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PRISON MEMOIRS

OF AN

ANARCHIST

BY

ALEXANDER BERKMAN

NEW YORK

MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION

1912

Published September, 1912

Second Edition, 1920

241 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW YORK

To all those who in and out of prison

fight against their bondage

"But this I know, that every Law

That men have made for Man,

Since first Man took his brother's life,

And the sad world began,

But straws the wheat and saves the chaff

With a most evil fan."

OSCAR WILDE

[Illustration: Alexander Berkman

Photo by Marcia Stein]

AS INTRODUCTORY

I wish that everybody in the world would read this book. And my reasons

are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group

of social philosophers or revolutionists. I desire that the book be

widely read because the general and careful reading of it would

definitely add to true civilization.

It is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization; for the

following reasons:

It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be sincere. More than

that, it is a valuable thing. To be so, means unusual qualities of the

heart and of the head; unusual qualities of character. The books that

possess this quality are unusual books. There are not many deliberately

autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere; there are not many

direct human documents. This is one of these few books.

Not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is

also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. Alexander Berkman

spent fourteen years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly harsh

and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the

mind and pervert the character. Berkman consciously struggled with these

adverse, destructive conditions. He took care of his body. He took care

of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was a moral effort. He felt

insane ideas trying to take possession of him. Insanity is a natural

result of prison life. It always tends to come. This man felt it,

consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That the prison

affected him is true. It always does. But he saved himself, essentially.

Society tried to destroy him, but failed.

If people will read this book carefully it will tend to do away with

prisons. The public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and

must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book

that I know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing

psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture after picture, sketch

after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness

permeating the institution, but, very touching, it shows the good

qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized,

helplessly struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing

themselves. And the personality of Berkman goes through it all;

idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful; not

untouched, as I have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his

essential self.

What lessons there are in this book! Like all truthful documents it

makes us love and hate our fellow men, doubt ourselves, doubt our

society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards

life, and not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation

painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present simplicity of

our moral attitudes. It tends to make us more mature.

The above are the main reasons why I should like to have everybody read

this book.

But there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and

valuable in a more special, more limited way; aspects in which only

comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the

opposition and hostility of many. The Russian Nihilistic origin of

Berkman, his Anarchistic experience in America, his attempt on the life

of Frick--an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt

made as a result of a sincere if fanatical belief that he was called on

by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the

community--this part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and

disapproval of his ideas and his act. But I see no reason why this, with

the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a

human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and

psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not try to understand

an honest man even if he feels called on to kill? There, too, it may be

deeply instructive. There, too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a

combative spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of course,

but read to see.

HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

Part I: The Awakening and Its Toll

I. THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 1

II. THE SEAT OF WAR 23

III. THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH 28

IV. THE ATTENTAT 33

V. THE THIRD DEGREE 36

VI. THE JAIL 44

VII. THE TRIAL 89

Part II: The Penitentiary

I. DESPERATE THOUGHTS 95

II. THE WILL TO LIVE 113

III. SPECTRAL SILENCE 120

IV. A RAY OF LIGHT 124

V. THE SHOP 128

VI. MY FIRST LETTER 136

VII. WINGIE 140

VIII. TO THE GIRL 148

IX. PERSECUTION 152

X. THE YEGG 159

XI. THE ROUTE SUB ROSA 174

XII. "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" 176

XIII. THE JUDAS 185

XIV. THE DIP 195

XV. THE URGE OF SEX 201

XVI. THE WARDEN'S THREAT 209

XVII. THE "BASKET" CELL 219

XVIII. THE SOLITARY 221

XIX. MEMORY-GUESTS 232

XX. A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 240

XXI. THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL 264

XXII. THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 270

XXIII. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 287

XXIV. THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON 297

XXV. HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY? 300

XXVI. HIDING THE EVIDENCE 307

XXVII. LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 316

XXVIII. FOR SAFETY 328

XXIX. DREAMS OF FREEDOM 330

XXX. WHITEWASHED AGAIN 337

XXXI. "AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 342

XXXII. THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED 352

XXXIII. THE TUNNEL 355

XXXIV. THE DEATH OF DICK 363

XXXV. AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 364

XXXVI. THE UNDERGROUND 375

XXXVII. ANXIOUS DAYS 382

XXXVIII. "HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM" 389

XXXIX. A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE 395

XL. DONE TO DEATH 401

XLI. THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 409

XLII. MARRED LIVES 418

XLIII. "PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 430

XLIV. LOVE'S DARING 441

XLV. THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" 446

XLVI. A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER 453

XLVII. CHUM 458

XLVIII. LAST DAYS 465

Part III: The Workhouse 473

Part IV: The Resurrection 483

ILLUSTRATIONS

ALEXANDER BERKMAN (Frontispiece)

THE AUTHOR AT THE TIME OF THE HOMESTEAD STRIKE

WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA

FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER

"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"

CELL RANGES

THE TUNNEL

PART I

THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I

THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD

I

Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the

sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little

flat--Fedya and I--when suddenly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick,

energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I turn to her, I

am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color.

"Have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open newspaper.

"What is it?"

"Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children."

She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a

wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of

bitterness--the bitterness of helpless agony.

I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement I read the vivid

account of the tremendous struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more

correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of

the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and

Steel Workers; the selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick,

whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military

preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with

the Amalgamated; the fortification of the Homestead steel-works; the

erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with

loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs;

the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into Homestead; and,

finally, the terrible carnage.

I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me. We sit in silence,

each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a

searching, significant look.

II

It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive with tobacco

smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. I

turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma

of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating. Green woods and yellow

fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving

place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and

alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts are busy with

Homestead.

The great battle has been fought. Never before, in all its history, has

American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms the workers

of Homestead have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to

surrender, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What humiliating

defeat for the powers that be! Does not the Pinkerton janizary represent

organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the

exploiters? Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the

unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of America, have

joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of Homestead. The

steel-workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and

suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on

their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company. Yet patiently they

had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were

creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be

reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding

scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm

challenged the Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions

which it knew the workers could not accept. Foreseeing refusal, it

flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel.

Perfidious Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the

gospel of good will and harmony. "I would lay it down as a maxim," he

had declared, "that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until

arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by

the other. The right of the workingmen to combine and to form

trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to

enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must

sooner or later be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men _more

than half-way_."

With smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to

indorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected, Andrew

Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for

his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete

control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression

of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But _the market

price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the Homestead mills_.

The wages of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the Amalgamated

Association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal:

there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the

union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the

bloody Frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution.

Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of Homestead rebelled:

the millmen scorned the despotic ultimatum. Then Frick's hand fell. The

war was on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land the

tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company was bitterly denounced, the

ruthless brutality of Frick universally execrated.

* * * * *

I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilers

of Homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet

the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of Anarchism

alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it

alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. The dissemination of

our ideas among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the great

struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete

ultimate emancipation.

* * * * *

My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, "Labor, Awaken!"

would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble

deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and

prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution. Homestead might

prove the first blush of the glorious Dawn. How I chafed at the

obstacles my project encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every

step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English

proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery

appeal, my friend remonstrated. Impatiently I waived aside his

objections. As if personal considerations could for an instant be

weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain I argued and

pleaded. And all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new

obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to

compositor, begging, imploring. None dared print the appeal. And time

was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton carnage. The

world stood aghast.

The time for speech was past. Throughout the land the toilers echoed the

defiance of the men of Homestead. The steel-workers had rallied bravely

to the defence; the murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But

loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the hanks of the

Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the People calling. Ah, the People!

The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People....

* * * * *

In my mind I see myself back in the little Russian college town, amid

the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded

by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called "Nihilist."

The rushing train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all turn

into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and

again I sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the

impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the

oft-recurring refrain of "Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chernishevsky, _v

narod_." To the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble in

spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a clarion call the

note rings in my ears, amidst the din of contending views and obscure

phraseology. The People! My Greek mythology moods have often pictured

HIM to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight

of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery,

in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for

help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his

burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated

student debate the note rings clear: To the People, become one of them,

share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is

the solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? "It

is all good and well about going to the People, but the energetic men of

the deed, the Rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by

individual acts of revolt against--"

* * * * *

"Ticket, please!" A heavy hand is on my shoulder. With an effort I

realize the situation. The card-players are exchanging angry words. With

a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away

with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by

the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows

quiet.

I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I

must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A

tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead: the People are

manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart

exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American

workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight

all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is

the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of

Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is

my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No

shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People--the toilers of the world,

the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest

are parasites, who have no right to exist. But to the People belongs the

earth--by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means are

justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The

question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary

circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The

more radical the treatment, I held, the quicker the cure. Society is a

patient; sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is

often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it

is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is, indeed,

sacred and inviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the

People, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A

revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of

what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and _Attentat_[1] are

to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the

giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the Cause

often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it

is the test of a true revolutionist--nay, more, his pride--to sacrifice

all merely human feeling at the call of the People's Cause. If the

latter demand his life, so much the better.

[1] An act of political assassination.

Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime Cause? Why,

the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no

significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved

People. And what could be higher in life than to be a true

revolutionist? It is to be a _man_, a complete MAN. A being who has

neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the

Cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has

risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all

doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul

feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards.

* * * * *

Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even

the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a

characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in

New York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls,

was beloved by every one in our circle, the _Pioneers of Liberty_, the

first Jewish Anarchist organization on American soil. One evening the

closer personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding

the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, some one

suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary

treasury. I objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt, and

his former roommate, I could not allow--I argued--that funds belonging

to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even

necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met

with this challenge: "Do you mean to help Edelstadt, the poet and man,

or Edelstadt the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active

revolutionist? His poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even

prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private

funds, if you will; but no money from the movement can be given, except

for direct revolutionary activity."

* * * * *

"Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?" I was

asked by Tikhon, a young medical student, whom we playfully dubbed

"Lingg," because of his rather successful affectation of the celebrated

revolutionist's physical appearance.

"I am revolutionist first, man afterwards," I replied, with conviction.

"You are either a knave or a hero," he retorted.

* * * * *

"Lingg" was quite right. He could not know me. To his _bourgeois_ mind,

for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded

knavish. Well, some day he may know which I am, knave or revolutionist.

I do not think in the term "hero," for though the type of revolutionist

I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no

significance for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does his duty.

There is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a

revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov did more, too much. In spite of my

great admiration for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the

Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress the touch of resentment I

feel because the author of "What's To Be Done?" represented his

arch-revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable,

self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was

a sign of weakness. Does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself,

to steel his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal

insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere human clay.

No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations.

For I know _I_ do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal,

strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the

background; aye, I am not conscious of any personality in matters

pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by

conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in

short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my arrival in

Pittsburgh.

* * * * *

The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first

thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny

comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep.

The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed with terror. What if

it is lost? Suddenly my foot touches something soft. I pick it up,

feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the

precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar

bill. My joy at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the

meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for

the first night, and in the morning I'll look up Nold or Bauer. They

will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "I won't remain there

long," I think, with an inward smile.

* * * * *

We are nearing Washington, D. C. The train is to make a six-hour stop

there. I curse the stupidity of the delay: something may be happening in

Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a

telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the

Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick.

Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that

greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball

of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears

its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a

living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the

uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading

in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The

amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to

right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees,

dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the

broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter.

And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with

new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and

nestles closer to the golden giver of life.

* * * * *

At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the

surpassing gladness, of being. But in a trice the picture changes.

Before my eyes rises the Monongahela river, carrying barges filled with

armed men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank. The blood

gushes from the centre of his forehead. The hole ploughed by the bullet

yawns black on the crimson face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I

see men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the

dead.

The horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident, lived through

in imagination before. It was the sight of an executed Nihilist. The

Nihilists! How much of their precious blood has been shed, how many

thousands of them line the road of Russia's suffering! Inexpressibly

near and soul-kin I feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious

ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to "go to

the People," to become one with them, though despised by all whom they

held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of

their great sacrifice.

Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of Nihilist

Russia. I had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations.

Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell

mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her! Next week will be my

twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for

her, instead. "Mamma, mamma!" I called, when suddenly I caught her

voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought; mother never

speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door

leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room closed, contrary to

custom. In perturbation I hesitated at the door. "Shame on you, Nathan,"

I heard my mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because he is a

Nihilist. You are no better than"--her voice fell to a whisper, but my

straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and

fear--"a _palatch_."[2]

[2] Hangman.

I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich uncle Nathan's unwonted

presence at our house, the fearful word _palatch_--something awful must

have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room.

Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the _palatch_

done? I moaned. "_Your_ brother," she had said to uncle. Her own

youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened to him?

My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the

powerful figure of the giant _palatch_, all in black, his right arm bare

to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the glimmer of

the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly,

while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched,

the glowing black coals in the _palatch's_ head. Suddenly the two fiery

eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the fearful

one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and

everywhere was the giant--on all sides of me was he--then a sudden flash

of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the

neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from

mouth and ears and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about that

head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and

sad. "Oh, Maxim, Maxim!" I cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a

flood of passionate hatred of the _palatch_ seized me, and I rushed,

head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I

came,--another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck

him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me,

and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head....

"Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, _golubchik_?" I recognize the

sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then

coming closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes. Mother is

kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears.

Passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating:

"_Golubchik_, what is it?"

"Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?" I ask, breathlessly watching her

face.

Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns

ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and

her eyes grow large and round with terror. "Mamma!" I cry, throwing my

arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel her warm breath on my cheek;

but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping.

"Who--told--you? You--know?" she whispers between sobs.

* * * * *

The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is

oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is

kept locked. Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the

dinner-table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse

informs us; no one is to see her.

The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim.

Was my vision of the _palatch_ a presentiment, or the echo of an

accomplished tragedy? Vaguely I feel guilty of mother's illness. The

shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet there

must be more to it, I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon,

finding my eldest brother Maxim, named after mother's favorite brother,

in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed

confidential manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?"

"Go to the devil, _molokossoss_[3] you!" he cries, angrily. With a show

of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the

floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair, and leaves the room.

[3] Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to

inexperienced youth.

* * * * *

The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of Nihilism

unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies. Yet a deep interest, curiosity

about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when

quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident.

I am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno.

By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious

instruction is being introduced in the State schools. Special classes

have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of

Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost

every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in

_cheidar_.[4] But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of

Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.

[4] Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.

The roll-call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the

Director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I

have a private Jewish tutor at home, and,--anyway, I do not believe in

religion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.

"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects

on solemn occasions. "Young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach

so profound a conclusion?"

His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the

offensive tone rouse my resentment. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover

my cherished secret. "Since I wrote the essay, 'There Is No God,'" I

reply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I realize the

recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming

trouble, at school and at home. Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a

_man_. Uncle Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I know

his reputation for uncompromising candor, and love him for his bold,

frank ways.

"Oh, that is interesting," I hear, as in a dream, the unpleasant

guttural voice of the Director. "When did you write it?"

"Three years ago."

"How old were you then?"

"Twelve."

"Have you the essay?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"At home."

"Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, remember."

His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears with the harsh

metallic sound of my sister's piano that memorable evening of our

musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the

instrument tuned for the occasion.

"To-morrow, then. You are dismissed."

The Educational Board, in conclave assembled, reads the essay. My

disquisition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be

visited upon me for "precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and

insubordination." I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to the third

class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to

associate with the "children" my senior class looks down upon with

undisguised contempt. I feel disgraced, humiliated.

* * * * *

Thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the

interminable hours creep towards the afternoon, and the station clock

drones like an endless old woman.

III

Over at last. "All aboard!"

On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my

destination. The conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going

and coming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing

and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless

oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if

reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic

connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my

thoughts of the past. But how different is the present! I am speeding

toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America.

America! I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And

again unfold pictures of old scenes.

* * * * *

I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a

fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends

the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated

physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me.

"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your

mother is very ill. Are you alone with her?"

"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," I reply.

"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners

of his delicately chiseled lips. "I mean of the family."

"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother."

"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipovitch. Could you

sit up with her to-night?"

"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar

request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My

presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our relations have

been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose,

our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict

physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and

haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with

indignation.

"You forget you are speaking to your mother, Al-ex-an-der"; she

pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when

angry with me.

"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort, defiantly.

"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of

yours."

I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "The low

servant girl is as good as you."

I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next

instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. Our eyes meet. Her arm

remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on

the white table-cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She closes her

eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair.

Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her

assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up the heavy saltcellar, and

fling it violently against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass

my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house.

* * * * *

My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick-room. I fear she may resent

my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands between us. But she is lying

quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. I sit

down at the bedside. A long time passes in silence. Mother seems to be

asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the

night in the chair. Suddenly I hear "Sasha!" called in a weak, faint

voice. I bend over her. "Drink of water." As I hold the glass to her

lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, "Ice water,

please." I start to leave the room. "Sasha!" I hear behind me, and,

quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to

hers, to catch the faint words: "Help me turn to the wall." Tenderly I

wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering

longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg her

forgiveness. I feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing with

compassion and love. But I dare not kiss her--we have become estranged.

Affectionately I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second,

dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me.

Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as I slowly withdraw, I feel as

if some mysterious, yet definite, something has at the very instant left

her body.

In a few minutes I return with a glass of ice water. I hold it to her

lips, but she seems oblivious of my presence. "She cannot have gone to

sleep so quickly," I wonder. "Mother!" I call, softly. No reply. "Little

mother! Mamotchka!" She does not appear to hear me. "Dearest,

_golubchick_!" I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips

upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and

hear the measured voice of the doctor: "My boy, you must bear up. She is

at rest."

IV

"Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin' for?" Bewildered I turn around

to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the

seat back of me.

"Oh, nothing; just dreaming," I reply. Not wishing to encourage

conversation, I pretend to become absorbed in my book.

How strange is the sudden sound of English! Almost as suddenly had I

been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother's

death. Threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's

passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"--which would close

every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very

satisfactory standing--the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel

with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There,

beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free

country, where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,--the

very realization of my youthful dreams.

And now I am in America, the blessed land. The disillusionment, the

disappointments, the vain struggles!... The kaleidoscope of my brain

unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union

Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night

wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel

hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My

heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. "Nothing," each had

morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp.

Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick

up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his

legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper

away, and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down

on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have

changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor fellow, no one wants his

labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared

boy passes the nights in the.... What is that pain I feel? Some one is

bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half-dazed I

see an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes,

and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. Oh, it's in

my soles! Bewildered I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the

throat, and I face a policeman.

"Are you thieves?" he bellows.

Mikhail replies, sleepily: "We Russians. Want work."

"Git out o' here! Off with you!"

Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping

behind us. The dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying

figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the

corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by

the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to

be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a

tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "The bakery on Second Street,"

Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads

bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily

falling behind. "Dammit, I feel bad," he says, catching up with us, as

we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets

reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to

bed, we decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the

remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the

"fourth" in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall.

* * * * *

"Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!"

The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock.

Impatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I have

reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the

dread of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things, but,

noticing that the other passengers keep their places, I precipitately

resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my

confusion, I turn to the open window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the

sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot

and cinders; the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces

vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame

structures, dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the workers

who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its

millionaires, its Carnegies and Fricks.

The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns

the needs of mankind into an Inferno of brutalizing toil. It robs man of

his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the

beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture

grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into

gold, gold, countless gold.

The great, noble People! But is it really great and noble to be slaves

and remain content? No, no! They are awakening, awakening!

CHAPTER II

THE SEAT OF WAR

Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters

lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of

the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of

sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fence,

topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike

watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a

thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies

the name of "Fort Frick." Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces

between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of

many voices. Men carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces

grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths

of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is

strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace

stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a

sanguinary conflict,--the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless

struggle in which the _stronger_, the sturdy man of labor, is always the

victim, because he acts _weakly_. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton

barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear

mute witness that for once the battle went to the _really strong, to the

victim who dared_.

A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of

conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a

weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice

the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.

"Who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly asks me.

"A friend, a visitor."

"Can you show credentials or a union card?"

Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed.

In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of

various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American

fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and

talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are

surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man.

I press forward. "Listen, gentlemen, listen!" I hear the speaker's

voice. "Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don't you?"

"Yes, yes, Sheriff!" several men cry. "Go on!"

"Yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the

Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."

"Go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently.

"If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead."

"S-s-sh! Order!"

The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. "Men of Homestead! It

is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peace. Your city is in a

state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia and

I hope--"

"No! No!" many voices protest. "To hell with you!" The tumult drowns the

words of the Sheriff. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the

platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the

general uproar.

"O'Donnell! O'Donnell!" comes from several sides, the cry swelling into

a tremendous chorus, "O'Donnell!"

I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The

assembly becomes hushed.

"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, "we have

won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the

Pinkerton invaders out of our city--"

"Damn the murderers!"

"Silence! Order!"

"You have won a big victory," O'Donnell continues, "a great, significant

victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor's

struggle for better conditions."

Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "But," he continues, "you

must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along

with your rights. The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our homes

and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You

respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will

uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!"

He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, "Now is the time! Welcome the

soldiers. They are not sent by that man Frick. They are the people's

militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!"

Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the

exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back

and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark

man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the

assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides.

"Don't you believe it, men!" The speaker shakes his finger at the

audience, as if to emphasize his warning. "Don't you believe that the

soldiers are coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell. They'll

cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers are no friends

of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because

that damned murderer Frick wants them."

"Hear! Hear!"

"Yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, "I can

tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the

Governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I

say!"

"No! Yes! No!" the clamor is renewed, but I can hear the speaker's voice

rising above the din: "Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly

Sheriff. Don't you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First _they_'ll

come; then the blacklegs. You want 'em?"

"No! No!" roars the crowd.

"Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you

understand? If you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have

paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children they'll drive

out, and out you will go from these"--the speaker points in the

direction of the mills--"that's what they'll do, if you don't look out.

We have sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers have been killed

and maimed there, we have made the damned Company rich, and now they

send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have

tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out,

I tell you!"

Amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform.

"McLuckie! 'Honest' McLuckie!" a voice is heard on the fringe of the

crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, "'Honest'

McLuckie!"

I am eager to see the popular Burgess of Homestead, himself a

poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A large-boned,

good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the

men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles.

"I haven't prepared any speech," the Burgess begins haltingly, "but I

want to say, I don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. There

is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you

stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. The

_how_? How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That's what

I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad to let them in. The blacklegs

_might_ be hiding in the rear. But then again, it's bad _not_ to let the

soldiers in. You can't stand up against 'em: they are not Pinkertons.

And we can't fight the Government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the Governor

won't send the militia. But if he does, I reckon the best way for us

will be to make friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do.

That's all I have to say."

The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited.

CHAPTER III

THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH

I

Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the Ohio,

heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the

atmosphere with the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human

ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing,

leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure,

peaked and domed. Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of

gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the

shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms

toward the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of

the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog,

oppressive and dispiriting--the symbol of our existence, with all its

darkness and cold.

This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit

moulds the life of the great Nation. The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron

City! Cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote

of the great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony

to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace fire,

consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the

bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health

and blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and

converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to Mammon by his high

priests, the Carnegies, the Fricks.

* * * * *

The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations carried on

between the Carnegie Company and the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in

absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is

the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workers

after their victory over the Pinkertons has been refused. The ultimatum

issued by Frick is the last word of Caesar: the union of the

steel-workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the

cost of shedding the blood of the last man in Homestead; the Company

will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms

offered, without question or discussion; he, Frick, will operate the

mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined

military power of the State and the Union to carry the plan into

execution. Millmen disobeying the order to return to work under the new

schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and evicted

from the Company houses.

II

In an obscure alley, in the town of Homestead, there stands a one-story

frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow

Johnson and her four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a

crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. When the body

was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize in

the mangled remains her big, strong "Jack." For weeks the neighborhood

resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband! Where's my husband?" But

the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the

poor woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little orphans, she

recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees she implored him

not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she

pleaded; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young

to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she

thought; he had promised to see what could be done. She would not listen

to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for damages. "The crane

was rotten," her husband's friends informed her; "the government

inspector had condemned it." But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely he knew

best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband's own

carelessness?

She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage.

She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear

John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her

children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord's

blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors

the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how

simply he talked with her. "Just like us folks," the widow says.

She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback,

who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth

time. It reflects such importance to know some one that had come in

intimate contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence! and

even talked to the great magnate!

"'Dear Mr. Frick,' says I," the widow is narrating, "'dear Mr. Frick,'

I says, 'look at my poor little angels--'"

A knock on the door interrupts her. "Must be one-eyed Kate," the widow

observes. "Come in! Come in!" she calls out, cheerfully. "Poor Kate!"

she remarks with a sigh. "Her man's got the consumption. Won't last

long, I fear."

A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two

others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children

begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother.

"Beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "Have no fear. We are Deputy

Sheriffs. Read this." He produces an official-looking paper. "Ordered to

dispossess you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen

more of--"

There is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff catches the limp body of

the widow in his arms.

III

East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh, lies basking

in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the

stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently

nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of equipages

fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies

lending color and life to the scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The

laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness

irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind I see the sombre

fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow

rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the

anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain....

And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies

are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The

common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them,

build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust.

"Take what I give you," Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A

luxurious place, with large garden, barns, and stable. That stable

there,--it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. Ah,

life could be made livable, beautiful! Why should it not be? Why so much

misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around

me. That is life! Joy and peace.... No! There can be no peace with such

as Frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and

sucking the blood of the workers. Fricks, vampires, all of them--I

almost shout aloud--they are all one class. All in a cabal against _my_

class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy, perhaps;

but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile

and laugh. What is the misery of the People to _them?_ Probably they are

laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am of the People, but

you belong to the Fricks. Well, it may soon be our turn to laugh....

* * * * *

Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that the conferences

between the Carnegie Company and the Advisory Committee of the strikers

have terminated in the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of

the millmen. The last hope is gone! The master is determined to crush

his rebellious slaves.

CHAPTER IV

THE ATTENTAT

The door of Frick's private office, to the left of the reception-room,

swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a flitting

glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of

the room.

"Mistah Frick is engaged. He can't see you now, sah," the negro says,

handing back my card.

I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the

reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate

separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded

attendant aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself

facing Frick.

For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me.

I discern two men at the further end of the long table.

"Fr--," I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless.

It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. "He understands," it

flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I

raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the

chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. "Perhaps he wears armor,"

I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull

the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates

as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see

Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm

and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head

and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. "Dead?"

I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take a

few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had

quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks

slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him.

Suddenly I hear the cry, "Murder! Help!" My heart stands still as I

realize that it is Frick shouting. "Alive?" I wonder. I hurl the

stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck

my hand,--I have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the

room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and

body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering

behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click--but no

explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me,

when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp

pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of

the weapon slipping from my hands.

"Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!" Confused voices ring in my

ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing

on me. Now--it's Frick's voice! Not dead?... I crawl in the direction of

the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger

from my pocket--I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of

the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain--there is much

shouting and stamping--my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted

bodily from the floor.

Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my

head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of

me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is

streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a

strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am

filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With

defiant hatred I look him full in the face.

"Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?"

Frick nods weakly.

* * * * *

The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian

dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:

"Are you hurt? You're bleeding."

I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar

sensation about my eyes.

"I've lost my glasses," I remark, involuntarily.

"You'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head," an officer retorts.

CHAPTER V

THE THIRD DEGREE

I

The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of

footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone.

Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and

threats,--how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete

indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench,

running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep.

I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it

night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy

touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and

musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor,

drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars.

The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in

the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring.

My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. "Water! I want water!"

The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it

rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the

roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and

abruptly ceases.

"Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?"

The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the

sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to

breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite

mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts

restlessly pacing their cages.

"Whatcher in for?" It comes from somewhere alongside. "Can't talk, eh?

'Sorderly, guess."

What am I in for? Oh, yes! It's Frick. Well, I shall not stay _here_

long, anyhow. They will soon take me out--they will lean me against a

wall--a slimy wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and

the soldiers there.... No: they are going to hang me. Well, I shall be

glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry. I'm suffocating....

... The upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a

single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side

sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into

the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a

spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter! He

hit me on the head. From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what

he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to them, enlighten

them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't know his real friends. He looks

like a Russian peasant, with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If

he would only look up.... Now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is

stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he

didn't look! He has his eyes always on the ground. Just like the

_muzhik_. Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining

his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the cross-piece looks. The

horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. I hope it won't

break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the

picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was

inscribed, _The Execution of Stenka Razin_. "Didn't the branch break?" I

asked. "No, Sasha," mother replied, "Stenka--well, he weighed nothing";

and I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxim. But mother

smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my brother:

"Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka such pictures. He is too young."

"Not too young, mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man." "What!

You young fool," father bristled with anger, "he was a murderer, a

common rioter." But mother and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was

deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion.

"Not another word, now! I won't hear any more of that peasant criminal."

The peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the

difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn't they agree?

He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry

over a hanged murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked

at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a noble man. I cried

myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could

ever forgive "them" the killing of the good Stenka, and why the

weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn't it

break?... The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my

weight. They'll hang me like Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some

day see the picture--and they will call me murderer--and only a few will

know the truth--and the picture will show me hanging from.... No, they

shall not hang me!

My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of

gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitro-glycerine cartridge

secure in the lining. I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless

preparations! I have, myself, prepared for the event. No, they won't

hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead! Make your

gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he

is turning around. He is looking straight at me. Why, it's Frick!

Alive?...

My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars, and groan

heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed?...

II

Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more

distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall

not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I

must seem indifferent.

Would I "take lunch with the Chief"? I decline, requesting a glass of

water. Certainly; but the Chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each

side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally

ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is busy with thoughts

of escape, as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large,

well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high

above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at

which a middle-aged man, of distinct Irish type, is engaged with some

papers.

"Good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "Have a seat," pointing to a

chair inside the railing. "I understand you asked for some water?"

"Yes."

"Just a few questions first. Nothing important. Your pedigree, you know.

Mere matter of form. Answer frankly, and you shall have everything you

want."

His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating.

"Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name? Your real name, I mean."

"That's my real name."

"You don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to Mr.

Frick?"

"I gave my real name."

"And you are an agent of a New York employment firm?"

"No."

"That was on your card."

"I wrote it to gain access to Frick."

"And you gave the name 'Alexander Berkman' to gain access?"

"No. I gave my real name. Whatever might happen, I did not want anyone

else to be blamed."

"Are you a Homestead striker?"

"No."

"Why did you attack Mr. Frick?"

"He is an enemy of the People."

"You got a personal grievance against him?"

"No. I consider him an enemy of the People."

"Where do you come from?"

"From the station cell."

"Come, now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman. I am your friend. I am

going to give you a nice, comfortable cell. The other--"

"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily.

"How long did you serve there?"

"Where?"

"In the prison in Russia."

"I was never before inside a cell."

"Come, now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth."

He motions to the officer behind my chair. The window curtains are drawn

aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to

the clock on the wall. The hour-hand points to V. The calendar on the

desk reads, July--23--Saturday. Only three hours since my arrest? It

seemed so long in the cell....

"You can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is saying. "I know a

good deal more about you than you think. We've got your friend

Rak-metov."

With difficulty I suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended

trap. In the register of the hotel where I passed the first night in

Pittsburgh, I signed "Rakhmetov," the name of the hero in

Chernishevsky's famous novel.

"Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you."

"Then why do you ask me?"

"Don't you try to be smart now. Answer my questions, d'ye hear?"

His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is threatening.

"Now answer me. Where do you live?"

"Give me some water. I am too dry to talk."

"Certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "You shall have a drink.

Do you prefer whiskey or beer?"

"I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water."

"Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't let us waste time,

then. Who are your friends?"

"Give me a drink."

"The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. I am having

a nice cell fixed up for you, too. I want to be your friend, Mr.

Berkman. Treat me right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where

did you stop in Pittsburgh?"

"I have nothing to tell you."

"Answer me, or I'll--"

His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist he leaps from his seat;

but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile:

"Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why

don't you talk sensibly?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office?"

Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words:

"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, opposite

the B. and O. depot. I signed the name Rakhmetov in the register there.

It's a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to

Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's all I have to tell you."

