THE _TOCSIN'S_ LAST TOLL
As I walked home from Kosinski's in the early morning I felt profoundly
depressed. The weather had turned quite chilly and a fine drizzling
rain began to fall, promising one of those dull, wet days of which we
experience so many in the English spring. The streets were deserted
but for the milkmen going their rounds, and the tired-looking policemen
waiting to be relieved on their beats. I felt that feeling of physical
exhaustion which one experiences after being up all night, when one
has not had the opportunity for a wash and change of clothes. I was not
sleepy, but my eyes were hot and dry under their heavy eyelids, my bones
ached, my muscles felt stiff; I had the uncomfortable consciousness that
my hair was disordered and whispy, my hat awry, my skin shiny; and this
sub-consciousness of physical unattractiveness heightened the sense of
moral degradation.
I felt weary and disgusted, and it was not only, nor even principally,
the knowledge that Kosinski had gone out of my life which accounted for
this. I felt strangely numbed and dull, curiously able to look back
on that incident as if it had occurred to some one else. Every detail,
every word, was vividly stamped on my brain: I kept recurring to them as
I trudged along, but in a critical spirit, smiling every now and again
as the humour of some strangely incongruous detail flashed across my
brain.
What really weighed me down was a sense of the futility, not only of
Anarchist propaganda but of things in general. What were we striving
for? Happiness, justice? And the history of the world shows that man has
striven for these since the dawn of humanity without ever getting much
nearer the goal. The few crumbs of personal happiness which one might
hope for in life were despised and rejected by men like Armitage,
Kosinski, and Bonafede, yet all three were alike powerless to bring
about the larger happiness they dreamed of.
I had acquired a keener sense of proportion since the days when I had
first climbed the breakneck ladder of Slater's Mews, and I now realised
that the great mass of toiling humanity ignored our existence, and that
the slow, patient work of the ages was hardly likely to be helped or
hindered by our efforts. I did not depreciate the value of thought, of
the effort made by the human mind to free itself from the shackles of
superstition and slavery; of that glorious unrest which spurs men on
to scrutinise the inscrutable, ever baffled yet ever returning to the
struggle, which alone raises him above the brute creation and which,
after all, constitutes the value of all philosophy quite apart from the
special creed each school may teach; and I doubted not for a moment that
the yeast of Anarchist thought was leavening the social conceptions of
our day.
But I had come to see the almost ludicrous side of the Anarchist party,
especially in England, considered as a practical force in politics.
Short and Simpkins were typical figures--M'Dermott, an exceptionally
good one--of the rank and file of the English party. They used long
words they barely understood, considered that equality justified
presumption, and contempt or envy of everything they felt to be superior
to themselves. Communism, as they conceived it, amounted pretty nearly
to living at other people's expense, and they believed in revenging the
wrongs of their classes by exploiting and expropriating the bourgeois
whenever such action was possible without incurring personal risk. Of
course I was not blind to the fact that there were a few earnest and
noble men among them, men who had educated themselves, curtailing their
food and sleep to do so, men of original ideas and fine independent
character, but I had found that with the Anarchist, as with the
Socialist party, and indeed all parties, such were not those who came
to the surface, or who gave the _ton_ to the movement. Then, of course,
there were noble dreamers, incorrigible idealists, like Armitage, men
whom experience could not teach nor disappointment sour. Men gifted
with eternal youth, victimised and sacrificed by others, yet sifting
and purifying the vilest waste in the crucible of their imaginations,
so that no meanness, nor the sorrow born of the knowledge of meanness
in others, ever darkens their path. Men who live in a pure atmosphere of
their own creation, whom the worldly-wise pity as deluded fools, but who
are perhaps the only really enviable people in the world. Notable, too,
were the fanatics of the Kosinski type, stern heroic figures who seem
strangely out of place in our humdrum world, whose practical work often
strikes us as useless when it is not harmful, yet without whom the world
would settle down into deadly lethargy and stagnation. Then in England
came a whole host of cranks who, without being Anarchists in any real
sense of the word, seemed drawn towards our ranks, which they swelled
and not infrequently brought into ridicule. The "Bleeding Lamb" and his
atheist opponent Gresham, the Polish Countess Vera Voblinska with her
unhappy husband who looked like an out-at-elbows mute attached to a
third-rate undertaker's business, a dress-reforming lady disciple of
Armitage, a queer figure, not more than four feet in height, who looked
like a little boy in her knickers and jersey, till you caught sight of
the short grizzled hair and wrinkled face, who confided to me that she
was "quite in love with the doctor, he was so _quaint_;" and numerous
others belonged to that class; and finally a considerable sprinkling of
the really criminal classes who seemed to find in the Anarchist doctrine
of "Fais ce que veux" that salve to their conscience for which even the
worst scoundrels seem to crave, and which, at worst, permitted them to
justify their existences in their own eyes as being the "rotten products
of a decaying society." Such were the heterogeneous elements composing
the Anarchist party with which I had set out to reform the world.
