habit of consecutive thinking in prison, you know.”
The Professor on his feet, now buttoning his coat, looked about him
with perfect indifference.
“What are you going to do?” asked Ossipon wearily. He dreaded the
blame of the Central Red Committee, a body which had no permanent
place of abode, and of whose membership he was not exactly
informed. If this affair eventuated in the stoppage of the modest
subsidy allotted to the publication of the F. P. pamphlets, then
indeed he would have to regret Verloc’s inexplicable folly.
“Solidarity with the extremest form of action is one thing, and
silly recklessness is another,” he said, with a sort of moody
brutality. “I don’t know what came to Verloc. There’s some
mystery there. However, he’s gone. You may take it as you like,
but under the circumstances the only policy for the militant
revolutionary group is to disclaim all connection with this damned
freak of yours. How to make the disclaimer convincing enough is
what bothers me.”
The little man on his feet, buttoned up and ready to go, was no
taller than the seated Ossipon. He levelled his spectacles at the
latter’s face point-blank.
“You might ask the police for a testimonial of good conduct. They
know where every one of you slept last night. Perhaps if you asked
them they would consent to publish some sort of official
statement.”
“No doubt they are aware well enough that we had nothing to do with
this,” mumbled Ossipon bitterly. “What they will say is another
thing.” He remained thoughtful, disregarding the short, owlish,
shabby figure standing by his side. “I must lay hands on Michaelis
at once, and get him to speak from his heart at one of our
gatherings. The public has a sort of sentimental regard for that
fellow. His name is known. And I am in touch with a few reporters
on the big dailies. What he would say would be utter bosh, but he
has a turn of talk that makes it go down all the same.”
“Like treacle,” interjected the Professor, rather low, keeping an
impassive expression.
The perplexed Ossipon went on communing with himself half audibly,
after the manner of a man reflecting in perfect solitude.
“Confounded ass! To leave such an imbecile business on my hands.
And I don’t even know if – ”
He sat with compressed lips. The idea of going for news straight
to the shop lacked charm. His notion was that Verloc’s shop might
have been turned already into a police trap. They will be bound to
make some arrests, he thought, with something resembling virtuous
indignation, for the even tenor of his revolutionary life was
menaced by no fault of his. And yet unless he went there he ran
the risk of remaining in ignorance of what perhaps it would be very
material for him to know. Then he reflected that, if the man in
the park had been so very much blown to pieces as the evening
papers said, he could not have been identified. And if so, the
police could have no special reason for watching Verloc’s shop more
closely than any other place known to be frequented by marked
anarchists – no more reason, in fact, than for watching the doors
of the Silenus. There would be a lot of watching all round, no
matter where he went. Still –
“I wonder what I had better do now?” he muttered, taking counsel
with himself.
A rasping voice at his elbow said, with sedate scorn:
“Fasten yourself upon the woman for all she’s worth.”
After uttering these words the Professor walked away from the
table. Ossipon, whom that piece of insight had taken unawares,
gave one ineffectual start, and remained still, with a helpless
gaze, as though nailed fast to the seat of his chair. The lonely
piano, without as much as a music stool to help it, struck a few
chords courageously, and beginning a selection of national airs,
played him out at last to the tune of “Blue Bells of Scotland.”
The painfully detached notes grew faint behind his back while he
went slowly upstairs, across the hall, and into the street.
In front of the great doorway a dismal row of newspaper sellers