A CRISIS
The flight of Giannoli, and all the worry and turmoil occasioned
thereby, told on my health. I did not admit as much to myself, and I
still kept on at the paper as usual through the very thick of it all.
For one thing, this was necessary in order not to arouse the curiosity
of many of the comrades, and moreover there is no doubt that whatever
line of life we may adopt we gradually become the creatures of our
habits, however much we may scoff at such a notion. Thus, though I had
grown out of the first stage of youthful enthusiasm when I revelled in
squalor and discomfort, and sincerely believed myself to be one of the
hubs round which the future Revolution and the redemption of mankind
circled, and though experience had opened my eyes to much that was
unlovely, and not a little which was despicable, in my associates, still
I stuck at my post and continued my work on the paper.
On arriving at the office towards nine every morning, my first task
was to get Short out of pawn in the neighbouring coffee-shop, where
he retired--regardless of the fact that his pockets were but capacious
vacuums--in order to regale himself on shop eggs and fly-blown pastry,
and where his person was detained as a pledge till my purse redeemed
him.
I would then work away, "dissing" or "comping," "locking up forms," or
writing a "leader," till some of the Italians, keenly alive to their
ownership of stomachs, would call me off to partake of a Milanese
_minestra_, or to pronounce on the excellencies of a mess of _polenta_.
Then would follow an hour devoted to digestion and talk, when Short, if
in a bad temper, would smoke abominable shag, and raise the bowl of
his clay pipe into quite perilous proximity with his eyebrows, and if
genially inclined, would entertain some one member of the company to
dark tales and fearsome hints as to the depraved habits and questionable
sincerity of his or her dearest friend.
He had of late developed a great interest in my welfare, and Kosinski
had been his special butt. He had always hated the latter on account of
his vast moral superiority to himself, and seemed specially desirous of
discrediting him in my eyes. The Russian came pretty frequently to the
office during the months following on Giannoli's disappearance. He was
always singularly uncommunicative about his own concerns; his intimate
friends were not aware of his address; how he lived or what his home
life was none seemed to know; and, indeed, he was one of those men who,
without ever saying a word to that effect, make one feel that their
private life is no concern of any one but themselves. Short, however,
hinted at things he _could_ say if he _would_, spoke in general terms of
the disgracefulness of exploiting the affections of women, referred in
an undertone to "that Kosinski's" luck, adding that, of course, one had
a right to act according to one's inclination, still Anarchists should
set an example, &c., &c. I, of course, took such observations at their
true value; I knew Short and Kosinski too well to give two thoughts to
the matter. Still when, on top of all this mysterious talk, I received
Giannoli's letter, in which he spoke of his folly in trusting his
supposed friend, and accused him of being neither more nor less than an
agent in the hands of the International police, I felt my brain whirl,
and really wondered whether I was the sole sane person in a mad world,
or whether the reverse were not the case.
It was now some weeks since I had last seen Dr. Armitage. He had written
to explain his absence, alleging stress of work, in which I readily
believed; for though I knew his regular practice had been much neglected
during the preceding year, I also knew that there was not an Anarchist
within twenty miles who did not expect him to attend on himself and
family when in illness or trouble, an obligation with which the doctor
willingly complied, though not only did he take no fees, but generally
had to provide the patients with all their creature comforts. No sort
of change had occurred in our relations to each other, but lately he
had seemed more than ever preoccupied, absorbed in the propaganda, ever
devising new plans for spreading the "movement." He seemed less and less
inclined to keep up his West End connection, and confessed that he
had but scant patience wherewith to listen to the polite ailments and
sentimental troubles of fashionable ladies. He had given much time to
the _Tocsin,_ writing many really remarkable papers for it, but lately,
since Kosinski had come more to the front, and I had been so much taken
up with Giannoli's affairs, he had, perhaps intentionally, kept more
away from the office.