The neighbouring church chimes rang out half-past six as I approached
home, and on reaching the doorstep of the Fitzroy Square house I found
my brother Raymond just letting himself in. On seeing me he exclaimed,
"Oh, Isabel, where have you been so early?--though really your
appearance suggests the idea that you have never been to bed rather than
that you have just risen!" I confirmed his suspicion and together we
entered his study.
"Well, where have you been? Is there something new on with the
Anarchists? I have seen so little of you for the past six months that I
feel quite out of the world--your world at least."
It was a great relief to me to find my brother so conversable. We had
both been so occupied of late in our respective ways that we had had
but scant opportunity for talk or companionship. Raymond had now started
practising on his own account; he was popular with his poor patients in
the crowded slums round King's Cross, amongst whom his work chiefly lay,
and day and night he toiled in their midst. Certainly the sights he saw
there were not calculated to destroy his revolutionary longings, though
they were often such as might well have made him doubt of the ultimate
perfectibility of the human race.
"Oh, I am so glad to find you, Raymond, and I should enjoy a nice long
talk together; but you must be tired; you have, I suppose, only just
come in after working all night?"
He explained to me that he had been summoned after midnight to attend a
poor woman's confinement, and had stayed with her till past four, when,
feeling more inclined for a walk than for his bed, he had wandered off
in the direction of Highgate and had only just got home.
"By the way, Isabel," he said, "as I was coming down the Caledonian
Road I met your friend Armitage. He is a good fellow whom I have always
liked, so I stopped him and we had a chat. He explained to me that he
was attired in his new pedestrian costume, which indeed struck me as
almost pre-Adamite in its simplicity. He had been helping some of
his friends to move--to shoot the moon, I fancy, would describe the
situation. He inquired of me what I was doing, and we got talking on all
sorts of scientific and philosophic problems. It is extraordinary what
an intellect that man has. Only he lives too much in a world of his own
creation; he seems absolutely oblivious of self, and I feel sure his
hygiene and vegetarianism are simply the outcome of his desire to free
himself from all worldly cares which might impede his absolute devotion
to his Cause. He seems to have practically abandoned his practice. As we
were wandering on rather aimlessly, I suggested accompanying him home,
but he did not appear to jump at the idea, and as I know that it is not
considered etiquette amongst you folk to press inquiries as to address
and so on, I was going to drop the subject; but Armitage, after a short
silence, explained that the fact was he had not exactly got a home to go
to. I concluded that he was in for the bother of changing diggings, and
made some sympathetic remark to that effect; but he said that was not
exactly the case--that, in fact, he had given up having a fixed abode
altogether. As you can imagine, Isabel," continued my brother, "this
information somewhat staggered me. I knew through you that he had
long ago given up his Harley Street establishment and moved into more
populous quarters, where I quite supposed him still to be residing. But
he calmly went on to explain, as though it were the most natural thing
in the world, that he had been in need of a rather considerable sum of
money some weeks back for purposes of propaganda, and that, not knowing
where else to obtain the money, he had sold up all his belongings and
cleared out of his lodgings without paying his rent, 'by way of an
example.' All this he explained with the air of a man adducing an
unanswerable argument, and as his manner did not admit of remonstrance,
I simply asked him what he thought of doing now, which started him off
on a long account of the opportunities for propaganda afforded by such
establishments as Rowton House, the casual wards, and the Salvation Army
Shelters. 'We want to get at the oppressed, to rouse them from their
lethargy of ages, to show them that they too have rights, and that it
is cowardly and wicked to starve in the midst of plenty; we want to come
amongst them, not as preachers and dilettantists, but as workers like
themselves, and how can this be done better than by going in their midst
and sharing their life?' I could not but feel amazement and admiration
at the enthusiasm and sincerity of this man, mingled with sorrow at the
thought that such an intellect as his should be thus wasted. He is a man
who might have done almost anything in the scientific world, and now he
seems destined to waste his life, a dreamer of dreams, a sort of modern
St. Francis in a world lacking in idealism, and where he will be looked
upon as a wandering lunatic rather than a saint."
