from desire of vengeance, and flaunts his achievements before the
public eye, becomes the mark for desperate and bloodthirsty
indignations. Without unduly exaggerating the danger, Mr Verloc
tried to bring it clearly before his wife’s mind. He repeated that
he had no intention to let the revolutionises do away with him.
He looked straight into his wife’s eyes. The enlarged pupils of
the woman received his stare into their unfathomable depths.
“I am too fond of you for that,” he said, with a little nervous
laugh.
A faint flush coloured Mrs Verloc’s ghastly and motionless face.
Having done with the visions of the past, she had not only heard,
but had also understood the words uttered by her husband. By their
extreme disaccord with her mental condition these words produced on
her a slightly suffocating effect. Mrs Verloc’s mental condition
had the merit of simplicity; but it was not sound. It was governed
too much by a fixed idea. Every nook and cranny of her brain was
filled with the thought that this man, with whom she had lived
without distaste for seven years, had taken the “poor boy” away
from her in order to kill him – the man to whom she had grown
accustomed in body and mind; the man whom she had trusted, took the
boy away to kill him! In its form, in its substance, in its
effect, which was universal, altering even the aspect of inanimate
things, it was a thought to sit still and marvel at for ever and
ever. Mrs Verloc sat still. And across that thought (not across
the kitchen) the form of Mr Verloc went to and fro, familiarly in
hat and overcoat, stamping with his boots upon her brain. He was
probably talking too; but Mrs Verloc’s thought for the most part
covered the voice.
Now and then, however, the voice would make itself heard. Several
connected words emerged at times. Their purport was generally
hopeful. On each of these occasions Mrs Verloc’s dilated pupils,
losing their far-off fixity, followed her husband’s movements with
the effect of black care and, impenetrable attention. Well
informed upon all matters relating to his secret calling, Mr Verloc
augured well for the success of his plans and combinations. He
really believed that it would be upon the whole easy for him to
escape the knife of infuriated revolutionists. He had exaggerated
the strength of their fury and the length of their arm (for
professional purposes) too often to have many illusions one way or
the other. For to exaggerate with judgment one must begin by
measuring with nicety. He knew also how much virtue and how much
infamy is forgotten in two years – two long years. His first
really confidential discourse to his wife was optimistic from
conviction. He also thought it good policy to display all the
assurance he could muster. It would put heart into the poor woman.
On his liberation, which, harmonising with the whole tenor of his
life, would be secret, of course, they would vanish together
without loss of time. As to covering up the tracks, he begged his
wife to trust him for that. He knew how it was to be done so that
the devil himself –
He waved his hand. He seemed to boast. He wished only to put
heart into her. It was a benevolent intention, but Mr Verloc had
the misfortune not to be in accord with his audience.
The self-confident tone grew upon Mrs Verloc’s ear which let most
of the words go by; for what were words to her now? What could
words do to her, for good or evil in the face of her fixed idea?
Her black glance followed that man who was asserting his impunity –
the man who had taken poor Stevie from home to kill him somewhere.
Mrs Verloc could not remember exactly where, but her heart began to
beat very perceptibly.
Mr Verloc, in a soft and conjugal tone, was now expressing his firm
belief that there were yet a good few years of quiet life before
them both. He did not go into the question of means. A quiet life
it must be and, as it were, nestling in the shade, concealed among