EverythingIleavehereisaltogetheryourownnow,mydear.”
Winnie, with her hat on, silent behind her mother ’s back, went on arranging thecollar of the old woman’s cloak. She got her hand-bag, an umbrella, with animpassive face. The timehad come for the expenditure of the sumof three-and-sixpence on what might well be supposed the last cab drive of Mrs Verloc’smother ’slife.Theywentoutattheshopdoor.
Theconveyanceawaitingthemwouldhaveillustratedtheproverbthat“truthcanbemorecruelthancaricature,”ifsuchaproverbexisted.Crawlingbehindaninfirmhorse, a metropolitan hackney carriage drew up on wobbly wheels and with amaimed driver on the box. This last peculiarity caused some embarrassment.Catchingsightofahookedironcontrivanceprotrudingfromtheleftsleeveoftheman’s coat,MrsVerloc’smother lost suddenly the heroic courage of these days.She really couldn’t trust herself. “Whatdoyou think,Winnie?” Shehungback.Thepassionateexpostulationsofthebig-facedcabmanseemedtobesqueezedoutofa blocked throat. Leaning over from his box, he whispered with mysteriousindignation. Whatwas thematter now? Was it possible to treat aman so? Hisenormousandunwashedcountenanceflamedredinthemuddystretchofthestreet.Wasitlikelytheywouldhavegivenhimalicence,heinquireddesperately,if—
The police constable of the locality quieted him by a friendly glance; thenaddressinghimselftothetwowomenwithoutmarkedconsideration,said:
“He’sbeendrivingacabfortwentyyears.Ineverknewhimtohaveanaccident.”
“Accident!”shoutedthedriverinascornfulwhisper.
The policeman’s testimony settled it. The modest assemblage of seven people,mostly under age, dispersed. Winnie followed her mother into the cab. Stevieclimbedonthebox.Hisvacantmouthanddistressedeyesdepictedthestateofhismindinregardtothetransactionswhichweretakingplace.Inthenarrowstreetstheprogressofthejourneywasmadesensibletothosewithinbythenearfrontsofthehousesglidingpastslowlyandshakily,withagreatrattleandjinglingofglass,asifabouttocollapsebehindthecab;andtheinfirmhorse,withtheharnesshungoverhis sharp backbone flapping very loose about his thighs, appeared to be dancingmincingly on his toes with infinite patience. Later on, in the wider space ofWhitehall, all visual evidences of motion became imperceptible. The rattle andjingleofglasswentonindefinitelyinfrontofthelongTreasurybuilding—andtimeitselfseemedtostandstill.
AtlastWinnieobserved:“Thisisn’taverygoodhorse.”
Hereyesgleamedintheshadowofthecabstraightahead,immovable.Onthebox,Stevieshuthisvacantmouthfirst,inordertoejaculateearnestly:“Don’t.”
Thedriver,holdinghighthereinstwistedaroundthehook,tooknonotice.Perhapshehadnotheard.Stevie’sbreastheaved.
“Don’twhip.”
Themanturnedslowlyhisbloatedandsoddenfaceofmanycoloursbristlingwithwhitehairs. His little red eyesglistenedwithmoisture. Hisbig lipshad aviolettint. They remained closed. With the dirty back of hiswhip-hand he rubbed thestubblesproutingonhisenormouschin.
“Youmustn’t,”stammeredoutStevieviolently.“Ithurts.”
“Mustn’t whip,” queried the other in a thoughtful whisper, and immediatelywhipped.Hedidthis,notbecausehissoulwascruelandhisheartevil,butbecausehehadtoearnhisfare.AndforatimethewallsofStStephen’s,withitstowersandpinnacles,contemplatedinimmobilityandsilenceacabthatjingled.Itrolledtoo,however.Butonthebridgetherewasacommotion.Steviesuddenlyproceededtogetdownfromthebox. Therewereshoutson thepavement,people ranforward,the driver pulled up,whispering curses of indignation and astonishment. Winnieloweredthewindow,andputherheadout,whiteasaghost.Inthedepthsofthecab,hermotherwasexclaiming,intonesofanguish:“Isthatboyhurt?Isthatboyhurt?”
Steviewasnothurt,hehadnotevenfallen,butexcitementasusualhadrobbedhim
of the power of connected speech. He could do no more than stammer at thewindow.“Tooheavy.Tooheavy.”Winnieputoutherhandontohisshoulder.
“Stevie!Getupontheboxdirectly,anddon’ttrytogetdownagain.”
“No.No.Walk.Mustwalk.”
In trying to state the nature of that necessity he stammered himself into utterincoherence.Nophysicalimpossibilitystoodinthewayofhiswhim.Steviecouldhavemanagedeasilytokeeppacewiththeinfirm,dancinghorsewithoutgettingoutofbreath.Buthissisterwithheldherconsentdecisively.“Theidea!Whoeverheardofsuchathing!Runafteracab!”Hermother,frightenedandhelplessinthedepthsoftheconveyance,entreated:“Oh,don’tlethim,Winnie. He’llgetlost. Don’tlethim.”
“Certainlynot.Whatnext!MrVerlocwillbesorrytohearofthisnonsense,Stevie,—Icantellyou.Hewon’tbehappyatall.”
The idea ofMr Verloc’s grief and unhappiness acting as usual powerfully uponStevie’sfundamentallydociledisposition,heabandonedallresistance,andclimbedupagainonthebox,withafaceofdespair.
The cabby turned at him his enormous and inflamed countenance truculently.“Don’tyougofortryingthissillygameagain,youngfellow.”
After delivering himself thus in a sternwhisper, strained almost to extinction, hedrove on, ruminating solemnly. To his mind the incident remained somewhatobscure. Buthis intellect, thoughithadlost itspristinevivacity in thebenumbingyears of sedentary exposure to the weather, lacked not independence or sanity.GravelyhedismissedthehypothesisofSteviebeingadrunkenyoungnipper.
Insidethecabthespellofsilence,inwhichthetwowomenhadenduredshouldertoshoulder the jolting, rattling, and jingling of the journey, had been broken byStevie’soutbreak.Winnieraisedhervoice.
“You’vedonewhatyouwanted,mother.You’llhaveonlyyourselftothankforitifyouaren’thappyafterwards.AndIdon’tthinkyou’llbe.ThatIdon’t.Weren’tyoucomfortableenough in thehouse? Whateverpeople’ll thinkofus—you throwingyourselflikethisonaCharity?”
“My dear,” screamed the oldwoman earnestly above the noise, “you’ve been thebestofdaughterstome.AstoMrVerloc—there—”
Words failing her on the subject of Mr Verloc’s excellence, she turned her oldtearful eyes to the roofof the cab. Then sheavertedherheadon thepretenceoflookingoutofthewindow,asiftojudgeoftheirprogress.Itwasinsignificant,and
went on close to the curbstone. Night, the early dirty night, the sinister, noisy,hopelessandrowdynightofSouthLondon,hadovertakenheronherlastcabdrive.Inthegas-lightofthelow-frontedshopsherbigcheeksglowedwithanorangehueunderablackandmauvebonnet.
Mrs Verloc’s mother ’s complexion had become yellow by the effect of age andfromanaturalpredispositiontobiliousness,favouredbythetrialsofadifficultandworriedexistence,firstaswife,thenaswidow.Itwasacomplexion,thatundertheinfluenceofablushwouldtakeonanorangetint.Andthiswoman,modestindeedbuthardened in the firesof adversity, of an age,moreover,whenblushes arenotexpected, had positively blushed before her daughter. In the privacy of a four-wheeler,onherwaytoacharitycottage(oneofarow)whichbytheexiguityofitsdimensionsandthesimplicityofitsaccommodation,mightwellhavebeendevisedinkindnessasaplaceoftrainingforthestillmorestraitenedcircumstancesofthegrave,shewasforcedtohidfromherownchildablushofremorseandshame.
Whatever peoplewill think? She knewverywellwhat they did think, the peopleWinnie had in her mind—the old friends of her husband, and others too, whoseinterest she had solicitedwith such flattering success. She had not knownbeforewhat agoodbeggar shecouldbe. But sheguessedverywellwhat inferencewasdrawn from her application. On account of that shrinking delicacy,which existsside by side with aggressive brutality in masculine nature, the inquiries into hercircumstances had not been pushed very far. She had checked them by a visiblecompression of the lips and some display of an emotion determined to beeloquentlysilent.Andthemenwouldbecomesuddenlyincurious,afterthemannerof theirkind. Shecongratulatedherselfmore thanonceonhavingnothing todowithwomen,whobeingnaturallymorecallousandavidofdetails,wouldhavebeenanxious to be exactly informed bywhat sort of unkind conduct her daughter andson-in-lawhaddrivenhertothatsadextremity.ItwasonlybeforetheSecretaryofthegreatbrewerM.P.andChairmanof theCharity,who,actingforhisprincipal,felt bound to be conscientiously inquisitive as to the real circumstances of theapplicant,thatshehadburstintotearsoutrightandaloud,asacorneredwomanwillweep. Thethinandpolitegentleman,aftercontemplatingherwithanairofbeing“struckallofaheap,”abandonedhispositionunderthecoverofsoothingremarks.Shemust not distress herself. The deedof theCharity did not absolutely specify“childless widows.” In fact, it did not by any means disqualify her. But thediscretionoftheCommitteemustbeaninformeddiscretion.Onecouldunderstandverywell her unwillingness to be a burden, etc. etc. Thereupon, to his profounddisappointment, Mrs Verloc’s mother wept some more with an augmentedvehemence.
Thetearsofthatlargefemaleinadark,dustywig,andancientsilkdressfestoonedwith dingy white cotton lace, were the tears of genuine distress. She had weptbecause shewas heroic and unscrupulous and full of love for both her children.Girls frequently get sacrificed to the welfare of the boys. In this case she wassacrificingWinnie.Bythesuppressionoftruthshewasslanderingher.Ofcourse,Winniewasindependent,andneednotcarefortheopinionofpeoplethatshewouldnever see andwhowould never see her;whereas poor Stevie had nothing in theworldhecouldcallhisownexcepthismother ’sheroismandunscrupulousness.
The first senseof security followingonWinnie’smarriageworeoff in time (fornothinglasts),andMrsVerloc’smother,intheseclusionofthebackbedroom,hadrecalledtheteachingofthatexperiencewhichtheworldimpressesuponawidowedwoman. But she had recalled it without vain bitterness; her store of resignationamounted almost to dignity. She reflected stoically that everythingdecays,wearsout, in this world; that the way of kindness should be made easy to the welldisposed; that her daughter Winnie was a most devoted sister, and a very self-
confident wife indeed. As regards Winnie’s sisterly devotion, her stoicismflinched. She excepted that sentiment from the rule of decay affecting all thingshuman and some things divine. She could not help it; not to do so would havefrightened her too much. But in considering the conditions of her daughter ’smarried state, she rejected firmly all flattering illusions. She took the cold andreasonableviewthatthelessstrainputonMrVerloc’skindnessthelongeritseffectswerelikelytolast.Thatexcellentmanlovedhiswife,ofcourse,buthewould,nodoubt, prefer to keep as few of her relations as was consistent with the properdisplayofthatsentiment.ItwouldbebetterifitswholeeffectwereconcentratedonpoorStevie.Andtheheroicoldwomanresolvedongoingawayfromherchildrenasanactofdevotionandasamoveofdeeppolicy.
The“virtue”ofthispolicyconsistedinthis(MrsVerloc’smotherwassubtleinherway), that Stevie’s moral claimwould be strengthened. The poor boy—a good,usefulboy,ifalittlepeculiar—hadnotasufficientstanding.Hehadbeentakenoverwith his mother, somewhat in the same way as the furniture of the Belgravianmansionhadbeentakenover,asifonthegroundofbelongingtoherexclusively.Whatwill happen, she asked herself (forMrsVerloc’smotherwas in ameasureimaginative), when I die? And when she asked herself that question it was withdread. It was also terrible to think that she would not then have the means ofknowingwhathappenedtothepoorboy.Butbymakinghimovertohissister,bygoingthusaway,shegavehimtheadvantageofadirectlydependentposition.Thiswas the more subtle sanction of Mrs Verloc’s mother ’s heroism andunscrupulousness. Heractofabandonmentwasreallyanarrangementforsettlingher son permanently in life. Other people made material sacrifices for such anobject,sheinthatway.Itwastheonlyway.Moreover,shewouldbeabletoseehowitworked.Illorwellshewouldavoidthehorribleincertitudeonthedeath-bed.Butitwashard,hard,cruellyhard.
The cab rattled, jingled, jolted; in fact, the last was quite extraordinary. By itsdisproportionate violence andmagnitude it obliterated every sensation of onwardmovement; and the effect was of being shaken in a stationary apparatus like amediævaldeviceforthepunishmentofcrime,orsomeverynewfangledinventionforthecureofasluggishliver.Itwasextremelydistressing;andtheraisingofMrsVerloc’smother ’svoicesoundedlikeawailofpain.
“Iknow,mydear,you’llcometoseemeasoftenasyoucansparethetime.Won’tyou?”
“Ofcourse,”answeredWinnieshortly,staringstraightbeforeher.
And the cab jolted in front of a steamy, greasy shop in a blaze of gas and in thesmelloffriedfish.
Theoldwomanraisedawailagain.
“And,mydear,ImustseethatpoorboyeverySunday.Hewon’tmindspendingthedaywithhisoldmother—”
Winniescreamedoutstolidly:
“Mind! Ishould thinknot. Thatpoorboywillmissyousomethingcruel. Iwishyouhadthoughtalittleofthat,mother.”
Notthinkofit!Theheroicwomanswallowedaplayfulandinconvenientobjectlikea billiard ball,which had tried to jump out of her throat. Winnie satmute for awhile,poutingatthefrontofthecab,thensnappedout,whichwasanunusualtonewithher:
“IexpectI’llhaveajobwithhimatfirst,he’llbethatrestless—”
“Whateveryoudo,don’tlethimworryyourhusband,mydear.”
Thustheydiscussedonfamiliarlinesthebearingsofanewsituation.Andthecabjolted.MrsVerloc’smotherexpressedsomemisgivings.CouldSteviebetrustedtocomeallthatwayalone?Winniemaintainedthathewasmuchless“absent-minded”now.Theyagreedastothat.Itcouldnotbedenied.Muchless—hardlyatall.Theyshoutedateachotherinthejinglewithcomparativecheerfulness.Butsuddenlythematernalanxietybrokeoutafresh.Thereweretwoomnibusestotake,andashortwalk between. It was too difficult! The old woman gave way to grief andconsternation.
Winniestaredforward.
“Don’tyouupsetyourselflikethis,mother.Youmustseehim,ofcourse.”
“No,mydear.I’lltrynotto.”
Shemoppedherstreamingeyes.
“Butyoucan’tsparethetimetocomewithhim,andifheshouldforgethimselfandlosehiswayandsomebodyspoketohimsharply,hisnameandaddressmaysliphismemory,andhe’llremainlostfordaysanddays—”
Thevisionofaworkhouse infirmaryforpoorStevie—ifonlyduring inquiries—wrung her heart. For shewas a proudwoman. Winnie’s stare had grown hard,intent,inventive.
“I can’t bring him to youmyself everyweek,” she cried. “But don’t youworry,mother.I’llseetoitthathedon’tgetlostforlong.”
They felt a peculiar bump; a vision of brick pillars lingered before the rattling
windowsofthecab;asuddencessationofatrociousjoltinganduproariousjinglingdazedthetwowomen.Whathadhappened?Theysatmotionlessandscaredintheprofound stillness, till thedoor cameopen, anda rough, strainedwhisperingwasheard:
“Hereyouare!”
Arangeofgabled littlehouses,eachwithonedimyellowwindow,on thegroundfloor,surroundedthedarkopenspaceofagrassplotplantedwithshrubsandrailedofffromthepatchworkoflightsandshadowsinthewideroad,resoundingwiththedullrumbleoftraffic.Beforethedoorofoneofthesetinyhouses—onewithoutalightinthelittledownstairswindow—thecabhadcometoastandstill.MrsVerloc’smother got out first, backwards,with a key in her hand. Winnie lingered on theflagstonepathtopaythecabman.Stevie,afterhelpingtocarryinsidealotofsmallparcels,cameoutandstoodunderthelightofagas-lampbelongingtotheCharity.Thecabmanlookedatthepiecesofsilver,which,appearingveryminuteinhisbig,grimy palm, symbolised the insignificant results which reward the ambitiouscourageandtoilofamankindwhosedayisshortonthisearthofevil.
Hehadbeenpaiddecently—fourone-shillingpieces—andhecontemplatedtheminperfectstillness,asiftheyhadbeenthesurprisingtermsofamelancholyproblem.The slow transfer of that treasure to an inner pocket demanded much laboriousgroping in the depths of decayed clothing. His form was squat and withoutflexibility.Stevie,slender,hisshouldersalittleup,andhishandsthrustdeepinthesidepocketsofhiswarmovercoat,stoodattheedgeofthepath,pouting.
The cabman, pausing in his deliberatemovements, seemed struck by somemistyrecollection.
“Oh!’Ereyouare,youngfellow,”hewhispered.“You’llknowhimagain—won’tyou?”
Steviewasstaringatthehorse,whosehindquartersappearedundulyelevatedbytheeffectofemaciation.Thelittlestifftailseemedtohavebeenfittedinforaheartlessjoke;andat theotherend the thin, flatneck, likeaplankcoveredwitholdhorse-hide,droopedtothegroundundertheweightofanenormousbonyhead.Theearshungatdifferentangles,negligently;andthemacabrefigureofthatmutedwellerontheearthsteamedstraightupfromribsandbackboneinthemuggystillnessoftheair.
The cabman struck lightly Stevie’s breast with the iron hook protruding from aragged,greasysleeve.
“Look’ere,youngfeller.’Ow’dyouliketositbehindthis’ossuptotwoo’clockin
themorningp’raps?”
Stevielookedvacantlyintothefiercelittleeyeswithred-edgedlids.
“Heain’tlame,”pursuedtheother,whisperingwithenergy.“Heain’tgotnosoreplaceson’im.’Ereheis.’Owwouldyoulike—”
His strained, extinct voice invested his utterance with a character of vehementsecrecy.Stevie’svacantgazewaschangingslowlyintodread.
“Youmaywelllook!Tillthreeandfouro’clockinthemorning.Coldand’ungry.Lookingforfares.Drunks.”
Hisjovialpurplecheeksbristledwithwhitehairs;andlikeVirgil’sSilenus,who,hisfacesmearedwiththejuiceofberries,discoursedofOlympianGodstotheinnocentshepherdsofSicily,hetalkedtoStevieofdomesticmattersandtheaffairsofmenwhosesufferingsaregreatandimmortalitybynomeansassured.
“Iamanightcabby,Iam,”hewhispered,withasortofboastfulexasperation.“I’vegot to take out what they will blooming well give me at the yard. I’ve got mymissusandfourkidsat’ome.”
Themonstrous nature of that declaration of paternity seemed to strike theworlddumb. A silence reigned during which the flanks of the old horse, the steed ofapocalypticmisery,smokedupwardsinthelightofthecharitablegas-lamp.
Thecabmangrunted,thenaddedinhismysteriouswhisper:
“Thisain’taneasyworld.”Stevie’sfacehadbeentwitchingforsometime,andatlasthisfeelingsburstoutintheirusualconciseform.
“Bad!Bad!”
His gaze remained fixed on the ribs of the horse, self-conscious and sombre, asthough he were afraid to look about him at the badness of the world. And hisslenderness, his rosy lips and pale, clear complexion, gave him the aspect of adelicate boy, notwithstanding the fluffy growth of golden hair on his cheeks. Hepoutedinascaredwaylikeachild.Thecabman,shortandbroad,eyedhimwithhisfiercelittleeyesthatseemedtosmartinaclearandcorrodingliquid.
“’Ard on ’osses, but dam’ sight ’arder on poor chaps likeme,” he wheezed justaudibly.
“Poor!Poor!”stammeredoutStevie,pushinghishandsdeeperintohispocketswithconvulsivesympathy. Hecouldsaynothing; for the tenderness toallpainandallmisery,thedesiretomakethehorsehappyandthecabmanhappy,hadreachedthepoint of a bizarre longing to take them to bedwith him. And that, he knew,was
impossible.ForSteviewasnotmad.Itwas,asitwere,asymboliclonging;andatthesametimeitwasverydistinct,becausespringingfromexperience,themotherofwisdom.Thuswhenasachildhecoweredinadarkcornerscared,wretched,sore,andmiserablewith the black, blackmisery of the soul, his sisterWinnie used tocomealong,andcarryhimofftobedwithher,asintoaheavenofconsolingpeace.Stevie,thoughapttoforgetmerefacts,suchashisnameandaddressforinstance,hadafaithfulmemoryofsensations.Tobetakenintoabedofcompassionwasthesupremeremedy,withtheonlyonedisadvantageofbeingdifficultofapplicationonalargescale.Andlookingatthecabman,Stevieperceivedthisclearly,becausehewasreasonable.
ThecabmanwentonwithhisleisurelypreparationsasifSteviehadnotexisted.Hemadeas if tohoisthimselfonthebox,butat the lastmomentfromsomeobscuremotive, perhaps merely from disgust with carriage exercise, desisted. Heapproachedinsteadthemotionlesspartnerofhislabours,andstoopingtoseizethebridle,liftedupthebig,wearyheadtotheheightofhisshoulderwithoneeffortofhisrightarm,likeafeatofstrength.
“Comeon,”hewhisperedsecretly.
Limping,he led thecabaway. Therewasanairofausterity in thisdeparture, thescrunched gravel of the drive crying out under the slowly turning wheels, thehorse’s lean thighsmovingwith ascetic deliberation away from the light into theobscurity of the open space bordered dimly by the pointed roofs and the feeblyshiningwindowsofthelittlealms-houses.Theplaintofthegraveltravelledslowlyallroundthedrive. Betweenthelampsofthecharitablegatewaytheslowcortegereappeared, lightedupforamoment, theshort, thickmanlimpingbusily,withthehorse’s head held aloft in his fist, the lank animal walking in stiff and forlorndignity, the dark, low box on wheels rolling behind comically with an air ofwaddling. They turned to the left. Therewas a pub down the street,within fiftyyardsofthegate.
Stevie leftalonebeside theprivate lamp-postof theCharity,hishands thrustdeepinto his pockets, glared with vacant sulkiness. At the bottom of his pockets hisincapableweakhandswereclinchedhardintoapairofangryfists. In thefaceofanything which affected directly or indirectly his morbid dread of pain, Stevieended by turning vicious. Amagnanimous indignation swelled his frail chest tobursting,andcausedhiscandideyestosquint.Supremelywiseinknowinghisownpowerlessness,Steviewasnotwiseenoughtorestrainhispassions.Thetendernessofhisuniversalcharityhadtwophasesasindissolublyjoinedandconnectedasthereverseandobversesidesofamedal.Theanguishofimmoderatecompassionwassucceededbythepainofaninnocentbutpitilessrage.Thosetwostatesexpressing
themselvesoutwardlybythesamesignsoffutilebodilyagitation,hissisterWinniesoothed his excitementwithout ever fathoming its twofold character. MrsVerlocwasted no portion of this transient life in seeking for fundamental information.Thisisasortofeconomyhavingalltheappearancesandsomeoftheadvantagesofprudence. Obviously itmaybegoodforonenot toknowtoomuch. Andsuchaviewaccordsverywellwithconstitutionalindolence.
OnthateveningonwhichitmaybesaidthatMrsVerloc’smotherhavingpartedforgood from her children had also departed this life, Winnie Verloc did notinvestigateherbrother ’spsychology.Thepoorboywasexcited,ofcourse.Afteroncemoreassuring theoldwomanon the threshold that shewouldknowhow toguardagainsttheriskofStevielosinghimselfforverylongonhispilgrimagesoffilialpiety,shetookherbrother ’sarmtowalkaway.Steviedidnotevenmuttertohimself, but with the special sense of sisterly devotion developed in her earliestinfancy, she felt that the boywas verymuch excited indeed. Holding tight to hisarm,undertheappearanceofleaningonit,shethoughtofsomewordssuitabletotheoccasion.
“Now,Stevie, youmust lookwell afterme at the crossings, andget first into the’bus,likeagoodbrother.”
Thisappeal tomanlyprotectionwas receivedbySteviewithhisusualdocility. Itflatteredhim.Heraisedhisheadandthrewouthischest.
“Don’tbenervous,Winnie.Mustn’tbenervous!’Busallright,”heansweredinabrusque, slurring stammer partaking of the timorousness of a child and theresolutionof aman. He advanced fearlesslywith thewomanonhis arm,but hislower lip dropped. Nevertheless, on the pavement of the squalid and widethoroughfare,whosepovertyinalltheamenitiesoflifestoodfoolishlyexposedbyamadprofusionofgas-lights,theirresemblancetoeachotherwassopronouncedastostrikethecasualpassers-by.
Beforethedoorsofthepublic-houseatthecorner,wheretheprofusionofgas-lightreached the height of positive wickedness, a four-wheeled cab standing by thecurbstonewith no one on the box, seemed cast out into the gutter on account ofirremediable decay. Mrs Verloc recognised the conveyance. Its aspect was soprofoundlylamentable,withsuchaperfectionofgrotesquemiseryandweirdnessofmacabredetail,asifitweretheCabofDeathitself,thatMrsVerloc,withthatreadycompassionofawomanforahorse(whensheisnotsittingbehindhim),exclaimedvaguely:
“Poorbrute!”
Hangingbacksuddenly,Stevieinflictedanarrestingjerkuponhissister.
“Poor! Poor!” he ejaculated appreciatively. “Cabman poor too. He told mehimself.”
The contemplation of the infirm and lonely steed overcame him. Jostled, butobstinate, hewould remain there, trying to express the view newly opened to hissympathiesof thehumanandequinemisery incloseassociation. But itwasverydifficult. “Poor brute, poor people!” was all he could repeat. It did not seemforcibleenough,andhecametoastopwithanangrysplutter:“Shame!”Steviewasnomasterofphrases,andperhapsforthatveryreasonhisthoughtslackedclearnessand precision. But he feltwith greater completeness and some profundity. Thatlittle word contained all his sense of indignation and horror at one sort ofwretchedness having to feed upon the anguish of the other—at the poor cabmanbeatingthepoorhorseinthename,asitwere,ofhispoorkidsathome.AndStevieknewwhat itwas tobebeaten. Heknew it fromexperience. Itwasabadworld.Bad!Bad!
MrsVerloc,hisonlysister,guardian,andprotector,couldnotpretendtosuchdepthsof insight. Moreover, she had not experienced the magic of the cabman’seloquence.Shewasinthedarkastotheinwardnessoftheword“Shame.”Andshesaidplacidly:
“Comealong,Stevie.Youcan’thelpthat.”
ThedocileSteviewent along;butnowhewent alongwithoutpride, shamblingly,andmutteringhalfwords,andevenwordsthatwouldhavebeenwholeif theyhadnotbeenmadeupofhalvesthatdidnotbelongtoeachother. Itwasasthoughhehadbeentryingtofitallthewordshecouldremembertohissentimentsinordertogetsomesortofcorrespondingidea.And,asamatteroffact,hegotitatlast.Hehungbacktoutteritatonce.
“Badworldforpoorpeople.”
Directlyhehadexpressedthatthoughthebecameawarethatitwasfamiliartohimalready in all its consequences. This circumstance strengthened his convictionimmensely, but also augmented his indignation. Somebody, he felt, ought to bepunished for it—punished with great severity. Being no sceptic, but a moralcreature,hewasinamanneratthemercyofhisrighteouspassions.
“Beastly!”headdedconcisely.
ItwascleartoMrsVerlocthathewasgreatlyexcited.
“Nobodycanhelp that,”shesaid. “Docomealong. Is that thewayyou’re takingcareofme?”
Steviemendedhispaceobediently.Hepridedhimselfonbeingagoodbrother.Hismorality,whichwasverycomplete,demandedthatfromhim.YethewaspainedattheinformationimpartedbyhissisterWinniewhowasgood. Nobodycouldhelpthat! He came along gloomily, but presently he brightened up. Like the rest ofmankind, perplexed by the mystery of the universe, he had his moments ofconsolingtrustintheorganisedpowersoftheearth.
“Police,”hesuggestedconfidently.
“Thepolicearen’tforthat,”observedMrsVerloccursorily,hurryingonherway.
Stevie’s face lengthened considerably. He was thinking. The more intense histhinking,theslackerwasthedroopofhislowerjaw.
And it was with an aspect of hopeless vacancy that he gave up his intellectualenterprise.
“Notforthat?”hemumbled,resignedbutsurprised.“Notforthat?”Hehadformedforhimselfan idealconceptionof themetropolitanpoliceasasortofbenevolentinstitution for the suppression of evil. The notion of benevolence especiallywasverycloselyassociatedwithhissenseofthepowerofthemeninblue.Hehadlikedallpoliceconstablestenderly,withaguilelesstrustfulness.Andhewaspained.Hewas irritated, too, by a suspicion of duplicity in themembers of the force. ForSteviewasfrankandasopenasthedayhimself.Whatdidtheymeanbypretendingthen? Unlike his sister, who put her trust in face values, hewished to go to thebottomofthematter.Hecarriedonhisinquirybymeansofanangrychallenge.
“Whatforaretheythen,Winn?Whataretheyfor?Tellme.”
Winniedislikedcontroversy.ButfearingmostafitofblackdepressionconsequentonSteviemissinghismotherverymuchatfirst,shedidnotaltogetherdeclinethediscussion.Guiltlessofallirony,sheansweredyetinaformwhichwasnotperhapsunnatural in the wife of Mr Verloc, Delegate of the Central Red Committee,personalfriendofcertainanarchists,andavotaryofsocialrevolution.
“Don’tyouknowwhat thepolice are for,Stevie? Theyare there so that themashavenothingshouldn’ttakeanythingawayfromthemwhohave.”
She avoided using the verb “to steal,” because it always made her brotheruncomfortable. For Stevie was delicately honest. Certain simple principles hadbeen instilled intohimsoanxiously(onaccountofhis“queerness”) that themerenamesofcertaintransgressionsfilledhimwithhorror.Hehadbeenalwayseasilyimpressedbyspeeches.Hewasimpressedandstartlednow,andhisintelligencewasveryalert.
“What?”heaskedatonceanxiously.“Noteveniftheywerehungry?Mustn’tthey?”
Thetwohadpausedintheirwalk.
“Not if they were ever so,” said Mrs Verloc, with the equanimity of a personuntroubled by the problem of the distribution of wealth, and exploring theperspectiveoftheroadwayforanomnibusoftherightcolour.“Certainlynot.Butwhat’stheuseoftalkingaboutallthat?Youaren’teverhungry.”
She cast a swift glance at the boy, like a youngman, by her side. She saw himamiable, attractive, affectionate, and only a little, a very little, peculiar. And shecouldnotseehimotherwise,forhewasconnectedwithwhattherewasofthesaltofpassion in her tasteless life—the passion of indignation, of courage, of pity, andevenofself-sacrifice.Shedidnotadd:“Andyouaren’tlikelyevertobeaslongasIlive.”Butshemightverywellhavedoneso,sinceshehadtakeneffectualstepstothat end. MrVerlocwasaverygoodhusband. Itwasherhonest impression thatnobodycouldhelplikingtheboy.Shecriedoutsuddenly:
“Quick,Stevie.Stopthatgreen’bus.”
AndStevie,tremulousandimportantwithhissisterWinnieonhisarm,flunguptheotherhighabovehisheadattheapproaching’bus,withcompletesuccess.