"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We're not in any

hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here as in the cell; it's

pleasanter. But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just

tell me, where do you stay in New York?"

"I have told you all there is to tell."

"Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends?"

"I won't say another word."

"Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take him back. Same

cell."

* * * * *

Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by

new inquisitors. They coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I

remain indifferent. But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the

salty food they have given me. It consumes me, it tortures and burns my

vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The

foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me;

my soul is in an agony of uncertainty.

CHAPTER VI

THE JAIL

I

The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The

clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates

through the corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above

hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In my ears is the yelling

and shouting of coarse voices.

"Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right a-way!"

A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous, in his look

expectant fear.

"Hurry, there! To court!"

"Good luck, Jimmie."

The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors

clustered about an overseer.

"Who is that, Officer?" One of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand,

and stares boldly at the prisoner. Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is

being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his

head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell.

He falls heavily against the bed. "Oh, don't! For Jesus' sake, don't!"

The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries.

The visitors crowd about the cell.

"What did he do? He can't come out now, Officer?"

"No, ma'am. He's safe."

The lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. She steps closer to the bars,

eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays

about her mouth.

"What has he done, Officer?"

"Stole some clothes, ma'am."

Disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face. "Where is that man

who--er--we read in the papers yesterday? You know--the newspaper artist

who killed--er--that girl in such a brutal manner."

"Oh, Jack Tarlin. Murderers' Row, this way, ladies."

II

The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in

the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the

cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and I

feel something melt within me. Closer I press to the door. I long for

the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft

balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something

out of my heart is departing with them.... But the lengthening shadows

on the gray flagstones spread quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the

sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click

of a lock, and all is hushed and dark.

* * * * *

The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me with mysterious awe.

It lives. It pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster.

It rises and falls; approaches, recedes. It is Misery asleep. Now it

presses heavily against my door. I hear its quickened breathing. Oh, it

is the guard! Is it the death watch? His outline is lost in the

semi-darkness, but I see the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they

watch and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I nervously pace the

floor. Unconsciously my step quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of

steel. It grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is here and

there, all around me. Now it flits up and down; it doubles, trebles. The

fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On

every side they surround me, and bar my way.

I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless and broken. Ever the

terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning

with my every movement.

III

The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk in twos, conversing in

subdued tones. It is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. The

native of the western part of the State, the "Pennsylvania Dutchman," of

stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. The son of southern Italy,

stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick,

nervous step. The tall, slender Spaniard, swarthy and of classic

feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in passing,

casts a furtive glance into my cell. The last in the line is a young

negro, walking alone. He nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth

of dazzling whiteness. The guard brings up the rear. He pauses at my

door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically.

"You may fall in."

The cell is unlocked, and I join the line. The negro is at my side. He

loses no time in engaging me in conversation. He is very glad, he

assures me, that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." It was a

shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. Now they will "call de

night-dog off. Must been afeared o' soocide," he explains.

His flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a whit disconcerted by my

evident disinclination to talk. Would I have a cigarette? May smoke in

the cell. One can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough"; buy anything

'cept booze. He is full of the prison gossip. That tall man there is

Jack Tinford, of Homestead--sure to swing--threw dynamite at the

Pinkertons. That little "dago" will keep Jack company--cut his wife's

throat. The "Dutchy" there is "bugs"--choked his son in sleep. Presently

my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is

waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree murder, though.

Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. "His" man didn't "croak" till after

the ninth day. He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth-day

superstition. He is convinced they won't hang him. "Can't do't," he

reiterates, with a happy grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Wat am

yo doin' heah? Only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry. Yuh man didn' croak!"

Evidently he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that I am "all

right." "Guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. But can't hang yo,

can't hang yo." He grows excited over the recital of his case. Minutely

he describes the details. "Dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot I's afeared of

'm. He know bettah now," he chuckles. "Dis ah chile am afeared of none

ov'm. Ah ain't. 'Gwan 'way, niggah,' Ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah

gahl be.' An' dat big black niggah grab de cleaveh,--we's in d'otel

kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat,' Ah hollos, an' he come at me. Den

dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle brodeh," he taps his pocket

significantly, "an' Ah lets de ornery niggah hab it. Plum' in de belly,

yassah, Ah does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' Ah pulls mah knife out, two

inches, 'bout, an' den Ah gives it half twist like, an' shoves it in

'gen." He illustrates the ghastly motion. "Dat bad niggah neveh botheh

_me_ 'gen, noh nobody else, Ah guess. But dey can't hang me, no sah, dey

can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later. Ah's lucky, yassah, Ah is."

His face is wreathed in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly

he grows serious. "Yo am strikeh? No-o-o? Not a steel-woikeh?" with

utter amazement. "What yo wan' teh shoot Frick foah?" He does not

attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity, as I essay an

explanation. "Afeared t' tell. Yo am deep all right, Ahlick--dat am yuh

name? But yo am right, yassah, yo am right. Doan' tell nobody. Dey's

mos'ly crooks, dat dey am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. Yo jes' membuh

dat."

* * * * *

There is a peculiar movement in the marching line. I notice a prisoner

leave his place. He casts an anxious glance around, and disappears in

the niche of the cell door. The line continues on its march, and, as I

near the man's hiding place, I hear him whisper, "Fall back, Aleck."

Surprised at being addressed in such familiar manner, I slow down my

pace. The man is at my side.

"Say, Berk, you don't want to be seen walking with that 'dinge.'"

The sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. I feel the

impulse to resent the mutilation. The man's manner suggests a lack of

respect, offensive to my dignity as a revolutionist.

"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him.

He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed chin of the elongated

face suggest the fox. He meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his

smoked-glass spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly

confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with a "nigger," he

informs me. It will make feeling against me. He himself is a Pittsburgh

man for the last twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the

South, in Atlanta. They have no use for "niggers" down there, he assures

me. They must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good,

anyway. I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward

me. I must be very careful of appearances before the trial. My

inexperience is quite evident, but he "knows the ropes." I must not give

"them" an opportunity to say anything against me. My behavior in jail

will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. He himself expects

to "get off easy." He knows some of the judges. Mostly good men. He

ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted three times for him at

the last election. He closes the left eye, and playfully pokes me with

his elbow. He hopes he'll "get before that judge." He will, if he is

lucky, he assures me. He had always had pretty good luck. Last time he

got off with three years, though he nearly killed "his" man. But it was

in self-defence. Have I got a chew of tobacco about me? Don't use the

weed? Well, it'll be easier in the "pen." What's the pen? Why, don't I

know? The penitentiary, of course. I should have no fear. Frick ain't

going to die. But what did I want to kill the man for? I ain't no

Pittsburgh man, that he could see plain. What did I want to "nose in"

for? Help the strikers? I must be crazy to talk that way. Why, it was

none of my "cheese." Didn't I come from New York? Yes? Well, then, how

could the strike concern me? I must have some personal grudge against

Frick. Ever had dealings with him? No? Sure? Then it's plain "bughouse,"

no use talking. But it's different with his case. It was his partner in

business. He knew the skunk meant to cheat him out of money, and they

quarreled. Did I notice the dark glasses he wears? Well, his eyes are

bad. He only meant to scare the man. But, damn him, he croaked. Curse

such luck. His third offence, too. Do I think the judge will have pity

on him? Why, he is almost blind. How did he manage to "get his man"?

Why, just an accidental shot. He didn't mean to--

The gong intones its deep, full bass.

"All in!"

The line breaks. There is a simultaneous clatter of many doors, and I am

in the cell again.

IV

Within, on the narrow stool, I find a tin pan filled with a dark-brown

mixture. It is the noon meal, but the "dinner" does not look inviting:

the pan is old and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion. The

greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks of vegetable,

resembles a pool of stagnant water covered with green slime. The first

taste nauseates me, and I decide to "dine" on the remnants of my

breakfast--a piece of bread.

* * * * *

I pace the floor in agitation over the conversation with my

fellow-prisoners. Why can't they understand the motives that prompted

my act? Their manner of pitying condescension is aggravating. My

attempted explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort.

Not a striker myself, I could and should have had no interest in

the struggle,--the opinion seemed final with both the negro and

the white man. In the purpose of the act they refused to see any

significance,--nothing beyond the mere physical effect. It would have

been a good thing if Frick had died, because "he was bad." But it is

"lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought, for now "they" can't

hang me. My remark that the probable consequences to myself are not to

be weighed in the scale against the welfare of the People, they had met

with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as to my sanity. It is, of

course, consoling to reflect that neither of those men can properly be

said to represent the People. The negro is a very inferior type of

laborer; and the other--he is a _bourgeois_, "in business." He is not

worth while. Besides, he confessed that it is his third offence. He is a

common criminal, not an honest producer. But that tall man--the

Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed out to me--oh, _he_ will

understand: he is of the real People. My heart wells up in admiration of

the man, as I think of his participation in the memorable struggle of

Homestead. He fought the Pinkertons, the myrmidons of Capital. Perhaps

he helped to dynamite the barges and drive those Hessians out of town.

He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong and determined, his

body manly and powerful. He is of the true spirit; the embodiment of the

great, noble People: the giant of labor grown to his full stature,

conscious of his strength. Fearless, strong, and proud, he will conquer

all obstacles; he will break his chains and liberate mankind.

V

Next morning, during exercise hour, I watch with beating heart for an

opportunity to converse with the Homestead steel-worker. I shall explain

to him the motives and purpose of my attempt on Frick. He will

understand me; he will himself enlighten his fellow-strikers. It is very

important _they_ should comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the

very man to do this great service to humanity. He is the rebel-worker;

his heroism during the struggle bears witness. I hope the People will

not allow the enemy to hang him. He defended the rights of the Homestead

workers, the cause of the whole working class. No, the People will never

allow such a sacrifice. How well he carries himself! Erect, head high,

the look of conscious dignity and strength--

"Cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!"

The prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the line, and advances in

response to the guard's call. Quickly I pass along the gallery, and fall

into the vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker.

"A happy chance," I address him. "I should like to speak to you about

something important. You are one of the Homestead strikers, are you

not?"

"Jack Tinford," he introduces himself. "What's your name?"

He is visibly startled by my answer. "The man who shot Frick?" he asks.

An expression of deep anxiety crosses his face. His eye wanders to the

gate. Through the wire network I observe visitors approaching from the

Warden's office.

"They'd better not see us together," he says, impatiently. "Fall in back

of me. Then we'll talk."

Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its significance, I slowly

fall back. His tall, broad figure completely hides me from view. He

speaks to me in monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Homestead

he grows more communicative, talking in an undertone, as if conversing

with his neighbor, the Sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of

English. I strain my ear to catch his words. The steel-workers merely

defended themselves against armed invaders, I hear him say. They are not

on strike: they've been locked out by Frick, because he wants to

non-unionize the works. That's why he broke the contract with the

Amalgamated, and hired the damned Pinkertons two months before, when all

was peace. They shot many workers from the barges before the millmen

"got after them." They deserved roasting alive for their unprovoked

murders. Well, the men "fixed them all right." Some were killed, others

committed suicide on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to

surrender like whipped curs. A grand victory all right, if that coward

of a sheriff hadn't got the Governor to send the militia to Homestead.

But it was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best of three

hundred armed Pinkertons. He himself, though, had nothing to do with the

fight. He was sick at the time. They're trying to get the Pinkertons to

swear his life away. One of the hounds has already made an affidavit

that he saw him, Jack Tinford, throw dynamite at the barges, before the

Pinkertons landed. But never mind, he is not afraid. No Pittsburgh jury

will believe those lying murderers. He was in his sweetheart's house,

sick abed. The girl and her mother will prove an alibi for him. And the

Advisory Committee of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't on the

shore. They'll swear to it in court, anyhow--

Abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. For a moment he is lost

in thought. Then he gives me a searching look, and smiles at me. As we

turn the corner of the walk, he whispers: "Too bad you didn't kill him.

Some business misunderstanding, eh?" he adds, aloud.

Could he be serious, I wonder. Does he only pretend? He faces straight

ahead, and I am unable to see his expression. I begin the careful

explanation I had prepared:

"Jack, it was for you, for your people that I--"

Impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. I'd better be careful not to talk

that way in court, he warns me. If Frick should die, I'd hang myself

with such "gab." And it would only harm the steel-workers. They don't

believe in killing; they respect the law. Of course, they had a right to

defend their homes and families against unlawful invaders. But they

welcomed the militia to Homestead. They showed their respect for

authority. To be sure, Frick deserves to die. He is a murderer. But the

mill-workers will have nothing to do with Anarchists. What did I want to

kill him for, anyhow? I did not belong to the Homestead men. It was none

of my business. I had better not say anything about it in court, or--

The gong tolls.

"All in!"

VI

I pass a sleepless night. The events of the day have stirred me to the

very depths. Bitterness and anger against the Homestead striker fill my

heart. My hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle of the

People,--how contemptible he has proved himself, how cravenly small! No

consciousness of the great mission of his class, no proud realization

of the part he himself had acted in the noble struggle. A cowardly,

overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for the prank he has

played! Meanly concerned only with his own safety, and willing to resort

to lying, in order to escape responsibility.

The very thought is appalling. It is a sacrilege, an insult to the holy

Cause, to the People. To myself, too. Not that lying is to be condemned,

provided it is in the interest of the Cause. All means are justified in

the war of humanity against its enemies. Indeed, the more repugnant the

means, the stronger the test of one's nobility and devotion. All great

revolutionists have proved that. There is no more striking example in

the annals of the Russian movement than that peerless Nihilist--what was

his name? Why, how peculiar that it should escape me just now! I knew it

so well. He undermined the Winter Palace, beneath the very dining-room

of the Tsar. What debasement, what terrible indignities he had to endure

in the role of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. How his

proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and months,--all for the sake

of his great purpose. Wonderful man! To be worthy of your

comradeship.... But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison.

He is absorbed in the single thought of saving himself, the traitor. A

veritable Judas, preparing to forswear his people and their cause,

willing to lie and deny his participation. How proud I should be in his

place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did! And then to die for

it,--ah, could there be a more glorious fate for a man, a real man? To

serve even as the least stone in the foundation of a free society, or as

a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant People shall finally

pass into the land of promise?

A plank in the bridge.... In the _most_.[5] What a significant name! How

it impressed me the first time I heard it! No, I saw it in print, I

remember quite clearly. Mother had just died. I was dreaming of the New

World, the Land of Freedom. Eagerly I read every line of "American

news." One day, in the little Kovno library--how distinctly it all comes

back to me--I can see myself sitting there, perusing the papers. Must

get acquainted with the country. What is this? "Anarchists hanged in

Chicago." There are many names--one is "Most." "What is an Anarchist?" I

whisper to the student near by. He is from Peter,[6] he will know.

"S--sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free America?" I wondered.

[5] Russian for "bridge."

[6] Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.

How little I knew of America then! A free country, indeed, that hangs

its noblest men. And the misery, the exploitation,--it's terrible. I

must mention all this in court, in my defence. No, not defence--some

fitter word. Explanation! Yes, my explanation. I need no defence: I

don't consider myself guilty. What did the Warden mean? Fool for a

client, he said, when I told him that I would refuse legal aid. He

thinks I am a fool. Well, he's a _bourgeois_, he can't understand. I'll

tell him to leave me alone. He belongs to the enemy. The lawyers, too.

They are all in the capitalist camp. I need no lawyers. They couldn't

explain my case. I shall not talk to the reporters, either. They are a

lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism. They always

misrepresent us. And they know better, too. They wrote columns of

interviews with Most when he went to prison. All lies. I saw him off

myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are our worst enemies. The

Warden said that they'll come to see me to-morrow. I'll have nothing to

say to them. They're sure to twist my words, and thus impair the effect

of my act. It is not complete without my explanation. I shall prepare it

very carefully. Of course, the jury won't understand. They, too, belong

to the capitalist class. But I must use the trial to talk to the People.

To be sure, an _Attentat_ on a Frick is in itself splendid propaganda.

It combines the value of example with terroristic effect. But very much

depends upon my explanation. It offers me a rare opportunity for a

broader agitation of our ideas. The comrades outside will also use my

act for propaganda. The People misunderstand us: they have been

prejudiced by the capitalist press. They must be enlightened; that is

our glorious task. Very difficult and slow work, it is true; but they

will learn. Their patience will break, and then--the good People, they

have always been too kind to their enemies. And brave, even in their

suffering. Yes, very brave. Not like that fellow, the steel-worker. He

is a disgrace to Homestead, the traitor....

* * * * *

I pace the cell in agitation. The Judas-striker is not fit to live.

Perhaps it would be best they should hang him. His death would help to

open the eyes of the People to the real character of legal justice.

Legal justice--what a travesty! They are mutually exclusive terms. Yes,

indeed, it would be best he should be hanged. The Pinkerton will testify

against him. He saw Jack throw dynamite. Very good. Perhaps others will

also swear to it. The judge will believe the Pinkertons. Yes, they will

hang him.

The thought somewhat soothes my perturbation. At least the cause of the

People will benefit to some extent. The man himself is not to be

considered. He has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively

personal; he can be of no further benefit to the People. Only his death

can aid the Cause. It is best for him to end his career in the service

of humanity. I hope he will act like a man on the scaffold. The enemy

should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror. They'll see in him

the spirit of the People. Of course, he is not worthy of it. But he must

die like a rebel-worker, bravely, defiantly. I must speak to him about

it.

The deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie.

VII

There is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude of the night. The

day's atmosphere is surcharged with noisome anxiety, the hours laden

with impending terrors. But the night is soothing. For the first time I

feel alone, unobserved. The "night-dog has been called off." How

refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the hangman be robbed of his

prey! A simple precaution against suicide, the Warden told me. I felt

the naive stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger. What

a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes! His mind cannot grasp the

impossibility of suicide before I have explained to the People the

motive and purpose of my act. Suicide? As if the mere death of Frick was

my object! The very thought is impossible, insulting. It outrages me

that even a _bourgeois_ should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an

active revolutionist. The insignificant reptile, Frick,--as if the mere

man were worth a terroristic effort! I aimed at the many-headed hydra

whose visible representative was Frick. The Homestead developments had

given him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head into

bold relief, so to speak. That alone made him worthy of the

revolutionist's attention. Primarily, as an object lesson; it would

strike terror into the soul of his class. They are craven-hearted, their

conscience weighted with guilt,--and life is dear to them. Their

strangling hold on labor might be loosened. Only for a while, no doubt.

But that much would be gained, due to the act of the _Attentaeter_. The

People could not fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its

own life for their cause. To give a young life, full of health and

vitality, to give all, without a thought of self; to give all,

voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically--could any one fail to

understand such a love?

But this is the first terrorist act in America. The People may fail to

comprehend it thoroughly. Yet they will know that an Anarchist committed

the deed. I will talk to them from the courtroom. And my comrades at

liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed light on the

questions involved. Such a deed must draw the attention of the world.

This first act of voluntary Anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen

think deeply. Perhaps even more so than the Chicago martyrdom. The

latter was preeminently a lesson in capitalist justice. The culmination

of a plutocratic conspiracy, the tragedy of 1887 lacked the element of

voluntary Anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the People. In

that distinctive quality my act is initial. Perhaps it will prove the

entering wedge. The leaven of growing oppression is at work. It is for

us, the Anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. Let the world

learn of the misery of Homestead. The sudden thunderclap gives warning

that beyond the calm horizon the storm is gathering. The lightning of

social protest--

* * * * *

"Quick, Ahlick! Plant it." Something white flutters between the bars.

Hastily I read the newspaper clipping. Glorious! Who would have

expected it? A soldier in one of the regiments stationed at Homestead

called upon the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot Frick."

My soul overflows with beautiful hopes. Such a wonderful spirit among

the militia; perhaps the soldiers will fraternize with the strikers. It

is by no means an impossibility: such things have happened before. After

all, they are of the People, mostly workingmen. Their interests are

identical with those of the strikers, and surely they hate Frick, who is

universally condemned for his brutality, his arrogance. This

soldier--what is his name? Iams, W. L. Iams--he typifies the best

feeling of the regiment. The others probably lack his courage. They

feared to respond to his cheers, especially because of the Colonel's

presence. But undoubtedly most of them feel as Iams does. It would be

dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the Tenth Pennsylvania. And in the

other Homestead regiments, there must also be such noble Iamses. They

will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the Colonel

threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man. He is a citizen, a native.

He has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. If he had

condemned it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice a

favorable sentiment? No, they can't punish him. And he is surely very

popular among the soldiers. How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged

before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for "the assassin

of Mr. Frick," as the imbecile put it. Iams stepped out of the ranks,

and boldly avowed his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it.

But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. He even refused

the Colonel's offer to apologize.

Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist. Such a man has

no business to belong to the militia. He should know for what purpose

it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. After

all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. It will enlighten him. I

must follow the case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. It

was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. The Warden has

expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other

prisoners are permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me in

every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce

"Anarchist." Yesterday he said to me: "The Anachrists are no good. What

do they want, anyhow?" I replied, angrily: "First you say they are no

good, then you ask what they want." He flushed. "Got no use for them,

anyway." Such an imbecile! Not the least sense of justice--he condemns

without knowing. I believe he is aiding the detectives. Why does he

insist I should plead guilty? I have repeatedly told him that, though I

do not deny the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright. "Better

plead guilty, you'll get off easier. You did it, so better plead

guilty." In vain I strove to explain to him: "I don't believe in your

laws, I don't acknowledge the authority of your courts. I am innocent,

morally." The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing

about his lips. "Plead guilty. Take my advice, plead guilty."

* * * * *

Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The small, cunning eyes

of the Warden peer intently through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well,

he may have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture shall draw

from me an admission incriminating the negro. The name Rakhmetov flits

through my mind. I shall be true to that memory.

"A gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the Warden informs me.

"Who is he?"

"A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh."

"I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don't care to see the man."

The Warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions. Why should he be so

much interested in my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have

been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden insists. I refuse.

Finally he orders me out of the cell. Two guards lead me into the

hallway. They halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are

counted off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice that I am

the only one in the line wearing glasses. The Warden enters from an

inner office, accompanied by three visitors. They pass down the row,

scrutinizing each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the men. One of

the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of

the man on my left. The Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They

converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till

they are alongside of me. The tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on

my shoulder, exclaiming:

"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you on Fifth Avenue, right

in front of the Telegraph building."[7]

[7] The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company

were located.

"I never saw you before in my life."

"Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you--"

"No, you did not," I interrupt, impatiently.

"Take him back," the Warden commands.

I protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A positive

identification," the Warden asserts. The detective had seen me "in the

company of two friends, inspecting the office of Mr. Frick." Indignantly

I deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to

involve my comrades. He grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of

exercise that afternoon.

* * * * *

The Warden's role in the police plot is now apparent to me. I realize

him in his true colors. Ignorant though he is, familiarity with police

methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of

the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks a depth of

malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his

wardenship over unfortunate human beings.

This new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents

heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is being detained at the office, I am

sure. It is impossible that my New York comrades should have neglected

me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a matter of due

precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. But two or three

days would be sufficient to perfect a _Deckadresse_.[8] Yet not a line

has reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is being detained.

[8] A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the

correspondent.

My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden. His infamy fills me

with rage. The negro's warning against the occupant of the next cell

assumes a new aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the

Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add

strong proof to justify the suspicion. It grows to conviction as I

review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. The questions I

deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the light of

the Warden's role as volunteer detective. The young negro was sent to

the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. But the

latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and

talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the Warden, too, is

hand-in-glove with the police. I am convinced he himself caused the

writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked

Homestead, from a pretended striker. They want to blow up the mills, the

letter said; good bombs are needed. I should send them the addresses of

my friends who know how to make effective explosives. What a stupid

trap! One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders

in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned. Well, I am not to be

caught with such chaff. But I must be on my guard. It is best I should

decline to accept mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow.

Yes, I'll refuse all mail.

* * * * *

I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. Not a single being

here I may call friend; except the negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I

hope he will give me more clippings,--perhaps there will be news of my

comrades. I'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise to-morrow.... Oh!

they are handing out tracts. To-morrow is Sunday,--no exercise!

VIII

The Lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. A scanty

allowance of bread, with a tincupful of black, unsweetened coffee,

constitutes breakfast. Supper is a repetition of the morning meal,

except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force

myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It tastes like greasy

dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread.

Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The atmosphere is pervaded

with the gloom of unbroken silence. In the afternoon, I hear the

creaking of the inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the good

ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors on Murderers' Row are

opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. The prisoners remain in their

cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances.

All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive

quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on

the bars. I hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the

turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow

athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver protruding from

his pocket.

Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. Female

voices swell the melody, "Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." Slowly

the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the

gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "Nearer to Thee, to Thee."

The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters, "Let us pray." Its

metallic hardness rings like a command. The guards stand with lowered

heads. Their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "Our Father who

art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.... Forgive us our

trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us----"

"Like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is

suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the

stairs. The uproar increases. "Order!" Yells and catcalls drown the

Warden's voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of

rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have

reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard.

The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The

prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee.

"Give the s---- of b---- no supper! No supper!" roars the Warden.

Sabbath benediction!

The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night.

IX

In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn't die! He has almost recovered.

I have positive information: the "blind" prisoner gave me the clipping

during exercise. "You're a poor shot," he teased me.

The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the

intensity of a catastrophe. My imprisonment, the vexations of jail life,

the future--all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization

of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms

me. I failed! Failed!... It might have been different, had I gone to

Frick's residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in

the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very

morning the papers had announced Frick's intended visit to New York. I

was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It

was mainly his cowardice that saved him--he hid under the chair! Played

dead! And now he lives, the vampire.... And Homestead? How will it

affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have

hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of

Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be

held accountable. The author of "Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to

adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for

Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his role as

the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle.

Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist

propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be

blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick's

death. But his recovery....

Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the

strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia

to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity

to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,--our

propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a

very small part of the American working class. Important as this great

struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true

cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will

solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The

suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under

capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly

increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere

sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know

the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the

core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the

abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can

save the world.

These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the

desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated.

But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical

result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is,

always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my _Attentat_

was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital

interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to

stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and

thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead

situation offered the psychologic social moment. What matter the

personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my

_Attentat_? The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act

is accomplished.

As to myself--my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for

the Cause. But now they will send me to prison--they will bury me

alive....

Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I

remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the

police station, on the third day after my arrest.... Rough hands seize

my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently

backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.

"Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!"

Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the

bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung

high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling....

"Now, Doc, quick!"

There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise,

and my mouth is torn open.

"What d'ye think of _that_, eh?"

The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.

"What's this?" he demands, with an oath.

"Candy," I reply, defiantly.

X

How full of anxiety these two weeks have been! Still no news of my

comrades. The Warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently

regards my last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase

papers; they may contain something about my friends. If I could only

learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the Girl and

Fedya are doing! I long to know what is happening with them. But my

interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so far away,--I

do not count among the living. On the outside, everything seems to

continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frick is quite well now;

at his desk again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance. The

police seem to have given up their hunt. How ridiculous the Chief has

made himself by kidnaping my friend Mollock, the New York baker! The

impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across

the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! I suppose he is

the only Anarchist the stupid Chief could find. My negro friend informed

me of the kidnaping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the "silent

baker" would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word, could they draw from him.

Mollock's discharge by the magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous

position. Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim

nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades preserve silence, all

will be well, for I was careful to leave no clew. I had told them that

my destination was Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can

depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom I found living in the

same house with Nold, impressed me as rather unreliable. I thought there

was something of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not

trust him, and I'm afraid he might compromise the others. Why are they

friendly, I wonder. He is probably not even a comrade. The Allegheny

Anarchists should have nothing in common with him. It is not well for us

to associate with the _bourgeois_-minded.

* * * * *

My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am

"wanted at the office." There is a letter for me, but some postage is

due on it. Would I pay?

"A trap," it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall

persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.

"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the Warden.

He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y."

I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman's, but the

chirography is smaller than the Girl's. I yearn for news of her. The

letter is from Brooklyn--perhaps a _Deckadresse_!

"I'll take the letter, Warden."

"All right. You will open it here."

"Then I don't want it."

I start from the office; when the Warden detains me:

"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me.

You may go now."

I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I

shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no obligations. As with trembling

hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I

glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan

the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of

humanity. "I am not an Anarchist," I read, "but I wish you well. My

sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify

your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None has the

right to take what he cannot give."

* * * * *

I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with the problem presented so

unexpectedly. Can any one understanding my motives, doubt the

justification of the _Attentat_? The legal aspect aside, can the

morality of the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound law with

right; they are opposites. The law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of

rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. To

be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that

conspiracy. A revolutionist is the truly moral man: to him the interests

of humanity are supreme; to advance them, his sole aim in life.

Government, with its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons are

justifiable in the noble struggle of the People against this terrible

curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the centuries. The path of Man

is soaked with the blood it has shed. Can this great criminal determine

Right? Is a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? It would mean the

perpetuation of human slavery.

No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. He is the

soldier of humanity. He has consecrated his life to the People in their

great struggle. It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from

the service it imposes upon him. Aye, even the duty of death. Cheerfully

and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of

liberty. His life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or

enjoy while others suffer.

* * * * *

How often we had discussed this, Fedya and I. He was somewhat inclined

to sybaritism; not quite emancipated from the tendencies of his

_bourgeois_ youth. Once in New York--I shall never forget--at the time

when our circle had just begun the publication of the first Jewish

Anarchist paper in America, we came to blows. We, the most intimate

friends; yes, actually came to blows. Nobody would have believed it.

They used to call us the Twins. If I happened to appear anywhere alone,

they would inquire, anxiously, "What is the matter? Is your chum sick?"

It was so unusual; we were each other's shadow. But one day I struck

him. He had outraged my most sacred feelings: to spend twenty cents for

a meal! It was not mere extravagance; it was positively a crime,

incredible in a revolutionist. I could not forgive him for months. Even

now,--two years have passed,--yet a certain feeling of resentment still

remains with me. What right had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence?

The movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. To spend twenty cents

for a single meal! He was a traitor to the Cause. True, it was his first

meal in two days, and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the

parks. He had worked hard, too, to earn the money. But he should have

known that he had no right to his earnings while the movement stood in

such need of funds. His defence was unspeakably aggravating: he had

earned ten dollars that week--he had given seven into the paper's

treasury--he needed three dollars for his week's expenses--his shoes

were torn, too. I had no patience with such arguments. They merely

proved his _bourgeois_ predilections. Personal comforts could not be of

any consideration to a true revolutionist. It was a question of the

movement; _its_ needs, the first issue. Every penny spent for ourselves

was so much taken from the Cause. True, the revolutionist must live. But

luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. One could exist on five cents a

day. Twenty cents for a single meal! Incredible. It was robbery.

Poor Twin! He was deeply grieved, but he knew that I was merely just.

The revolutionist has no personal right to anything. Everything he has

or earns belongs to the Cause. Everything, even his affections. Indeed,

these especially. He must not become too much attached to anything. He

should guard against strong love or passion. The People should be his

only great love, his supreme passion. Mere human sentiment is unworthy

of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity, and he must ever be

ready to respond to its call. The soldier of Revolution must not be

lured from the field of battle by the siren song of love. Great danger

lurks in such weakness. The Russian tyrant has frequently attempted to

bait his prey with a beautiful woman. Our comrades there are careful not

to associate with any woman, except of proved revolutionary character.

Aye, her mere passive interest in the Cause is not sufficient. Love may

transform her into a Delilah to shear one's strength. Only with a woman

consecrated to active participation may the revolutionist associate.

Their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration, a source of

increased strength. Equals, thoroughly solidaric, they would the more

successfully serve the Cause of the People. Countless Russian women bear

witness--Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch, and many other

heroic martyrs, tortured in the casemates of Schluesselburg, buried alive

in the Petropavlovka. What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect comrades

they were, often stronger than the men. Brave, noble women that fill the

prisons and _etapes_, tramp the toilsome road....

The Siberian steppe rises before me. Its broad expanse shimmers in the

sun's rays, and blinds the eye with white brilliancy. The endless

monotony agonizes the sight, and stupefies the brain. It breathes the

chill of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the terror of

madness. In vain the eye seeks relief from the white Monster that slowly

tightens his embrace, and threatens to swallow you in his frozen

depth.... There, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a

heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. It winds along the virgin bosom,

grows redder and deeper, and ascends the mountain in a dark ribbon,

twining and wreathing its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing

in the hollow, and again rising on the height. Behold a man and a woman,

hand in hand, their heads bent, on their shoulders a heavy cross, slowly

toiling the upward way, and behind them others, men and women, young and

old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the dismal desert,

amid death and silence, save for the mournful clank, clank of the

chains....

