Complete Works of Joseph Conrad (Illustrated) (330 page)

“I would have taken him by the throat.  As true as I stand here, if I hadn’t thought of you then I would have half choked the life out of the brute before I let him get up.  And don’t you think he would have been anxious to call the police either.  He wouldn’t have dared.  You understand why — don’t you?”

He blinked at his wife knowingly.

“No,” said Mrs Verloc in an unresonant voice, and without looking at him at all.  “What are you talking about?”

A great discouragement, the result of fatigue, came upon Mr Verloc.  He had had a very full day, and his nerves had been tried to the utmost.  After a month of maddening worry, ending in an unexpected catastrophe, the storm-tossed spirit of Mr Verloc longed for repose.  His career as a secret agent had come to an end in a way no one could have foreseen; only, now, perhaps he could manage to get a night’s sleep at last.  But looking at his wife, he doubted it.  She was taking it very hard — not at all like herself, he thought.  He made an effort to speak.

“You’ll have to pull yourself together, my girl,” he said sympathetically.  “What’s done can’t be undone.”

Mrs Verloc gave a slight start, though not a muscle of her white face moved in the least.  Mr Verloc, who was not looking at her, continued ponderously.

“You go to bed now.  What you want is a good cry.”

This opinion had nothing to recommend it but the general consent of mankind.  It is universally understood that, as if it were nothing more substantial than vapour floating in the sky, every emotion of a woman is bound to end in a shower.  And it is very probable that had Stevie died in his bed under her despairing gaze, in her protecting arms, Mrs Verloc’s grief would have found relief in a flood of bitter and pure tears.  Mrs Verloc, in common with other human beings, was provided with a fund of unconscious resignation sufficient to meet the normal manifestation of human destiny.  Without “troubling her head about it,” she was aware that it “did not stand looking into very much.”  But the lamentable circumstances of Stevie’s end, which to Mr Verloc’s mind had only an episodic character, as part of a greater disaster, dried her tears at their very source.  It was the effect of a white-hot iron drawn across her eyes; at the same time her heart, hardened and chilled into a lump of ice, kept her body in an inward shudder, set her features into a frozen contemplative immobility addressed to a whitewashed wall with no writing on it.  The exigencies of Mrs Verloc’s temperament, which, when stripped of its philosophical reserve, was maternal and violent, forced her to roll a series of thoughts in her motionless head.  These thoughts were rather imagined than expressed.  Mrs Verloc was a woman of singularly few words, either for public or private use.  With the rage and dismay of a betrayed woman, she reviewed the tenor of her life in visions concerned mostly with Stevie’s difficult existence from its earliest days.  It was a life of single purpose and of a noble unity of inspiration, like those rare lives that have left their mark on the thoughts and feelings of mankind.  But the visions of Mrs Verloc lacked nobility and magnificence.  She saw herself putting the boy to bed by the light of a single candle on the deserted top floor of a “business house,” dark under the roof and scintillating exceedingly with lights and cut glass at the level of the street like a fairy palace.  That meretricious splendour was the only one to be met in Mrs Verloc’s visions.  She remembered brushing the boy’s hair and tying his pinafores — herself in a pinafore still; the consolations administered to a small and badly scared creature by another creature nearly as small but not quite so badly scared; she had the vision of the blows intercepted (often with her own head), of a door held desperately shut against a man’s rage (not for very long); of a poker flung once (not very far), which stilled that particular storm into the dumb and awful silence which follows a thunder-clap.  And all these scenes of violence came and went accompanied by the unrefined noise of deep vociferations proceeding from a man wounded in his paternal pride, declaring himself obviously accursed since one of his kids was a “slobbering idjut and the other a wicked she-devil.”  It was of her that this had been said many years ago.