AnhourafterwardsMrVerlocraisedhiseyesfromanewspaperhewasreading,oratanyratelookingat,behindthecounter,andintheexpiringclatterofthedoor-bellbeheldWinnie,hiswife,enterandcrosstheshoponherwayupstairs,followedbyStevie,hisbrother-in-law.ThesightofhiswifewasagreeabletoMrVerloc.Itwashis idiosyncrasy. Thefigureofhisbrother-in-lawremained imperceptible tohimbecauseof themorose thoughtfulness that latelyhadfallen likeaveilbetweenMrVerlocandtheappearancesoftheworldofsenses.Helookedafterhiswifefixedly,without aword, as though shehadbeen aphantom. Hisvoice forhomeusewashuskyandplacid,butnowitwasheardnotatall.Itwasnotheardatsupper,towhichhe was called by his wife in the usual brief manner: “Adolf.” He sat down toconsumeitwithoutconviction,wearinghishatpushedfarbackonhishead.Itwasnot devotion to an outdoor life, but the frequentation of foreign caféswhichwasresponsible for that habit, investing with a character of unceremoniousimpermanencyMrVerloc’ssteadyfidelitytohisownfireside.Twiceattheclatterof the crackedbell he arosewithout aword,disappeared into the shop, andcameback silently. During these absencesMrsVerloc, becoming acutely aware of thevacant place at her right hand,missed hermother verymuch, and stared stonily;whileStevie,fromthesamereason,keptonshufflinghisfeet,asthoughthefloorunder the table were uncomfortably hot. WhenMr Verloc returned to sit in hisplace, like the very embodiment of silence, the character of Mrs Verloc’s stare
underwentasubtlechange,andStevieceasedtofidgetwithhisfeet,becauseofhisgreat and awed regard for his sister ’s husband. He directed at him glances ofrespectfulcompassion.MrVerlocwassorry.HissisterWinniehadimpresseduponhim(intheomnibus)thatMrVerlocwouldbefoundathomeinastateofsorrow,andmustnotbeworried. Hisfather ’sanger,theirritabilityofgentlemenlodgers,andMrVerloc’spredispositiontoimmoderategrief,hadbeenthemainsanctionsofStevie’sself-restraint.Ofthesesentiments,alleasilyprovoked,butnotalwayseasyto understand, the last had the greatestmoral efficiency—becauseMrVerlocwasgood. Hismotherandhis sisterhadestablished thatethical factonanunshakablefoundation.Theyhadestablished,erected,consecrateditbehindMrVerloc’sback,forreasonsthathadnothingtodowithabstractmorality. AndMrVerlocwasnotawareof it. It isbutbarejusticetohimtosaythathehadnonotionofappearinggood toStevie. Yet so itwas. Hewaseven theonlymansoqualified inStevie’sknowledge,becausethegentlemenlodgershadbeentootransientandtooremotetohaveanythingverydistinctabout thembutperhaps theirboots;andas regards thedisciplinarymeasuresofhis father, thedesolationofhismotherandsister shrankfrom setting up a theory of goodness before the victim. Itwould have been toocruel.AnditwasevenpossiblethatSteviewouldnothavebelievedthem.AsfarasMrVerlocwas concerned, nothing could stand in theway of Stevie’s belief. MrVerloc was obviously yet mysteriously good. And the grief of a good man isaugust.
Steviegaveglancesofreverentialcompassiontohisbrother-in-law.MrVerlocwassorry. The brother of Winnie had never before felt himself in such closecommunion with the mystery of that man’s goodness. It was an understandablesorrow. And Stevie himself was sorry. He was very sorry. The same sort ofsorrow. Andhisattentionbeingdrawnto thisunpleasantstate,Stevieshuffledhisfeet.Hisfeelingswerehabituallymanifestedbytheagitationofhislimbs.
“Keepyour feetquiet, dear,” saidMrsVerloc,with authority and tenderness; thenturning towards her husband in an indifferent voice, themasterly achievement ofinstinctivetact:“Areyougoingoutto-night?”sheasked.
ThemeresuggestionseemedrepugnanttoMrVerloc.Heshookhisheadmoodily,andthensatstillwithdowncasteyes,lookingatthepieceofcheeseonhisplateforawholeminute.Attheendofthattimehegotup,andwentout—wentrightoutintheclatterof theshop-doorbell. Heacted thus inconsistently,not fromanydesire tomakehimselfunpleasant,butbecauseofanunconquerable restlessness. Itwasnoearthlygoodgoingout.HecouldnotfindanywhereinLondonwhathewanted.Buthewentout.Heledacortegeofdismalthoughtsalongdarkstreets,throughlightedstreets,inandoutoftwoflashbars,asifinahalf-heartedattempttomakeanightofit,andfinallybackagaintohismenacedhome,wherehesatdownfatiguedbehind
the counter, and they crowded urgently round him, like a pack of hungry blackhounds. After lockingup thehouseandputtingout thegashe took themupstairswithhim—adreadful escort for amangoing tobed. Hiswifehadprecededhimsometimebefore,andwithherampleformdefinedvaguelyunderthecounterpane,her head on the pillow, and a hand under the cheek offered to his distraction theviewofearlydrowsinessarguingthepossessionofanequablesoul.Herbigeyesstaredwideopen,inertanddarkagainstthesnowywhitenessofthelinen.Shedidnotmove.
Shehadanequablesoul.Shefeltprofoundlythatthingsdonotstandmuchlookinginto.Shemadeherforceandherwisdomofthatinstinct.ButthetaciturnityofMrVerlochadbeenlyingheavilyuponherforagoodmanydays.Itwas,asamatteroffact,affectinghernerves.Recumbentandmotionless,shesaidplacidly:
“You’llcatchcoldwalkingaboutinyoursockslikethis.”
This speech,becoming the solicitudeof thewife and theprudenceof thewoman,tookMrVerlocunawares.Hehadlefthisbootsdownstairs,buthehadforgottentoputonhis slippers,andhehadbeen turningabout thebedroomonnoiselesspadslikeabearinacage.Atthesoundofhiswife’svoicehestoppedandstaredatherwith a somnambulistic, expressionless gaze so long that Mrs Verloc moved herlimbsslightlyunderthebed-clothes.Butshedidnotmoveherblackheadsunkinthewhitepillowonehandunderhercheekandthebig,dark,unwinkingeyes.
Under her husband’s expressionless stare, and remembering her mother ’s emptyroomacrossthelanding,shefeltanacutepangofloneliness.Shehadneverbeenparted fromhermotherbefore. Theyhad stoodbyeachother. She felt that theyhad,andshesaidtoherselfthatnowmotherwasgone—goneforgood.MrsVerlochadnoillusions.Stevieremained,however.Andshesaid:
“Mother ’sdonewhatshewanted todo. There’snosense in it that Icansee. I’msureshecouldn’thavethoughtyouhadenoughofher.It’sperfectlywicked,leavinguslikethat.”
MrVerlocwasnotawell-readperson;hisrangeofallusivephraseswaslimited,buttherewasapeculiaraptnessincircumstanceswhichmadehimthinkofratsleavingadoomedship.Heverynearlysaidso.Hehadgrownsuspiciousandembittered.Could it be that the old woman had such an excellent nose? But theunreasonablenessof such a suspicionwaspatent, andMrVerlocheldhis tongue.Notaltogether,however.Hemutteredheavily:
“Perhapsit’sjustaswell.”
Hebegantoundress.MrsVerlockeptverystill,perfectlystill,withhereyesfixed
inadreamy,quietstare.Andherheartforthefractionofasecondseemedtostandstill too. Thatnightshewas“notquiteherself,”asthesayingis,anditwasborneuponherwithsomeforcethatasimplesentencemayholdseveraldiversemeanings—mostlydisagreeable.Howwasitjustaswell?Andwhy?Butshedidnotallowherselftofallintotheidlenessofbarrenspeculation.Shewasratherconfirmedinher belief that things did not stand being looked into. Practical and subtle in herway, she brought Stevie to the front without loss of time, because in her thesinglenessofpurposehadtheunerringnatureandtheforceofaninstinct.
“WhatIamgoingtodotocheerupthatboyforthefirstfewdaysI’msureIdon’tknow. He’ll beworryinghimself frommorning till night before hegets used tomotherbeingaway.Andhe’ssuchagoodboy.Icouldn’tdowithouthim.”
Mr Verloc went on divesting himself of his clothing with the unnoticing inwardconcentrationofamanundressinginthesolitudeofavastandhopelessdesert.Forthus inhospitablydid this fair earth, our common inheritance, present itself to themental vision of Mr Verloc. All was so still without and within that the lonelytickingoftheclockonthelandingstoleintotheroomasifforthesakeofcompany.
MrVerloc,gettingintobedonhisownside,remainedproneandmutebehindMrsVerloc’sback. His thickarmsrestedabandonedontheoutsideof thecounterpanelikedroppedweapons,likediscardedtools.Atthatmomenthewaswithinahair ’sbreadth of making a clean breast of it all to his wife. The moment seemedpropitious. Looking out of the corners of his eyes, he saw her ample shouldersdrapedinwhite,thebackofherhead,withthehairdoneforthenightinthreeplaitstiedupwithblacktapesattheends.Andheforbore.MrVerloclovedhiswifeasawife should be loved—that is, maritally, with the regard one has for one’s chiefpossession.Thisheadarrangedforthenight,thoseampleshoulders,hadanaspectoffamiliarsacredness—thesacrednessofdomesticpeace.Shemovednot,massiveandshapeless likearecumbentstatuein therough;herememberedherwide-openeyeslookingintotheemptyroom.Shewasmysterious,withthemysteriousnessofliving beings. The far-famed secret agent [delta] of the late Baron Stott-Wartenheim’salarmistdespatcheswasnotthemantobreakintosuchmysteries.Hewas easily intimidated. Andhewas also indolent,with the indolencewhich is sooften the secret of good nature. He forbore touching that mystery out of love,timidity,andindolence.Therewouldbealwaystimeenough.Forseveralminuteshe bore his sufferings silently in the drowsy silence of the room. And then hedisturbeditbyaresolutedeclaration.
“IamgoingontheContinentto-morrow.”
Hiswifemighthavefallenasleepalready. Hecouldnot tell. Asamatterof fact,MrsVerlochadheardhim. Her eyes remainedverywideopen, and she layvery
still,confirmedinherinstinctiveconvictionthatthingsdon’tbearlookingintoverymuch. Andyet itwasnothingveryunusualforMrVerlocto takesucha trip. Herenewed his stock from Paris and Brussels. Often he went over to make hispurchasespersonally.Alittleselectconnectionofamateurswasformingaroundtheshop in Brett Street, a secret connection eminently proper for any businessundertakenbyMrVerloc,who,byamysticaccordof temperamentandnecessity,hadbeensetaparttobeasecretagentallhislife.
Hewaitedforawhile,thenadded:“I’llbeawayaweekorperhapsafortnight.GetMrsNealetocomefortheday.”
Mrs Neale was the charwoman of Brett Street. Victim of her marriage with adebauched joiner, shewas oppressed by the needs ofmany infant children. Red-armed,andapronedincoarsesackinguptothearm-pits,sheexhaledtheanguishofthepoorinabreathofsoap-sudsandrum,intheuproarofscrubbing,intheclatteroftinpails.
MrsVerloc,fullofdeeppurpose,spokeinthetoneoftheshallowestindifference.
“Thereisnoneedtohavethewomanhereallday.IshalldoverywellwithStevie.”
She let the lonely clock on the landing count off fifteen ticks into the abyss ofeternity,andasked:
“ShallIputthelightout?”
MrVerlocsnappedathiswifehuskily.
“Putitout.”
CHAPTERIX
MrVerlocreturningfromtheContinentattheendoftendays,broughtbackamindevidentlyunrefreshedbythewondersofforeigntravelandacountenanceunlightedbythejoysofhome-coming.Heenteredintheclatteroftheshopbellwithanairofsombreandvexedexhaustion.Hisbaginhand,hisheadlowered,hestrodestraightbehindthecounter,andlethimselffallintothechair,asthoughhehadtrampedallthe way from Dover. It was early morning. Stevie, dusting various objectsdisplayedinthefrontwindows,turnedtogapeathimwithreverenceandawe.
“Here!”saidMrVerloc,givingaslightkicktothegladstonebagonthefloor;andStevieflunghimselfuponit,seizedit,boreitoffwithtriumphantdevotion.HewassopromptthatMrVerlocwasdistinctlysurprised.
AlreadyattheclatteroftheshopbellMrsNeale,blackleadingtheparlourgrate,hadlookedthroughthedoor,andrisingfromherkneeshadgone,aproned,andgrimywith everlasting toil, to tellMrs Verloc in the kitchen that “there was themastercomeback.”
Winniecamenofartherthantheinnershopdoor.
“You’llwantsomebreakfast,”shesaidfromadistance.
MrVerlocmovedhishandsslightly,asifovercomebyanimpossiblesuggestion.Butonceenticedintotheparlourhedidnotrejectthefoodsetbeforehim.Heateasifinapublicplace,hishatpushedoffhisforehead,theskirtsofhisheavyovercoathanginginatriangleoneachsideofthechair. Andacrossthelengthofthetablecoveredwithbrownoil-clothWinnie,hiswife,talkedevenlyathimthewifelytalk,as artfully adapted, no doubt, to the circumstances of this return as the talk ofPenelopetothereturnofthewanderingOdysseus.MrsVerloc,however,haddonenoweavingduringherhusband’s absence. But shehadhadall theupstairs roomcleanedthoroughly,hadsoldsomewares,hadseenMrMichaelisseveraltimes.Hehadtoldherthelasttimethathewasgoingawaytoliveinacottageinthecountry,somewhere on theLondon,Chatham, andDover line. KarlYundt had come too,once, led under the arm by that “wicked old housekeeper of his.” He was “adisgusting old man.” Of Comrade Ossipon, whom she had received curtly,
entrenched behind the counter with a stony face and a faraway gaze, she saidnothing,hermentalreferencetotherobustanarchistbeingmarkedbyashortpause,withthefaintestpossibleblush.AndbringinginherbrotherStevieassoonasshecouldintothecurrentofdomesticevents,shementionedthattheboyhadmopedagooddeal.
“It’sallalongofmotherleavinguslikethis.”
MrVerlocneithersaid,“Damn!”noryet“Steviebehanged!”AndMrsVerloc,notletintothesecretofhisthoughts,failedtoappreciatethegenerosityofthisrestraint.
“It isn’t thathedoesn’tworkaswell as ever,” shecontinued. “He’sbeenmakinghimselfveryuseful.You’dthinkhecouldn’tdoenoughforus.”
MrVerlocdirectedacasualandsomnolentglanceatStevie,whosatonhis right,delicate,pale-faced,his rosymouthopenvacantly. Itwasnotacriticalglance. Ithadno intention. And ifMrVerloc thought for amoment thathiswife’sbrotherlookeduncommonlyuseless,itwasonlyadullandfleetingthought,devoidofthatforce and durability which enables sometimes a thought to move the world.Leaningback,MrVerlocuncoveredhishead. BeforehisextendedarmcouldputdownthehatSteviepounceduponit,andboreitoffreverentlyintothekitchen.AndagainMrVerlocwassurprised.
“Youcoulddoanythingwiththatboy,Adolf,”MrsVerlocsaid,withherbestairofinflexiblecalmness.“Hewouldgothroughfireforyou.He—”
Shepausedattentive,herearturnedtowardsthedoorofthekitchen.
There Mrs Neale was scrubbing the floor. At Stevie’s appearance she groanedlamentably, having observed that he could be induced easily to bestow for thebenefitofherinfantchildrentheshillinghissisterWinniepresentedhimwithfromtime to time. Onall fours amongst thepuddles,wet andbegrimed, likea sortofamphibiousanddomesticanimallivinginash-binsanddirtywater,sheutteredtheusualexordium:“It’sallverywellforyou,keptdoingnothinglikeagentleman.”Andshefolloweditwiththeeverlastingplaintofthepoor,patheticallymendacious,miserably authenticated by the horrible breath of cheap rum and soap-suds. Shescrubbed hard, snuffling all the time, and talking volubly. And shewas sincere.Andoneachsideofherthinrednoseherbleared,mistyeyesswamintears,becauseshefeltreallythewantofsomesortofstimulantinthemorning.
IntheparlourMrsVerlocobserved,withknowledge:
“There’sMrsNeale at it againwith her harrowing tales about her little children.Theycan’tbeallsolittleasshemakesthemout.Someofthemmustbebigenoughbynowtotrytodosomethingforthemselves.ItonlymakesStevieangry.”
Thesewordswereconfirmedbyathudasofafiststrikingthekitchentable.InthenormalevolutionofhissympathySteviehadbecomeangryondiscoveringthathehadnoshillinginhispocket. InhisinabilitytorelieveatonceMrsNeale’s“little’uns’”privations,hefeltthatsomebodyshouldbemadetosufferforit.MrsVerlocrose, andwent into thekitchen to“stop thatnonsense.” And shedid it firmlybutgently. Shewaswell aware thatdirectlyMrsNeale receivedhermoney shewentround the corner to drink ardent spirits in a mean and musty public-house—theunavoidablestationontheviadolorosaofherlife.MrsVerloc’scommentuponthispracticehadanunexpectedprofundity,ascomingfromapersondisinclinedtolookunderthesurfaceofthings.“Ofcourse,whatisshetodotokeepup?IfIwerelikeMrsNealeIexpectIwouldn’tactanydifferent.”
Intheafternoonofthesameday,asMrVerloc,comingwithastartoutofthelastofa longseriesofdozesbefore theparlour fire,declaredhis intentionofgoingoutforawalk,Winniesaidfromtheshop:
“Iwishyouwouldtakethatboyoutwithyou,Adolf.”
ForthethirdtimethatdayMrVerlocwassurprised.Hestaredstupidlyathiswife.Shecontinuedinhersteadymanner.Theboy,wheneverhewasnotdoinganything,mopedinthehouse.Itmadeheruneasy;itmadehernervous,sheconfessed.AndthatfromthecalmWinniesoundedlikeexaggeration.But,intruth,Steviemopedinthestrikingfashionofanunhappydomesticanimal. Hewouldgoupon thedarklanding,tositontheflooratthefootofthetallclock,withhiskneesdrawnupandhisheadinhishands.Tocomeuponhispallidface,withitsbigeyesgleaminginthedusk,wasdiscomposing;tothinkofhimuptherewasuncomfortable.
MrVerlocgotusedtothestartlingnoveltyoftheidea.Hewasfondofhiswifeasamanshouldbe—thatis,generously.Butaweightyobjectionpresenteditselftohismind,andheformulatedit.
“He’lllosesightofmeperhaps,andgetlostinthestreet,”hesaid.
MrsVerlocshookherheadcompetently.
“Hewon’t. Youdon’tknowhim. Thatboy justworshipsyou. But ifyoushouldmisshim—”
MrsVerlocpausedforamoment,butonlyforamoment.
“Youjustgoon,andhaveyourwalkout.Don’tworry.He’llbeallright.He’ssuretoturnupsafeherebeforeverylong.”
ThisoptimismprocuredforMrVerlochisfourthsurpriseoftheday.
“Ishe?”hegrunteddoubtfully.Butperhapshisbrother-in-lawwasnotsuchanidiot
ashe looked. Hiswifewouldknowbest. He turnedawayhisheavyeyes, sayinghuskily: “Well, let himcomealong, then,” and relapsed into the clutchesofblackcare, that perhaps prefers to sit behind a horseman, but knows also how to treadclose on the heels of people not sufficiently well off to keep horses—like MrVerloc,forinstance.
Winnie,at the shopdoor,didnot see this fatal attendantuponMrVerloc’swalks.Shewatched the two figures down the squalid street, one tall andburly, the otherslightandshort,withathinneck,andthepeakedshouldersraisedslightlyunderthelargesemi-transparentears.Thematerialoftheirovercoatswasthesame,theirhatswereblackandroundinshape.Inspiredbythesimilarityofwearingapparel,MrsVerlocgavereintoherfancy.
“Mightbefatherandson,”shesaidtoherself.ShethoughtalsothatMrVerlocwasasmuchofafatheraspoorStevieeverhadinhislife. Shewasawarealsothatitwas her work. And with peaceful pride she congratulated herself on a certainresolutionshehadtakenafewyearsbefore.Ithadcosthersomeeffort,andevenafewtears.
She congratulated herself still more on observing in the course of days thatMrVerlocseemedtobetakingkindlytoStevie’scompanionship.Now,whenreadytogoout forhiswalk,MrVerloccalledaloud to theboy, in the spirit, nodoubt, inwhich aman invites the attendance of the household dog, though, of course, in adifferent manner. In the houseMr Verloc could be detected staring curiously atStevieagooddeal.Hisowndemeanourhadchanged.Taciturnstill,hewasnotsolistless.MrsVerlocthoughtthathewasratherjumpyattimes.Itmighthavebeenregardedasan improvement. As toStevie,hemopednolongerat thefootof theclock,butmutteredtohimselfincornersinsteadinathreateningtone.Whenasked“Whatisityou’resaying,Stevie?”hemerelyopenedhismouth,andsquintedathissister. At odd times he clenched his fists without apparent cause, and whendiscoveredinsolitudewouldbescowlingatthewall,withthesheetofpaperandthepencilgivenhimfordrawingcircleslyingblankandidleonthekitchentable.Thiswasachange,butitwasnoimprovement.MrsVerlocincludingallthesevagariesunder the general definition of excitement, began to fear that Steviewas hearingmore than was good for him of her husband’s conversations with his friends.Duringhis“walks”MrVerloc,ofcourse,metandconversedwithvariouspersons.It could hardly be otherwise. His walks were an integral part of his outdooractivities, which his wife had never looked deeply into. Mrs Verloc felt that thepositionwasdelicate,but she faced itwith the same impenetrablecalmnesswhichimpressed and even astonished the customers of the shop and made the othervisitors keep their distance a littlewonderingly. No! She feared that therewerethingsnotgoodforStevietohearof,shetoldherhusband.Itonlyexcitedthepoor
boy,becausehecouldnothelpthembeingso.Nobodycould.
Itwas in theshop. MrVerlocmadenocomment. Hemadenoretort,andyet theretortwasobvious.ButherefrainedfrompointingouttohiswifethattheideaofmakingSteviethecompanionofhiswalkswasherown,andnobodyelse’s.Atthatmoment, to an impartial observer, Mr Verloc would have appeared more thanhuman in his magnanimity. He took down a small cardboard box from a shelf,peeped in to see that the contents were all right, and put it down gently on thecounter.Nottillthatwasdonedidhebreakthesilence,totheeffectthatmostlikelySteviewouldprofitgreatlybybeingsentoutoftownforawhile;onlyhesupposedhiswifecouldnotgetonwithouthim.
“Could not get onwithout him!” repeatedMrsVerloc slowly. “I couldn’t get onwithouthimifitwereforhisgood!Theidea!Ofcourse,Icangetonwithouthim.Butthere’snowhereforhimtogo.”
Mr Verloc got out some brown paper and a ball of string; and meanwhile hemuttered that Michaelis was living in a little cottage in the country. Michaeliswouldn’tmindgivingSteviearoomtosleepin.Therewerenovisitorsandnotalkthere.Michaeliswaswritingabook.
MrsVerlocdeclaredheraffectionforMichaelis;mentionedherabhorrenceofKarlYundt,“nastyoldman”;andofOssiponshesaidnothing.AstoStevie,hecouldbenootherthanverypleased.MrMichaeliswasalwayssoniceandkindtohim.Heseemedtoliketheboy.Well,theboywasagoodboy.
“Youtooseemtohavegrownquitefondofhimoflate,”sheadded,afterapause,withherinflexibleassurance.
MrVerloctyingupthecardboardboxintoaparcelforthepost,brokethestringbyan injudicious jerk, andmuttered several swear words confidentially to himself.Thenraisinghistonetotheusualhuskymutter,heannouncedhiswillingnesstotakeStevieintothecountryhimself,andleavehimallsafewithMichaelis.
Hecarriedout thisschemeontheverynextday. Stevieofferednoobjection. Heseemed rather eager, in a bewildered sort of way. He turned his candid gazeinquisitively to Mr Verloc’s heavy countenance at frequent intervals, especiallywhenhis sisterwasnot lookingathim. Hisexpressionwasproud,apprehensive,andconcentrated,likethatofasmallchildentrustedforthefirsttimewithaboxofmatches and the permission to strike a light. But Mrs Verloc, gratified by herbrother ’sdocility,recommendedhimnottodirtyhisclothesundulyinthecountry.AtthisSteviegavehissister,guardianandprotectoralook,whichforthefirsttimein his life seemed to lack the quality of perfect childlike trustfulness. It washaughtilygloomy.MrsVerlocsmiled.
“Goodness me! You needn’t be offended. You know you do get yourself veryuntidywhenyougetachance,Stevie.”
MrVerlocwasalreadygonesomewaydownthestreet.
Thus in consequence of her mother ’s heroic proceedings, and of her brother ’sabsenceon thisvillegiature,MrsVerlocfoundherselfoftener thanusualallalonenotonlyintheshop,butinthehouse.ForMrVerlochadtotakehiswalks.Shewasalone longer than usual on the day of the attempted bomb outrage inGreenwichPark,becauseMrVerlocwentoutveryearly thatmorninganddidnotcomebacktillnearlydusk.Shedidnotmindbeingalone.Shehadnodesiretogoout. Theweatherwas too bad, and the shopwas cosier than the streets. Sitting behind thecounter with some sewing, she did not raise her eyes from her work when MrVerlocenteredintheaggressiveclatterofthebell.Shehadrecognisedhissteponthepavementoutside.
Shedidnotraisehereyes,butasMrVerloc,silent,andwithhishatrammeddownuponhisforehead,madestraightfortheparlourdoor,shesaidserenely:
“Whatawretchedday.You’vebeenperhapstoseeStevie?”
“No!Ihaven’t,”saidMrVerlocsoftly,andslammedtheglazedparlourdoorbehindhimwithunexpectedenergy.
ForsometimeMrsVerlocremainedquiescent,withherworkdroppedinher lap,beforesheputitawayunderthecounterandgotuptolightthegas.Thisdone,shewent into the parlour on her way to the kitchen. Mr Verloc would want his teapresently. Confidentof thepowerofhercharms,Winniedidnotexpect fromherhusband in the daily intercourse of their married life a ceremonious amenity ofaddress and courtliness of manner; vain and antiquated forms at best, probablyneververyexactlyobserved,discardednowadayseven in thehighest spheres,andalwaysforeigntothestandardsofherclass.Shedidnotlookforcourtesiesfromhim.Buthewasagoodhusband,andshehadaloyalrespectforhisrights.
MrsVerlocwouldhavegonethroughtheparlourandontoherdomesticdutiesinthekitchenwiththeperfectserenityofawomansureofthepowerofhercharms.Butaslight,veryslight,andrapidrattlingsoundgrewuponherhearing. Bizarreand incomprehensible, it arrested Mrs Verloc’s attention. Then as its characterbecameplaintotheearshestoppedshort,amazedandconcerned.Strikingamatchontheboxsheheldinherhand,sheturnedonandlighted,abovetheparlourtable,oneof the twogas-burners,which,beingdefective, firstwhistledas ifastonished,andthenwentonpurringcomfortablylikeacat.
MrVerloc,againsthisusualpractice,hadthrownoffhisovercoat.Itwaslyingon
thesofa.Hishat,whichhemustalsohavethrownoff,restedoverturnedundertheedge of the sofa. He had dragged a chair in front of the fireplace, and his feetplantedinsidethefender,hisheadheldbetweenhishands,hewashanginglowoverthe glowing grate. His teeth rattled with an ungovernable violence, causing hiswholeenormousbacktotrembleatthesamerate.MrsVerlocwasstartled.
“You’vebeengettingwet,”shesaid.
“Not very,”MrVerlocmanaged to falter out, in a profound shudder. By a greatefforthesuppressedtherattlingofhisteeth.
“I’llhaveyoulaiduponmyhands,”shesaid,withgenuineuneasiness.
“Idon’tthinkso,”remarkedMrVerloc,snufflinghuskily.
Hehadcertainlycontrivedsomehowtocatchanabominablecoldbetweenseveninthemorningandfiveintheafternoon.MrsVerloclookedathisbowedback.
“Wherehaveyoubeento-day?”sheasked.
“Nowhere,”answeredMrVerlocinalow,chokednasaltone.Hisattitudesuggestedaggrievedsulksorasevereheadache. Theunsufficiencyanduncandidnessofhisanswer became painfully apparent in the dead silence of the room. He snuffledapologetically,andadded:“I’vebeentothebank.”
MrsVerlocbecameattentive.
“Youhave!”shesaiddispassionately.“Whatfor?”
MrVerlocmumbled,withhisnoseoverthegrate,andwithmarkedunwillingness.
“Drawthemoneyout!”
“Whatdoyoumean?Allofit?”
“Yes.Allofit.”
MrsVerlocspreadoutwithcarethescantytable-cloth,gottwoknivesandtwoforksoutofthetabledrawer,andsuddenlystoppedinhermethodicalproceedings.
“Whatdidyoudothatfor?”
“Maywantitsoon,”snuffledvaguelyMrVerloc,whowascomingtotheendofhiscalculatedindiscretions.
“I don’t knowwhat youmean,” remarked hiswife in a tone perfectly casual, butstandingstockstillbetweenthetableandthecupboard.
“Youknowyoucantrustme,”MrVerlocremarkedtothegrate,withhoarsefeeling.
MrsVerlocturnedslowlytowardsthecupboard,sayingwithdeliberation:
“Ohyes.Icantrustyou.”
And she went on with her methodical proceedings. She laid two plates, got thebread,thebutter,goingtoandfroquietlybetweenthetableandthecupboardinthepeace and silenceof her home. On thepoint of takingout the jam, she reflectedpractically:“Hewillbefeelinghungry,havingbeenawayallday,”andshereturnedtothecupboardoncemoretogetthecoldbeef.Shesetitunderthepurringgas-jet,and with a passing glance at her motionless husband hugging the fire, she went(downtwosteps)intothekitchen.Itwasonlywhencomingback,carvingknifeandforkinhand,thatshespokeagain.
“IfIhadn’ttrustedyouIwouldn’thavemarriedyou.”
Bowedundertheovermantel,MrVerloc,holdinghisheadinbothhands,seemedtohavegonetosleep.Winniemadethetea,andcalledoutinanundertone:
“Adolf.”
MrVerlocgotupatonce,andstaggeredalittlebeforehesatdownatthetable.Hiswifeexaminingthesharpedgeofthecarvingknife,placeditonthedish,andcalledhis attention to the cold beef. He remained insensible to the suggestion,with hischinonhisbreast.
“Youshouldfeedyourcold,”MrsVerlocsaiddogmatically.
Helookedup,andshookhishead.Hiseyeswerebloodshotandhisfacered.Hisfingers had ruffled his hair into a dissipated untidiness. Altogether he had adisreputable aspect, expressive of the discomfort, the irritation and the gloomfollowing a heavy debauch. But Mr Verloc was not a debauched man. In hisconducthewasrespectable.Hisappearancemighthavebeentheeffectofafeverishcold. He drank three cups of tea, but abstained from food entirely. He recoiledfromitwithsombreaversionwhenurgedbyMrsVerloc,whosaidatlast:
“Aren’tyourfeetwet?Youhadbetterputonyourslippers. Youaren’tgoingoutanymorethisevening.”
MrVerlocintimatedbymorosegruntsandsignsthathisfeetwerenotwet,andthatanyhowhedidnotcare.Theproposalastoslipperswasdisregardedasbeneathhisnotice. But the question of going out in the evening received an unexpecteddevelopment. ItwasnotofgoingoutintheeveningthatMrVerlocwasthinking.His thoughts embraced a vaster scheme. Frommoody and incomplete phrases itbecame apparent that Mr Verloc had been considering the expediency ofemigrating.ItwasnotveryclearwhetherhehadinhismindFranceorCalifornia.
The utter unexpectedness, improbability, and inconceivableness of such an eventrobbed this vague declaration of all its effect. Mrs Verloc, as placidly as if herhusbandhadbeenthreateningherwiththeendoftheworld,said:
“Theidea!”
Mr Verloc declared himself sick and tired of everything, and besides—Sheinterruptedhim.
“You’veabadcold.”
ItwasindeedobviousthatMrVerlocwasnotinhisusualstate,physicallyandevenmentally.Asombreirresolutionheldhimsilentforawhile.Thenhemurmuredafewominousgeneralitiesonthethemeofnecessity.
“Willhaveto,”repeatedWinnie,sittingcalmlyback,withfoldedarms,oppositeherhusband.“Ishouldliketoknowwho’stomakeyou.Youain’taslave.Nooneneedbeaslaveinthiscountry—anddon’tyoumakeyourselfone.”Shepaused,andwithinvincibleandsteadycandour.“Thebusinessisn’tsobad,”shewenton.“You’veacomfortablehome.”