* * * * *

"Get out now. Exercise!"

* * * * *

As in a dream I walk along the gallery. The voice of my exercise mate

sounds dully in my ears. I do not understand what he is saying. Does he

know about the Nihilists, I wonder?

"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?"

"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a

book. A corker, too, it was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?"

"Nihilists."

"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff."

"What was the name?"

"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff."

"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?"

"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A fellow needs a cast-iron

jaw to say it every day. But the story was a corker all right. About a

Rooshan patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you. Overheard a

plot to kill th' king by them fellows--er--what's you call 'em?"

"Nihilists?"

"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to kill his Nibs and all

the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you

bet. But Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets in all

kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. But he's game. I

don't remember how it all ends, but--"

"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the truth about--"

"Oh, t'hell with it! Say, Berk, d'ye think they'll hang me? Won't the

judge sympathize with a blind man? Look at me eyes. Pretty near blind,

swear to God, I am. Won't hang a blind man, will they?"

The pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and I assure him they will not hang

a blind man. His eyes brighten, his face grows radiant with hope.

Why does he love life so, I wonder. Of what value is it without a high

purpose, uninspired by revolutionary ideals? He is small and cowardly:

he lies to save his neck. There is nothing at all wrong with his eyes.

But why should _I_ lie for his sake?

My conscience smites me for the moment of weakness. I should not allow

inane sentimentality to influence me: it is beneath the revolutionist.

"Billy," I say with some asperity, "many innocent people have been

hanged. The Nihilists, for instance--"

"Oh, damn 'em! What do _I_ care about 'em! Will they hang _me_, that's

what I want to know."

"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. A

look of terror spreads over his face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his

lips parted. "Yes," I continue, "perhaps they will hang you. Many

innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don't think you are innocent,

either; nor blind. You don't need those glasses; there is nothing the

matter with your eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don't want them to hang

you. I don't believe in hanging. But I must tell you the truth, and

you'd better be ready for the worst."

Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage suffuses his cheeks

with spots of dark red.

"You're crazy! What's the use talkin' to you, anyhow? You are a damn

Anarchist. I'm a good Catholic, I want you to know that! I haven't

always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. I'm no

damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I'm pretty near blind,

and this is a Christian country, thank God! They won't hang a blind man.

Don't you ever talk to _me_ again!"

XI

The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety

about the approaching trial. It is part of the designed cruelty to keep

me ignorant of the precise date. "Hold yourself ready. You may be called

any time," the Warden had said. But the shadows are lengthening, the

days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court

calendar. Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My mission is

almost accomplished,--the explanation in court, and then my life is

done. I shall never again have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I

may therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for the partial

failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my

heart. Yet why? The physical results of my act cannot affect its

propagandistic value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above

them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. "Bad shot, ain't

you?" They do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and

try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the

revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness. They are so far

beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests;

they cannot understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the

eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights.

* * * * *

The "trusty" passes along the gallery. He walks slowly, dusting the iron

railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the

cat-o'-many-tails. Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low,

pretending to wipe the doorsill,--there is a quick movement of his hand,

and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my

feet. "A stiff," he whispers.

Indifferently I pick up the note. I know no one in the jail; it is

probably some poor fellow asking for cigarettes. Placing the roll

between the pages of a newspaper, I am surprised to find it in German.

From whom can it be? I turn to the signature. Carl Nold? It's

impossible; it's a trap! No, but that handwriting,--I could not mistake

it: the small, clear chirography is undoubtedly Nold's. But how did he

smuggle in this note? I feel the blood rush to my head as my eye flits

over the penciled lines: Bauer and he are arrested; they are in the jail

now, charged with conspiracy to kill Frick; detectives swore they met

them in my company, in front of the Frick office building. They have

engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. Would I accept his services? I

probably have no money, and I shouldn't expect any from New York,

because Most--what's this?--because Most has repudiated the act--

The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty I walk to the gallery.

I feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and I stumble against the

railing.

"Is yo sick, Ahlick?" It must be the negro's voice. My throat is dry; my

lips refuse to move. Hazily I see the guard approach. He walks me to the

cell, and lowers the berth. "You may lie down." The lock clicks, and I'm

alone.

* * * * *

The line marches past, up and down, up and down. The regular footfall

beats against my brain like hammer strokes. When will they stop? My head

aches dreadfully--I am glad I don't have to walk--it was good of the

negro to call the guard--I felt so sick. What was it? Oh, the note!

Where is it?

The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick the newspaper up from

the floor. With trembling hands I turn the leaves. Ah, it's here! If I

had not found it, I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy?

The sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread. Nold and Bauer

here! Perhaps--if they act discreetly--all will be well. They are

innocent; they can prove it. But Most! How can it be possible? Of

course, he was displeased when I began to associate with the

autonomists. But how can that make any difference? At such a time! What

matter personal likes and dislikes to a revolutionist, to a Most--the

hero of my first years in America, the name that stirred my soul in that

little library in Kovno--Most, the Bridge of Liberty! My teacher--the

author of the _Kriegswissenschaft_--the ideal revolutionist--he to

denounce me, to repudiate propaganda by deed?

It's incredible! I cannot believe it. The Girl will not fail to write to

me about it. I'll wait till I hear from her. But, then, Nold is himself

a great admirer of Most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless

fully convinced that it is true. Yet--it is barely conceivable. How

explain such a change in Most? To forswear his whole past, his glorious

past! He was always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism.

Some tremendous motive must be back of such apostasy. It has no parallel

in Anarchist annals. But what can it be? How boldly he acted during the

Haymarket tragedy--publicly advised the use of violence to avenge the

capitalist conspiracy. He must have realized the danger of the speech

for which he was later doomed to Blackwell's Island. I remember his

defiant manner on the way to prison. How I admired his strong spirit, as

I accompanied him on the last ride! That was only a little over a year

ago, and he is just out a few months. Perhaps--is it possible? A coward?

Has that prison experience influenced his present attitude? Why, it is

terrible to think of Most--a coward? He who has devoted his entire life

to the Cause, sacrificed his seat in the Reichstag because of

uncompromising honesty, stood in the forefront all his life, faced peril

and danger,--_he_ a coward? Yet, it is impossible that he should have

suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. What could have prompted his

denunciation of my act? Personal dislike? No, that was a matter of

petty jealousy. His confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded.

Did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans concerning

Russia? That was proof of absolute faith. One could not change his

opinion so suddenly. Moreover, it can have no bearing on his repudiation

of a terrorist act. I can find no explanation, unless--can it be?--fear

of personal consequences. Afraid _he_ might be held responsible,

perhaps. Such a possibility is not excluded, surely. The enemy hates him

bitterly, and would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to hang

him. But that is the price one pays for his love of humanity. Every

revolutionist is exposed to this danger. Most especially; his whole

career has been a duel with tyranny. But he was never before influenced

by such considerations. Is he not prepared to take the responsibility

for his terrorist propaganda, the work of his whole life? Why has he

suddenly been stricken with fear? Can it be? Can it be?...

My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair grips my heart, as

I hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. But it cannot be;

Nold has made a mistake. May be the letter is a trap; it was not written

by Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps I'll have

a letter in the morning. The Girl--she is the only one I can

trust--she'll tell me--

My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed. Perhaps to-morrow ... a

letter....

XII

"Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?" the Warden asks.

"What 'pards'?"

"Your partners, Bauer and Nold."

"My comrades, you mean. I have no partners."

"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers are here."

"Yes, I'll see them."

Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct my own case, and

explain my act. But I shall be glad to meet my comrades. I wonder how

they feel about their arrest,--perhaps they are inclined to blame me.

And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side with Most--

My senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies me into the hall.

Near the wall, seated at a small table, I behold Nold and Bauer. Two

other men are with them; their attorneys, I suppose. All eyes scrutinize

me curiously, searchingly. Nold advances toward me. His manner is

somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness in his heavy-browed

eyes. He grasps my hand. The pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns

to pour boundless confidence into my heart. For a moment a wave of

thankfulness overwhelms me: I long to embrace him. But curious eyes bore

into me. I glance at Bauer. There is a cheerful smile on the

good-natured, ruddy face. The guard pushes a chair toward the table, and

leans against the railing. His presence constrains me: he will report to

the Warden everything said.

I am introduced to the lawyers. The contrast in their appearance

suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling. The younger man, evidently a

recent graduate, is quick, alert, and talkative. There is an air of

anxious expectancy about him, with a look of Semitic shrewdness in the

long, narrow face. He enlarges upon the kind consent of his

distinguished colleague to take charge of my case. His demeanor toward

the elder lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. The latter

looks bored, and is silent.

"Do you wish to say something, Colonel?" the young lawyer suggests.

"Nothing."

He ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. His colleague looks

abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a naughty act.

"You, Mr. Berkman?" he asks.

I thank them for their interest in my case. But I need no defence, I

explain, since I do not consider myself guilty. I am exclusively

concerned in making a public statement in the courtroom. If I am

represented by an attorney, I should be deprived of the opportunity. Yet

it is most vital to clarify to the People the purpose of my act, the

circumstances--

The heavy breathing opposite distracts me. I glance at the Colonel. His

eyes are closed, and from the parted lips there issues the regular

respiration of sound sleep. A look of mild dismay crosses the young

lawyer's face. He rises with an apologetic smile.

"You are tired, Colonel. It's awfully close here."

"Let us go," the Colonel replies.

* * * * *

Depressed I return to the cell. The old lawyer,--how little my

explanation interested him! He fell asleep! Why, it is a matter of life

and death, an issue that involves the welfare of the world! I was so

happy at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent

Americans,--and he was sleeping! The young lawyer, too, is disgusting,

with his air of condescending pity toward one who "will have a fool for

a client," as he characterized my decision to conduct my own case. He

may think such a course suicidal. Perhaps it is, in regard to

consequences. But the length of the sentence is a matter of

indifference to me: I'll die soon, anyway. The only thing of importance

now is my explanation. And that man fell asleep! Perhaps he considers me

a criminal. But what can I expect of a lawyer, when even the

steel-worker could not understand my act? Most himself--

With the name, I recollect the letters the guard had given me during the

interview. There are three of them; one from the Girl! At last! Why did

she not write before? They must have kept the letter in the office. Yes,

the postmark is a week old. She'll tell me about Most,--but what is the

use? I'm sure of it now; I read it plainly in Nold's eyes. It's all

true. But I must see what she writes.

How every line breathes her devotion to the Cause! She is the real

Russian woman revolutionist. Her letter is full of bitterness against

the attitude of Most and his lieutenants in the German and Jewish

Anarchist circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement in my

imprisonment. She refers to the financial difficulties of the little

commune consisting of Fedya, herself, and one or two other comrades, and

closes with the remark that, fortunately, I need no money for legal

defence or attorneys.

The staunch Girl! She and Fedya are, after all, the only true

revolutionists I know in our ranks. The others all possess some

weakness. I could not rely on them. The German comrades,--they are

heavy, phlegmatic; they lack the enthusiasm of Russia. I wonder how they

ever produced a Reinsdorf. Well, he is the exception. There is nothing

to be expected from the German movement, excepting perhaps the

autonomists. But they are a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept

alive mainly by the Most and Peukert feud. Peukert, too, the life of

their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation.

Quite natural, of course. A terrible injustice has been done him.[9] It

is remarkable that the false accusations have not driven him into

obscurity. There is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean

order, in his survival in the movement. It was that which first awakened

my interest in him. Most's explanation, full of bitter invective,

suggested hostile personal feeling. What a tremendous sensation I

created at the first Jewish Anarchist Conference by demanding that the

charges against Peukert be investigated! The result entirely failed to

substantiate the accusations. But the Mostianer were not convinced,

blinded by the vituperative eloquence of Most. And now ... now, again,

they will follow, as blindly. To be sure, they will not dare take open

stand against my act; not the Jewish comrades, at least. After all, the

fire of Russia still smolders in their hearts. But Most's attitude

toward me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm, and thus

react on the propaganda. The burden of making agitation through my act

will fall on the Girl's shoulders. She will stand a lone soldier in the

field. She will exert her utmost efforts, I am convinced. But she will

stand alone. Fedya will also remain loyal. But what can he do? He is not

a speaker. Nor the rest of the commune circle. And Most? We had all been

so intimate.... It's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice, too. Yes,

mostly cowardice--he can't be jealous of me now! He recently left

prison,--it must have terrorized him. The weakling! He will minimize the

effect of my act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence

altogether.... Now I stand alone--except for the Girl--quite alone. It

is always so. Was not "he" alone, my beloved, "unknown" Grinevitzky,

isolated, scorned by his comrades? But his bomb ... how it thundered...

[9] Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria,

was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into

the hands of the police. Neve was sentenced to ten years'

prison. Peukert always insisted that the accusation against

him originated with some of his political enemies among the

Socialists. It is certain that the arrest of Neve was not

due to calculated treachery on the part of Peukert, but

rather to indiscretion.

I was just a boy then. Let me see,--it was in 1881. I was about eleven

years old. The class was assembling after the noon recess. I had barely

settled in my seat, when the teacher called me forward. His long pointer

was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of Russia.

"What province is that?" he demanded.

"Astrakhan."

"Mention its chief products."

Products? The name Chernishevsky flitted through my mind. He was in

Astrakhan,--I heard Maxim tell mother so at dinner.

"Nihilists," I burst out.

The boys tittered; some laughed aloud. The teacher grew purple. He

struck the pointer violently on the floor, shivering the tapering end.

Suddenly there broke a roll of thunder. One--two-- With a terrific

crash, the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook beneath our

feet. The room was hushed. Deathly pale, the teacher took a step toward

the window, but hastily turned, and dashed from the room. The pupils

rushed after him. I wondered at the air of fear and suspicion on the

streets. At home every one spoke in subdued tunes. Father looked at

mother severely, reproachfully, and Maxim was unusually silent, but his

face seemed radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. At night, alone

with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed, knelt at my side, and

threw his arms around me and kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. His

wildness frightened me. "What is it, Maximotchka?" I breathed softly. He

ran up and down the room, kissing me and murmuring, "Glorious, glorious!

Victory!"

Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious,

awe-inspiring words: Will of the People--tyrant removed--Free Russia....

XIII

The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. Life is so remote,

so appallingly far away--it has abandoned me in this desert of silence.

The distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens,

accentuate my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life, huge,

palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. How unmindful

of myself, flung into the darkness,--like a furnace spark belched forth

amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night.

The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life.

Every approach they guard, lest I enter back--I and the others here.

Poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their

trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces

are haggard and anxious. They walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long

days of waiting. Only "Blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. But

I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am sure his eyes were

moist when the three Italians returned from court this morning. They had

been sentenced to death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with

a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both hands over his

face, weeping silently. But the old man, their father--as he was

crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed,

then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body

falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards dragged him up the

stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson

spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he

stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried

hoarsely, anguished, "O Santa Maria! Sio innocente inno--"

The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and fell.

"Ready! Death-watch!" shouted the Warden.

"In-no-cente! Death-watch!" mocked the echo under the roof.

* * * * *

The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized cry; its black despair

chills my marrow. Exercise hour has become insupportable. The prisoners

irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening monotony of

the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant cruelty and brutality is

harrowing. I wish it were all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a

ceaseless torture. I have been waiting now almost two months. My court

speech is prepared. I could die now, but they would suppress my

explanation, and the People thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose.

I owe it to the Cause--and to the true comrades--to stay on the scene

till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind me to life. With the

speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. Death,

suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that

is self-evident. If I only knew the date of my trial,--that day will be

my last. The poor old Italian,--he and his sons, they at least know when

they are to die. They count each day; every hour brings them closer to

the end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps they killed

under great provocation, in the heat of passion. But the sheriff will

murder them in cold blood. The law of peace and order!

I shall not be hanged--yet I feel as if I were dead. My life is done;

only the last rite remains to be performed. After that--well, I'll find

a way. When the trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. The spoon

is of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it--on the stone floor--very

quietly, at night--

"Number six, to court! Num-ber six!"

Did the turnkey call "six"? Who is in cell six? Why, it's _my_ cell! I

feel the cold perspiration running down my back. My heart beats

violently, my hands tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper.

Nervously I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my name didn't

appear yet in the court calendar column. The list is published every

Monday--why, this is Saturday's paper--yesterday we had service--it must

be Monday to-day. Oh, shame! They didn't give me the paper to-day, and

it's Monday--yes, it's Monday--

The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks.

"Hurry, To court!"

CHAPTER VII

THE TRIAL

The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows

cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the sombre light the faces

look funereal, spectral.

Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the Girl, have come to

greet me.... Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police and court

attendants on every side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is

humiliating that through them I must speak to the People.

"Prisoner at the bar, stand up!"

The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania--the clerk vociferates--charges me with

felonious assault on H. C. Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault

on John G. A. Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie

Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and

with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons.

"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the

attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not

true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only--

"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts.

"Not guilty. I want to explain--"

"Your attorneys will do that."

"I have no attorney."

"The Court will appoint one to defend you."

"I need no defence. I want to make a statement."

"You will be given an opportunity at the proper time."

Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use are all these

preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the

jury box there, they are to decide my fate. As if they could understand!

They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the talesmen

not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered.

"When was the jury picked?" I demand.

"You have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts.

The names of the talesmen sound strange. But what matter who are the men

to judge me? They, too, belong to the enemy. They will do the master's

bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the

Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and

the new jurors file into the box.

The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro employees of Frick in

turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick

office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the

hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective

who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a

physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal.

John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies.

"It's a lie!" I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat.

Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him.

The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the

State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall

not participate in the mockery.

"Call the witnesses for the defence," the judge commands.

I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The

prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my

prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of

the court interpreter.

"I address myself to the People," I begin. "Some may wonder why I have

declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I

am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave

and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an

_Attentat_ cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It

requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A

lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of

the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but

rather the _explanation_ of the deed. It is mistaken to believe _me_ on

trial. The actual defendant is Society--the system of injustice, of the

organized exploitation of the People."

The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he

translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his

inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart

bleeds at his meaningless declamation.

"Translate sentences, not single words," I remonstrate.

With an impatient gesture he leaves me.

"Oh, please, go on!" I cry in dismay.

He returns hesitatingly.

"Look at my paper," I adjure him, "and translate each sentence as I read

it."

The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is

blind!

"Let--us--continue," he stammers.

"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts.

"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in consternation.

"It will do."

"I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to--"

"We allow you five more minutes."

"But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the right to be

heard."

"We'll teach you differently."

I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats,

but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They

remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.

"Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?"

"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your justice is a farce."

"Silence!"

In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards

lead me from the courtroom.

"The judge was easy on you," the Warden jeers. "Twenty-two years! Pretty

stiff, eh?"

PART II

THE PENITENTIARY

[Illustration: WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA--MAIN BUILDING]

CHAPTER I

DESPERATE THOUGHTS

I

"Make yourself at home, now. You'll stay here a while, huh, huh!"

As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I

wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone.

Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I

am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a

void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my

heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.

* * * * *

My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my

eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a

raging fire. Oh!

I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face.

Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces

my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture.

"Get up and undress. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"

The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare.

Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.

"Now lay down and go to sleep."

Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A

terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed,

the wall ... I can't see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A

faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my

face. Oh, I can see! I can see!

"What t' hell's the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?"

Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.... What

a terrible place this must be! This agony---- I cannot support it.

Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I'll die

to-night.... With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead

creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The

guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with

closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about

the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating.... I cannot

live here. I must die. This very night.... Something white glimmers in

the corner. Cautiously I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold

it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep

back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart.

It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over

here--like this--I will force it in--a little lower--a steady

pressure--just between the ribs.... The metal feels cold. How hot my

body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek

the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I

only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That's

why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court!

There was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. He turned his head away, he

could not face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't

crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed....

"Keep quiet there, or I'll put you in the hole."

The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I'll draw the

blanket over my head, so. What was I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He

is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it

does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as the

result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I meant to kill him,

and he lives. My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept the

date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was

maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept

interrupting me. I did not read even a third of my statement. And the

whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor old man! He

was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he

was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his

screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue.

That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern

him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years!

As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place!

Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. The old villain!

He has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims,

the victims of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of

it--had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed? Yet he

wouldn't permit me to continue my statement. "The court has been very

patient!" I am glad I told him that I didn't expect justice, and did not

get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang

to my lips. No, it was best that I controlled my anger. Else they would

have rejoiced to proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things

help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals? We, who are ever

ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? And they, our accusers?

They break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the

charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act, as if the

minor "offences" were not included in the major, made necessary by the

deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me

more than seven years. But I am an Anarchist. I had attempted the life

of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I

knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented.

Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge.

Well, I expected no less, and it makes no difference now. I am going to

die, anyway.

I clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. Its narrow end against my heart,

I test the resistance of the flesh. A violent blow will drive it between

the ribs....

One, two, three--the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence,

resonant, compelling. Instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides,

everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are

noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the distance

sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows nearer and louder. I hear

the officers' sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening

and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan

the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His

eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a

small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the

door is closed and locked.

"Want coffee? Hold your cup."

Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin

can. In the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows,

scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the

dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood.

"What do you mean by that?" the guard shouts at me.

"I couldn't help it."

"Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it out of you. Hey,

there, Sam," the officer motions to the trusty, "no dinner for A 7, you

hear!"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"

"No more coffee, either."

"Yes, sir."

The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in

his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my

naked feet.

"Ain't you got no shoes?"

"Yes."

"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?"

"Yes."

"Put 'em on, damn you."

His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the

either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "Damn

you, put 'em on."

* * * * *

The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is

still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent,

ghostlike.

II

"Forward, march!"

The lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an

undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body

moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand

feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and

falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and

passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or

malicious leer. Here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or

sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped

line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the

ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the

shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and

gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the

shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert.

* * * * *

The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the

last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison

yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly

alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron.

The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried

within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head,

my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can't, I

can't live here! I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two years! It is a

lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die. I will! Now!

* * * * *

Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the

cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls,

yellow with damp--the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the

bed--the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall--the small table

and the rickety chair--the filthy floor, black and gray in spots....

Why, it's stone! I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the

corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly,

till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and

scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping sound. The metal is

growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of

blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade is

keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand gropes for my heart. I

touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs--here--I'll be dead when

they find me.... If Frick had only died. So much propaganda could be

made--that damned Most, if he hadn't turned against me! He will ruin the

whole effect of the act. It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he

afraid of? They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for over a

year. He could easily prove it. The traitor! Preached propaganda by deed

all his life--now he repudiates the first _Attentat_ in this country.

What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he

doesn't know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too,

when together we set up the secret circular in the _Freiheit_ office. It

was in William Street. We waited for the other compositors to leave;

then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to

Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something

important there. Why didn't I go? What was it? Well, I can't think of it

now. It's peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of

revolutionists in Russia. And now.... Oh, I'll never do anything more.

I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold--a pool of blood under me--the

mattress will be red--no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak

through the straw.... I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from

my heart--I must strike right here--strong and quick--it will not pain

much. But the edge is ragged--it may catch--or tear the flesh. They say

the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against

the blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close--like this--then a

quick drive--right into the heart--it's the surest way. I must not wound

myself--I would bleed slowly--they might discover me still alive. No,

no! I must die at once. They'll find me dead--my heart--they'll feel

it--not beating--the blade still in it--they'll call the doctor--"He's

dead." And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it--she'll be

sad--but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad--they couldn't

torture me here--she'll know I cheated them--yes, she.... Where is she

now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I've failed?

And Fedya, also? If I'd only hear from her--just once. It would be

easier to die. But she'll understand, she--

"Git off that bed! Don't you know the rules, eh? Get out o' there!"

Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my

relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly,

damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something

repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive

smile. Oh, it's the officer of the morning!

"Foxy, ain't you? Gimme that spoon."

The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the

tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the

spoon. I cannot afford to lose it--not to this brute--

"Cap'n, here!"

I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the

spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.

"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate, eh?"

"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."

III

In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy

stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped

shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow

parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely

eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.

"Who is this?"

The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like

face and figure. The contrast is startling.

"A 7."

"What is the charge, Officer?"

"Two charges, Mr. McPane. Layin' in bed and tryin' soocide."

A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy's wizened

face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if

drumming stiffly on an imaginary board.

"Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm,

to commit suicide?"

"With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor."

"Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as

trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave

offence. I'll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by

lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer.

He will, hm, hm, cool off."

I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me.

Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors,

dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally

thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger

and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.

* * * * *

The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending

over me.

"A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell."

"Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment."

"Not safe, Mr. McPane."

"We'll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers."

"Git up."

My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up

the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a

bed.

* * * * *

I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no

weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell

that I could use. These iron bars--I could beat my head against them.

But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the

brains ooze out.... But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with

one blow? I'm afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to

strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and

quickest. I've always thought I'd prefer such a death--to be shot. The

barrel close to the temple--one couldn't miss. Some people have done it

in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver,

either.... Through the mouth it is also fatal.... That Moscow

student--Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov--he shot himself through

the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I

admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even

left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady,

because--he wrote--after passing through his brain, the bullet might

damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the

bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and

peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my

brother's study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I

liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: "Sasha, Ivan

Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time." My

hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I

was glad I didn't cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very

strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her

about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little.

"Rather energetic," she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the

favorable impression made by his college chum. "What did I tell you?" he

cried, in glee; "Ivan Nikolaievitch _molodetz_![10] Think of it, he's

only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the

foundation of the university. _Molodetz_!" But how red were Maxim's eyes

when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as

he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan

Nikolaievitch's room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the

cotton, an I showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma

called Max a brute. "For a woman, an unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I

thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a

little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly.

They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno.

She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she

seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to

talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that

I was in love with Nadya, my sister's chum. And I had kissed our

chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa,--I remember she threatened to tell

mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn't come to dinner. Mamma sent the

maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell....

The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the

little imp couldn't keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our

neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me

about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor

would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.

[10] Clever, brave lad.

* * * * *

... How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become

of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had

almost forgotten,--I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was

standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I boarded. I had then

been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She

looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. "Don't you know me,

Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me?" Some mistake, I thought. I

had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited

me into the hallway. "Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don't you

remember? Why, you know, I was your mother's--your mother's maid." She

blushed violently. Those red cheeks--why, certainly, it's Rosa! I

thought of the stolen kiss. "Would I dare it now?" I wondered, suddenly

conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. How our

positions were changed! She looked the very _barishnya_,[11] like my

sister. "Is your mother here?" she asked. "Mother? She died, just before

I left." I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible

scene when mother struck her? "I didn't know about your mother." Her

voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always

generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. We

looked at each other in embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand.

Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. "Good-bye, _Gospodin_[12]

Berkman," she said. "I'll see you again soon. Please don't tell these

people who I am." I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. _Gospodin_

Berkman--somehow it echoed the servile _barinya_[13] with which the

domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not

gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor girl. She has not become

emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no

doubt. She was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she has

learned in this country. Now she will read about me, and she'll know how

I died.... Oh, I haven't the spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I

can't live. I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years,

I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't, anyhow. I might live

here a year, or two. But twenty-two, twenty-two years! What is the use?

No man could survive it. It's terrible, twenty-two years! Their cursed

justice--they always talk of law. Yet legally I shouldn't have gotten

more than seven years. Legally! As if _they_ care about "legality."

They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand;

but if I had seven years--perhaps I might live through it; I would try.

But twenty-two--it's a lifetime, a whole lifetime. Seventeen is no

better. That man Jamestown got seventeen years. He celled next to me in

the jail. He didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small and

puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he could live here seventeen

years. In this hell--what an imbecile he is! He should have committed

suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial; it's about three

weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn't he done something? He will soon die

here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. A strong man might live

five years; I doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. _I_

couldn't; no, I know I couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at most. We

had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a

peculiar idea of prison: I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a

gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and

the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes,

and I so helpless, chained to the wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar

idea. She said she might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a

year, I thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms

off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my

flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.... And the vermin

here, those big, brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so

vicious and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There must be in

the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot. I don't know how it happened.

I was unconscious in that dark hole--it was just like my old idea of

prison. I couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. Here it is a

little better; but it's never light in this cell,--always in

semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no windows; it's damp, and smells

so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with

blood, too. Bedbugs--augh! it's nauseating. Not much better than that

black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle

better,--my hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few

years: no more than three, or may be five. But these brutal officers!

No, no, I couldn't stand it. I want to die! I'd die here soon, anyway;

they will kill me. But I won't give the enemy the satisfaction; they

shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that

they killed me. No! I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall

have to do it--with my head against the bars--no, not now! At night,

when it's all dark,--they couldn't save me then. It will be a terrible

death, but it must be done.... If I only knew about "them" in New

York--the Girl and Fedya--it would be easier to die then.... What are

they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda out of it? They must

be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can't live here long.

Perhaps they wonder why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I

could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in

jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself

that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me

directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now--

[11] Young lady.

[12] Mister.

[13] Lady.

"Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!" the trusty shouts into the door.

Suddenly he whispers, "Grab it, quick!" A long, dark object is shot

between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man

is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can

it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a

white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard

inside--it's a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my

heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there

is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's some one

I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they

permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard

straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here--the language, the

guards.... I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I

ought to wash up--my head feels so heavy--I haven't washed since I got

here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don't know, I can't

think. But my trial--it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They

brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard--he

frightened me so with the bull's-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it

must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday?

Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I'll

ask the trusty the next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this

towel too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there

is some here--

My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I

discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old

chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy;

near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot

over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it

feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The

stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle.

Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There's a pin in

the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A

note!

With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing:

Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from a

friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we

know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at

night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls.

Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. So long,

will see you tomorrow. A true friend.

I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me.

Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My

heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could

escape.... Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven't I thought of it

before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack

the country for me. I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I'd

be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It would make great

propaganda: people would become much interested, and I--why, I should

have new opportunities--

The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me

with despair. Perhaps a trap! I don't know who wrote the note. A fine

conspirator I'd prove, to be duped so easily. But why should they want

to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they

are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer--the Deputy called him

Fellings--he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his

work, to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage?

These things happen--they have been done in Russia. And he looks like a

_provocateur_, the scoundrel. No, he won't get me that way. I must read

the note again. It contains so many expressions I don't understand. I

should "keep my lamps lit." What lamps? There are none in the cell;

where am I to get them? And what "screws" must I watch? And the

"stools,"--I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's

to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says

he will call to-morrow. I'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can

be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I'll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I

wish it were here!

CHAPTER II

THE WILL TO LIVE

I

The days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. The gong

regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my

thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent.

In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,--yet the suggestion of

escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert

itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind

dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. The

thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of

escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience.

Surely I have no fear of death--when the proper time arrives. But haste

would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my

duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda:

escape would afford me many occasions to serve the Cause. It was

thoughtless on my part to condemn that man Jamestown. I even resented

his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the

impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was unjust: Jamestown

is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an

undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new

surroundings, get one's bearings in the prison. So far I have had but

little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities

to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the

intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. At

liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find,

unaided, my way out. Oh, if I possessed the magic ring I dreamed of last

night! It was a wonderful talisman, secreted--I fancied in the dream--by

the goddess of the Social Revolution. I saw her quite distinctly: tall

and commanding, the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes. She

stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the

queenly countenance, her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half

pointing toward the dark wall. Eagerly I looked in the direction of the

arched hand--there, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the

brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. It was a heart-shaped ring

cleft in the centre. Its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner

with the aureole of a great hope. Impulsively I reached out, and pressed

the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole, when, lo! the rays

burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel,

and dissolved the prison walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green

fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of

freedom. And then ... something dispelled the vision.

Oh, if I had that magic heart now! To escape, to be free! May be my

unknown friend will yet keep his word. He is probably perfecting plans,

or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades could aid

me, escape would be feasible. But the Girl and Fedya will never consider

the possibility. No doubt they refrain from writing because they

momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor Girl

must be! Yet she should have written: it is now four days since my

removal to the penitentiary. Every day I anxiously await the coming of

the Chaplain, who distributes the mail.--There he is! The quick, nervous

step has become familiar to my ear. Expectantly I follow his movements;

I recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring

lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda

with the cell-house, and pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall

amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a

graveyard at night. Now the Chaplain pauses: he is comparing the number

of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter.

