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Stevie Verloc: The Anarchist with a Complete Morality in Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent

Morality is generally understood to be a code of conduct put forth by society, but in Joseph Conrad?s novel, The Secret Agent, two conflicting societies have different interpretations of what that means. While government agencies strive to maintain law, order and preserve their power, the anarchists? mission is to upset governmental order by way of chaos, moving mankind toward enlightenment and individual freedom. The self-proclaimed anarchists in Conrad?s novel may collectively embody aspects of that ideal, yet each of them lacks some key element, whether it be identification with or analyzing the plight of the common man, or the ability to act out against convention. Surprisingly, it is the incompetent and unlikely Stevie who fully realizes these inherent anarchic virtues. It is he who has, as the narrator states, a ?complete morality? (126).

Conrad uses image and appearance as an important component to define the ironic shortcomings of his anarchist characters. Mr. Vladimir conveys this significance of appearance to the corpulent Mr. Verloc when he scolds, ?You haven?t even got the physique of your profession. You ? a member of a starving proletariat ? never!? (16). To live like the proletariat is to understand the plight of the common man. Mr. Verloc?s obesity symbolizes his ties to the convention of the lazy bourgeoisie and also to his lack of productivity, in particular his inability to provoke change. Michaelis can be accused of the same as he comes ?out of a highly hygienic prison round like a tub? (31) and is sent to Marienbad by a wealthy woman for three seasons (31). Michaelis enjoys the conventions of the bourgeoisie. This is evident by way of his bulk, the mention of his wealthy, dietary benefactor and his relationship with the Assistant Commissioner. Karl Yundt, being frail and toothless, is portrayed as a man whose bark is worse than his bite. ?His enunciation would have been almost totally unintelligible to a stranger? (32). The only people who understand what he?s saying are those who already know his point, rendering him ineffectual to change the minds of those who do not. In the grand scheme of the novel, not one of these images exemplifies the attributes of a true anarchist.

Conversely, Stevie?s appearance projects anarchy in every aspect. He is described as ?delicate, and in a frail way, good-looking too, except for the vacant droop of his lower lip? (7). This boy is thin, fragile and, unlike Mr. Verloc or Michaelis, more representative of the proletariat. His lower lip symbolizes his intense compassion. It droops even further when he witnesses the unjust treatment of any living being. When frustrated with ?the poor cabman beating the poor horse in the name of, as it were, of his poor kids at home? (126), ?a magnanimous indignation swelled his frail chest to bursting? (124). This image of Stevie?s chest about to burst is not unlike that of a bomb about to explode. Stevie is the bomb, a true instrument of change. While Stevie?s physical expression is telling of his character, the images he creates on paper also illustrate his pure anarchist qualities. If one circle represents the ideal, Stevie?s drawings of consecutive circles become directly representative of chaos beyond what any anarchist propaganda can achieve. It is obvious that Stevie is unable to discuss the principles of anarchy as do the others in their meetings, but he speaks volumes with his actions and reactions.

Anarchists believe that property and ownership is an oppressive crime of the bourgeoisie. Still, throughout the novel, the anarchists remain tied to the convention of money because this very system they fight against is one that they must also function within. Mr. Verloc is rattled to his core at the threat of Mr. Vladimir cutting off his paycheck, reacting ?with all the force of his will against that sensation of faintness running down one?s legs? (20). Ossipon, while considering the demise of his publication, concerns himself with where his next paycheck will come from. Surprisingly, the Professor, one of the most credible anarchists in his willingness to detonate himself for change, also shows this vulnerability to convention. Once Mr. Verloc is dead and Comrade Ossipon asks the Professor what he should do next, the Professor replies, ?Fasten yourself upon the woman for all she?s worth? (59). Following this instruction to attain Winnie?s money, Ossipon reveals his desire for power, to govern Winnie in place of Mr. Verloc and to assume her possessions. Neither the Professor nor Ossipon has achieved their goal of living free. Instead, they are jockeying for ownership, money and power as much as those they fight against.

Dissimilarly, Stevie is not bound by the rules of ownership and money. Provided for by his family and free from financial burden, Stevie gives all he has to the poor. In the case of Mrs. Neale, a woman who does housework at the Verloc?s, she repeatedly presents to Stevie a story about her poor, infant children. This is done to manipulate Stevie?s emotions until he offers Mrs. Neale a shilling on their behalf. ?In the normal evolution of his sympathy Stevie had become angry on discovering that he had no shilling in his pocket. In his inability to relieve at once Mrs. Neale?s ?little ?uns? privations, he felt that someone should be made to suffer for it? (137). Stevie then strikes the table with his fist, angry over the plight of Mrs. Neale?s children. He is selfless in motive and unaware of the injustice preying upon him, only wishing to help those in need. In this situation, Stevie?s detachment from his own money combines with his explosive reaction toward the unjust oppression of the poor and his anger over the inability to initiate change.

