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,