A FLIGHT
No man, having once thrown himself into an idea, was ever more sincerely
convinced of the truth of his beliefs or more strenuous in his efforts
to propagandise them than Giannoli. To destroy utterly the fabric
of existing society by all possible means, by acts of violence and
terrorism, by expropriation, by undermining the prevailing ideas of
morality, by breaking up the organisations of those Anarchists and
Socialists who believed in association, by denouncing such persons
and such attempts, by preaching revolution wherever and whenever an
opportunity occurred or could be improvised, to these objects he
had blindly devoted the best years of his life. His was a gospel of
destruction and negation, and he was occupied rather in the undoing of
what he had come to regard as bad than with any constructive doctrines.
All existing and established things were alike under his ban: art no
less than morals and religion. He nourished a peculiar hatred for all
those links which bind the present to the past, for ancient customs and
superstitions, for all tradition. Had it been in his power he would have
destroyed history itself. "We shall never be free," he used to say, "so
long as one prejudice, one single ingrained belief, remains with us. We
are the slaves of heredity, and of all manner of notions of duties, of
the licit and the illicit."
One day I took him to the National Gallery. I was quite unprepared
for the effect of this step. He walked about nervously for some time,
looking from one picture to another with evident displeasure. At last
he stopped in front of Leonardo's "Madonna delle Roccie," and remained
gazing at it for some minutes in silence, while a heavy frown gathered
round his brows. "I hate art," he exclaimed at last. "I consider it
one of the most noxious influences in the world. It is enervating
and deteriorating. Art has always been the slave of religion and
superstition, from the ancient Egyptians and Assyrians to our own times.
You see something beautiful, perhaps, in these pictures, in these saints
and Madonnas and Immaculate Conceptions? Well, when I look at them, all
the darkest pages of history seem to open before me, and generations
upon generations of superstitious slaves, toiling on and suffering with
the ever-present terror of hell-fires and chastisement, pass before
my mental vision. I should love to burn them all, to raze all these
galleries and museums to the ground, and libraries with them. For what
are libraries but storehouses of human superstition and error? We must
free ourselves from the past, free ourselves utterly from its toils,
if the future is to be ours. And we shall never free ourselves from the
past until we have forgotten it. Let us leave here. I cannot stand it
any longer! I do not know which is most repugnant to me, the asceticism
of these early Christians or the senseless fantasies of the Greeks," and
without further ado he fled.
Fired by this gospel of destruction, he spent his life wandering about
Europe, never resting for a month together, wrenching himself free from
all those ties which might curtail the freedom of his actions. Although
not fashioned by nature for enduring hardships, he alternately suffered
cold, hunger, heat, fatigue, privations, and dirt. In Paris one week,
making a brief sojourn in Spain the next, fleeing thence under warrant
of arrest to find himself some days later in hiding in Italy; at times
in prison, always in danger and uncertainty; starving one day, in fairly
flourishing conditions the next, never certain what fortune the morrow
might bring: thus the years went by, until, escaping from _domicilio
coatto_, or worse, in Italy, he had at length made his way to London and
the office of the _Tocsin_, quite broken down in health after the long
winter tramp. As I knew him, among his few personal friends, Giannoli
was loyal and honourable in the extreme, independent and proud. Like
many other Anarchists he entertained an almost maniacal prejudice
against plots and conspiracies of any kind, maintaining that such
organisations were merely police traps and death-gins. "Propaganda by
deed"--outrage, in short--they maintained should, and could, be the
outcome only of entirely individual activity. Never, indeed, did police
or press make a greater blunder than when they attributed deeds of
violence to associations and large conspiracies, and sought for or
denounced accomplices. Every one of those outrages and assassinations
which startled Europe was the act of a single man, unaided by, and
frequently unknown to other Anarchists.
This horror of plots and associations was, when I first met him, one of
the most noticeable traits about Giannoli. He was beginning to lose
his earlier assurance, worn out by the roving life he had led, and was
growing suspicious in the extreme. "Such-a-one is a police emissary," or
"So-and-so is not to be trusted" were words constantly on his lips.
To me he took a great liking, and he always showed implicit faith in me
both as an Anarchist and an individual. "You are a true Anarchist," he
said to me one day, "and I would trust you with anything, _even_" and
he emphasised the word so as to give greater weight to the compliment,
"_even_ with _explosives_!"
His suspiciousness, however, grew by leaps and bounds during his sojourn
in London. Every day he threw out hints against some new person or some
fresh imaginary conspiracy. There was a plot brewing, he informed
me, among various false comrades to ruin him. He was the victim of a
conspiracy to deprive him of his liberty and perhaps even of his life.