I sat silent for a few minutes. I had not quite realised that poor
Armitage had come to this--a frequenter of casual wards, a homeless and
wandering lunatic; my brother was right, the world would judge him as
such. I was not, however, in the least surprised at the news.
The servants had by now come down and we had breakfast brought to the
study, and I gave Raymond an account of my night's proceedings. When I
concluded my brother said,
"Well, Isabel, you will remain almost alone at the _Tocsin_. Kosinski is
leaving, Giannoli is gone, Armitage is otherwise occupied. Will you be
able to keep it going?"
"Oh, I could keep it going," I replied. "There are still a lot of
comrades hanging on to it; new ones are constantly turning up. The
work can be done between us, there is no doubt of that. It is rather
of myself that I doubt. I begin to feel isolated in the midst of the
others; I cannot believe that people like Short and Simpkins can change
Society; they would have to begin reforming themselves, and that they
are incapable of. I can admire a man like Kosinski: I cannot exactly
sympathise with him. As to Armitage, I can only grieve that he should
thus waste his life and talents. Probably, had he thought a little more
of his personal happiness, he would have avoided falling a victim to
monomania, for such he is in part. And then--and then--it is not only
of others that I doubt, but of myself. Am I really doing any good? Can
I sincerely believe that the _Tocsin_ will help towards the regeneration
of mankind? Can mankind be regenerated? When such questions never
occurred to me, or, if they did, were answered by my brain with an
unhesitating affirmative, then it was easy to work. No difficulties
could daunt me; everything seemed easy, straightforward. But now--but
now...."
"Well, then, why don't you give it up, Isabel?"
"Give it up? Oh, how could I? I have never really thought of that. Oh
no; the paper must come out. I have undertaken it. I must go on with
it."
"And you an Anarchist! Why, I always thought you believed in the
absolute freedom of the individual, and here you are saying that
you must go on with a work in which you no longer feel the
requisite confidence, for the mere reason that you once, under other
circumstances, started it."
"You are right, Raymond, logically right, but life is not ruled by
logic, whether we be Anarchists or Reactionaries. I feel that I could
not give up the _Tocsin_, my interests centre round it; besides, I do
not say that I have altered my ideas; I am still an Anarchist, I can
honestly work for the Cause; I only said that I doubt. I feel depressed.
Who has not had at times periods of depression and doubt?"
"Well, we shall see," replied Raymond. "I got a letter from Caroline
last night which I wanted to show you. She says she will be home in
another three months, as she has accepted a further engagement for the
States now that her tour is nearly over. When she comes home it will be
a little company for you in the house. She has friends, and she is sure
to be much sought after now, as she seems fairly on the road to becoming
a celebrity in the musical world."
I read the long letter, written in the brilliant style which
characterised everything about Caroline. She described her triumphs in
the various cities of the Argentine and Brazil, the receptions given
in her honour, the life and society of these faraway countries, with a
brightness and humour which brought home to me the whole atmosphere of
the places and people she described. Caroline had always been fond of
society, and even before leaving England had become quite a favourite
in musical circles; but her quick, bright intelligence had never
allowed her to be blind to much that was vulgar and ludicrous in her
surroundings. I was truly glad to think that we should meet again before
long. The common memories and affections of our childhood formed a solid
basis for our mutual friendship, but I could not help smiling as I read
the last paragraph of her long epistle: "I expect by now Isabel has had
time to grow out of her enthusiasm for revolutions and economics, and
will feel less drawn towards baggy-trousered democrats and unwashed
philosophers than when I left. Perhaps she may even have come round to
my view of life, _i.e._, that it is really not worth while taking things
too tragically, and that it is best to take the few good things life
brings us without worrying one's brains about humanity. Selfish, is it
not? But I have generally noticed that it is your stern moralists and
humanitarians who cause the most unhappiness in the world. Anyhow, if
Isabel is less wrapped up in Socialism and Anarchy we shall be able
to have a good time when I come home. I am sure to be asked out a good
deal, and if the fashionable people who patronise musical celebrities
are not free from their foibles and ridicules we shall anyhow be able to
amuse ourselves and laugh at them up our sleeves."
So Caroline already counted on my having outgrown Anarchy and unwashed
philosophy, as she phrased it, and grown into drawing-room etiquette!
