And Mr Vladimir indulged mentally in an enormous and derisive fit of merriment, partly at his own astonishment, which he judged naive, but mostly at the expense of the universally regretted Baron Stott-Wartenheim.His late Excellency, whom the august favour of his Imperial master had imposed as Ambassador upon several reluctant Ministers of Foreign Affairs, had enjoyed in his lifetime a fame for an owlish, pessimistic gullibility.His Excellency had the social revolution on the brain.He imagined himself to be a diplomatist set apart by a special dispensation to watch the end of diplomacy, and pretty nearly the end of the world, in a horrid, democratic upheaval.His prophetic and doleful dispatches had been for years the joke of Foreign Offices.He was said to have exclaimed on his death-bed (visited by his Imperial friend and master): `Unhappy Europe! Thou shalt perish by the moral insanity of thy children!' He was fated to be the victim of the first humbugging rascal that came along, thought Mr Vladimir, smiling vaguely at Mr Verloc.
`You ought to venerate the memory of Baron Stott-Wartenheim,' he exclaimed, suddenly.
The lowered physiognomy of Mr Verloc expressed a sombre and weary annoyance.
`Permit me to observe to you,' he said, `that I came here because Iwas summoned by a peremptory letter.I have been here only twice before in the last eleven years, and certainly never at eleven in the morning.
It isn't very wise to call me up like this.There is just a chance of being seen.And that would be no joke for me.'
Mr Vladimir shrugged his shoulders.
`It would destroy my usefulness,' continued the other hotly.
`That's your affair,' murmured Mr Vladimir, with soft brutality.`When you cease to be useful you shall cease to be employed.Yes.Right off.
Cut short.You shall--' Mr Vladimir, frowning, paused, at a loss for a sufficiently idiomatic expression, and instantly brightened up, with a grin of beautifully white teeth.`You shall be chucked,' he brought out, ferociously.
Once more Mr Verloc had to react with all the force of his will against that sensation of faintness running down one's legs which once upon a time had inspired some poor devil with the felicitous expression: `My heart went down into my boots.' Mr Verloc, aware of the sensation, raised his head bravely.
Mr Vladimir bore the look of heavy inquiry with perfect serenity.
`What we want is to administer a tonic to the Conference in Milan, he said, airily.`Its deliberations upon international action for the suppression of political crime don't seem to get anywhere.England lags.This country is absurd with its sentimental regard for individual liberty.It's intolerable to think that all your friends have got only to come over to--'
`In that way I have them all under my eye,' Mr Verloc interrupted, huskily.
`It would be much more to the point to have them all under lock and key.England must be brought into line.The imbecile bourgeoisie of this country make themselves the accomplices of the very people whose aim is to drive them out of their houses to starve in ditches.And they have the political power still, if they only had the sense to use it for their preservation.
I suppose you agree that the middle classes are stupid?'
Mr Verloc agreed hoarsely.`They are.'
`They have no imagination.They are blinded by an idiotic vanity.What they want just now is a jolly good scare.This is the psychological moment to set your friends to work.I have had you called here to develop to you my idea.'
And Mr Vladimir developed his idea from on high, with scorn and condescension, displaying at the same time an amount of ignorance as to the real aims, thoughts, and methods of the revolutionary world which filled the silent Mr Verloc with inward consternation.He confounded causes with effects more than was excusable; the most distinguished propagandists with impulsive bomb throwers; assumed organization where in the nature of things it could not exist; spoke of the social revolutionary party one moment as of a perfectly disciplined army, where the word of chiefs was supreme, and at another as if it had been the loosest association of desperate brigands that ever camped in a mountain gorge.Once Mr Verloc had opened his mouth for a protest, but the raising of a shapely, large white hand arrested him.Very soon he became too appalled to even try to protest.He listened in a stillness of dread which resembled the immobility of profound attention.
`A series of outrages,' Mr Vladimir continued, calmly, `executed here in this country; not only planned here - that would not do - they would not mind.Your friends could set half the Continent on fire without influencing the public opinion here in favour of a universal repressive legislation.They will not look outside their backyard here.'
Mr Verloc cleared his throat, but his heart failed him, and he said nothing.
`These outrages need not be especially sanguinary,' Mr Vladimir went on, as if delivering a scientific lecture, `but they must sufficiently startling - effective.Let them be directed against buildings, for instance.
What is the fetish of the hour that all the bourgeoisie recognize - eh, Mr Verloc?'
Mr Verloc opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders slightly.
`You are too lazy to think,' was Mr Vladimir's comment upon that gesture.
`Pay attention to what I say.The fetish of today is neither royalty nor religion.Therefore the palace and the church should be left alone.You understand what I mean, Mr Verloc?'
The dismay and the scorn of Mr Verloc found vent in an attempt at levity.
`Perfectly.But what of the Embassies? A series of attacks on the various Embassies,' he began; but he could not withstand the cold, watchful stare of the First Secretary.
