The teaching propaganda be hanged.What the people knows does not matter, were its knowledge ever so accurate.The only thing that matters to us is the emotional state of the masses.Without emotion there is no action.'
He paused, then added with modest firmness:
`I am speaking now Co you scientifically - scientifically - Eh? What did you say, Verloc?'
`Nothing,' growled from the sofa Mr Verloc, who, provoked by the abhorrent sound, had merely muttered a `Damn.'
The venomous spluttering of the old terrorist without teeth was heard.
`Do you know how I would call the nature of the present economic conditions?
I would call it cannibalistic.That's what it is! They are nourishing their greed on the quivering flesh and the warm blood of the people - nothing else.'
Stevie swallowed the terrifying statement with an audible gulp, and at once, as though it had been swift poison, sank limply in a sitting posture on the steps of the kitchen door.
Michaelis gave no signs of having heard anything.His lips seemed glued together for good; not a quiver passed over his heavy cheeks.With troubled eyes he looked for his round, hard hat, and put it on his round head.His round and obese body seemed to float low between the chairs under the sharp elbow of Karl Yundt.The old terrorist, raising an uncertain and clawlike hand, gave a swaggering tilt to a black felt sombrero shading the hollows and ridges of his wasted face.He got in motion slowly, striking the floor with hi stick at every step.It was rather an affair to get him out of the house because, now and then, he would stop, as if to think, and did not offer to move again till impelled forward by Michaelis.The gentle apostle grasped his arm with brotherly care; and behind them, his hands in his pockets, the robust Ossipon yawned vaguely.A blue cap with a patent leather peak set well at the back of his yellow bush of hair gave him the aspect of a Norwegian sailor bored with the world after a thundering spree.
Mr Verloc saw his guests off the premises, attending them bareheaded, his heavy overcoat hanging open, his eyes on the ground.
He closed the door behind their backs with restrained violence, turned the key, shot the bolt.He was not satisfied with his friends.In the light of Mr Vladimir's philosophy of bomb throwing they appeared hopelessly futile.
The part of Mr Verloc in revolutionary politics having been to observe, he could not all at once, either in his own home or in larger assemblies, take the initiative of action.He had to be cautious.Moved by the just indignation of a man well over forty, menaced in what is dearest to him - his repose and his security - he asked himself scornfully what else could have been expected from such a lot, this Karl Yundt, this Michaelis - this Ossipon.
Pausing in his intention to turn off the gas burning in the middle of the shop, Mr Verloc descended into the abyss of moral reflections.With the insight of a kindred temperament he pronounced his verdict.A lazy lot - this Karl Yundt, nursed by a blear-eyed old woman, a woman he had years ago enticed away from a friend, and afterwards had tried more than once to shake off into the gutter.Jolly lucky for Yundt that she had persisted in coming up time after time, or else there would have been no one now to help him out of the bus by the Green Park railings, where that spectre took its constitutional crawl every fine morning.When that indomitable snarling old witch died the swaggering spectre would have to vanish, too - there would be an end to fiery Karl Yundt.And Mr Verloc's morality was offended also by the optimism of Michaelis, annexed by his wealthy old lady, who had taken lately to sending him to a cottage she had in the country.
The ex-prisoner could moon about the shady lanes for days together in a delicious and humanitarian idleness.As to Ossipon, that beggar was sure to want for nothing as long as there were silly girls with 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 recognized 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 coil.The majority of revolutionists 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.