Not a day passed but some covert threat was made against him; men whom
he had believed his comrades, and to whom he--fool that he was!--had
confided the deadliest secrets in the past, had given him to understand
the power they held over him, and had made it clear that they would
avail themselves of it should it serve their purpose. "What fools
we Anarchists are," he exclaimed to me one day, "ever to feel any
confidence in any one! We are no longer free men when we have done this.
We are slaves."
I watched the progress of this monomania with painful interest, for
among all the Anarchists there was no individual for whom I entertained
a more genuine regard than for Giannoli. One of the worst aspects of
the matter, moreover, was that I was really unable to judge how far
Giannoli's suspicions were true and how far imaginary. As to his
sincerity there was no possibility of doubt, and this lent to all he
said an air of verisimilitude which was most convincing. I did not know
the majority of the other Italians well enough to feel positive as to
their honesty, and many of them were uncertain and somewhat suspicious
characters. Morì, for instance--the youthful Neapolitan already referred
to, the enigmatic "buttered muffin"--was quite incomprehensible. He was
a youth of no particular intelligence, and certainly of no ideality or
genuine political or anti-political convictions, and I was quite at a
loss to conjecture why he had followed the Anarchists into exile--his
only apparent reason being a disinclination to study and a desire to
escape from school. When Giannoli informed me that he was a police-spy I
really did not know whether to believe him or not.
And as the weeks passed on, Giannoli's condition grew worse and worse,
and I could see that a crisis must inevitably follow. Nor was I mistaken
in this conviction.
Late one afternoon, towards the end of September, I was busy in the
printing-room "making up" the pages of the forthcoming number of the
_Tocsin_, when, looking up from my work on which I was very intent, I
saw Giannoli walk in hurriedly with his usual restless step, and look
about the place in a nervous short-sighted way, evidently in search of
somebody. He was just about to leave again, not having noticed me, when
I called to him. "Oh, Isabel," he replied, evidently much relieved, "are
you here then!" and he came up to me. "I did not see you!" and then,
casting a glance round the room, he inquired, "Are we quite alone?"
"There are others upstairs," I answered. "If you wish to speak to me
alone I will come to your room a little later, when I have finished this
work."
"Oh, thank you, thank you," he exclaimed; "I _must_ speak to you;
I shall wait for you till you come;" and he hurried away, once more
looking furtively round the office as though fearing he were watched.
From his manner it was evident to me that he was terribly perturbed
about something and that his fears and suspicions were reaching a
climax. "Whatever can be the matter?" I asked myself as I hammered away
at my form. "Has anything serious really happened?"
Towards seven o'clock I left the printing-office and the work to the
tender mercies of Short, who was just writhing out of a peaceful sleep
of some hours' duration on the "bed" of the machine, and made my way
towards Giannoli's room, which though quite close was by no means easy
of access. Turning to my right, half-way down the court-yard, I passed
into Mrs. Wattles's house, at the summit of which my friend was located;
and here at once my progress was arrested by that lady herself, only
half sober and in a mood evidently requiring sympathy.
"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed, "are you going up to see that pore young
man? I don't know what's gone wrong with 'im of late, but for all the
world 'e looks as if 'e were sickening for something. To look at 'im's
enough. It just sets my inn'ards all of a 'eave and a rumble, and I 'ave
to take a little drop o' something warm to settle 'em again."
"Damnation!" I muttered inwardly at finding myself trapped at such a
moment; but there was nothing for it; I had to wait and hear out the
long and weary recital of the sickness and agony of her deceased son, to
whom she had suddenly discovered a resemblance in Giannoli. At the end
of a long discourse, full of those "sickening details" in which women
of her class delight, she summed up her case with a brief but telling
epitome of his career, to the effect that he never smoked, nor drank,
nor swore, but that he "only gave one sniff and died;" and I, determined
to escape from the inevitable sequel, when Wattles senior's vices would
be declaimed in contrast to the son's virtues, beat a hasty retreat.
A few scraps of this anticlimax, mingled with hiccups and sobs, wafted
after me as I wended my way up the uneven wooden stairs. At the top
of these a perilous-looking ladder gave access to a trap-door, through
which I dexterously made my way into Giannoli's room.