Sheglancedallroundtheparlour,fromthecornercupboardtothegoodfireinthegrate. Ensconcedcosilybehind theshopofdoubtfulwares,with themysteriouslydimwindow,anditsdoorsuspiciouslyajarintheobscureandnarrowstreet,itwasin all essentials of domestic propriety anddomestic comfort a respectablehome.Her devoted affectionmissed out of it her brother Stevie, now enjoying a dampvillegiature in theKentish lanesunder thecareofMrMichaelis. Shemissedhimpoignantly,withall theforceofherprotectingpassion. Thiswas theboy’shometoo—theroof,thecupboard,thestokedgrate.OnthisthoughtMrsVerlocrose,andwalkingtotheotherendofthetable,saidinthefulnessofherheart:
“Andyouarenottiredofme.”
MrVerlocmadenosound.Winnieleanedonhisshoulderfrombehind,andpressedherlipstohisforehead.Thusshelingered.Notawhisperreachedthemfromtheoutsideworld.
The sound of footsteps on the pavement died out in the discreet dimness of theshop. Only the gas-jet above the table went on purring equably in the broodingsilenceoftheparlour.
During thecontactof thatunexpectedandlingeringkissMrVerloc,grippingwithboth hands the edges of his chair, preserved a hieratic immobility. When thepressure was removed he let go the chair, rose, and went to stand before thefireplace.Heturnednolongerhisbacktotheroom.Withhisfeaturesswollenand
anairofbeingdrugged,hefollowedhiswife’smovementswithhiseyes.
Mrs Verloc went about serenely, clearing up the table. Her tranquil voicecommentedtheideathrownoutinareasonableanddomestictone.Itwouldn’tstandexamination. She condemned it from every point of view. But her only realconcern was Stevie’s welfare. He appeared to her thought in that connection assufficiently“peculiar”nottobetakenrashlyabroad.Andthatwasall.Buttalkinground that vital point, she approached absolute vehemence in her delivery.Meanwhile, with brusque movements, she arrayed herself in an apron for thewashingupofcups.Andasifexcitedbythesoundofheruncontradictedvoice,shewentsofarastosayinatonealmosttart:
“Ifyougoabroadyou’llhavetogowithoutme.”
“You know Iwouldn’t,” saidMrVerloc huskily, and the unresonant voice of hisprivatelifetrembledwithanenigmaticalemotion.
AlreadyMrsVerlocwasregrettingherwords.Theyhadsoundedmoreunkindthanshemeantthemtobe.Theyhadalsotheunwisdomofunnecessarythings.Infact,shehadnotmeantthematall.Itwasasortofphrasethatissuggestedbythedemonofperverseinspiration.Butsheknewawaytomakeitasifithadnotbeen.
Sheturnedherheadoverhershoulderandgavethatmanplantedheavilyinfrontofthefireplaceaglance,halfarch,halfcruel,outofherlargeeyes—aglanceofwhichtheWinnieoftheBelgravianmansiondayswouldhavebeenincapable,becauseofher respectability andher ignorance. But themanwasher husbandnow, and shewasnolongerignorant.Shekeptitonhimforawholesecond,withhergravefacemotionlesslikeamask,whileshesaidplayfully:
“Youcouldn’t.Youwouldmissmetoomuch.”
MrVerlocstartedforward.
“Exactly,”hesaidinaloudertone,throwinghisarmsoutandmakingasteptowardsher. Something wild and doubtful in his expression made it appear uncertainwhetherhemeanttostrangleortoembracehiswife.ButMrsVerloc’sattentionwascalledawayfromthatmanifestationbytheclatteroftheshopbell.
“Shop,Adolf.Yougo.”
Hestopped,hisarmscamedownslowly.
“Yougo,”repeatedMrsVerloc.“I’vegotmyapronon.”
Mr Verloc obeyed woodenly, stony-eyed, and like an automaton whose face hadbeenpaintedred. Andthisresemblancetoamechanicalfigurewentsofarthathe
hadanautomaton’sabsurdairofbeingawareofthemachineryinsideofhim.
Heclosedtheparlourdoor,andMrsVerlocmovingbriskly,carriedthetrayintothekitchen.Shewashedthecupsandsomeotherthingsbeforeshestoppedinherworktolisten.Nosoundreachedher.Thecustomerwasalongtimeintheshop.Itwasacustomer, because if he had not been Mr Verloc would have taken him inside.Undoing the stringsofher apronwith a jerk, she threw it ona chair, andwalkedbacktotheparlourslowly.
AtthatprecisemomentMrVerlocenteredfromtheshop.
He had gone in red. He came out a strange papery white. His face, losing itsdrugged,feverishstupor,hadinthatshorttimeacquiredabewilderedandharassedexpression.Hewalkedstraighttothesofa,andstoodlookingdownathisovercoatlyingthere,asthoughhewereafraidtotouchit.
“What’sthematter?”askedMrsVerlocinasubduedvoice. Throughthedoorleftajarshecouldseethatthecustomerwasnotgoneyet.
“IfindI’llhavetogooutthisevening,”saidMrVerloc.Hedidnotattempttopickuphisoutergarment.
WithoutawordWinniemadefortheshop,andshuttingthedoorafterher,walkedinbehindthecounter.Shedidnotlookovertlyatthecustomertillshehadestablishedherselfcomfortablyonthechair.Butbythattimeshehadnotedthathewastallandthin,andworehismoustaches twistedup. Infact,hegavethesharppointsa twistjust then. His long, bony face rose out of a turned-up collar. He was a littlesplashed, a littlewet. Adarkman,with the ridge of the cheek-bonewell definedundertheslightlyhollowtemple.Acompletestranger.Notacustomereither.
MrsVerloclookedathimplacidly.
“YoucameoverfromtheContinent?”shesaidafteratime.
Thelong,thinstranger,withoutexactlylookingatMrsVerloc,answeredonlybyafaintandpeculiarsmile.
MrsVerloc’ssteady,incuriousgazerestedonhim.
“YouunderstandEnglish,don’tyou?”
“Ohyes.IunderstandEnglish.”
There was nothing foreign in his accent, except that he seemed in his slowenunciation tobe takingpainswith it. AndMrsVerloc, inhervariedexperience,hadcometotheconclusionthatsomeforeignerscouldspeakbetterEnglishthanthenatives.Shesaid,lookingatthedooroftheparlourfixedly:
“Youdon’tthinkperhapsofstayinginEnglandforgood?”
The stranger gave her again a silent smile. He had a kindlymouth and probingeyes.Andheshookhisheadalittlesadly,itseemed.
“Myhusbandwillseeyouthroughallright.Meantimeforafewdaysyoucouldn’tdo better than take lodgings with Mr Giugliani. Continental Hotel it’s called.Private.It’squiet.Myhusbandwilltakeyouthere.”
“Agoodidea,”saidthethin,darkman,whoseglancehadhardenedsuddenly.
“YouknewMrVerlocbefore—didn’tyou?PerhapsinFrance?”
“Ihaveheardofhim,”admittedthevisitorinhisslow,painstakingtone,whichyethadacertaincurtnessofintention.
Therewasapause.Thenhespokeagain,inafarlesselaboratemanner.
“Yourhusbandhasnotgoneouttowaitformeinthestreetbychance?”
“Inthestreet!”repeatedMrsVerloc,surprised.“Hecouldn’t.There’snootherdoortothehouse.”
Foramomentshesatimpassive,thenleftherseattogoandpeepthroughtheglazeddoor.Suddenlysheopenedit,anddisappearedintotheparlour.
MrVerlochaddonenomorethanputonhisovercoat.Butwhyheshouldremainafterwards leaning over the table proppedup onhis two arms as thoughhewerefeelinggiddyorsick,shecouldnotunderstand.“Adolf,”shecalledouthalfaloud;andwhenhehadraisedhimself:
“Doyouknowthatman?”sheaskedrapidly.
“I’ve heard of him,” whispered uneasilyMr Verloc, darting a wild glance at thedoor.
MrsVerloc’sfine,incuriouseyeslightedupwithaflashofabhorrence.
“OneofKarlYundt’sfriends—beastlyoldman.”
“No!No!”protestedMrVerloc,busyfishingforhishat.Butwhenhegotitfromunderthesofahehelditasifhedidnotknowtheuseofahat.
“Well—he’swaitingforyou,”saidMrsVerlocatlast.“Isay,Adolf,heain’toneofthemEmbassypeopleyouhavebeenbotheredwithoflate?”
“BotheredwithEmbassypeople,”repeatedMrVerloc,withaheavystartofsurpriseandfear.“Who’sbeentalkingtoyouoftheEmbassypeople?”
“Yourself.”
“I!I!TalkedoftheEmbassytoyou!”
MrVerlocseemedscaredandbewilderedbeyondmeasure.Hiswifeexplained:
“You’vebeentalkingalittleinyoursleepoflate,Adolf.”
“What—whatdidIsay?Whatdoyouknow?”
“Nothingmuch.Itseemedmostlynonsense.Enoughtoletmeguessthatsomethingworriedyou.”
MrVerlocrammedhishatonhishead.Acrimsonfloodofangerranoverhisface.
“Nonsense—eh? The Embassy people! I would cut their hearts out one afteranother.Butletthemlookout.I’vegotatongueinmyhead.”
He fumed, pacingup anddownbetween the table and the sofa, his openovercoatcatchingagainsttheangles.Theredfloodofangerebbedout,andlefthisfaceallwhite,withquiveringnostrils.MrsVerloc,forthepurposesofpracticalexistence,putdowntheseappearancestothecold.
“Well,”shesaid,“getridoftheman,whoeverheis,assoonasyoucan,andcomebackhometome.Youwantlookingafterforadayortwo.”
Mr Verloc calmed down, and, with resolution imprinted on his pale face, hadalreadyopenedthedoor,whenhiswifecalledhimbackinawhisper:
“Adolf! Adolf!”Hecamebackstartled. “Whataboutthatmoneyyoudrewout?”sheasked.“You’vegotitinyourpocket?Hadn’tyoubetter—”
MrVerlocgazedstupidlyintothepalmofhiswife’sextendedhandforsometimebeforeheslappedhisbrow.
“Money!Yes!Yes!Ididn’tknowwhatyoumeant.”
Hedrewoutofhisbreastpocketanewpigskinpocket-book.MrsVerlocreceiveditwithoutanotherword,andstoodstilltillthebell,clatteringafterMrVerlocandMrVerloc’svisitor,hadquieteddown.Onlythenshepeepedinattheamount,drawingthenotesoutforthepurpose.Afterthisinspectionshelookedroundthoughtfully,withanairofmistrust inthesilenceandsolitudeofthehouse. Thisabodeofhermarriedlifeappearedtoheraslonelyandunsafeasthoughithadbeensituatedinthemidst of a forest. No receptacle she could think of amongst the solid, heavyfurnitureseemedotherbutflimsyandparticularlytemptingtoherconceptionofahouse-breaker. Itwas an ideal conception, endowedwith sublime faculties and amiraculous insight. The tillwasnot tobe thoughtof. Itwas the first spota thiefwould make for. Mrs Verloc unfastening hastily a couple of hooks, slipped thepocket-bookunderthebodiceofherdress.Havingthusdisposedofherhusband’scapital, she was rather glad to hear the clatter of the door bell, announcing anarrival.Assumingthefixed,unabashedstareandthestonyexpressionreservedforthecasualcustomer,shewalkedinbehindthecounter.
Amanstanding in themiddleof theshopwas inspecting itwithaswift,cool,all-roundglance.Hiseyesranoverthewalls,tookintheceiling,notedthefloor—allinamoment.Thepointsofalongfairmoustachefellbelowthelineofthejaw.Hesmiled the smile of an old if distant acquaintance, and Mrs Verloc rememberedhavingseenhimbefore.Notacustomer.Shesoftenedher“customerstare”tomereindifference,andfacedhimacrossthecounter.
Heapproached,onhisside,confidentially,butnottoomarkedlyso.
“Husbandathome,MrsVerloc?”heaskedinaneasy,fulltone.
“No.He’sgoneout.”
“Iamsorryforthat.I’vecalledtogetfromhimalittleprivateinformation.”
Thiswastheexacttruth.ChiefInspectorHeathadbeenallthewayhome,andhadevengonesofarastothinkofgettingintohisslippers,sincepracticallyhewas,hetoldhimself,chuckedoutofthatcase.Heindulgedinsomescornfulandinafewangrythoughts,andfoundtheoccupationsounsatisfactorythatheresolvedtoseekrelief out of doors. Nothing prevented him paying a friendly call toMrVerloc,casually as it were. It was in the character of a private citizen that walking outprivatelyhemadeuseofhiscustomaryconveyances. Theirgeneraldirectionwastowards Mr Verloc’s home. Chief Inspector Heat respected his own private
character so consistently that he took especial pains to avoid all the policeconstablesonpointandpatroldutyin thevicinityofBrettStreet. ThisprecautionwasmuchmorenecessaryforamanofhisstandingthanforanobscureAssistantCommissioner.PrivateCitizenHeatenteredthestreet,manoeuvringinawaywhichinamemberofthecriminalclasseswouldhavebeenstigmatisedasslinking.Thepiece of cloth picked up in Greenwich was in his pocket. Not that he had theslightestintentionofproducingitinhisprivatecapacity.Onthecontrary,hewantedtoknow justwhatMrVerlocwouldbedisposed tosayvoluntarily. HehopedMrVerloc’stalkwouldbeofanaturetoincriminateMichaelis.Itwasaconscientiouslyprofessionalhopeinthemain,butnotwithoutitsmoralvalue.ForChiefInspectorHeatwasaservantofjustice.FindingMrVerlocfromhome,hefeltdisappointed.
“IwouldwaitforhimalittleifIweresurehewouldn’tbelong,”hesaid.
MrsVerlocvolunteerednoassuranceofanykind.
“The information I need is quite private,” he repeated. “You understand what Imean?Iwonderifyoucouldgivemeanotionwherehe’sgoneto?”
MrsVerlocshookherhead.
“Can’tsay.”
She turned away to range some boxes on the shelves behind the counter. ChiefInspectorHeatlookedatherthoughtfullyforatime.
“IsupposeyouknowwhoIam?”hesaid.
Mrs Verloc glanced over her shoulder. Chief Inspector Heat was amazed at hercoolness.
“Come!YouknowIaminthepolice,”hesaidsharply.
“I don’t troublemy headmuch about it,”Mrs Verloc remarked, returning to therangingofherboxes.
“MynameisHeat.ChiefInspectorHeatoftheSpecialCrimessection.”
MrsVerlocadjustednicely in itsplaceasmallcardboardbox,and turning round,facedhimagain,heavy-eyed,withidlehandshangingdown.Asilencereignedforatime.
“Soyourhusbandwentoutaquarterofanhourago! Andhedidn’t saywhenhewouldbeback?”
“Hedidn’tgooutalone,”MrsVerlocletfallnegligently.
“Afriend?”
MrsVerloctouchedthebackofherhair.Itwasinperfectorder.
“Astrangerwhocalled.”
“Isee.Whatsortofmanwasthatstranger?Wouldyoumindtellingme?”
MrsVerlocdidnotmind.AndwhenChiefInspectorHeatheardofamandark,thin,with a long face and turned up moustaches, he gave signs of perturbation, andexclaimed:
“DashmeifIdidn’tthinkso!Hehasn’tlostanytime.”
Hewasintenselydisgustedinthesecrecyofhisheartattheunofficialconductofhisimmediatechief. Buthewasnotquixotic. Helostalldesire toawaitMrVerloc’sreturn.Whattheyhadgoneoutforhedidnotknow,butheimagineditpossiblethattheywouldreturntogether.Thecaseisnotfollowedproperly,it’sbeingtamperedwith,hethoughtbitterly.
“IamafraidIhaven’ttimetowaitforyourhusband,”hesaid.
MrsVerlocreceivedthisdeclarationlistlessly.HerdetachmenthadimpressedChiefInspector Heat all along. At this precisemoment it whetted his curiosity. ChiefInspectorHeat hung in thewind, swayed by his passions like themost private ofcitizens.
“I think,” he said, looking at her steadily, “that you could giveme a pretty goodnotionofwhat’sgoingonifyouliked.”
Forcingherfine,inerteyestoreturnhisgaze,MrsVerlocmurmured:
“Goingon!Whatisgoingon?”
“Why,theaffairIcametotalkaboutalittlewithyourhusband.”
That dayMrsVerloc had glanced at amorning paper as usual. But she had notstirredoutofdoors. ThenewsboysneverinvadedBrettStreet. Itwasnotastreetfor their business. And the echo of their cries drifting along the populousthoroughfares,expiredbetweenthedirtybrickwallswithoutreachingthethresholdoftheshop.Herhusbandhadnotbroughtaneveningpaperhome.Atanyrateshehadnotseenit.MrsVerlocknewnothingwhateverofanyaffair.Andshesaidso,withagenuinenoteofwonderinherquietvoice.
Chief InspectorHeatdidnotbelieveforamoment insomuch ignorance. Curtly,withoutamiability,hestatedthebarefact.
MrsVerlocturnedawayhereyes.
“Icallitsilly,”shepronouncedslowly.Shepaused.“Weain’tdowntroddenslaves
here.”
TheChiefInspectorwaitedwatchfully.Nothingmorecame.
“Andyourhusbanddidn’tmentionanythingtoyouwhenhecamehome?”
MrsVerlocsimplyturnedherfacefromrighttoleftinsignofnegation.Alanguid,baffling silence reigned in the shop. Chief Inspector Heat felt provoked beyondendurance.
“Therewasanothersmallmatter,”hebeganinadetachedtone,“whichIwantedtospeaktoyourhusbandabout.Therecameintoourhandsa—a—whatwebelieveis—astolenovercoat.”
MrsVerloc,withhermindspeciallyawareofthievesthatevening, touchedlightlythebosomofherdress.
“Wehavelostnoovercoat,”shesaidcalmly.
“That’sfunny,”continuedPrivateCitizenHeat.“Iseeyoukeepalotofmarkinginkhere—”
He tookupasmallbottle,and lookedat itagainst thegas-jet in themiddleof theshop.
“Purple—isn’t it?” he remarked, setting it down again. “As I said, it’s strange.Becausetheovercoathasgotalabelsewnontheinsidewithyouraddresswritteninmarkingink.”
MrsVerlocleanedoverthecounterwithalowexclamation.
“That’smybrother ’s,then.”
“Where’s your brother? Can I see him?” asked theChief Inspector briskly. MrsVerlocleanedalittlemoreoverthecounter.
“No.Heisn’there.Iwrotethatlabelmyself.”
“Where’syourbrothernow?”
“He’sbeenawaylivingwith—afriend—inthecountry.”
“Theovercoatcomesfromthecountry.Andwhat’sthenameofthefriend?”
“Michaelis,”confessedMrsVerlocinanawedwhisper.
TheChiefInspectorletoutawhistle.Hiseyessnapped.
“Justso.Capital.Andyourbrothernow,what’shelike—asturdy,darkishchap—eh?”
“Ohno,”exclaimedMrsVerlocfervently. “Thatmustbethethief. Stevie’sslightandfair.”
“Good,” said the Chief Inspector in an approving tone. And while Mrs Verloc,wavering between alarm and wonder, stared at him, he sought for information.Whyhavetheaddresssewnlikethisinsidethecoat?Andheheardthatthemangledremains he had inspected thatmorningwith extreme repugnancewere those of ayouth,nervous,absent-minded,peculiar,andalsothatthewomanwhowasspeakingtohimhadhadthechargeofthatboysincehewasababy.
“Easilyexcitable?”hesuggested.
“Ohyes.Heis.Buthowdidhecometolosehiscoat—”
ChiefInspectorHeatsuddenlypulledoutapinknewspaperhehadboughtlessthanhalf-an-hourago.Hewasinterestedinhorses.Forcedbyhiscallingintoanattitudeofdoubtandsuspiciontowardshisfellow-citizens,ChiefInspectorHeatrelievedtheinstinctofcredulityimplantedinthehumanbreastbyputtingunboundedfaithinthesportingprophetsofthatparticulareveningpublication.Droppingtheextraspecialon to the counter, he plunged his hand again into his pocket, and pulling out thepiece of cloth fate hadpresented himwith out of a heapof things that seemed tohave been collected in shambles and rag shops, he offered it toMrs Verloc forinspection.
“Isupposeyourecognisethis?”
Shetookitmechanicallyinbothherhands.Hereyesseemedtogrowbiggerasshelooked.
“Yes,”shewhispered,thenraisedherhead,andstaggeredbackwardalittle.
“Whateverforisittornoutlikethis?”
TheChiefInspectorsnatchedacrossthecountertheclothoutofherhands,andshesatheavilyonthechair.Hethought:identification’sperfect.Andinthatmomenthehadaglimpseintothewholeamazingtruth.Verlocwasthe“otherman.”
“MrsVerloc,”hesaid,“itstrikesmethatyouknowmoreof thisbombaffair thanevenyouyourselfareawareof.”
Mrs Verloc sat still, amazed, lost in boundless astonishment. What was theconnection?Andshebecamesorigidalloverthatshewasnotabletoturnherheadattheclatterofthebell,whichcausedtheprivateinvestigatorHeattospinroundonhisheel.MrVerlochadshutthedoor,andforamomentthetwomenlookedateachother.
MrVerloc,withoutlookingathiswife,walkeduptotheChiefInspector,whowasrelievedtoseehimreturnalone.
“Youhere!”mutteredMrVerlocheavily.“Whoareyouafter?”
“Noone,”saidChiefInspectorHeatinalowtone.“Lookhere,Iwouldlikeawordortwowithyou.”
MrVerloc,stillpale,hadbroughtanairofresolutionwithhim.Stillhedidn’tlookathiswife.Hesaid:
“Comeinhere,then.”Andheledthewayintotheparlour.
ThedoorwashardlyshutwhenMrsVerloc,jumpingupfromthechair,rantoitasif to fling it open, but instead of doing so fell on her knees, with her ear to thekeyhole. Thetwomenmusthavestoppeddirectlytheywerethrough,becausesheheard plainly the Chief Inspector ’s voice, though she could not see his fingerpressedagainstherhusband’sbreastemphatically.
“Youaretheotherman,Verloc.Twomenwereseenenteringthepark.”
AndthevoiceofMrVerlocsaid:
“Well,takemenow.What’stopreventyou?Youhavetheright.”
“Ohno!Iknowtoowellwhoyouhavebeengivingyourselfawayto.He’llhavetomanage this little affair all byhimself. But don’t youmake amistake, it’s Iwhofoundyouout.”
Then she heard only muttering. Inspector Heat must have been showing to MrVerloc the piece of Stevie’s overcoat, because Stevie’s sister, guardian, andprotectorheardherhusbandalittlelouder.
“Inevernoticedthatshehadhituponthatdodge.”
Again for a timeMrsVerloc heard nothing butmurmurs, whosemysteriousnesswas lessnightmarish toherbrain than thehorrible suggestionsof shapedwords.ThenChiefInspectorHeat,ontheothersideofthedoor,raisedhisvoice.
“Youmusthavebeenmad.”
AndMrVerloc’svoiceanswered,withasortofgloomyfury:
“Ihavebeenmadforamonthormore,butIamnotmadnow.It’sallover.Itshallallcomeoutofmyhead,andhangtheconsequences.”
Therewasasilence,andthenPrivateCitizenHeatmurmured:
“What’scomingout?”
“Everything,”exclaimedthevoiceofMrVerloc,andthensankverylow.
Afterawhileitroseagain.
“Youhaveknownmeforseveralyearsnow,andyou’vefoundmeuseful,too.YouknowIwasastraightman.Yes,straight.”
This appeal toold acquaintancemusthavebeen extremelydistasteful to theChiefInspector.
Hisvoicetookonawarningnote.
“Don’tyoutrustsomuchtowhatyouhavebeenpromised. IfIwereyouIwouldclearout.Idon’tthinkwewillrunafteryou.”
MrVerlocwasheardtolaughalittle.
“Ohyes;youhopetheotherswillgetridofmeforyou—don’tyou?No,no;youdon’tshakemeoffnow.Ihavebeenastraightmantothosepeopletoolong,andnoweverythingmustcomeout.”
“Letitcomeout,then,”theindifferentvoiceofChiefInspectorHeatassented.“Buttellmenowhowdidyougetaway.”
“I was making for Chesterfield Walk,” Mrs Verloc heard her husband’s voice,“whenIheardthebang.Istartedrunningthen.Fog.IsawnoonetillIwaspasttheendofGeorgeStreet.Don’tthinkImetanyonetillthen.”
“Soeasyasthat!”marvelledthevoiceofChiefInspectorHeat.“Thebangstartledyou,eh?”
“Yes;itcametoosoon,”confessedthegloomy,huskyvoiceofMrVerloc.
MrsVerlocpressedhereartothekeyhole;herlipswereblue,herhandscoldasice,andherpaleface,inwhichthetwoeyesseemedliketwoblackholes,felttoherasifitwereenvelopedinflames.
Ontheothersideofthedoorthevoicessankverylow.Shecaughtwordsnowandthen,sometimesinherhusband’svoice,sometimesinthesmoothtonesoftheChiefInspector.Sheheardthislastsay:
“Webelievehestumbledagainsttherootofatree?”
Therewasahusky,volublemurmur,whichlastedforsometime,andthentheChiefInspector,asifansweringsomeinquiry,spokeemphatically.
“Of course. Blown to small bits: limbs, gravel, clothing, bones, splinters—allmixeduptogether.Itellyoutheyhadtofetchashoveltogatherhimupwith.”
MrsVerlocsprangupsuddenlyfromhercrouchingposition,andstoppingherears,reeledtoandfrobetweenthecounterandtheshelvesonthewalltowardsthechair.Her crazed eyes noted the sporting sheet left by the Chief Inspector, and as sheknockedherself against thecounter she snatched itup, fell into thechair, tore theoptimistic,rosysheetrightacrossintryingtoopenit,thenflungitonthefloor.Ontheothersideofthedoor,ChiefInspectorHeatwassayingtoMrVerloc,thesecretagent:
“Soyourdefencewillbepracticallyafullconfession?”
“Itwill.Iamgoingtotellthewholestory.”
“Youwon’tbebelievedasmuchasyoufancyyouwill.”
AndtheChiefInspectorremainedthoughtful.Theturnthisaffairwastakingmeantthe disclosure of many things—the laying waste of fields of knowledge, which,cultivated by a capable man, had a distinct value for the individual and for thesociety.Itwassorry,sorrymeddling.ItwouldleaveMichaelisunscathed;itwoulddrag to light the Professor ’s home industry; disorganise the whole system ofsupervision;makenoendofa row in thepapers,which, from thatpointofview,appeared to him by a sudden illumination as invariably written by fools for thereadingofimbeciles.MentallyheagreedwiththewordsMrVerlocletfallatlastinanswertohislastremark.
“Perhapsnot.Butitwillupsetmanythings.Ihavebeenastraightman,andIshallkeepstraightinthis—”
“If they letyou,”said theChief Inspectorcynically. “Youwillbepreached to,nodoubt,beforetheyputyouintothedock.Andintheendyoumayyetgetletinforasentencethatwillsurpriseyou.Iwouldn’ttrusttoomuchthegentlemanwho’sbeentalkingtoyou.”
MrVerloclistened,frowning.
“Myadvicetoyouistoclearoutwhileyoumay.Ihavenoinstructions.Therearesomeofthem,”continuedChiefInspectorHeat,layingapeculiarstressontheword“them,”“whothinkyouarealreadyoutoftheworld.”
“Indeed!”MrVerlocwasmovedtosay. ThoughsincehisreturnfromGreenwichhe had spentmost of his time sitting in the tap-room of an obscure little public-house,hecouldhardlyhavehopedforsuchfavourablenews.
“That’s the impressionaboutyou.” TheChief Inspectornoddedathim. “Vanish.Clearout.”
“Whereto?”snarledMrVerloc.Heraisedhishead,andgazingatthecloseddoor
oftheparlour,mutteredfeelingly:“Ionlywishyouwouldtakemeawayto-night.Iwouldgoquietly.”
“Idaresay,”assentedsardonicallytheChiefInspector,followingthedirectionofhisglance.
The brow ofMrVerloc broke into slightmoisture. He lowered his husky voiceconfidentiallybeforetheunmovedChiefInspector.
“The ladwashalf-witted, irresponsible. Anycourtwouldhave seen that at once.Onlyfitfortheasylum.Andthatwastheworstthatwould’vehappenedtohimif—”
TheChiefInspector,hishandonthedoorhandle,whisperedintoMrVerloc’sface.
“Hemay’vebeenhalf-witted,butyoumusthavebeencrazy. Whatdroveyouoffyourheadlikethis?”
MrVerloc,thinkingofMrVladimir,didnothesitateinthechoiceofwords.
“A Hyperborean swine,” he hissed forcibly. “A what you might call a—agentleman.”
TheChiefInspector,steady-eyed,noddedbrieflyhiscomprehension,andopenedthedoor. Mrs Verloc, behind the counter, might have heard but did not see hisdeparture,pursuedbytheaggressiveclatterofthebell.Shesatatherpostofdutybehindthecounter. Shesatrigidlyerect inthechairwithtwodirtypinkpiecesofpaper lying spread out at her feet. The palms of her hands were pressedconvulsivelytoherface,withthetipsofthefingerscontractedagainsttheforehead,asthoughtheskinhadbeenamaskwhichshewasreadytotearoffviolently.Theperfect immobilityofherposeexpressed theagitationofrageanddespair,all thepotentialviolenceoftragicpassions,betterthananyshallowdisplayofshrieks,withthebeatingofadistractedheadagainstthewalls,couldhavedone.ChiefInspectorHeat,crossingtheshopathisbusy,swingingpace,gaveheronlyacursoryglance.AndwhenthecrackedbellceasedtotrembleonitscurvedribbonofsteelnothingstirrednearMrsVerloc,asifherattitudehadthelockingpowerofaspell.Eventhebutterfly-shaped gas flames posed on the ends of the suspendedT-bracket burnedwithoutaquiver.Inthatshopofshadywaresfittedwithdealshelvespaintedadullbrown, which seemed to devour the sheen of the light, the gold circlet of theweddingringonMrsVerloc’s lefthandglitteredexceedinglywith theuntarnishedgloryofapiecefromsomesplendidtreasureofjewels,droppedinadust-bin.
CHAPTERX
TheAssistantCommissioner,drivenrapidlyinahansomfromtheneighbourhoodofSohointhedirectionofWestminster,gotoutattheverycentreoftheEmpireonwhichthesunneversets.Somestalwartconstables,whodidnotseemparticularlyimpressedbythedutyofwatchingtheaugustspot,salutedhim.PenetratingthroughaportalbynomeansloftyintotheprecinctsoftheHousewhichistheHouse,parexcellenceinthemindsofmanymillionsofmen,hewasmetatlastbythevolatileandrevolutionaryToodles.
Thatneatandniceyoungmanconcealedhisastonishmentattheearlyappearanceofthe Assistant Commissioner, whom he had been told to look out for some timeaboutmidnight. His turning up so early he concluded to be the sign that things,whatevertheywere,hadgonewrong.Withanextremelyreadysympathy,whichinniceyoungstersgoesoftenwitha joyous temperament,he felt sorry for thegreatPresence he called “TheChief,” and also for theAssistantCommissioner,whoseface appeared to him more ominously wooden than ever before, and quitewonderfully long. “What a queer, foreign-looking chap he is,” he thought tohimself, smiling fromadistancewith friendlybuoyancy. Anddirectly theycametogether he began to talk with the kind intention of burying the awkwardness offailureunderaheapofwords. It lookedas if thegreatassault threatenedfor thatnightweregoing to fizzleout. An inferior henchmanof “that bruteCheeseman”was up boring mercilessly a very thin House with some shamelessly cookedstatistics. He,Toodles,hopedhewouldbore themintoacountouteveryminute.ButthenhemightbeonlymarkingtimetoletthatguzzlingCheesemandineathisleisure.Anyway,theChiefcouldnotbepersuadedtogohome.
“Hewillseeyouatonce,Ithink.He’ssittingallaloneinhisroomthinkingofallthefishesofthesea,”concludedToodlesairily.“Comealong.”
Notwithstanding the kindness of his disposition, the young private secretary(unpaid)was accessible to the common failings of humanity. He did notwish toharrow the feelings of the Assistant Commissioner, who looked to himuncommonlylikeamanwhohasmadeamessofhisjob.Buthiscuriositywastoostrongtoberestrainedbymerecompassion.Hecouldnothelp,astheywentalong,tothrowoverhisshoulderlightly:
“Andyoursprat?”
“Got him,” answered theAssistantCommissionerwith a concisionwhich did notmeantoberepellentintheleast.
“Good. You’ve no idea how these greatmen dislike to be disappointed in smallthings.”
