Anarchists -- Fiction; Bombings -- Fiction; Conspiracies -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Political fiction
“I fancy that’s exactly what would happen to you if you were to set up
your laboratory in the States. They don’t stand on ceremony with their
institutions there.”
“I am not likely to go and see. Otherwise your remark is just,” admitted
the other. “They have more character over there, and their character is
essentially anarchistic. Fertile ground for us, the States—very good
ground. The great Republic has the root of the destructive matter in
her. The collective temperament is lawless. Excellent. They may shoot
us down, but—”
“You are too transcendental for me,” growled Ossipon, with moody concern.
“Logical,” protested the other. “There are several kinds of logic. This
is the enlightened kind. America is all right. It is this country that
is dangerous, with her idealistic conception of legality. The social
spirit of this people is wrapped up in scrupulous prejudices, and that is
fatal to our work. You talk of England being our only refuge! So much
the worse. Capua! What do we want with refuges? Here you talk, print,
plot, and do nothing. I daresay it’s very convenient for such Karl
Yundts.”
He shrugged his shoulders slightly, then added with the same leisurely
assurance: “To break up the superstition and worship of legality should
be our aim. Nothing would please me more than to see Inspector Heat and
his likes take to shooting us down in broad daylight with the approval of
the public. Half our battle would be won then; the disintegration of the
old morality would have set in in its very temple. That is what you
ought to aim at. But you revolutionists will never understand that. You
plan the future, you lose yourselves in reveries of economical systems
derived from what is; whereas what’s wanted is a clean sweep and a clear
start for a new conception of life. That sort of future will take care
of itself if you will only make room for it. Therefore I would shovel my
stuff in heaps at the corners of the streets if I had enough for that;
and as I haven’t, I do my best by perfecting a really dependable
detonator.”
Ossipon, who had been mentally swimming in deep waters, seized upon the
last word as if it were a saving plank.
“Yes. Your detonators. I shouldn’t wonder if it weren’t one of your
detonators that made a clean sweep of the man in the park.”
A shade of vexation darkened the determined sallow face confronting
Ossipon.
“My difficulty consists precisely in experimenting practically with the
various kinds. They must be tried after all. Besides—”
Ossipon interrupted.
“Who could that fellow be? I assure you that we in London had no
knowledge—Couldn’t you describe the person you gave the stuff to?”
The other turned his spectacles upon Ossipon like a pair of searchlights.
“Describe him,” he repeated slowly. “I don’t think there can be the
slightest objection now. I will describe him to you in one word—Verloc.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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