Some one has remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and grow

faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner. He passes the cell-row

on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier, and finally reaches the

ground floor containing my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound

approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. He is nearing the

cell--he pauses. I can't see him yet, but I know he is comparing

numbers. Perhaps the letter is for me. I hope the Chaplain will make no

mistake: Range K, Cell 6, Number A 7. Something light flaps on the floor

of the next cell, and the quick, short step has passed me by. No mail

for me! Another twenty-four hours must elapse before I may receive a

letter, and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my

door.

II

The thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is driving me desperate. I

would make use of any means, however terrible, to escape from this hell,

to regain liberty. Liberty! What would it not offer me after this

experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary

activity. I would choose Russia. The Mostianer have forsaken me. I will

keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of

accomplishing. If there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush

for their despicable attitude toward my act, their shameful treatment of

me. How eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated

devotion, to salve their guilty conscience! I should not have to

complain of a lack of financial aid, were I to inform our intimate

circles of my plans regarding future activity in Russia. It would be

glorious, glorious! S--sh--

It's the Chaplain. Perhaps he has mail for me to-day.... May be he is

suppressing letters from my friends; or probably it is the Warden's

fault: the mailbag is first examined in his office.--Now the Chaplain is

descending to the ground floor. He pauses. It must be Cell 2 getting a

letter. Now he is coming. The shadow is opposite my door,--gone!

"Chaplain, one moment, please."

"Who's calling?"

"Here, Chaplain. Cell 6 K."

"What is it, my boy?"

"Chaplain, I should like something to read."

"Read? Why, we have a splendid library, m' boy; very fine library. I

will send you a catalogue, and you can draw one book every week."

"I missed library day on this range. I'll have to wait another week. But

I'd like to have something in the meantime, Chaplain."

"You are not working, m' boy?"

"No."

"You have not refused to work, have you?"

"No, I have not been offered any work yet."

"Oh, well, you will be assigned soon. Be patient, m' boy."

"But can't I have something to read now?"

"Isn't there a Bible in your cell?"

"A Bible? I don't believe in it, Chaplain."

"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may do you good. Read it,

m' boy."

For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses my mind.

"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't care for the

modern English version. Perhaps you have one with Greek or Latin

annotations?"

"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or Greek?"

"Yes, I have studied the classics."

The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to the door, leaning

against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. We

talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools,

social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man, this prison

Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to Russia had impressed him

with the great possibilities of that country. Finally he motions to a

guard:

"Let A 7 come with me."

With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "Shall I

come along, Chaplain?" he asks.

"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy."

Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper

rotunda, on the left side of which is the Chaplain's office. Excited and

alert, I absorb every detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear

indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the Chaplain,

as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and

opens the door. Passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan

of escape is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the keys--he

lives in the Warden's house, connected with the prison--he is so

fragile--I could easily overpower him--there is no one in the

rotunda--I'd stifle his cries--take the keys--

"Have a seat, my boy. Sit down. Here are some books. Look them over. I

have a duplicate of my personal Bible, with annotations. It is somewhere

here."

With feverish eyes I watch him lay the keys on the desk. A quick motion,

and they would be mine. That large and heavy one, it must belong to the

gate. It is so big,--one blow would kill him. Ah, there is a safe! The

Chaplain is taking some books from it. His back is turned to me. A

thrust--and I'd lock him in.... Stealthily, imperceptibly, I draw nearer

to the desk, my eyes fastened on the keys. Now I bend over them,

pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand glides forward,

slowly, cautiously. Quickly I lean over; the open book in my hands

entirely hides the keys. My hand touches them. Desperately I clutch the

large, heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises--

"My boy, I cannot find that Bible just now, but I'll give you some other

book. Sit down, my boy. I am so sorry about you. I am an officer of the

State, but I think you were dealt with unjustly. Your sentence is quite

excessive. I can well understand the state of mind that actuated you, a

young enthusiast, in these exciting times. It was in connection with

Homestead, is it not so, m' boy?"

* * * * *

I fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. That deep note of

sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling voice--no, no, I cannot touch

him....

III

At last, mail from New York! Letters from the Girl and Fedya. With a

feeling of mixed anxiety and resentment, I gaze at the familiar

handwriting. Why didn't they write before? The edge of expectancy has

been dulled by the long suspense. The Girl and the Twin, my closest,

most intimate friends of yesterday,--but the yesterday seems so distant

in the past, its very reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking

events.

There is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness, in the Girl's

letter. The failure of my act will lessen the moral effect, and diminish

its propagandistic value. The situation is aggravated by Most. Owing to

his disparaging attitude, the Germans remain indifferent. To a

considerable extent, even the Jewish revolutionary element has been

influenced by him. The Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at

the attempted completion of my work, planned, yet impossible of

realization.

I smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed even of an attempt.

The damningly false viewpoint of the Girl exasperates me, and I angrily

resent the disapproving surprise I sense in both letters at my continued

existence.

I read the lines repeatedly. Every word drips bitterness into my soul.

Have I grown morbid, or do they actually presume to reproach me with my

failure to suicide? By what right? Impatiently I smother the accusing

whisper of my conscience, "By the right of revolutionary ethics." The

will to live leaps into being peremptorily, more compelling and

imperative at the implied challenge.

No, I will struggle and fight! Friend or enemy, they shall learn that I

am not so easily done for. I will live, to escape, to conquer!

CHAPTER III

SPECTRAL SILENCE

The silence grows more oppressive, the solitude unbearable. My natural

buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. With dismay I realize the

failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. I

feel worn in body and soul.

The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, accentuates

the enervating routine. It sounds ominously amid the stillness, like the

portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. Unshaped fears, the more

terrifying because vague, fill my heart. In vain I seek to drown my

riotous thoughts by reading and exercise. The walls stand, immovable

sentinels, hemming me in on every side, till movement grows into

torture. In the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters dance

before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into

corpses and images of death. The morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The

hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes half

shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing rays form a

kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my

youth, now converging upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque

illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is swept by a gust of

wind. It darts hither and thither, angrily contending with the

surrounding darkness. It whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who

falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with

frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look! The shadow grows and

grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the

officers lead me through the passage. "You're home now," the guard mocks

me. I look back. The gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and

on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. The walls

frown upon me. They seem human in their cruel immobility. Their huge

arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. I feel so

small, unutterably weak and defenceless amid all the loneliness,--the

breath of the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds me, and

shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror I pause.... The chain grows

taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. I lurch forward, and wake on

the floor of the cell.

* * * * *

Restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights. I listen eagerly for

the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. But the breaking day

brings neither hope nor gladness. Gloomy as yesterday, devoid of

interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden: the

rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked bread; the tasteless

brown liquid; the passing lines of striped misery; the coarse commands;

the heavy tread; and then--the silence of the tomb.

Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage could accrue to the

Cause from prolonging this agony. All avenues of escape are closed; the

institution is impregnable. The good people have generously fortified

this modern bastille; the world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed

by the anguish of Calvary. No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these

walls of stone, much less the heart of man. Why, then, prolong the

agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades,--and they are

far away and helpless.

Helpless, quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy

would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless

vengeance would retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our

weakness. To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago has not yet

been avenged. _Vae victis!_ They shall forever be the victims. Only

might is respected; it alone can influence tyrants. Had we

strength,--but if the judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more

than passive indignation, can I expect radical developments in

consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It is unreasonable. Five

years, indeed, have passed since the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the

People have since been taught in the bitter school of oppression and

defeat. Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the

worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to

strong protest, perhaps to active demand. Ah, yes! But when, when will

the dullard realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind to his own

slavery and degradation, can I expect him to perceive the wrong suffered

by others? And who is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as

deeply and clearly as we Anarchists. Even the Socialists dare not

advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They have clothed the Goddess of

Liberty with a fig-leaf; religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and

injustice, has officially been declared _Privatsache_. Henceforth these

timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of

prejudice and superstition. Soon they will grow to _bourgeois_

respectability, a party of "practical" politics and "sound" morality.

What a miserable descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed

defiance of all established institutions, _because_ they were

established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single institution in

our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. But only the Anarchists

dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in

number, lacking in power. The internal divisions, too, aggravate our

weakness; and now, even Most has turned apostate. The Jewish comrades

will be influenced by his attitude. Only the Girl remains. But she is

young in the movement, and almost unknown. Undoubtedly she has talent as

a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor health. In all the

movement, I know of no one capable of propaganda by deed, or of an

avenging act, except the Twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to

undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The Twin is a true

revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with

slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of

revolutionary import. But he would not harbor the thought. We held such

queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform, an arrest,

suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in

Russia. How can I broach the subject to the Twin? All mail passes

through the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially--a

long-timer and an Anarchist--will be minutely scrutinized. There seems

no possibility. I am buried alive in this stone grave. Escape is

hopeless. And this agony of living death--I cannot support it....

CHAPTER IV

A RAY OF LIGHT

I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a

relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I eagerly listen for the

familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old

rangeman[14] "sweeping up." The sensitive mouth puckered up in an

inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his

left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit.

[14] Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells.

"Hello, Aleck! How're you feeling to-day?"

He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom

suspended in mid-stroke. I catch an occasional glance of the kind blue

eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left,

alert for the approach of a guard.

"How're you, Aleck?"

"Oh, nothing extra."

"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the mill. Keep up your

nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet."

"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly.

"S--sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears."

"The screw?"

A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"! The puzzling expression

in the mysterious note,--perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious

expectancy, I watch the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent,

he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the

one-armed sweeper. "S--sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses

the line of my cell.

I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the

broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. A

long shadow falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes

stands at my door.

"What you pryin' out for?" he demands.

"I am not prying."

"Don't you contradict me. Stand back in your hole there. Don't you be

leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?"

Down the hall the guard shouts: "Hey you, cripple! Talkin' there, wasn't

you?"

"No, sir."

"Don't you dare lie to me. You was."

"Swear to God I wasn't."

"W-a-all, if I ever catch you talkin' to that s---- of a b----, I'll fix

you."

* * * * *

The scratching of the broom has ceased. The rangeman is dusting the

doors. The even strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. Again the

man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he

diligently plies the duster.

"Aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw. He's a ----. See him

jump on me?"

"What would he do to you if he saw you talking to me?"

"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. I'd lose my job, too."

"Then better don't talk to me."

"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch _me_, not he. He didn't see

me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff _me_, though."

"But be careful."

"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the

block,[15] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. He's jest lookin' for trouble.

Mean skunk he is, that Cornbread Tom."

[15] Cell-house.

"Who?"

"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread Tom, b'cause he swipes our

corn dodger."

"What's corn dodger?"

"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for

breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n stale punk. Know what punk is?

Not long on lingo, are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk."

He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful _bon mot_. Suddenly he

pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away

from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering:

"All O. K. Road's clear. Tom's been called to the shop. Won't be back

till dinner, thank th' Lord. Only the Cap is in the block, old man

Mitchell, in charge of this wing. North Block it's called."

"The women are in the South Block?"

"Nope. Th' girls got a speshal building. South Block's th' new

cell-house, just finished. Crowded already, an' fresh fish comin' every

day. Court's busy in Pittsburgh all right. Know any one here?"

"No."

"Well, get acquainted, Aleck. It'll give you an interest. Guess that's

what you need. I know how you feel, boy. Thought I'd die when I landed

here. Awful dump. A guy advised me to take an interest an' make friends.

I thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on the level, all right. Get

acquainted, Aleck; you'll go bugs if you don't. Must vamoose now. See

you later. My name's Wingie."

"Wingie?"

"That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier; was at Bull Run. Run

so damn fast I lost my right wing, hah, hah, hah! S'long."

* * * * *

Eagerly I look forward to the stolen talks with Wingie. They are the

sole break in the monotony of my life. But days pass without the

exchange of a word. Silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently

oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I peer between the

bars for a cheering sign of recognition. Only the quick wink of his eye

reassures me of his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard.

By degrees the ingenuity of Wingie affords us more frequent snatches of

conversation, and I gather valuable information about the prison. The

inmates sympathize with me, Wingie says. They know I'm "on th' level."

I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful of the "stool pigeons,"

who report everything to the officers. Wingie is familiar with the

history of every keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he assures me.

Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[16]

Only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a

hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to

be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby."

[16] Fly or fly-cop, a detective.

CHAPTER V

THE SHOP

I

I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the Deputy's

office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in

the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a

beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid:

he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow the idea is associated in my

mind with a wild tigress,--and I, too, must now look like that.

The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of

the Deputy Warden.

"Hands up!"

The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and

there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in

which I am included, he says in his feminine accents:

"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them

over to Mr. Hoods."

"Fall in! Forward, march!"

My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager

expectation. At last I am assigned to work! I speculate on the character

of "Number Seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there.

Flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The

sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm,

face the striped line winding snakelike through the open space. The yard

is spacious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath

of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty.

Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought

quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone

wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing

the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's

quarters.

"Break ranks!"

We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the

objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows.

The air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An

atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place.

The officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky

prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show him what to do."

Considerable time passes, without Jim taking the least notice of me.

Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands

deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he

whispers, hoarsely:

"Fresh fish?"

"What did you say?"

"You bloke, long here?"

"Two weeks."

"Wotcher doin'?"

"Twenty-one years."

"Quitcher kiddin'."

"It's true."

"Honest? Holy gee!"

The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he

demands, abruptly:

"Wat dey put you here for?"

"I don't know."

"Been kickin'?"

"No."

"Den you'se bugs."

"Why so?"

"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or

else dey got it in for you."

"How do _you_ happen to be here?"

"Me? De God damn ---- got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep

gash over his temple. "Had a scrap wid de screws. Almost knocked me

glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid

_him_, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God, I will.

I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."

[17] Guard.

"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.

"It ain't, eh? Wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin'

blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, damn quick."

As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing,

prolonged and hollow.

The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the

matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and

with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the

gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.

"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm behind wid me work."

Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in

turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the

completion of the day's task.

The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with

a nod of the head.

"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. He's

got a twenty-one spot."[18]

[18] Sentence.

"Shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily. The consumptive

bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick.

As the officer turns away, Jim pleads:

"Mr. Hoods, I lose time teachin'. Won't you please take off a bit? De

task is more'n I can do, an' I'm sick."

"Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you, Jim. You're just lazy,

that's what you are. Don't be shamming, now. It don't go with _me_."

At noon the overseer calls me aside. "You are green here," he warns me,

"pay no attention to Jim. He wanted to be bad, but we showed him

different. He's all right now. You have a long time; see that you behave

yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand?"

As I am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to

the cells for dinner, he recalls me:

"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow Jim. He is a little

off, you know."

He points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion.

II

The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my

throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer

in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress

in the work. "I'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday,

"and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you

go." He severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As

the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing.

The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to

recover, and continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the frame,

a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and

then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the

floor.

The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring

machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over

his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I

rushed to the officer.

"Mr. Hoods, Jim has--"

"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "How dare you leave it

without permission?"

"I just--"

"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick.

I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face

ashen.

Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached.

"What's the matter here?"

I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly

touched the bleeding face with his foot.

"Get up, Jim, get up!"

The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom.

"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. Then he shook his

finger at me, menacingly: "Don't you ever leave your place without

orders. Remember, you!"

After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the

doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short,

stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "Did any one see the

man fall?" he inquired.

"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me.

While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked

my name. "Oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite

well. Not such a bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr.

Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is

the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed. Always that way?"

"Only since I am working in this shop."

"Oh, he is all right, Doctor," the officer interposed. "He's only been

here a week."

Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard.

"You want him here?"

"Y-e-s: we're short of men."

"Well, _I_ am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning to me, he added:

"Report in the morning on sick list."

III

The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery

department. The change has filled me with renewed hope. A disciplinary

shop, to which are generally assigned the "hard cases"--inmates in the

first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly

prisoners--the mat shop is the point of special supervision and severest

discipline. It is the best-guarded shop, from which escape is

impossible. But in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the

local industries. I may find the right opportunity. It will require

time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the great object. The

working conditions, also, are more favorable: the room is light and

airy, the discipline not so stringent. My near-sightedness has secured

for me immunity from machine work. The Deputy at first insisted that my

eyes were "good enough" to see the numerous needles of the hosiery

machine. It is true, I could see them; but not with sufficient

distinctness to insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To

admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being ordered to produce

the task; and failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished.

Necessity drove me to subterfuge: I pretended total inability to

distinguish the needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to

change my determination, I have been assigned the comparatively easy

work of "turning" the stockings. The occupation, though tedious, is not

exacting. It consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the

knitting machines, whence the product issues without soles. I carry the

pile to the table provided with an iron post, about eighteen inches

high, topped with a small inverted disk. On this instrument the

stockings are turned "inside out" by slipping the article over the post,

then quickly "undressing" it. The hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to

the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to

me, once more to be "turned," preparatory to sorting and shipment.

* * * * *

Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice lends me great

dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I

seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I

count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each operation, and

the amount accomplished within a given time. But in spite of these

efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects: my

friends and the propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive

sentence; suicide and escape.

My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented

by dread, I awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience

the momentary relief of danger past. But the next instant I am

overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and plunged into

rage and despair, powerless, hopeless.

Thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless

struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the

externally placid tenor of my Pennsylvania nightmare.

CHAPTER VI

MY FIRST LETTER

I

Direct to Box A 7,

Allegheny City, Pa.,

October 19th, 1892.

Dear Sister:[19]

It is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here. I keep

wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed

into one short month?... How I have longed for this opportunity!

You will understand: a month's stay is required before we are

permitted to write. But many, many long letters I have written

to you--in my mind, dear Sonya. Where shall I begin now? My

space is very limited, and I have so much to say to you and to

the Twin.--I received your letters. You need not wait till you

hear from me: keep on writing. I am allowed to receive all mail

sent, "of moral contents," in the phraseology of the rules. And

I shall write whenever I may.

Dear Sonya, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your

letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and

Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere

accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me

beyond words. Not because you should write thus; but that you,

even you, should _think_ thus. Need I enlarge? True morality

deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe that we

differ on this point.

I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of

Wurst[20] must have been to you. But however it may minimize

the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its

character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of

Wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know

whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this

point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know,

Sonya,--of this one thing, at least, I am sure--you will do all

that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much--but the Twin and

part of Orchard Street[21] will be with you.

Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to

Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?[22] You must

consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of

scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such

presumption.

I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who knows?...

Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself and friends.

It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which

daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the

thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in

my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. My hold is

slackening. But the Sonya thread, I know, will remain taut and

strong. I have always called you the Immutable.

ALEX.

[19] The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor.

[20] John Most.

[21] 54 Orchard Street--the hall in which the first Jewish

Anarchist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion

to the aid of the Jewish comrades.

[22] Tolstogub--the author's Russian nickname. The expression

signifies the continued survival of the writer.

[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD]

II

I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for

work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was

seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me

into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that green box--with

bated breath I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the

Chaplain to collect the mail....

My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. I am

oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread.

Automatically I turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three,

four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man--there

is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and

gathers the stockings. Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three,

four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And the men

all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. I just heard

him say, "Aleck, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there,

you're falling behind." He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution!

And all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box,

peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. S-sh! I hear

a footstep. Perhaps it is the Chaplain: he will open the box with his

quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into

the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are so many letters

here--I'll slip among them into the large pocket--the Chaplain will not

notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize

every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But

I am safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take

that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair;

twenty-one, twenty-two.... What was that? Twenty-two--oh, yes,

twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to

serve it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank

goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But

what has become of the Chaplain? If he'd only come--why is he so long?

They might miss me in the shop. No, no! that man is there--he is turning

the stockings--they don't know I am here in the box. The Chaplain won't

know it, either: I am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts

me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--I

must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to

Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she

is, either--the _Deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. Keep it

up? Why? It will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to

write any more--it is well, too--I have so much to tell Sonya--and it

wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all right now--they'll throw the

letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is

general letter day. I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through

the post-office, on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have been away

so long. Only a month? Well, I must be patient--and not breathe so loud.

When I get to New York, I shall not go at once into the house--Sonya

might get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window--I wonder

what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? Yes, Fedya will be there,

and perhaps Claus and Sep. How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will

embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft

and warm--

"Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!"

Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard before me. The

striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron

feels cold. Chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from

my hand.

"Fall in line, I tell you!"

"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin' after whistle. 'Fraid you

won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? You sucker, you!"

CHAPTER VII

WINGIE

The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my

environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the

introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task,

necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application.

The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for

thinking or brooding. My physical condition alarms me: the morning hours

completely exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line

returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude

possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in

mastering my sleepiness.

* * * * *

I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. I

am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the

proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned

me against my disrespectful and surly manner. But I am indifferent to

consequences: what matter what happens? My waning strength is a source

of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought

pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering,

no anguish. The world at large is non-existent; it is centered in Me;

and yet I myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and

quiet, into extinction.

* * * * *

Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the evening meal of bread

and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the

gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep

bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the

blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons

invitingly; I yearn for sleep, for oblivion.

* * * * *

Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening

is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general

in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. The

world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the

darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring.

* * * * *

At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the

violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to

break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction

in the wild play of fancy.... Existence grows more and more unbearable

with the contrast of dream and reality. Weary of the day's routine, I

welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the

passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men,

the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the

tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of _my_ world.

I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice.

But I cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the People, to

whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed; yet

parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than

the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their

deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord

in my heart.

Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner

that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence,

yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during

church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day.

He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries,

counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range

now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the

sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in

his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7.

[23] Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending

Protestant service, and _vice versa_.

"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me.

"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?"

"I am an atheist."

"A what?"

"An atheist, a non-believer."

"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough."

The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the

corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon.

Perhaps somebody is watching--

"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"

"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?"

"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner-basket, you know.

The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?"

"Why so?"

"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. It's _our_

pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see;

they steals the east[24] to make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How

d' you like the grub, anyhow?"

[24] Yeast.

"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee tastes like tepid

water."

"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee;

'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg, Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's

made?"

"No."

"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect all the old punk

that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crust's used,

see. Like as not some syph coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't,

you know. Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn

'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it an' dump

it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty

chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It

rooins your stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink th'

swill."

"I don't care if it kills me."

"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but

don' take it so hard. Don' think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you

can; you jest take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who you wan'

to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's what you wan' to do, Aleck.

It'll keep you hustlin'. Best thing for the blues, kiddie."

For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of

sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the

door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly

slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a

tender pat.

Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's

caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingie must have

noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently

picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence:

"You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest wanted t' try you,

see?"

"How 'try me,' Wingie?"

"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush

stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, Aleck, it's--oh, wait till I

pipe th' screw."

Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I

can distinctly follow the step of the Block Captain on the upper

galleries. He is the sole officer in the cell-house during church

service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance

of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my cell.

I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie leave me? His flushed

face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the

subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize

his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant

by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory

explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back.

"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the chapel for a good while

yet."

"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?"

"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You are a good boy, all

right. You don't belong here, that's what _I_ say."

"Well, I _am_ here; and the chances are I'll die here."

"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked down at the mouth.

Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here,

hell! You ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin',

now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? You're so

young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't you? An' talkin' about

dyin'! Shame on you, shame!"

His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth

to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp

assures me of returned appreciation.

"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be

black as night. Nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old

Henry? No? Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in

fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy

as th' day's long. An' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. I know

you have."

"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?"

"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You got rich friends, I know.

You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't

they?"

"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?"

"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? You must make a good

record here."

"Oh, I don't care for a pardon."

"Wha-a-t? You're kiddin'."

"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle."

"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle fiddlesticks. Want

to get out o' here?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got t' do with

't? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?"

"No, but against being pardoned."

"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me."

"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it

would be asking favors from the government, and I am against it, you

understand? It would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie."

"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, Aleck.

That's what you mean?"

"Yes."

"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist? Hot stuff, by

gosh! Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I

was you, I'd take anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell.

That's what _I_ would do, my boy."

He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's

step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance

to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between

the bars, he whispers very low:

"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"

The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my

revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being,

rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being

with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to

trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic--

"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts.

"I'm your friend."

"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape.

I have been thinking about it, but so far--"

"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."

"Any chance here, Wingie?"

"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in

heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way

here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six,

seven years ago, 'bout."

"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.

"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was

helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work

and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a

rope together, see. They never got 'im, either."

"Was he in stripes, Wingie?"

"Sure he was. Only been in a few months."

"How did he manage to get away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as

an escaped prisoner?"

"_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then

hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. Or you push in th'

back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny."

"Is there any chance now through the roof?"

"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' _there_. But a feller's got to be alive.

Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff[25] you got in

them things, tow'l an' soap?"

[25] Note.

"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.

"Do I? He, he, you little--"

The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears.

CHAPTER VIII

TO THE GIRL

Direct to Box A 7,

Allegheny City, Pa.,

November 18, 1892.

My dear Sonya:

It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month.

But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the

only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear,

affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the

cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager

expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the

morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand

shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the

little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will

flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the

little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is

long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the

warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly

to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into

your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air

grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again

with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The touch of

the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga,

our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the

_dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float

about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream over your

letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the

end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch

and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for

my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare

of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams.

And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in

anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real

world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I

think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is

in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes

... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing

along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows

meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does

not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But

the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a

letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error

might happen.... No, it is impossible--my name and prison

number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the

envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery.

Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell.

There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the

table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment.

Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner.

No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me

to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the

blankets.... No, there is no letter!

* * * * *

Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you

and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get

used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the

moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We

are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands,

though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end.

In that consciousness we must find our solace.

ALEX.

[26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river.

[27] Folk-song.

_Sub rosa_,

Last Day of November, 1892.

Beloved Girl:

I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but

human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts,

all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to

look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that

has filled my days with strength and hope.... An embrace, a

lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine.

To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant

into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the

warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful

eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day

dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of

the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so

strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street

hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments!

But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with

exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face,

and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look

of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been

searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that

feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring

upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath

that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming

fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me

of the beast, hungry for prey.... The halo was dissipated. The

words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid

smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer,

and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about

us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death),

and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to

bury the dead.... But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my

agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips

upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and

then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld

seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The

drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of

torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned

suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all

misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and

place in the afflatus of martyrdom?

Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the

prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment.

Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... What though the

cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and

forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth

could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain.

The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on

my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom

reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were

suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was

locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of

the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly

dawned on me. The quick had left the dead.... Terror of the

reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish--

I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed

_sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has

befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of

which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually

mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.

Remember to sign "Sister."

With a passionate embrace,

YOUR SASHA.

[28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed

suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him

by a friend.

CHAPTER IX

PERSECUTION

I

Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. In the three

months of penitentiary life I have learned many things. I doubt whether

the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than

the actuality of prison existence.

In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and

constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of

them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure,

nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial

barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one

could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the

prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit,

sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world.

The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. The

ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling

and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The

dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears

of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract

or Bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the

angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to

witness these scenes.

The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to

protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I

witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between Johnny

Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a

manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my

table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory

has "put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months' stay has taught

me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips.

In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his

product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task.

Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer,

though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and

continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon.

Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked

boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting

step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the

officer:

"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."

"Why so?" the guard asked.

"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please,

Mr. Cosson."

"Why can't you make it here?"

"I'm missing socks."

"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again,

eh?"

"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't.

But my socks's missing here."

"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such

bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work

now, and you'd better make the task, understand?"

Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen

pairs short. Bradford was "over."

I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.

"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh?

Put your coat and cap on."

Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the

inevitable sentence to the dungeon.

"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God,

it isn't."

"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"

Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward

Bradford, who studiously avoided the look.

"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.

"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap."

Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his

cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he

worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the

growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who,

confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly

winking of the left eye.

Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my

direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's

hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's

stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into

commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the

prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial,

with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness.

Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the

overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his

mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by.

"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a

question?"

"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!"

"What have they done with the boys?"

"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started

the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to _him_ all

right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk?"

"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started?"

"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you

know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy,

see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest

lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there,

Burk?"

"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's

fault."

"How so?" the guard demanded.

"He has been stealing Johnny's socks."

"You didn't see him do 't."

"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this--"

"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too

fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the

Deputy."

* * * * *

The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the

fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. His third time, too, and yet

absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable

treatment and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist

to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so. But how proceed

in the matter? Complaint against Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood

prove futile. And the officer, informed of my action, will make life

miserable for me: his authority in the shop is absolute.

The several plans I revolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer

examination, feasible. Considerations of personal interest struggle

against my sense of duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his

vacant machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing

conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable. I determine to speak

to the Deputy Warden at the first opportunity.

Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts: is it advisable to

mention the matter to the Deputy? It cannot benefit Johnny; it will

involve me in trouble. But the next moment I feel ashamed of my

weakness. I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the

celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, I

review the brave deeds of Hippolyte Nikitich. What a man! Single-handed

he essayed to liberate Chernishevsky from prison. Ah, the curse of

poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have succeeded, and the great

inspirer of the youth of Russia would have been given back to the world.

I dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's fight

with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in

court. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor in the Siberian mines, he

defied the Russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of

Dmokhovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of

_katorga_.[29] Minutely I follow his repeated attempts to escape, the

transfer of the redoubtable prisoner to the Petropavloskaia fortress,

and thence to the terrible Schluesselburg prison, where Mishkin braved

death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government

official. Ah! thus acts the revolutionist; and I--yes, I am decided. No

danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice.

[29] Hard labor in the mines.

* * * * *

At last an opportunity is at hand. The Deputy enters the shop. Tall and

gray, slightly stooping, with head carried forward, he resembles a wolf

following the trail.

"Mr. McPane, one moment, please."

"Yes."

"I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently."

"You think, hm, hm. And who is this innocent Johnny, hm, Davis?"

His fingers drum impatiently on the table; he measures me with mocking,

suspicious eyes.

"Machine thirty, Deputy."

"Ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, Reddy Davis. Hm, he had a fight."

"The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr. McPane."

"So, so. And why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good man? You confess,

then, hm, hm, you were not, hm, attending to your own work. That is bad,

hm, very bad. Mr. Cosson!"

The guard hastens to him.

"Mr. Cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge against you.

Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hm, what is your number?"

"A 7."

"Mr. Cosson, A 7 makes a, hm, complaint against the officer, hm, in

charge of this shop. Please, hm, hm, note it down."

Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The words "kicker," "his kid,"

reach my ears. The Deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened

on me in hatred.

II

I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of Wingie's cheerful spirit

is missing. My poor friend is in trouble. From snatches of conversation

in the shop I have pieced together the story. "Dutch" Adams, a

third-timer and the Deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's

allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. He demanded that Wingie, who

was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal,

"Dutch" reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected search of

Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the

charge. Wingie was sent to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five

days my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon learned that

he had been ordered into solitary confinement for refusing to betray the

men who had trusted him.

The fate of Wingie preys on my mind. My poor kind friend is breaking

down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. This morning, chancing

to pass his cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting.

Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently I waited for the noon

return to the block. "Hello, Wingie!" I called. He stood at the door,

intently peering between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank,

expressionless eyes. "Who are you?" he whimpered, brokenly. Then he

began to babble. Suddenly the terrible truth dawned on me. My poor, poor

friend, the first to speak a kind word to me,--he's gone mad!

CHAPTER X

THE YEGG

I

Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. Every step,

every movement, is so closely guarded, I seem to be hoping against hope.

I am restive and nervous, in a constant state of excitement.

Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. The task of

the machine men has been increased; in consequence, I am falling behind

in my work. My repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the

overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. His

feet wide apart, arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures

me with narrow, fat eyes. "Oh, what's the matter with you," he drawls,

"get a move on, won't you, Burk?" Then, changing his tone, he

vociferates, "Don't stand there like a fool, d'ye hear? Nex' time I

report you, to th' hole you go. That's _me_ talkin', understand?"

Often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me. But for the hope of

escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. As it

is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low

cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. The

ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a

constant torture. I seek relief--forgetfulness rather--in absorbing

myself in the work: I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the

previous day; I compete with myself, and find melancholy pleasure in

establishing and breaking high records for "turning." Again, I tax my

ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young

neighbor. Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent

conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips.