It was with a feeling of real pleasure that I saw him enter at last one
Saturday evening early in April. I had been feeling tired and depressed,
and only by an effort of will had I kept myself at my work. I was struck
at the change that a few weeks had wrought in the doctor's appearance.
His hair had grown unusually long, quite noticeably so, his tall figure
was somewhat bent, and there was an unusual appearance about his dress.
He had not yet cast aside the garb of civilisation, but his trousers
evinced a tendency to shrink, and he appeared to contemplate affecting
low necks in the matter of shirts. His feet were shod in sandals of a
peculiar make, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. As he came
towards me his characteristic kindly smile lit up his drawn features,
and he grasped my hand with friendly warmth. I was delighted to see him,
but somewhat shocked at the alteration in his looks. In answer to my
inquiries as to his prolonged absence, he explained that he had been
very busy for one thing, and that he had also been much preoccupied with
his own thoughts on questions of principle and propaganda.
"You know, Isabel," he said, "my habit of silence when confronted
by mental problems. I think I must belong to the race of ruminating
animals, and it is only by quietly chewing the cud of my ideas that
I can digest and assimilate them. It used to be just the same in my
student days, and doubtless the habit will stick to me through life.
When I have once thought out a point, and settled in my own mind on the
right course of action, I am not as a rule troubled by hesitation or
doubts, and then I like to talk and discuss, but the initial stage seems
to need solitude. Besides, I know you have been very much taken up of
late months. I have seen Kosinski sometimes, and had your news from him.
You are not looking well; you must have been overtaxing your strength,
and need a rest."
"Doctor, cure yourself, I might well say," I rejoined. "There is nothing
much amiss with me. I am a little fagged perhaps, nothing more. But you
look very much run down. I am sure you have been neglecting yourself
very much of late."
"Oh, no, on the contrary," replied the doctor, "I have been giving much
thought lately to food and dress reform in their bearings on the social
question, and I have been putting some of my ideas into practice in my
own person. I have never felt in better health. All superfluous fat has
been got rid of, and my mind feels singularly lucid and clear. I have
been going on quite long rounds propagandising, often walking as much as
twenty and thirty miles a day, and, thanks to my somewhat more rational
dress and to my diet of raw oatmeal and fresh fruit, I have found no
difficulty in so doing. But will you not come for a walk with me? It is
a beautiful evening, and here the atmosphere is so close and stuffy. Do
come, I should so enjoy a quiet talk with you. I have much I want to say
to you, and I have come this evening in the hope of an opportunity to
say it."
I agreed, and we sallied forth. At the entrance to the courtyard we
encountered Mrs. Wattles holding forth to a group of gossips amongst
whom stood Short (for no scandal-mongering was too trivial to
interest him), on the disappearance of Giannoli from her house and
her suppositions as to his fate--a theme of which she never wearied. I
managed to slip by without attracting her attention, so absorbed was she
with the enthralling mystery, only to find myself in for another almost
worse danger. For there at the corner of P. Street and the Euston Road
stood the Bleeding Lamb, surrounded by a hooting and uproarious crowd.
He had, it appeared, interrupted the Gospel-preaching of the Rev.
Melchisedek Hicks with some inappropriate inquiry as to the probable
whereabouts of Nelson on the resurrection day. This was considered
irreverent by the admirers of the Rev. Hicks, who forthwith began to
jibe and jeer at the Bleeding Lamb, who, in his turn, exchanging the
meekness of the traditional victim for the righteous indignation of
a prophet misjudged, had volleyed a torrent of abuse on all present,
consigning them unconditionally to hell-fire. As Armitage and I
neared the scene a constable was taking the names and addresses of all
concerned, and was manifesting his intention of marching off the poor
Lamb to durance vile.
Armitage took in the situation at a glance, and, hurrying up, addressed
the man in blue. "I know this man very well, officer," he said in an
authoritative voice. "I can answer that he gives his name and address
correctly; there is no need to arrest him."