Another shortcoming of the anarchists is the willingness to analyze what is happening directly in front of them. Neither Mr. Verloc nor Winnie likes to scratch below the surface of circumstance until Stevie becomes a catalyst for this behavior. Their marriage, in Mr. Verloc?s mind, is one based on Winnie?s love for him and his admiration of her. Oddly, even after Mr. Verloc sends Stevie off with the bomb and the boy is killed, he still believes he is ?loved for himself? (191). In truth, Winnie always acts the role of dutiful wife and would have continued that role had Stevie not been a part of the chaos that rattled her foundation. She merely tolerates Mr. Verloc until the moment she despises him for murdering her brother. Not until that moment does she finally admit to herself that this union is a marriage of convenience, simply a way to keep her mother and Stevie safely with her. She explains this to Comrade Ossipon, saying of Mr. Verloc, ?He seemed kind. He wanted me, anyhow. What was I to do with mother and that poor boy?? (202). Winnie suddenly realizes that she is no longer responsible for Stevie?s needs and is subsequently free from Mr. Verloc. Without the catalyst of Stevie?s death, Mr. Verloc and Winnie may have indefinitely gone on looking solely at the surface of things.

Stevie, by comparison, is an analyst. He looks at the world around him and is distraught by the injustice he sees. As early as age fourteen, on his first job, Stevie sets off fireworks in his office building and is fired. This is not a naughty prank. It is eventually discovered that this is a reaction to the other office boys ?working upon his feelings by tales of injustice and oppression til they had wrought his compassion to the pitch of frenzy? (7). This type of reaction resurfaces when Stevie sees the starved horse and poor cabbie as he walks Winnie across the street. Without the language to articulate his feelings, all he can explosively stammer is ?Poor! Poor!? and ?Shame!? (125). While his external expression is extremely simple, a great deal more is going on internally. ?Jostled, but obstinate, he would remain there, trying to express the view newly opened to his sympathies of the human and equine misery in close association? (125). Stevie sees injustice without shying away. He faces it directly on an emotional level and then explodes.

Stevie is not an anarchist of intellectual words like those anarchists who write and sell propaganda in the novel. For him, this is not an intellectual journey open to debate. Stevie?s anarchism stems from the core of his being and clearly shines through his actions, whether apparent in his physical appearance, his outbursts, or his art. In small, unplanned events, he reacts to the disorder of oppression in a way that, in itself, upsets the order of things. Stevie is chaos. It is this principle that makes him a true anarchist without self declaration. It is this everyday embodiment of anarchy that attracts Mr. Verloc, who draws upon Stevie as a resource to detonate his bomb. Although the effect was not as intended, Stevie, in his ?complete morality? ultimately becomes the instrument of change.

Washington Park stirs with signs of life this morning. Along the green lawn of the dog park, a towering wall of weeping cherry trees beckons me with long, flowing branches. I sense their burden as they bow deeply under the weight of prolific and cascading pale-pink tears. Entering deeper into the park, I encounter a stand of embittered crabapples. Why do they resist the dawn of spring, allowing no more exposure of their crimson petals than a narrow slit? Each bud looks wounded.

At the bone-dry fountain hundreds of tulips stand at attention encircling its statue of Moses. His staff has been stolen by vandals. The tulips before him shroud their pastel petals with thick green hoods, hesitant to open themselves to him. Perhaps they know that he has failed to deliver the Ten Commandments. Only the fiery orange tulips in the outer garden stretch their showy heads beyond Moses and toward the sky. I join them and follow suit. The sun, in an instant, permeates the chill and warms my face. Through the slit of one eyelid, I see the silver glint of an airplane flash against the deep blue sky.

I have not returned to this place since September 11, 2001, yet that day never feels far behind. I remember so vividly how I drove from Albany toward New York at five o?clock in the morning. As the sun rose, the golden fog had spun itself like cotton between pockets of pines. Enamored with the beauty of that particular dawn, I searched for the camera I had carelessly left on the kitchen counter. I sputtered aloud some poetic lines to capture what I saw, but found that even my best effort fell short.

FAA training took place over the span of two days every September, the 2001 session being the fourth anniversary of my hire date as a flight attendant. Normally I would grumble through the rigors of testing, but that morning I was glad to have been witness to the beauty of daybreak. I attempted to review first aid, evacuation, weapons identification and hijacking procedures along my drive, but by the time I reached the skyline, I was again distracted by beauty. The humidity that had softened silhouettes earlier had given way to a crisp, bright landscape. The entire city was gilded in sunlight, every detail razor sharp. I wanted to capture that view, cursing myself again for forgetting my camera. I took the scene in one last time before entering the training facility across the river from the World Trade Center.