But she was wrong! I should go on with the _Tocsin_. I should still
work in the Cause; I had done so till then, and what had happened
since yesterday to alter my intentions? Nothing, or at least nothing of
outward importance. Only, since my last interview with Armitage and my
parting with Kosinski, I had begun to formulate to myself many questions
which till then I had only vaguely felt. Still I repeated to myself that
I should go on with the paper, that I should continue to lead the same
life. Of course I should! How could I do otherwise? And even if I had
changed somewhat in my ideas and my outlook on life, I certainly did
not feel even remotely attracted towards the sort of society Caroline
referred to. I had a vivid recollection of once accompanying her to an
_at home_, given in a crowded drawing-room, where the heavily-gilded
Louis XV. mirrors and Sevres vases and ornaments, with their scrolls
and flourishes, all seemed to have developed the flowing wigs which
characterised the Roi Soleil, and where the armchairs and divans were
upholstered in yellow and pink satin, and decked out with ribbon bows to
resemble Watteau sheep. Oh no; certainly I should not exchange the low
living and high thinking of my Anarchist days for such artificiality
and vulgar display. Sunday was generally a very busy day with me, almost
more so than week-days, for there were meetings to be held, literature
to be sold and distributed, and lectures and discussions to be attended.
I was in the habit of rising rather late, as very often Saturday night
was an all-night sitting at the office of the _Tocsin_, and Sunday
morning was the only time I found it convenient to pay a little
attention to the toilet. But I used generally to manage to be by twelve
in some public place, and help Short and M'Dermott to start a meeting.
Short, influenced by his inherent laziness, had succeeded in persuading
the Italians that he was a great orator, and that they could not better
forward the Cause in their new country than by carrying for him the
movable platform from which he delivered his spirited harangues; so that
one or two of them were generally present helping to form the nucleus
of an audience, and ready to lend their valid support should any drunken
loafer or top-hatted bourgeois, outraged in his feelings, attempt to
disturb the proceedings. Hyde Park was generally my destination in the
afternoon, and in the evening we used to repair in force to the hall
of the Social Democrats, there to take part in the discussion which
followed the lectures, or else some meeting in Deptford, Canning Town,
or Stratford would claim my attendance. But on this particular Sunday I
felt too tired and despondent to think of rushing out in my usual style.
I shut myself in my room and tried to rest, but I could not free myself
from the sights and thoughts which had beset me during the night. The
words of Kosinski's friend, "And this is what comes of struggling for
the higher life," still haunted me; the dead woman, staring blindly into
space rose before me, an image of the suffering forced on the weak by
the strong. Then my thoughts reverted to Giannoli. What was he doing?
I had not heard from him for over a month, and his last letter had
been far from reassuring. He hinted at some desperate enterprise he
was engaged on, and as I had no further news of him from any quarter I
thought it not unlikely that he had been arrested, and was, even then
perhaps, suffering unknown tortures in one of those dreaded Spanish
prisons, where the old systems of the Inquisition still prevail, though
modern hypocrisy requires that all should pass in silence and darkness,
content on these conditions never to push too closely its inquiries,
even though some crippled victim who may escape should rouse for a
moment a spasmodic outburst of indignation in the civilised world. And
even were this not his fate, it was a sad enough one in all conscience:
to rush all over the world, wrecked in health, driven from place to
place by his wild suspicions, the offspring of a diseased imagination;
deprived of friends, for his mania of persecution drove them off;
deprived of means, for he had sacrificed his all to the propaganda, and
his health and mode of life did not permit of any settled occupation.
I felt strangely anxious about him, and this led my thoughts back once
more to Kosinski, with whom I had been brought so closely into contact
through our relations with Giannoli. I should never see him again in all
probability. He had told me he was going to Austria. He too belonged
to the _knights of death_, as an Italian comrade had named a certain
section of the Anarchists; and he was working out his inevitable
destiny. I wondered now how I had ever allowed myself to conceive of him
otherwise. I had always known it was impossible, and I felt that it was
only an impulse of rebellion against fate which had led me to speak.