"And who are _you?_ I should like to know," inquired the irate
policeman; "I think I can answer for your address, Colney Hatch ain't
far off the mark."
"This is my card," answered the doctor, handing one over to the
constable with a dignified gesture. The latter seemed somewhat impressed
and taken aback, and after grumbling some remarks in an undertone and
eyeing the Lamb in a suspicious and unconvinced manner, he told him to
be off sharp if he did not wish to find himself in the cells, and
then vented his spleen and unappeased zeal on behalf of his country
by cuffing, shoving and abusing the corner-boys who had assembled to
witness the fun. We availed ourselves of the consequent confusion to
make good our escape, dodging the Lamb, who manifested an intention of
coming along with us; and soon we found ourselves, thanks to a penny
tram fare, in fresher, cleaner quarters. We got down at the corner of
Parliament Hill. The sun had just set and the clear spring twilight lent
a wonderful charm of serene peace to the scene. The undulating expanse
of Heath was growing darker and darker; in the west still lingered the
last sunset hues of pink and saffron and green; and overhead in the deep
blackening blue of night the stars were just becoming visible. We had
strolled on in silence for some time, hushed by the solemn stillness
of the evening. At last Dr. Armitage exclaimed, "Ah, Isabel, how I
sometimes long for rest and peace, and sweet wholesome surroundings! How
beautiful life might be passed with a companion such as you. The earth
is beautiful, man is naturally good; why cannot we all be happy?"
I was a little taken aback at the doctor's remark, though I had half
expected something of the sort. During the early months of my Anarchist
career, when battling with the first difficulties of starting the
_Tocsin_, we had been so constantly together that we had got into a way
of divining each other's thoughts and feelings almost without the need
of words. We never thought or talked of anything but abstract questions
of principle or the immediate needs of the propaganda, yet, as was only
natural, an undercurrent of personal sympathy had sprung up between us
which I had felt to be somewhat more pronounced on the doctor's side
than on my own. However, with him, excess of emotion always manifested
itself in renewed and redoubled zeal for the propaganda, leading him to
elaborate some quite extraordinary schemes for advancing the Cause, such
as, for instance, supplementing his daily work by keeping a coffee-stall
at night, as he considered that such a plan would afford an excellent
opportunity for quiet personal argument and for the distribution
of literature to probable converts; so that he had never broached
personalities in any definite style. Then events had followed on one
another with surprising rapidity; the advent of the Italian refugees
had contributed to change the _personnel_ if not the principles of the
_Tocsin_; a common friendship for Giannoli had brought Kosinski and
myself more together and I had, always had a decided sympathy for the
Russian, increased perhaps by the instinctive feeling that if there were
one man who would refuse to budge one inch from his principles for a
woman that man was he. I seemed to have lived ages, my character was
developing, a sense of humour was gradually modifying my views of many
matters, and during these last few months Armitage and I had drifted
somewhat apart.
There was something pathetic in his voice that night as he spoke. His
whole appearance told me that he had been passing through an acute
mental and moral crisis, and a queer feeling came over me which seemed
to warn me that something irreparable was about to take place between
us. I felt deep sympathy for this noble nature struggling for the ideal
in a world all out of gear; so thoroughly unselfish and self-sacrificing
as hardly to grasp clearly the personal side of its sufferings, and
slowly and unconsciously, in its very effort to free itself from
material trammels, falling a victim to monomania--striving too high only
to fall in a world where the sublime is divided by but a step from the
ridiculous, and where all are capable of laughing and sneering, but few
indeed of appreciating qualities such as Armitage possessed.
"We might well ask 'what is happiness?'" I rejoined in answer to his
remark, anxious to steer the conversation clear of personalities. "How
vain and trivial all our struggles seem whenever we find ourselves face
to face with the serene indifference of Nature. What are we, after all,
but fretful midges whizzing out our brief hour?"