The interior was familiar to me--a squalid little den, some ten feet
square, whose dirty, brown-paper-patched window looked out over the
chimneys and yards of the "Little Hell" district. In one corner of the
room was a mysterious cupboard, through which a neighbouring chimney
contrived to let in a constant supply of filthy black smoke. The bare
unwashed boards were rotting away, and at one spot the leg of the bed
had gone through the floor, to the considerable alarm of its dormant
occupant. The wall-paper, which had once been a gorgeous combination of
pink and cobalt and silver, was tattered and discoloured, and so greasy
that one might imagine that generations of squalid lodgers had made
their meals off it. The furniture consisted of a small table, now
covered with a perpetual litter of papers; a ramshackle wash-hand stand,
on which a broken vegetable dish served as a receptacle for soap and
such objects; a bed, which bred remarkable crops of fleas, and to which
clung an old patchwork quilt, but which was otherwise poor in adornment;
a chair, and an old travelling-box. As I have already mentioned, a
trap-door in the floor gave access to this apartment. There was no other
door.
When I entered Giannoli was sitting at his table with his face buried
in his hands, so deeply absorbed in his own reflections that for some
seconds he did not notice my advent. When at last I made my presence
known to him he gave a violent start, and, holding out both his hands,
he wrung mine for some moments in silence. Then he motioned me to the
box; I seated myself; once more he became silent; then, suddenly raising
his head, he looked me full in the face.
"Do you know why I wished to speak to you?" he asked; "can you guess?
Oh, it is no light matter, Isabel, which has led me to trouble you,
no pleasant matter either. I am on the brink of ruin, threatened and
betrayed by my most trusted friends. I must leave here at once, go right
away from London and England. My life is not safe here for another day."
He spoke in Italian, and as he grew more excited his voice rose higher
and higher, though every now and again he was minded to control it, as
though fearing he might be overheard. "Yes," he continued, "those men
whom I have most trusted, whom I have treated as my own brothers, with
whom I have often shared my last shilling and the very clothes off my
back, have turned against me. They are in league to destroy me. They are
plotting against my liberty and my life!" For some minutes he raved on
in this style, every now and again breaking off into curses, while I
listened half horrified, half incredulous.
"For goodness' sake," I exclaimed at last, "do try and be calmer,
Giannoli, and tell me what has happened and what you wish me to do."
"You are right," he answered, making an effort to control himself; "I
must explain the matter or you cannot understand.... I will talk to you
frankly, for you at any rate are above suspicion. You may perhaps be
aware that I have been connected with many serious Anarchist ventures
in the past. The explosions at St. ----, the affair in V---- three years
ago, the sacking of the bank in Barcelona. All of these were, of course,
very dangerous matters, in which I risked my life; but it all tended
towards the destruction of society, and I readily took the risk. As far
as possible I avoided taking other comrades into my confidence--partly
out of regard for my own safety, partly with a view to theirs. To one or
two well-trusted men, however, I confided my projects, so that in case
of my arrest all proper measures might be taken." (Gnecco was one of
these "trusted comrades," B---- and Morì were others.) "I was mistaken
in my estimate of these men, mistaken in my confidence in them. From
their lips my secret has been wormed or bought by others, until now it
has become a byword, and every indiscreet fool and paid spy in our midst
knows the tale of my past better than I do myself. I no longer
dare attend our meetings, for all around me I hear whisperings and
insinuations, and my name being passed from one mouth to another along
with references to my past actions. The torture is becoming unendurable.
Some of these cowards even descend to taunting me with their knowledge;
and when I, in any way, cross their purposes in our discussions, they
threaten me covertly with exposure. That disgusting young fool, Morì,
only to-day, being jealous of me in some trivial matter, tried to
intimidate me by hinting at the V---- affair. I felt that I could have
struck him down where he stood; and then a sense of my own impotence
overtook me, and I stood there, silent and confused, trying to laugh
the matter off, as though I had not grasped his meaning. But I can stand
this state of things no longer: it is driving me mad. When I am alone
now I suddenly start with the feeling that some one is coming on me
unawares. This afternoon, wishing to be alone and to think matters over,
I took a walk about the Park, but the very trees seemed to be whispering
about me, and before long I perceived that I was followed, that my
movements were being dogged step by step. When I am alone in my room
they do not even leave me in peace. They obtain entrance here by means
of that Wattles woman, who is evidently in their pay. B---- cannot
forgive me for not having appropriated to our private use the money
expropriated in Barcelona for the propaganda; and this indeed is one
of their principal grievances against me. Would you believe it, Isabel,
last night he actually got into this house and woke me from sleep by
shouting the name of the bank through that hole? When I rushed down to
find him, determined to teach him a sound lesson, he was gone. But what
use is there in my enlarging on this subject? You cannot fail to see
the danger I am in, and the absolute imperative necessity for flight.