Finding sleep out of the question, I got up and attempted to write an
article which I had promised to bring down to the _Tocsin_ the following
morning. The subject I had chosen was "The Right to Happiness," and I
argued that man has a right not only to daily bread, as the Socialists
maintain, but also to happiness, consisting in the fullest development
and exercise of all his faculties, a condition only possible when the
individual shall be perfectly free, living in a harmonious society
of free men, untrammelled by artificial economic difficulties, and by
superstitions inherited from the past. Some days previously we had had
a discussion on the subject at the office of the _Tocsin_, and I had
maintained my views victoriously against the pessimistic dogmatism of
a German comrade. But now my arguments seemed hollow to myself, mere
rhetoric, and even that of third-rate quality. Happiness! Did not the
mere fact of attaining our desires deprive them of their charm? Life was
an alternating of longing and regret. I pushed paper and pen aside, and
began roaming aimlessly about the house. The large old-fashioned rooms
impressed me as strangely silent and forlorn. I wandered up to the attic
which our father had used as a laboratory, and which had always struck
us children as a mysterious apartment, where he did wonderful things
with strange-shaped instruments and bottles which we were told contained
deadly poison. His apparatus was still ranged on the shelves, thick in
dust, and the air was heavy with the pungent smell of acids. The large
drawing-rooms with their heavy hangings looked shabbier and dingier than
of old; I could not help noticing the neglected look of everything. I
had hardly entered them during the past year, and now I vaguely wondered
whether Caroline on her return would wish to have them renovated. Then I
remembered how I had received there for the first time, some four years
ago, my brother's Socialist friend, and I could not help smiling as I
recollected my excitement on that occasion. I was indeed young in those
days! I picked up a book which was lying on a table thick in dust, and
sat down listlessly in the roomy arm-chair by the fireside, which had
been my father's favourite seat. I began turning the pages of a volume,
"The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius," and gradually I became absorbed in
its contents. Here was a man who had known how to create for himself in
his own soul an oasis of rest, not by practising a selfish indifference
to, and isolation from, public matters--not by placing his hopes in
some future paradise, the compensation of terrestrial suffering, but by
rising superior to external events, and, whilst fulfilling his duty as
emperor and man, not allowing himself to be flustered or perturbed by
the inevitable. "Abolish opinion, you have abolished this complaint,
'Some one has harmed me.' Suppress the complaint, 'Some one has harmed
me,' and the harm itself is suppressed." What wisdom in these words!
It was a long while since I had thus enjoyed a quiet read. For several
months past my life had been a ceaseless round of feverish activity.
Looking back, it seemed to me that I had allowed myself to be strangely
preoccupied and flustered by trifles. What were these important duties
which had so absorbed me as to leave me no time for thought, for
study, no time to live my own life? How had I come to give such undue
importance to the publication of a paper which, after all, was read by a
very few, and those few for the most part already blind believers in the
ideas it advocated? Yet I told myself that the _Tocsin_ had done good
work, and could yet do much. Besides, I had undertaken it, I must go
on with it; life without an object would be intolerable. The slow hours
passed, and when night came I felt thoroughly worn out and exhausted,
and soon got to sleep.
I awoke on Monday morning with a sense of impending misfortune hovering
over me. I had taken refuge in sleep the previous night from a host of
troublesome thoughts and perplexing doubts, and I now experienced the
hateful sensation of returning consciousness, when one does not yet
recollect fully the past, yet realises vaguely the re-awakening to
suffering and action. I wanted to get to the office early that morning,
for publishing day was near at hand and there was a lot of work to be
finished. I felt that the drudgery of composing would be a relief to my
over-strained nerves; so, without waiting for breakfast and the morning
paper which I generally scanned before leaving home, I dressed rapidly
and set out for the _Tocsin_. I had not gone many yards when my
attention was attracted by the large placards pasted on the boards
outside a newspaper shop:--
"Shocking outrage in Madrid. Attempt on the life of Spanish
Prime-Minister--Many victims. Arrest of Anarchist Assassin. London
Police on scent."
Giannoli! The name flashed across my brain as I rushed into the shop and
purchased the paper. My heart thumped with excitement as, standing in
the shadow of some houses at the corner of the street, I hastily opened
and folded the sheet and ran my eyes down the long column, freely
interspersed with headlines.