Mrs Verloc heard the words again in a ghostly fashion, and then the dreary shadow of the Belgravian mansion descended upon her shoulders.  It was a crushing memory, an exhausting vision of countless breakfast trays carried up and down innumerable stairs, of endless haggling over pence, of the endless drudgery of sweeping, dusting, cleaning, from basement to attics; while the impotent mother, staggering on swollen legs, cooked in a grimy kitchen, and poor Stevie, the unconscious presiding genius of all their toil, blacked the gentlemen’s boots in the scullery.  But this vision had a breath of a hot London summer in it, and for a central figure a young man wearing his Sunday best, with a straw hat on his dark head and a wooden pipe in his mouth.  Affectionate and jolly, he was a fascinating companion for a voyage down the sparkling stream of life; only his boat was very small.  There was room in it for a girl-partner at the oar, but no accommodation for passengers.  He was allowed to drift away from the threshold of the Belgravian mansion while Winnie averted her tearful eyes.  He was not a lodger.  The lodger was Mr Verloc, indolent, and keeping late hours, sleepily jocular of a morning from under his bed-clothes, but with gleams of infatuation in his heavy lidded eyes, and always with some money in his pockets.  There was no sparkle of any kind on the lazy stream of his life.  It flowed through secret places.  But his barque seemed a roomy craft, and his taciturn magnanimity accepted as a matter of course the presence of passengers.

Mrs Verloc pursued the visions of seven years’ security for Stevie, loyally paid for on her part; of security growing into confidence, into a domestic feeling, stagnant and deep like a placid pool, whose guarded surface hardly shuddered on the occasional passage of Comrade Ossipon, the robust anarchist with shamelessly inviting eyes, whose glance had a corrupt clearness sufficient to enlighten any woman not absolutely imbecile.

A few seconds only had elapsed since the last word had been uttered aloud in the kitchen, and Mrs Verloc was staring already at the vision of an episode not more than a fortnight old.  With eyes whose pupils were extremely dilated she stared at the vision of her husband and poor Stevie walking up Brett Street side by side away from the shop.  It was the last scene of an existence created by Mrs Verloc’s genius; an existence foreign to all grace and charm, without beauty and almost without decency, but admirable in the continuity of feeling and tenacity of purpose.  And this last vision has such plastic relief, such nearness of form, such a fidelity of suggestive detail, that it wrung from Mrs Verloc an anguished and faint murmur, reproducing the supreme illusion of her life, an appalled murmur that died out on her blanched lips.

“Might have been father and son.”

Mr Verloc stopped, and raised a care-worn face.  “Eh?  What did you say?” he asked.  Receiving no reply, he resumed his sinister tramping.  Then with a menacing flourish of a thick, fleshy fist, he burst out:

“Yes.  The Embassy people.  A pretty lot, ain’t they!  Before a week’s out I’ll make some of them wish themselves twenty feet underground.  Eh?  What?”

He glanced sideways, with his head down.  Mrs Verloc gazed at the whitewashed wall.  A blank wall — perfectly blank.  A blankness to run at and dash your head against.  Mrs Verloc remained immovably seated.  She kept still as the population of half the globe would keep still in astonishment and despair, were the sun suddenly put out in the summer sky by the perfidy of a trusted providence.

“The Embassy,” Mr Verloc began again, after a preliminary grimace which bared his teeth wolfishly.  “I wish I could get loose in there with a cudgel for half-an-hour.  I would keep on hitting till there wasn’t a single unbroken bone left amongst the whole lot.  But never mind, I’ll teach them yet what it means trying to throw out a man like me to rot in the streets.  I’ve a tongue in my head.  All the world shall know what I’ve done for them.  I am not afraid.  I don’t care.  Everything’ll come out.  Every damned thing.  Let them look out!”

In these terms did Mr Verloc declare his thirst for revenge.  It was a very appropriate revenge.  It was in harmony with the promptings of Mr Verloc’s genius.  It had also the advantage of being within the range of his powers and of adjusting itself easily to the practice of his life, which had consisted precisely in betraying the secret and unlawful proceedings of his fellow-men.  Anarchists or diplomats were all one to him.  Mr Verloc was temperamentally no respecter of persons.  His scorn was equally distributed over the whole field of his operations.  But as a member of a revolutionary proletariat — which he undoubtedly was — he nourished a rather inimical sentiment against social distinction.

“Nothing on earth can stop me now,” he added, and paused, looking fixedly at his wife, who was looking fixedly at a blank wall.

The silence in the kitchen was prolonged, and Mr Verloc felt disappointed.  He had expected his wife to say something.  But Mrs Verloc’s lips, composed in their usual form, preserved a statuesque immobility like the rest of her face.  And Mr Verloc was disappointed.  Yet the occasion did not, he recognised, demand speech from her.  She was a woman of very few words.  For reasons involved in the very foundation of his psychology, Mr Verloc was inclined to put his trust in any woman who had given herself to him.  Therefore he trusted his wife.  Their accord was perfect, but it was not precise.  It was a tacit accord, congenial to Mrs Verloc’s incuriosity and to Mr Verloc’s habits of mind, which were indolent and secret.  They refrained from going to the bottom of facts and motives.