Another day's procrastination may be my undoing. Who knows what signal
they are awaiting to denounce me, and how many others may be implicated
in my ruin? I must get away from here; I must flee in absolute secrecy,
and none of them must be allowed to suspect where I am gone. You and
Kosinski alone I can trust. You alone must be in the secret of my
flight. Will you help me, Isabel?" and at this point Giannoli seized my
hand, and then, overcome and unnerved by excitement, he allowed his head
to sink on to the table and sobbed convulsively.
My head was fairly swimming by this time. How far was all this true? how
far the imaginings of an over-wrought, over-excited brain? However, the
immediate urgencies of the situation gave me no time to carefully weigh
the matter. I must either act or refuse to act, thereby leaving my
friend alone to his despair and possible ruin. I decided on the former
course.
"I think that you exaggerate, Giannoli," I answered him. "You are ill
and over-wrought, and require rest and change. Get away from here by all
means if there is any danger in remaining, but do not take too gloomy a
view of the situation. I am at your disposal and willing to help you in
every way in my power. Tell me where you think of going, and what I can
do. But in the meantime, had we not better get supper somewhere, and
discuss the situation over a little reassuring food?"
This unheroic but practical suggestion met with poor Giannoli's
approbation, and he confessed to not having broken his fast all day.
He also seemed relieved at the prospect of leaving the vicinity of the
office where he was convinced that spies surrounded him, and having
thanked and re-thanked me over and over again for my proffered
assistance, he led the way down the ladder, and together we gained
the street. I was horribly shocked at the haggard strained look of the
unfortunate Italian which the clearer light down here revealed. He
had aged ten years since his arrival. We made our way towards a
small restaurant in Soho frequented principally by the lower order of
_cocotte_, and here over a savoury but inexpensive meal we discussed our
plans.
"I can scarcely dare believe that this hell is coming to an end!"
exclaimed Giannoli. "The assurance of your sympathy is already
lightening my burden. I am beginning once more to take hope and courage!
Oh, to have at last left that awful den where night and day I have felt
myself watched by unseen treacherous eyes, and my every breath noted by
my enemies! I shall never put foot there again. You and Kosinski must
get my things away from there to-night, and to-morrow I leave London by
the first continental train."
"Where do you purpose going?" I inquired.
"To South America, as soon as the arrival of funds will allow it, but,
this not being practicable for the moment, I propose going first to
Lisbon. There I will hide for a few weeks until I restart for Buenos
Ayres, and I trust that this will have the advantage of putting my
'friends' off the track. Even for this little voyage I do not at the
present moment possess the necessary funds, but in this you can no
doubt assist me, for in a few days I expect some thirty pounds from my
relations in Italy. If you will return to my room to-night you might
rescue my guitar and what few little objects of value I possess and pawn
them, and burn all papers and documents of any kind."
"You have left everything till rather late!" I could not help
exclaiming, not a little taken aback at the amount to be done, and at
the rapidly advancing hour.
Supper over, I left Giannoli in Oxford Street, and made tracks for his
lodging, which by great good luck I reached without any obstruction. I
locked myself in, rescued a few papers of importance, burnt the rest,
put his scanty personal belongings together in a box which it had been
agreed I was subsequently to send Kosinski to fetch, and having secured
his guitar, a silver-handled umbrella, and two or three other articles
of small value, I proceeded with these to a neighbouring pawnbroker. I
may mention here that since my connection with the Anarchist movement,
and its consequent demands on my pocket, I had become quite familiar
with the ins and outs, and more especially the ins, of these most
invaluable relatives.
I reached the side door of Mr. Isaac Jacob's establishment on the stroke
of eleven, but as Providence and would-be drunkards had mercifully
ordained that pawnbrokers should remain open later than usual on
Saturday, I was still able to effect an entrance. I laid my goods down
on the counter, and politely requested the temporary loan of 3 pounds.
"Three pounds for this damned lot of old rubbish," exclaimed the
indignant Jew. "Do you take this for a public charity? It's not worth
fifteen shillings to me, the whole lot!" and he turned the things over
with his greasy hands, as though they were objectionable offal. We
finally compromised for thirty-two shillings, with which sum in my
pocket I triumphantly sallied forth.