"Ah, one is often tempted to think so," answered Armitage--and I confess
that I gave vent to a sigh of relief as I realised that he was now
started on a discussion--"but as long as injustice prevails we must
continue the struggle. I often long for rest, silence, oblivion; but the
mood passes and I awake more keenly alive than ever to the greatness of
our Cause, and our duty toward the propaganda. Nothing must be allowed
to interfere with our devotion to it, and, what is more, Isabel, we
must strive to live in such a way as to free ourselves from all
considerations that might hamper our action on its behalf. We must
simplify our lives; we must not neglect to set an example even in small
matters. The material claims of life absorb far too much of our time.
We are constantly selling our birthright for a mess of pottage. We shall
never be truly devoted propagandists till we have freed ourselves from
all care for the morrow."
"You are right," said I, "but such ideas may be carried to an excess.
We must live our lives; and as that is so we must attend more or less to
our personal wants."
"That I do not deny, Isabel," answered the doctor; "what I aim at is to
simplify them as much as possible. Thanks to my new diet I shall never
have to waste time to procure the wherewithal to fill my stomach.
Nuts and raw fruit are easily procured, and contain all the elements
essential to physical health. I am sure you will agree with me on this
point when you have considered it at length. Then again in the matter of
dress, what could be more hateful or harmful than our modern costume?
It is awful to think of the lives wasted in useless toil to produce
the means by which a so-called man of fashion contrives to make himself
hideous and ridiculous in the eyes of all sensible people. Besides there
is no doubt that we are all the creatures of our surroundings, and so
the influence of food and dress on character must be inestimable."
"Oh, doctor, do not harp so on this dress and food question!" I could
not help exclaiming. "Really, seriously, I think you have let your mind
run somewhat too much in a groove lately. Talk of vegetarianism and
dress reform! why, what you need, it seems to me, is a steak at the
Holborn and a starched shirt collar! Seriously, it grieves me to think
that you should be giving yourself up so entirely to such notions. I
consider you could do far more good to the Cause by keeping up your
practice, pursuing your studies, and working on the lines you used to be
so successful in."
Hardly had I spoken than I regretted the hastiness of my remark. I could
see at a glance that my friend was pained, more at feeling that I was
out of sympathy with him than at my actual words. He suggested that
we should turn homewards. We were nearing Fitzroy Square when he
exclaimed--
"You know, Isabel, that I have always had a great admiration for you.
I have thought you would prove one of the great figures of the coming
Revolution; I still think so, but I see that our ways are parting. You
laugh at me; yet I feel sure that my position is right. I am sorry I
have not your sympathy in my work. I had counted on it; I had come this
evening to tell you so. Perhaps some day you will understand my views
and agree with them. Till then, good-bye. I am due at a comrade's
house at Willesden; he is going in for the No Rent Campaign, and I have
promised to help him move to-night, but first I must go home and get
out of these cumbersome clothes into a more rational dress; coats and
trousers impede one's every thought and movement. Good-bye," and he
grasped my hand and was off, walking with a rapid, almost feverish
stride.
On reaching home the servant informed me that a gentleman had called
for me, and that on hearing I was out he had expressed his intention of
returning. The girl could not remember his name, but I gathered from her
description that he was a foreigner.
Just then a ring at the door interrupted her remarks, and I was
surprised to see Kosinski enter the room. He walked straight up to me
with an unwonted look of perturbation about him.
"Could you come with me at once?" he said in low, hurried tones.
"Where?" said I, feeling quite alarmed. "What is the matter?"
"With me, to my room. I need the help of some woman, but there is no
time to waste. I will explain _en route_. Will you come?"
"Certainly, at once," and I walked out with him.