To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco

chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging

impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer, who

introduced himself as "Boston Red." I owe this development to the return

of the Warden from his vacation. Yesterday he visited the shop. A

military-looking man, with benevolent white beard and stately carriage,

he approached me, in company with the Superintendent of Prison

Manufactures.

"Is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint smile about the

rather coarse mouth.

"Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot Frick."

"I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in the English papers

there, Berkman. How is his conduct, Superintendent?"

"Good."

"Well, he should have behaved outside."

But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the Warden ordered the

overseer to give me help, and thus "Boston Red" joined me at work the

next day.

* * * * *

My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of

lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek,

mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost

stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me

into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest

and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. An interesting character,

indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the

sublime heights of applied cynicism."

"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish him. "Why do you use

so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you."

"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.'

That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone

through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies,

with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a

quick, watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low,

guttural tones:

"Don't care for your classic language. I can use it all right, all

right. But give me the lingo, every time. You see, pard, I'm no gun;[30]

don't need it in me biz. I'm a yegg."

[30] Professional thief.

"What's a yegg, Red?"

"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term

'tramp.'"

"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you should care for the

life of a bum."

A flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant. "You are stoopid as

the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his

lips move as in ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained

composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes.

"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not

discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee

here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly

neglected. Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive.

It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without

fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. Yes,

sir, that's _me_. I ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the

disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing

yours truly. I am a yagg, y--a--double g, sir, of the honorable clan of

yaggmen. Some spell it y--e--double g, but I insist on the a, sir, as

grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic

consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar

misspelling."

"What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?"

"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose

intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny

hand-out as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his

native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman.

That's the yagg, me bye. He dares to be and do, all bulls

notwithstanding. He lives, aye, he lives,--on the world of suckers,

thank you, sir. Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall

increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,' or words to that

significant effect. A yagg's the salt of the earth, pard. A real,

true-blood yagg will not deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with

a city bum or gaycat. No, sirree."

I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick,

short coughs of "Red" warn me of danger. The guard is approaching with

heavy, measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,--a sure

indication of profound self-satisfaction.

"How are you, Reddie?" he greets the assistant.

"So, so."

"Ain't been out long, have you?"

"Two an' some."

"That's pretty long for you."

"Oh, I dunno. I've been out four years oncet."

"Yes, you have! Been in Columbus[31] then, I s'pose."

[31] The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.

"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It was Sing Sing."

"Ha, ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better hustle up, fellers. I'm

putting in ten more machines, so look lively."

"When's the machines comin', Mr. Cosson?"

"Pretty soon, Red."

The officer passing on, "Red" whispers to me:

"Aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time I'll quit. Damn his work and the

new machines. I ain't no gaycat to work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No,

sir, the world owes me a living, and I generally manage to get it, you

bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free man; I can live on my

wits, see? I don't never work outside; damme if I'll work here. I ain't

no office-seeker. What d' I want to work for, eh? Can you tell me

_that_?"

"Are you going to refuse work?"

"Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that. No, sir, I never refuse.

They'll knock your damn block off, if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir,

discriminately end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, me bye.

One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion. It's a regular

pest. _You_ never worked, did you?"

The unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which I quickly suppress,

however, observing the angry frown on "Red's" face.

"You bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll pipe you. You'll

get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag. Whatcher hehawin' about?" he

demands, repeating the manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "D'ye mean

t' tell me you work?"

"I am a printer, a compositor," I inform him.

"Get off! You're an Anarchist. I read the papers, sir. You people don't

believe in work. You want to divvy up. Well, it is all right, I'm with

you. Rockefeller has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied

with that, either; he wants a fence around it."

"The Anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' Red. You got your

misinformation--"

"Oh, never min', pard. I don' take stock in reforming the world. It's

good enough for suckers, and as Holy Writ says, sir, 'Blessed be they

that neither sow nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' Them's

wise words, me bye. Moreover, sir, neither you nor me will live to see a

change, so why should I worry me nut about 't? It takes all my wits to

dodge work. It's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously

busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. Why, you know, pard, or

perhaps you don't, greenie, Columbus is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye

think I worked the four-spot there? Not me; no, sirree!"

"Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not in Columbus?"

"'Corse I did. What of it? Think I'd open my guts to my Lord Bighead?

I've never been within thirty miles of the York pen. It was Hail

Columbia all right, but that's between you an' I, savvy. Don' want th'

screws to get next."

"Well, Red, how did you manage to keep away from work in Columbus?"

"Manage? That's right, sir. 'Tis a word of profound significance, quite

adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I

managed, with a capital M. To good purpose, too, me bye. Not a stroke

of work in a four-spot. How? I had Billie with me, that's me kid, you

know, an' a fine boy he was, too. I had him put a jigger on me; kept it

up for four years. There's perseverance and industry for you, sir."

"What's 'putting a jigger on'?"

"A jigger? Well, a jigger is--"

The noon whistle interrupts the explanation. With a friendly wink in my

direction, the assistant takes his place in the line. In silence we

march to the cell-house, the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat

in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard.

II

Conversation with "Boston Red," Young Davis, and occasional other

prisoners helps to while away the tedious hours at work. But in the

solitude of the cell, through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells

in the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms,

the bitter controversies between the _Mostianer_ and the defenders of my

act, fill my thoughts and dreams. By means of fictitious, but

significant, names, Russian and German words written backward, and

similar devices, the Girl keeps me informed of the activities in our

circles. I think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous

militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak

on my part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider her

devotion deserving of particular commendation. She is a revolutionist;

it is her duty to our common Cause. Courage, whole-souled zeal, is very

rare, it is true. The Girl. Fedya, and a few others,--hence the sad lack

of general opposition in the movement to Most's attitude.... But

communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the

hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation.

With great joy I trace the ascending revolutionary tendency in _Der Arme

Teufel_. I have persuaded the Chaplain to procure the admission of the

ingenious Robert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals

addressed to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket, by orders of

the Deputy. The latter refused to make an exception even in regard to

the _Knights of Labor Journal_. "It is an incendiary Anarchist sheet,"

he persisted.

* * * * *

The arrival of the _Teufel_ is a great event. What joy to catch sight of

the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table! Tenderly I

pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an

animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. What

cheering message does Reitzel bring me now? What beauties of his rich

mind are hidden to-day in the quaint German type? Reverently I unfold

the roll. The uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring

paean of Hope's prophecy greets my eye,--

Gruss an Alexander Berkman!

For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears. Again and again recurs

the refrain of faith and proud courage,

Schon ruestet sich der freiheit Schaar

Zur heiligen Entscheidungschlacht;

Es enden "zweiundzwanzig" Jahr'

Vielleicht in e i n e r Sturmesnacht!

But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality lays its heavy

hand upon my heart. The flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom,

and I sit brooding over the interminable succession of miserable days

and evenings and nights.... The darkness gathers around the candle, as

I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. Its dying agony,

ineffectual and vain, presages my own doom, approaching, inevitable.

Weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler--a last spasm, and

all is utter blackness.

Three bells. "Lights out!"

Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour....

* * * * *

The sun streaming into the many-windowed shop routs the night, and

dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. Perhaps my little candle

with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness,--who knows?

Perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers,

and hastened the coming of Day. The fancy lures me with its warming

embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me:

"Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad."

Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me:

"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me! Permit me to

introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats

of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between

York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir,

merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?"

"What are you driving at, Red?"

"They'se goin' to move me down on your row,[32] now that I'm in this

'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this

magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next

yours, an' I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye? I'm

goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume

benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir,

for you're my kid now, see?"

[32] Gallery.

"How, your kid?"

"How? My kid, of course. That's just what I mean. Any objections, sir,

as the learned gentlemen of the law say in the honorable courts of the

blind goddess. You betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl on a sunny

midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky city, though; sun's ashamed here.

But 'way down in my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River,

Sua-a-nee-ee Riv--"

"Hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started to tell me about being

your 'kid'. Now explain, what do you mean by it?"

"Really, you--" He holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post,

gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles

with wonder. In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution,

and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye.

"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something of this 'ere round

globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to

surprise me, lemme tell you. But _you_ do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do.

Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met Cigarette Jimmie in

Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never

heard a ghost story; was fourteen, too. Well, I got 'im all right, ah

right. Now he's doin' a five-bit down in Kansas, poor kiddie. Well, he

certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous billows of life, sir,

have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time, yes, sir, they have,

but I never got such a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a

body-blow, a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world, sir, to my

settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. Well,

damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex?"

"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this to do with the question

I asked you?"

"Everythin', me bye, everythin'. You're twenty-two and don't know what a

kid is! Well, if it don't beat raw eggs, I don't know what does. Green?

Well, sir, it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your

inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, I may well say, of soul,

except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the

early summer moon. You know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks,

abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile.

I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer.

Yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face

expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of

humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with

"classic" English, all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter

helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps I may also glean

from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my

plans of escape.

"Well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "Red" inquires, chaffingly.

"I suppose I do."

"I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can see by the tip of

your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slough of densest

ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not

contradict me. I brook no sceptical attitude regarding my undoubted and

proven perspicacity of human nature. How's that for classic style, eh?

That'll hold you down a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you

interrupted--eh, what? You didn't? Oh, what's the matter with you?

Don't yer go now an' rooin the elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus

with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now,

boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology before your

wondering gaze. To begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively

aristocratic science. Not for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth

Avenue. Nixie. But for the only genuine aristocracy of de road, sir, for

the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad, for yours truly and his

clan. Yes, sirree!"

"I don't know what you are talking about."

"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. In plain

English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious

comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by

divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity.

Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent, is the truly Christian science of

loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice little boy. Understand now?"

"How can you love a boy?"

"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref boy, I can see that."

"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd

understand better."

"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't long on lingo neither. How

can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try.

You love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy

Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor woman; he's punk.'

Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll...."

"What!"

"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se talkin' plain. Savvy now,

Innocent Abroad?"

"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red."

"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil--damn me soul t' hell, what d' you

mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee, look out!"

The look of bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he

had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the

guard, who is now hastening toward us.

"Who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters.

"You, Davis?"

"No, sir."

"Who was, then?"

"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson."

"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'."

"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "I hit my

elbow against the machine."

"Let me see 't."

The guard scrutinizes the bared arm.

"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore."

"It hurt, and I hollered."

The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been talkin', Reddie?"

"I don't think he was, Cap'n."

Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at "Red," and passes on, with a

final warning to the boy: "Don't you let me catch you at it again, you

hear!"

* * * * *

During the rest of the day the overseers exercise particular vigilance

over our end of the shop. But emboldened by the increased din of the new

knitting machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again.

"Screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept they's close to us. But

watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. An' don' scare me

again like that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb forget

myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? What's his name,

Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid all right. Just like me own Billie I tole

you 'bout. He was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. True as

steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th' bark to a tree.

Say, what's that you said, you don't believe what I endeavored so

conscientiously, sir, to drive into your noodle? You was only kiddin'

me, wasn't you?"

"No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning ghost stories, or

whatever you call it. I don't believe in this kid love."

"An' why don't you believe it?"

"Why--er--well, I don't think it possible."

"_What_ isn't possible?"

"You know what I mean. I don't think there can be such intimacy between

those of the same sex."

"Ho, ho! _That's_ your point? Why, Alex, you're more of a damfool than

the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. You don't believe

it possible, you don't, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, an I'll

show you."

"Red, don't you talk to me like that," I burst out, angrily. "If you--"

"Aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly. "Don't get on your

high horse. No harm meant, Alex. You're a good boy, but you jest rattle

me with your crazy talk. Why, you're bugs to say it's impossible. Man

alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. It's done in every prison, an' on

th' road, everywhere. Lord, if I had a plunk for every time I got th'

best of a kid, I'd rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me bye."

"You actually confess to such terrible practices? You're disgusting. But

I don't really believe it, Red."

"Confess hell! I confess nothin'. Terrible, disgusting! You talk like a

man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot."

"Are there no women on the road?"

"Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? Women are no

good. I wouldn't look at 'em when I can have my prushun.[33] Oh, it is

quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of

moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of--"

[33] A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp.

"Oh, quit!"

"Well, you'll know better before _your_ time's up, me virtuous sonny."

* * * * *

For several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of

illness. He has been "excused" by the doctor, the guard informs me.

I miss his help at work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "Red's"

companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His cynical attitude

toward woman and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism.

The panegyrics of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The

very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. But

I find solace in the reflection that "Red's" insinuations are pure

fabrication; no credence is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being,

could not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such

unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast must not be

credited with such perversion, such depravity. I should really take the

matter more calmly. The assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely

teasing me. These things are not credible; indeed, I don't believe they

are possible. And even if they were, no human being would be capable of

such iniquity. I must not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me.

CHAPTER XI

THE ROUTE SUB ROSA

March 4, 1893.

GIRL AND TWIN:

I am writing with despair in my heart. I was taken to Pittsburgh

as a witness in the trial of Nold and Bauer. I had hoped for an

opportunity--you understand, friends. It was a slender thread,

but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on

it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back, and I may never

leave this place alive.

I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. I

yearned for the sight of your faces. But you were not there, nor

any one else of our New York comrades. I knew what it meant: you

are having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise perhaps something

could be done to establish friendly relations between Rakhmetov

and Mr. Gebop.[34] It would require an outlay beyond the

resources of our own circle; others cannot be approached in this

matter. Nothing remains but the "inside" developments,--a

terribly slow process.

This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends. You

will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has

again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness.... I

did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it is five

months now) till my return from court. I suppose the excitement

of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce.... My head

was awhirl; I could not collect my thoughts. The wild hope

possessed me,--_pobeg_! The click of the steel, as I was

handcuffed to the Deputy, struck my death-knell.... The

unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in

the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the

moment. It seemed to me as if I were a spectator, interested,

but personally unconcerned, in the surroundings; and these,

too, were far away, of a strange world in which I had no part.

Only when I found myself alone in the cell, the full

significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with

crushing force.

But why sadden you? There is perhaps a cheerier side, now that

Nold and Bauer are here. I have not seen them yet, but their

very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these

walls there are _comrades_, men who, like myself, suffer for an

ideal--the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. It brings

me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political

prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture of their

daily existence, the politicals--even in Siberia--breathe the

atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage and

strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated by a

common cause! Conditions here are entirely different. Both

inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. They have never

known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice or risk his

life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond their

comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert of

sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would

gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia.

The former _podpoilnaya_[35] was suspended, because of the great

misfortune that befell my friend Wingie, of whom I wrote to you

before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tiuremshchick,[36] an old

soldier who really sympathizes with Wingie. I believe they

served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who hates his

despicable work. But there is a family at home, a sick wife--you

know the old, weak-kneed tale. I had a hint from him the other

day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous for him to be seen

at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true; but what he

means is, that a little money would be welcome. You know how to

manage the matter. Leave no traces.

I hear the felt-soled step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie a

hasty good-bye.

SASHA.

[34] Reading backward, _pobeg_; Russian for "escape."

[35] _Sub rosa_ route.

[36] Russian for "guard."

CHAPTER XII

"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"

I

A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio. It ensnares the

river banks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with sombre

mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. Within the House of Death is

felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages.

Only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs the stillness. I

listen intently. Nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and

apparently intentional I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of

communication practiced by Russian politicals, and I strive to detect

some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer as I approach the back

wall of the cell, and instantly I am aware of a faint murmur in the

privy. Is it fancy, or did I hear my name?

"Halloa!" I call into the pipe.

The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed, hollow voice: "That

you, Aleck?"

"Yes. Who is it?"

"Never min'. You must be deaf not to hear me callin' you all this time.

Take that cott'n out o' your ears."

"I didn't know you could talk this way."

"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty pipes, no standin' water,

see? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit to--"

The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. Presently the flow

subsides, and the knocking is resumed. I bend over the privy.

"Hello, hello! That you, Aleck?"

"Git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts into the pipe.

"Lay down, there!"

"Take that trap out o' the hole."

"Quit your foolin', Horsethief."

"Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellers. It's Bob, Horsethief Bob.

I'm talkin' business. Keep quiet now, will you? Are you there, Aleck?

Yes? Well, pay no 'tention to them dubs. 'Twas that crazy Southside Slim

that turned th' water on--"

"Who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts.

"Oh, lay down, Slim, will you? Who said you was crazy? Nay, nay, you're

bugs. Hey, Aleck, you there?"

"Yes, Bob."

"Oh, got me name, have you? Yes, I'm Bob, Horsethief Bob. Make no

mistake when you see me; I'm Big Bob, the Horsethief. Can you hear me?

It's you, Aleck?"

"Yes, yes."

"Sure it's you? Got t' tell you somethin'. What's your number?"

"A 7."

"Right you are. What cell?"

"6 K."

"An' this is me, Big Bob, in--"

"Windbag Bob," a heavy bass comments from above.

"Shut up, Curley, I'm on th' line. I'm in 6 F, Aleck, top tier. Call me

up any time I'm in, ha, ha! You see, pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you

can talk to any range you want, but always to th' same cell as you're

in, Cell 6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, to Shorty,

you know--"

"I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him, Bob."

"Yes, you do. You list'n what I tell you, Aleck, an' you'll be all

right. That's me talkin', Big Bob, see? Now, I say if you'd like t' chew

th' rag with Shorty, you jest tell me. Tell Brother Bob, an' he'll

connect you all right. Are you on? Know who's Shorty?"

"No."

"Yo oughter. That's Carl, Carl Nold. Know _him_, don't you?"

"What!" I cry in astonishment. "Is it true, Bob? Is Nold up there on

your gallery?"

"Sure thing. Cell 14."

"Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking ten minutes now. Did

you see him?"

"What's your hurry, Aleck? _You_ can't see 'im; not jest now, anyway.

P'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. There's no hurry, Aleck. _You_ got plenty o'

time. A few years, _rather_, ha, ha, ha!"

"Hey, there, Horsethief, quit that!" I recognize "Curley's" deep bass.

"What do you want to make the kid feel bad for?"

"No harm meant, Curley," Bob returns, "I was jest joshin' him a bit."

"Well, quit it."

"You don' min' it, Aleck, do you?" I hear Bob again, his tones softened,

"I didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's. I'm your friend, Aleck, you can bet

your corn dodger on that. Say, I've got somethin' for you from Shorty, I

mean Carl, you savvy?"

"What have you, Bob?"

"Nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy on this 'ere range.

I'll sneak around to you in the mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of

bootleg. Now, jiggaroo,[37] screw's comin'."

[37] Look out.

II

The presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and

meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former

environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into

renewed life and hope.

The secret exchange of notes lends color to the routine. It is like a

fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. At

work in the shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence.

Again and again I review the arguments elucidating to my comrades the

significance of my _Attentat_: they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the

importance of the purely physical result. The exchange of views

gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into

closer intimacy. There is something in Carl Nold that especially

attracts me: I sense in him a congenial spirit. His spontaneous

frankness appeals to me; my heart echoes his grief at the realization of

Most's unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antagonism of Bauer

is irritating. It reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol.

Presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself.

The big, jovial German has earned my respect; he braved the anger of the

judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in the

distribution of the Anarchist leaflet among the Homestead workers. On

the other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts on the

witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity in my act. Their

condemnation, as acknowledged Anarchists, was, of course, a foregone

conclusion, and I am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had

entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. Indeed,

both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not

visited upon them. Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect

upon me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years

will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless

factory toil. He is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be

handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he

good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced.

* * * * *

The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion

in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily

cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and

discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of the movement in the twin

cities, the personnel of Anarchist circles, and collect a fund of

anecdotes about Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive

shop in Allegheny is the center of the radical _inteligenzia_. With deep

contrition Bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the role of my

executioner. My unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of

the Homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the Allegheny

comrades. They sent an inquiry to Most, whose reply proved a warning

against me. Unknown to me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Nold's

house. Through the long hours of the night he lay awake, with revolver

cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had

determined to kill me.

The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into

the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and

applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our

interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection; the

difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect.

Every available scrap of paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers

and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and

the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. Even an occasional

fly-leaf from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its

covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously

removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills

us with dismay. But the genius our faithful postman, of proud

horsethieving proclivities, proves equal to the occasion: Bob

constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom shop, in which

he is employed, as the base of our future supplies.

The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big rolls requisitioned

by "Horsethief" exclude the fear of famine; the smooth yellow wrapping

paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible chirography. The

pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. We speculate on

the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazinelet, and

wax warm over the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue

of the _Zuchthausbluethen_[38] is greeted with the encouraging approval

of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a

rather creditable poem on the blank last page of the publication. Elated

at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him _Meistersinger_, with

dominion over the department of poetry. Soon we plan more pretentious

issues: the outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three

by five inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each issue to

have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity; the readers

to serve as contributing editors. The appearance of the _Bluethen_ is to

be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers,

whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to protect them

against discovery. Henceforth Bauer, physically a giant, is to be known

as "G"; because of my medium stature, I shall be designated with the

letter "M"; and Nold, as the smallest, by "K."[39] The poet, his history

somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened "D" for _Dichter_. "M," "K,"

"G," are to act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to

start the _Bluethen_ on its way, each reader contributing to the issue

till it is returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and

comment upon his fellow contributors. The publication, its contents

growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom

will devolve the editorial management of the following issue.

[38] Prison Blossoms.

[39] Initial of the German _klein_, small.

The unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation.

The little magazine is rich in contents and varied in style. The

diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates

speculation on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors.

In the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of

contending social philosophies; here a political essay rubs elbows with

a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is

interspersed with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence. Flashes

of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend

peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of

Josh Billings into the manuscript pages.

[Illustration: Special Spring Edition of the Z. Bluethen.]

But the success of the _Zuchthausbluethen_ soon discovers itself a

veritable Frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims

of the magazinelet. The popularity of joint editorship is growing at the

cost of unity and tendency; the Bard's astonishing facility at

versification, coupled with his Jules Vernian imagination, causes us

grave anxiety lest his untamable Pegasus traverse the limits of our

paper supply. The appalling warning of the commissary that the

improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike,

imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies of retrenchment

and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two Homestead men suggests

an auspicious solution.

III

The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. Beatty, prominent in the

Knights of Labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among

workers representing the more radical element of American labor. Accused

of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills,

Dempsey and Beatty appear to me men of unusual type. Be they innocent or

guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary

tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands: is it not the creator

of all the wealth in the world? Every weapon may be employed to return

the despoiled People into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing

of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters, an effective

means of aiding the struggle? Therefore Dempsey and Beatty deserve

acclaim. Morally certain of their guilt, I respect them the more for it,

though I am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of

wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg is also human, it is

true, and desires to live. But one should starve rather than turn

traitor to the cause of his class. Moreover, the individual--or any

number of them--cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity.

* * * * *

Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the

imprisoned labor leaders. In the ceaseless duel of vital need against

stupidity and malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least

indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery, disaster.

But perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer: by the aid of the

faithful "Horsethief," communication with Dempsey and Beatty is

established. With the aggressiveness of strong conviction I present to

them my views, dwelling on the historic role of the _Attentaeter_ and the

social significance of conscious individual protest. The discussion

ramifies, the interest aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper

supply. Presently I am involved in a correspondence with several men,

whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act I attempt to

answer and correct with individual notes. But the method proves an

impossible tax on our opportunities, and "KGM" finally decide to publish

an English edition of the _Zuchthausbluethen_. The German magazinelet is

suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the _Prison

Blossoms_.

CHAPTER XIII

THE JUDAS

"Ah, there, Sporty!" my assistant greets me in the shop. "Stand treat on

this festive occasion?"

"Yes, Red. Have a chew," I reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug

of tobacco.

His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed

suit of dark gray. The larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek,

he flings to me the remnant across the table, remarking:

"Don't care for't. Take back your choo, I'll keep me honor,--your plug,

I mean, sonny. A gentleman of my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator

on the high seas of social life,--are you on, me bye?--a gentleman, I

repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is human have chucked

on this here dry, thrice damned dry latitude, sir, this nocuous

plague-spot of civilization,--say, kid, what t' hell am I talkin' about?

Damn if I ain't clean forgot."

"I'm sure I don't know, Red."

"Like hell you don't! It's your glad duds, kid. Offerin' _me_ a ch-aw

tob-b-bac-co! Christ, I'm dyin' for a drop of booze. This magnificent

occasion deserves a wetting, sir. And, say, Aleck, it won't hurt your

beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You look like a

scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't old Sandy the king of

skinners, though!"

"Whom do you mean, Red?"

"Who I mean, you idjot! Who but that skunk of a Warden, the Honorable

Captain Edward S. Wright, if you please, sir. Captain of rotten old

punks, that's what he is. You ask th' screws. He's never smelt powder;

why, he's been _here_ most o' his life. But some o' th' screws been here

longer, borned here, damn 'em; couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a

steam engine, you couldn't. They can tell you all 'bout the Cap, though.

Old Sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his name when he come 'ere, an'

now the damn stomach-robber is rich. Reg'lar gold mine this dump's for

'im. Only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. Got big fam'ly an' keeps

carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t' go to Europe every year,

an' got a big pile in th' bank to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a

year. Good manager, ain't he? A reg'lar church member, too, damn his

rotten soul to hell!"

"Is he as bad as all that, Red?"

"Is he? A hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he is. Plays the

humanitarian racket. He had a great deal t' say t' the papers why he

didn't believe in the brutal way Iams was punished by that Homestead

colonel--er--what's 'is name?"

"Colonel Streator, of the Tenth Pennsylvania."

"That's the cur. He hung up Private Iams by the thumbs till th' poor boy

was almost dead. For nothin', too. Suppose you remember, don't you? Iams

had called for 'three cheers for the man who shot Frick,' an' they

pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im out of th' regiment

with 'is head half shaved."

"It was a most barbarous thing."

"An' that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't believe in such

things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer is doin' it himself. Not a

day but some poor con is 'cuffed up' in th' hole. That's th' kind of

humanitarian _he_ is! It makes me wild t' think on 't. Why, kid, I even

get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the

dulcet symphonies of classic English. But whenever that skunk of a

Warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually

imperturbable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to

'Patience on a monument smiling at grief.' Watch me, sonny, that's yours

truly spielin'. Why, look at them dingy rags of yours. I liked you

better in th' striped duds. They give you the hand-me-downs of that

nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on th' books with a bran'

new suit. See where Sandy gets his slice, eh? An' say, kid, how long are

you here?"

"About eight months, Red."

"They beat you out o' two months all right. Suppose they obey their own

rules? Nit, sir. You are aware, my precious lamb, that you are entitled

to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of

six months in this benevolent dump. I bet you that fresh fish at the

loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days ago, _he_ won't be kept

waitin' more'n six months for 'is black clothes."

I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is a slender man,

with swarthy complexion and quick, shifting eye. The expression of

guilty cunning is repelling.

"Who is that man?" I whisper to the assistant.

"Like 'im, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce to you the handiwork

of his Maker, a mealy-mouthed, oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur,

a snivelling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass

whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member

of my clan,--Mr. Patrick Gallagher, of the honorable Pinkerton family,

sir."

"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The informer, who denounced

Dempsey and Beatty?"

"The very same. The dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here

for seven years. Dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such vermin as

Gallagher and Davidson. He was Master Workman of some district of the

Knights of Labor. Why in hell didn't he get his own men to do th' job?

Goes to work an' hires a brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills,

you savvy, to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on the

goings on, see? S'pose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the

developments in the culinary experiment?"

"Yes. Croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scabs sick

with diarrhoea."

"Make 'em sick? Why, me bye, scores of 'em croaked. I am surprised, sir,

at your use of such a vulgar term as diarrhoea. You offend my

aestheticism. The learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels of

earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of

unmentionable human obligations to nature, the mysterious and

extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic

obedience to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o'

lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities of the liquid

supply, or to--pardon my frankness, sir--to intestinal effeminacy,

which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation

unseemly in well-mannered Christians. Some future day, sir, there may

arise a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days of the

modern Bull Run--an' I kin tell you, laddie, they run and kept runnin',

top and bottom--or some lyric bard may put to Hudibrastic verse--watch

me climbin' th' Parnassus, kid--the poetic feet, the numbers, the

assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when Croton Oil was King.

Yes, sirree; but for yours truly, me hand ain't in such pies; and

moreover, sir, I make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t'

keep me snout out o' other people's biz."

"Dempsey may be innocent, Red."

"Well, th' joory didn't think so. But there's no tellin'. Honest t' God,

Aleck, that rotten scab of a Gallagher has cast the pale hue of

resolution, if I may borrow old Billy Shake's slang, sir, over me

gener'ly settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plenitude of my

heterogeneous experience with all sorts and conditions of rats and

gaycats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order, of 1859

vintage, damme if I ever run across such an acute form of confessionitis

as manifested by the lout on th' loopin' machine there. You know what he

done yesterday?"

"What?"

"Sent for th' distric' attorney and made another confesh."

"Really? How do you know?"

"Night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. I shtands in, see? The

mick's a reg'lar Yahoo, can't hardly spell 'is own name. He daily

requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out

his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a hand-out with more

dignified probity, sir. It's a cinch. Last night he gimme a great slice

of corn dodger. It was A 1, I tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and

half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it, though! Makes

your mouth water, eh, kid? Well, you be good t' me, an' you kin have

what I got. I'll divvy up with you. We-ll! Don' stand there an' gape at

me like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation of my magnanimous

generosity deprived you of articulate utterance, sir?"

The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his suddenly

serious manner, affect me unpleasantly. With pretended indifference, I

decline to share his delicacies.

"You need those little extras for yourself, Red," I explain. "You told

me you suffer from indigestion. A change of diet now and then will do

you good. But you haven't finished telling me about the new confession

of Gallagher."

"Oh, you're a sly one, Aleck; no flies on you. But it's all right, me

bye, mebbe I can do somethin' for you some day. I'm your friend, Aleck;

count on me. But that mutt of a Gallagher, yes, sirree, made another

confession; damme if it ain't his third one. Ever hear such a thing? I

got it straight from th' screw all right. I can't make the damn snitch

out. Unreservedly I avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of

the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb

the repose of a right-thinking yagg in the silken lap of Morpheus.

What's 'is game, anyhow? Shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental

menstruation as, er--er--what's your learned opinion, my illustrious

colleague, eh? What you grinnin' for, Four Eyes? It's a serious matter,

sir; a highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity,

impregnated with the pernicious virus of Pinkertonism, sir, and

transmuted in the alembic of Carnegie alchemy. A judicious injection of

persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of the House of Dempsey,

and lo! three brand-new confessions, mutually contradictory and

exclusive. Does that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?"

"In the second confession he retracted his accusations against Dempsey.

What is the third about, Red?"

"Retracts his retraction, me bye. Guess why, Aleck."

"I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges."

"You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas cleared the man, Sandy

notified Reed and Knox. Them's smart guys, all right; the attorneys of

the Carnegie Company to interpret Madame Justicia, sir, in a manner--"

"I know, Red," I interrupt him, "they are the lawyers who prosecuted me.

Even in court they were giving directions to the district attorney, and

openly whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses. He was

just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when

he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or

corporation, but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth,

charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my

prosecution. And all the time he was the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers."

"Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when

you start jawin'. Think you're on th' platform haranguing the

long-haired crowd? You can't convert _me_, so save your breath, man."

"I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are intelligent, but a

hopeless case. You are not the kind that could be useful to the Cause."

"Glad you're next. Got me sized up all right, eh? Well, me saintly bye,

I'm Johnny-on-the-spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the

cause is Me, with a big M, see? A fellow's a fool not t' look out for

number one. I give it t' you straight, Aleck. What's them high-flown

notions of yours--oppressed humanity and suffering people--fiddlesticks!

There you go and shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers,

but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell me that! They

won't do a darned thing fer you. Catch _me_ swinging for the peo-pul!

The cattle don't deserve any better than they get, that's what _I_ say."

"I don't want to discuss these questions with you, Red. You'll never

understand, anyhow."

"Git off, now. You voice a sentiment, sir, that my adequate appreciation

of myself would prompt me to resent on the field of honor, sir. But the

unworthy spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir, and I

shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming the true Christian, and

shall follow the bidding of the Master by humbly offering the other

cheek for that chaw of th' weed I gave you. Dig down into your poke,

kid."

I hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking:

"You've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual, Red. You said the

Warden sent for the Carnegie lawyers after Gallagher had recanted his

original confession. Well, what did they do?"