My next move was to disinter Kosinski, whom I felt pretty certain of
finding at a certain coffee-stall where, at that advanced hour, he was
in the habit of making his one and only diurnal, or rather nocturnal
repast. This coffee-stall was situated at the corner of Tottenham Court
Road and a side street, and there, sure enough, stood Kosinski, munching
sardines on toast, and buns, and drinking coffee, surrounded by a motley
group of cabmen and loose women. These had evidently grown used to his
regular attendance and treated him with marked respect and friendliness,
many of the unfortunate women having often had to thank him for a meal
and the price of a night's lodging when luck had failed them in other
directions.
Kosinski was somewhat taken aback at my sudden appearance. "You,
Isabel!" he exclaimed in some confusion, "what can have brought you
here? But may I offer you a little supper? These buns are excellent!"
Tired and worried as I was, I could not help smiling at the awkward
manner in which he made this offer. "No, thank you," I answered, "I
am not hungry. I have come to fetch you in connection with a rather
important matter. Can you come with me when you have finished your
supper?"
"Yes, certainly," answered Kosinski, "if there is anything I can do.
Just let me finish these few mouthfuls and I will follow you. In the
meantime will you explain what is the matter?"
Without further ado I explained to him the whole Giannoli affair as I
understood it. It was a relief to me to do so, and I was anxious to
hear his opinion. He was silent for some minutes after I had finished
speaking, and munched reflectively the last relics of his supper.
"I am afraid," he said at last, "that Giannoli is not quite well--not
quite well, mentally, I mean," he added after a slight pause. "At the
same time, it is quite possible that there is some truth in what he
suspects. Spies have always been abundant in our party and Giannoli is a
very likely victim. He has been imprudent in the past, too believing and
too foolhardy. I do not know very much about the men whom he primarily
suspects, but Gnecco certainly I believe to be above suspicion. In any
case it will be safer for him to leave.... I am ready now.... What can I
do? Where are you going?"
"Home, and to bed," I answered. "I have been on my feet all day and I am
very tired. Moreover, there is nothing that I can do till to-morrow."
I then explained to him what he was to do, where we were to meet on
the following morning, and where he could find Giannoli that night. He
acquiesced and we parted.
Early the following morning I found Giannoli and Kosinski, as
prearranged, awaiting my arrival under the bridge of Waterloo Station.
Both looked very washed out, with the fagged and pasty look of people
who have been up all night. They were strolling up and down, carrying
Giannoli's box between them, and making a fine but very obvious show of
indifference towards a policeman who eyed them suspiciously. "Here, move
on, you fellows," he was saying gruffly as I came up with them, and on
perceiving me they seemed glad enough to be able to do so.
"That stupid policeman wanted to arrest us as rogues and vagabonds,"
Kosinski explained to me as we made our way towards a neighbouring
coffee-shop for breakfast. "A pretty fix that would have been just
now! We had scarcely settled down for a quiet sleep on the box when the
meddlesome fool came up and asked our names and addresses, what we had
there, what we were doing at that hour, and threatened to take us in
charge unless we moved on. When I explained that we were simply waiting
for our train he laughed, and said that was a likely tale! If you had
not come along and thus confirmed our assertion that we expected a
friend, I really believe he would have arrested us."
"Well, is everything arranged?" I inquired as we settled down to our
breakfast. "How did you get on last night?"
"Oh, we have had nothing but mishaps and adventures all night," returned
Kosinski. "What a night! Thank goodness it is over at last. After you
left, towards one o'clock, I went off to Giannoli's room to fetch his
box. I confess that I felt a little nervous about this, for I dreaded an
encounter with that horrible Mrs. Wattles. She talks and talks and talks
to me whenever she sees me, and insists upon asking the most indelicate
questions. She is a perfect savage. But no matter; let me get on. As I
crawled upstairs, I heard her in her room abusing her poor husband in
the most disgusting terms. I held my breath and crept up. I found the
trunk right enough in the corner, though it was none too easy to find,
as there was no light in the room, and I was afraid of lighting even a
match for fear of attracting attention. But on the way down a terrible
accident occurred. My foot caught in a scrap of oilcloth at the top of
the stairs, just outside Mrs. Wattles's room, and I fell. Crash down
the stairs went the box, and I rattled after it. The noise, of course,
brought Mrs. Wattles screaming and swearing to the door. Then, bruised
and bewildered as I was, I seized on the box and fled. Down the
remaining stairs, out through the door, and into the street, I ran as
for dear life. Oh I have never run like that before, Isabel! I remember
years ago, when escaping from prison in Russia, my life depended on the
efficiency of my legs. But I did not run with such fervour as I ran last
night from that woman. I still feel unspeakably grateful when I think
that I escaped without being recognised. She raced down after me, but
being half-drunk she fell in the passage, and it was that which saved
me.... I found Giannoli in Trafalgar Square."