I had not chanced to see him since Giannoli's last letter in which he
was denounced as belonging to the ranks of the Italian's false friends,
since when I had only heard the insinuations of Short, which, as can
easily be imagined, had not deeply impressed me, coming from such a
quarter. Still I should not have been surprised had I felt a momentary
embarrassment at finding myself suddenly in his company, and under such
decidedly unusual circumstances, but such was not the case. No one could
look into Kosinski's steady grey eyes and earnest face, pale with the
inward fire of enthusiasm, and not feel conscious of standing face to
face with one of those rare natures who have dedicated themselves, body
and soul, to the service of an ideal. I walked on hurriedly, keeping up
with his swinging stride, wondering where we were going, but not liking
to break in on his reserve by probing questions. Suddenly he seemed to
wake to a sense of reality, and turned sharply round to me.
"We are going to my room in Hammersmith," he said. "I want your
assistance, if you care to come; there is a woman there dying, a friend
of mine. You are the only person of whom I should care to ask such a
favour. Will you come? I hardly think it will be for many hours."
So then Short was right; there was a woman at the bottom of Kosinski's
life; and simultaneously with this idea there flashed across my brain a
feeling of shame at having for one instant entertained a mean thought
of my friend. "I will come," I answered; "you did well to count on my
friendship." We hurried on for several minutes in silence. Then again
Kosinski spoke:
"I had best tell you a little how matters stand," he said. "I am not
fond of talking about private concerns, but you have a right to know.
Eudoxia has lived with me for the past two years. I brought her over
with me from America. She has been suffering with consumption all this
while, and I do not think she will last the night."
"Is she a comrade?" I ventured to inquire.
"Oh, no. She hates Anarchists; she hates me. It will be a blessing to
herself when she is laid to rest at last. She was the wife of my dearest
friend, perhaps my only friend outside the Cause. Vassili had a great
intellect, but his character was weak in some respects. He was full of
noble ambitions; he had one of the most powerful minds I have known,
a quite extraordinary faculty for grasping abstract ideas. I was first
drawn towards him by hearing him argue at a students' meeting. He was
maintaining a fatalistic paradox: the total uselessness of effort, and
the vanity of all our distinctions between good and bad. All our acts,
he argued, are the outcome of circumstances over which we have no
control; consequently the man who betrays his best friend for interested
motives, and the patriot who sacrifices happiness and life for an idea
are morally on the same footing--both seek their own satisfaction,
aiming at that goal by different paths; both by so doing obey a blind
impulse. I joined in the argument, opposing him, and we kept the ball
going till 4 A.M. He walked with me to my lodgings and slept on a rug on
the floor, and we became fast friends. But though his mind was strong,
he was swayed by sensual passions. He married young, burdening himself
with the responsibility of a woman and family, and went the way of all
who do so. He would have lost himself entirely in the meshes of a
merely animal life; he seemed even to contemplate with satisfaction the
prospect of begetting children! But I could not stand by and witness the
moral degradation of my poor friend. I kept him intellectually alive,
and when once stimulated to mental activity, no one was ever more
logical, more uncompromising than he. Soon after my imprisonment he got
implicated in a conspiracy and had to flee to America. When I arrived
there after my escape I found him in the most abject condition. His
wife, Eudoxia, was ill with the germs of the disease which is now
killing her, and was constantly railing at him as the cause of their
misfortune, urging him to make a full confession and throw himself on
the mercy of the Russian authorities. Poor thing! she was ill; she had
had to leave behind her only child, and news had come of its death.
Vassili would never have done anything base, but he had not sufficient
strength of character to rise superior to circumstances. Another weak
trait in him was his keen sensibility to beauty. It was not so much the
discomfort as the ugliness of poverty which irked him. I have always
noted the deteriorating effect art has on the character in such
respects. He was grieved at his wife's illness, goaded to desperation by
her reproaches, sickened by the squalor of his surroundings, and
instead of turning his thoughts inwards and drawing renewed strength
and resolution from the spectacle of the sufferings caused by our false
morality and false society, he gave way completely and took to drink.