"Don't know what _they_ done, but I tole you that the muttonhead sent

for th' district attorney the same day, an' signed a third confesh. Why,

Dempsey was tickled to death, 'cause--"

He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn me of danger.

Accompanied by the Deputy and the shop officer, the Warden is making the

rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and

listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes

present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features

framed in grayish-white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a

benign smile:

"Good morning, boys."

Casting a glance at my assistant, the Warden inquires: "Your time must

be up soon, Red?"

"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs.

"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine accents of the Deputy

sound sarcastic.

"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers.

A flush darkens the face of the assistant. "There's more skunks out than

in," he retorts.

The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning finger, but the Warden

laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds.

We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily

following the departing officials. Presently he whispers:

"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on to 'im, all right. Didn't

he look mad, though? Thought he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is

lamps, kid?"

"Yes. Very bright eyes."

"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's th' matter. Think I'd

get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? I knowed it the

minute I laid me eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and

that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all

right. Always feelin' fine when he's hit th' pipe. That's th' time you

kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im,

hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in

them socks, first thing you know."

"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't _you_ ask him?"

"Me? Me ask a favor o' the damn swine? Not on your tintype! You don'

catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--"

"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either."

"I don't give a damn. For all I care, Aleck, and--well, confidentially

speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the

infundibular dehiscence of his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble

opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to

disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. Do you

follow the argument, me bye?"

"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What are you really

talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer."

"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to train you right; gradual,

so to speak. It's me dooty to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here.

I ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. I'll quit first. D'

you think--s-s-ss!"

The shop officer is returning. "Damn your impudence, Red," he shouts at

the assistant. "Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?"

"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?"

"You know damn well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean

through. You ought t' know better'n that. He was nice as pie till you

opened that big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He gave me

th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. Why don't you

take it over to th' loopers, Burk?"

"They have not been turned yet," I reply.

"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What in hell are you

fellows doin', I'd like t' know."

"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts, defiantly.

"Shut up now, an' get a move on you."

"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant persists.

"You better shut up, Red."

"Then give us some help."

"I will like hell!"

The whistle sounds the dinner hour.

CHAPTER XIV

THE DIP

For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work. My best efforts seem

ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery,

and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of

clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me

assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the

vacant place.

"He's a dip,"[40] Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A top-notcher," he adds,

admiringly.

[40] Pickpocket.

I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced

association. I have never before come in personal contact with a

professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his

class. But they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey

upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can be nothing in common

between me and this man.

* * * * *

The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. His distant manner

piques my curiosity. How unlike his scornful mien and proudly

independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I

remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a

fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya

confessed the theft. We ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head

and looked frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his

face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of

him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his

forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful

word _vor_.[41]

[41] Thief.

"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks

in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "You needn't be

afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly.

"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation. "Why should I

be afraid of you?"

"Not of me; of the officer, I meant."

"I am not afraid of him, either."

"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the

time, you know."

His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct

English, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former

assistant, surprises me.

"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, Mr.

Berkman, but--"

"How do you know my name?" I interrupt. "You have just arrived."

"They call me 'Lightning Al'," he replies, with a tinge of pride. "I'm

here only three days, but a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in

that time. I had you pointed out to me."

"What do you call your line? What are you here for?"

For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch his face blush darkly.

"You're a dead give-away. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Berkman," he corrects

himself, "I sometimes lapse into lingo, under provocation, you know. I

meant to say, it's easy to see that you are not next to the way--not

familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never ask a man what he

is in for."

"Why not?"

"Well, er--"

"You are ashamed."

"Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps,--I mean, to be caught at

it--it's no credit to a gun's rep, his reputation, you understand. But

I'm proud of the jobs I've done. I'm pretty slick, you know."

"But you don't like to be asked why you were sent here."

"Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions."

"Against the ethics of the trade, I suppose?"

"How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Berkman. But it's true, it's not the

ethics. And it isn't a trade, either; it's a profession. Oh, you may

smile, but I'd rather be a gun, a professional, I mean, than one of your

stupid factory hands."

"They are honest, though. Honest producers, while you are a thief."

"Oh, there's no sting in that word for _me_. I take pride in being a

thief, and what's more, I _am_ an A number one gun, you see the point?

The best dip in the States."

"A pickpocket? Stealing nickels off passengers on the street cars,

and--"

"Me? A hell of a lot _you_ know about it. Take me for such small fry, do

you? I work only on race tracks."

"You call it work?"

"Sure. Damned hard work, too. Takes more brains than a whole shopful of

your honest producers can show."

"And you prefer that to being honest?"

"Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. Think

I'm so dumb I have to slave all week for a few dollars?"

"But you spend most of your life in prison."

"Not by a long shot. A real good gun's always got his fall money

planted,--I mean some ready coin in case of trouble,--and a smart lawyer

will spring you most every time; beat the case, you know. I've never

seen the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough; and most

judges, too. Of course, now and then, the best of us may fall; but it

don't happen very often, and it's all in the game. This whole life is a

game, Mr. Berkman, and every one's got his graft."

"Do you mean there are no honest men?" I ask, angrily.

"Pshaw! I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or Carnegie, only they got the

law with them. And I work harder than they, I'll bet you on that. I've

got to eat, haven't I? Of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if I could be

sure of my bread and butter, perhaps--"

* * * * *

The passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket, inquiring

pleasantly:

"How're you doin', Al?"

"Tip-top, Mr. Cosson. Hope you are feeling good to-day."

"Never better, Al."

"A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr. Cosson."

"Who was that?"

"Barney. Jack Barney."

"Jack Barney! Why, he worked for me in the broom shop."

"Yes, he did a three-spot. He often said to me, 'Al, it you ever land in

Riverside,' he says, 'be sure you don't forget to give my best to Mr.

Cosson, Mr. Ed. Cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'"

The officer looks pleased. "Yes, I treated him white, all right," he

remarks, continuing on his rounds.

"I knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after him. "Always good

to get on the right side of them," he adds, with a wink. "Barney told me

about him all right. Said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a

swell-head yap. You see, Mr. Berkman,--may I call you Aleck? It's

shorter. Well, you see, Aleck, I make it a point to find things out.

It's wise to know the ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That

Jimmy McPane, the Deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his man, all

right. Barney told me all about it; he was doing his bit, then,--I mean

serving his sentence. You see, Aleck," he lowers his voice,

confidentially, "I don't like to use slang; it grows on one, and every

fly-cop can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business to

present a fine front and use good English, so I must not get the lingo

habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney telling me about the Deputy. He

killed a con in cold blood. The fellow was bughouse, D. T., you know;

saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and

hollering 'Murder! Kill 'em!' The Deputy was just passing along, and he

out with his gat--I mean his revolver, you know--and bangs away. He

pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he did, the murderer. Killed

him dead. Never was tried, either. Warden told the newspapers it was

done in self-defence. A damn lie. Sandy knew better; everybody in the

dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder, with no provocation at all. It's

a regular ring, you see, and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of

them all; and that sky-pilot, too, is an A 1 fakir. Did you hear about

the kid born here? Before your time. A big scandal. Since then the holy

man's got to have a screw with him at Sunday service for the females,

and I tell you he needs watching all right."

The whistle terminates the conversation.

CHAPTER XV

THE URGE OF SEX

Sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy; I

cannot sleep. Through the bars, I gaze upon the Ohio. The full moon

hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains

of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks are merry

with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell, and voices

call in the distance. Life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly

near,--but all is silent and dead around me.

For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. It sounded so

youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt.

What joy to feast my eye on her! I have not beheld a woman for many

months: I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. My mind

persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strains in the

woods; and fancy wreathes sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints

vision and image, as I pace the floor in agitation. They live, they

breathe! I see the slender figure with the swelling bosom, the delicate

white throat, the babyish face with large, wistful eyes. Why, it is

Luba! My blood tingles violently, passionately, as I live over again the

rapturous wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How temptingly

innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips, how

exquisite the suddenness of it all! We were in New Haven then. One by

one we had gathered, till the little New York commune was complete. The

Girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange city, drudging as

compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the

midst of a conservative household. But the Girl brought light and

sunshine, and then came the Twin and Manya. Luba remained in New York;

but Manya, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister, and presently

the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. All seemed

happy in the free atmosphere, and Luba was blooming into beautiful

womanhood. There was a vague something about her that now and then

roused in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. Once--it was in New

York, a year before--I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. It

seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called to try a game of chess

with her father, when he informed me that Luba had been ill. She was

recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside,

conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows slipping from under

the girl's head. Bending over, I involuntarily touched her hair, loosely

hanging down the side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next

instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips.

The momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for

the girl with the beautiful hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and

a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray,

full of grace and beauty. And all the while we talked, my eyes feasted

on her ravishing form, and I felt envious of her future lover, and hated

the desecration. But when I left her bedside, all trace of desire

disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision

affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague inquietude remained, as

of something unattainable.

Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. We had just

returned from the performance of _Tosca_, with Sarah Bernhardt in her

inimitable role. I had to pass through Luba's room on my way to the

attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. She had already

retired, but was still awake. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and we

talked of the play. She glowed with the inspiration of the great

tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the _decollete_ of the

actresses.

"I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," I remarked. "But I had

a powerful opera glass: their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was

disgusting."

"Do you think--mine nice?" she asked, suddenly.

For a second I was bewildered. But the question sounded so enchantingly

unpremeditated, so innocently eager.

"I never--Let me see them," I said, impulsively.

"No, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "I can't, I can't!"

"I wont look, Luba. See, I close my eyes. Just a touch."

"Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed! Only over the blanket, please, Sasha," she

pleaded, as my hand softly stole under the covers. She gripped the sheet

tightly, and my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm, round

breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In fear of arousing her

maidenly resistance, I strove to hide my exultation, while cautiously

and tenderly I released the coverlet.

"They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling the tremor of my

voice.

"You--like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes looked lustrous and

happy.

"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last covering aside, I kissed

her between the breasts.

"I'm so glad I came here," she spoke dreamily.

"Were you very lonesome in New York?"

"It was terrible, Sasha."

"You like the change?"

"Oh, you silly boy! Don't you know?"

"What, Luba?"

"I wanted _you_, dear." Her arms twined softly about me.

I felt appalled. The Girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my

mind, chilling me with self-reproach. The pale hue of the attained cast

its shadow across the spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Luba's breast.

The coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my hand

inadvertently touched her knee.

"Sasha, how _can_ you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified

eyes.

"I didn't mean to, Luba. How could you _think_ that of me?" I was deeply

mortified.

My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent embarrassment.

"It is getting late, Sasha." She tenderly drew my head to her bosom.

"A little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment of the virgin

breasts was upon me, and I showered wild kisses on them, and pressed

them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain.

"You must go now, dear."

"Good night, Luba."

"Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me, Sashenka."

I felt her detaining lips, as I left.

* * * * *

In the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex grows more and more

insistent. Scenes from the past live in my thoughts; the cell is

peopled with familiar faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated

before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul, and move

with intense reality, like the portraits of my sires come to life in the

dark, fearful nights of my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her

window across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely, with

modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily, in thinly disguised

voices. Again I am with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their

way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and

confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to the peep-holes we had cut

in the booth. Inwardly I resent Nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in

revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of

the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. But I grow indignant at

Vainka who badgers the girls with "Tsiba,[42] tsiba, ba-aa!" and I

soundly thrash Kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the school yard

at little Nunya, whom I secretly adore.

[42] Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls.

* * * * *

But the note of later days returns again and again, and the scenes of

youth recede into their dim frames. Clearer and more frequently appear

Sonya and Luba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in America.

What a goose she was! She would not embrace me, because it's a great

sin, unless one is married. But how slyly she managed to arrange kissing

games at the Sunday gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! She

must be quite a woman now, with a husband, children ... Quickly she

flits by, the recollection even of her name lost in the glow of

Anarchist emotionalism and the fervent enthusiasm of my Orchard Street

days. There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my

Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating

idealism. It sheds the halo of illuminating justification upon my

blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit

mountains. The sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes a new

aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those first years in America!... And

still Time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World,

its joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewildered by the

flurry of Castle Garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my

fate in freedom. The Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated

Cossacks is past. How inspiring is liberty! The very air breathes

enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace the new

life. I join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full

manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my

adopted country on the part of my family abroad,--resent it hotly. I

feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected

name by turning "a low, dirty workingman." I combat their snobbishness

vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison

between the Old and the New World. Behold the glory of liberty and

prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor!... The loom of

Time keeps weaving. Lone and friendless, I struggle in the new land.

Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. There is

no "dignity of labor." Sweatshop bread is bitter. Oppression guards the

golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success.

Then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of the Ideal.

Strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of Revolution. Like a flash in

the night, it illumines my groping. My life becomes full of new meaning

and interest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipation.

Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new

humanity.

* * * * *

It is all far, far--yet every detail is sharply etched upon my memory.

Swiftly pass before me the years of complete consecration to the

movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of

agitation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited

debate, the nights of diligent study. And over all loom the Fridays in

the little dingy hall in the Ghetto, where the handful of Russian

refugees gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against the

tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged words prophesy the

near approach of a glorious Dawn. Beshawled women, and men, long-coated

and piously bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and

listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange Jewish,

so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. How

our hearts rejoice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage

the diffident questioner, "Do you really mean--may the good Lord forgive

me--there is no one in heaven above?"... Late in the evening the meeting

resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's

utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to "the corner." The

obscure little tea room resounds with the joust of learning and wit.

Fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul, as the

passage-at-arms grows more heated with the advance of the night. The

alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions,

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, s-sh! The police station is just across the

street." There is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at

each other, and in the interim the Austrian Student in his mellow voice

begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, apropos of

nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. With sparkling

eyes he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us

through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the Caucasus, to engage

in the blood-feuds of the Tcherkessi; or, enmeshed in a perilous

flirtation with an Albanian beauty in a Moslem harem, he descants on the

philosophy of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the Nile to

hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures

by introducing an acquaintance of the evening, "My excellent friend, the

coming great Italian virtuoso, from Odessa, gentlemen. He will entertain

us with an aria from _Trovatore_." But the circle is not in a musical

mood: some one challenges the Student's familiarity with the Moslem

philosophy, and the Twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the Austrian

with Christian missionaries. There are protestations, and loud clamor

for an explanation. The Student smilingly assents, and presently he is

launched upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan,

trading tea at Yachta, and aiding a political to escape to

Vladivostok.... The night pales before the waking sun, the Twin yawns,

and I am drowsy with--

"Cof-fee! Want coffee? Hey, git up there! Didn't you hear th' bell?"

CHAPTER XVI

THE WARDEN'S THREAT

I

The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line

undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the

gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate

ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house.

"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it.

The screw's goin' t' frisk[43] me."

[43] Search.

Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in

front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men.

"Break ranks!"

The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk."

The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in.

"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly.

"I don't understand you."

"Yes, you do. Have you money on you?"

"I have not."

"Who sends clandestine mail for you?"

"What mail?"

"The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in New York."

I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed through official

channels.

"It went through the Chaplain's hands," I reply, boldly.

"It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass Mr. Milligan. Mr.

Cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch the newspaper from my desk."

The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "Here it is!

You talk of revolution, and comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never

saw _that_, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say that you

are editing--from the prison, mind you--editing an Anarchist sheet in

New York."

"You can't believe everything the papers say." I protest.

"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the Deputy interposes.

"They surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth."

"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that I tried to jump over

the wall--it's about thirty feet high--and that the guard shot me in the

leg?"

A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out:

"Was the story inspired, perhaps?"

"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to speak, unless addressed,

remember. Mr. McPane, please search him."

The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my

arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every

spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The loathsome

touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security: I have

nothing incriminating about me.

Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket.

"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round object. "A knife, Captain."

"Let me see!" I cry in amazement.

"Stand back!" the Warden commands. "This knife has been stolen from the

shoe shop. On whom did you mean to use it?"

"Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow dropped it into my pocket

as we--"

"That'll do. You're not so clever as you think."

"It's a conspiracy!" I cry.

He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes.

"Well, what have you got to say?"

"It's a put-up job."

"Explain yourself."

"Some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming--"

"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy."

"You searched me for money and secret letters--"

"That will do now. Mr. McPane, what is the sentence for the possession

of a dangerous weapon?"

"Warden," I interrupt, "it's no weapon. The blade is only half an inch,

and--"

"Silence! I spoke to Mr. McPane."

"Hm, three days, Captain."

"Take him down."

* * * * *

In the storeroom I am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad

in the hateful stripes. Coatless and shoeless, I am led through hallways

and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the

dungeon.

* * * * *

Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable,--I feel its hand

upon my head, my face. I dare not move, lest a misstep thrust me into

the abyss. I hold my hand close to my eyes--I feel the touch of my

lashes upon it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one

spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is sinister; it

seems to me I can hear it. Only now and then the hasty scrambling of

nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible

river rats haunts the fearful solitude.

Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts; out of the sombre gray, a

wall looms above; the silhouette of a door rises dimly before me,

sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable.

The hours drag in unbroken sameness. Not a sound reaches me from the

cell-house. In the maddening quiet and darkness I am bereft of all

consciousness of time, save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys

apprises me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the silent

guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. The double doors

fall heavily to, the steps grow fainter and die in the distance, and all

is dark again in the dungeon.

The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The floor is cold and clammy,

the gnawing grows louder and nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the

starving rats attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments

leaning against the door; and then again I pace the cell, striving to

keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound

of a human voice.

Utterly forsaken! Cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the

world of man receding, leaving no trace behind.... Eagerly I strain my

ear--only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. I clutch the bars in

desperation--a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands tear

violently at the door--"Ho, there! Any one here?" All is silent.

Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread

and despair. Fear shapes convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest,

then calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid succession

of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my slumbering consciousness.

Exhausted and weary I droop against the wall. A slimy creeping on my

face startles me in horror, and again I pace the cell. I feel cold and

hungry. Am I forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more. Have they

forgotten me?...

* * * * *

The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. My tomb will

open--oh, to see the light, and breathe the air again....

"Officer, isn't my time up yet?"

"What's your hurry? You've only been here one day."

The doors fall to. Ravenously I devour the bread, so small and thin,

just a bite. Only _one_ day! Despair enfolds me like a pall. Faint with

anguish, I sink to the floor.

II

The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable

transformation. The sight of the human form fills me with delight, the

sound of voices is sweet music. I feel as if I had been torn from the

grip of death when all hope had fled me,--caught on the very brink, as

it were, and restored to the world of the living. How bright the sun,

how balmy the air! In keen sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The

tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to

rest, secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin. It is

almost liberty, freedom!

But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes throb with pain;

every joint of my body is on the rack. The blankets had been removed

from the dungeon; three days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was

unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended anxiety

lest I commit suicide with them. It is very touching, this solicitude

for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden

motive must be actuating the Warden. But what can it be? Probably they

will not keep me long in the cell. When I am returned to work, I shall

learn the truth.

* * * * *

The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous confinement is

becoming distressing. I miss the little comforts I have lost by the

removal to the "single" cell, considerably smaller than my previous

quarters. My library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so

patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The cell is bare

and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed rules affording no relief

from the irritating whitewash. The narrow space makes exercise

difficult: the necessity of turning at every second and third step

transforms walking into a series of contortions. But some means must be

devised to while away the time. I pace the floor, counting the seconds

required to make ten turns. I recollect having heard that five miles

constitutes a healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771

turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide the exercise

into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles.

Carefully I count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal

of the gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again.

The change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades.

I am apprehensive of the fate of the _Prison Blossoms_: strict

surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am

assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from

the officers' desk at the yard door. Watchful eyes are constantly upon

me; it is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. The rangeman

alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been warned

against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his position as trusty by

spying upon the inmates. I can expect no help from him; but perhaps the

coffee-boy may prove of service.

I am planning to approach the man, when I am informed that prisoners

from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. By means

of the waste pipe, I learn of the developments during my stay in the

dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient

rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagon-load of bad meat. The

stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing

uncomplimentary remarks about the food. The situation was aggravated by

an additional increase of the task. The knitters and loopers were on the

verge of rebellion. Twice within the month had the task been enlarged.

They sent to the Warden a request for a reduction; in reply came the

appalling order for a further increase. Then a score of men struck. They

remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand

for better food and less work was complied with. With the aid of

informers, the Warden conducted a quiet investigation. One by one the

refractory prisoners were forced to submit. By a process of elimination

the authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that

a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique

episode of a strike in the prison.

An air of mystery hangs about the guards. Repeatedly I attempt to engage

them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their

lips. I wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when

unexpectedly the cause is revealed.

III

It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tier.

I stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. The overseer glances at

me, then motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell.

"Officer," I call out, "you missed me."

"Smell the pot-pie, do you?"

"Where's my dinner?"

"You get none."

The odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked forward to every

second Sunday, reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten

sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now--I am humiliated

and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner.

Angrily I rap the cup across the door; again and again I strike the tin

against it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a sharp,

piercing clatter.

A guard hastens along. "Stop that damn racket," he commands. "What's the

matter with you?"

"I didn't get dinner."

"Yes, you did."

"I did not."

"Well, I s'pose you don't deserve it."

As he turns to leave, my can crashes against the door--one, two, three--

"What t'hell do you want, eh?"

"I want to see the Warden."

"You can't see 'im. You better keep quiet now."

"I demand to see the Warden. He is supposed to visit us every day. He

hasn't been around for weeks. I must see him now."

"If you don't shut up, I'll--"

The Captain of the Block approaches.

"What do you want, Berkman?"

"I want to see the Warden."

"Can't see him. It's Sunday."

"Captain," I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell,

"there is an excerpt here from the statutes of Pennsylvania, directing

the Warden to visit each prisoner every day--"

"Never mind, now," he interrupts. "What do you want to see the Warden

about?"

"I want to know why I got no dinner."

"Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays."

"What for?"

"That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you want to see him."

Presently the overseer returns, informing me in a confidential manner

that he has induced "his Nibs" to grant me an audience. Admitted to the

inner office, I find the Warden at the desk, his face flushed with

anger.

"You are reported for disturbing the peace," he shouts at me.

"There is also, hm, hm, another charge against him," the Deputy

interposes.

"Two charges," the Warden continues. "Disturbing the peace and making

demands. How dare you demand?" he roars. "Do you know where you are?"

"I wanted to see you."

"It is not a question of what you want or don't want. Understand that

clearly. You are to obey the rules implicitly."

"The rules direct you to visit--"

"Silence! What is your request?"

"I want to know why I am deprived of dinner."

"It is not, hm, for _you_ to know. It is enough, hm, hm, that _we_

know," the Deputy retorts.

"Mr. McPane," the Warden interposes, "I am going to speak plainly to

him. From this day on," he turns to me, "you are on 'Pennsylvania diet'

for four weeks. During that time no papers or books are permitted you.

It will give you leisure to think over your behavior. I have

investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am satisfied it was you who

instigated the trouble there. You shall not have another chance to

incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. But," he

pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you may as well

understand it now as later--your life is not worth the trouble you give

us. Mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at _your_ expense. For

the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your

pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the 'basket.'"

CHAPTER XVII

THE "BASKET" CELL

Four weeks of "Pennsylvania diet" have reduced me almost to a skeleton.

A slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole

meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace

of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I am conducted to the office,

to be examined by the physician and weighed. The whole week I look

forward to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. The sight

of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly smile on a

stealthily raised face as I pass through the hall, the strange blue of

the sky, the sweet-scented aroma of the April morning--how quickly it is

all over! But the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the

office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood aglow with renewed

life. For an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite

intoxication, and then--I am in the tomb again.

* * * * *

The torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant dusk is driving

me blind. Almost no light or air reaches me through the close wire

netting covering the barred door. The foul odor is stifling; it grips my

throat with deathly hold. The walls hem me in; daily they press closer

upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and I feel crushed in the

coffin of stone. From every point the whitewashed sides glare at me,

unyielding, inexorable, in confident assurance of their prey.

* * * * *

The darkness of despondency gathers day by day; the hand of despair

weighs heavier. At night the screeching of a crow across the river

ominously voices the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. The windows

in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. Bleak and desolate

wakes the day--another day, then another--

* * * * *

Weak and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further recedes the world of

the living. Still day follows night, and life is in the making, but I

have no part in the pain and travail. Like a spark from the glowing

furnace, flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness, I

have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. No sound reaches me

from the island prison where beats the fervent heart of the Girl, no ray

of hope falls across the bars of desolation. But on the threshold of

Nirvana life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out _to be_!

Persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and nerves my resolution. Were

I an ordinary prisoner, I should not care to suffer all these agonies.

To what purpose, with my impossible sentence? But my Anarchist ideals

and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire gloating over its

prey. No, I shall not disgrace the Cause, I shall not grieve my comrades

by weak surrender! I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by

threat or torture.

* * * * *

With difficulty I walk to the office for the weekly weighing. My step

falters as I approach the scales, and I sway dizzily. As through a mist

I see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body.

Somehow I reach the "basket," mildly wondering why I did not feel the

cold air. Perhaps they did not take me through the yard--Is it the Block

Captain's voice? "What did you say?"

"Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SOLITARY

I

Direct to Box A 7,

Allegheny City, Pa.,

March 25, 1894.

DEAR FEDYA:

This letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons I missed

mail-day last month. Prison life, too, has its ups and downs,

and just now I am on the down side. We are cautioned to refrain

from referring to local affairs; therefore I can tell you only

that I am in solitary, without work. I don't know how long I am

to be kept "locked up." It may be a month, or a year, I hope it

will not be the latter.

I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you

sent.... We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can

easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to the

last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the

living.... Blessed be the shades of Guttenberg! Hugo and Zola,

even Gogol and Turgenev, are in the library. It is like meeting

an old friend in a strange land to find our own Bazarov

discoursing--in English.... Page after page unfolds the

past--the solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again

I roam with Leather Stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow

with poor Oliver Twist. But the "Captain's Daughter" irritates

me, and Pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature

in the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Tarass

Bulba--is it our own Tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge

of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old hetman

storming maledictions against the hated Moslems--in long-winded

German periods! Exasperated and offended, I turn my back upon

the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of the

requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth. Posies

bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but the pains

of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul.... Science and

romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy--all come

trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the allowance

of only one book at a time limits my choice. The variety of

reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to

perfect my English. But some passage in the "Starry Heavens"

suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with

the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question

surges through my mind, What is the use of all this study and

learning? And then--but why harrow you with this tenor.

I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be

undone: the sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will be

mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you also are not bedded

on roses. And the poor Sailor?

My space is all.

ALEX.

II

The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links

through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer

heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my

face. On the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard has closed the

hall windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The

leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor of the

perspiration and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless, I toss on

the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the weight of many

inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bedtick. But the

Block Captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing

me to "shake it up a bit." I am fearful of repeating the experiment: the

clouds of dust almost strangled me; for days the cell remained hazy with

the powdered filth. Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will

open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my

cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give

me life this day.

And when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence

mounts its vigil, I may improve a favorable moment to exchange a

greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the

tier above me. Thrice his request for a "high gear" machine has been

refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table.

Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has

repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a

hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate

with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The

Warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original

high machine. But the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go

back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison

discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday

the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the Deputy, and

assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by

the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited

again before the Warden the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness

to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of

yielding enrages him. "I'll die before I give in," he told me.

From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn the sad story of his

young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him.

His father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for

damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow

destitute. Since the age of fourteen young Johnny had to support the

whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon,

associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling.

One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's

accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily

clad in stripes.

* * * * *

In vain I strive to absorb myself in the library book. The shoddy heroes

of Laura Jean wake no response in my heart; the superior beings of

Corelli, communing with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange

and unhuman. Here, in the cell above me, cries and moans the terrible

tragedy of Reality. What a monstrous thing it is that the whole power of

the commonwealth, all the machinery of government, is concentrated to

crush this unfortunate atom! Innocently guilty, too, the poor boy is.

Ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of

vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by a moment of weakness. Yet

his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint

reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy

of organized Society! The very foundation of its existence rests upon

the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and

justice. Every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the

semblance of truth; the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very

name. Political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry

gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant on the ruins of

manhood--such is the morality of civilization. And over the edifice of

this stupendous perversion the Law sits enthroned, and Religion weaves

the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong, and bids the

cowering helot intone, "Thy will be done!"

Devoutly Johnny goes to Church, and prays forgiveness for his "sins."

The prosecutor was "very hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole

perceives only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons

directly responsible for his long imprisonment. But greater minds have

failed fully to grasp the iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns,

even, seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep

sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. But "man's inhumanity to man" is

not the last word. The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the

savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted mankind into wolves and

sheep. In liberty and communism, none would have the will or the power

"to make countless thousands mourn." Verily, it is the system, rather

than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. My

prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the Midas-hand,

whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of Mammon.

Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement; with savage joy the shop

foreman cracks his whip, for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The

famished bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon

night, the men buried in "basket" and solitary,--what human hand would

turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like

fate, and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but an

intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with

the levers of Greed, guarded by the spawn of Hunger.

* * * * *

My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It is a Herculean task

to rouse Apathy to the sordidness of its misery. Yet if the People would

but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means

of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace Anarchy! Quick and

decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of

their despoilers. An hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and

superstition, and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world, and

the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a

regenerated humanity. Ah, if the world would but pause for one short

while, and understand, and become free!

Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical lore: only one instant

of righteousness, and Messiah would come upon earth. The beautiful

promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The

merciful God requires so little of us, I had often pondered. Why will we

not abstain from sin and evil, for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"?

For weeks I went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent Israel

refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening

the deliverance. Like a divine inspiration came the solution: at the

stroke of the noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and women of

the Jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer. For a single stroke

of time, all at once--behold the Messiah come! In agonizing perplexity I

gazed at my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly smile quivered

dismay into my thrilling heart! The children of Israel could not be

saved thus,--he spoke sadly. Nay, not even in the most circumspect

manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time

to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah will come, the good tutor

kindly consoled me. It had been promised. "But the hour hath not

arrived," he quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the

Deliverer."

With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new hope, the

revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken: it

hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery. Out of the

People's need, from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour

of redemption. Necessity, Necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur

numb Misery to effort, and waken the living dead. The process is

tortuously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried

by impatience. We must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers

for the great upheaval. The errors of the past are to be guarded

against: always has apparent victory been divested of its fruits, and

paralyzed into defeat, because the People were fettered by their respect

for property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by reliance

upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason

lighted in the darkness of men's minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the

midway clouds of defeat, and sight the glory of the Social Revolution,

and the beyond.

III

A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused sounds ring in my ears,

and beat upon my head. I wake in nameless dread. The cell-house is

raging with uproar: crash after crash booms through the hall; it

thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous

drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases.

In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still. Timidly I look

around. The cell is in darkness, and only a faint gas light flickers

unsteadily in the corridor. Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and

unearthly, bursting into wild laughter. And again the fearful thunder,

now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the

distance, then dying with a growl. And all is hushed again, and only the

unearthly laughter rings through the hall.

"Johnny, Johnny!" I call in alarm. "Johnny!"

"Th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the privy. "This is

Horsethief. Is that you, Aleck?"

"Yes. What _is_ it, Bob?"

"Some one breakin' up housekeepin'."

"Who?"

"Can't tell. May be Smithy."

"What Smithy, Bob?"

"Crazy Smith, on crank row. Look out now, they're comin'."

The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. Shadowlike, giant

figures glide past my cell. They walk inaudibly, felt-soled and

portentous, the long riot clubs rigid at their sides. Behind them

others, and then the Warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With

bated breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the

doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierce the night: there is the

rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling

body, and all is quiet. Noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge

shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards.

* * * * *

The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun glints a ray upon the

bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. A squad

of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the

floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones.

* * * * *

With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not dead. He will

recover, the rangeman assures me. The doctor bandaged the man's wounds,

and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon.

Little by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith has been

insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four

years ago. His "partner," Burns, has also become deranged through worry

over his sentence of twenty-five years. His madness assumed such

revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the

insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank row," the Warden insisting

that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape.