The remainder of the night they had spent peacefully enough, wandering
about the streets, occasionally being "moved on" by a policeman, until
the sceptical officer already referred to had evinced an intention of
arresting them both as rogues and vagabonds. I could not help smiling
at the peremptory manner in which poor Giannoli's adventures had almost
been brought to a conclusion.
I gave Giannoli the proceeds of the previous night's pawnings, and I and
Kosinski turned out on the table what money we had about us. It was
just sufficient to cover the expenses of the first stage of Giannoli's
journey.
We proceeded--a quaint procession--to the station. Kosinski led the way
with head bent forward and even resolute tread, apparently untired and
unaffected by his night's vicissitudes, with the much battered box
on his shoulders. Behind him followed Giannoli and myself, the former
nervous and unstrung, constantly turning from right to left with the
idea that we were being followed. In the station, half deserted this
Sunday morning, we had another long wait. We talked of many things
together, and I had never found Kosinski so friendly and communicative
before. There existed between Giannoli and himself the keen sympathy and
understanding of two men equally devoted to an idea, equally willing to
sacrifice everything to it. The Russian was more of a philosopher than
the Italian, more engrossed in abstractions, more oblivious of his own
personality, and this it was that had saved him from the possibility of
Giannoli's terrible malady. At the same time he was by no means inclined
to make light of Giannoli's fears, and together they talked them over,
Kosinski promising to investigate them after his friend's departure, and
to see if it was possible to discover who was really at fault.
"No man can ever hold such threats over me," said Kosinski, "for I have
never taken any one into my confidence. I have always acted alone. Some
day it may fall to my lot to pay with my life for some action on
behalf of our ideas. When that moment comes I shall be ready for the
sacrifice."
"I too," exclaimed Giannoli with fervour--"I too would not hesitate
to make the sacrifice if I felt the right moment had arrived. If
to-morrow--if at this very moment--I saw the means of advancing the
Anarchist cause by the sacrifice of my life, I would give it without
regret or hesitation. But to lose it for no purpose, before I have
finished my work, to fall a victim to the envy and treachery of my own
comrades, and to involve others in my own ruin, I cannot bear. When my
time comes to die I wish to feel that my death is at any rate of some
use. There are moments when an Anarchist can help his ideas on better by
dying than by living. But for me the moment is not yet quite ripe."
He then relapsed into silence, and the two friends sat together,
engrossed in their own reflections, without saying a word.
After a time Giannoli turned to me: "I will write to you as soon as I
reach Lisbon, Isabel, and let you know how I am getting on. There
at least I am little known, and I will stay with an old friend whose
sincerity is above suspicion--Avvocato Martini. You and Kosinski are the
only two persons whom I regret in leaving London. You have done more for
me than I can ever thank you for. You have saved my life, and although
I do not value life for itself, it may be of value to our Cause, and
I hope yet to give it for some good purpose. Give what explanation you
think fit of my disappearance. Above all, let no one suspect where I am
gone."
The train left at ten o'clock. Giannoli was deeply affected at parting
from us, and as the train was about to leave he seized our hands and
embraced us. "Something tells me," he exclaimed, "that I shall never see
either of you again. Write to me sometimes and bear me in mind. Do not
believe any lies you may be told about me. I have only our principles at
heart. Good-bye," and the train steamed out of the station.
I remained alone with Kosinski. The hour was still quite early, and
there was much to be talked over together. "Let us go to some picture
gallery," I suggested, "so as to talk things over and to settle what we
are to give out concerning Giannoli's disappearance."
"No, please, don't," answered the Russian in genuine alarm; "you know
how I hate art, Isabel. It goads me to madness. We must think of some
other place."
We strolled out of the station together and wended our way across the
bridge and along the Strand, up by St. Martin's Church, and eventually
found ourselves close to old St. Giles's Churchyard. "Let us sit down
here," I said, indicating a seat; "I am tired of walking."
"It is little better than a picture gallery," murmured Kosinski, "but it
will do if you are tired," and we sat down. Kosinski advised me to feign
absolute ignorance of Giannoli's whereabouts and to set afloat the idea
of his having committed suicide. He asked me to let him know as soon
as I received news from the fugitive, and he, in the meantime, would
investigate the matter of the "conspiracy." As we parted he said to me:
"I am very glad, Isabel, that I have had to deal with you in this
matter. You may sometimes have thought me unduly harsh in my estimate of
your sex. I am not without reason in this. Women are rarely of much
use in a movement like ours. They so rarely seem able to forget
_themselves_, to detach themselves from the narrow interests of their
own lives. They are still the slaves of their past, of their passions,
and of all manner of prejudices. But you are different.... There have
even been moments when I felt that I had other things to say to you,
things which it is better to leave unsaid. I must not be guilty of the
weakness which I condemn in women. An Anarchist's life, you see, is
scarcely his own. He has no time to indulge in personal sentiment.