AfterthisprofoundobservationtheexperiencedToodlesseemedtoreflect.Atanyratehesaidnothingforquitetwoseconds.Then:
“I’mglad.But—Isay—isitreallysuchaverysmallthingasyoumakeitout?”
“Doyouknowwhatmaybedonewithasprat?”theAssistantCommissioneraskedinhisturn.
“He’ssometimesputintoasardinebox,”chuckledToodles,whoseeruditiononthesubjectofthefishingindustrywasfreshand,incomparisonwithhisignoranceofallotherindustrialmatters,immense.“TherearesardinecanneriesontheSpanishcoastwhich—”
TheAssistantCommissionerinterruptedtheapprenticestatesman.
“Yes.Yes.Butaspratisalsothrownawaysometimesinordertocatchawhale.”
“Awhale. Phew!” exclaimed Toodles,with bated breath. “You’re after awhale,then?”
“Notexactly.WhatIamafterismorelikeadog-fish.Youdon’tknowperhapswhatadog-fishislike.”
“Yes;Ido. We’reburiedinspecialbooksuptoournecks—wholeshelvesfullofthem—withplates. . . . It’sanoxious, rascally-looking,altogetherdetestablebeast,withasortofsmoothfaceandmoustaches.”
“DescribedtoaT,”commendedtheAssistantCommissioner.“Onlymineisclean-shavenaltogether.You’veseenhim.It’sawittyfish.”
“Ihaveseenhim!”saidToodlesincredulously.“Ican’tconceivewhereIcouldhaveseenhim.”
“At theExplorers, I should say,”dropped theAssistantCommissionercalmly. AtthenameofthatextremelyexclusiveclubToodleslookedscared,andstoppedshort.
“Nonsense,” he protested, but in an awe-struck tone. “What do you mean? Amember?”
“Honorary,”mutteredtheAssistantCommissionerthroughhisteeth.
“Heavens!”
ToodleslookedsothunderstruckthattheAssistantCommissionersmiledfaintly.
“That’sbetweenourselvesstrictly,”hesaid.
“That’sthebeastliestthingI’veeverheardinmylife,”declaredToodlesfeebly,asifastonishmenthadrobbedhimofallhisbuoyantstrengthinasecond.
TheAssistantCommissionergavehimanunsmilingglance. Till theycametothedoorofthegreatman’sroom,Toodlespreservedascandalisedandsolemnsilence,asthoughhewereoffendedwiththeAssistantCommissionerforexposingsuchanunsavouryanddisturbing fact. It revolutionisedhis ideaof theExplorers’Club’sextremeselectness,ofitssocialpurity.Toodleswasrevolutionaryonlyinpolitics;hissocialbeliefsandpersonalfeelingshewishedtopreserveunchangedthroughalltheyears allotted tohimon this earthwhich,upon thewhole, hebelieved tobe aniceplacetoliveon.
Hestoodaside.
“Goinwithoutknocking,”hesaid.
Shadesofgreensilkfittedlowoverallthelightsimpartedtotheroomsomethingofa forest’s deep gloom. The haughty eyes were physically the great man’s weakpoint. This point was wrapped up in secrecy. When an opportunity offered, herestedthemconscientiously.
TheAssistantCommissionerenteringsawatfirstonlyabigpalehandsupportingabighead,andconcealingtheupperpartofabigpaleface. Anopendespatch-boxstoodonthewriting-tablenearafewoblongsheetsofpaperandascatteredhandfulofquillpens. Therewasabsolutelynothingelseonthelargeflatsurfaceexceptalittle bronze statuette draped in a toga, mysteriously watchful in its shadowyimmobility. TheAssistantCommissioner, invitedtotakeachair,satdown. Inthedim light, the salient points of his personality, the long face, the black hair, hislankness,madehimlookmoreforeignthanever.
Thegreatmanmanifestednosurprise,noeagerness,nosentimentwhatever. Theattitudeinwhichherestedhismenacedeyeswasprofoundlymeditative.Hedidnotalterittheleastbit.Buthistonewasnotdreamy.
“Well! What is it that you’ve found out already? You came upon somethingunexpectedonthefirststep.”
“Not exactly unexpected, Sir Ethelred. What I mainly came upon was apsychologicalstate.”
TheGreatPresencemadeaslightmovement.“Youmustbelucid,please.”
“Yes,SirEthelred. Youknownodoubt thatmostcriminalsatsometimeorotherfeelanirresistibleneedofconfessing—ofmakingacleanbreastofittosomebody—toanybody.Andtheydoitoftentothepolice.InthatVerlocwhomHeatwishedsomuchtoscreenI’vefoundamaninthatparticularpsychologicalstate.Theman,figuratively speaking, flung himself onmy breast. It was enough onmy part towhisper to himwho I was and to add ‘I know that you are at the bottom of thisaffair.’Itmusthaveseemedmiraculoustohimthatweshouldknowalready,buthetookitallinthestride.Thewonderfulnessofitnevercheckedhimforamoment.Thereremainedformeonlytoputtohimthetwoquestions:Whoputyouuptoit?andWhowasthemanwhodidit?Heansweredthefirstwithremarkableemphasis.Astothesecondquestion,Igatherthatthefellowwiththebombwashisbrother-in-law—quitealad—aweak-mindedcreature....Itisratheracuriousaffair—toolongperhapstostatefullyjustnow.”
“Whatthenhaveyoulearned?”askedthegreatman.
“First, I’ve learned that theex-convictMichaelishadnothing todowith it, thoughindeed the lad had been living with him temporarily in the country up to eighto’clock thismorning. It ismore than likely thatMichaelisknowsnothingof it tothismoment.”
“Youarepositiveastothat?”askedthegreatman.
“Quitecertain,SirEthelred.ThisfellowVerlocwenttherethismorning,andtookawaytheladonthepretenceofgoingoutforawalkinthelanes.Asitwasnotthefirst time that he did this, Michaelis could not have the slightest suspicion ofanythingunusual.Fortherest,SirEthelred,theindignationofthismanVerlochadleftnothingindoubt—nothingwhatever.Hehadbeendrivenoutofhismindalmostbyanextraordinaryperformance,whichforyouormeitwouldbedifficulttotakeasseriouslymeant,butwhichproducedagreatimpressionobviouslyonhim.”
TheAssistantCommissioner then impartedbriefly to thegreatman,whosat still,resting his eyes under the screen of his hand, Mr Verloc’s appreciation of MrVladimir ’sproceedingsandcharacter.TheAssistantCommissionerdidnotseemtorefuseitacertainamountofcompetency.Butthegreatpersonageremarked:
“Allthisseemsveryfantastic.”
“Doesn’t it? Onewould thinka ferocious joke. Butourman took it seriously, itappears. He felt himself threatened. In the time, you know, he was in directcommunication with old Stott-Wartenheim himself, and had come to regard hisservicesas indispensable. Itwasanextremely rudeawakening. I imagine thathe
losthishead.Hebecameangryandfrightened.Uponmyword,myimpressionisthathethoughttheseEmbassypeoplequitecapablenotonlytothrowhimoutbut,togivehimawaytooinsomemannerorother—”
“Howlongwereyouwithhim,”interruptedthePresencefrombehindhisbighand.
“Some forty minutes, Sir Ethelred, in a house of bad repute called ContinentalHotel,closetedinaroomwhichby-the-byItookforthenight.Ifoundhimundertheinfluenceofthatreactionwhichfollowstheeffortofcrime.Themancannotbedefinedasahardenedcriminal. It isobviousthathedidnotplanthedeathof thatwretched lad—his brother-in-law. That was a shock to him—I could see that.Perhapsheisamanofstrongsensibilities.Perhapshewasevenfondofthelad—whoknows?Hemighthavehopedthatthefellowwouldgetclearaway;inwhichcaseitwouldhavebeenalmostimpossibletobringthisthinghometoanyone.Atanyrateheriskedconsciouslynothingmorebutarrestforhim.”
TheAssistantCommissionerpausedinhisspeculationstoreflectforamoment.
“Thoughhow,inthatlastcase,hecouldhopetohavehisownshareinthebusinessconcealedismorethanIcantell,”hecontinued, inhis ignoranceofpoorStevie’sdevotiontoMrVerloc(whowasgood),andofhistrulypeculiardumbness,whichinthe old affair of fireworks on the stairs had for many years resisted entreaties,coaxing, anger, and othermeans of investigation used by his beloved sister. ForSteviewasloyal....“No,Ican’timagine.It’spossiblethatheneverthoughtofthatatall.Itsoundsanextravagantwayofputtingit,SirEthelred,buthisstateofdismaysuggested tome an impulsivemanwho, after committing suicidewith the notionthatitwouldendallhistroubles,haddiscoveredthatitdidnothingofthekind.”
The Assistant Commissioner gave this definition in an apologetic voice. But intruth there isa sortof lucidityproper toextravagant language,and thegreatmanwasnotoffended.Aslightjerkymovementofthebigbodyhalflostinthegloomofthe green silk shades, of the big head leaning on the big hand, accompanied anintermittentstifledbutpowerfulsound.Thegreatmanhadlaughed.
“Whathaveyoudonewithhim?”
TheAssistantCommissioneransweredveryreadily:
“Ashe seemedvery anxious to get back to hiswife in the shop I let himgo,SirEthelred.”
“Youdid?Butthefellowwilldisappear.”
“Pardon me. I don’t think so. Where could he go to? Moreover, you mustrememberthathehasgottothinkofthedangerfromhiscomradestoo.He’sthere
athispost.Howcouldheexplainleavingit?Buteveniftherewerenoobstaclestohis freedom of action he would do nothing. At present he hasn’t enoughmoralenergy to take a resolutionof any sort. Permitme also to point out that if I haddetained him we would have been committed to a course of action on which Iwishedtoknowyourpreciseintentionsfirst.”
The great personage rose heavily, an imposing shadowy form in the greenishgloomoftheroom.
“I’llseetheAttorney-Generalto-night,andwillsendforyouto-morrowmorning.Isthereanythingmoreyou’dwishtotellmenow?”
TheAssistantCommissionerhadstoodupalso,slenderandflexible.
“Ithinknot,SirEthelred,unlessIweretoenterintodetailswhich—”
“No.Nodetails,please.”
Thegreatshadowyformseemedtoshrinkawayas if inphysicaldreadofdetails;thencameforward,expanded,enormous,andweighty,offeringalargehand.“Andyousaythatthismanhasgotawife?”
“Yes, Sir Ethelred,” said the Assistant Commissioner, pressing deferentially theextendedhand.“Agenuinewifeandagenuinely,respectably,maritalrelation.HetoldmethatafterhisinterviewattheEmbassyhewouldhavethrowneverythingup,wouldhavetriedtosellhisshop,andleavethecountry,onlyhefeltcertainthathiswifewouldnotevenhearofgoingabroad.Nothingcouldbemorecharacteristicofthe respectable bond than that,” went on, with a touch of grimness, the AssistantCommissioner,whoseownwifetoohadrefusedtohearofgoingabroad. “Yes,agenuinewife.Andthevictimwasagenuinebrother-in-law.Fromacertainpointofviewwearehereinthepresenceofadomesticdrama.”
TheAssistantCommissionerlaughedalittle;butthegreatman’sthoughtsseemedtohavewanderedfaraway,perhapstothequestionsofhiscountry’sdomesticpolicy,the battle-ground of his crusading valour against the paynim Cheeseman. TheAssistantCommissionerwithdrewquietly,unnoticed,asifalreadyforgotten.
He had his own crusading instincts. This affair, which, in one way or another,disgustedChiefInspectorHeat,seemedtohimaprovidentiallygivenstarting-pointforacrusade.Hehaditmuchathearttobegin.Hewalkedslowlyhome,meditatingthat enterprise on the way, and thinking over Mr Verloc’s psychology in acomposite mood of repugnance and satisfaction. He walked all the way home.Findingthedrawing-roomdark,hewentupstairs,andspentsometimebetweenthebedroomandthedressing-room,changinghisclothes,goingtoandfrowiththeairofathoughtfulsomnambulist.Butheshookitoffbeforegoingoutagaintojoinhis
wifeatthehouseofthegreatladypatronessofMichaelis.
Heknewhewouldbewelcomedthere.Onenteringthesmallerofthetwodrawing-roomshesawhiswife inasmallgroupnear thepiano. Ayoungishcomposer inpass of becoming famouswas discoursing from amusic stool to two thickmenwhose backs looked old, and three slender women whose backs looked young.Behindthescreenthegreatladyhadonlytwopersonswithher:amanandawoman,whosatsidebysideonarm-chairsatthefootofhercouch.SheextendedherhandtotheAssistantCommissioner.
“Ineverhopedtoseeyouhereto-night.Annietoldme—”
“Yes.Ihadnoideamyselfthatmyworkwouldbeoversosoon.”
The Assistant Commissioner added in a low tone: “I am glad to tell you thatMichaelisisaltogetherclearofthis—”
Thepatronessoftheex-convictreceivedthisassuranceindignantly.
“Why?Wereyourpeoplestupidenoughtoconnecthimwith—”
“Not stupid,” interrupted theAssistant Commissioner, contradicting deferentially.“Cleverenough—quitecleverenoughforthat.”
Asilencefell. Themanat thefootof thecouchhadstoppedspeakingto thelady,andlookedonwithafaintsmile.
“Idon’tknowwhetheryouevermetbefore,”saidthegreatlady.
Mr Vladimir and the Assistant Commissioner, introduced, acknowledged eachother ’sexistencewithpunctiliousandguardedcourtesy.
“He’sbeenfrighteningme,”declaredsuddenly the ladywhosatby thesideofMrVladimir, with an inclination of the head towards that gentleman. The AssistantCommissionerknewthelady.
“Youdonot lookfrightened,”hepronounced,aftersurveyingherconscientiouslywithhis tiredandequablegaze. Hewas thinkingmeantime tohimself that in thishouse onemet everybody sooner or later. MrVladimir ’s rosy countenancewaswreathed in smiles, because hewaswitty, but his eyes remained serious, like theeyesofconvincedman.
“Well,hetriedtoatleast,”amendedthelady.
“Forceofhabitperhaps,”saidtheAssistantCommissioner,movedbyanirresistibleinspiration.
“He has been threatening society with all sorts of horrors,” continued the lady,
whose enunciation was caressing and slow, “apropos of this explosion inGreenwichPark.Itappearswealloughttoquakeinourshoesatwhat’scomingifthosepeoplearenotsuppressedallover theworld. Ihadno idea thiswassuchagraveaffair.”
MrVladimir, affectingnot to listen, leaned towards the couch, talking amiably insubduedtones,butheheardtheAssistantCommissionersay:
“I’venodoubtthatMrVladimirhasaveryprecisenotionofthetrueimportanceofthisaffair.”
Mr Vladimir asked himself what that confounded and intrusive policeman wasdriving at. Descended from generations victimised by the instruments of anarbitrarypower,hewasracially,nationally,andindividuallyafraidofthepolice.Itwasaninheritedweakness,altogetherindependentofhisjudgment,ofhisreason,ofhisexperience.Hewasborntoit.Butthatsentiment,whichresembledtheirrationalhorrorsomepeoplehaveofcats,didnotstandinthewayofhisimmensecontemptfor the English police. He finished the sentence addressed to the great lady, andturnedslightlyinhischair.
“Youmeanthatwehaveagreatexperienceofthesepeople.Yes;indeed,wesuffergreatly from their activity, while you”—MrVladimir hesitated for amoment, insmiling perplexity—“while you suffer their presence gladly in your midst,” hefinished, displaying a dimple on each clean-shaven cheek. Then he added moregravely:“Imayevensay—becauseyoudo.”
When Mr Vladimir ceased speaking the Assistant Commissioner lowered hisglance,andtheconversationdropped.AlmostimmediatelyafterwardsMrVladimirtookleave.
DirectlyhisbackwasturnedonthecouchtheAssistantCommissionerrosetoo.
“IthoughtyouweregoingtostayandtakeAnniehome,”saidtheladypatronessofMichaelis.
“IfindthatI’veyetalittleworktodoto-night.”
“Inconnection—?”
“Well,yes—inaway.”
“Tellme,whatisitreally—thishorror?”
“It’sdifficulttosaywhatitis,butitmayyetbeacausecélèbre,”saidtheAssistantCommissioner.
He left the drawing-room hurriedly, and found Mr Vladimir still in the hall,
wrappinguphisthroatcarefullyinalargesilkhandkerchief.Behindhimafootmanwaited,holdinghisovercoat.Anotherstoodreadytoopenthedoor.TheAssistantCommissionerwasdulyhelpedintohiscoat,andletoutatonce.Afterdescendingthefrontstepshestopped,asiftoconsiderthewayheshouldtake.Onseeingthisthroughthedoorheldopen,MrVladimirlingeredinthehalltogetoutacigarandaskedforalight.Itwasfurnishedtohimbyanelderlymanoutofliverywithanairofcalmsolicitude. But thematchwentout; thefootmanthenclosedthedoor,andMrVladimirlightedhislargeHavanawithleisurelycare.
When at last he got out of the house, he saw with disgust the “confoundedpoliceman”stillstandingonthepavement.
“Canhebewaitingforme,”thoughtMrVladimir,lookingupanddownforsomesignsofahansom. Hesawnone. Acoupleofcarriageswaitedby thecurbstone,theirlampsblazingsteadily,thehorsesstandingperfectlystill,asifcarvedinstone,the coachmen sitting motionless under the big fur capes, without as much as aquiverstirringthewhitethongsoftheirbigwhips.MrVladimirwalkedon,andthe“confoundedpoliceman”fellintostepathiselbow.Hesaidnothing.AttheendofthefourthstrideMrVladimirfeltinfuriatedanduneasy.Thiscouldnotlast.
“Rottenweather,”hegrowledsavagely.
“Mild,”saidtheAssistantCommissionerwithoutpassion.Heremainedsilentforalittlewhile.“We’vegotholdofamancalledVerloc,”heannouncedcasually.
MrVladimirdidnotstumble,didnotstaggerback,didnotchangehisstride.Buthecouldnotpreventhimselffromexclaiming:“What?”TheAssistantCommissionerdidnotrepeathisstatement.“Youknowhim,”hewentoninthesametone.
MrVladimirstopped,andbecameguttural.“Whatmakesyousaythat?”
“Idon’t.It’sVerlocwhosaysthat.”
“Alyingdogofsomesort,”saidMrVladimirinsomewhatOrientalphraseology.But in his heart hewas almost awed by themiraculous cleverness of theEnglishpolice.Thechangeofhisopiniononthesubjectwassoviolentthatitmadehimforamomentfeelslightlysick.Hethrewawayhiscigar,andmovedon.
“Whatpleasedmemostinthisaffair,”theAssistantwenton,talkingslowly,“isthatitmakessuchanexcellentstarting-pointforapieceofworkwhichI’vefeltmustbetaken in hand—that is, the clearingout of this countryof all the foreignpoliticalspies, police, and that sort of—of—dogs. In my opinion they are a ghastlynuisance; also an element of danger. But we can’t very well seek them outindividually. The only way is to make their employment unpleasant to theiremployers.Thething’sbecomingindecent.Anddangeroustoo,forus,here.”
MrVladimirstoppedagainforamoment.
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“TheprosecutionofthisVerlocwilldemonstratetothepublicboththedangerandtheindecency.”
“Nobody will believe what a man of that sort says,” said Mr Vladimircontemptuously.
“Thewealthandprecisionofdetailwill carryconviction to thegreatmassof thepublic,”advancedtheAssistantCommissionergently.
“Sothatisseriouslywhatyoumeantodo.”
“We’vegottheman;wehavenochoice.”
“Youwillbeonlyfeedingupthelyingspiritoftheserevolutionaryscoundrels,”MrVladimirprotested.“Whatdoyouwanttomakeascandalfor?—frommorality—orwhat?”
Mr Vladimir ’s anxiety was obvious. The Assistant Commissioner havingascertainedinthiswaythattheremustbesometruthinthesummarystatementsofMrVerloc,saidindifferently:
“There’sapracticalsidetoo.Wehavereallyenoughtodotolookafterthegenuinearticle.Youcan’tsaywearenoteffective.Butwedon’tintendtoletourselvesbebotheredbyshamsunderanypretextwhatever.”
MrVladimir ’stonebecamelofty.
“Formy part, I can’t share your view. It is selfish. My sentiments formy owncountrycannotbedoubted;butI’vealwaysfeltthatweoughttobegoodEuropeansbesides—Imeangovernmentsandmen.”
“Yes,”saidtheAssistantCommissionersimply.“OnlyyoulookatEuropefromitsother end. But,” he went on in a good-natured tone, “the foreign governmentscannot complain of the inefficiency of our police. Look at this outrage; a casespeciallydifficulttotraceinasmuchasitwasasham.Inlessthantwelvehourswehave established the identity of a man literally blown to shreds, have found theorganiseroftheattempt,andhavehadaglimpseoftheinciterbehindhim.Andwecouldhavegonefurther;onlywestoppedatthelimitsofourterritory.”
“So this instructive crimewas planned abroad,”MrVladimir said quickly. “Youadmititwasplannedabroad?”
“Theoretically.Theoreticallyonly,onforeignterritory;abroadonlybyafiction,”
saidtheAssistantCommissioner,alludingtothecharacterofEmbassies,whicharesupposed tobepartandparcelof thecountry towhich theybelong. “But that’sadetail.Italkedtoyouofthisbusinessbecauseit’syourgovernmentthatgrumblesmostatourpolice.Youseethatwearenotsobad.Iwantedparticularlytotellyouofoursuccess.”
“I’msureI’mverygrateful,”mutteredMrVladimirthroughhisteeth.
“We can put our finger on every anarchist here,” went on the AssistantCommissioner,asthoughhewerequotingChiefInspectorHeat.“Allthat’swantednowistodoawaywiththeagentprovocateurtomakeeverythingsafe.”
MrVladimirhelduphishandtoapassinghansom.
“You’re not going in here,” remarked the Assistant Commissioner, looking at abuildingofnobleproportions andhospitable aspect,with the lightof agreathallfallingthroughitsglassdoorsonabroadflightofsteps.
ButMrVladimir,sitting,stony-eyed,insidethehansom,droveoffwithoutaword.
TheAssistantCommissionerhimselfdidnotturnintothenoblebuilding.ItwastheExplorers’Club.ThethoughtpassedthroughhismindthatMrVladimir,honorarymember,wouldnotbeseenveryoftenthereinthefuture.Helookedathiswatch.Itwasonlyhalf-pastten.Hehadhadaveryfullevening.
CHAPTERXI
AfterChiefInspectorHeathadlefthimMrVerlocmovedabouttheparlour.
Fromtimetotimeheeyedhiswifethroughtheopendoor.“Sheknowsallaboutitnow,” he thought to himself with commiseration for her sorrow and with somesatisfaction as regarded himself. MrVerloc’s soul, if lacking greatness perhaps,wascapableoftendersentiments.Theprospectofhavingtobreakthenewstoherhadputhimintoafever. Chief InspectorHeathadrelievedhimof the task. Thatwasgoodasfarasitwent.Itremainedforhimnowtofacehergrief.
Mr Verloc had never expected to have to face it on account of death, whosecatastrophic character cannot be argued away by sophisticated reasoning orpersuasive eloquence. Mr Verloc never meant Stevie to perish with such abruptviolence. He did notmeanhim to perish at all. Stevie deadwas amuchgreaternuisance than everhehadbeenwhenalive. MrVerlochad augured a favourableissuetohisenterprise,basinghimselfnotonStevie’sintelligence,whichsometimesplaysqueertrickswithaman,butontheblinddocilityandontheblinddevotionoftheboy. Thoughnotmuchofapsychologist,MrVerlochadgauged thedepthofStevie’s fanaticism. He dared cherish the hope of Steviewalking away from thewallsof theObservatoryashehadbeeninstructedtodo, takingthewayshowntohimseveral timespreviously,and rejoininghisbrother-in-law, thewiseandgoodMrVerloc, outside the precincts of the park. Fifteenminutes ought to have beenenoughfortheveriestfooltodeposittheengineandwalkaway.AndtheProfessorhad guaranteed more than fifteen minutes. But Stevie had stumbled within fiveminutesofbeinglefttohimself.AndMrVerlocwasshakenmorallytopieces.Hehadforeseeneverythingbutthat.HehadforeseenSteviedistractedandlost—soughtfor—found in some police station or provincial workhouse in the end. He hadforeseenSteviearrested,andwasnotafraid,becauseMrVerlochadagreatopinionof Stevie’s loyalty, which had been carefully indoctrinated with the necessity ofsilence in the course ofmanywalks. Like a peripatetic philosopher,MrVerloc,strollingalong thestreetsofLondon,hadmodifiedStevie’sviewof thepolicebyconversations full of subtle reasonings. Never had a sage a more attentive andadmiringdisciple. The submission andworshipwere so apparent thatMrVerlochad come to feel something like a liking for the boy. In any case, he had not
foreseentheswiftbringinghomeofhisconnection.Thathiswifeshouldhitupontheprecautionofsewingtheboy’saddressinsidehisovercoatwasthelastthingMrVerlocwouldhave thoughtof. Onecan’t thinkofeverything. ThatwaswhatshemeantwhenshesaidthatheneednotworryifhelostStevieduringtheirwalks.Shehadassuredhimthattheboywouldturnupallright.Well,hehadturnedupwithavengeance!
“Well,well,”mutteredMrVerlocinhiswonder. Whatdidshemeanbyit? Sparehim the troubleofkeepingananxiouseyeonStevie? Most likely shehadmeantwell.Onlysheoughttohavetoldhimoftheprecautionshehadtaken.
Mr Verloc walked behind the counter of the shop. His intention was not tooverwhelm his wife with bitter reproaches. Mr Verloc felt no bitterness. Theunexpectedmarchofeventshadconvertedhimtothedoctrineoffatalism.Nothingcouldbehelpednow.Hesaid:
“Ididn’tmeananyharmtocometotheboy.”
MrsVerlocshudderedatthesoundofherhusband’svoice.Shedidnotuncoverherface.ThetrustedsecretagentofthelateBaronStott-Wartenheimlookedatherforatime with a heavy, persistent, undiscerning glance. The torn evening paper waslyingatherfeet.Itcouldnothavetoldhermuch.MrVerlocfelttheneedoftalkingtohiswife.
“It’s thatdamnedHeat—eh?”hesaid. “Heupsetyou. He’sabrute,blurtingitoutlike this toawoman. Imademyself ill thinkinghowtobreakit toyou. Isat forhours in the little parlour of Cheshire Cheese thinking over the best way. YouunderstandInevermeantanyharmtocometothatboy.”
MrVerloc,theSecretAgent,wasspeakingthetruth.Itwashismaritalaffectionthathadreceivedthegreatestshockfromtheprematureexplosion.Headded:
“Ididn’tfeelparticularlygaysittingthereandthinkingofyou.”
Heobservedanotherslightshudderofhiswife,whichaffectedhissensibility. Asshe persisted in hiding her face in her hands, he thought he had better leave heralone for awhile. On this delicate impulseMrVerlocwithdrew into the parlouragain, where the gas jet purred like a contented cat. Mrs Verloc’s wifelyforethoughthadleftthecoldbeefonthetablewithcarvingknifeandforkandhalfaloafofbreadforMrVerloc’ssupper.Henoticedallthesethingsnowforthefirsttime,andcuttinghimselfapieceofbreadandmeat,begantoeat.
His appetite did not proceed from callousness. Mr Verloc had not eaten anybreakfast thatday. Hehad lefthishome fasting. Notbeinganenergeticman,hefoundhisresolutioninnervousexcitement,whichseemedtoholdhimmainlybythe
throat. He could not have swallowed anything solid. Michaelis’ cottage was asdestituteofprovisionsasthecellofaprisoner.Theticket-of-leaveapostlelivedona littlemilkandcrustsof stalebread. Moreover,whenMrVerlocarrivedhehadalready gone upstairs after his frugal meal. Absorbed in the toil and delight ofliterary composition, he had not even answered Mr Verloc’s shout up the littlestaircase.
“Iamtakingthisyoungfellowhomeforadayortwo.”
And, in truth,MrVerloc did notwait for an answer, but hadmarched out of thecottageatonce,followedbytheobedientStevie.
Now that all actionwas over and his fate taken out of his handswith unexpectedswiftness, Mr Verloc felt terribly empty physically. He carved the meat, cut thebread, anddevouredhis supper standingby the table, andnowand then casting aglance towards hiswife. Her prolonged immobility disturbed the comfort of hisrefection. He walked again into the shop, and came up very close to her. ThissorrowwithaveiledfacemadeMrVerlocuneasy.Heexpected,ofcourse,hiswifetobeverymuchupset,buthewantedhertopullherselftogether.Heneededallherassistance and all her loyalty in these new conjunctures his fatalism had alreadyaccepted.
“Can’tbehelped,”hesaid ina toneofgloomysympathy. “Come,Winnie,we’vegot to think of to-morrow. You’llwant all yourwits about you after I am takenaway.”
Hepaused.MrsVerloc’sbreastheavedconvulsively.ThiswasnotreassuringtoMrVerloc, in whose view the newly created situation required from the two peoplemostconcerned in it calmness,decision,andotherqualities incompatiblewith thementaldisorderofpassionatesorrow.MrVerlocwasahumaneman;hehadcomehomepreparedtoalloweverylatitudetohiswife’saffectionforherbrother.
Onlyhedidnotunderstandeitherthenatureorthewholeextentofthatsentiment.And in this he was excusable, since it was impossible for him to understand itwithout ceasing to be himself. He was startled and disappointed, and his speechconveyeditbyacertainroughnessoftone.
“Youmightlookatafellow,”heobservedafterwaitingawhile.
As if forced through the hands covering Mrs Verloc’s face the answer came,deadened,almostpitiful.
“Idon’twanttolookatyouaslongasIlive.”
“Eh?What!”MrVerlocwasmerelystartledbythesuperficialandliteralmeaning
of this declaration. It was obviously unreasonable, the mere cry of exaggeratedgrief. He threw over it the mantle of his marital indulgence. The mind of MrVerloc lacked profundity. Under the mistaken impression that the value ofindividuals consists in what they are in themselves, he could not possiblycomprehend the value of Stevie in the eyes of Mrs Verloc. She was taking itconfoundedlyhard,hethoughttohimself.ItwasallthefaultofthatdamnedHeat.Whatdidhewanttoupsetthewomanfor?Butshemustn’tbeallowed,forherowngood,tocarryonsotillshegotquitebesideherself.
“Lookhere! Youcan’t sit like this in the shop,”hesaidwithaffectedseverity, inwhich therewassomerealannoyance; forurgentpracticalmattersmustbe talkedover if theyhad tositupallnight. “Somebodymightcomeinatanyminute,”headded, andwaited again. No effectwas produced, and the idea of the finality ofdeathoccurredtoMrVerlocduringthepause.Hechangedhistone.“Come.Thiswon’t bring him back,” he said gently, feeling ready to take her in his arms andpressher tohisbreast,where impatienceandcompassiondwelt sidebyside. ButexceptforashortshudderMrsVerlocremainedapparentlyunaffectedbytheforceofthatterribletruism.ItwasMrVerlochimselfwhowasmoved.Hewasmovedinhissimplicitytourgemoderationbyassertingtheclaimsofhisownpersonality.
“Dobereasonable,Winnie.Whatwouldithavebeenifyouhadlostme!”
Hehadvaguelyexpected tohearher cryout. But shedidnotbudge. She leanedback a little, quieted down to a complete unreadable stillness. MrVerloc’s heartbegantobeatfasterwithexasperationandsomethingresemblingalarm.Helaidhishandonhershoulder,saying:
“Don’tbeafool,Winnie.”
Shegaveno sign. Itwas impossible to talk to anypurposewith awomanwhoseface one cannot see. MrVerloc caught hold of hiswife’swrists. But her handsseemedgluedfast. Sheswayedforwardbodily tohis tug,andnearlywentoff thechair. Startledtofeelhersohelplesslylimp,hewastryingtoputherbackonthechairwhenshestiffenedsuddenlyallover,toreherselfoutofhishands,ranoutoftheshop,acrosstheparlour,andintothekitchen.Thiswasveryswift.Hehadjustaglimpseofher faceand thatmuchofhereyes thatheknewshehadnot lookedathim.
