educate you; I have expounded to you the higher philosophy of your
usefulness, and suggested to you some serviceable arguments. The
practical application of my teaching interests YOU mostly. But
from the moment I have undertaken to interview you I have also
given some attention to the practical aspect of the question. What
do you think of having a go at astronomy?”
For sometime already Mr Verloc’s immobility by the side of the arm-
chair resembled a state of collapsed coma – a sort of passive
insensibility interrupted by slight convulsive starts, such as may
be observed in the domestic dog having a nightmare on the
hearthrug. And it was in an uneasy doglike growl that he repeated
the word:
“Astronomy.”
He had not recovered thoroughly as yet from that state of
bewilderment brought about by the effort to follow Mr Vladimir’s
rapid incisive utterance. It had overcome his power of
assimilation. It had made him angry. This anger was complicated
by incredulity. And suddenly it dawned upon him that all this was
an elaborate joke. Mr Vladimir exhibited his white teeth in a
smile, with dimples on his round, full face posed with a complacent
inclination above the bristling bow of his neck-tie. The favourite
of intelligent society women had assumed his drawing-room attitude
accompanying the delivery of delicate witticisms. Sitting well
forward, his white hand upraised, he seemed to hold delicately
between his thumb and forefinger the subtlety of his suggestion.
“There could be nothing better. Such an outrage combines the
greatest possible regard for humanity with the most alarming
display of ferocious imbecility. I defy the ingenuity of
journalists to persuade their public that any given member of the
proletariat can have a personal grievance against astronomy.
Starvation itself could hardly be dragged in there – eh? And there
are other advantages. The whole civilised world has heard of
Greenwich. The very boot-blacks in the basement of Charing Cross
Station know something of it. See?”
The features of Mr Vladimir, so well known in the best society by
their humorous urbanity, beamed with cynical self-satisfaction,
which would have astonished the intelligent women his wit
entertained so exquisitely. “Yes,” he continued, with a
contemptuous smile, “the blowing up of the first meridian is bound
to raise a howl of execration.”
“A difficult business,” Mr Verloc mumbled, feeling that this was
the only safe thing to say.
“What is the matter? Haven’t you the whole gang under your hand?
The very pick of the basket? That old terrorist Yundt is here. I
see him walking about Piccadilly in his green havelock almost every
day. And Michaelis, the ticket-of-leave apostle – you don’t mean
to say you don’t know where he is? Because if you don’t, I can
tell you,” Mr Vladimir went on menacingly. “If you imagine that
you are the only one on the secret fund list, you are mistaken.”
This perfectly gratuitous suggestion caused Mr Verloc to shuffle
his feet slightly.
“And the whole Lausanne lot – eh? Haven’t they been flocking over
here at the first hint of the Milan Conference? This is an absurd
country.”
“It will cost money,” Mr Verloc said, by a sort of instinct.
“That cock won’t fight,” Mr Vladimir retorted, with an amazingly
genuine English accent. “You’ll get your screw every month, and no
more till something happens. And if nothing happens very soon you
won’t get even that. What’s your ostensible occupation? What are
you supposed to live by?”
“I keep a shop,” answered Mr Verloc.
“A shop! What sort of shop?”
“Stationery, newspapers. My wife – ”
“Your what?” interrupted Mr Vladimir in his guttural Central Asian
tones.
“My wife.” Mr Verloc raised his husky voice slightly. “I am
married.”
“That be damned for a yarn,” exclaimed the other in unfeigned
astonishment. “Married! And you a professed anarchist, too! What
is this confounded nonsense? But I suppose it’s merely a manner of
speaking. Anarchists don’t marry. It’s well known. They can’t.
It would be apostasy.”
“My wife isn’t one,” Mr Verloc mumbled sulkily. “Moreover, it’s no
concern of yours.”
“Oh yes, it is,” snapped Mr Vladimir. “I am beginning to be
convinced that you are not at all the man for the work you’ve been