Good-bye," and before I had time to answer he was gone.
I returned home and spent the remainder of the day locked in my room,
absorbed in many conflicting thoughts. I was grieved beyond words at
Giannoli's trouble, at the possibility of foul play, at the almost more
grievous possibility of mental disorder in him. Then again and again
Kosinski's last words recurred to me, and I could not help reflecting
that, slight as they were, he had probably never said so much to any
other woman. I was compelled to admit to myself that the Russian, for
all his strange ideas and brusque manners, had grown to be a great deal
to me. But I felt that he was a hopeless case--the kind of man to whom
personal happiness was unknown, and who would succeed in rendering
unhappy any one rash enough to care for him. "How easy happiness might
be," I reflected, "with our ideas, with our freedom from prejudice. And
yet it is these very ideas which will ruin his life, which----" Half
unconsciously I found that my thoughts had been drifting from abstract
ideas and abstract enthusiasms to persons, and with this divorce from
abstractions began a feeling of weariness, of nausea. I thought of
Kosinski's words again, of his contempt for personal sentiment in an
Anarchist, of what he had said about women; and I struggled hard within
myself to turn my thoughts into other channels. It was useless, and at
last, weary of the effort, I retired to bed and took refuge in slumber.
During the following weeks I worked on fairly regularly at the _Tocsin_
and saw Kosinski not unfrequently, on which occasions he most carefully
avoided any recurrence of personalities, however vague these might be.
Giannoli's disappearance created considerable commotion, and every one
was at a loss to imagine what could have become of him. My relations
with those Italians whom he had suspected were naturally very strained
and uncomfortable, for I did not know what to think of them, how far to
trust or mistrust them. Kosinski, as promised, investigated the
matter as carefully as he could, but the exact truth was difficult to
ascertain. Gnecco we neither of us for one instant suspected, but we
felt some degree of uncertainty about the others. Whether or no there
had been some amount of unclean work going on, it was anyway quite
certain that a great part of Giannoli's suspicions were the outcome of
his overwrought and exhausted mental condition.
About a fortnight after his departure I received at last a letter from
Giannoli. This consisted of a few words, written evidently in much
hurry and perturbation of spirit. He thanked me for the money from his
relatives, which I had forwarded, which would, he said, enable him to
leave at once for Argentina. "It has arrived in the very nick of time,"
he wrote, "for here I am no longer safe. Avvocato Martini, of whom I
spoke to you in such high terms, is not to be trusted. He intercepts
my letters, and has, I believe, communicated with my enemies in London.
Thank Heaven! I am now able to get away. In South America I shall once
more settle down to the propaganda work, and I shall be out of the power
of these informers. My old friend, Giovanni Barelli, awaits me there.
We shall live together and life will once more become endurable. I am
anxious to hear from Kosinski. What is the result of his inquiries? My
best love to him and to you, dear friend, and again a thousand thanks to
you both. I will write at greater length from America."
I showed the letter to Kosinski. He read it through with a serious
expression. "I fear," he said, "that it is a case of hallucination, and
that there is but very slight foundation of truth to his suspicions.
I have looked into the matter and can see no adequate grounds for
suspecting the men whom he regarded as his enemies over here. Giannoli
exaggerates and distorts everything. I must write to him and try to
reassure him about this. I will tell him that he is mistaken. We cannot
afford to lose such a comrade."
"Beware," I returned half in jest--"beware, lest you too fall under his
ban."
"Oh, there is no fear of that," answered Kosinski with assurance. "He
knows me too well. I am the oldest friend he has. I can and must tell
him the truth."
Kosinski wrote, and the weeks passed on. A month after Giannoli's
arrival in Buenos Ayres I received another letter from him. Once again
he declared that he was not safe, that he must take flight. Barelli, of
whom he had always spoken with the most brotherly affection, had turned
against him. He and other false comrades had entered into a plot to
murder him, and at the time of writing he had fled from their ken and
was in hiding in some remote and populous district, awaiting the arrival
of money which would enable him to return to Europe. Then, later on,
there arrived another letter from Lisbon, disconnected in matter, shaky
in writing, full of the wildest and most improbable statements.
