existence.
Positively he did not know how to speak to the lad. He watched him
gesticulating and murmuring in the kitchen. Stevie prowled round
the table like an excited animal in a cage. A tentative “Hadn’t
you better go to bed now?” produced no effect whatever; and Mr
Verloc, abandoning the stony contemplation of his brother-in-law’s
behaviour, crossed the parlour wearily, cash-box in hand. The
cause of the general lassitude he felt while climbing the stairs
being purely mental, he became alarmed by its inexplicable
character. He hoped he was not sickening for anything. He stopped
on the dark landing to examine his sensations. But a slight and
continuous sound of snoring pervading the obscurity interfered with
their clearness. The sound came from his mother-in-law’s room.
Another one to provide for, he thought – and on this thought walked
into the bedroom.
Mrs Verloc had fallen asleep with the lamp (no gas was laid
upstairs) turned up full on the table by the side of the bed. The
light thrown down by the shade fell dazzlingly on the white pillow
sunk by the weight of her head reposing with closed eyes and dark
hair done up in several plaits for the night. She woke up with the
sound of her name in her ears, and saw her husband standing over
her.
“Winnie! Winnie!”
At first she did not stir, lying very quiet and looking at the
cash-box in Mr Verloc’s hand. But when she understood that her
brother was “capering all over the place downstairs” she swung out
in one sudden movement on to the edge of the bed. Her bare feet,
as if poked through the bottom of an unadorned, sleeved calico sack
buttoned tightly at neck and wrists, felt over the rug for the
slippers while she looked upward into her husband’s face.
“I don’t know how to manage him,” Mr Verloc explained peevishly.
“Won’t do to leave him downstairs alone with the lights.”
She said nothing, glided across the room swiftly, and the door
closed upon her white form.
Mr Verloc deposited the cash-box on the night table, and began the
operation of undressing by flinging his overcoat on to a distant
chair. His coat and waistcoat followed. He walked about the room
in his stockinged feet, and his burly figure, with the hands
worrying nervously at his throat, passed and repassed across the
long strip of looking-glass in the door of his wife’s wardrobe.
Then after slipping his braces off his shoulders he pulled up
violently the venetian blind, and leaned his forehead against the
cold window-pane – a fragile film of glass stretched between him
and the enormity of cold, black, wet, muddy, inhospitable
accumulation of bricks, slates, and stones, things in themselves
unlovely and unfriendly to man.
Mr Verloc felt the latent unfriendliness of all out of doors with a
force approaching to positive bodily anguish. There is no
occupation that fails a man more completely than that of a secret
agent of police. It’s like your horse suddenly falling dead under
you in the midst of an uninhabited and thirsty plain. The
comparison occurred to Mr Verloc because he had sat astride various
army horses in his time, and had now the sensation of an incipient
fall. The prospect was as black as the window-pane against which
he was leaning his forehead. And suddenly the face of Mr Vladimir,
clean-shaved and witty, appeared enhaloed in the glow of its rosy
complexion like a sort of pink seal, impressed on the fatal
darkness.
This luminous and mutilated vision was so ghastly physically that
Mr Verloc started away from the window, letting down the venetian
blind with a great rattle. Discomposed and speechless with the
apprehension of more such visions, he beheld his wife re-enter the
room and get into bed in a calm business-like manner which made him
feel hopelessly lonely in the world. Mrs Verloc expressed her
surprise at seeing him up yet.
“I don’t feel very well,” he muttered, passing his hands over his
moist brow.
“Giddiness?”
“Yes. Not at all well.”
Mrs Verloc, with all the placidity of an experienced wife,
expressed a confident opinion as to the cause, and suggested the