certainty. The teaching propaganda be hanged. What the people
knows does not matter, were its knowledge ever so accurate. The
only thing that matters to us is the emotional state of the masses.
Without emotion there is no action.”
He paused, then added with modest firmness:
“I am speaking now to you scientifically – scientifically – Eh?
What did you say, Verloc?”
“Nothing,” growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, provoked by the
abhorrent sound, had merely muttered a “Damn.”
The venomous spluttering of the old terrorist without teeth was
heard.
“Do you know how I would call the nature of the present economic
conditions? I would call it cannibalistic. That’s what it is!
They are nourishing their greed on the quivering flesh and the warm
blood of the people – nothing else.”
Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible gulp, and
at once, as though it had been swift poison, sank limply in a
sitting posture on the steps of the kitchen door.
Michaelis gave no sign of having heard anything. His lips seemed
glued together for good; not a quiver passed over his heavy cheeks.
With troubled eyes he looked for his round, hard hat, and put it on
his round head. His round and obese body seemed to float low
between the chairs under the sharp elbow of Karl Yundt. The old
terrorist, raising an uncertain and clawlike hand, gave a
swaggering tilt to a black felt sombrero shading the hollows and
ridges of his wasted face. He got in motion slowly, striking the
floor with his stick at every step. It was rather an affair to get
him out of the house because, now and then, he would stop, as if to
think, and did not offer to move again till impelled forward by
Michaelis. The gentle apostle grasped his arm with brotherly care;
and behind them, his hands in his pockets, the robust Ossipon
yawned vaguely. A blue cap with a patent leather peak set well at
the back of his yellow bush of hair gave him the aspect of a
Norwegian sailor bored with the world after a thundering spree. Mr
Verloc saw his guests off the premises, attending them bareheaded,
his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on the ground.
He closed the door behind their backs with restrained violence,
turned the key, shot the bolt. He was not satisfied with his
friends. In the light of Mr Vladimir’s philosophy of bomb throwing
they appeared hopelessly futile. The part of Mr Verloc in
revolutionary politics having been to observe, he could not all at
once, either in his own home or in larger assemblies, take the
initiative of action. He had to be cautious. Moved by the just
indignation of a man well over forty, menaced in what is dearest to
him – his repose and his security – he asked himself scornfully
what else could have been expected from such a lot, this Karl
Yundt, this Michaelis – this Ossipon.
Pausing in his intention to turn off the gas burning in the middle
of the shop, Mr Verloc descended into the abyss of moral
reflections. With the insight of a kindred temperament he
pronounced his verdict. A lazy lot – this Karl Yundt, nursed by a
blear-eyed old woman, a woman he had years ago enticed away from a
friend, and afterwards had tried more than once to shake off into
the gutter. Jolly lucky for Yundt that she had persisted in coming
up time after time, or else there would have been no one now to
help him out of the `bus by the Green Park railings, where that
spectre took its constitutional crawl every fine morning. When
that indomitable snarling old witch died the swaggering spectre
would have to vanish too – there would be an end to fiery Karl
Yundt. And Mr Verloc’s morality was offended also by the optimism
of Michaelis, annexed by his wealthy old lady, who had taken lately
to sending him to a cottage she had in the country. The ex-
prisoner could moon about the shady lanes for days together in a
delicious and humanitarian idleness. As to Ossipon, that beggar
was sure to want for nothing as long as there were silly girls with