It all had the appearance of a struggle for the possession of a chair, becauseMrVerlocinstantlytookhiswife’splaceinit.MrVerlocdidnotcoverhisfacewithhishands, but a sombre thoughtfulness veiled his features. A term of imprisonmentcouldnotbeavoided.Hedidnotwishnowtoavoidit.Aprisonwasaplaceassafefromcertainunlawfulvengeancesasthegrave,withthisadvantage,thatinaprison
thereisroomforhope. Whathesawbeforehimwasatermofimprisonment,anearlyreleaseandthenlifeabroadsomewhere,suchashehadcontemplatedalready,in case of failure. Well, itwas a failure, if not exactly the sort of failure he hadfeared. It had been so near success that he could have positively terrified MrVladimiroutofhis ferocious scoffingwith thisproofofoccult efficiency. SoatleastitseemednowtoMrVerloc.HisprestigewiththeEmbassywouldhavebeenimmense if—ifhiswifehadnothad theunluckynotionof sewingon theaddressinside Stevie’s overcoat. Mr Verloc, who was no fool, had soon perceived theextraordinary character of the influence he had over Stevie, though he did notunderstand exactly its origin—the doctrine of his supremewisdom and goodnessinculcated by two anxious women. In all the eventualities he had foreseen MrVerlochadcalculatedwithcorrect insightonStevie’s instinctive loyaltyandblinddiscretion.Theeventualityhehadnotforeseenhadappalledhimasahumanemananda fondhusband. Fromeveryotherpointofview itwas ratheradvantageous.Nothingcanequaltheeverlastingdiscretionofdeath.MrVerloc,sittingperplexedand frightened in the small parlour of the Cheshire Cheese, could not helpacknowledgingthattohimself,becausehissensibilitydidnotstandinthewayofhisjudgment. Stevie’sviolentdisintegration,howeverdisturbing to thinkabout,onlyassuredthesuccess;for,ofcourse,theknockingdownofawallwasnottheaimofMrVladimir ’smenaces,but theproductionofamoraleffect. Withmuch troubleanddistress onMrVerloc’s part the effectmight be said to have been produced.When, however, most unexpectedly, it came home to roost in Brett Street, MrVerloc,whohadbeenstrugglinglikeamaninanightmareforthepreservationofhisposition,acceptedtheblowinthespiritofaconvincedfatalist.Thepositionwasgone through no one’s fault really. A small, tiny fact had done it. It was likeslippingonabitoforangepeelinthedarkandbreakingyourleg.
MrVerlocdrewawearybreath.Henourishednoresentmentagainsthiswife.Hethought:Shewillhave to lookafter the shopwhile theykeepme lockedup. AndthinkingalsohowcruellyshewouldmissStevieatfirst,hefeltgreatlyconcernedaboutherhealthandspirits.Howwouldshestandhersolitude—absolutelyaloneinthathouse?Itwouldnotdoforhertobreakdownwhilehewaslockedup?Whatwould become of the shop then? The shop was an asset. ThoughMr Verloc’sfatalismacceptedhisundoingasasecretagent,hehadnomindtobeutterlyruined,mostly,itmustbeowned,fromregardforhiswife.
Silent,andoutofhislineofsightinthekitchen,shefrightenedhim.Ifonlyshehadhadhermotherwithher.Butthatsillyoldwoman—AnangrydismaypossessedMrVerloc.Hemusttalkwithhiswife.Hecouldtellhercertainlythatamandoesgetdesperateundercertaincircumstances.Buthedidnotgoincontinentlytoimparttoherthatinformation.Firstofall,itwascleartohimthatthiseveningwasnotime
forbusiness.Hegotuptoclosethestreetdoorandputthegasoutintheshop.
Having thus assured a solitude around his hearthstoneMrVerlocwalked into theparlour, and glanced down into the kitchen. Mrs Verloc was sitting in the placewherepoorStevieusuallyestablishedhimselfofaneveningwithpaperandpencilfor the pastime of drawing these coruscations of innumerable circles suggestingchaosandeternity. Herarmswerefoldedonthetable,andherheadwaslyingonherarms.MrVerloccontemplatedherbackandthearrangementofherhairforatime,thenwalkedawayfromthekitchendoor.MrsVerloc’sphilosophical,almostdisdainful incuriosity, the foundation of their accord in domestic life made itextremelydifficulttogetintocontactwithher,nowthistragicnecessityhadarisen.MrVerlocfeltthisdifficultyacutely.Heturnedaroundthetableintheparlourwithhisusualairofalargeanimalinacage.
Curiosity being one of the forms of self-revelation, a systematically incuriouspersonremainsalwayspartlymysterious. EverytimehepassednearthedoorMrVerlocglancedathiswifeuneasily.Itwasnotthathewasafraidofher.MrVerlocimaginedhimself lovedbythatwoman. Butshehadnotaccustomedhimtomakeconfidences.Andtheconfidencehehadtomakewasofaprofoundpsychologicalorder. Howwith his want of practice could he tell her what he himself felt butvaguely: that thereareconspiraciesoffataldestiny, thatanotiongrowsinamindsometimes till it acquires anoutward existence, an independentpowerof its own,andevenasuggestivevoice?Hecouldnotinformherthatamanmaybehauntedbyafat,witty,clean-shavedfacetillthewildestexpedienttogetridofitappearsachildofwisdom.
OnthismentalreferencetoaFirstSecretaryofagreatEmbassy,MrVerlocstoppedinthedoorway,andlookingdownintothekitchenwithanangryfaceandclenchedfists,addressedhiswife.
“Youdon’tknowwhatabruteIhadtodealwith.”
Hestartedofftomakeanotherperambulationofthetable;thenwhenhehadcometothedooragainhestopped,glaringinfromtheheightoftwosteps.
“Asilly,jeering,dangerousbrute,withnomoresensethan—Afteralltheseyears!Amanlikeme!AndIhavebeenplayingmyheadatthatgame.Youdidn’tknow.Quiteright,too.WhatwasthegoodoftellingyouthatIstoodtheriskofhavingaknifestuckintomeanytimethesesevenyearswe’vebeenmarried?Iamnotachaptoworryawoman that’s fondofme. Youhadnobusiness toknow.” MrVerloctookanotherturnroundtheparlour,fuming.
“Avenomousbeast,”hebeganagainfromthedoorway.“Drivemeoutintoaditchtostarveforajoke.Icouldseehethoughtitwasadamnedgoodjoke.Amanlikeme!Lookhere!Someofthehighestintheworldgottothankmeforwalkingontheirtwolegstothisday.That’sthemanyou’vegotmarriedto,mygirl!”
Heperceivedthathiswifehadsatup.MrsVerloc’sarmsremainedlyingstretchedonthetable.MrVerlocwatchedatherbackasifhecouldreadtheretheeffectofhiswords.
“Thereisn’tamurderingplotforthelastelevenyearsthatIhadn’tmyfingerinattheriskofmy life. There’sscoresof theserevolutionists I’vesentoff,with theirbombs in theirblamedpockets, toget themselvescaughton the frontier. TheoldBaron knewwhat Iwasworth to his country. And here suddenly a swine comesalong—anignorant,overbearingswine.”
MrVerloc,steppingslowlydowntwosteps,enteredthekitchen,tookatumbleroffthedresser,andholdingit inhishand,approachedthesink,withoutlookingathiswife.“Itwasn’ttheoldBaronwhowouldhavehadthewickedfollyofgettingmetocallonhimateleveninthemorning.Therearetwoorthreeinthistownthat,iftheyhadseenmegoingin,wouldhavemadenobonesaboutknockingmeontheheadsoonerorlater. Itwasasilly,murderoustricktoexposefornothingaman—likeme.”
MrVerloc, turning on the tap above the sink, poured three glasses ofwater, oneafteranother,downhisthroattoquenchthefiresofhisindignation.MrVladimir ’sconductwaslikeahotbrandwhichsethis internaleconomyinablaze. Hecouldnotgetoverthedisloyaltyof it. Thisman,whowouldnotworkat theusualhardtaskswhichsocietysets to itshumblermembers,hadexercisedhissecret industry
withanindefatigabledevotion.TherewasinMrVerlocafundofloyalty.Hehadbeenloyal tohisemployers, to thecauseofsocialstability,—andtohisaffectionstoo—as became apparent when, after standing the tumbler in the sink, he turnedabout,saying:
“IfIhadn’t thoughtofyouIwouldhavetakenthebullyingbrutebythethroatandrammedhisheadintothefireplace.I’dhavebeenmorethanamatchforthatpink-faced,smooth-shaved—”
MrVerloc, neglected to finish the sentence, as if there could be no doubt of theterminalword.Forthefirsttimeinhislifehewastakingthatincuriouswomanintohis confidence. The singularity of the event, the force and importance of thepersonalfeelingsarousedinthecourseofthisconfession,droveStevie’sfatecleanoutofMrVerloc’smind.Theboy’sstutteringexistenceoffearsandindignations,togetherwiththeviolenceofhisend,hadpassedoutofMrVerloc’smentalsightfora time. For that reason,when he looked up hewas startled by the inappropriatecharacterofhiswife’sstare.Itwasnotawildstare,anditwasnotinattentive,butitsattention was peculiar and not satisfactory, inasmuch that it seemed concentrateduponsomepointbeyondMrVerloc’sperson.TheimpressionwassostrongthatMrVerlocglancedoverhisshoulder.Therewasnothingbehindhim:therewasjustthewhitewashedwall. TheexcellenthusbandofWinnieVerlocsawnowritingonthewall.Heturnedtohiswifeagain,repeating,withsomeemphasis:
“Iwouldhavetakenhimbythethroat.AstrueasIstandhere,ifIhadn’tthoughtofyouthenIwouldhavehalfchokedthelifeoutofthebrutebeforeIlethimgetup.And don’t you think he would have been anxious to call the police either. Hewouldn’thavedared.Youunderstandwhy—don’tyou?”
Heblinkedathiswifeknowingly.
“No,” saidMrsVerloc in anunresonantvoice, andwithout lookingathimat all.“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”
Agreatdiscouragement,theresultoffatigue,cameuponMrVerloc.Hehadhadavery full day, and his nerves had been tried to the utmost. After a month ofmaddeningworry, ending in anunexpected catastrophe, the storm-tossed spirit ofMrVerloclongedforrepose.Hiscareerasasecretagenthadcometoanendinaway no one could have foreseen; only, now, perhaps he could manage to get anight’ssleepatlast.Butlookingathiswife,hedoubtedit.Shewastakingitveryhard—notatalllikeherself,hethought.Hemadeanefforttospeak.
“You’llhave topullyourself together,mygirl,”hesaidsympathetically. “What’sdonecan’tbeundone.”
MrsVerlocgaveaslightstart,thoughnotamuscleofherwhitefacemovedintheleast.MrVerloc,whowasnotlookingather,continuedponderously.
“Yougotobednow.Whatyouwantisagoodcry.”
Thisopinionhadnothingtorecommenditbutthegeneralconsentofmankind.Itisuniversally understood that, as if it were nothing more substantial than vapourfloatinginthesky,everyemotionofawomanisboundtoendinashower.Anditisvery probable that had Stevie died in his bed under her despairing gaze, in herprotectingarms,MrsVerloc’sgriefwouldhavefoundreliefinafloodofbitterandpuretears.MrsVerloc,incommonwithotherhumanbeings,wasprovidedwithafund of unconscious resignation sufficient to meet the normal manifestation ofhumandestiny.Without“troublingherheadaboutit,”shewasawarethatit“didnotstand looking intoverymuch.” But the lamentablecircumstancesofStevie’send,which to Mr Verloc’s mind had only an episodic character, as part of a greaterdisaster,driedher tears at theirvery source. Itwas theeffectof awhite-hot irondrawnacrosshereyes;atthesametimeherheart,hardenedandchilledintoalumpof ice, kept her body in an inward shudder, set her features into a frozencontemplative immobility addressed to awhitewashedwallwith nowriting on it.The exigencies of Mrs Verloc’s temperament, which, when stripped of itsphilosophical reserve, was maternal and violent, forced her to roll a series ofthoughts in her motionless head. These thoughts were rather imagined thanexpressed.MrsVerlocwasawomanofsingularlyfewwords,eitherforpublicorprivateuse.Withtherageanddismayofabetrayedwoman,shereviewedthetenorof her life in visions concerned mostly with Stevie’s difficult existence from itsearliestdays.Itwasalifeofsinglepurposeandofanobleunityofinspiration,likethoserarelivesthathavelefttheirmarkonthethoughtsandfeelingsofmankind.But thevisionsofMrsVerloc lackednobility andmagnificence. She sawherselfputtingtheboytobedbythelightofasinglecandleonthedesertedtopfloorofa“businesshouse,”darkundertheroofandscintillatingexceedinglywithlightsandcutglassat thelevelof thestreet likeafairypalace. ThatmeretricioussplendourwastheonlyonetobemetinMrsVerloc’svisions.Sherememberedbrushingtheboy’s hair and tying his pinafores—herself in a pinafore still; the consolationsadministered to a small and badly scared creature by another creature nearly assmall but not quite so badly scared; she had the vision of the blows intercepted(oftenwithherownhead),ofadoorhelddesperatelyshutagainstaman’srage(notfor very long); of a poker flungonce (not very far),which stilled that particularstormintothedumbandawfulsilencewhichfollowsathunder-clap.Andallthesescenes of violence came and went accompanied by the unrefined noise of deepvociferations proceeding from a man wounded in his paternal pride, declaringhimself obviously accursed since one of his kidswas a “slobbering idjut and the
otherawickedshe-devil.”Itwasofherthatthishadbeensaidmanyyearsago.
MrsVerlocheardthewordsagaininaghostlyfashion,andthenthedrearyshadowof the Belgravian mansion descended upon her shoulders. It was a crushingmemory, an exhausting vision of countless breakfast trays carried up and downinnumerable stairs, of endless haggling over pence, of the endless drudgery ofsweeping, dusting, cleaning, from basement to attics; while the impotent mother,staggering on swollen legs, cooked in a grimy kitchen, and poor Stevie, theunconsciouspresidinggeniusofalltheirtoil,blackedthegentlemen’sbootsinthescullery.ButthisvisionhadabreathofahotLondonsummerinit,andforacentralfigureayoungmanwearinghisSundaybest,withastrawhatonhisdarkheadandawoodenpipeinhismouth.Affectionateandjolly,hewasafascinatingcompanionforavoyagedownthesparklingstreamoflife;onlyhisboatwasverysmall.Therewasroominitforagirl-partnerattheoar,butnoaccommodationforpassengers.HewasallowedtodriftawayfromthethresholdoftheBelgravianmansionwhileWinnieavertedhertearfuleyes.Hewasnotalodger.ThelodgerwasMrVerloc,indolent,andkeepinglatehours,sleepilyjocularofamorningfromunderhisbed-clothes, butwith gleams of infatuation in his heavy lidded eyes, and alwayswithsomemoneyinhispockets.Therewasnosparkleofanykindonthelazystreamofhislife.Itflowedthroughsecretplaces.Buthisbarqueseemedaroomycraft,andhistaciturnmagnanimityacceptedasamatterofcoursethepresenceofpassengers.
MrsVerlocpursuedthevisionsofsevenyears’securityforStevie,loyallypaidforonherpart;ofsecuritygrowingintoconfidence,intoadomesticfeeling,stagnantand deep like a placid pool, whose guarded surface hardly shuddered on theoccasional passage of Comrade Ossipon, the robust anarchist with shamelesslyinviting eyes, whose glance had a corrupt clearness sufficient to enlighten anywomannotabsolutelyimbecile.
A few secondsonlyhadelapsed since the lastwordhadbeenuttered aloud in thekitchen, andMrsVerlocwas staringalreadyat thevisionof anepisodenotmorethanafortnightold.Witheyeswhosepupilswereextremelydilatedshestaredatthevision of her husband and poor Steviewalking upBrett Street side by side awayfromtheshop.ItwasthelastsceneofanexistencecreatedbyMrsVerloc’sgenius;an existence foreign to all grace and charm, without beauty and almost withoutdecency,butadmirableinthecontinuityoffeelingandtenacityofpurpose.Andthislast vision had such plastic relief, such nearness of form, such a fidelity ofsuggestive detail, that itwrung fromMrsVerloc an anguished and faintmurmur,reproducingthesupremeillusionofherlife,anappalledmurmurthatdiedoutonherblanchedlips.
“Mighthavebeenfatherandson.”
Mr Verloc stopped, and raised a care-worn face. “Eh? What did you say?” heasked.Receivingnoreply,heresumedhissinistertramping.Thenwithamenacingflourishofathick,fleshyfist,heburstout:
“Yes.TheEmbassypeople.Aprettylot,ain’tthey!Beforeaweek’soutI’llmakesomeofthemwishthemselvestwentyfeetunderground.Eh?What?”
He glanced sideways,with his head down. MrsVerloc gazed at thewhitewashedwall. A blank wall—perfectly blank. A blankness to run at and dash your headagainst.MrsVerlocremainedimmovablyseated.Shekeptstillasthepopulationofhalf theglobewouldkeepstill inastonishmentanddespair,werethesunsuddenlyputoutinthesummerskybytheperfidyofatrustedprovidence.
“TheEmbassy,”MrVerlocbeganagain,afterapreliminarygrimacewhichbaredhisteethwolfishly.“IwishIcouldgetlooseintherewithacudgelforhalf-an-hour.Iwould keep on hitting till therewasn’t a single unbroken bone left amongst thewholelot. Butnevermind,I’ll teachthemyetwhatitmeanstryingtothrowoutamanlikemetorotinthestreets.I’veatongueinmyhead.Alltheworldshallknowwhat I’vedone for them. I amnot afraid. Idon’t care. Everything’ll comeout.Everydamnedthing.Letthemlookout!”
In these terms did Mr Verloc declare his thirst for revenge. It was a veryappropriaterevenge.ItwasinharmonywiththepromptingsofMrVerloc’sgenius.Ithadalsotheadvantageofbeingwithintherangeofhispowersandofadjustingitselfeasilytothepracticeofhislife,whichhadconsistedpreciselyinbetrayingthesecretandunlawfulproceedingsofhisfellow-men. Anarchistsordiplomatswereallonetohim.MrVerlocwastemperamentallynorespecterofpersons.Hisscornwasequallydistributedoverthewholefieldofhisoperations.Butasamemberofarevolutionary proletariat—which he undoubtedly was—he nourished a ratherinimicalsentimentagainstsocialdistinction.
“Nothingonearthcanstopmenow,”headded,andpaused, lookingfixedlyathiswife,whowaslookingfixedlyatablankwall.
Thesilenceinthekitchenwasprolonged,andMrVerlocfeltdisappointed.Hehadexpectedhiswifetosaysomething.ButMrsVerloc’slips,composedintheirusualform,preservedastatuesque immobility like the restofher face. AndMrVerlocwas disappointed. Yet the occasion did not, he recognised, demand speech fromher. She was a woman of very few words. For reasons involved in the veryfoundationofhispsychology,MrVerlocwasinclinedtoputhistrustinanywomanwho had given herself to him. Therefore he trusted hiswife. Their accordwasperfect, but it was not precise. It was a tacit accord, congenial toMrs Verloc’sincuriosityandtoMrVerloc’shabitsofmind,whichwereindolentandsecret.They
refrainedfromgoingtothebottomoffactsandmotives.
This reserve, expressing, in a way, their profound confidence in each other,introducedatthesametimeacertainelementofvaguenessintotheirintimacy.Nosystem of conjugal relations is perfect. Mr Verloc presumed that his wife hadunderstoodhim,buthewouldhavebeengladtohearhersaywhatshethoughtatthemoment.Itwouldhavebeenacomfort.
Therewereseveralreasonswhythiscomfortwasdeniedhim.Therewasaphysicalobstacle:MrsVerlochadno sufficient commandoverhervoice. Shedidnot seeany alternative between screaming and silence, and instinctively she chose thesilence. WinnieVerlocwas temperamentally a silent person. And there was theparalysingatrocityofthethoughtwhichoccupiedher. Hercheekswereblanched,her lips ashy, her immobility amazing. And she thought without looking at MrVerloc:“Thismantooktheboyawaytomurderhim.Hetooktheboyawayfromhishometomurderhim.Hetooktheboyawayfrommetomurderhim!”
MrsVerloc’swholebeingwasrackedbythatinconclusiveandmaddeningthought.Itwasinherveins,inherbones,intherootsofherhair.Mentallysheassumedthebiblical attitude of mourning—the covered face, the rent garments; the sound ofwailingandlamentationfilledherhead.Butherteethwereviolentlyclenched,andher tearless eyeswere hotwith rage, because shewas not a submissive creature.Theprotectionshehadextendedoverherbrotherhadbeeninitsoriginofafierceandindignantcomplexion.Shehadtolovehimwithamilitantlove.Shehadbattledforhim—evenagainstherself.Hislosshadthebitternessofdefeat,withtheanguishofabaffledpassion.Itwasnotanordinarystrokeofdeath.Moreover,itwasnotdeaththattookSteviefromher.ItwasMrVerlocwhotookhimaway.Shehadseenhim.Shehadwatchedhim,withoutraisingahand,taketheboyaway.Andshehadlethimgo,like—likeafool—ablindfool.Thenafterhehadmurderedtheboyhecamehome toher. Just camehome likeanyothermanwouldcomehome tohiswife....
ThroughhersetteethMrsVerlocmutteredatthewall:
“AndIthoughthehadcaughtacold.”
MrVerlocheardthesewordsandappropriatedthem.
“Itwasnothing,”hesaidmoodily.“Iwasupset.Iwasupsetonyouraccount.”
Mrs Verloc, turning her head slowly, transferred her stare from the wall to herhusband’s person. Mr Verloc, with the tips of his fingers between his lips, waslookingontheground.
“Can’t be helped,” he mumbled, letting his hand fall. “You must pull yourself
together. You’llwant all yourwits about you. It is youwho brought the policeabout our ears. Nevermind, I won’t say anythingmore about it,” continuedMrVerlocmagnanimously.“Youcouldn’tknow.”
“Icouldn’t,”breathedoutMrsVerloc.Itwasasifacorpsehadspoken.MrVerloctookupthethreadofhisdiscourse.
“Idon’tblameyou.I’llmakethemsitup.Onceunderlockandkeyitwillbesafeenoughformetotalk—youunderstand. Youmustreckononmebeingtwoyearsawayfromyou,”hecontinued,inatoneofsincereconcern.“Itwillbeeasierforyouthanforme. You’llhavesomethingtodo,whileI—Lookhere,Winnie,whatyoumustdo is tokeep thisbusinessgoing for twoyears. Youknowenough forthat. You’veagoodheadonyou. I’ll sendyouwordwhen it’s time togoabouttryingtosell.You’llhavetobeextracareful.Thecomradeswillbekeepinganeyeonyouallthetime.You’llhavetobeasartfulasyouknowhow,andascloseasthegrave.Noonemustknowwhatyouaregoingtodo.IhavenomindtogetaknockontheheadorastabinthebackdirectlyIamletout.”
Thus spokeMr Verloc, applying his mind with ingenuity and forethought to theproblemsofthefuture.Hisvoicewassombre,becausehehadacorrectsentimentofthesituation. Everythingwhichhedidnotwishtopasshadcometopass. Thefuture had become precarious. His judgment, perhaps, had been momentarilyobscuredbyhisdreadofMrVladimir ’struculentfolly.Amansomewhatoverfortymaybeexcusably thrownintoconsiderabledisorderby theprospectof losinghisemployment, especially if the man is a secret agent of political police, dwellingsecureintheconsciousnessofhishighvalueandintheesteemofhighpersonages.Hewasexcusable.
Nowthethinghadendedinacrash.MrVerlocwascool;buthewasnotcheerful.Asecret agentwho throws his secrecy to thewinds from desire of vengeance, andflauntshisachievementsbeforethepubliceye,becomesthemarkfordesperateandbloodthirstyindignations.Withoutundulyexaggeratingthedanger,MrVerloctriedtobringitclearlybeforehiswife’smind.Herepeatedthathehadnointentiontolettherevolutionistsdoawaywithhim.
Helookedstraightintohiswife’seyes.Theenlargedpupilsofthewomanreceivedhisstareintotheirunfathomabledepths.
“Iamtoofondofyouforthat,”hesaid,withalittlenervouslaugh.
AfaintflushcolouredMrsVerloc’sghastlyandmotionlessface.Havingdonewiththevisionsof thepast, shehadnotonlyheard,buthadalsounderstood thewordsutteredbyherhusband.Bytheirextremedisaccordwithhermentalconditionthesewordsproducedonheraslightlysuffocatingeffect.MrsVerloc’smentalcondition
had themeritof simplicity;but itwasnot sound. Itwasgoverned toomuchbyafixedidea.Everynookandcrannyofherbrainwasfilledwiththethoughtthatthisman,withwhomshehadlivedwithoutdistasteforsevenyears,hadtakenthe“poorboy” away from her in order to kill him—the man to whom she had grownaccustomedinbodyandmind;themanwhomshehadtrusted,tooktheboyawaytokill him! In its form, in its substance, in its effect,whichwas universal, alteringeventheaspectofinanimatethings,itwasathoughttositstillandmarvelatforeverandever.MrsVerlocsatstill.Andacrossthatthought(notacrossthekitchen)theformofMrVerlocwenttoandfro,familiarlyinhatandovercoat,stampingwithhisbootsuponherbrain.Hewasprobablytalkingtoo;butMrsVerloc’sthoughtforthemostpartcoveredthevoice.
Now and then, however, the voice would make itself heard. Several connectedwordsemergedat times. Theirpurportwasgenerallyhopeful. Oneachof theseoccasions Mrs Verloc’s dilated pupils, losing their far-off fixity, followed herhusband’smovementswiththeeffectofblackcareandimpenetrableattention.Wellinformeduponallmattersrelatingtohissecretcalling,MrVerlocauguredwellforthesuccessofhisplansandcombinations.Hereallybelievedthatitwouldbeuponthe whole easy for him to escape the knife of infuriated revolutionists. He hadexaggeratedthestrengthoftheirfuryandthelengthoftheirarm(forprofessionalpurposes)toooftentohavemanyillusionsonewayortheother.Fortoexaggeratewithjudgmentonemustbeginbymeasuringwithnicety.Heknewalsohowmuchvirtueandhowmuch infamyis forgotten in twoyears—twolongyears. His firstreally confidentialdiscourse tohiswifewasoptimistic fromconviction. Healsothought it goodpolicy to display all the assurancehe couldmuster. Itwouldputheart into thepoorwoman. Onhis liberation,which,harmonisingwith thewholetenorofhislife,wouldbesecret,ofcourse,theywouldvanishtogetherwithoutlossoftime.Astocoveringupthetracks,hebeggedhiswifetotrusthimforthat.Heknewhowitwastobedonesothatthedevilhimself—
Hewavedhishand.Heseemedtoboast.Hewishedonlytoputheartintoher.Itwasabenevolentintention,butMrVerlochadthemisfortunenottobeinaccordwithhisaudience.
Theself-confidenttonegrewuponMrsVerloc’searwhichletmostofthewordsgoby;forwhatwerewordstohernow?Whatcouldwordsdotoher,forgoodorevilinthefaceofherfixedidea?Herblackglancefollowedthatmanwhowasassertinghis impunity—the man who had taken poor Stevie from home to kill himsomewhere.MrsVerloccouldnotrememberexactlywhere,butherheartbegantobeatveryperceptibly.
MrVerloc,inasoftandconjugaltone,wasnowexpressinghisfirmbeliefthatthere
wereyetagood fewyearsofquiet lifebefore themboth. Hedidnotgo into thequestion ofmeans. A quiet life itmust be and, as it were, nestling in the shade,concealed amongmenwhose flesh is grass;modest, like the life of violets. Thewords used byMrVerloc were: “Lie low for a bit.” And far from England, ofcourse. It was not clear whether Mr Verloc had in his mind Spain or SouthAmerica;butatanyratesomewhereabroad.
Thislastword,fallingintoMrsVerloc’sear,producedadefiniteimpression.Thismanwas talkingof going abroad. The impressionwas completely disconnected;andsuchistheforceofmentalhabitthatMrsVerlocatonceandautomaticallyaskedherself:“AndwhatofStevie?”
It was a sort of forgetfulness; but instantly she became aware that there was nolongeranyoccasionforanxietyonthatscore.Therewouldneverbeanyoccasionanymore.Thepoorboyhadbeentakenoutandkilled.Thepoorboywasdead.
ThisshakingpieceofforgetfulnessstimulatedMrsVerloc’sintelligence.Shebeganto perceive certain consequences whichwould have surprisedMrVerloc. Therewasnoneedforhernowtostaythere,inthatkitchen,inthathouse,withthatman—sincetheboywasgoneforever.Noneedwhatever.AndonthatMrsVerlocroseasif raisedbyaspring. Butneithercouldsheseewhat therewas tokeepher in theworldat all. And this inability arrestedher. MrVerlocwatchedherwithmaritalsolicitude.
“You’re lookingmore likeyourself,”hesaiduneasily. Somethingpeculiar in theblacknessofhiswife’s eyesdisturbedhisoptimism. At thatprecisemomentMrsVerlocbegantolookuponherselfasreleasedfromallearthlyties.
She had her freedom. Her contract with existence, as represented by that manstandingoverthere,wasatanend.Shewasafreewoman.HadthisviewbecomeinsomewayperceptibletoMrVerlochewouldhavebeenextremelyshocked.InhisaffairsoftheheartMrVerlochadbeenalwayscarelesslygenerous,yetalwayswithno other idea than that of being loved for himself. Upon thismatter, his ethicalnotionsbeing in agreementwithhisvanity,hewascompletely incorrigible. Thatthisshouldbesointhecaseofhisvirtuousandlegalconnectionhewasperfectlycertain. He had grown older, fatter, heavier, in the belief that he lacked nofascinationforbeinglovedforhisownsake.WhenhesawMrsVerlocstartingtowalkoutofthekitchenwithoutawordhewasdisappointed.
“Whereareyougoingto?”hecalledoutrathersharply.“Upstairs?”
MrsVerlocinthedoorwayturnedatthevoice.Aninstinctofprudencebornoffear,theexcessivefearofbeingapproachedandtouchedbythatman,inducedhertonodat him slightly (from the height of two steps), with a stir of the lips which the
conjugaloptimismofMrVerloctookforawananduncertainsmile.
“That’sright,”heencouragedhergruffly.“Restandquiet’swhatyouwant.Goon.Itwon’tbelongbeforeIamwithyou.”
MrsVerloc, the freewomanwhohadhad reallyno ideawhere shewasgoing to,obeyedthesuggestionwithrigidsteadiness.
MrVerlocwatchedher.Shedisappearedupthestairs.Hewasdisappointed.Therewasthatwithinhimwhichwouldhavebeenmoresatisfiedifshehadbeenmovedtothrow herself upon his breast. But he was generous and indulgent. Winnie wasalways undemonstrative and silent. Neither was Mr Verloc himself prodigal ofendearmentsandwordsasarule.Butthiswasnotanordinaryevening.Itwasanoccasion when a man wants to be fortified and strengthened by open proofs ofsympathyandaffection. MrVerlocsighed,andputout thegasin thekitchen. MrVerloc’s sympathywithhiswifewasgenuineand intense. It almostbrought tearsintohiseyesashestoodintheparlourreflectingonthelonelinesshangingoverherhead.InthismoodMrVerlocmissedStevieverymuchoutofadifficultworld.Hethoughtmournfullyofhisend.Ifonlythatladhadnotstupidlydestroyedhimself!
Thesensationofunappeasablehunger,notunknownafterthestrainofahazardousenterprise to adventurers of tougher fibre thanMrVerloc, overcame him again.Thepieceofroastbeef,laidoutinthelikenessoffunerealbakedmeatsforStevie’sobsequies,offered itself largely tohisnotice. AndMrVerlocagainpartook. Hepartookravenously,withoutrestraintanddecency,cuttingthicksliceswiththesharpcarvingknife,andswallowingthemwithoutbread.InthecourseofthatrefectionitoccurredtoMrVerlocthathewasnothearinghiswifemoveaboutthebedroomasheshouldhavedone. Thethoughtoffindingherperhapssittingonthebedinthedark not only cutMrVerloc’s appetite, but also took fromhim the inclination tofollowherupstairsjustyet.Layingdownthecarvingknife,MrVerloclistenedwithcarewornattention.
