âYouâll catch cold standing there,â she observed.
Mr. Verloc made an effort, finished undressing, and got into bed. Down below, in the quiet, narrow street, measured footsteps approached the house, then died away unhurried and firm, as if the passerby had started to pace out all eternity, from gas-lamp to gas-lamp in a night without end; and the drowsy ticking of the old clock on the landing became distinctly audible in the bedroom.
Mrs. Verloc, on her back, and staring at the ceiling, made a remark.
âTakings very small to-day.â
Mr. Verloc, in the same position, cleared his throat as if for an important statement, but merely inquired:
âDid you turn off the gas down-stairs?â
âYes; I did,â answered Mrs. Verloc conscientiously. âThat poor boy is in a very excited state to-night,â she murmured, after a pause which lasted for three ticks of the clock.
Mr. Verloc cared nothing for Steevieâs excitement, but he felt horribly wakeful, and dreaded facing the darkness and silence that would follow the extinguishing of the lamp. This dread led him to make the remark that Steevie had disregarded his suggestion to go to bed. Mrs. Verloc, falling into the trap, started to demonstrate at length to her husband that this was not âimpudenceâ of any sort, but simply âexcitement.â There was no young man of his age in London more willing and docile than Stephen, she affirmed; none more affectionate and ready to please, and even useful, as long as people did not upset his poor head. Mrs. Verloc, turning towards her recumbent husband, raised herself on her elbow, and hung over him in her anxiety that he should believe Steevie to be a useful member of the family. That ardor of protecting compassion, exalted morbidly in her childhood by the misery of another child, tinged her sallow cheeks with a faint, dusky blush, made her big eyes gleam under the dark lids. Mrs. Verloc then looked younger; she looked as young as Winnie used to look, and much more animated than the Winnie of the Belgravian mansion days had ever allowed herself to appear to gentlemen lodgers. Mr. Verlocâs anxieties had prevented him from attaching any sense to what his wife was saying. It was as if her voice were talking on the other side of a very thick wall. It was her aspect that recalled him to himself.
He appreciated this woman, and the sentiment of this appreciation, stirred by a display of something resembling emotion, only added another pang to his mental anguish. When her voice ceased he moved uneasily, and said:
âI havenât been feeling well for the last few days.â
He might have meant this as an opening to a complete confidence; but Mrs. Verloc laid her head on the pillow again, and, staring upward, went on:
âThat boy hears too much of what is talked about here. If I had known they were coming to-night I would have seen to it that he went to bed at the same time I did. He was out of his mind with something he overheard about eating peopleâs flesh and drinking blood. Whatâs the good of talking like that?â
There was a note of indignant scorn in her voice. Mr. Verloc was fully responsive now.
âAsk Karl Yundt,â he growled, savagely.
Mrs. Verloc, with great decision, pronounced Karl Yundt âa disgusting old man.â She declared openly her affection for Michaelis. Of the robust Ossipon, in whose presence she always felt uneasy behind an attitude of stony reserve, she said nothing whatever. And continuing to talk of that brother who had been for so many years an object of care and fears:
âHe isnât fit to hear whatâs said here. He believes itâs all true. He knows no better. He gets into his passions over it.â
Mr. Verloc made no comment.
âHe glared at me, as if he didnât know who I was, when I went down-stairs. His heart was going like a hammer. He canât help being excitable. I woke mother up, and asked her to sit with him till he went to sleep. It isnât his fault. Heâs no trouble when heâs left alone.â
Mr. Verloc made no comment.
âI wish he had never been to school,â Mrs. Verloc began again, brusquely. âHeâs always taking away those newspapers from the window to read. He gets a red face poring over them. We donât get rid of a dozen numbers in a month. They only take up room in the front window. And Mr. Ossipon brings every week a pile of these F. P. tracts to sell at a halfpenny each. I wouldnât give a halfpenny for the whole lot. Itâs silly readingâthatâs what it is. Thereâs no sale for it. The other day Steevie got hold of one, and there was a story in it of a German soldier officer tearing half-off the ear of a recruit, and nothing was done to him for it. The brute! I couldnât do anything with Steevie that afternoon. The story was enough, too, to make oneâs blood boil. But whatâs the use of printing things like that? We arenât German slaves here, thank God! Itâs not our business, is it?â
Mr. Verloc made no reply.
âI had to take the carving-knife from the boy,â Mrs. Verloc continued, a little sleepily now. âHe was shouting and stamping and sobbing. He canât stand the notion of any cruelty. He would have stuck that officer like a pig if he had seen him then. Itâs true, too! Some people donât deserve much mercy.â Mrs. Verlocâs voice ceased, and the expression of her motionless eyes became more and more contemplative and veiled during the long pause. âComfortable, dear?â she asked, in a faint, far-away voice. âShall I put out the light now?â
The dreary conviction that there was no sleep for him held Mr. Verloc mute and hopelessly inert in his fear of darkness. He made a great effort.
âYes. Put it out,â he said at last, in a hollow tone.
CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_0591124e-d2d8-5bfc-9393-d6ad9cc0de8a)
Most of the thirty or so little tables, covered by red cloths with a white design, stood ranged at right angles to the deep brown wainscoting of the underground hall. Bronze chandeliers, with many globes, depended from the low, slightly vaulted ceiling, and the fresco-paintings ran, flat and dull, all round the walls without windows, representing scenes of the chase and of out-door revelry in mediaeval costumes. Varlets in green jerkins brandished hunting-knives and raised on high tankards of foaming beer.
âUnless I am very much mistaken, you are the man who would know the inside of this confounded affair,â said the robust Ossipon, leaning over, his elbows far out on the table and his feet tucked back completely under his chair. His eyes stared with wild eagerness.
An upright semi-grand piano near the door, flanked by two palms in pots, executed suddenly all by itself a valse tune with aggressive virtuosity. The din it raised was deafening. When it ceased, as suddenly as it had started, the bespectacled, dingy little man, who faced Ossipon behind a heavy glass mug full of beer, emitted calmly what had the sound of a general proposition.
âIn principle what one of us may or may not know as to any given fact canât be a matter for inquiry to the others.â
âCertainly not,â Comrade Ossipon agreed, in a quiet undertone. âIn principle.â
With his big florid face held between his hands he continued to stare hard, while the dingy little man in spectacles coolly took a drink of beer and stood the glass mug back on the table. His thin, large ears departed widely from the sides of his skull, which looked frail enough for Ossipon to crush between thumb and forefinger; the dome of the forehead seemed to rest on the rim of the spectacles; the flat cheeks, of a greasy, unhealthy complexion, were merely smudged by the miserable poverty of a rare dark whisker. The lamentable inferiority of the whole physique was made ludicrous by the supremely self-confident bearing of the individual. His speech was curt, and he had a particularly impressive manner of keeping silent.
Ossipon spoke again from between his hands in a discreet mutter.
âHave you been out much to-day?â
âNo. I stayed in bed all the morning,â answered the other. âWhy?â
âOh! Nothing,â said Ossipon, gazing earnestly and quivering inwardly with the desire to find out something, but obviously intimidated by the little manâs overwhelming air of unconcern. When talking with this comradeâwhich happened but rarelyâthe big Ossipon suffered from a sense of moral and even physical insignificance. However, he ventured another question. âDid you walk down here?â
âNo; omnibus,â the little man answered readily enough. He lived far away in Islington, down a shabby street of small houses, littered with straw and dirty paper, where out-of-school hours a troop of assorted children ran and squabbled with a shrill, joyless, rowdy clamor. His single back room, remarkable for having an extremely large cupboard, he rented furnished from two elderly spinsters, dressmakers in a humble way with a clientele of servant girls mostly. He had a heavy padlock put on the cupboard, but otherwise he was a model lodger, giving no trouble, and requiring practically no attendance. His oddities were that he insisted on being present when his room was being swept, and that when he went out he locked his door and took the key away with him.
Ossipon had a vision of these round, black-rimmed spectacles progressing along the streets on the top of an omnibus, their self-confident glitter falling here and there on the walls of houses or lowered upon the heads of the unconscious stream of people on the pavements. The ghost of a sickly smile altered the set of Ossiponâs thick lips at the thought of the walls nodding and of people running for life at the sight of those spectacles. If they had only known! What a panic! He murmured interrogatively: âBeen sitting long here?â
âAn hour or more,â answered the other negligently, and took a pull at the dark beer. All his movementsâthe way he grasped the mug, the act of drinking, the way he set the heavy glass down and folded his armsâhad a firmness, an assured precision which made the big and muscular Ossipon, leaning forward with staring eyes and protruding lips, look the picture of eager indecision.
âAn hour,â he said. âThen it may be you havenât heard yet the news Iâve heard just nowâin the street. Have you?â
The little man shook his head negatively the least bit. But as he gave no indication of curiosity Ossipon ventured to add that he had heard it just outside the place. A newspaper boy had yelled the thing under his very nose, and not being prepared for anything of that sort, he was very much startled and upset. He had to come in there with a dry mouth. âI never thought of finding you here,â he added, murmuring steadily, with his elbows planted on the table.
âI come here sometimes,â said the other, preserving his provoking coolness of demeanor.
âItâs wonderful that you of all people should have heard nothing of it,â the big Ossipon continued. His eyelids snapped nervously upon the shining eyes. âYou of all people,â he repeated, tentatively. This obvious restraint argued an incredible and inexplicable timidity of the big fellow before the calm little man, who again lifted the glass mug, drank, and put it down with brusque and assured movements. And that was all.
Ossipon, after waiting for somethingâword or signâthat did not come, made an effort to assume a sort of indifference.
âDo you,â he said, deadening his voice still more, âgive your stuff to anybody whoâs up to asking you for it?â
âMy absolute rule is never to refuse anybodyâas long as I have a pinch by me,â answered the little man, with decision.
âThatâs a principle,â commented Ossipon.
âItâs a principle.â
âAnd you think itâs sound?â
The large, round spectacles, which gave a look of staring self-confidence to the sallow face, confronted Ossipon like sleepless, unwinking orbs flashing a cold fire.
âPerfectly. Always. Under every circumstance. What could stop me? Why should I not? Why should I think twice about it?â