When I found him in New York he was indeed a wreck. He and his wife were
living in a filthy garret in the Bowery; he had nothing to do, and had
retired permanently on to a rotten old paillasse which lay in a corner;
his clothes were in pawn; he could not go out. Eudoxia earned a few
cents daily by slaving at the wash-tub, and most of this he spent in
getting drunk on vile, cheap spirits. When he saw me arrive he railed at
me as the cause of all his woes; blamed me for having dragged him on to
actions he should never have done if left to himself; and pointing to
his wife and to the squalid room, he exclaimed, 'See the results
of struggling for a higher life.' Eudoxia, for her part, hated me,
declaring that I was responsible for her husband's ruin, and that, not
content with making his life a hell on earth, I was consigning his soul
to eternal perdition. Then Vassili would burst into maudlin tears and
weep over his own degeneracy, saying that I was his only true friend.
I grieved at the decay of a fine mind; there was no hope now for him; I
could only wish that his body might soon too dissolve. I gave him what
little help I could, and he soon drank himself to death. I was with him
at the last. He seemed overcome by a great wave of pity for himself,
spoke tearfully of the might-have-beens, blamed me for having urged him
to deeds beyond his strength, and ended by exclaiming that he could
not even die in peace, as he did not know what would become of his poor
wife, whose strength was already rapidly failing. 'I am leaving her
friendless and penniless. I dragged her away from a comfortable home,
promising her happiness. She has had to sacrifice her only child to my
safety, and now, prematurely old, soured by misfortune and illness, I
am abandoning her to fight for herself. She is my victim and yours, the
victim of our ideas; it is your duty to look after her.' I promised him
so to do, and she has been with me ever since."
I had walked on, absorbed in the interest of his tale, heedless of
the distance we were covering, and now I noticed that we were already
skirting Hyde Park, and reflected that our destination must still be far
ahead.
"As your friend is so ill had we not better take the 'bus? You said we
were going to Hammersmith, and there is still quite a long walk ahead of
us," I suggested after a few minutes.
"Oh, are you tired?" he inquired; "I ought to have thought of it. I
always walk." I noticed that his hand strayed into the obviously empty
pocket of his inseparable blue overcoat, and a worried look came into
his face. I at once realised that he had not a penny on him, and deeply
regretted my remark. Not for worlds would I have suggested to him paying
the fares myself, which I should have thought nothing of doing with most
of the others.
"Oh, it was not for me," I hastened to rejoin, "I am not in the least
tired; I only thought it would be quicker, but after all we must now be
near," and I brisked up my pace, though I felt, I confess, more than a
little fagged.
Again we trudged on, absorbed in our thoughts. At last, to break the
silence I inquired of him if he had seen Armitage lately.
"It must be quite ten days now since I last saw him at a group-meeting
of the Jewish Comrades. I fear he is developing a failing common to
many of you English Anarchists; he is becoming something of a crank. He
talked to me a lot about vegetarianism and such matters. It would be a
thousand pities were he to lose himself on such a track, for he has both
intellect and character. He is unswerving where principle is at stake;
let's trust he will not lose sight of large aims to strive at minor
details."
Again a silence fell on us. My companion was evidently reviewing his
past; my brain was occupied in blindly searching the future; what would
become of us all? Kosinski, Armitage, myself? Vassili's words, "This is
the result of struggling for a higher life," haunted me. Should we after
all only succeed in making our own unhappiness, in sacrificing the weak
to our uncompromising theories, and all this without advancing the cause
of humanity one jot? The vague doubts and hesitations of the past few
weeks seemed crystallising. I was beginning to mount the Calvary of
doubt.
After a quarter of an hour Kosinski exclaimed: "Here we are. You
must not be taken aback, Isabel, if you get but scant thanks for your
kindness. Eudoxia is not well disposed towards our ideas; she looks upon
her life with me as the last and bitterest act in the tragedy of
her existence. Poor thing, I have done what I could for her, but I
understand her point of view."