Hewas comforted by hearing hermove at last. Shewalked suddenly across theroom,andthrewthewindowup.Afteraperiodofstillnessupthere,duringwhichhefiguredhertohimselfwithherheadout,heheardthesashbeingloweredslowly.Then she made a few steps, and sat down. Every resonance of his house wasfamiliartoMrVerloc,whowasthoroughlydomesticated.Whennextheheardhiswife’s footstepsoverheadheknew,aswellas ifhehadseenherdoing it, that shehadbeenputtingonherwalkingshoes.MrVerlocwriggledhisshouldersslightlyatthisominoussymptom,andmovingawayfromthetable,stoodwithhisbacktothe fireplace, his head on one side, and gnawing perplexedly at the tips of hisfingers.Hekepttrackofhermovementsbythesound.Shewalkedhereandthereviolently,withabruptstoppages,nowbefore thechestofdrawers, then infrontof
thewardrobe. An immense loadofweariness, theharvestofadayofshocksandsurprises,weighedMrVerloc’senergiestotheground.
Hedidnotraisehiseyestillheheardhiswifedescendingthestairs.Itwasashehadguessed.Shewasdressedforgoingout.
MrsVerlocwasafreewoman. Shehad thrownopen thewindowof thebedroomeitherwith the intentionof screamingMurder! Help!orof throwingherselfout.For she did not exactly knowwhat use tomakeof her freedom. Her personalityseemed tohavebeen torn into twopieces,whosementaloperationsdidnotadjustthemselvesverywelltoeachother.Thestreet,silentanddesertedfromendtoend,repelledherbytakingsideswiththatmanwhowassocertainofhisimpunity.Shewasafraidtoshoutlestnooneshouldcome.Obviouslynoonewouldcome.Herinstinct of self-preservation recoiled from the depth of the fall into that sort ofslimy,deep trench. MrsVerlocclosed thewindow, anddressedherself togooutinto the street by anotherway. Shewas a freewoman. She had dressed herselfthoroughly,downtothetyingofablackveiloverherface.Assheappearedbeforehim in the light of the parlour, Mr Verloc observed that she had even her littlehandbaghangingfromherleftwrist....Flyingofftohermother,ofcourse.
The thought thatwomenwerewearisomecreaturesafterallpresented itself tohisfatiguedbrain.Buthewastoogeneroustoharbouritformorethananinstant.Thisman, hurt cruelly in his vanity, remainedmagnanimous in his conduct, allowinghimself no satisfaction of a bitter smile or of a contemptuous gesture. With truegreatnessof soul,heonlyglancedat thewoodenclockon thewall, and said inaperfectlycalmbutforciblemanner:
“Fiveandtwentyminutespasteight,Winnie.There’snosenseingoingovertheresolate.Youwillnevermanagetogetbackto-night.”
BeforehisextendedhandMrsVerlochadstoppedshort. Headdedheavily:“Yourmotherwillbegonetobedbeforeyougetthere.Thisisthesortofnewsthatcanwait.”
Nothingwas further fromMrsVerloc’s thoughts than going to hermother. Sherecoiledatthemereidea,andfeelingachairbehindher,sheobeyedthesuggestionof the touch,andsatdown. Her intentionhadbeensimplytogetoutside thedoorforever. Andif thisfeelingwascorrect, itsmentalformtookanunrefinedshapecorrespondingtoheroriginandstation.“Iwouldratherwalkthestreetsallthedaysofmylife,”shethought.Butthiscreature,whosemoralnaturehadbeensubjectedtoa shockofwhich, in thephysicalorder, themostviolent earthquakeofhistorycould only be a faint and languid rendering,was at themercy ofmere trifles, ofcasualcontacts.Shesatdown.Withherhatandveilshehadtheairofavisitor,of
havinglookedinonMrVerlocforamoment.Herinstantdocilityencouragedhim,whilstheraspectofonlytemporaryandsilentacquiescenceprovokedhimalittle.
“Let me tell you, Winnie,” he said with authority, “that your place is here thisevening.Hangitall!youbroughtthedamnedpolicehighandlowaboutmyears.Idon’t blame you—but it’s your doing all the same. You’d better take thisconfoundedhatoff.Ican’tletyougoout,oldgirl,”headdedinasoftenedvoice.
MrsVerloc’smindgotholdofthatdeclarationwithmorbidtenacity.Themanwhohad takenStevieout fromunderherveryeyes tomurderhim ina localitywhosenamewasatthemomentnotpresenttohermemorywouldnotallowhergoout.Ofcoursehewouldn’t.
NowhehadmurderedSteviehewouldneverlethergo.Hewouldwanttokeepherfor nothing. And on this characteristic reasoning, having all the force of insanelogic,MrsVerloc’sdisconnectedwitswent toworkpractically. Shecouldslipbyhim,open thedoor, runout. Buthewoulddashoutafterher,seizeherroundthebody,dragherbackintotheshop.Shecouldscratch,kick,andbite—andstabtoo;butforstabbingshewantedaknife.MrsVerlocsatstillunderherblackveil,inherownhouse,likeamaskedandmysteriousvisitorofimpenetrableintentions.
MrVerloc’smagnanimitywasnotmore thanhuman. Shehadexasperatedhimatlast.
“Can’tyousaysomething?Youhaveyourowndodgesforvexingaman.Ohyes!Iknowyourdeaf-and-dumbtrick.I’veseenyouatitbeforeto-day.Butjustnowitwon’tdo.Andtobeginwith,takethisdamnedthingoff.Onecan’ttellwhetheroneistalkingtoadummyortoalivewoman.”
Headvanced, and stretchingouthishand,dragged theveil off, unmaskinga still,unreadableface,againstwhichhisnervousexasperationwasshattered likeaglassbubble flung against a rock. “That’s better,” he said, to cover his momentaryuneasiness,andretreatedbacktohisoldstationbythemantelpiece.Itneverenteredhisheadthathiswifecouldgivehimup.Hefeltalittleashamedofhimself,forhewasfondandgenerous.Whatcouldhedo?Everythinghadbeensaidalready.Heprotestedvehemently.
“Byheavens!YouknowthatIhuntedhighandlow.Irantheriskofgivingmyselfawaytofindsomebodyfor thataccursedjob. AndI tellyouagainIcouldn’tfindanyonecrazyenoughorhungryenough.Whatdoyoutakemefor—amurderer,orwhat?Theboyisgone.DoyouthinkIwantedhimtoblowhimselfup?He’sgone.Histroublesareover.Oursarejustgoingtobegin,Itellyou,preciselybecausehedidblowhimself. Idon’tblameyou. But just try tounderstandthat itwasapureaccident;asmuchanaccidentasifhehadbeenrunoverbya’buswhilecrossingthe
street.”
Hisgenerositywasnotinfinite,becausehewasahumanbeing—andnotamonster,asMrsVerloc believed him to be. He paused, and a snarl lifting hismoustachesaboveagleamofwhiteteethgavehimtheexpressionofareflectivebeast,notverydangerous—aslowbeastwithasleekhead,gloomierthanaseal,andwithahuskyvoice.
“Andwhenitcomestothat,it’sasmuchyourdoingasmine.That’sso.Youmayglareasmuchasyoulike.Iknowwhatyoucandointhatway.StrikemedeadifIever would have thought of the lad for that purpose. It was you who kept onshovinghiminmywaywhenIwashalfdistractedwiththeworryofkeepingthelotofusoutoftrouble.Whatthedevilmadeyou?Onewouldthinkyouweredoingitonpurpose. And Iamdamned if Iknow thatyoudidn’t. There’sno sayinghowmuchofwhat’sgoingonyouhavegotholdofontheslywithyourinfernaldon’t-care-a-damnwayoflookingnowhereinparticular,andsayingnothingatall....”
Hishuskydomesticvoiceceasedforawhile. MrsVerlocmadenoreply. Beforethatsilencehefeltashamedofwhathehadsaid. Butasoftenhappens topeacefulmenindomestictiffs,beingashamedhepushedanotherpoint.
“You have a devilish way of holding your tongue sometimes,” he began again,withoutraisinghisvoice.“Enoughtomakesomemengomad.It’sluckyforyouthat I amnot soeasilyputout as someof themwouldbebyyourdeaf-and-dumbsulks. Iamfondofyou.Butdon’tyougotoofar. Thisisn’tthetimeforit. Weoughttobethinkingofwhatwe’vegottodo. AndIcan’tletyougooutto-night,gallopingofftoyourmotherwithsomecrazytaleorotheraboutme.Iwon’thaveit.Don’tyoumakeanymistakeaboutit:ifyouwillhaveitthatIkilledtheboy,thenyou’vekilledhimasmuchasI.”
In sincerity of feeling and openness of statement, these words went far beyondanything that had ever been said in this home, kept up on the wages of a secretindustry eked out by the sale of more or less secret wares: the poor expedientsdevised by a mediocre mankind for preserving an imperfect society from thedangersofmoralandphysicalcorruption,bothsecrettoooftheirkind.Theywerespoken because Mr Verloc had felt himself really outraged; but the reticentdecenciesofthishomelife,nestlinginashadystreetbehindashopwherethesunnever shone, remained apparently undisturbed. Mrs Verloc heard him out withperfectpropriety,andthenrosefromherchairinherhatandjacketlikeavisitorattheendofacall.Sheadvancedtowardsherhusband,onearmextendedasifforasilent leave-taking. Hernetveildanglingdownbyoneendonthe leftsideofherfacegaveanairofdisorderlyformalitytoherrestrainedmovements.Butwhenshearrived as far as thehearthrug,MrVerlocwasno longer standing there. Hehad
movedoffinthedirectionofthesofa,withoutraisinghiseyestowatchtheeffectofhis tirade. Hewas tired, resigned in a trulymarital spirit. Buthe felthurt in thetender spot of his secret weakness. If she would go on sulking in that dreadfuloverchargedsilence—whythenshemust.Shewasamasterinthatdomesticart.MrVerlocflunghimselfheavilyuponthesofa,disregardingasusualthefateofhishat,which,asifaccustomedtotakecareofitself,madeforasafeshelterunderthetable.
He was tired. The last particle of his nervous force had been expended in thewondersandagoniesofthisdayfullofsurprisingfailurescomingat theendofaharassingmonthof scheming and insomnia. Hewas tired. Aman isn’tmadeofstone.Hangeverything!MrVerlocreposedcharacteristically,cladinhisoutdoorgarments.Onesideofhisopenovercoatwaslyingpartlyontheground.MrVerlocwallowedonhisback.Buthelongedforamoreperfectrest—forsleep—forafewhoursofdeliciousforgetfulness.Thatwouldcomelater.Provisionallyherested.And he thought: “I wish she would give over this damned nonsense. It’sexasperating.”
Theremusthavebeensomething imperfect inMrsVerloc’ssentimentof regainedfreedom.Insteadoftakingthewayofthedoorsheleanedback,withhershouldersagainstthetabletofthemantelpiece,asawayfarerrestsagainstafence.Atingeofwildness inheraspectwasderived from theblackveilhanging likea ragagainsthercheek,and from the fixityofherblackgazewhere the lightof the roomwasabsorbedand lostwithout the traceof a singlegleam. Thiswoman, capableof abargain themere suspicion of which would have been infinitely shocking toMrVerloc’s ideaof love, remained irresolute,as if scrupulouslyawareof somethingwantingonherpartfortheformalclosingofthetransaction.
On thesofaMrVerlocwriggledhis shoulders intoperfectcomfort, and from thefulnessofhisheartemittedawishwhichwascertainlyaspiousasanythinglikelytocomefromsuchasource.
“I wish to goodness,” he growled huskily, “I had never seenGreenwich Park oranythingbelongingtoit.”
Theveiledsoundfilled thesmall roomwith itsmoderatevolume,welladapted tothemodestnatureofthewish.Thewavesofairoftheproperlength,propagatedinaccordance with correct mathematical formulas, flowed around all the inanimatethings in the room, lapped againstMrsVerloc’s head as if it had been a head ofstone.Andincredibleasitmayappear,theeyesofMrsVerlocseemedtogrowstilllarger. TheaudiblewishofMrVerloc’soverflowingheart flowed intoanemptyplace inhiswife’smemory. GreenwichPark. Apark! That’swhere theboywaskilled. Apark—smashedbranches, tornleaves,gravel,bitsofbrotherlyfleshandbone,allspoutinguptogetherinthemannerofafirework.Sherememberednow
whatshehadheard,andsheremembereditpictorially.Theyhadtogatherhimupwiththeshovel.Tremblingalloverwithirrepressibleshudders,shesawbeforehertheveryimplementwithitsghastlyloadscrapedupfromtheground. MrsVerlocclosed her eyes desperately, throwing upon that vision the night of her eyelids,whereafterarainlikefallofmangledlimbsthedecapitatedheadofStevielingeredsuspendedalone,andfadingoutslowly like the laststarofapyrotechnicdisplay.MrsVerlocopenedhereyes.
Herfacewasnolongerstony.Anybodycouldhavenotedthesubtlechangeonherfeatures, in the stare of her eyes, giving her a new and startling expression; anexpressionseldomobservedbycompetentpersonsunder theconditionsof leisureand security demanded for thorough analysis, but whose meaning could not bemistakenataglance. MrsVerloc’sdoubtsas to theendof thebargainno longerexisted; herwits, no longer disconnected,wereworking under the control of herwill.ButMrVerlocobservednothing.Hewasreposinginthatpatheticconditionofoptimisminducedbyexcessoffatigue.Hedidnotwantanymoretrouble—withhiswifetoo—ofallpeopleintheworld.Hehadbeenunanswerableinhisvindication.He was loved for himself. The present phase of her silence he interpretedfavourably.Thiswasthetimetomakeitupwithher.Thesilencehadlastedlongenough.Hebrokeitbycallingtoherinanundertone.
“Winnie.”
“Yes,”answeredobedientlyMrsVerlocthefreewoman.Shecommandedherwitsnow, her vocal organs; she felt herself to be in an almost preternaturally perfectcontrolofeveryfibreofherbody.Itwasallherown,becausethebargainwasatanend.Shewasclearsighted.Shehadbecomecunning.Shechosetoanswerhimsoreadilyforapurpose.Shedidnotwishthatmantochangehispositiononthesofawhichwasverysuitabletothecircumstances.Shesucceeded.Themandidnotstir.Butafteransweringhimsheremainedleaningnegligentlyagainstthemantelpieceintheattitudeofarestingwayfarer.Shewasunhurried.Herbrowwassmooth.TheheadandshouldersofMrVerlocwerehiddenfromherbythehighsideofthesofa.Shekepthereyesfixedonhisfeet.
She remained thus mysteriously still and suddenly collected till Mr Verloc washeardwithanaccentofmaritalauthority,andmovingslightlytomakeroomforhertositontheedgeofthesofa.
“Comehere,”hesaidinapeculiartone,whichmighthavebeenthetoneofbrutality,butwasintimatelyknowntoMrsVerlocasthenoteofwooing.
Shestartedforwardatonce,asifshewerestillaloyalwomanboundtothatmanbyan unbroken contract. Her right hand skimmed slightly the end of the table, and
whenshehadpassedontowardsthesofathecarvingknifehadvanishedwithouttheslightestsoundfromthesideofthedish.MrVerlocheardthecreakyplankinthefloor,andwascontent.Hewaited.MrsVerlocwascoming.Asifthehomelesssoulof Stevie had flown for shelter straight to the breast of his sister, guardian andprotector, theresemblanceofherfacewith thatofherbrothergrewateverystep,eventothedroopofthelowerlip,eventotheslightdivergenceoftheeyes.ButMrVerloc did not see that. Hewas lying on his back and staring upwards. He sawpartly on the ceiling andpartly on thewall themoving shadowof an armwith aclenchedhandholdinga carvingknife. It flickeredupanddown. Itsmovementswere leisurely. Theywere leisurely enough forMrVerloc to recognise the limbandtheweapon.
Theywereleisurelyenoughforhimtotakeinthefullmeaningoftheportent,andtotaste the flavour of death rising in his gorge. His wife had gone ravingmad—murderingmad.Theywereleisurelyenoughforthefirstparalysingeffectofthisdiscoverytopassawaybeforearesolutedeterminationtocomeoutvictoriousfromthe ghastly strugglewith that armed lunatic. Theywere leisurely enough forMrVerloc to elaborate a plan of defence involving a dash behind the table, and thefellingofthewomantothegroundwithaheavywoodenchair.Buttheywerenotleisurely enough to allowMrVerloc the time tomove either hand or foot. Theknifewasalreadyplantedinhisbreast.Itmetnoresistanceonitsway.Hazardhassuchaccuracies.Intothatplungingblow,deliveredoverthesideofthecouch,MrsVerloc had put all the inheritance of her immemorial and obscure descent, thesimpleferocityoftheageofcaverns,andtheunbalancednervousfuryoftheageofbar-rooms.MrVerloc,theSecretAgent,turningslightlyonhissidewiththeforceof the blow, expired without stirring a limb, in the muttered sound of the word“Don’t”bywayofprotest.
Mrs Verloc had let go the knife, and her extraordinary resemblance to her latebrotherhadfaded,hadbecomeveryordinarynow.Shedrewadeepbreath,thefirsteasy breath since Chief Inspector Heat had exhibited to her the labelled piece ofStevie’sovercoat.Sheleanedforwardonherfoldedarmsoverthesideofthesofa.Sheadopted that easyattitudenot inorder towatchorgloatover thebodyofMrVerloc, but because of the undulatory and swinging movements of the parlour,whichforsometimebehavedasthoughitwereatseainatempest.Shewasgiddybutcalm. Shehadbecomea freewomanwithaperfectionof freedomwhich lefthernothing todesireandabsolutelynothing todo, sinceStevie’surgentclaimonher devotion no longer existed. Mrs Verloc, who thought in images, was nottroublednowbyvisions,becauseshedidnot thinkatall. Andshedidnotmove.Shewasawomanenjoyinghercompleteirresponsibilityandendlessleisure,almostin themanner of a corpse. She did notmove, she did not think. Neither did the
mortalenvelopeofthelateMrVerlocreposingonthesofa.ExceptforthefactthatMrsVerloc breathed these twowould have been perfect in accord: that accord ofprudent reservewithout superfluouswords, and sparingof signs,whichhadbeenthefoundationoftheirrespectablehomelife.Forithadbeenrespectable,coveringby a decent reticence the problems that may arise in the practice of a secretprofessionandthecommerceofshadywares.Tothelastitsdecorumhadremainedundisturbedbyunseemly shrieksandothermisplaced sinceritiesof conduct. Andafter the striking of the blow, this respectabilitywas continued in immobility andsilence.
NothingmovedintheparlourtillMrsVerlocraisedherheadslowlyandlookedattheclockwithinquiringmistrust.Shehadbecomeawareofatickingsoundintheroom.Itgrewuponherear,whilesherememberedclearlythattheclockonthewallwassilent,hadnoaudibletick.Whatdiditmeanbybeginningtoticksoloudlyallofasudden?Itsfaceindicatedtenminutestonine. MrsVerloccarednothingfortime, and the ticking went on. She concluded it could not be the clock, and hersullengazemovedalongthewalls,wavered,andbecamevague,whileshestrainedherhearingtolocatethesound.Tic,tic,tic.
After listening for some time Mrs Verloc lowered her gaze deliberately on herhusband’sbody.Itsattitudeofreposewassohome-likeandfamiliarthatshecoulddosowithoutfeelingembarrassedbyanypronouncednoveltyinthephenomenaofherhomelife.MrVerlocwastakinghishabitualease.Helookedcomfortable.
BythepositionofthebodythefaceofMrVerlocwasnotvisibletoMrsVerloc,hiswidow. Her fine, sleepy eyes, travelling downward on the track of the sound,became contemplative on meeting a flat object of bone which protruded a littlebeyond theedgeof thesofa. Itwas thehandleof thedomesticcarvingknifewithnothingstrangeaboutitbutitspositionatrightanglestoMrVerloc’swaistcoatandthefactthatsomethingdrippedfromit.Darkdropsfellonthefloorclothoneafteranother,withasoundoftickinggrowingfastandfuriouslikethepulseofaninsaneclock. At its highest speed this ticking changed into a continuous sound oftrickling.MrsVerlocwatchedthattransformationwithshadowsofanxietycomingandgoingonherface.Itwasatrickle,dark,swift,thin....Blood!
At this unforeseen circumstanceMrs Verloc abandoned her pose of idleness andirresponsibility.
Witha sudden snatchather skirts anda faint shriek she ran to thedoor, as if thetricklehadbeenthefirstsignofadestroyingflood.Findingthetableinherwayshegave it apushwithbothhandsas though ithadbeenalive,with such force that itwentforsomedistanceonitsfourlegs,makingaloud,scrapingracket,whilstthebigdishwiththejointcrashedheavilyonthefloor.
Thenallbecamestill. MrsVerloconreachingthedoorhadstopped.Aroundhatdisclosedinthemiddleofthefloorbythemovingofthetablerockedslightlyonitscrowninthewindofherflight.
CHAPTERXII
WinnieVerloc,thewidowofMrVerloc,thesisterofthelatefaithfulStevie(blownto fragments in a state of innocence and in the conviction of being engaged in ahumanitarian enterprise), did not run beyond the door of the parlour. She hadindeedrunawaysofarfromamere trickleofblood,but thatwasamovementofinstinctive repulsion. And there she had paused, with staring eyes and loweredhead. As though she had run through long years in her flight across the smallparlour,MrsVerlocbythedoorwasquiteadifferentpersonfromthewomanwhohadbeen leaningover thesofa,a little swimmyinherhead,butotherwise free toenjoytheprofoundcalmofidlenessandirresponsibility.MrsVerlocwasnolongergiddy.Herheadwassteady.Ontheotherhand,shewasnolongercalm.Shewasafraid.
Ifsheavoidedlookinginthedirectionofherreposinghusbanditwasnotbecauseshe was afraid of him. Mr Verloc was not frightful to behold. He lookedcomfortable.Moreover,hewasdead.MrsVerlocentertainednovaindelusionsonthesubjectofthedead.Nothingbringsthemback,neitherlovenorhate.Theycandonothingtoyou. Theyareasnothing. Hermentalstatewastingedbyasortofausterecontemptforthatmanwhohadlethimselfbekilledsoeasily.Hehadbeenthemasterofahouse,thehusbandofawoman,andthemurdererofherStevie.Andnowhewasofnoaccountineveryrespect.Hewasoflesspracticalaccountthantheclothingonhisbody, thanhisovercoat, thanhisboots—than thathat lyingon thefloor. Hewasnothing. Hewasnotworthlookingat. HewasevennolongerthemurdererofpoorStevie.TheonlymurdererthatwouldbefoundintheroomwhenpeoplecametolookforMrVerlocwouldbe—herself!
Her hands shook so that she failed twice in the task of refastening her veil. MrsVerlocwasnolongerapersonofleisureandresponsibility. Shewasafraid. ThestabbingofMrVerlochadbeenonlyablow.Ithadrelievedthepent-upagonyofshrieksstrangledinherthroat,oftearsdriedupinherhoteyes,ofthemaddeningand indignant rage at the atrocious part played by that man, who was less thannothingnow,inrobbingheroftheboy.
Ithadbeenanobscurelypromptedblow. Thebloodtricklingontheflooroff thehandle of the knife had turned it into an extremely plain case of murder. Mrs
Verloc,whoalwaysrefrainedfromlookingdeepintothings,wascompelledtolookintotheverybottomofthisthing.Shesawtherenohauntingface,noreproachfulshade,novisionofremorse,nosortofidealconception.Shesawthereanobject.Thatobjectwasthegallows.MrsVerlocwasafraidofthegallows.
Shewas terrifiedof them ideally. Havingnever seteyeson that last argumentofmen’sjusticeexceptinillustrativewoodcutstoacertaintypeoftales,shefirstsawthemerectagainstablackandstormybackground,festoonedwithchainsandhumanbones, circled about by birds that peck at dead men’s eyes. This was frightfulenough, but Mrs Verloc, though not a well-informed woman, had a sufficientknowledge of the institutions of her country to know that gallows are no longererectedromanticallyonthebanksofdismalriversoronwind-sweptheadlands,butintheyardsofjails.Therewithinfourhighwalls,asifintoapit,atdawnofday,themurderer was brought out to be executed, with a horrible quietness and, as thereportsinthenewspapersalwayssaid,“inthepresenceoftheauthorities.”Withhereyes staring on the floor, her nostrils quivering with anguish and shame, sheimaginedherselfallaloneamongstalotofstrangegentlemeninsilkhatswhowerecalmly proceeding about the business of hanging her by the neck. That—never!Never! Andhowwasitdone?Theimpossibilityofimaginingthedetailsofsuchquietexecutionaddedsomethingmaddeningtoherabstractterror.Thenewspapersnever gave any details except one, but that onewith some affectationwas alwaysthereattheendofameagrereport.MrsVerlocremembereditsnature.Itcamewithacruelburningpain intoherhead,as if thewords“Thedropgivenwas fourteenfeet” had been scratched on her brain with a hot needle. “The drop given wasfourteenfeet.”
Thesewordsaffectedherphysicallytoo.Herthroatbecameconvulsedinwavestoresiststrangulation;andtheapprehensionofthejerkwassovividthatsheseizedherhead inbothhandsas if to save it frombeing tornoffher shoulders. “Thedropgivenwas fourteen feet.” No! thatmustneverbe. Shecouldnot stand that. Thethoughtofitevenwasnotbearable.Shecouldnotstandthinkingofit.ThereforeMrsVerlocformedtheresolutiontogoatonceandthrowherselfintotheriveroffoneofthebridges.
This timeshemanaged to refastenherveil. Withher faceas ifmasked,allblackfromheadtofootexceptforsomeflowersinherhat,shelookedupmechanicallyattheclock. She thought itmusthavestopped. Shecouldnotbelieve thatonly twominutes had passed since she had looked at it last. Of course not. It had beenstoppedall the time. Asamatteroffact,only threeminuteshadelapsedfromthemoment she had drawn the first deep, easy breath after the blow, to thismomentwhenMrsVerlocformedtheresolutiontodrownherself in theThames. ButMrsVerloc could not believe that. She seemed to have heard or read that clocks and
watchesalwaysstoppedatthemomentofmurderfortheundoingofthemurderer.Shedidnotcare.“Tothebridge—andoverIgo.”...Buthermovementswereslow.
Shedraggedherselfpainfullyacrosstheshop,andhadtoholdontothehandleofthedoorbeforeshefoundthenecessaryfortitudetoopenit. Thestreetfrightenedher, since it led either to the gallows or to the river. She floundered over thedoorstepheadforward,armsthrownout,likeapersonfallingovertheparapetofabridge. This entrance into the open air had a foretaste of drowning; a slimydampnessenvelopedher,enteredhernostrils,clungtoherhair.Itwasnotactuallyraining,buteachgaslamphadarustylittlehaloofmist.Thevanandhorsesweregone,andintheblackstreetthecurtainedwindowofthecarters’eating-housemadeasquarepatchofsoiledblood-red lightglowingfaintlyverynear the levelof thepavement. MrsVerloc,draggingherselfslowly towards it, thought thatshewasaveryfriendlesswoman.Itwastrue.Itwassotruethat,inasuddenlongingtoseesome friendly face, she could think of no one else but of Mrs Neale, thecharwoman. Shehadnoacquaintancesofherown. Nobodywouldmissher inasocial way. It must not be imagined that the Widow Verloc had forgotten hermother.Thiswasnotso.Winniehadbeenagooddaughterbecauseshehadbeenadevotedsister. Hermotherhadalwaysleanedonherforsupport.Noconsolationoradvicecouldbeexpectedthere.NowthatSteviewasdeadthebondseemedtobebroken.Shecouldnotfacetheoldwomanwiththehorribletale.Moreover,itwastoo far. The river was her present destination. Mrs Verloc tried to forget hermother.
Eachstepcostheraneffortofwillwhichseemedthelastpossible.MrsVerlochaddraggedherselfpasttheredglowoftheeating-housewindow.“Tothebridge—andoverIgo,”sherepeatedtoherselfwithfierceobstinacy.Sheputoutherhandjustintime tosteadyherselfagainsta lamp-post. “I’llneverget therebeforemorning,”she thought. The fear of death paralysed her efforts to escape the gallows. Itseemedtohershehadbeenstaggeringinthatstreetforhours.“I’llnevergetthere,”shethought.“They’llfindmeknockingaboutthestreets.It’stoofar.”Sheheldon,pantingunderherblackveil.
“Thedropgivenwasfourteenfeet.”
Shepushedthelamp-postawayfromherviolently,andfoundherselfwalking.Butanotherwave of faintness overtook her like a great sea, washing away her heartcleanoutof herbreast. “Iwill neverget there,” shemuttered, suddenly arrested,swayinglightlywhereshestood.“Never.”
Andperceivingtheutterimpossibilityofwalkingasfarasthenearestbridge,MrsVerlocthoughtofaflightabroad.
It came to her suddenly. Murderers escaped. They escaped abroad. Spain orCalifornia. Merenames.Thevastworldcreatedforthegloryofmanwasonlyavast blank toMrsVerloc. She did not knowwhichway to turn. Murderers hadfriends, relations, helpers—they had knowledge. She had nothing. She was themostlonelyofmurderersthateverstruckamortalblow.ShewasaloneinLondon:and thewhole townofmarvels andmud,with itsmaze of streets and itsmass oflights, was sunk in a hopeless night, rested at the bottom of a black abyss fromwhichnounaidedwomancouldhopetoscrambleout.
Sheswayedforward,andmadeafreshstartblindly,withanawfuldreadoffallingdown;butattheendofafewsteps,unexpectedly,shefoundasensationofsupport,of security. Raising her head, she saw aman’s face peering closely at her veil.ComradeOssiponwasnotafraidofstrangewomen,andnofeelingoffalsedelicacycould prevent him from striking an acquaintance with a woman apparently verymuchintoxicated.ComradeOssiponwasinterestedinwomen.Heheldupthisonebetweenhistwolargepalms,peeringatherinabusiness-likewaytillheheardhersayfaintly“MrOssipon!”andthenheverynearlyletherdroptotheground.
“MrsVerloc!”heexclaimed.“Youhere!”
It seemed impossible to him that she should have been drinking. But one neverknows. Hedidnotgo into thatquestion, but attentivenot todiscouragekind fatesurrendering to him the widow of Comrade Verloc, he tried to draw her to hisbreast.Tohisastonishmentshecamequiteeasily,andevenrestedonhisarmforamomentbeforesheattemptedtodisengageherself.ComradeOssiponwouldnotbebrusquewithkindfate.Hewithdrewhisarminanaturalway.
“You recognisedme,” she faltered out, standing before him, fairly steady on herlegs.
“Of course I did,” said Ossipon with perfect readiness. “I was afraid you weregoingtofall.I’vethoughtofyoutoooftenlatelynottorecogniseyouanywhere,atanytime.I’vealwaysthoughtofyou—eversinceIfirstseteyesonyou.”
MrsVerlocseemednottohear.“Youwerecomingtotheshop?”shesaidnervously.
“Yes;atonce,”answeredOssipon.“DirectlyIreadthepaper.”
In fact, Comrade Ossipon had been skulking for a good two hours in theneighbourhoodofBrettStreet,unabletomakeuphismindforaboldmove. Therobustanarchistwasnotexactlyaboldconqueror.HerememberedthatMrsVerlochadneverrespondedtohisglancesbytheslightestsignofencouragement.Besides,hethoughttheshopmightbewatchedbythepolice,andComradeOssipondidnotwish the police to form an exaggerated notion of his revolutionary sympathies.
Even now he did not know precisely what to do. In comparison with his usualamatoryspeculationsthiswasabigandseriousundertaking.Heignoredhowmuchtherewasinitandhowfarhewouldhavetogoinordertogetholdofwhattherewas toget—supposing therewas a chance at all. Theseperplexities checkinghiselationimpartedtohistoneasobernesswellinkeepingwiththecircumstances.
“MayIaskyouwhereyouweregoing?”heinquiredinasubduedvoice.
“Don’taskme!”criedMrsVerlocwithashuddering, repressedviolence. Allherstrongvitalityrecoiledfromtheideaofdeath.“NevermindwhereIwasgoing....”
Ossipon concluded that she was very much excited but perfectly sober. Sheremainedsilentbyhissideformoment,thenallatonceshedidsomethingwhichhedidnotexpect.Sheslippedherhandunderhisarm.Hewasstartledbytheactitselfcertainly, and quite as much too by the palpably resolute character of thismovement. But this being a delicate affair, Comrade Ossipon behaved withdelicacy.Hecontentedhimselfbypressingthehandslightlyagainsthisrobustribs.Atthesametimehefelthimselfbeingimpelledforward,andyieldedtotheimpulse.At the end of Brett Street he became aware of being directed to the left. Hesubmitted.
