The Secret Agent by Joseph Conrad

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 revolutionises do away with him.

He looked straight into his wife’s eyes. The enlarged pupils of

the woman received his stare into their unfathomable depths.

“I am too fond of you for that,” he said, with a little nervous

laugh.

A faint flush coloured Mrs Verloc’s ghastly and motionless face.

Having done with the visions of the past, she had not only heard,

but had also understood the words uttered by her husband. By their

extreme disaccord with her mental condition these words produced on

her a slightly suffocating effect. Mrs Verloc’s mental condition

had the merit of simplicity; but it was not sound. It was governed

too much by a fixed idea. Every nook and cranny of her brain was

filled with the thought that this man, with whom she had lived

without distaste for seven years, had taken the “poor boy” away

from her in order to kill him – the man to whom she had grown

accustomed in body and mind; the man whom she had trusted, took the

boy away to kill him! In its form, in its substance, in its

effect, which was universal, altering even the aspect of inanimate

things, it was a thought to sit still and marvel at for ever and

ever. Mrs Verloc sat still. And across that thought (not across

the kitchen) the form of Mr Verloc went to and fro, familiarly in

hat and overcoat, stamping with his boots upon her brain. He was

probably talking too; but Mrs Verloc’s thought for the most part

covered the voice.

Now and then, however, the voice would make itself heard. Several

connected words emerged at times. Their purport was generally

hopeful. On each of these occasions Mrs Verloc’s dilated pupils,

losing their far-off fixity, followed her husband’s movements with

the effect of black care and, impenetrable attention. Well

informed upon all matters relating to his secret calling, Mr Verloc

augured well for the success of his plans and combinations. He

really believed that it would be upon the whole easy for him to

escape the knife of infuriated revolutionists. He had exaggerated

the strength of their fury and the length of their arm (for

professional purposes) too often to have many illusions one way or

the other. For to exaggerate with judgment one must begin by

measuring with nicety. He knew also how much virtue and how much

infamy is forgotten in two years – two long years. His first

really confidential discourse to his wife was optimistic from

conviction. He also thought it good policy to display all the

assurance he could muster. It would put heart into the poor woman.

On his liberation, which, harmonising with the whole tenor of his

life, would be secret, of course, they would vanish together

without loss of time. As to covering up the tracks, he begged his

wife to trust him for that. He knew how it was to be done so that

the devil himself –

He waved his hand. He seemed to boast. He wished only to put

heart into her. It was a benevolent intention, but Mr Verloc had

the misfortune not to be in accord with his audience.

The self-confident tone grew upon Mrs Verloc’s ear which let most

of the words go by; for what were words to her now? What could

words do to her, for good or evil in the face of her fixed idea?

Her black glance followed that man who was asserting his impunity –

the man who had taken poor Stevie from home to kill him somewhere.

Mrs Verloc could not remember exactly where, but her heart began to

beat very perceptibly.

Mr Verloc, in a soft and conjugal tone, was now expressing his firm

belief that there were yet a good few years of quiet life before

them both. He did not go into the question of means. A quiet life

it must be and, as it were, nestling in the shade, concealed among

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