Without further ado we proceeded along the passage and up the mean
wooden staircase of a third-rate suburban house, pushing past a litter
of nondescript infancy, till we stopped before a back room on the top
floor. As Kosinski turned the door handle a woman stepped forward with
her finger to her lips. "Oh, thank Gawd, you're here at last," she said
in a whisper, "your sister's been awful bad, but she's just dozed off
now. I'll go to my husband; he'll be in soon now."
"Thanks, Mrs. Day. I need not trouble you further. My friend has come to
help me."
The landlady eyed me with scant favour and walked off, bidding us
good-night.
The room was of a fair size for the style of dwelling and was divided in
two by a long paper screen. The first half was evidently Kosinski's, and
as far as I could see by the dim light, was one litter of papers, with
a mattress on the floor in a corner. We walked past the screen; and the
guttering candle, stuck in an old ginger-beer bottle, allowed me to
see a bed in which lay the dying woman. There was also a table on which
stood some medicine bottles, a jug of milk, and a glass; an armchair of
frowsy aspect, and two cane chairs. The unwashed boards were bare, the
room unattractive to a degree, still an awkward attempt at order was
noticeable. I stepped over to the bed and gazed on its occupant. Eudoxia
was a thin gaunt woman of some thirty-five years of age. Her clustering
golden hair streaked with grey; small, plaintive mouth, and clear skin
showed that she might have been pretty; but the drawn features and
closed eyelids bore the stamp of unutterable weariness, and a querulous
expression hovered round her mouth. The rigid folds of the scanty
bedclothes told of her woeful thinness, and the frail transparent hands
grasped convulsively at the coverlet. As I gazed at her, tears welled
into my eyes. She looked so small, so transient, yet bore the traces
of such mental and physical anguish. After a moment or two she slowly
opened her eyes, gazed vacantly at me without apparently realising my
presence, and in a feeble, plaintive voice made some remark in Russian.
Kosinski was at her side immediately and answered her in soothing tones,
evidently pointing out my presence. The woman fixed on me her large
eyes, luminous with fever. I stepped nearer. "Is there anything I can
do for you?" I inquired in French. "No one can do anything for me
except God and the blessed Virgin," she replied peevishly, "and they are
punishing me for my sins. Yes, for my sins," she went on, raising
her voice and speaking in a rambling delirious way, "because I have
consorted with infidels and blasphemers. Vassili was good to me; we
were happy with our little Ivan, till that devil came along. He ruined
Vassili, body and soul; he killed our child; he has lost me. I have sold
myself to the devil, for have I not lived for the past two years on his
charity? And you," she continued, turning her glittering eyes on me,
"beware, he will ruin you too; he has no heart, no religion; he cares
for nothing, for nobody, except his cruel principles. You love him, I
see you do; it is in your every movement, but beware; he will trample on
your heart, he will sacrifice you, throw you aside as worthless, as he
did with Vassili, who looked upon him as his dearest friend. Beware!"
and she sank back exhausted on the pillows, her eyes turned up under her
eyelids, a slight froth tinged with blood trickling down the corners of
her mouth.