"On Sunday evening, at half-past six, when the fashionable crowd
which throngs the Prado at Madrid was at its thickest, and just as the
Minister Fernandez was driving by in his carriage, a man pushed his way
through the crowd, and shouting 'Long live Anarchy,' discharged at him
three shots from a revolver; the aim, however, was not precise, and
one of the bullets wounded, it is feared mortally, the secretary, Señor
Esperandez, who was seated beside his chief, whilst the Minister was
shot in the arm. Several people rushed forward to seize the miscreant,
who defended himself desperately, discharging the remaining chambers of
the revolver amidst his assailants, two of whom have sustained serious
injuries. He was, however, overcome and taken, handcuffed and bound, to
the nearest police station. On being interrogated he refused his name
and all particulars as to himself, only declaring that he attempted the
life of the Minister Fernandez on his own individual responsibility,
that he had no accomplices, and that his object was to revenge his
comrades who had been persecuted by order of the Minister. When informed
that he had missed his aim, and that Fernandez had escaped with a broken
arm, whilst his secretary was in danger of death, he expressed his
regret at not having succeeded in his object, saying that this was due
to his wretched health, which rendered his aim unsteady; but as to
Señor Esperandez, he declared that he considered him also responsible,
inasmuch as he was willing to associate himself with the oppressor of
the people. Neither threats nor persuasion could induce him to say more.
The police, however, are making active inquiries, and have ascertained
so far (midnight of Sunday) that the prisoner is an Italian Anarchist
recently landed at Barcelona from America, passing under the name of
Paolo Costa. This name, however, is considered to be false. He is a tall
man, of rather distinguished appearance. The police do not credit
the idea that he has no accomplices, and during the evening extensive
arrests have been made in Madrid and Barcelona. Over a hundred of the
most noted Anarchists and Socialists in these cities are now in prison."
Such was the brief outline of facts as given by the _Morning Post._ Of
course I had not the slightest doubt as to the identity of the prisoner;
the state of weakness and ill-health which had caused him to miss his
aim was conclusive, added to the many other reasons I had for supposing
him to be Giannoli. This, then, was the deed he had been contemplating!
Only the day before I had been wondering why I had no news of him; but a
few hours previously he went forth to his death. For it meant death, of
course; of that I had no doubt. He would be garotted; I only hoped
that he might not be tortured first. I gave a hasty glance at the other
details given by the paper. A column was dedicated to the virtues of the
prime-minister. He was upheld as a model of the domestic virtues (a few
months back Continental papers had been full of a scandalous trial in
which Fernandez had been involved), and was represented as the man who
had saved Spain from ruin and disaster by his firm repression of the
revolutionary parties: by which euphonious phrase the papers referred
to the massacres of strikers which had taken place at Barcelona and
Valladolid, and the wholesale arrest and imprisonment of Anarchists and
Socialists in connection with a recent anti-clerical movement which had
convulsed the Peninsula.
These arrests had given rise to a great political trial for conspiracy
before a court-martial, which had ended in a sentence of death passed
on five of the prisoners, whilst the others were sentenced to terms of
imprisonment varying from thirty to five years. It was to revenge the
injustice and the sufferings caused by this policy that Giannoli had
attempted the life of the Spanish minister. Another paragraph caught my
eye:--
"London police hot on scent: raids and arrests."
"Our correspondent has interviewed a leading detective at Scotland
Yard who for some years past has been charged with the surveillance
of suspicious foreign Anarchists. This clever officer informs our
correspondent that he has no doubt the plot was hatched in London, and
thinks that he could name the author, an Italian Anarchist of desperate
antecedents who disappeared from London under mysterious circumstances
nearly seven months ago. London is a centre of Anarchist propaganda,
and foreign desperadoes of all nationalities flock hither to abuse the
hospitality and freedom which this government too rashly concedes them.
Englishmen will one day be roused from their fool's paradise to find
that too long have they nursed a viper in their bosom. We trust that
this lesson will not be wasted, and that the police will see to closing
without delay certain self-styled clubs and 'printing-offices' which are
in reality nothing but hotbeds of conspiracy and murder."
I hurried along as I read these last words. We were evidently once
more in for troublous times. The office of the _Tocsin_ was clearly
designated in the paragraph I have quoted; perhaps the office would be
raided; perhaps the Italian comrades who were staying there would be
arrested. I rapidly reviewed in my mind's eye the papers and letters
which were in the office, wondering whether anything incriminating would
be found; but I did not feel much perturbed on that score, as it was my
invariable custom to burn all papers of importance, and I felt certain
that nothing more compromising would be found than the Bleeding Lamb's
tract on the Seven-headed Beast, which, according to its author,
would "make the old Queen sit up a bit," and Gresham's treatise on the
persecutions of the Early Christians. I was glad to think that Kosinski
had settled to leave the country. I knew that Giannoli had left with him
much of his correspondence, and I trusted that this would not fall into
the hands of the police.