IV

The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in

the monotony of the solitary. Owing to the illness of Bob, communication

with my friends is almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the

hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying sameness. By

violent efforts of will I strangle the recurring thought of my long

sentence, and seek forgetfulness in reading. Volume after volume passes

through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the printed word. Page

by page I recite the history of the Holy Church, the lives of the

Fathers and the Saints, or read aloud, to hear a human voice, the

mythology of Greece and India, mingling with it, for the sake of

variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But in the midst of an

intricate passage in the "Unknowable," or in the heart of a difficult

mathematical problem, I suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing

familiar figures on the library slate: 22 x 12 = 264. What is this, I

wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious manner, to finish

the calculation:

264 x 30 = 7,920 days.

7,920 x 24 = 190,080 hours.

190,080 x 60 = 11,404,800 minutes.

11,404,800 x 60 = 684,288,000 seconds.

But the next moment I am aghast at the realization that my computation

allows only 30 days per month, whereas the year consists of 365,

sometimes even of 366 days. And again I repeat the process, multiplying

22 by 365, and am startled to find that I have almost 700,000,000

seconds to pass in the solitary. From the official calendar alongside of

the rules the cheering promise faces me, Good conduct shortens time. But

I have been repeatedly reported and punished--they will surely deprive

me of the commutation. With great care I figure out my allowance: one

month on the first year, one on the second; two on the third and fourth;

three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months'

"good time" on each succeeding year. I shall therefore have to serve

fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in

the workhouse. I have been here now two years. It still leaves me 14

years and 2 months, or more than 5,170 days. Appalled by the figures, I

pace the cell in agitation. It is hopeless! It is folly to expect to

survive such a sentence, especially in view of the Warden's persecution,

and the petty tyranny of the keepers.

Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of unforeseen developments

in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all

struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute

isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of illness and

suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp pang I observe the thinning

of my hair. The evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental

collapse, insanity.... I shudder at the terrible suggestion, and lash

myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangeman, and every

passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the Warden, the

guards, the judge, and that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and

merciless, thing--the world. In the moments of reacting calm I apply

myself to philosophy and science, determinedly, with the desperation

born of horror. But the dread ghost is ever before me; it follows me up

and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of "Crazy Smith" in

the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my

neighbor suddenly gone mad.

CHAPTER XIX

MEMORY-GUESTS

Often the Chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks words of encouragement.

I feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions

forbid the expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of

oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the

fawning convict. But I hope he feels my appreciation in the simple

"thank you." It is kind of him to lend me books from his private

library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing

paper. Correspondence with the Girl and the Twin, and the unfrequent

exchange of notes with my comrades, are the only links that still bind

me to the living. I feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial

incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the

other inmates. "Old Sammy," the rangeman, grown nervous with the

approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his

heart. All day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the

doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the

solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated recital of the "news,"

elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness.

He interrupts his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the "thieving

murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will

enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember

with towels and handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of

the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken heart, the boys have

not written a line in three years. He fears they have sold the little

farmhouse, and flown to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives

away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "I'll see, I'll see,"

and rejoices in being "alive and still good for a while," and then

abruptly changes the conversation, and relates minutely how "that poor,

crazy Dick" was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to

discover him, and to help the guards cut him down. And last week he was

present when the physician tried to revive "the little dago," and if the

doctor had only returned quicker from the theatre, poor Joe might have

been saved. He "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay; 'waitin'

for the doc,' they says. Hope they don't kill _me_ yet," he comments,

hobbling away.

* * * * *

The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction. Ever

stronger asserts itself the love of life; the will to be roots deeper.

But the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The

constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the _Blossoms_. The

eccentric Warden seems to have conceived a great fear of an Anarchist

conspiracy: special orders have been issued, placing the trio under

extraordinary surveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence,

yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us in a

manner excluding all possibility of communication. Apparently I am to be

continued in the solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the

South Wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery

in the North Block. The precious magazine is suspended, and only the

daring of the faithful "Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional

note.

Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle light, I pass the long

winter evenings. The prison day between 7 A. M. and 9 P. M. I divide

into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and

reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals and "cleaning up."

Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, borrowed from the Chaplain, I

absorb myself in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word,

studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. I find

moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through

all the vicissitudes of its existence, to its Latin or Greek source. In

the history of the corresponding epoch, I seek the people's joys and

tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word. Philology, with

the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and

comparative religion, through the mazes of metaphysics and warring

philosophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science.

Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the disciples of Socrates, flee

Athens with the persecuted Diagoras, "the Atheist," and listen in

ecstasy to the sweet-voiced lute of Arion; or with Suetonius I pass in

review the Twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the

triumph of the Eternal City. But on the very threshold of Cleopatra's

boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three

giant slaves with the command:

"A 7, hands up! Step out to be searched!"

* * * * *

For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. With difficulty I

force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the

past. The placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the

quagmire seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the

bitterness of death.

The release of "Old Sammy" stirs me to the very depths. Many prisoners

have come and gone during my stay; with some I merely touched hands as

they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my

existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid

optimism, has grown dear to me. He shared with me his hopes and fears,

divided his extra slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own

homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something has gone out of my

life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow

my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the

alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the promise of life

and joy and liberty. Like a horrible nightmare the sombre walls fade

away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden

menace, faint, yet ever-present and terrible. The sun glows brilliant in

the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odors

are everywhere about me. All the longing of my soul wells up with

violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself upon

the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss....

* * * * *

The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the dark. Silently lifts

the veil of time. The little New York flat rises before me. The Girl is

returning home, the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of

death. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her

saddened face. As on an open page, I read the suffering of her prison

experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... The joys and

sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again I live in the old

surroundings. The memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little

cafe at Sachs', projects clearly. The room is chilly in the November

dusk, as I return from work and secure my accustomed place. One by one

the old habitues drop in, and presently I am in a heated discussion with

two Russian refugees at the table opposite. The door opens, and a young

woman enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an

atmosphere of strength and vitality. I wonder who the newcomer may be.

Two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the

revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl is evidently a

stranger; I am quite sure I have never met her at our gatherings. I

motion to the passing proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question.

"You want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers. "I'll see, I'll

see."--Somehow I find myself at her table. Without constraint, we soon

converse like old acquaintances, and I learn that she left her home in

Rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is a

dressmaker, and hopes to find work in New York. I like her simple, frank

confidence; the "comrade" on her lips thrills me. She is one of us,

then. With a sense of pride in the movement, I enlarge upon the

activities of our circle. There are important meetings she ought to

attend, many people to meet; Hasselmann is conducting a course in

sociology; Schultze is giving splendid lectures. "Have you heard Most?"

I ask suddenly. "No? You must hear our Grand Old Man. He speaks

to-morrow; will you come with me?"--Eagerly I look forward to the next

evening, and hasten to the cafe. It is frosty outdoors as I walk the

narrow, dark streets in animated discussion with "Comrade Rochester."

The ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots crusted with

filth. As we cross Delancey Street, the girl slips and almost falls,

when I catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking

the curbstone. "You have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes

dancing vivaciously.... With great pride I introduce my new friend to

the _inteligentzia_ of the Ghetto, among the exiles of the colony. Ah,

the exaltation, the joy of being!... The whole history of revolutionary

Russia is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental Nihilism

and political view is harbored there. I see Hartman, surrounded by the

halo of conspirative mystery; at his side is the _velikorussian_, with

flowing beard and powerful frame, of the older generation of the

_narodovoiltzy_; and there is Schewitsch, big and broad of feature, the

typical _dvoryanin_ who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. The

line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony: Cahan is

among us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality;

Solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous; Miller,

poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named brother Brandes, looking

consumptive from his experience in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and

Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein--all are united in enthusiasm for the

common cause. Types from Turgenev and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski

and Nekrassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality,

individualized with varying shade and light. And other elements are in

the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of Tsardom.

Shapes in the making, still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition

and new environment. Who knows what shall be the amalgam, some day to be

recast by the master hand of a new Turgenev?...

* * * * *

Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past. With

infinite detail I live again through the years of the inspiring

friendship that held the Girl, the Twin, and myself in the closest bonds

of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest

and rich promise was life in those days, so far away, when after the

hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory I would hasten to the

little room in Suffolk Street! Small and narrow, with its diminutive

table and solitary chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured

into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's

weal. Only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety

chair. And if somebody else called, we would stand around the room,

filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm

consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing

the glorious Dawn.

* * * * *

The memory of the life "outside" intensifies the misery of the solitary.

I brood over the uselessness of my suffering. My mission in life

terminated with the _Attentat_. What good can my continued survival do?

My propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and

political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me

the duty of existence. And even if it were, the almost three years of my

imprisonment have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration, so

long as I remain constantly under lock and key, the subject of special

surveillance. Communication with Nold and Bauer, too, is daily growing

more difficult. My health is fast failing; I am barely able to walk.

What is the use of all this misery and torture? What is the use?...

In such moments, I stand on the brink of eternity. Is it sheer apathy

and languor that hold the weak thread of life, or nature's law and the

inherent spirit of resistance? Were I not in the enemy's power, I should

unhesitatingly cross the barrier. But as a pioneer of the Cause, I must

live and struggle. Yet life without activity or interest is

terrifying.... I long for sympathy and affection. With an aching heart I

remember my comrades and friends, and the Girl. More and more my mind

dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night with a passionate desire

for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning

fills me for the women I have known, as they pass in my mind's eye from

the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. With a

thrill I recall each bright look and tender accent. My heart beats

tumultuously as I meet little Nadya, on the way to school, pretending I

do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the

breeze, when I surprise her stealthily watching me. I adore her

secretly, but proudly decline my chum's offer to introduce me. How

foolish of me! But I know no timid shrinking as I wait, on a cold winter

evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross the yard; and how

unceremoniously I embrace her! She is not a _barishnya_; I need not mask

my feelings. And she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things

"not fit for a boy" of my age. But she kisses me again, and passion

wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand.... My Eldridge Street

platonic sweetheart stands before me, and I tingle with every sensual

emotion of my first years in New York.... Out of the New Haven days

rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with unutterable longing for the

unattained. And again I live through the experiences of the past,

passionately visualizing every detail with images that flatter my erotic

palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex.

CHAPTER XX

A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE

I

To K. & G.

Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The

coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put in his

place.

It's lucky the old Deputy died--he was determined to keep me in

solitary. In the absence of the Warden, Benny Greaves, the new

Deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. But he has

issued strict orders I should not be permitted to step into the

yard. I'll therefore still be under special surveillance, and I

shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with our

"Faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence.

Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out of

the cell!

M.

II

My position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact

with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of

sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it

are, successively, I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of the

cell-house. On the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are

labelled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries form parallelograms about each

double cell-row; bridged at the centre, they permit easy access to the

several ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty

cells, are contained within the outer stone building, and comprise the

North Block of the penitentiary. It connects with the South Wing by

means of the rotunda.

[Illustration: CELL RANGES--SOUTH BLOCK]

The bottom tiers A and K serve as "receiving" ranges. Here every new

arrival is temporarily "celled," before he is assigned to work and

transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges

are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and

solitary. The lower end of the two ranges is designated "bughouse row."

It contains the "cranks," among whom are classed inmates in different

stages of mental aberration.

My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and

assisting at feeding, enable me to become acquainted and to form

friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of "the

criminal." I resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to evolve

the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a

digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it "criminal type." Daily

association dispels the myth of the "species," and reveals the

individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers

coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear.

There is "Reddie" Butch, a rosy-cheeked young fellow of twenty-one, as

frank-spoken a boy as ever honored a striped suit. A jolly criminal is

Butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song. He was "just dying to

take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. But he couldn't afford it;

he earned only seven dollars per week, as butcher's boy. He always gave

his mother every penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because

he couldn't spend anything on her. "And I goes to work and swipes a rig,

and say, Aleck, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house, big-like.

In I goes. 'Put on your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you

the drive of your life.' And I did; you bet your sweet life, I did, ha,

ha, ha!" But when he returned the rig to its owner, Butch was arrested.

"'Just a prank, Your Honor,' I says to the Judge. And what d' you think,

Aleck? Thought I'd die when he said three years. I was foolish, of

course; but there's no use crying over spilt milk, ha, ha, ha! But you

know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar

you, eh? Well, I'll try hard to forget th' minx. She's a sweet girl,

though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!"

* * * * *

And there is Young Rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the

great American physician. The delicate features, radiant with

spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to Shelley; the limping gait

recalls the tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder! He sits at the door,

an open book in his hands,--the page is moist with the tears silently

trickling down his face. He smiles at my approach, and his expressive

eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking

through the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a Summer night: the skiff

suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"--he points to the

river,--"near McKees Rocks." He was dragged out, unconscious. They told

him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer! He reaches for the

photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs.

* * * * *

Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell with

deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange

a greeting, with the prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie. How he

cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he was! In gentler

tones I speak to the unfortunates, and encourage the new arrivals, or

indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of

the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my

wake. Taking advantage of the old Block Captain's "cold in the head," I

cautiously hint at the danger of germs lurking in the dust-laden

atmosphere. "A little wet sawdust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you

wouldn't catch colds so often." A capital idea, he thinks, and

thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell.

In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary. Every trifle means so

much. "Long Joe," the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their

needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. The poor fellow is serving

twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "Wild Bill" and "Bighead"

Wilson. They are constantly demanding to see the Warden. It is

remarkable that they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in fear

of them. "Wild Bill" is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar

rumors concerning his intimacy with the Warden. Recently Bill complained

of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him.

"From the Warden's table," he remarked, with a sly wink. And Wilson is

jocularly referred to as "the Deputy," even by the officers. He is still

in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new

Deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards, and issues

orders. He is the Warden's "runner," clad with the authority of his

master. The prisoners regard Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially

hate them; but none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed by

"Deputy" Wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity between the two on

account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried

by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is

indifferent to the unfortunates in the cells. Butch is devoured by

bedbugs, and "Praying" Andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. The

simple-minded life-timer is being neglected: he has not yet recovered

from the assault by Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer.

I urge the rangeman to report to the Captain the need of "bedbugging"

Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with a new mattress, and of notifying

the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries.

III

Breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and march to the shops.

Broom in hand, rangemen and assistants step upon the galleries, and

commence to sweep the floors. Officers pass along the tiers, closely

scrutinizing each cell. Now and then they pause, facing a "delinquent."

They note his number, unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the "sick

line" on the ground floor.

One by one the men augment the row; they walk slowly, bent and coughing,

painfully limping down the steep flights. From every range they come;

the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a

tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. All look withered and

dejected,--a ghastly line, palsied and blear-eyed, blanched in the

valley of death.

The rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by

Deputy Warden Greaves and Assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a

prisoner, dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. Dr. Boyce

glances at the long line, and knits his brow. He looks at his watch, and

the frown deepens. He has much to do. Since the death of the senior

doctor, the young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison. He

must make the rounds of the shops before noon, and visit the patients

in the hospital before the Warden or the Deputy drops in.

Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. The

Assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick

line. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the

Deputy. The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances.

"Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out.

A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is

tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. He

speaks in a hoarse voice:

"Doctor, there is something the matter with my side. I have pains, and I

cough bad at night, and in the morning--"

"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his

notebook. "Give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant.

"Next!" the Deputy calls.

"Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick

prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice.

The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy. The latter cries,

impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick

succession, with the knuckles of his hand.

"Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner.

"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the

direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the

foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered

with bulging tumors.

"Number?" the doctor inquires.

"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head

thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco.

"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says

hoarsely.

"Salts. Return to work. Next!"

"A one-twenty-six!"

A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully

from the line.

"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid--"

"What's the trouble?"

"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I--"

"Give him a plaster. Next!"

"Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing

livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a quick motion he pulls his shirt

up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous

plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "Damn yer plasters," he cries

with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters. I'm putty near

dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me."

The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda.

* * * * *

One by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor. He stands, head bent,

penciling, rarely glancing up. The elongated ascetic face wears a

preoccupied look; he drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "Next!

Numb'r? Salts! Plaster! Salts! Next!" Occasionally he glances at his

watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere

face grows more severe and rigid. Now and then he turns his eyes upon

the Deputy Warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a

thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking

the gray beard. Cheeks protruding, mouth full of juice, the Deputy

mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "Next!"

and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician to

order the man to work. Only the withered and the lame are temporarily

excused, the Deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to

the doctor.

Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing,

wheezing, and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning.

Quite often, breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task, the

men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to receive a respite

from the killing toil,--a short intermission, or a happier, eternal

reprieve.

The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are

sent back to their quarters, and locked up for the day. Only these, the

permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the

sweepers, remain within the inner walls during working hours. The pall

of silence descends upon the House of Death.

IV

The guards creep stealthily along the tiers. Officer George Dean, lank

and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance,

his evil-looking eyes peering through the bars, scrutinizing every

inmate. Suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "Hey, you, Eleven-thirty-nine! On

the bed again! Wha-at? Sick, hell! No dinner!" Noisily he pretends to

return to the desk "in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell

door, and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed murmur

proceeds from the upper galleries. Cautiously the guard advances,

hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps

into the center of the hall, shouting: "Cells forty-seven K, I, H!

Talking through the pipe! Got you this time, all right." He grins

broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to the Block Captain. The

guards ascend the galleries. Levers are pulled, doors opened with a

bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. For days their

cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon.

* * * * *

Gaunt and cadaverous, Guard Hughes makes the rounds of the tiers, on a

tour of inspection. With bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes

intently through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely he walks

along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a picture off the wall,

there gathering a few scraps of paper. As I pass along the hall, he

slams a door on the range above, and appears upon the gallery. His

pockets bulge with confiscated goods. He glances around, as the Deputy

enters from the yard. "Hey, Jasper!" the guard calls. The colored trusty

scampers up the stairs. "Take this to the front." The officer hands him

a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of

cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by

sitting in the dark for weeks. "Show 't to the Deputy," the officer

says, in an undertone. "I'm doing business, all right!" The trusty

laughs boisterously, "Yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am."

The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front.

The Deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. The officer casts

his eye about the cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers.

A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. On the bed

are some bananas and a bunch of grapes,--forbidden fruit. The guard

steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches

for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. It bears the

legend, painted in black, A 480. On the reverse side the officer reads,

"Collins Hamilton, dated----." His watery eyes strain to decipher the

penciled marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "Jasper!" he calls,

"come up here." The trusty hastens to him.

"You know who this man is, Jasper? A four-eighty."

"Ah sure knows. Dat am Hamilton, de bank 'bezleh."

"Where's he working?"

"Wat _he_ wan' teh work foh? He am de Cap'n's clerk. In de awfice, _he_

am."

"All right, Jasper." The guard carefully closes the clerk's door, and

enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean and orderly. The stone floor

is bare, the bedding smooth; the library book, tin can, and plate, are

neatly arranged on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the

blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of

secreted contraband. He reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and

takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco,--the weekly allowance of the

prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up, and

thrusts it into his mouth. He produces a prison "plug" from his pocket,

bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks

at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the

corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. He surveys the field,

leans over the railing, and squints at the front. The chairs at the

officers' desk are vacant. The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and

stretches, and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock. He

picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the

book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew, and

sprawls down on the bed.

V

At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and Assistant Deputy

Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb physique and glowing vitality, Mr.

Woods wears his new honors as Captain of the Block with aggressive

self-importance. He has recently been promoted from the shop to the

charge of the North Wing, on the morning shift, from 5 A. M. to 1 P. M.

Every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the

hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the opposite

cell-row.

With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the

Assistant Deputy, in measured, low tones. The latter listens gravely,

his head slightly bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the

heavy-rimmed spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered,

rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he espies the shining face of

Jasper on an upper gallery. The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a

large apple from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks:

"How does this strike you, Jasper?"

"Looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, Cunnel."

Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins laughs, and motions to the

negro. The trusty joins them at the desk.

"I'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in two bites," the

Assistant Deputy says to Woods.

"Hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully.

"You don't know this darky, Scot," Hopkins rejoins. "I know him for the

last--let me see--fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. That's when you first

came here, eh, Jasper?"

"Yassah, 'bout dat."

"In the old prison, then?" Woods inquires.

"Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when 'Shoe-box' Miller got out,

wasn't you?"

"Yo 'member good, Cunnel. Dat Ah was, sure 'nuf. En mighty slick it

was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed in dat shoebox, en mek his

get-away."

"Yes, yes. And this is your fourth time since then, I believe."

"No, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, Cunnel. Youh remnishent am bad. Dis

jus' free times, jus' free."

"Come off, it's four."

"Free, Cunnel, no moah."

"Do you think, Mr. Hopkins, Jasper could eat the apple in two bites?"

Woods reminds him.

"I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line this coon couldn't

do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple if you make it in two bites. Don't

disgrace me, now."

The negro grins, "Putty big, Cunnel, but Ah'm a gwine teh try powful

hard."

With a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his face looks like a

veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear, and edged by large,

shimmering tusks. With both hands he inserts the big apple, and his

sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. He chews quickly, swallows,

repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands. The apple has

disappeared.

The Assistant Deputy roars with laughter. "What did I tell you, eh,

Scot? What did I tell you, ho, ho, ho!" The tears glisten in his eye.

* * * * *

They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. He relates his

experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. Now

and then Deputy Warden Greaves drops in. Woods rises.

"Have a seat, Mr. Greaves."

"That's all right, that's all right, Scot," the Deputy mumbles, his eye

searching for the cuspidor. "Sit down, Scot: I'm as young as any of

you."

With mincing step he walks into the first cell, reserved for the

guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps,

wabbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into Woods's seat.

"Jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty.

"Yassah. Scrap, Dep'ty?"

"Yah. A nip of plug, too."

"Yassah, yassah, immejitly."

"What are you men doing here?" the Deputy blusters at the two

subordinates.

Woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the Deputy, and then

relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant Hopkins looks sternly at the

Deputy Warden from above his glasses. "That's all right, Greaves," he

says, familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Say, you should have

seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great, big apple in two bites; as big

as your head, I'll swear."

"That sho?" the Deputy nods sleepily.

The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in

the other. The Deputy slowly opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the

cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling

at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his

mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands, hoarsely:

"Where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?"

"Just being cleaned, Mr. Greaves," Woods replies.

"Cleaned, always th' shame shtory. I ordered--ya--ordered--hey, bring

shpittoon, Jasper." He wags his head drowsily.

"He means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload," Hopkins says, with a

wink at Woods. "It was the very first order he gave when he became

Deputy after Jimmie McPane died. I tell you, Scot, we won't see soon

another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all right, every inch of

him. Wouldn't stand for the old man, the Warden, interfering with him,

either. Not like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring

Greaves. "Here, Benny," he raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the

knee, "here's Jasper with your spittoon."

Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about; presently,

noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor, and spurts a long jet at

it.

"Say, Jasper," Hopkins calls to the retiring negro, "the deputy wants to

hear that story you told us a while ago, about you got the left hind

foot of a she-rabbit, on a moonlit night in a graveyard."

"Who shaid I want to hear 't?" the Deputy bristles, suddenly wide awake.

"Yes, you do, Greaves," Hopkins asserts. "The rabbit foot brings good

luck, you know. This coon here wears it on his neck. Show it to the

Deputy, Jasper."

* * * * *

Prisoner Wilson, the Warden's favorite messenger, enters from the yard.

With quick, energetic step he passes the officers at the desk, entirely

ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his

unnaturally large head set close upon the heavy, almost neckless

shoulders.

"Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after?" the Deputy shouts after him.

Without replying, Wilson continues on his way.

"Dep'ty Wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy.

Assistant Deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. "Wilson," he calls with

quiet sternness, "Mr. Greaves is speaking to you. Come back at once."

His face purple with anger, Wilson retraces his steps. "What do you

want, Deputy?" he demands, savagely.

The Deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the

severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently: "What do you want in the

block?"

"On Captain Edward S. Wright's business," Wilson replies with a sneer.

"Well, go ahead. But next time I call you, you better come back."

"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detained me

with an idle question," Wilson snarls back.

"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him.

"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he departs.

"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off," the Assistant mutters.

"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," Woods comments.

"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the Deputy says meekly.

Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping

the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly

to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to

the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side, and

scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall, in

melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the

centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods

resumes his seat.

"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction.

"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles. "Doing well."

A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The officers prick up

their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty

tiptoes up the tiers.

"It's somebody with his spoon on the door," the Assistant Deputy

remarks, indifferently.

The Block Captain motions to me. "See who's rapping there, will you?"

I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to the wall, I can see

up to the doors of the third gallery. Here and there a nose protrudes in

the air, the bleached face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. The

rapping grows louder as I advance.

"Who is it?" I call.

"Up here, 18 C."

"Is that you, Ed?"

"Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell th' screw I must see the doctor."

I run to the desk. "Mr. Woods," I report, "18 C got a hemorrhage. Can't

stop it. He needs the doctor."

"Let him wait," the Deputy growls.

"Doctor hour is over. He should have reported in the morning," the

Assistant Deputy flares up.

"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask.

"Nothing! Get back to your cell."

"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot," the Deputy suggests.

Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18 C, and

returns.

"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in

the morning."

* * * * *

A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner,

enters from the yard. It is the "French Count," one of the clerks in the

"front office."

"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. He leans familiarly

over the Deputy's chair, remarking: "I've been hunting half an hour for

you. The Captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you."

The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he asks anxiously.

"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about?"

"What? Quick, now."

"They caught Wild Bill right in the act. Out in the yard there, back of

the shed."

The Deputy stumps heavily out into the yard.

"Who's the kid?" the Assistant Deputy inquires, an amused twinkle in his

eye.

"Bobby."

"Who? That boy on the whitewash gang?"

"Yes, Fatty Bobby."

* * * * *

The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. The sick man is

striking his tin can on the bars, and shaking the door. Woods hastens to

C 18.

"You stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily.

"I'm sick. I want th' doctor."

"This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning."

"I may be dead in the morning. I want him now."

"You won't see him, that's all. You keep quiet there."

Furiously the prisoner raps on the door. The hall reverberates with

hollow booming.

The Block Captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. He whispers to

the Assistant Deputy. The latter nods his head. Woods claps his hands,

deliberately, slowly--one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend from the

galleries, and advance to the desk. The rangemen appear at their doors.

"Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock 'em in!" Woods commands.

"You can stay here, Jasper," the Assistant Deputy remarks to the trusty.

The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are pulled, the doors

locked. I hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. Now they

cease, and all is quiet.

"C 18, step out here!"

The door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull,

heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud cry and a moan. They drag the

prisoner along the range, and down the stairway. The rotunda door

creaks, and the clamor dies away.

A few minutes elapse in silence. Now some one whispers through the

pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow. Loud coughing drowns the noises,

and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech.

The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open door of my cell. The

negro trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arms

covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall.

Their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll in the chairs, and

sit on the desk. They look somewhat ruffled and flustered. Jasper

enlarges upon the piquant gossip. "Wild Bill," notorious invert and

protege of the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from

the stocking shop; he has been after "Fatty Bobby" for quite a while,

and he's forever pestering "Lady Sally," and Young Davis, too. The

guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions. He

responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. There is

merriment and laughter at the officers' desk.

VI

Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen

squad, enters the cell-house. Behind him, a score of prisoners carry

large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. The negro trusty, his

nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces

with a grin: "Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!"

The scene becomes animated at the front. Tables are noisily moved about,

the tinplate rattles, and men talk and shout. With a large ladle the

soup is dished out from the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked

up in long rows. The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters some orders

that remain ignored, and looks critically at the dinner pans. He

produces a pocket knife, and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato

here, a bit of floating vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of

the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. He

hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to leave. The latter stands, hands

dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time

with the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the kitchen men, and

slinks into an open cell. The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move

the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup,

and passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by

Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer walks to the open cell

and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering

his face. Woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle.

* * * * *

"Chief Jim," the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloonkeeper serving twelve

years for murder, promenades down the range. Large-bellied and

whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. With

swelling chest, stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty

apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging

greetings. He pauses at a door: it's Cell 9 A,--the "Fat Kid." Jim leans

against the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand

steals between the bars. Now and then he glances toward the front, and

steps closer to the door. He draws a large bundle from his bosom,

hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw

onions, some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the young

prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. He

lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork;

then he smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars with

both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche.

As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then

pauses at another cell. Standing away from the door, he speaks loudly

and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he

leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the rangeman,

lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks. The man nods affirmatively,

and retreats into his cell. The Chief dives into the bosom of his shirt,

and flings a bundle through the open door. He holds out his hand,

whispering: "Two bits. Broke now? Be sure you pay me to-morrow. That

steak there's worth a plunk."

* * * * *

The gong tolls the dinner hour. The negro trusty snatches two pans, and

hastens away. The guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in

solitary who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms in

single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the

men circle the block to the centre, ascend the galleries, and are locked

in their cells.

The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step, sounds from the yard.

The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells.

Some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. There is

much suppressed murmuring and whispering.

Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour. Every prisoner is

counted and locked in. Only the trusties are about.

VII

The afternoon brings a breath of relief. "Old Jimmie" Mitchell,

rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers, on duty from

1 till 9 P. M. The venerable Captain of the Block trudges past the

cells, stroking his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the

men. But the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing, and

discourages trouble-seeking guards.

Head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall, on his first round of

the bottom ranges. Presently a voice hails him: "Oh, Mr. Mitchell! Come

here, please."

"Damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't you know better than

to bother me when I'm counting, eh? Shut up now, God damn you. You've

mixed me all up."

He returns to the front, and begins to count again, pointing his finger

at each occupied cell. This duty over, and his report filed, he returns

to the offending prisoner.

"What t' hell do you want, Butch?"

"Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. I am walking on my socks."

"Where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow? To a ball?"

"Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth coaxes.

"Go an' take a--thump to yourself, will you?"

The officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short

distance from the cell, to hear Butch mumbling discontentedly. The Block

Captain retraces his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him:

"What did you say? 'Damn the old skunk!' that's what you said, eh? You

come on out of there!"

With much show of violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the

door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard:

"Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im--er--give 'im a

pair of shoes."

He starts down the range, when some one calls from an upper tier:

"Jimmy, Jimmy! Come on up here!"

"I'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man bellows, angrily,

"Where th' hell are you?"

"Here, on B, 20 B. Right over you."

The officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward the second

gallery.

"What in th' name of Jesus Christ do you want, Slim?"

"Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp mixture, Jim."

"Cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you big bum you. Where the

hell did you get your cramp mixture, when you was spilling around in a

freight car, eh?"

"I got booze then," the prisoner retorts.

"Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get a louzy hand-out at the

back door, you ornery pimple on God's good earth."

"Th' hell you say! The hand-out was a damn sight better'n th' rotten

slush I get here. I wouldn't have a belly-ache, if it wasn't for th'

hogwash they gave us to-day."

"Lay down now! You talk like a horse's rosette."

It's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich vocabulary of

picturesque metaphor and simile. But there is no sting in the brusque

speech, no rancor in the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses

to whisper to the block trusty:

"John, you better run down to the dispensary, an' get that big stiff

some cramp mixture."

Happening to glance into a cell, Mitchell notices a new arrival, a

bald-headed man, his back against the door, reading.

"Hey you!" the Block Captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner

off his chair, "take that bald thing out of there, or I'll run you in

for indecent exposure."

He chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased with a naughty

prank, and ascends the upper tiers.

* * * * *

Duster in hand, I walk along the range. The guards are engaged on the

galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded

inmates to the South Wing, or chatting with the trusties. The chairs at

the officers' desk are vacant. Keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors,

I walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in

conversation. Johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and

then glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by sharply

snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger. I ply the duster diligently,

while the Deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the

trusties imparting information gathered during the day. Gradually they

disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress, or nosing

about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. The "coast is clear,"

and I return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation.

But the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted. The oft-repeated

tirade against the "rotten grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash";

vehement cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of a

Warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the exchange of gossip,

and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. Within the

narrow circle runs the interminable tale, colored by individual

temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is

dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment,

often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider

responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor,

the informer, the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge.

But as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty

rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and

irrepressible sex desire.

CHAPTER XXI

THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL

The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in

their eyes. The long-timers among them seem dazed, as if with some

terrible shock, and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys

from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and

moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only the "repeaters" and

old-timers preserve their composure, scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at

old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But

all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, leaning

against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious

expectancy on their faces. They yearn for companionship, and are

pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom

their heavy hearts.