This reserve, expressing, in a way, their profound confidence in each other, introduced at the same time a certain element of vagueness into their intimacy.  No system of conjugal relations is perfect.  Mr Verloc presumed that his wife had understood him, but he would have been glad to hear her say what she thought at the moment.  It would have been a comfort.

There were several reasons why this comfort was denied him.  There was a physical obstacle: Mrs Verloc had no sufficient command over her voice.  She did not see any alternative between screaming and silence, and instinctively she chose the silence.  Winnie Verloc was temperamentally a silent person.  And there was the paralysing atrocity of the thought which occupied her.  Her cheeks were blanched, her lips ashy, her immobility amazing.  And she thought without looking at Mr Verloc: “This man took the boy away to murder him.  He took the boy away from his home to murder him.  He took the boy away from me to murder him!”

Mrs Verloc’s whole being was racked by that inconclusive and maddening thought.  It was in her veins, in her bones, in the roots of her hair.  Mentally she assumed the biblical attitude of mourning — the covered face, the rent garments; the sound of wailing and lamentation filled her head.  But her teeth were violently clenched, and her tearless eyes were hot with rage, because she was not a submissive creature.  The protection she had extended over her brother had been in its origin of a fierce an indignant complexion.  She had to love him with a militant love.  She had battled for him — even against herself.  His loss had the bitterness of defeat, with the anguish of a baffled passion.  It was not an ordinary stroke of death.  Moreover, it was not death that took Stevie from her.  It was Mr Verloc who took him away.  She had seen him.  She had watched him, without raising a hand, take the boy away.  And she had let him go, like — like a fool — a blind fool.  Then after he had murdered the boy he came home to her.  Just came home like any other man would come home to his wife. . . .

Through her set teeth Mrs Verloc muttered at the wall:

“And I thought he had caught a cold.”

Mr Verloc heard these words and appropriated them.

“It was nothing,” he said moodily.  “I was upset.  I was upset on your account.”

Mrs Verloc, turning her head slowly, transferred her stare from the wall to her husband’s person.  Mr Verloc, with the tips of his fingers between his lips, was looking on the ground.

“Can’t be helped,” he mumbled, letting his hand fall.  “You must pull yourself together.  You’ll want all your wits about you.  It is you who brought the police about our ears.  Never mind, I won’t say anything more about it,” continued Mr Verloc magnanimously.  “You couldn’t know.”

“I couldn’t,” breathed out Mrs Verloc.  It was as if a corpse had spoken.  Mr Verloc took up the thread of his discourse.

“I don’t blame you.  I’ll make them sit up.  Once under lock and key it will be safe enough for me to talk — you understand.  You must reckon on me being two years away from you,” he continued, in a tone of sincere concern.  “It will be easier for you than for me.  You’ll have something to do, while I — Look here, Winnie, what you must do is to keep this business going for two years.  You know enough for that.  You’ve a good head on you.  I’ll send you word when it’s time to go about trying to sell.  You’ll have to be extra careful.  The comrades will be keeping an eye on you all the time.  You’ll have to be as artful as you know how, and as close as the grave.  No one must know what you are going to do.  I have no mind to get a knock on the head or a stab in the back directly I am let out.”

Thus spoke Mr Verloc, applying his mind with ingenuity and forethought to the problems of the future.  His voice was sombre, because he had a correct sentiment of the situation.  Everything which he did not wish to pass had come to pass.  The future had become precarious.  His judgment, perhaps, had been momentarily obscured by his dread of Mr Vladimir’s truculent folly.  A man somewhat over forty may be excusably thrown into considerable disorder by the prospect of losing his employment, especially if the man is a secret agent of political police, dwelling secure in the consciousness of his high value and in the esteem of high personages.  He was excusable.

Now the thing had ended in a crash.  Mr Verloc was cool; but he was not cheerful.  A secret agent who throws his secrecy to the winds from desire of vengeance, and flaunts his achievements before the public eye, becomes the mark for desperate and bloodthirsty indignations.  Without unduly exaggerating the danger, Mr Verloc tried to bring it clearly before his wife’s mind.  He repeated that he had no intention to let the revolutionists do away with him.