I had now nearly reached my destination and, as I turned up the corner
of Lysander Grove, I at once realised that something unusual had taken
place at the office. The shutters were still up at Mrs. Wattles's
green-grocer's shop, and that lady herself loomed large at the entrance
to the courtyard leading to the _Tocsin_, surrounded by her chief
gossips and by a dozen or two of dirty matrons. Several windows were up
in the houses opposite and slatternly-looking women were craning out
and exchanging observations. I hurried on and, pushing my way past Mrs.
Wattles, who I could see at a glance was in liquor, and heedless of
her remarks, I ran down the narrow courtyard to the office door which I
found shut. I knocked impatiently and loudly; the door opened and I was
confronted by a detective.
What I had expected had happened. The office had been raided, and was
now in the hands of the police. In answer to my inquiring look, the
detective requested me to come in and speak to the inspector. In the
ground-floor room three or four Italian comrades were gathered together.
The one-eyed baker, Beppe, was addressing the others in a loud voice; as
far as I could gather from the few words I caught, he was relating some
prison experiences. The group looked unusually animated and jolly; the
incident evidently reminded them of their own country. As soon as they
saw me enter they interrupted their talk, and Beppe stepped forward to
shake hands, but the officer of the law interposed: "Now, you fellows,
stay there; the young lady is going to speak to the inspector." I told
Beppe I should soon be down, and he retired, pulling a wry face at the
detective, and making some observation to his friends which made them
all roar with laughter. Upstairs a scene of wild disorder greeted my
eye. Four or five policemen were turning over heaps of old papers,
searching through dusty cupboards and shelves; heaps of pie lay about
the floor--evidently some one had put a foot through the form of type
ready set for the forthcoming issue of the _Tocsin_; on the "composing
surface" stood a formidable array of pint pots, with the contents of
which the men in blue had been refreshing themselves. On a packing-case
in the middle of the room sat Short, his billycock hat set far back
on his long, greasy hair, smoking a clay pipe with imperturbable calm;
whilst little M'Dermott, spry as ever, watched the proceedings, pulling
faces at the policemen behind their backs, and "kidding" them with
extraordinary tales as to the fearful explosive qualities of certain
ginger-beer bottles which were ranged on a shelf. At the editorial
table, which was generally covered with a litter of proofs and
manuscript, more or less greasy and jammy, owing to our habit of feeding
in the office, sat the inspector, going through the heaps of papers,
pamphlets, and manuscript articles which were submitted to his scrutiny
by his satellites. I took in all this at a glance, and walking
straight up to the inspector, I demanded of him an explanation of this
unwarranted invasion of the office.
His first answer was an interrogation.
"You are Isabel Meredith, are you not?"
This opened up an explanation which was brief and conclusive. The
inspector showed me a search-warrant, duly signed by a magistrate, and
another warrant for the arrest of Kosinski, and informed me that the
office had been opened to him by Short, who had represented himself as
one of the proprietors. The primary object of the search was to see if
Kosinski, who was wanted by the police in connection with the Madrid
outrage, were not on the premises, and also to see if there were no
incriminating documents or explosive materials concealed there.
"And have you found anything very alarming?" I inquired sarcastically.
"No, miss," the inspector replied in the same tone; "the most dangerous
object in this place seems to be your printer" (he pointed at Short),
"and we have kept at a fairly safe distance from _him_. Still, of
course, I have to go through all these papers; they may yet give us a
clue to the whereabouts of Kosinski or your friend Giannoli;" and here
he looked me straight in the face.
"Maybe," I simply replied with a shrug. I felt perfectly tranquil on
that score, and had but small doubt that Kosinski was by now already on
his way out of the country, as he would judge from the papers that the
police would be on his track.
"And when will this search be over?" I inquired.
"Oh, I cannot exactly tell you. It will take me some days to go all
through these papers. We shall probably be here for two or three days."
I looked around me. Everything was disorganised. The type cases had
all been emptied into a heap in the middle of the room, the forms ready
locked up had been pied, the MSS. and papers sequestered. It was utterly
hopeless to think of bringing out the _Tocsin_. The scene reminded me
of my first experience of an Anarchist printing-office after the police
raid on the _Bomb_; but now I no longer had Armitage to encourage me
with his unswerving optimism and untiring energy, nor Kosinski to urge
me on with his contempt of dilettantism and half-hearted enthusiasm.