I am minutely familiar with every detail of their "case," their

life-history, their hopes and fears. Through the endless weeks and

months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of

conversation. A glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against

the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me,--the cell-house

grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more depressing.

There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as I

pause at his door. "Hello, Alick," he greets me in his sweet, sad voice.

He knows me from the jail. His father and elder brother have been

executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. He is barely

eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He has been acting queerly of

late: at night I often hear him muttering and walking, walking

incessantly and muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes,

restless, roving.

"Alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you sometink. You no tell

nobody, yes?"

Assured I'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk quickly, excitedly:

"Nobody dere, Alick? No scroo? S-sh! Lassa night me see ma broder. Yes,

see Gianni. Jesu Cristo, me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den

me fader he come. Broder and fader day stay der, on da floor, an so

quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa in ma bed. Oh, Jesu

Christo, me so fraida, me cry an' pray. You not know wat it mean?

No-o-o? Me tell you. It mean me die, me die soon."

His eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on his face. He knits

his brows, as I essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly:

"S-sh! Waita till me tell you all. You know watta for ma fader an'

Gianni come outa da grave? Me tell you. Dey calla for ravange, 'cause

dey innocente. Me tell you trut. See, we all worka in da mine, da coal

mine, me an' my fader an' Gianni. All worka hard an' mek one dollar,

maybe dollar quater da day. An' bigga American man, him come an' boder

ma fader. Ma fader him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody.

An' da American man him maka two dollars an mebbe two fifty da day an'

him boder my fader, all da time, boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an'

steal ma broder's shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma

countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' An' one day him an' two Arish

dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an' American man an Arish holler,

'Dago s---- b---- fraida fight,' an' da American man him take a bigga

pickax an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me an' ma

broder an' friend we fight, an' American man him fall, an' we all go way

home. Den p'lice come an' arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we

killa American man. Me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma friend do.

Me no know; him no arresta; him go home in Italia. Ma fader an' broder

dey save nineda-sev'n dollar, an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer.

Him no good, an' no talk much in court. We poor men, no can take case in

oder court, an' fader him hang, an' Gianni hang, an' me get life. Ma

fader an' broder dey come lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente

an' wanna ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta--"

The sharp snapping of Johnny, the runner, warns me of danger, and I

hastily leave.

* * * * *

The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up and down the hall.

The blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or lean dejectedly

against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the

stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture I

witness in the prison house. Like ghastly nightmares, the shadows pass

before me. There is "Silent Nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never

ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he has not

left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid features are cut and

bleeding. Last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him,

and left him unconscious on the floor.

There is "Crazy Hunkie," the Austrian. Every morning, as the officer

unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for

the yard, shouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes toward the

front and desperately grabs the door handle. The double iron gate is

securely locked. A look of blank amazement on his face, he slowly

returns to the cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly

they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me wife, me seen her!" the

Austrian cries. The blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him

into the cell. "Me wife waiting in de yard," he moans.

In the next cell is Tommy Wellman; adjoining him, Jim Grant. They are

boys recently transferred from the reformatory. They cower in the

corner, in terror of the scene. With tearful eyes, they relate their

story. Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they had been sent to the

reform school at Morganza, for snatching fruit off a corner stand.

Maltreated and beaten, they sought to escape. Childishly they set fire

to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. "I says to me chum,

says I," Tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'Kid,' says I, 'let's fire de

louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our get-away in de'

'citement.'" They were taken to court and the good judge sentenced them

to five years to the penitentiary. "Glad to get out of dat dump," Tommy

comments; "it was jest fierce. Dey paddled an' starved us someting'

turrible."

In the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on the floor. It is

Lancaster, Number 8523. He was serving seven years, and working every

day in the mat shop. Slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for

hour of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged. He was kept

at his task, the Warden informing him that he had lost six months of his

"good time" for defective work. The light hearted negro grew sullen and

morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished

cry in the night, "My time's up, time's up. I want to go home." The

guards would take him from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One

morning, in a fit of frenzy, he attacked Captain McVey, the officer of

the shop. The Captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and

Lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. He

returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed

him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, "Going home, going

home." The Warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the

way coaching the poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "Do you

plead guilty?" He received seven years, the extreme penalty of the law,

for the "attempted murder of a keeper." They brought him back to the

prison, and locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered with

a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. He receives

no medical attention, and is fed on a bread-and-water diet.

The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching

with his nails fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly,

"Going, Jesus going to Jerusalem. See, he rides the holy ass; he's going

to his father's home. Going home, going home." As I pass he looks up,

perplexed wonder on his face; his brows meet in a painful attempt to

collect his wandering thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song,

"Going home, going home; Jesus going to father's home." The guards raise

their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell: the poor

imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair, and the floor. Twice a month

he is taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the hose is

turned on the crazy negro.

* * * * *

The cell of "Little Sammy" is vacant. He was Number 9521, a young man

from Altoona. I knew him quite well. He was a kind boy and a diligent

worker; but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. He

would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face,

neglecting food and work. These spells generally lasted two or three

days, Sammy refusing to leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPane, the dead

Deputy, on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop, while

Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPane would order the "stubborn kid" to

the dungeon, and every time Sammy got his "head workin'," he was

dragged, silent and motionless, to the cellar. The new Deputy has

followed the established practice, and last evening, at "music hour,"

while the men were scraping their instruments, "Little Sammy" was found

on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear.

At the Coroner's inquest the Warden testified that the boy was

considered mentally defective; that he was therefore excused from work,

and never punished.

* * * * *

Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on

the wall:

"The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge

with humanity and kindness. * * * The aim of all prison discipline is,

by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil and to protect the innocent

from further harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce a

cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of

his nature."

CHAPTER XXII

THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL

I

The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings

of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities.

The personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. I find their

average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates.

Especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective

service lack sympathy with the unfortunates in their charge. They are

mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual

drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their attitude toward

the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. They look upon

the men as will-less objects of iron-handed discipline, exact

unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory whims,

and harbor personal animosity toward the less pliant. The more

intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties, and crave

advancement. The authority and remuneration of a Deputy Wardenship is

alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the

vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded to the guard most feared by

the inmates, and most subservient to the Warden,--a direct incitement to

brutality, on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other.

A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil War; several among

them had suffered incarceration in Libby Prison. These often manifest a

more sympathetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however,

have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five

years; some even for a longer period, like Officer Stewart, who has been

a guard for forty years. This element is unspeakably callous and cruel.

The prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards, and

speculate on the days allotted them. The death of one of them is hailed

with joy: seldom they are discharged; still more seldom do they resign.

The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. New

guards--unless drafted from the police bureau--are almost without

exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates

vie with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate." It is a

point of honor in their unwritten ethics to "treat him white." They

frown upon the fellow-convict who seeks to take advantage of the "green

screw," by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the

prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new

blood. They strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the

dangers of the position, and depreciating its financial desirability for

an ambitious young man; they impress upon him the Warden's unfairness to

the guards, and the lack of opportunity for advancement. Often they

dissuade the new man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if

he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him, in

pretended friendliness, upon his leniency, chide him for a "soft-hearted

tenderfoot," and improve every opportunity to initiate him into the

practices of brutality. The system is known in the prison as "breaking

in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing squad," the

older officers setting the example of cruelty. Refusal to participate

signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine

duty, and results in immediate discharge. But such instances are

extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer, Mr. Stewart, it

happened only once, and the man was sickly.

Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. Within a short time

the prisoners notice the first signs of change: he grows less tolerant

and chummy, more irritated and distant. Presently he feels himself the

object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers. In

some mysterious manner, the Warden is aware of his every step, berating

him for speaking unduly long to this prisoner, or for giving another

half a banana,--the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of commiseration

and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful pleadings of misery to

carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. The latter

confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy

with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the Warden "on charges," and

is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated misplacement of confidence,

occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the Warden,

and the new officer grows embittered against the species "convict." The

instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side,

becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of

the "system."

II

Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing,

brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. Far removed from the

strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature

replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected

model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull

passivity. But beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being,

now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth

with the ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline rages

the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are

woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression.

Intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption, are rampant in

cell-house and shop. The prisoners spy upon each other, and in turn upon

the officers. The latter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret

doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other

in supplying information to the keepers. Often they deliberately

inveigle the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and

encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce

him to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished, usually

remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. The _provocateur_ is

rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. Frequently his

treachery proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the Warden's

official recommendation of the "model prisoner" to the State Board of

Pardons.

The stools and the trusties are an essential element in the government

of the prison. With rare exception, every officer has one or more on his

staff. They assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make

out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally they are even

called upon to help the "clubbing squad." The more intelligent stools

enjoy the confidence of the Deputy and his assistants, and thence

advance to the favor of the Warden. The latter places more reliance upon

his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "I have about a hundred paid

officers to keep watch over the prisoners," the Warden informs new

applicant, "and two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volunteers"

are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the

inferior officers. They invariably secure the sinecures of the prison,

involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. They are

"runners," "messengers," yard and office men.

Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to

influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers, and boodlers. These

are known in the institution as holding "political jobs." Together with

the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the pets."

* * * * *

The professional craftiness of the "con man" stands him in good stead in

the prison. A shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and

self-confident, he applies the practiced cunning of his vocation to

secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His

evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the guards; his

well-affected deference to authority flatters them. They are awed by his

wonderful facility of expression, and great attainments in the

mysterious world of baccarat and confidence games. At heart they envy

the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend him in his

need. The officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for

him, and surreptitiously favor him with delicacies and even money. His

game is won. The "con" has now secured the friendship and confidence of

his keepers, and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm

interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their

whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the Warden's

discrimination.

The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles. But

even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the

confidence man. His "business" has perfected his sense of orientation;

he quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents. He

frets at his imprisonment, and hints at high social connections. His

real identity is a great secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives

from public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays his college

education. With a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a

State Senator; he is the only black sheep in his family; yet they are

"good" to him, and will not disown him. But he must not bring notoriety

upon them.

Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trusties, or fearful

of punishment, the "con man" matures his campaign. He writes a note to a

fellow-prisoner. With much detail and thorough knowledge of prison

conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of the institution. In

elegant English he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance

and brutality of the guards, and charges the Warden and the Board of

Prison Inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. He

denounces the Warden as a stomach-robber of poor unfortunates: the

counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate;

the Federal Government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person.

Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate

food? he demands. Does not the State appropriate thousands of dollars

for the support of the penitentiary, besides the money received from the

counties?--With keen scalpel the "con man" dissects the anatomy of the

institution. One by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most

intimate knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and so many

dozen of stockings per day. They are not stamped "convict-made," as the

law requires. The labels attached are misleading, and calculated to

decoy the innocent buyer. The character of the product in the several

mat shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great State

of Pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. The broom shop is

leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang Brothers:

the law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. The stamp

"convict-made" on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the

source of manufacture.

Thus the "con man" runs on in his note. With much show of secrecy he

entrusts it to a notorious stool, for delivery to a friend. Soon the

writer is called before the Warden. In the latter's hands is the note.

The offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities are

terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the

secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent,

possibly well-connected man. He must be propitiated at all cost. The

"con man" joins the "politicians."

* * * * *

The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all

leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. The

"old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated experience, easily avoids hard

labor. He has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers,

and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. The officers are

glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. It brings

interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as

the prisoner's.

The seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on principle opposed to

toil, rarely works. Generally suffering a comparatively short sentence,

he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the

wear and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he scorns work

in general, prison labor in particular. He avoids it with unstinted

expense of energy and effort. As a last resort, he plays the "jigger"

card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every

appearance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened by

the infection, and prevails upon the physician to examine him. The

doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease.

"Ever had syphilis?" he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly.

"Perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests. The patient looks

diffident, blushes, cries, "No, never!" and assumes a guilty look. The

doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is

"excused" from work, indefinitely.

The wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the yard, and adapts

prison conditions to his habits of life. He sedulously courts the

friendship of some young inmate, and wins his admiration by "ghost

stories" of great daring and cunning. He puts the boy "next to de

ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the

guards and the advances of other prisoners. He guides the youth's steps

through the maze of conflicting rules, and finally initiates him into

the "higher wisdom" of "de road."

* * * * *

The path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. Even

before his arrival, the _esprit de corps_ of the "profession" is at

work, securing a soft berth for the expected friend. If noted for

success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the

admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience

and reputation. With conscious superiority he instructs them in the

finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble-fingered "touches," and

imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the

good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an "honest living."

His sentence nearing completion, the "gun" grows thoughtful, carefully

scans the papers, forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with

his "partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."[44] He is

gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands,

and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers,

generally successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit,"

"jollies" the officers and cajoles the Warden for new shoes, made to

measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten-dollar allowance to

prisoners received from counties outside of Allegheny[45]. He argues the

need of money "to leave the State." Often he does leave. More frequently

a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police,

and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously

notified by the prison authorities.

[44] Women thieves.

[45] Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the

County of Allegheny--in which the Western Penitentiary is

located--receive only five dollars.

* * * * *

The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders

direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in

sullen misery and dread. Day in, day out, year after year, they drudge

at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties idling

about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. From cell

to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their

days drag in deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive

contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the

officials. They are surprised at the new rule making attendance at

religious service obligatory; and again at the succeeding order (the

desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured) making

church-going optional. They are astonished at the sudden disappearance

of the considerate and gentle guard, Byers, and anxiously hope for his

return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand

methods of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal.

III

Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality.

Released from punishment, he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain

to the Warden of his unjust treatment. Weeks pass. At last the Captain

visits the shop. A propitious moment! The carefully trimmed beard frames

the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and

lending dignity to his appearance. His eyes brighten with peculiar

brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost

imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he passes through the

shop, the prisoner raises his hand. "What is it?" the Warden inquires, a

pleasant smile on his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous

eagerness. "Oh, well," the Captain claps him on the shoulder, "perhaps a

mistake; an unfortunate mistake. But, then, you might have done

something at another time, and not been punished." He laughs merrily at

his witticism. "It's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget it," and he

passes on.

But if the Captain is in a different mood, his features harden, the

stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear, sharp tones: "State your

grievance in writing, on the printed slip which the officer will give

you." The written complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches

the Chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the Warden's office. There the

Deputy and the Assistant Deputy read and classify the slips, placing

some on the Captain's file and throwing others into the waste basket,

according as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an

unfriendly brother officer. Months pass before the prisoner is called

for "a hearing." By that time he very likely has a more serious charge

against the guard, who now persecutes the "kicker." But the new

complaint has not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is

postponed. Not infrequently men are called for a hearing, who have been

discharged, or died since making the complaint.

The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from

the Warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest

authority in the penitentiary--the Board of Inspectors. These are

supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution,

visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. The complainant

waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience

with the Inspectors. But the latter remain invisible, some not visiting

the penitentiary within a year. Only the Secretary of the Board, Mr.

Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an

appearance. Tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere

of sanctimoniousness. He walks leisurely through the block, passes a

cell with a lithograph of Christ on the wall, and pauses. His hands

folded, eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he

inquires of the rangeman:

"Whose cell is this?"

"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him.

It is the cell of Jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool of the prison.

"He is a good man, a good man, God bless him," the Inspector says, a

quaver in his voice.

He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the

little looking-glass and the rules, hanging awry on the wall. "It

offends my eye," he smiles at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang

straight."

Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "Mr. Officer, please."

The Inspector steps forward. "This is Inspector Reed," he corrects the

boy. "What is it you wish?"

"Oh. Mr. Inspector, I've been askin' t' see you a long time. I wanted--"

"You should have sent me a slip. Have you a copy of the rules in the

cell, my man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you read?"

"No, sir."

"Poor boy, did you never go to school?"

"No, sir. Me moder died when I was a kid. Dey put me in de orphan an'

den in de ref."

"And your father?"

"I had no fader. Moder always said he ran away before I was born'd."

"They have schools in the orphan asylum. Also in the reformatory, I

believe."

"Yep. But dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment. I didn' care fer

de school, nohow."

"You were a bad boy. How old are you now?"

"Sev'nteen."

"What is your name?"

"Tommy Wellman."

"From Pittsburgh?"

"Allegheny. Me moder use'ter live on de hill, near dis 'ere dump."

"What did you wish to see me about?"

"I can't stand de cell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me have some work."

"Are you locked up 'for cause'?"

"I smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names."

"Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?"

"He said me moder was a bitch, God damn his--"

"Don't! Don't swear! Never take the holy name in vain. It's a great sin.

You should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting."

"I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of de cell, Mr. Inspector?"

"You are in the hands of the Warden. He is very kind, and he will do

what is best for you."

"Oh, hell! I'm locked up five months now. Dat's de best _he's_ doin' fer

me."

"Don't talk like that to me," the Inspector upbraids him, severely. "You

are a bad boy. You must pray; the good Lord will take care of you."

"You get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and

swearing.

Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily paling, turns red

with shame and anger. He motions to the Captain of the Block.

"Mr. Woods, report this man for impudence to an Inspector," he orders,

stalking out into the yard.

The boy is removed to the dungeon.

* * * * *

Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, I welcome the

relief of solitude, as I am locked in the cell for the night.

IV

Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. I spend considerable

time corresponding with Nold and Bauer: our letters are bulky--ten,

fifteen, and twenty pages long. There is much to say! We discuss events

in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of

the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food.

I share with my comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn,

keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their paths run smoother,

less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness

of spirit. They, too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. The

officer of the shop where Nold is employed has been severely reprimanded

for "neglect of duty": the Warden had noticed Carl, in the company of

several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of

mattings. He ordered the guard never to allow Nold out of his sight.

Bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has been deprived of

his dark clothes, and reduced to the stripes for "disrespectful

behavior." Now he is removed to the North Wing, where my cell also is

located, while Nold is in the South Wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying

the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our friend, the

"Horsethief," is still coffee-boy on Bauer's range, thus enabling me to

reach the big German. The latter, after reading my notes, returns them

to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl. Our mail

connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising utmost care

not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells

and persons.

Again the _Prison Blossoms_ is revived. Most of the readers of the

previous year, however, are missing. Dempsey and Beatty, the Knights of

Labor men, have been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting

confessions of the informer, Gallagher, who still remains in prison.

"D," our poet laureate, has also been released, his short term having

expired. His identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he

was a "scientist of the old school, an alchemist," from which we

inferred that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our reading

public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element: the Duquesne

strikers renew their "subscriptions" by contributing paper material;

with them join Frank Shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; George,

the prison librarian; "Billy" Ryan, professional gambler and confidence

man; "Yale," a specialist in the art of safe blowing, and former

university student; the "Attorney-General," a sharp lawyer; "Magazine

Alvin," writer and novelist; "Jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is

secure, and others. "M" and "K" act as alternate editors; the rest as

contributors. The several departments of the little magazinelet are

ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing Dante visiting the

Inferno, another sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern, in

the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription:

I sometimes hold it half a sin

To put in words the grief I feel,--

For words, like nature, half reveal

And half conceal the soul within.

The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed

with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of

the _Blossoms_ consists of articles and essays of a more serious

character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with

now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story man," or some

sex experience by "Magazine Alvin." One of the associate editors

lampoons "Billygoat Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the "Shop

Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G" relates the story of the

recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead

of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike

by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon. In the next issue

the incident is paralleled with the Pullman Car Strike, and the punished

prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an

ultra-original poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs."

But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several

readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarrange the

route. During the winter, "K" produces a little booklet of German poems,

while I elaborate the short "Story of Luba," written the previous year,

into a novelette, dealing with life in New York and revolutionary

circles. Presently "G" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of

interest to a larger public, and should be preserved. We discuss the

unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled

into the light of day. In our perplexity we finally take counsel with

Bob, the faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with astonishing

levity: "Youse fellows jest go ahead an' write, an' don't bother about

nothin'. Think I can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't

got brains enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? Jest leave

that to th' Horsethief, an' write till you bust th' paper works, see?"

Thus encouraged, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we

give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious

project of publishing a book by "MKG"!

In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. The little

magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as

every available scrap of writing material, to the larger purpose. We

decide to honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary

inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor on the eastern

skies, the _First of May, 1895_, he steals a blushing beam upon the

heading of the first chapter--"The Homestead Strike."

CHAPTER XXIII

THE SCALES OF JUSTICE

I

The summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog thickens on the Ohio;

the prison house is dim and damp. The river sirens sound sharp and

shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing. The sick line

stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected. The

prisoner in charge of tier "K" suffers a hemorrhage, and is carried to

the hospital. From assistant, I am advanced to his position on the

range.

But one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked, and the men

fed, while I remain under key. I wonder at the peculiar oversight, and

rap on the bars for the officers. The Block Captain orders me to desist.

1 request to see the Warden, but am gruffly told that he cannot be

disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the cause of

my punishment. I review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over

each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I have

unwittingly offended some trusty, or I may be the object of the secret

enmity of a spy.

The Chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the Girl, and

glances in surprise at the closed door.

"Not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks.

"I'm locked up, Chaplain."

"What have you done?"

"Nothing that I know of."

"Oh, well, you'll be out soon. Don't fret, m' boy."

But the days pass, and I remain in the cell. The guards look worried,

and vent their ill-humor in profuse vulgarity. The Deputy tries to

appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at

me: "Nothin'. Shtay where you are." Jasper, the colored trusty, flits up

and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than

ever. Numerous stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in

confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper

excitedly at the front desk. Assistant Deputy Hopkins goes in and out of

the block, repeatedly calls Jasper to the office, and hovers in the

neighborhood of my cell. The rangemen talk in suppressed tones. An air

of mystery pervades the cell-house.

Finally I am called to the Warden. With unconcealed annoyance, he

demands:

"What did you want?"

"The officers locked me up--"

"Who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily. "You're merely

locked _in_."

"Where's the difference?" I ask.

"One is locked up 'for cause.' You're just kept in for the present."

"On what charge?"

"No charge. None whatever. Take him back, Officers."

* * * * *

Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. By

contrast with the spacious hall, the cell grows smaller and narrower,

oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains

unexplained. Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to intercede in my

behalf, I remain locked "in," and again return the days of solitary,

with all their gloom and anguish of heart.

II

A ray of light is shed from New York. The Girl writes in a hopeful vein

about the progress of the movement, and the intense interest in my case

among radical circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a tour of

agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable labor sentiment

toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. Finally she informs

me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and the

promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. From

Merlino I receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose,

together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding:

"Good cheer, dear Comrade; the last word has not yet been spoken."

My mind dwells among my friends. The breath from the world of the living

fans the smoldering fires of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates

in my heart with trembling hope. But the revision of my sentence

involves recourse to the courts! The sudden realization fills me with

dismay. I cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom;

the mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary

traditions. In bitterness of soul, I resent my friends' ill-advised

waking of the shades. I shall never leave the house of death....

And yet mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence,

arrives more frequently. Prominent lawyers have been consulted; their

unanimous opinion augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was

illegal; according to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the maximum penalty

should not have exceeded seven years; the Supreme Court would

undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the

conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the

State. And so forth.

I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to decline liberty,

apparently within reach? John Most appealed his case to the Supreme

Court, and the Girl also took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable

propaganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity which would

offer such a splendid field for agitation? Would it not be folly to

afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would without

hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions; but it

involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. We must,

if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods,

scourge the law in its own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme

Court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence of

impartial right. It decided against Most, sustaining the prejudiced

verdict of the trial jury. They may do the same in my case. But that

very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class

justice. I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends.

But before long I am informed that an application to the higher court is

not permitted. The attorneys, upon examination of the records of the

trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being

legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to rulings of the

court prejudicial to the accused. Because of the technical omission,

there exists no basis for an appeal. They therefore advise an

application to the Board of Pardons, on the ground that the punishment

in my case is excessive. They are confident that the Board will act

favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded

sentences,--the five minor indictments being indispensible parts of the

major charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences.

The unexpected development disquiets me: the sound of "pardon" is

detestable. What bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most

unselfish motives, need seek pardon! Aye, of the very source that

misinterprets and perverts them! For days the implied humiliation keeps

agitating me; I recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name

to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to

refuse.

An accidental conversation with the "Attorney General" disturbs my

resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania the applicant's signature is

not required by the Pardon Board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me.

Yet--I reflect--the pardon of the Chicago Anarchists had contributed

much to the dissemination of our ideas. The impartial analysis of the

trial-evidence by Governor Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades

from responsibility for the Haymarket tragedy, and exposed the heinous

conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the

labor movement. May not a similar purpose be served by my application

for a pardon?

I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We arrange for a personal

interview, to discuss the details of the work. Unfortunately, the Girl,

a _persona non grata_, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss

Garrison, is to call on me within two months. At my request, the

Chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and I impatiently

await the first friendly face in two years.

III

As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary, comes the relief at

the expiration of three weeks. The "K" hall-boy is still in the

hospital, and I resume the duties of rangeman. The guards eye me with

suspicion and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled skein,

and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary

retirement.

The lock of my neighbor, Johnny Smith, had been tampered with. The

youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it

being impossible to reach the keyhole from the inside of the cell. The

suspicion of the Warden centered upon me, but investigation by the

stools discovered the men actually concerned, and "Dutch" Adams,

Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now

locked up "for cause," on my range.

By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan.

"Dutch," a repeater serving his fifth "bit," and favorite of Hopkins,

procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the

machine shop, where he was employed. He entrusted the rude instrument to

Grant, a young reformatory boy, for a preliminary trial. The guileless

youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in

the lock--with disastrous results.

The tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the _provocateur_, but "Dutch"

is missing from the range. He has been removed to an upper gallery, and

is assigned to a coveted position in the shops.

The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape

from Riverside, and compliment Captain Wright and the officers for so

successfully protecting the community. The Warden is deeply affected,

and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a

bread-and-water diet. The Deputy walks with inflated chest; Hopkins

issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting

greater hardships. The tone of the guards sounds haughtier, more

peremptory; Jasper's face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look

pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison.

IV

I am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and

the Warden approaches me.

"A lady just called; Miss Garrison, from New York. Do you know her?"

"She is one of my friends."

"I dismissed her. You can't see her."

"Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three months. I have had

none in two years. I want to see her."

"You can't. She needs a permit."

"The Chaplain sent her one at my request."

"A member of the Board of Inspectors rescinded it by telegraph."

"What Inspector?"

"You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused admittance."

"Will you tell me the reason, Warden?"

"No reason, no reason whatever."

He turns on his heel, when I detain him: "Warden, it's two years since

I've been in the dungeon. I am in the first grade now," I point to the

recently earned dark suit. "I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am

I deprived of visits?"

"Not another word."

He disappears through the yard door. From the galleries I hear the

jeering of a trusty. A guard near by brings his thumb to his nose, and

wriggles his fingers in my direction. Humiliated and angry, I return to

the cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. I pour out all

the bitterness of my heart to the Girl, dwell on the Warden's

discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal

to admit my visitor. In conclusion, I direct her to have a Pittsburgh

lawyer apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to restore

to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. I drop

the letter in the mail-box, hoping that my outburst and the threat of

the law will induce the Warden to retreat from his position. The Girl

will, of course, understand the significance of the epistle, aware that

my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect,

and not meant to be acted upon.

But the next day the Chaplain returns the letter to me. "Not so rash, my

boy," he warns me, not unkindly. "Be patient; I'll see what I can do for

you."

"But the letter, Chaplain?"

"You've wasted your paper, Aleck. I can't pass this letter. But just

keep quiet, and I'll look into the matter."

Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the Chaplain advises a personal

interview with the Warden. The latter refers me to the Inspectors. To

each member of the Board I address a request for a few minutes'

conversation, but a month goes by without word from the high officials.

The friendly runner, "Southside" Johnny, offers to give me an

opportunity to speak to an Inspector, on the payment of ten plugs of

tobacco. Unfortunately, I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender

him a dollar bill of the money the Girl had sent me artfully concealed

in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The runner is highly elated, and

assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard

door.

Several days later, passing along the range engaged in my duties, I

notice "Southside" entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with

a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize

the situation, but the next instant I am aware of Johnny's violent

efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to show the man some fancy

work made by the inmates, all the while drawing him closer to my door,

with surreptitious nods at me. I approach my cell.

"This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot Frick," Johnny remarks.

The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest.

"Good morning, Berkman," he says pleasantly. "How long are you doing?"

"Twenty-two years."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence. You know who I

am?"

"Inspector Nevin, I believe."

"Yes. You have never seen me before?"

"No. I sent a request to see you recently."

"When was that?"

"A month ago."

"Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There was no note from

you on my file. Are you sure you sent one?"

"Quite sure. I sent a request to each Inspector."

"What's the trouble?"

I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of visiting privileges.

Somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes, and remarks:

"You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. When did

you have your last visitor?"

"Two years ago."

"Two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "Did the lady from New York

have a permit?"

The Warden hurriedly enters from the yard.

"Mr. Nevin," he calls out anxiously, "I've been looking for you."

"Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away,

Captain," the Inspector remarks.

"Yes, yes," the Warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'"

"Oh!" the face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look. "Berkman," he turns to

me, "you'll have to apply to the Secretary of the Board, Mr. Reed. I am

not familiar with the internal affairs."

The Warden links his arm with the Inspector, and they walk toward the

yard door. At the entrance they are met by "Dutch" Adams, the shop

messenger.

"Good morning, Mr. Nevin," the trusty greets him. "Won't you issue me a

special visit? My mother is sick; she wants to see me."

The Warden grins at the ready fiction.

"When did you have your last visit?" the Inspector inquires.

"Two weeks ago."

"You are entitled to one only every three months."

"That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector," "Dutch" retorts

boldly. "I know you are a kind man."

Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the Warden.

"Dutch is all right," the Captain nods.

The Inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to

the prisoner.

CHAPTER XXIV

THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON

April 12, 1896.

MY DEAR GIRL:

I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with

you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover

of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it

will reach you safely.

In my local correspondence you have been christened the

"Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up

letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual

interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the

existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to

expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes very

seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful.

But you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents

that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a

strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment,

disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of a

letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart

to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate

interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. And

then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of

our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications

from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our

European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself,

they bring me nearer to you and to life.

The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various

occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical

publications permitted. I especially regret to miss

_Solidarity_. I have not seen a single copy since its

resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of

Chas. W. Mowbray and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as

the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more

about our English comrades.

I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know from

my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The action

of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less

to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a

favorable decision. But that they should so cynically evade the

issue,--I was hardly prepared for _that_. I had hoped they would

at least consider the case. But evidently they were averse to

going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me

that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their

arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not

actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want

remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the

first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission

of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still

have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt

whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be

expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another

proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. It is

this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the

Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor, is indebted to

the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The

attorney's name is K---- D---- of Pittsburgh. He has intimated

to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000.00,

the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in

case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a large fee.

And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still,

you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I

leave the matter in your hands.

The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure

no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the

Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist plot against

the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance and

constantly discriminated against, though "K" and "G" are

permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile

terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain

Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was

Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat

against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited

Inspector Reed at his business place, and requested to see me.

The Inspector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty

walls down." I could not determine whether there is any

foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the

prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits.

That is a characteristic instance of local conditions.

Involuntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the

brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian

prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true

conditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the

rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the

purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in

the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be

permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the

prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he

succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to

revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in

regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness

the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the

abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the

keynote of stupidity in power.

Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible

tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and lamenting, in

the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no Nemesis

in Spain?

CHAPTER XXV

HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?

I

The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. A cheerier

atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. The

block is airier and lighter; the guards relax their stern look, in

anticipation of their vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till

their approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release some one

going back to the world.

But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. The windows are closed

and nailed; the vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with

dryness. Smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk.

Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The officers look

sullen; the men are morose and discontented. The ravings of the insane

become wilder, suicides more frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress

every heart.

The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and

repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. The severity of the

authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic; the

prisoners fret, wax more querulous, and turn desperate with blind,

spasmodic defiance.

But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifest more

coherent expression. The Lexow investigation in New York has awakened an

echo in the prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the

solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside.

I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. Great

care must be exercised to guard against treachery: only men of proved

reliability may be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that

no officer or stool scent our design. The details of the campaign are

planned on "K" range, with Billy Ryan, Butch, Sloane, and Jimmie Grant,

as the most trustworthy, in command. It is decided that the attack upon

the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the

"outside." A released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses,

graft, and immorality rampant in Riverside. The public will demand an

investigation. The "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators

with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community, and