Five minutes after I entered the building, the first plane struck the tower. The flight attendants who were lounging about the commons waiting for class to begin congealed into a gawking mass of slack-lipped witnesses. I joined in. As we thrust our faces against the window in disbelief, the second plane reinforced, with cruel clarity, the tragedy before us. Our only news buzzed in Spanish through the snowy reception of UHF. A limited translation amounted to suicide bombers, being under attack, and the grounding of all aircraft. As fellow flight attendants called parents trapped in the towers, some said their last good-byes watching as people began to jump. I ran outside, desperate to escape the horror, only to enter the parking garage in time to face the first tower collapse.

Military aircraft swarmed close over my head. Was it the U.S.? Was it ?them?? I couldn?t see. I feared another strike and crouched behind a green pick-up truck. There I hugged my knees and rocked myself alone crying ?Oh my God. Oh my God.? Unable to hold back the grief, my heart split. Unintelligibly, my horror spilled forth.

Gaining my wits, I found my car and drove back toward Albany, away from the hideous pillars of smoke. People impatient with the crowded highways sped past me on the shoulder of the road. I shrieked foul words waving my arms at nobody in particular. Distracted, I missed my turn. I had to look back toward the smoldering remains of 3,000 people, the second tower having collapsed.

As I drove West, Howard Stern clamored for war. I jammed my finger into a random button changing the frequency to something soothing. The further I drove, the more traffic thinned, making way to clearer roads. Officers in u-turn areas watched for typical speeders. In Albany, two people laughed on the corner of Madison and Pearl. I was infuriated. Didn?t they know? Hadn?t they seen? The announcer said the attack had happened four hours prior. How could that be? Trapped within a moment, time was marching on without me.

I met a friend here in Washington Park. It seemed appropriate having been a former burial ground. We sat reverent on the grass. Fractured thoughts flooded my conversation. ?How can I wear my stripes now? How am I supposed to protect my passengers from suicide bombers? I wish my father would return my message. Will I be fired if I can?t bring myself to fly??

Before me was the Corning Tower of Empire Plaza, a citadel bathed in sunlight, emerging from the tree line. How it stood, in the wake of what I had seen, defied my disintegrated logic. If lines could be drawn from the odd angle of the tower?s outer walls, they would merge where I sat. I remember sensing the geometric order and yet it offered me no comfort. What was the point?

On Willet Street now, the view of the park is spectacular. I looked for a brownstone apartment here once, just a few months prior to the attack. After the attack, the closest I came was a carriage house out back where I spent an hour at three o?clock every Thursday. There I attempted to piece together my shattered identity with Diane. She was a psychologist who had volunteered her service to those New York Police and Fireman suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She said she could help me to sleep, to move forward, and having taken a company offered leave for the next year, to explore what to do next.

I lived nearby on State Street then, number 332. Passing now, I see my old living room window looking out at Picotte Hall. I remember an earthquake rattling the foundation there that November. My ivory sheers have been replaced by red velvet drapes shut tight against the light. Across the street, I see ghosts of old friends who have moved away from number 335. The neighboring 334 is dark. The man who lived here was one of the ?dust people? escaping the tower. He and his wife had just bought the building to create their dream home, yet it went up for sale in early 2002. I wonder where they are now; the homeless man too, who used to smile and call me ?Fifth Avenue.? I hope he survived the winter. I used to give him gloves to fend off the cold. This damp, stone stoop remains unchanged except for a few planters. It always stood in shadow, no matter the season or time of day. Further down State Street, across from the Capital Building, the police continue to stand guard at Empire Plaza. They are lasting remnants of protective measures stemming from impotent arsenic threats to the governor.

I have moved five times since that address, downsizing along the way. I have held a number of jobs as well, from farming knee-deep in chicken feces and doing freelance publicity, to the part time designing of GUI systems for the United States Office of Management and Budget. I did what it took to pay rent, resorting to the trade of my new dining suite and antique sewing machine when necessary. I?ve learned that I?m adaptive and resilient, but that lesson came with the high price of all that I had and all that I was.

This neighborhood has new memories for me now, not tainted by September 11th. At the corner of State and Dove is where my fianc? and I first kissed three years ago. He stood over six feet at street level and I hopped up on the curb to reach his lips. We threw our heads back and laughed in the soft glow of the street lamp as a lone electric guitar from a window above played Jimmy Hendrix. I have to leave this reverie now to meet Tim. We?re choosing our wedding bands today.

Back in Washington Park stands a statue of Robert Burns. Engraved in its base is part of his Epistle to Dr. Blacklock:

To make a happy fireside climb
To weans and wife
That?s the true pathos and sublime
Of human life

At the picnic table where I used to sit alone with my journal, a family of five enjoys a picnic lunch. Across the street, two daycare women push triplet strollers carting six beautiful children. A young boy and his pup enjoy the otherwise empty dog park, running in circles to and fro. These children are evidence of connection; evidence that this sublime human life is among us, within us.

I note the hour. Time has marched on, and now, I march with it.