I was transfixed with horror; I knew not what to say, what to do. I put
my hand soothingly on her poor fevered brow, and held a little water to
her lips. Then my eyes sought Kosinski. He was standing in the shadow,
a look of intense pain in his eyes and on his brow, and I knew what he
must be suffering at that moment. I walked up to him and grasped his
hand in silent sympathy; he returned the pressure, and for a moment I
felt almost happy in sharing his sorrow. We stood watching in silence;
at regular intervals the church chimes told us that the hours were
passing and the long night gradually drawing to its close. Half-past
three, a quarter to four, four; still the heavy rattling breath told us
that the struggle between life and death had not yet ceased. At last the
dying woman heaved a deep sigh, she opened her wide, staring eyes and
raised her hand as if to summon some one. Kosinski stepped forward, but
she waved him off and looked at me. "I have not a friend in the world,"
she gasped; "you shall be my friend. Hold my hand and pray for me." I
knelt by her side and did as I was bid. Never had I prayed since I
could remember, but at that supreme moment a Latin prayer learned in my
infancy at my mother's knee came back to me; Kosinski turned his face to
the wall and stood with bowed shoulders. As the words fell from my lips
the dying woman clutched my hand convulsively and murmured some words in
Russian. Then her grasp loosened. I raised my eyes to her face, and
saw that all was over. My strained nerves gave way, and I sobbed
convulsively. Kosinski was at my side.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" I heard him murmur. He laid his hand
caressingly on my shoulder. The candle was flaring itself out, and
everything assumed a ghastly blue tint as the first chill light of dawn,
previous to sunrise, stole into the room. I rose to my feet and went
over to the window. How cold and unsympathetic everything looked! I
felt chilly, and a cold shudder ran down my limbs. Absolute silence
prevailed, in the street, in the house, in the room, where lay the dead
woman staring fixedly before her. Kosinski had sunk into a chair, his
head between his hands. I looked at him in silence and bit my lip. An
unaccustomed feeling of revolt was springing up in me. I could not and
did not attempt to analyse my feelings, only I felt a blind unreasoning
anger with existence. How stupid, how objectless it all seemed! The
church clock rung out the hour, five o'clock. Kosinski rose, he walked
to the bedside, and closed poor Eudoxia's staring eyes, and drew the
sheet over her face. Then he came over to me.
"I shall never forget your kindness, Isabel. There is yet one thing I
will ask of you; I know that Eudoxia wanted a mass to be said for her
and Vassili; will you see about carrying out this wish of hers? I cannot
give you the money to pay for it; I have not got it."
I nodded in silent consent.
He paused a few minutes. He seemed anxious to speak, yet hesitated; at
last he said, "I am leaving London, Isabel, I can do nothing here, and
I have received letters from comrades in Austria telling me that there
things are ripe for the Revolution."
I started violently: "You are leaving! Leaving London?" I stammered.
"Yes, I shall be able to do better work elsewhere."
I turned suddenly on him.
"And so you mean to say that we are to part? Thus? now? for ever?" A
pained look came into his eyes. He seemed to shrink from personalities.
"No," I continued rapidly, "I will, I must speak. Why should we ruin
our lives? To what idol of our own creation are we sacrificing our
happiness? We Anarchists are always talking of the rights of the
individual, why are you deliberately sacrificing your personal
happiness, and mine? The dead woman was right; I love you, and I know
that you love me. Our future shall not be ruined by a misunderstanding.
Now I have spoken, you must answer, and your answer must be final."
I looked at him whilst the words involuntarily rushed from my lips, and
even before I had finished speaking, I knew what his answer would be.
"An Anarchist's life is not his own. Friendship, comradeship may be
helpful, but family ties are fatal; you have seen what they did for my
poor friend. Ever since I was fifteen I have lived solely for the Cause;
you are mistaken in thinking that I love you in the way you imply. I
thought of you as a comrade, and loved you as such."
I had quite regained my self-possession. "Enough," I said, interrupting
him. "I do not regret my words; they have made everything clear to me.
You are of the invincibles, Kosinski; you are strong with the strength
of the fanatic; and I think you will be happy too. You will never turn
to contemplate regretfully the ashes of your existence and say as did
your friend, 'See the result of struggling for a higher life!' You do
not, you cannot see that you are a slave to your conception of freedom,
more prejudiced in your lack of prejudice than the veriest bourgeois;
that is your strength, and it is well. Good-bye."
He grasped my proffered hand with warmth.
"Good-bye, Isabel. I knew you were not like other women; that _you_
could understand."
"I can understand," I replied, "and admire, even if I deplore.
Good-bye."
Slowly I moved towards the door, my eyes fascinated by the rigid lines
of the sheet covering the dead woman; slowly I turned the handle and
walked down the mean wooden staircase into the mean suburban street.