savings-bank books in the world. And Mr Verloc, temperamentally
identical with his associates, drew fine distinctions in his mind
on the strength of insignificant differences. He drew them with a
certain complacency, because the instinct of conventional
respectability was strong within him, being only overcome by his
dislike of all kinds of recognised labour – a temperamental defect
which he shared with a large proportion of revolutionary reformers
of a given social state. For obviously one does not revolt against
the advantages and opportunities of that state, but against the
price which must be paid for the same in the coin of accepted
morality, self-restraint, and toil. The majority of revolutionises
are the enemies of discipline and fatigue mostly. There are
natures too, to whose sense of justice the price exacted looms up
monstrously enormous, odious, oppressive, worrying, humiliating,
extortionate, intolerable. Those are the fanatics. The remaining
portion of social rebels is accounted for by vanity, the mother of
all noble and vile illusions, the companion of poets, reformers,
charlatans, prophets, and incendiaries.
Lost for a whole minute in the abyss of meditation, Mr Verloc did
not reach the depth of these abstract considerations. Perhaps he
was not able. In any case he had not the time. He was pulled up
painfully by the sudden recollection of Mr Vladimir, another of his
associates, whom in virtue of subtle moral affinities he was
capable of judging correctly. He considered him as dangerous. A
shade of envy crept into his thoughts. Loafing was all very well
for these fellows, who knew not Mr Vladimir, and had women to fall
back upon; whereas he had a woman to provide for –
At this point, by a simple association of ideas, Mr Verloc was
brought face to face with the necessity of going to bed some time
or other that evening. Then why not go now – at once? He sighed.
The necessity was not so normally pleasurable as it ought to have
been for a man of his age and temperament. He dreaded the demon of
sleeplessness, which he felt had marked him for its own. He raised
his arm, and turned off the flaring gas-jet above his head.
A bright band of light fell through the parlour door into the part
of the shop behind the counter. It enabled Mr Verloc to ascertain
at a glance the number of silver coins in the till. These were but
few; and for the first time since he opened his shop he took a
commercial survey of its value. This survey was unfavourable. He
had gone into trade for no commercial reasons. He had been guided
in the selection of this peculiar line of business by an
instinctive leaning towards shady transactions, where money is
picked up easily. Moreover, it did not take him out of his own
sphere – the sphere which is watched by the police. On the
contrary, it gave him a publicly confessed standing in that sphere,
and as Mr Verloc had unconfessed relations which made him familiar
with yet careless of the police, there was a distinct advantage in
such a situation. But as a means of livelihood it was by itself
insufficient.
He took the cash-box out of the drawer, and turning to leave the
shop, became aware that Stevie was still downstairs.
What on earth is he doing there? Mr Verloc asked himself. What’s
the meaning of these antics? He looked dubiously at his brother-
in-law, but he did not ask him for information. Mr Verloc’s
intercourse with Stevie was limited to the casual mutter of a
morning, after breakfast, “My boots,” and even that was more a
communication at large of a need than a direct order or request.
Mr Verloc perceived with some surprise that he did not know really
what to say to Stevie. He stood still in the middle of the
parlour, and looked into the kitchen in silence. Nor yet did he
know what would happen if he did say anything. And this appeared
very queer to Mr Verloc in view of the fact, borne upon him
suddenly, that he had to provide for this fellow too. He had never
given a moment’s thought till then to that aspect of Stevie’s