True, Short was there, much the same as in the old days; even his dog
could be heard snarling and growling when the policemen administered to
him some sly kick; but as I looked at the squalid and lethargic figure
with its sallow, unhealthy, repulsive face, I was overcome by a feeling
of almost physical nausea. I realised fully how loathsome this gutter
Iago had become to me during the past few months, during which I had had
ample opportunity to note his pettifogging envy and jealousy, his almost
simian inquisitiveness and prying curiosity. I felt I could not work
with him; his presence had become intolerable to me. I realised that
this was the _finale_, the destined end of the _Tocsin_ and of my active
revolutionary propaganda. I had changed. Why not let the dead bury their
dead?
At this moment the policeman who had opened the office door to me came
up bringing a letter, which he handed to the inspector.
"It is for you, miss," that functionary said, reading the address, "but
I have orders to open all correspondence. You will excuse my complying
with them."
My heart stood still. Could it be from Kosinski or Giannoli? After a
moment the inspector handed the note to me. It was from the landlord--a
notice to quit. I walked up and showed it to Short.
"Well, what will you do?" he inquired. They were the first words we had
exchanged that morning.
"I shall leave," I replied.
"And how about the paper? Do you think of starting it again?"
"No, I do not think so; not for the present at any rate."
"And the 'plant'?"
"I shall leave that too. You can look after it, you and the comrades!"
"Oh, the comrades!" sneered Short, and returned to his pipe.
I turned once more to the inspector. "I am free to leave, I suppose?" I
inquired. "I cannot see that my presence here serves any purpose."
"Oh yes, miss, you can go if you like. The presence of the printer is
sufficient for us. I understand he is one of the proprietors?"
"Oh yes, he is a proprietor," I replied, and turned on my heel.
M'Dermott came up to me.
"Well, my dear," he said, "so you are leaving. Well, I don't blame you,
nor wish you to remain. After all, it is no use trying to tinker up our
rotten system, or to prop up society with such wretched supports as our
friend here," and he pointed at Short. "What we need is to get
round them by our insidious means, and then go in for wholesale
assassination!"
I could not help smiling as the little man gave vent to this
bloodthirsty sentiment in an undertone; he wrung my hand warmly, and we
parted.
"What do you intend doing with those Italians who stay here?" I inquired
of the inspector as the sound of a guitar proceeding from downstairs
recalled my thoughts to them.
"I think it best to detain them here until I have finished searching the
place thoroughly; then if I find nothing to incriminate them, they will
be free. You need not worry about them, miss, they do not seem likely to
suffer from depression."
The twanging of the guitar was now accompanied by Beppe's powerful
baritone voice, whilst the others joined in the chorus:
"_Noi, profughi D'Italia...._"
I walked down the stairs.
"Good-bye, Comrades!"
"Good-bye, a rivederci!" and after giving one last look at the familiar
scene, I walked out.
As I made my way down the yard leading to the street, I encountered Mrs.
Wattles at the back door of her shop. She had now reached the maudlin
stage of intoxication. Her eyes were bleary, her mouth tremulous, her
complexion bloated and inflamed. There was something indefinite in her
appearance, suggesting the idea that her face had been boiled, and that
the features had run, losing all sharpness of outline and expression.
She fixed me with her fishy eye, and dabbing her face with the corner of
her apron began to blubber.
"S'elp me Gawd, miss," she began, "I never thought as I should come to
this! To have them narks under my very roof, abrazenin' it out! I always
knew as there was something wrong abart pore Mr. Janly, and many's the
time I've said to 'im, 'Mr. Janly, sir,' I've said, 'do take a little
something, yer look so pale.' But 'e always answered, 'No, Mrs. Wattles,
no; you've been a mother to me, Mrs. Wattles, and I know you're right,
but I can't do it. 'Ere's for 'alf a pint to drink my health, but I
can't do it.' And I dare say as it were them temp'rance scrupils like as
brought 'im to 'is end."
At these tender recollections of Giannoli the good lady quite broke
down.
"To think that it was I as let you that very shop two years last
Christmas, and that pore Mr. Cusings, as was sweet on you then--I've not
seen 'im lately--and now the coppers are under my very roof! It seems
a judgment on us, it really does. But I always told Wattles that if he
went on treatin' of 'is wedded wife more like a 'eathen than a Christian
woman, as a judgment would come on 'im, an' now my words is proved."
She seemed by now quite oblivious of my presence: a quivering shapeless
mass of gin-drenched humanity she collapsed on to the doorstep. And with
this for my last sight and recollection of the place which had witnessed
so much enthusiasm, so many generous hopes and aspirations, and where
so many illusions lay buried, I walked forth into the London street a
sadder if a wiser woman.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's A Girl Among the Anarchists, by Isabel Meredith