huskily.
“It would be much more to the point to have them all under lock and
key. England must be brought into line. The imbecile bourgeoisie
of this country make themselves the accomplices of the very people
whose aim is to drive them out of their houses to starve in
ditches. And they have the political power still, if they only had
the sense to use it for their preservation. I suppose you agree
that the middle classes are stupid?”
Mr Verloc agreed hoarsely.
“They are.”
“They have no imagination. They are blinded by an idiotic vanity.
What they want just now is a jolly good scare. This is the
psychological moment to set your friends to work. I have had you
called here to develop to you my idea.”
And Mr Vladimir developed his idea from on high, with scorn and
condescension, displaying at the same time an amount of ignorance
as to the real aims, thoughts, and methods of the revolutionary
world which filled the silent Mr Verloc with inward consternation.
He confounded causes with effects more than was excusable; the most
distinguished propagandists with impulsive bomb throwers; assumed
organisation where in the nature of things it could not exist;
spoke of the social revolutionary party one moment as of a
perfectly disciplined army, where the word of chiefs was supreme,
and at another as if it had been the loosest association of
desperate brigands that ever camped in a mountain gorge. Once Mr
Verloc had opened his mouth for a protest, but the raising of a
shapely, large white hand arrested him. Very soon he became too
appalled to even try to protest. He listened in a stillness of
dread which resembled the immobility of profound attention.
“A series of outrages,” Mr Vladimir continued calmly, “executed
here in this country; not only PLANNED here – that would not do –
they would not mind. Your friends could set half the Continent on
fire without influencing the public opinion here in favour of a
universal repressive legislation. They will not look outside their
backyard here.”
Mr Verloc cleared his throat, but his heart failed him, and he said
nothing.
“These outrages need not be especially sanguinary,” Mr Vladimir
went on, as if delivering a scientific lecture, “but they must be
sufficiently startling – effective. Let them be directed against
buildings, for instance. What is the fetish of the hour that all
the bourgeoisie recognise – eh, Mr Verloc?”
Mr Verloc opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
“You are too lazy to think,” was Mr Vladimir’s comment upon that
gesture. “Pay attention 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 understand what I mean, Mr Verloc?”
The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt at
levity.
“Perfectly. But what of the Embassies? A series of attacks on the
various Embassies,” he began; but he could not withstand the cold,
watchful stare of the First Secretary.
“You can be facetious, I see,” the latter observed carelessly.
“That’s all right. It may enliven your oratory at socialistic
congresses. But this room is no place for it. It would be
infinitely safer for you to follow carefully what I am saying. As
you are being called upon to furnish facts instead of cock-and-bull
stories, you had better try to make your profit off what I am
taking the trouble to explain to you. The sacrosanct fetish of to-
day is science. Why don’t you get some of your friends to go for
that wooden-faced panjandrum – eh? Is it not part of these
institutions which must be swept away before the F. P. comes
along?”
Mr Verloc said nothing. He was afraid to open his lips lest a
groan should escape him.
“This is what you should try for. An attempt upon a crowned head
or on a president is sensational enough in a way, but not so much
as it used to be. It has entered into the general conception of
the existence of all chiefs of state. It’s almost conventional –
especially since so many presidents have been assassinated. Now