Thefruitereratthecornerhadputouttheblazinggloryofhisorangesandlemons,andBrettPlacewasalldarkness,interspersedwiththemistyhalosofthefewlampsdefining its triangular shape, with a cluster of three lights on one stand in themiddle.Thedarkformsofthemanandwomanglidedslowlyarminarmalongthewallswithaloverlikeandhomelessaspectinthemiserablenight.
“WhatwouldyousayifIweretotellyouthatIwasgoingtofindyou?”MrsVerlocasked,grippinghisarmwithforce.
“Iwouldsaythatyoucouldn’tfindanyonemorereadytohelpyouinyourtrouble,”answered Ossipon, with a notion of making tremendous headway. In fact, theprogressofthisdelicateaffairwasalmosttakinghisbreathaway.
“Inmytrouble!”MrsVerlocrepeatedslowly.
“Yes.”
“Anddoyouknowwhatmytroubleis?”shewhisperedwithstrangeintensity.
“Tenminutesafterseeingtheeveningpaper,”explainedOssiponwithardour,“Imeta fellowwhomyoumayhaveseenonceor twiceat theshopperhaps,andIhadatalkwith himwhich left no doubtwhatever inmymind. Then I started for here,wonderingwhetheryou—I’vebeenfondofyoubeyondwordseversinceIseteyesonyourface,”hecried,asifunabletocommandhisfeelings.
Comrade Ossipon assumed correctly that no woman was capable of whollydisbelievingsuchastatement.ButhedidnotknowthatMrsVerlocaccepteditwithall the fierceness the instinctofself-preservationputs into thegripofadrowningperson. To the widow of Mr Verloc the robust anarchist was like a radiantmessengeroflife.
Theywalkedslowly,instep.“Ithoughtso,”MrsVerlocmurmuredfaintly.
“You’vereaditinmyeyes,”suggestedOssiponwithgreatassurance.
“Yes,”shebreathedoutintohisinclinedear.
“A love likemine could not be concealed from awoman like you,” hewent on,tryingtodetachhismindfrommaterialconsiderationssuchasthebusinessvalueofthe shop, and the amount of moneyMr Verloc might have left in the bank. Heappliedhimselftothesentimentalsideoftheaffair.Inhisheartofheartshewasalittle shockedathis success. Verlochadbeenagood fellow,andcertainlyaverydecenthusbandasfarasonecouldsee.However,ComradeOssiponwasnotgoingtoquarrelwithhis luckfor thesakeofadeadman. ResolutelyhesuppressedhissympathyfortheghostofComradeVerloc,andwenton.
“Icouldnotconcealit.Iwastoofullofyou.Idaresayyoucouldnothelpseeingitinmyeyes.ButIcouldnotguessit.Youwerealwayssodistant....”
“Whatelsedidyouexpect?”burstoutMrsVerloc.“Iwasarespectablewoman—”
She paused, then added, as if speaking to herself, in sinister resentment: “Till hemademewhatIam.”
Ossiponletthatpass,andtookuphisrunning.“Heneverdidseemtometobequiteworthyofyou,”hebegan, throwing loyalty to thewinds. “Youwereworthyofabetterfate.”
MrsVerlocinterruptedbitterly:
“Betterfate!Hecheatedmeoutofsevenyearsoflife.”
“You seemed to live so happily with him.” Ossipon tried to exculpate thelukewarmnessofhispastconduct.“It’sthatwhat’smademetimid.Youseemedtolovehim.Iwassurprised—andjealous,”headded.
“Lovehim!”MrsVerloccriedoutinawhisper,fullofscornandrage.“Lovehim!Iwasagoodwifetohim.Iamarespectablewoman.YouthoughtIlovedhim!Youdid!Lookhere,Tom—”
The soundof this name thrilledComradeOssiponwith pride. For his namewasAlexander, and hewas called Tom by arrangementwith themost familiar of his
intimates.Itwasanameoffriendship—ofmomentsofexpansion.Hehadnoideathat shehadeverheard itusedbyanybody. Itwasapparent that shehadnotonlycaughtit,buthadtreasureditinhermemory—perhapsinherheart.
“Lookhere,Tom!Iwasayounggirl.Iwasdoneup.Iwastired.IhadtwopeopledependingonwhatIcoulddo,anditdidseemasifIcouldn’tdoanymore. Twopeople—mother and the boy. He was much more mine than mother ’s. I sat upnightsandnightswithhimonmylap,allaloneupstairs,whenIwasn’tmore thaneightyearsoldmyself.Andthen—Hewasmine,Itellyou....Youcan’tunderstandthat.Nomancanunderstandit.WhatwasItodo?Therewasayoungfellow—”
Thememoryoftheearlyromancewiththeyoungbutchersurvived,tenacious,liketheimageofaglimpsedideal inthatheartquailingbeforethefearof thegallowsandfullofrevoltagainstdeath.
“ThatwasthemanI lovedthen,”wentonthewidowofMrVerloc. “Isupposehecould see it in my eyes too. Five and twenty shillings a week, and his fatherthreatened tokickhimoutof thebusiness ifhemadesuchafoolofhimselfas tomarryagirlwithacrippledmotherandacrazyidiotofaboyonherhands.Buthewouldhangaboutme,tilloneeveningIfoundthecouragetoslamthedoorinhisface. Ihadtodoit. I lovedhimdearly. Fiveandtwentyshillingsaweek!Therewasthatotherman—agoodlodger.Whatisagirltodo?CouldI’vegoneonthestreets?Heseemedkind.Hewantedme,anyhow.WhatwasItodowithmotherandthatpoorboy?Eh?Isaidyes.Heseemedgood-natured,hewasfreehanded,hehadmoney,heneversaidanything.Sevenyears—sevenyearsagoodwifetohim,thekind, thegood, thegenerous, the—Andhe lovedme. Ohyes. He lovedme till Isometimeswishedmyself—Sevenyears. Sevenyearsawife tohim. Anddoyouknowwhathewas,thatdearfriendofyours?Doyouknowwhathewas?Hewasadevil!”
The superhuman vehemence of that whispered statement completely stunnedComradeOssipon.WinnieVerlocturningaboutheldhimbybotharms,facinghimunderthefallingmistinthedarknessandsolitudeofBrettPlace,inwhichallsoundsoflifeseemedlostasif inatriangularwellofasphaltandbricks,ofblindhousesandunfeelingstones.
“No; I didn’t know,” he declared, with a sort of flabby stupidity, whose comicalaspectwaslostuponawomanhauntedbythefearofthegallows,“butIdonow.I—Iunderstand,”he flounderedon,hismindspeculatingas towhatsortofatrocitiesVerloc could have practised under the sleepy, placid appearances of his marriedestate. Itwaspositivelyawful. “Iunderstand,”he repeated, and thenbya suddeninspiration uttered an—“Unhappywoman!” of lofty commiseration instead of themorefamiliar“Poordarling!”ofhisusualpractice.Thiswasnousualcase.Hefelt
conscious of something abnormal going on, while he never lost sight of thegreatnessofthestake.“Unhappy,bravewoman!”
Hewasgladtohavediscoveredthatvariation;buthecoulddiscovernothingelse.
“Ah,butheisdeadnow,”wasthebesthecoulddo.Andheputaremarkableamountofanimosityintohisguardedexclamation.MrsVerloccaughtathisarmwithasortoffrenzy.
“Youguessed thenhewasdead,”shemurmured,as ifbesideherself. “You! YouguessedwhatIhadtodo.Hadto!”
Thereweresuggestionsoftriumph,relief,gratitudeintheindefinabletoneofthesewords.ItengrossedthewholeattentionofOssipontothedetrimentofmereliteralsense. Hewonderedwhatwas upwith her,why she hadworked herself into thisstateofwildexcitement.HeevenbegantowonderwhetherthehiddencausesofthatGreenwichParkaffairdidnotliedeepintheunhappycircumstancesoftheVerlocs’married life. He went so far as to suspect Mr Verloc of having selected thatextraordinarymannerofcommittingsuicide. ByJove! thatwouldaccountfor theutter inanity andwrong-headedness of the thing. No anarchistmanifestationwasrequiredbythecircumstances.Quitethecontrary;andVerlocwasaswellawareofthatasanyotherrevolutionistofhisstanding.WhatanimmensejokeifVerlochadsimply made fools of the whole of Europe, of the revolutionary world, of thepolice,ofthepress,andofthecocksureProfessoraswell.Indeed,thoughtOssipon,inastonishment,itseemedalmostcertainthathedid!Poorbeggar!Itstruckhimasverypossiblethatofthathouseholdoftwoitwasn’tpreciselythemanwhowasthedevil.
Alexander Ossipon, nicknamed the Doctor, was naturally inclined to thinkindulgentlyofhismen friends. HeeyedMrsVerlochangingonhisarm. Ofhiswomen friends he thought in a specially practical way. WhyMrsVerloc shouldexclaimathisknowledgeofMrVerloc’sdeath,whichwasnoguessatall,didnotdisturbhimbeyondmeasure.Theyoftentalkedlikelunatics.Buthewascurioustoknowhow shehadbeen informed. Thepapers could tell her nothingbeyond themerefact:themanblowntopiecesinGreenwichParknothavingbeenidentified.ItwasinconceivableonanytheorythatVerlocshouldhavegivenheraninklingofhisintention—whateveritwas.ThisprobleminterestedComradeOssiponimmensely.Hestoppedshort.TheyhadgonethenalongthethreesidesofBrettPlace,andwereneartheendofBrettStreetagain.
“How did you first come to hear of it?” he asked in a tone he tried to renderappropriate to thecharacterof therevelationswhichhadbeenmadetohimbythewomanathisside.
Sheshookviolentlyforawhilebeforesheansweredinalistlessvoice.
“Fromthepolice.Achiefinspectorcame,ChiefInspectorHeathesaidhewas.Heshowedme—”
MrsVerlocchoked.“Oh,Tom,theyhadtogatherhimupwithashovel.”
Herbreastheavedwithdrysobs.InamomentOssiponfoundhistongue.
“Thepolice! Doyoumean tosay thepolicecamealready? ThatChief InspectorHeathimselfactuallycametotellyou.”
“Yes,”sheconfirmedinthesamelistlesstone.“Hecamejustlikethis.Hecame.Ididn’tknow.Heshowedmeapieceofovercoat,and—justlikethat.Doyouknowthis?hesays.”
“Heat!Heat!Andwhatdidhedo?”
MrsVerloc’sheaddropped.“Nothing.Hedidnothing.Hewentaway.Thepolicewereonthatman’sside,”shemurmuredtragically.“Anotheronecametoo.”
“Another—another inspector, do youmean?” askedOssipon, in great excitement,andverymuchinthetoneofascaredchild.
“Idon’tknow. Hecame. He looked likea foreigner. HemayhavebeenoneofthemEmbassypeople.”
ComradeOssiponnearlycollapsedunderthisnewshock.
“Embassy!Areyouawarewhatyouaresaying?WhatEmbassy?Whatonearthdo
youmeanbyEmbassy?”
“It’sthatplaceinCheshamSquare.Thepeoplehecursedso.Idon’tknow.Whatdoesitmatter!”
“Andthatfellow,whatdidhedoorsaytoyou?”
“Idon’tremember....Nothing....Idon’tcare.Don’taskme,”shepleadedinawearyvoice.
“Allright.Iwon’t,”assentedOssipontenderly.Andhemeantittoo,notbecausehewastouchedbythepathosofthepleadingvoice,butbecausehefelthimselflosinghisfootinginthedepthsofthistenebrousaffair.Police!Embassy!Phew!Forfearofadventuringhisintelligenceintowayswhereitsnaturallightsmightfailtoguideitsafelyhedismissedresolutelyallsuppositions,surmises,andtheoriesoutofhismind.Hehadthewomanthere,absolutelyflingingherselfathim,andthatwastheprincipalconsideration.Butafterwhathehadheardnothingcouldastonishhimanymore.AndwhenMrsVerloc,asifstartledsuddenlyoutofadreamofsafety,begantourgeuponhimwildly thenecessityofan immediate flighton theContinent,hedidnotexclaimintheleast.Hesimplysaidwithunaffectedregretthattherewasnotraintillthemorning,andstoodlookingthoughtfullyatherface,veiledinblacknet,inthelightofagaslampveiledinagauzeofmist.
Nearhim,herblackformmergedinthenight,likeafigurehalfchiselledoutofablockofblack stone. Itwas impossible to saywhat sheknew,howdeep shewasinvolvedwithpolicemenandEmbassies. Butifshewantedtogetaway,itwasnotforhimtoobject. Hewasanxioustobeoffhimself. Hefeltthatthebusiness,theshopsostrangelyfamiliartochiefinspectorsandmembersofforeignEmbassies,wasnot theplace forhim. Thatmustbedropped. But therewas the rest. Thesesavings.Themoney!
“Youmusthidemetillthemorningsomewhere,”shesaidinadismayedvoice.
“Factis,mydear,Ican’ttakeyouwhereIlive.Isharetheroomwithafriend.”
Hewassomewhatdismayedhimself.Inthemorningtheblessed’tecswillbeoutinall the stations, no doubt. And if they once got hold of her, for one reason oranothershewouldbelosttohimindeed.
“Butyoumust.Don’tyoucareformeatall—atall?Whatareyouthinkingof?”
Shesaidthisviolently,butsheletherclaspedhandsfallindiscouragement.Therewas a silence, while the mist fell, and darkness reigned undisturbed over BrettPlace.Notasoul,noteventhevagabond,lawless,andamoroussoulofacat,camenearthemanandthewomanfacingeachother.
“Itwouldbepossibleperhapstofindasafelodgingsomewhere,”Ossiponspokeatlast.“Butthetruthis,mydear,Ihavenotenoughmoneytogoandtrywith—onlyafewpence.Werevolutionistsarenotrich.”
Hehadfifteenshillingsinhispocket.Headded:
“Andthere’sthejourneybeforeus,too—firstthinginthemorningatthat.”
She did not move, made no sound, and Comrade Ossipon’s heart sank a little.Apparentlyshehadnosuggestiontooffer.Suddenlysheclutchedatherbreast,asifshehadfeltasharppainthere.
“ButIhave,”shegasped.“Ihavethemoney.Ihaveenoughmoney.Tom!Letusgofromhere.”
“Howmuchhaveyougot?”he inquired,without stirring toher tug; forhewasacautiousman.
“Ihavethemoney,Itellyou.Allthemoney.”
“Whatdoyoumeanbyit?Allthemoneytherewasinthebank,orwhat?”heaskedincredulously,butreadynottobesurprisedatanythinginthewayofluck.
“Yes,yes!”shesaidnervously.“Alltherewas.I’veitall.”
“Howonearthdidyoumanagetogetholdofitalready?”hemarvelled.
“He gave it to me,” she murmured, suddenly subdued and trembling. ComradeOssiponputdownhisrisingsurprisewithafirmhand.
“Why,then—wearesaved,”heutteredslowly.
Sheleanedforward,andsankagainsthisbreast.Hewelcomedherthere.Shehadallthemoney.Herhatwasinthewayofverymarkedeffusion;herveiltoo.Hewasadequateinhismanifestations,butnomore. Shereceivedthemwithoutresistanceandwithoutabandonment,passively,asifonlyhalf-sensible.Shefreedherselffromhislaxembraceswithoutdifficulty.
“Youwill saveme,Tom,” she broke out, recoiling, but still keepingher hold onhimbythetwolapelsofhisdampcoat.“Saveme.Hideme.Don’tletthemhaveme.Youmustkillmefirst.Icouldn’tdoitmyself—Icouldn’t,Icouldn’t—notevenforwhatIamafraidof.”
Shewasconfoundedlybizarre,hethought.Shewasbeginningtoinspirehimwithanindefiniteuneasiness.Hesaidsurlily,forhewasbusywithimportantthoughts:
“Whatthedevilareyouafraidof?”
“Haven’tyouguessedwhatIwasdriventodo!”criedthewoman.Distractedbythevividnessofherdreadfulapprehensions,herheadringingwithforcefulwords,thatkeptthehorrorofherpositionbeforehermind,shehadimaginedherincoherencetobeclearnessitself.Shehadnoconscienceofhowlittleshehadaudiblysaidinthedisjointedphrasescompletedonly inher thought. Shehad felt the reliefofa fullconfession,andshegaveaspecialmeaningtoeverysentencespokenbyComradeOssipon,whose knowledge did not in the least resemble her own. “Haven’t youguessedwhatIwasdriventodo!”Hervoicefell.“Youneedn’tbelonginguessingthenwhatIamafraidof,”shecontinued,inabitterandsombremurmur.“Iwon’thaveit.Iwon’t.Iwon’t.Iwon’t.Youmustpromisetokillmefirst!”Sheshookthelapelsofhiscoat.“Itmustneverbe!”
Heassuredhercurtlythatnopromisesonhispartwerenecessary,buthetookgoodcarenottocontradictherinsetterms,becausehehadhadmuchtodowithexcitedwomen, andhewas inclined in general to let his experienceguidehis conduct inpreference toapplyinghis sagacity toeachspecialcase. His sagacity in thiscasewasbusyinotherdirections.Women’swordsfellintowater,buttheshortcomingsof time-tables remained. The insularnatureofGreatBritainobtruded itselfuponhisnoticeinanodiousform.“Mightjustaswellbeputunderlockandkeyeverynight,”hethoughtirritably,asnonplussedasthoughhehadawalltoscalewiththewoman on his back. Suddenly he slapped his forehead. He had by dint ofcudgellinghisbrainsjustthoughtoftheSouthampton—StMaloservice.Theboatleftaboutmidnight.Therewasatrainat10.30.Hebecamecheeryandreadytoact.
“FromWaterloo. Plentyof time. Weareall rightafterall. . . .What’s thematternow?Thisisn’ttheway,”heprotested.
MrsVerloc,havinghookedherarmintohis,wastryingtodraghimintoBrettStreetagain.
“I’veforgottentoshuttheshopdoorasIwentout,”shewhispered,terriblyagitated.
Theshopandall thatwas in ithadceased to interestComradeOssipon. Heknewhowtolimithisdesires.Hewasonthepointofsaying“Whatofthat?Letitbe,”buthe refrained. He disliked argument about trifles. He even mended his paceconsiderablyonthethoughtthatshemighthaveleft themoneyinthedrawer. Buthiswillingnesslaggedbehindherfeverishimpatience.
Theshopseemedtobequitedarkatfirst.Thedoorstoodajar.MrsVerloc,leaningagainstthefront,gaspedout:
“Nobodyhasbeenin.Look!Thelight—thelightintheparlour.”
Ossipon,stretchinghisheadforward,sawafaintgleaminthedarknessoftheshop.
“Thereis,”hesaid.
“Iforgotit.”MrsVerloc’svoicecamefrombehindherveilfaintly.Andashestoodwaitingforhertoenterfirst,shesaidlouder:“Goinandputitout—orI’llgomad.”
Hemadenoimmediateobjectiontothisproposal,sostrangelymotived.“Where’sallthatmoney?”heasked.
“Onme!Go,Tom.Quick!Putitout. . . .Goin!”shecried,seizinghimbybothshouldersfrombehind.
Notprepared foradisplayofphysical force,ComradeOssiponstumbled far intothe shop before her push. He was astonished at the strength of the woman andscandalised by her proceedings. But he did not retrace his steps in order toremonstratewith her severely in the street. Hewasbeginning to be disagreeablyimpressed by her fantastic behaviour. Moreover, this or never was the time tohumour thewoman. ComradeOssiponavoidedeasily theendof thecounter,andapproachedcalmlytheglazeddooroftheparlour.Thecurtainoverthepanesbeingdrawnbackalittlehe,byaverynaturalimpulse,lookedin,justashemadereadytoturnthehandle.Helookedinwithoutathought,withoutintention,withoutcuriosityofanysort.Helookedinbecausehecouldnothelplookingin.Helookedin,anddiscoveredMrVerlocreposingquietlyonthesofa.
A yell coming from the innermost depths of his chest died out unheard andtransformed into a sort of greasy, sickly taste on his lips. At the same time thementalpersonalityofComradeOssiponexecutedafranticleapbackward. Buthisbody, left thus without intellectual guidance, held on to the door handle with theunthinking force of an instinct. The robust anarchist did not even totter. Andhestared,his faceclose to theglass,his eyesprotrudingoutofhishead. Hewouldhave given anything to get away, but his returning reason informed him that itwouldnotdotoletgothedoorhandle. Whatwasit—madness,anightmare,oratrapintowhichhehadbeendecoyedwithfiendishartfulness?Why—whatfor?Hedid not know. Without any sense of guilt in his breast, in the full peace of hisconscience as far as these people were concerned, the idea that he would bemurderedformysteriousreasonsbythecoupleVerlocpassednotsomuchacrosshismind as across the pit of his stomach, andwent out, leavingbehind a trail ofsickly faintness—an indisposition. ComradeOssipon did not feel verywell in avery specialway for amoment—a longmoment. Andhe stared. MrVerloc layvery still meanwhile, simulating sleep for reasons of his own, while that savagewomanofhiswasguardingthedoor—invisibleandsilentinthedarkanddesertedstreet.Wasallthisasomesortofterrifyingarrangementinventedbythepoliceforhisespecialbenefit?Hismodestyshrankfromthatexplanation.
But the true sense of the scene he was beholding came to Ossipon through thecontemplation of the hat. It seemed an extraordinary thing, an ominous object, asign.Black,andrimupward,itlayonthefloorbeforethecouchasifpreparedtoreceive the contributions of pence from people who would come presently tobeholdMrVerlocinthefullnessofhisdomesticeasereposingonasofa.Fromthehat the eyes of the robust anarchist wandered to the displaced table, gazed at thebroken dish for a time, received a kind of optical shock from observing awhitegleamundertheimperfectlyclosedeyelidsofthemanonthecouch.MrVerlocdidnotseemsomuchasleepnowaslyingdownwithabentheadandlookinginsistentlyathisleftbreast.AndwhenComradeOssiponhadmadeoutthehandleoftheknifeheturnedawayfromtheglazeddoor,andretchedviolently.
Thecrashofthestreetdoorflungtomadehisverysoulleapinapanic.Thishousewith its harmless tenant could still bemade a trap of—a trap of a terrible kind.ComradeOssipon had no settled conception nowofwhatwas happening to him.Catchinghis thighagainst theendof thecounter,hespunround,staggeredwithacryofpain,feltinthedistractingclatterofthebellhisarmspinnedtohissidebyaconvulsivehug,whilethecoldlipsofawomanmovedcreepilyonhisveryeartoformthewords:
“Policeman!Hehasseenme!”
Heceasedtostruggle;sheneverlethimgo.Herhandshadlockedthemselveswithaninseparabletwistoffingersonhisrobustback.Whilethefootstepsapproached,theybreathedquickly,breasttobreast,withhard,labouredbreaths,asiftheirshadbeen the attitude of a deadly struggle,while, in fact, itwas the attitude of deadlyfear.Andthetimewaslong.
TheconstableonthebeathadintruthseensomethingofMrsVerloc;onlycomingfromthelightedthoroughfareattheotherendofBrettStreet,shehadbeennomoretohimthanaflutterinthedarkness.Andhewasnotevenquitesurethattherehadbeena flutter. Hehadno reason tohurryup. Oncomingabreastof the shopheobservedthatithadbeenclosedearly.Therewasnothingveryunusualinthat.Themenondutyhadspecialinstructionsaboutthatshop:whatwentonabouttherewasnot to be meddled with unless absolutely disorderly, but any observations madeweretobereported.Therewerenoobservationstomake;butfromasenseofdutyand for the peace of his conscience, owing also to that doubtful flutter of thedarkness, the constable crossed the road, and tried the door. The spring latch,whosekeywasreposingforeveroffdutyinthelateMrVerloc’swaistcoatpocket,held as well as usual. While the conscientious officer was shaking the handle,Ossiponfeltthecoldlipsofthewomanstirringagaincreepilyagainsthisveryear:
“Ifhecomesinkillme—killme,Tom.”
The constable moved away, flashing as he passed the light of his dark lantern,merelyforform’ssake,attheshopwindow.Foramomentlongerthemanandthewoman inside stood motionless, panting, breast to breast; then her fingers cameunlocked,herarmsfellbyhersideslowly.Ossiponleanedagainstthecounter.Therobust anarchist wanted support badly. This was awful. He was almost toodisgustedforspeech.Yethemanagedtoutteraplaintivethought,showingatleastthatherealisedhisposition.
“Onlyacoupleofminuteslaterandyou’dhavemademeblunderagainstthefellowpokingaboutherewithhisdamneddarklantern.”
ThewidowofMrVerloc,motionlessinthemiddleoftheshop,saidinsistently:
“Goinandputthatlightout,Tom.Itwilldrivemecrazy.”
Shesawvaguelyhisvehementgestureofrefusal.NothingintheworldwouldhaveinducedOssipontogointotheparlour.Hewasnotsuperstitious,buttherewastoomuchbloodonthefloor;abeastlypoolof itall roundthehat. Hejudgedhehadbeenalreadyfar toonear thatcorpse forhispeaceofmind—for thesafetyofhisneck,perhaps!
“Atthemeterthen!There.Look.Inthatcorner.”
The robust form of Comrade Ossipon, striding brusque and shadowy across theshop, squatted in a corner obediently; but this obedience was without grace. Hefumblednervously—andsuddenlyinthesoundofamutteredcursethelightbehindthe glazed door flicked out to a gasping, hysterical sigh of awoman. Night, theinevitable reward ofmen’s faithful labours on this earth, night had fallen onMrVerloc, the tried revolutionist—“one of the old lot”—the humble guardian ofsociety;theinvaluableSecretAgent[delta]ofBaronStott-Wartenheim’sdespatches;aservantof lawandorder, faithful, trusted,accurate,admirable,withperhapsonesingleamiableweakness:theidealisticbeliefinbeinglovedforhimself.
Ossipongropedhiswaybackthroughthestuffyatmosphere,asblackasinknow,tothecounter.ThevoiceofMrsVerloc,standinginthemiddleoftheshop,vibratedafterhiminthatblacknesswithadesperateprotest.
“Iwillnotbehanged,Tom.Iwillnot—”
Shebrokeoff.Ossiponfromthecounterissuedawarning:“Don’tshoutlikethis,”then seemed to reflect profoundly. “You did this thing quite by yourself?” heinquired in a hollow voice, but with an appearance ofmasterful calmness whichfilledMrsVerloc’sheartwithgratefulconfidenceinhisprotectingstrength.
“Yes,”shewhispered,invisible.
“Iwouldn’thavebelieved itpossible,”hemuttered. “Nobodywould.” Sheheardhimmoveaboutandthesnappingofalockintheparlourdoor.ComradeOssiponhadturnedthekeyonMrVerloc’srepose;andthishedidnotfromreverenceforitseternalnatureoranyotherobscurelysentimentalconsideration,butfortheprecisereasonthathewasnotatallsurethattherewasnotsomeoneelsehidingsomewhereinthehouse.Hedidnotbelievethewoman,orratherhewasincapablebynowofjudgingwhatcouldbetrue,possible,orevenprobableinthisastoundinguniverse.He was terrified out of all capacity for belief or disbelief in regard of thisextraordinaryaffair,whichbeganwithpoliceinspectorsandEmbassiesandwouldendgoodnessknowswhere—onthescaffoldforsomeone.Hewasterrifiedatthethought that he could not prove the use he made of his time ever since seveno’clock,forhehadbeenskulkingaboutBrettStreet.Hewasterrifiedatthissavagewoman who had brought him in there, and would probably saddle him withcomplicity,atleastifhewerenotcareful.Hewasterrifiedattherapiditywithwhichhehadbeeninvolvedinsuchdangers—decoyedintoit.Itwassometwentyminutessincehehadmether—notmore.
The voice ofMrsVerloc rose subdued, pleading piteously: “Don’t let them hangme,Tom!Takemeoutof thecountry. I’llworkforyou. I’llslaveforyou. I’llloveyou.I’venooneintheworld....Whowouldlookatmeifyoudon’t!”Sheceased for amoment; then in the depths of the lonelinessmade round her by aninsignificantthreadofbloodtricklingoffthehandleofaknife,shefoundadreadfulinspiration to her—whohadbeen the respectable girl of theBelgravianmansion,the loyal, respectable wife of Mr Verloc. “I won’t ask you to marry me,” shebreathedoutinshame-facedaccents.
Shemovedastepforwardin thedarkness. Hewasterrifiedather. Hewouldnothave been surprised if she had suddenly produced another knife destined for hisbreast. He certainly would have made no resistance. He had really not enoughfortitudeinhimjust thentotellhertokeepback. Butheinquiredinacavernous,strangetone:“Washeasleep?”
“No,”shecried,andwentonrapidly.“Hewasn’t.Nothe.Hehadbeentellingmethatnothingcouldtouchhim.Aftertakingtheboyawayfromundermyveryeyestokillhim—theloving,innocent,harmlesslad.Myown,Itellyou.Hewaslyingonthecouchquiteeasy—afterkillingtheboy—myboy.Iwouldhavegoneonthestreetstogetoutofhissight.Andhesaystomelikethis:‘Comehere,’aftertellingmeIhadhelped tokill theboy. Youhear,Tom? Hesays like this: ‘Comehere,’aftertakingmyveryheartoutofmealongwiththeboytosmashinthedirt.”
Sheceased,thendreamilyrepeatedtwice:“Bloodanddirt.Bloodanddirt.”Agreatlight broke upon Comrade Ossipon. It was that half-witted lad then who had
perished in the park. And the fooling of everybody all round appeared morecomplete thanever—colossal. Heexclaimedscientifically, in theextremityofhisastonishment:“Thedegenerate—byheavens!”
“Comehere.”ThevoiceofMrsVerlocroseagain.“WhatdidhethinkIwasmadeof?Tellme,Tom.Comehere!Me!Likethis!Ihadbeenlookingattheknife,andIthoughtIwouldcomethenifhewantedmesomuch.Ohyes!Icame—forthelasttime....Withtheknife.”
He was excessively terrified at her—the sister of the degenerate—a degenerateherselfofamurderingtype...orelseofthelyingtype.ComradeOssiponmighthavebeensaidtobeterrifiedscientificallyinadditiontoallotherkindsoffear.Itwasanimmeasurableandcompositefunk,whichfromitsveryexcessgavehiminthedarkafalseappearanceofcalmandthoughtfuldeliberation.Forhemovedandspokewithdifficulty,beingasifhalffrozeninhiswillandmind—andnoonecouldseehisghastlyface.Hefelthalfdead.
He leaped a foot high. Unexpectedly Mrs Verloc had desecrated the unbrokenreserveddecencyofherhomebyashrillandterribleshriek.
“Help,Tom!Saveme.Iwon’tbehanged!”
He rushed forward, groping for hermouthwith a silencing hand, and the shriekdiedout.Butinhisrushhehadknockedherover.Hefelthernowclingingroundhislegs,andhisterrorreacheditsculminatingpoint,becameasortofintoxication,entertained delusions, acquired the characteristics of delirium tremens. Hepositivelysawsnakesnow.Hesawthewomantwinedroundhimlikeasnake,nottobeshakenoff.Shewasnotdeadly.Shewasdeathitself—thecompanionoflife.
MrsVerloc,asifrelievedbytheoutburst,wasveryfarfrombehavingnoisilynow.Shewaspitiful.
“Tom,youcan’tthrowmeoffnow,”shemurmuredfromthefloor.“Notunlessyoucrushmyheadunderyourheel.Iwon’tleaveyou.”
“Getup,”saidOssipon.
His facewas so pale as to be quite visible in the profound black darkness of theshop; while Mrs Verloc, veiled, had no face, almost no discernible form. Thetremblingofsomethingsmallandwhite,aflowerinherhat,markedherplace,hermovements.
Itroseintheblackness. Shehadgotupfromthefloor,andOssiponregrettednothavingrunoutatonceintothestreet.Butheperceivedeasilythatitwouldnotdo.Itwouldnotdo. Shewouldrunafterhim. Shewouldpursuehimshrieking tillshe
senteverypolicemanwithinhearinginchase.Andthengoodnessonlyknewwhatshewouldsayofhim.Hewassofrightenedthatforamomenttheinsanenotionofstranglingherinthedarkpassedthroughhismind.Andhebecamemorefrightenedthanever! Shehadhim! Hesawhimself living inabject terror in someobscurehamlet in Spain or Italy; till some finemorning they found himdead too,with aknife inhisbreast—likeMrVerloc. Hesigheddeeply. Hedarednotmove. AndMrsVerlocwaited in silence the good pleasure of her saviour, deriving comfortfromhisreflectivesilence.