"I feel like a hunted animal," he wrote; "I have been driven about from
pillar to post, from one end of the civilised world to another. I am
growing very weary of all this, and am trying to devise how to terminate
a situation which is growing intolerable. Here I am again in hiding, and
dare not venture from my lair till the dead of night. What money I had
is almost at an end. My clothes are falling off my back. I have not
changed my linen for weeks, having forgotten my old valise in my hurried
departure from Buenos Ayres. My health is failing, and I feel utterly
helpless and wretched. You would be horrified if you could see me now.
I am ill, and at night I can get no sleep. Every moment I expect them to
break in, murder me, and seize my papers. Those devils from Buenos Ayres
are already on my track. I have not heard from Kosinski. His letter
has no doubt been intercepted. As soon as possible I shall proceed
to Gibraltar. I am thinking out a plan to end all this. _Do you
understand?_"
Some weeks later I received from Gibraltar a letter in which Giannoli
informed me that yet once more he was compelled to abscond himself,
further plottings against him rendering this necessary. He had been
seriously ill, he wrote, and his strength was quite giving out. He was,
at the time of writing, on the eve of departure for Barcelona, where
he was determined "to end it all." He had at last received Kosinski's
letter, and would write at greater length from Barcelona. He warned me
to beware of false friends.
These last sentences troubled me very much. What could it all mean? What
was impending? And Kosinski; did he doubt _him_ too?
But this state of uncertainty as to his meaning was destined to be but
of short duration. Barely a week had elapsed since my receipt of the
above letter when, as I stood alone in the composing-room one morning,
I was surprised to see the figure of an unknown man appear above the
balustrade leading from below. He was evidently a foreigner and a
Southerner, and walking straight up to me he asked in Italian, but with
a distinct Spanish accent, "Are you Isabel Meredith?"
On my answering in the affirmative, he handed me a sealed note on which
was written my name in Giannoli's familiar hand.
"This is for you," he said, "I bring it direct from Barcelona. It is
strictly private. Good morning," and as mysteriously as he had appeared
he was gone.
Even before opening it, the shaky writing on the envelope told me only
too eloquently that matters were no better with Giannoli at the time he
penned it. Moreover, I felt certain, from the extraordinary nature of
its delivery, that it must contain news of exceptional moment. A dull,
sick feeling of dread overcame me as I stood irresolute, holding the
unopened letter in my hand. I was tempted to put it aside and postpone
the knowledge of any unpleasant news it might contain. I knew this,
however, to be a weakness, and so with an effort I tore it open. It read
as follows:--
"DEAREST FRIEND,--This is a letter which it would be unsafe to consign
to the post. Therefore I send it to you by hand, by means of an old
friend who can be trusted. He is not a comrade, and has no knowledge of
its contents. A few days back I wrote to you from Gibraltar, telling you
of the serious break-down in my health, and of the circumstances which
had compelled me once again to leave Lisbon. Now, at last, I feel in a
measure more composed, for my resolution is taken, and I mean to end my
life--not without benefit to our Cause, I hope. You are the only person
with whom I am communicating. Even Kosinski has been bought over by my
enemies. A letter from him was forwarded to me in Lisbon, in which
he sided with the spies who have been trying to ruin me, and which
contained covert threats which I understood only too well. Thus another
illusion is shattered! The burden of all these disillusions, all these
disgusts and disappointments, is too heavy to bear any longer. I must
get away from it all before my health and intellect are completely
shattered. I have always thought suicide a cowardly death for an
Anarchist. Before taking leave of life it is his duty to strike a final
blow at Society and I, at least, mean to strike it. Here the moment is
in every way ripe. Ever since the explosion in Madrid, eight months ago,
the Anarchists have been the victims of the most savage persecutions. I
have seen one man with his nails torn off, and another raving mad with
thirst, after having been kept without water, and fed on salt cod during
sixty hours. Others have been tortured in prison in other ways--some
tortures so vile and filthy that I would not tell you of them. I write
this in order to show you that the moment is ripe here for some vigorous
act of reprisal. It is impossible to strike a blow at all those who are
responsible, for the whole of Society is to blame: but those most guilty
must suffer for it. I am prepared to strike my final blow before I take
my leave, and you will learn from the papers in a few days' time the
exact nature of the act I contemplate.
"And now I must beg you to pardon me for all the trouble and disturbance
I have occasioned you, dear friend; I can never thank you enough. You,
and you alone, have been true to me. For your own sake, I entreat you
also to beware of false friends--especially avoid Kosinski.----Yours
ever,
"GIACOMO GIANNOLI."