Suddenlyhe spokeup inanalmostnaturalvoice. His reflectionshadcome toanend.
“Let’sgetout,orwewilllosethetrain.”
“Wherearewegoingto,Tom?”sheaskedtimidly.MrsVerlocwasnolongerafreewoman.
“Let’sget toParisfirst, thebestwaywecan. . . .Gooutfirst,andseeif theway’sclear.”
Sheobeyed.Hervoicecamesubduedthroughthecautiouslyopeneddoor.
“It’sallright.”
Ossipon cameout. Notwithstandinghis endeavours to begentle, the crackedbellclatteredbehindthecloseddoorintheemptyshop,asiftryinginvaintowarnthereposingMrVerlocofthefinaldepartureofhiswife—accompaniedbyhisfriend.
Inthehansomtheypresentlypickedup,therobustanarchistbecameexplanatory.Hewasstillawfullypale,witheyesthatseemedtohavesunkawholehalf-inchintohistenseface.Butheseemedtohavethoughtofeverythingwithextraordinarymethod.
“Whenwearrive,”hediscoursedinaqueer,monotonoustone,“youmustgointothestationaheadofme,asifwedidnotknoweachother.Iwilltakethetickets,andslip in yours into your hand as I pass you. Then youwill go into the first-classladies’waiting-room,andsittheretilltenminutesbeforethetrainstarts.Thenyoucomeout.Iwillbeoutside.Yougoinfirstontheplatform,asifyoudidnotknowme.Theremaybeeyeswatchingtherethatknowwhat’swhat.Aloneyouareonlyawomangoingoffbytrain. Iamknown. Withme,youmaybeguessedatasMrsVerlocrunningaway.Doyouunderstand,mydear?”headded,withaneffort.
“Yes,” saidMrsVerloc, sitting there against him in the hansomall rigidwith thedreadofthegallowsandthefearofdeath.“Yes,Tom.”Andsheaddedtoherself,likeanawfulrefrain:“Thedropgivenwasfourteenfeet.”
Ossipon,notlookingather,andwithafacelikeafreshplastercastofhimselfafter
awastingillness,said:“By-the-by,Ioughttohavethemoneyfortheticketsnow.”
MrsVerloc, undoing somehooksof her bodice,while shewenton staring aheadbeyond the splashboard, handed over to him the new pigskin pocket-book. Hereceiveditwithoutaword,andseemedtoplungeitdeepsomewhereintohisverybreast.Thenheslappedhiscoatontheoutside.
Allthiswasdonewithouttheexchangeofasingleglance;theywereliketwopeoplelookingoutfor thefirstsightofadesiredgoal. Itwasnot till thehansomswungroundacornerandtowardsthebridgethatOssiponopenedhislipsagain.
“Doyouknowhowmuchmoneythereisinthatthing?”heasked,asifaddressingslowlysomehobgoblinsittingbetweentheearsofthehorse.
“No,”saidMrsVerloc.“Hegaveittome.Ididn’tcount.Ithoughtnothingofitatthetime.Afterwards—”
Shemovedherrighthandalittle.Itwassoexpressivethatlittlemovementofthatright handwhichhad struck thedeadlyblow into aman’sheart less than anhourbeforethatOssiponcouldnotrepressashudder.Heexaggerateditthenpurposely,andmuttered:
“Iamcold.Igotchilledthrough.”
MrsVerloc lookedstraightaheadat theperspectiveofherescape. Nowand then,likeasablestreamerblownacrossaroad,thewords“Thedropgivenwasfourteenfeet”gotinthewayofhertensestare.Throughherblackveilthewhitesofherbigeyesgleamedlustrouslyliketheeyesofamaskedwoman.
Ossipon’srigidityhadsomethingbusiness-like,aqueerofficialexpression.Hewasheardagainallofasudden,asthoughhehadreleasedacatchinordertospeak.
“Lookhere!Doyouknowwhetheryour—whetherhekepthisaccountatthebankinhisownnameorinsomeothername.”
MrsVerlocturneduponhimhermaskedfaceandthebigwhitegleamofhereyes.
“Othername?”shesaidthoughtfully.
“Be exact inwhat you say,”Ossipon lectured in the swiftmotionof the hansom.“It’sextremelyimportant.Iwillexplaintoyou.Thebankhasthenumbersofthesenotes.Iftheywerepaidtohiminhisownname,thenwhenhis—hisdeathbecomesknown,thenotesmayservetotrackussincewehavenoothermoney.Youhavenoothermoneyonyou?”
Sheshookherheadnegatively.
“Nonewhatever?”heinsisted.
“Afewcoppers.”
“It would be dangerous in that case. The money would have then to be dealtspeciallywith.Veryspecially.We’dhaveperhapstolosemorethanhalftheamountinordertogetthesenoteschangedinacertainsafeplaceIknowofinParis.IntheothercaseImeanifhehadhisaccountandgotpaidoutundersomeothername—saySmith,forinstance—themoneyisperfectlysafetouse.Youunderstand?ThebankhasnomeansofknowingthatMrVerlocand,say,Smithareoneandthesameperson. Do you see how important it is that you should make no mistake inansweringme?Canyouanswerthatqueryatall?Perhapsnot.Eh?”
Shesaidcomposedly:
“Iremembernow!Hedidn’tbankinhisownname.HetoldmeoncethatitwasondepositinthenameofProzor.”
“Youaresure?”
“Certain.”
“Youdon’tthinkthebankhadanyknowledgeofhisrealname?Oranybodyinthebankor—”
Sheshruggedhershoulders.
“HowcanIknow?Isitlikely,Tom?
“No. Isupposeit’snot likely. Itwouldhavebeenmorecomfortabletoknow. . . .Hereweare.Getoutfirst,andwalkstraightin.Movesmartly.”
He remained behind, and paid the cabman out of his own loose silver. Theprogrammetracedbyhisminuteforesightwascarriedout.WhenMrsVerloc,withher ticket for St Malo in her hand, entered the ladies’ waiting-room, ComradeOssipon walked into the bar, and in seven minutes absorbed three goes of hotbrandyandwater.
“Tryingtodriveoutacold,”heexplainedtothebarmaid,withafriendlynodandagrimacing smile. Then he came out, bringing out from that festive interlude thefaceofamanwhohaddrunkattheveryFountainofSorrow.Heraisedhiseyestotheclock.Itwastime.Hewaited.
Punctual, Mrs Verloc came out, with her veil down, and all black—black ascommonplacedeathitself,crownedwithafewcheapandpaleflowers.Shepassedclose toa littlegroupofmenwhowere laughing,butwhose laughter couldhavebeen struck dead by a single word. Her walk was indolent, but her back was
straight, and Comrade Ossipon looked after it in terror before making a starthimself.
Thetrainwasdrawnup,withhardlyanybodyaboutitsrowofopendoors.Owingto the time of the year and to the abominable weather there were hardly anypassengers. MrsVerlocwalked slowlyalong the lineof emptycompartments tillOssipontouchedherelbowfrombehind.
“Inhere.”
Shegotin,andheremainedontheplatformlookingabout.Shebentforward,andinawhisper:
“Whatisit,Tom?Isthereanydanger?Waitamoment.There’stheguard.”
She sawhimaccost theman inuniform. They talked for awhile. Sheheard theguardsay“Verywell, sir,”andsawhimtouchhiscap. ThenOssiponcameback,saying:“Itoldhimnottoletanybodygetintoourcompartment.”
Shewasleaningforwardonherseat. “Youthinkofeverything.. . .You’llgetmeoff,Tom?”sheaskedinagustofanguish,liftingherveilbrusquelytolookathersaviour.
Shehaduncoveredafacelikeadamant.Andoutofthisfacetheeyeslookedon,big,dry,enlarged,lightless,burntoutliketwoblackholesinthewhite,shiningglobes.
“There is no danger,” he said, gazing into themwith an earnestness almost rapt,which to Mrs Verloc, flying from the gallows, seemed to be full of force andtenderness.Thisdevotiondeeplymovedher—andtheadamantinefacelostthesternrigidity of its terror. ComradeOssipongazed at it as no lover ever gazed at hismistress’s face. AlexanderOssipon, anarchist,nicknamed theDoctor, authorof amedical(andimproper)pamphlet, late lectureronthesocialaspectsofhygienetoworkingmen’sclubs,wasfreefromthetrammelsofconventionalmorality—buthesubmittedtotheruleofscience.Hewasscientific,andhegazedscientificallyatthatwoman,thesisterofadegenerate,adegenerateherself—ofamurderingtype. Hegazedather,andinvokedLombroso,asanItalianpeasantrecommendshimself tohisfavouritesaint.Hegazedscientifically.Hegazedathercheeks,athernose,ather eyes, at her ears. . . .Bad! . . . Fatal! MrsVerloc’s pale lips parting, slightlyrelaxedunderhispassionatelyattentivegaze,hegazedalsoather teeth. . . .Notadoubtremained...amurderingtype....IfComradeOssipondidnotrecommendhisterrifiedsoultoLombroso,itwasonlybecauseonscientificgroundshecouldnotbelievethathecarriedabouthimsuchathingasasoul.Buthehadinhimthescientificspirit,whichmovedhimtotestifyontheplatformofarailwaystationinnervousjerkyphrases.
“Hewasanextraordinary lad, thatbrotherofyours. Most interesting tostudy. Aperfecttypeinaway.Perfect!”
Hespokescientificallyinhissecretfear.AndMrsVerloc,hearingthesewordsofcommendationvouchsafed toher beloveddead, swayed forwardwith a flicker oflightinhersombreeyes,likearayofsunshineheraldingatempestofrain.
“Hewasthatindeed,”shewhisperedsoftly,withquiveringlips.“Youtookalotofnoticeofhim,Tom.Ilovedyouforit.”
“It’s almost incredible the resemblance there was between you two,” pursuedOssipon, giving a voice to his abiding dread, and trying to conceal his nervous,sickeningimpatienceforthetraintostart.“Yes;heresembledyou.”
These words were not especially touching or sympathetic. But the fact of thatresemblance insisted upon was enough in itself to act upon her emotionspowerfully.Withalittlefaintcry,andthrowingherarmsout,MrsVerlocburstintotearsatlast.
Ossiponenteredthecarriage,hastilyclosedthedoorandlookedouttoseethetimeby thestationclock. Eightminutesmore. For the first threeof theseMrsVerlocwept violently and helplessly without pause or interruption. Then she recoveredsomewhat,andsobbedgently inanabundant fallof tears. She tried to talk tohersaviour,tothemanwhowasthemessengeroflife.
“Oh,Tom!HowcouldIfeartodieafterhewastakenawayfrommesocruelly!HowcouldI!HowcouldIbesuchacoward!”
She lamented aloudher loveof life, that lifewithout graceor charm, and almostwithoutdecency,butofanexaltedfaithfulnessofpurpose,evenuntomurder.And,asoftenhappens in the lamentofpoorhumanity, rich in sufferingbut indigent inwords, the truth—thevery cryof truth—was found in aworn and artificial shapepickedupsomewhereamongthephrasesofshamsentiment.
“HowcouldIbesoafraidofdeath!Tom,Itried.ButIamafraid.Itriedtodoawaywithmyself.AndIcouldn’t.AmIhard?Isupposethecupofhorrorswasnotfullenoughforsuchasme.Thenwhenyoucame....”
Shepaused.Theninagustofconfidenceandgratitude,“Iwillliveallmydaysforyou,Tom!”shesobbedout.
“Go over into the other corner of the carriage, away from the platform,” saidOssiponsolicitously.Shelethersavioursettlehercomfortably,andhewatchedthecoming on of another crisis of weeping, still more violent than the first. Hewatchedthesymptomswithasortofmedicalair,asifcountingseconds.Heheard
the guard’swhistle at last. An involuntary contraction of the upper lip bared histeethwithalltheaspectofsavageresolutionashefeltthetrainbeginningtomove.MrsVerlocheardandfeltnothing,andOssipon,hersaviour,stoodstill.Hefeltthetrainrollquicker,rumblingheavilytothesoundofthewoman’sloudsobs,andthencrossingthecarriageintwolongstridesheopenedthedoordeliberately,andleapedout.
Hehadleapedoutattheveryendoftheplatform;andsuchwashisdeterminationinsticking to his desperate plan that he managed by a sort of miracle, performedalmostintheair,toslamtothedoorofthecarriage.Onlythendidhefindhimselfrollingheadoverheelslikeashotrabbit.Hewasbruised,shaken,paleasdeath,andout of breath when he got up. But he was calm, and perfectly able to meet theexcited crowd of railway men who had gathered round him in a moment. Heexplained, ingentle and convincing tones, that hiswifehad started at amoment’snoticeforBrittanytoherdyingmother;that,ofcourse,shewasgreatlyup-set,andheconsiderablyconcernedatherstate;thathewastryingtocheerherup,andhadabsolutely failed to notice at first that the trainwasmoving out. To the generalexclamation, “Why didn’t you go on to Southampton, then, sir?” he objected theinexperience of a young sister-in-law left alone in the house with three smallchildren,andheralarmathisabsence, thetelegraphofficesbeingclosed. Hehadactedonimpulse.“ButIdon’tthinkI’llevertrythatagain,”heconcluded;smiledall round; distributed some small change, andmarchedwithout a limp out of thestation.
Outside, Comrade Ossipon, flush of safe banknotes as never before in his life,refusedtheofferofacab.
“Icanwalk,”hesaid,withalittlefriendlylaughtothecivildriver.
He could walk. He walked. He crossed the bridge. Later on the towers of theAbbeysawintheirmassiveimmobilitytheyellowbushofhishairpassingunderthelamps.ThelightsofVictoriasawhimtoo,andSloaneSquare,andtherailingsofthepark.AndComradeOssipononcemorefoundhimselfonabridge.Theriver,asinister marvel of still shadows and flowing gleams mingling below in a blacksilence,arrestedhisattention.Hestoodlookingovertheparapetforalongtime.Theclocktowerboomedabrazenblastabovehisdroopinghead.Helookedupatthedial....Half-pasttwelveofawildnightintheChannel.
AndagainComradeOssiponwalked.Hisrobustformwasseenthatnightindistantparts of the enormous town slumberingmonstrously on a carpet ofmud under aveil of raw mist. It was seen crossing the streets without life and sound, ordiminishingintheinterminablestraightperspectivesofshadowyhousesborderingemptyroadwayslinedbystringsofgaslamps.HewalkedthroughSquares,Places,
Ovals,Commons,throughmonotonousstreetswithunknownnameswherethedustofhumanity settles inert andhopelessoutof the streamof life. Hewalked. Andsuddenly turning into a strip of a front garden with a mangy grass plot, he lethimselfintoasmallgrimyhousewithalatch-keyhetookoutofhispocket.
Hethrewhimselfdownonhisbedalldressed,andlaystillforawholequarterofanhour. Thenhesatupsuddenly,drawinguphisknees,andclaspinghis legs. Thefirstdawnfoundhimopen-eyed,inthatsameposture.Thismanwhocouldwalksolong, so far, so aimlessly, without showing a sign of fatigue, could also remainsittingstillforhourswithoutstirringalimboraneyelid.Butwhenthelatesunsentitsraysintotheroomheunclaspedhishands,andfellbackonthepillow.Hiseyesstared at the ceiling. And suddenly they closed. Comrade Ossipon slept in thesunlight.
CHAPTERXIII
Theenormousironpadlockonthedoorsofthewallcupboardwastheonlyobjectintheroomonwhichtheeyecouldrestwithoutbecomingafflictedbythemiserableunloveliness of forms and the poverty of material. Unsaleable in the ordinarycourse of business on account of its noble proportions, it had been ceded to theProfessorforafewpencebyamarinedealerintheeastofLondon.Theroomwaslarge, clean, respectable, and poor with that poverty suggesting the starvation ofeveryhumanneedexceptmerebread.Therewasnothingonthewallsbutthepaper,an expanse of arsenical green, soiledwith indelible smudges here and there, andwithstainsresemblingfadedmapsofuninhabitedcontinents.
AtadealtablenearawindowsatComradeOssipon,holdinghisheadbetweenhisfists.TheProfessor,dressedinhisonlysuitofshoddytweeds,butflappingtoandfroonthebareboardsapairofincrediblydilapidatedslippers,hadthrusthishandsdeepintotheoverstrainedpocketsofhisjacket.HewasrelatingtohisrobustguestavisithehadlatelybeenpayingtotheApostleMichaelis.ThePerfectAnarchisthadevenbeenunbendingalittle.
“Thefellowdidn’tknowanythingofVerloc’sdeath.Ofcourse!Heneverlooksatthenewspapers.Theymakehimtoosad,hesays.Butnevermind.Iwalkedintohiscottage.Notasoulanywhere.Ihadtoshouthalf-a-dozentimesbeforeheansweredme.Ithoughthewasfastasleepyet,inbed.Butnotatall.Hehadbeenwritinghisbookforfourhoursalready.Hesatinthattinycageinalitterofmanuscript.Therewasahalf-eatenrawcarrotonthetablenearhim.Hisbreakfast.Helivesonadietofrawcarrotsandalittlemilknow.”
“Howdoeshelookonit?”askedComradeOssiponlistlessly.
“Angelic. . . . I picked up a handful of his pages from the floor. The poverty ofreasoningisastonishing.Hehasnologic.Hecan’tthinkconsecutively.Butthat’snothing. He has divided his biography into three parts, entitled—‘Faith, Hope,Charity.’ He iselaboratingnow the ideaofaworldplannedout likean immenseand nice hospital, with gardens and flowers, in which the strong are to devotethemselvestothenursingoftheweak.”
TheProfessorpaused.
“Conceiveyouthisfolly,Ossipon?Theweak!Thesourceofallevilonthisearth!”he continuedwith his grim assurance. “I told him that I dreamt of a world likeshambles,wheretheweakwouldbetakeninhandforutterextermination.”
“Do you understand, Ossipon? The source of all evil! They are our sinistermasters—the weak, the flabby, the silly, the cowardly, the faint of heart, and theslavishofmind.Theyhavepower.Theyarethemultitude.Theirsisthekingdomof the earth. Exterminate, exterminate! That is the onlyway of progress. It is!Followme,Ossipon. First thegreatmultitudeof theweakmustgo, then theonlyrelativelystrong.Yousee?Firsttheblind,thenthedeafandthedumb,thenthehaltandthelame—andsoon.Everytaint,everyvice,everyprejudice,everyconventionmustmeetitsdoom.”
“Andwhatremains?”askedOssiponinastifledvoice.
“Iremain—ifIamstrongenough,”assertedthesallowlittleProfessor,whoselargeears,thinlikemembranes,andstandingfaroutfromthesidesofhisfrailskull,tookonsuddenlyadeepredtint.
“Haven’t I suffered enough from this oppression of the weak?” he continuedforcibly.Thentappingthebreast-pocketofhisjacket:“AndyetIamtheforce,”hewenton.“Butthetime!Thetime!Givemetime!Ah!thatmultitude,toostupidtofeel either pity or fear. Sometimes I think they have everything on their side.Everything—evendeath—myownweapon.”
“ComeanddrinksomebeerwithmeattheSilenus,”saidtherobustOssiponafteranintervalofsilencepervadedbytherapidflap,flapoftheslippersonthefeetofthePerfectAnarchist. This last accepted. Hewas jovial thatday inhisownpeculiarway.HeslappedOssipon’sshoulder.
“Beer!Sobeit!Letusdrinkandhemerry,forwearestrong,andto-morrowwedie.”
He busied himself with putting on his boots, and talked meanwhile in his curt,resolutetones.
“What’sthematterwithyou,Ossipon?Youlookglumandseekevenmycompany.I hear that you are seen constantly in placeswheremen utter foolish things overglassesofliquor.Why?Haveyouabandonedyourcollectionofwomen?Theyaretheweakwhofeedthestrong—eh?”
He stamped one foot, and picked up his other laced boot, heavy, thick-soled,unblacked,mendedmanytimes.Hesmiledtohimselfgrimly.
“Tellme,Ossipon,terribleman,haseveroneofyourvictimskilledherselfforyou—or are your triumphs so far incomplete—for blood alone puts a seal ongreatness?Blood.Death.Lookathistory.”
“Youbedamned,”saidOssipon,withoutturninghishead.
“Why?Letthatbethehopeoftheweak,whosetheologyhasinventedhellforthestrong.Ossipon,myfeelingforyouisamicablecontempt.Youcouldn’tkillafly.”
ButrollingtothefeastonthetopoftheomnibustheProfessorlosthishighspirits.The contemplation of the multitudes thronging the pavements extinguished hisassuranceunderaloadofdoubtanduneasinesswhichhecouldonlyshakeoffafteraperiodofseclusionintheroomwiththelargecupboardclosedbyanenormouspadlock.
“And so,” said over his shoulderComradeOssipon,who sat on the seat behind.“AndsoMichaelisdreamsofaworldlikeabeautifulandcheeryhospital.”
“Justso.Animmensecharityforthehealingoftheweak,”assentedtheProfessorsardonically.
“That’ssilly,”admittedOssipon.“Youcan’thealweakness.ButafterallMichaelismaynotbesofarwrong.Intwohundredyearsdoctorswillruletheworld.Sciencereignsalready. It reigns in theshademaybe—but it reigns. Andall sciencemustculminateat last in thescienceofhealing—not theweak,but thestrong. Mankindwantstolive—tolive.”
“Mankind,”asserted theProfessorwithaself-confidentglitterofhis iron-rimmedspectacles,“doesnotknowwhatitwants.”
“But you do,” growledOssipon. “Just now you’ve been crying for time—time.Well. The doctorswill serve you out your time—if you are good. You professyourselftobeoneofthestrong—becauseyoucarryinyourpocketenoughstufftosendyourselfand,say, twentyotherpeople intoeternity. Buteternity isadamnedhole. It’s time that you need. You—if you met a man who could give you forcertaintenyearsoftime,youwouldcallhimyourmaster.”
“Mydeviceis:NoGod!NoMaster,”saidtheProfessorsententiouslyasherosetogetoffthe’bus.
Ossipon followed. “Wait till you are lying flat on your back at the end of yourtime,”heretorted,jumpingoffthefootboardaftertheother.“Yourscurvy,shabby,mangy little bit of time,” he continued across the street, and hopping on to thecurbstone.
“Ossipon,I think thatyouareahumbug,” theProfessorsaid,openingmasterfully
thedoorsoftherenownedSilenus.Andwhentheyhadestablishedthemselvesatalittletablehedevelopedfurtherthisgraciousthought.“Youarenotevenadoctor.Butyouarefunny.Yournotionofahumanityuniversallyputtingoutthetongueandtakingthepillfrompoletopoleatthebiddingofafewsolemnjokersisworthyoftheprophet.Prophecy!What’sthegoodofthinkingofwhatwillbe!”Heraisedhisglass.“Tothedestructionofwhatis,”hesaidcalmly.
Hedrankandrelapsedintohispeculiarlyclosemannerofsilence.Thethoughtofamankindasnumerousasthesandsofthesea-shore,asindestructible,asdifficulttohandle,oppressedhim.Thesoundofexplodingbombswaslostintheirimmensityofpassivegrainswithoutanecho.Forinstance,thisVerlocaffair.Whothoughtofitnow?
Ossipon,asifsuddenlycompelledbysomemysteriousforce,pulledamuch-foldednewspaperoutofhispocket.TheProfessorraisedhisheadattherustle.
“What’sthatpaper?Anythinginit?”heasked.
Ossiponstartedlikeascaredsomnambulist.
“Nothing.Nothingwhatever.Thething’stendaysold.Iforgotitinmypocket,Isuppose.”
Buthedidnotthrowtheoldthingaway.Beforereturningittohispockethestoleaglance at the last lines of a paragraph. They ran thus: “An impenetrablemysteryseemsdestinedtohangforeveroverthisactofmadnessordespair.”
Suchwere theendwordsof an itemofnewsheaded: “SuicideofLadyPassengerfromacross-ChannelBoat.”ComradeOssiponwasfamiliarwiththebeautiesofitsjournalisticstyle.“Animpenetrablemysteryseemsdestinedtohangforever....”Hekneweverywordbyheart.“Animpenetrablemystery....”
Andtherobustanarchist,hanginghisheadonhisbreast,fellintoalongreverie.
Hewasmenacedby this thing in thevery sourcesof his existence. He couldnotissue forth to meet his various conquests, those that he courted on benches inKensington Gardens, and those he met near area railings, without the dread ofbeginningtotalktothemofanimpenetrablemysterydestined....Hewasbecomingscientificallyafraidofinsanitylyinginwaitforhimamongsttheselines.“Tohangforeverover.”Itwasanobsession,atorture.Hehadlatelyfailedtokeepseveraloftheseappointments,whosenoteusedtobeanunboundedtrustfulnessinthelanguageofsentimentandmanlytenderness.Theconfidingdispositionofvariousclassesofwomen satisfied the needs of his self-love, and put somematerialmeans into hishand.Heneededittolive.Itwasthere.Butifhecouldnolongermakeuseofit,herantheriskofstarvinghisidealsandhisbody...“Thisactofmadnessordespair.”
“Animpenetrablemystery”wassure“tohangforever”asfarasallmankindwasconcerned.Butwhatofthatifhealoneofallmencouldnevergetridofthecursedknowledge? AndComradeOssipon’sknowledgewasaspreciseas thenewspapermancouldmake it—up to thevery thresholdof the“mysterydestined tohang forever....”
Comrade Ossipon was well informed. He knew what the gangway man of thesteamerhadseen:“Aladyinablackdressandablackveil,wanderingatmidnightalongside, on the quay. ‘Are you going by the boat, ma’am,’ he had asked herencouragingly.‘Thisway.’Sheseemednottoknowwhattodo.Hehelpedheronboard.Sheseemedweak.”
Andheknewalsowhat thestewardesshadseen:A lady inblackwithawhite facestandinginthemiddleoftheemptyladies’cabin.Thestewardessinducedhertoliedownthere.Theladyseemedquiteunwillingtospeak,andasifshewereinsomeawfultrouble.Thenextthestewardessknewshewasgonefromtheladies’cabin.The stewardess then went on deck to look for her, and Comrade Ossipon wasinformed that the goodwoman found the unhappy lady lying down in one of thehoodedseats.Hereyeswereopen,butshewouldnotansweranythingthatwassaidtoher.Sheseemedveryill.Thestewardessfetchedthechiefsteward,andthosetwopeoplestoodbythesideofthehoodedseatconsultingovertheirextraordinaryandtragicpassenger.Theytalkedinaudiblewhispers(forsheseemedpasthearing)ofStMaloandtheConsulthere,ofcommunicatingwithherpeopleinEngland.Thentheywent away to arrange for her removal downbelow, for indeedbywhat theycouldseeofherfacesheseemedtothemtobedying.ButComradeOssiponknewthat behind that white mask of despair there was struggling against terror anddespairavigourofvitality,aloveoflifethatcouldresistthefuriousanguishwhichdrivestomurderandthefear,theblind,madfearofthegallows.Heknew.Butthestewardessandthechiefstewardknewnothing,exceptthatwhentheycamebackforherinlessthanfiveminutestheladyinblackwasnolongerinthehoodedseat.Shewasnowhere.Shewasgone.Itwasthenfiveo’clockinthemorning,anditwasnoaccident either. An hour afterwards one of the steamer ’s hands found aweddingring left lyingon theseat. Ithadstuck to thewood inabitofwet, and itsglittercaught the man’s eye. There was a date, 24th June 1879, engraved inside. “Animpenetrablemysteryisdestinedtohangforever....”
AndComradeOssiponraisedhisbowedhead,belovedofvarioushumblewomenoftheseisles,Apollo-likeinthesunninessofitsbushofhair.
TheProfessorhadgrownrestlessmeantime.Herose.
“Stay,”saidOssiponhurriedly.“Here,whatdoyouknowofmadnessanddespair?”
TheProfessorpassedthetipofhistongueonhisdry,thinlips,andsaiddoctorally:
“Therearenosuchthings.Allpassionislostnow.Theworldismediocre,limp,withoutforce. Andmadnessanddespairarea force. Andforce isacrimein theeyes of the fools, theweak and the sillywho rule the roost. You aremediocre.Verloc,whoseaffair thepolicehasmanaged tosmothersonicely,wasmediocre.Andthepolicemurderedhim.Hewasmediocre.Everybodyismediocre.Madnessanddespair!Givemethatforalever,andI’llmovetheworld.Ossipon,youhavemy cordial scorn. You are incapable of conceiving evenwhat the fat-fed citizenwouldcallacrime.Youhavenoforce.”Hepaused,smilingsardonicallyunderthefierceglitterofhisthickglasses.
“And let me tell you that this little legacy they say you’ve come into has notimprovedyourintelligence.Yousitatyourbeerlikeadummy.Good-bye.”
“Willyouhaveit?”saidOssipon,lookingupwithanidioticgrin.
“Havewhat?”
“Thelegacy.Allofit.”
TheincorruptibleProfessoronlysmiled.Hisclotheswereallbutfallingoffhim,hisboots,shapelesswithrepairs,heavylikelead,letwaterinateverystep.Hesaid:
“Iwillsendyouby-and-byasmallbillforcertainchemicalswhichIshallorderto-morrow.Ineedthembadly.Understood—eh?”
Ossiponloweredhisheadslowly.Hewasalone.“Animpenetrablemystery....”Itseemedtohimthatsuspendedintheairbeforehimhesawhisownbrainpulsatingtotherhythmofanimpenetrablemystery.Itwasdiseasedclearly....“Thisactofmadnessordespair.”
Themechanicalpianonearthedoorplayedthroughavalsecheekily,thenfellsilentallatonce,asifgonegrumpy.
ComradeOssipon,nicknamedtheDoctor,wentoutoftheSilenusbeer-hall.Atthedoor he hesitated, blinking at a not too splendid sunlight—and the paperwith thereportofthesuicideofaladywasinhispocket. Hisheartwasbeatingagainstit.Thesuicideofalady—thisactofmadnessordespair.
Hewalkedalongthestreetwithoutlookingwhereheputhisfeet;andhewalkedinadirectionwhichwouldnotbringhimtotheplaceofappointmentwithanotherlady(anelderlynurserygovernessputtinghertrustinanApollo-likeambrosialhead).Hewaswalking away from it. He could face nowoman. Itwas ruin. He couldneither think,work, sleep, nor eat. But hewas beginning to drinkwith pleasure,withanticipation,withhope.Itwasruin.Hisrevolutionarycareer,sustainedbythe
sentiment and trustfulness of many women, was menaced by an impenetrablemystery—the mystery of a human brain pulsating wrongfully to the rhythm ofjournalistic phrases. “ . . .Will hang for ever over this act. . . . It was incliningtowardsthegutter...ofmadnessordespair.”
“I am seriously ill,” he muttered to himself with scientific insight. Already hisrobustform,withanEmbassy’ssecret-servicemoney(inheritedfromMrVerloc)inhispockets,wasmarchinginthegutterasifintrainingforthetaskofaninevitablefuture. Alreadyhebowedhisbroadshoulders,hisheadofambrosial locks, as ifreadytoreceivetheleatheryokeofthesandwichboard.Asonthatnight,morethanaweekago,ComradeOssiponwalkedwithoutlookingwhereheputhisfeet,feelingnofatigue,feelingnothing,seeingnothing,hearingnotasound.“Animpenetrablemystery....”Hewalkeddisregarded....“Thisactofmadnessordespair.”
And the incorruptible Professor walked too, averting his eyes from the odiousmultitude ofmankind. He had no future. He disdained it. Hewas a force. Histhoughtscaressedtheimagesofruinanddestruction.Hewalkedfrail,insignificant,shabby,miserable—and terrible in the simplicity of his idea callingmadness anddespair to the regeneration of theworld. Nobody looked at him. He passed onunsuspectedanddeadly,likeapestinthestreetfullofmen.
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TableofContentstheSECRETAGENTasimpletaleCHAPTERICHAPTERIICHAPTERIIICHAPTERIVCHAPTERVCHAPTERVICHAPTERVIICHAPTERVIIICHAPTERIXCHAPTERXCHAPTERXICHAPTERXIICHAPTERXIII
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