LAST DAYS
On the Homestretch,
_Sub Rosa_, April 15, 1905.
MY DEAR GIRL:
The last spring is here, and a song is in my heart. Only three
more months, and I shall have settled accounts with Father Penn.
There is the year in the workhouse, of course, and that prison,
I am told, is even a worse hell than this one. But I feel strong
with the suffering that is past, and perhaps even more so with
the wonderful jewel I have found. The man I mentioned in former
letters has proved a most beautiful soul and sincere friend. In
every possible way he has been trying to make my existence more
endurable. With what little he may, he says, he wants to make
amends for the injustice and brutality of society. He is a
Socialist, with a broad outlook upon life. Our lengthy
discussions (per notes) afford me many moments of pleasure and
joy.
It is chiefly to his exertions that I shall owe my commutation
time. The sentiment of the Inspectors was not favorable. I
believe it was intended to deprive me of two years' good time.
Think what it would mean to us! But my friend--my dear Chum, as
I affectionately call him--has quietly but persistently been at
work, with the result that the Inspectors have "seen the light."
It is now definite that I shall be released in July. The date is
still uncertain. I can barely realize that I am soon to leave
this place. The anxiety and restlessness of the last month would
be almost unbearable, but for the soothing presence of my
devoted friend. I hope some day you will meet him,--perhaps even
soon, for he is not of the quality that can long remain a
helpless witness of the torture of men. He wants to work in the
broader field, where he may join hands with those who strive to
reconstruct the conditions that are bulwarked with prison bars.
But while necessity forces him to remain here, his character is
in evidence. He devotes his time and means to lightening the
burden of the prisoners. His generous interest kept my sick
friend Harry alive, in the hope of a pardon. You will be
saddened to hear that the Board refused to release him, on the
ground that he was not "sufficiently ill." The poor boy, who had
never been out of sight of a guard since he was a child of ten,
died a week after the pardon was refused.
But though my Chum could not give freedom to Harry, he was
instrumental in saving another young life from the hands of the
hangman. It was the case of young Paul, typical of prison as the
nursery of crime. The youth was forced to work alongside of a
man who persecuted and abused him because he resented improper
advances. Repeatedly Paul begged the Warden to transfer him to
another department; but his appeals were ignored. The two
prisoners worked in the bakery. Early one morning, left alone,
the man attempted to violate the boy. In the struggle that
followed the former was killed. The prison management was
determined to hang the lad, "in the interests of discipline."
The officers openly avowed they would "fix his clock."
Permission for a collection, to engage an attorney for Paul, was
refused. Prisoners who spoke in his behalf were severely
punished; the boy was completely isolated preparatory to his
trial. He stood absolutely helpless, alone. But the dear Chum
came to the rescue of Paul. The work had to be done secretly,
and it was a most difficult task to secure witnesses for the
defence among the prisoners terrorized by the guards. But Chum
threw himself into the work with heart and soul. Day and night
he labored to give the boy a chance for his life. He almost
broke down before the ordeal was over. But the boy was saved;
the jury acquitted him on the ground of self-defence.
* * * * *
The proximity of release, if only to change cells, is
nerve-racking in the extreme. But even the mere change will be a
relief. Meanwhile my faithful friend does everything in his
power to help me bear the strain. Besides ministering to my
physical comforts, he generously supplies me with books and
publications. It helps to while away the leaden-heeled days, and
keeps me abreast of the world's work. The Chum is enthusiastic
over the growing strength of Socialism, and we often discuss the
subject with much vigor. It appears to me, however, that the
Socialist anxiety for success is by degrees perverting essential
principles. It is with much sorrow I have learned that political
activity, formerly viewed merely as a means of spreading
Socialist ideas, has gradually become an end in itself.
Straining for political power weakens the fibres of character
and ideals. Daily contact with authority has strengthened my
conviction that control of the governmental power is an illusory
remedy for social evils. Inevitable consequences of false
conceptions are not to be legislated out of existence. It is not
merely the conditions, but the fundamental ideas of present
civilization, that are to be transvalued, to give place to new
social and individual relations. The emancipation of labor is
the necessary first step along the road of a regenerated
humanity; but even that can be accomplished only through the
awakened consciousness of the toilers, acting on their own
initiative and strength.
On these and other points Chum differs with me, but his intense
friendship knows no intellectual distinctions. He is to visit
you during his August vacation. I know you will make him feel my
gratitude, for I can never repay his boundless devotion.
Sasha.
DEAREST CHUM:
It seemed as if all aspiration and hope suddenly went out of my
life when you disappeared so mysteriously. I was tormented by
the fear of some disaster. Your return has filled me with joy,
and I am happy to know that you heard and responded
unhesitatingly to the call of a sacred cause.
I greatly envy your activity in the P. circle. The revolution in
Russia has stirred me to the very depths. The giant is
awakening, the mute giant that has suffered so patiently,
voicing his misery and agony only in the anguish-laden song and
on the pages of his Gorkys.
Dear friend, you remember our discussion regarding Plehve. I may
have been in error when I expressed the view that the execution
of the monster, encouraging sign of individual revolutionary
activity as it was, could not be regarded as a manifestation of
social awakening. But the present uprising undoubtedly points to
widespread rebellion permeating Russian life. Yet it would
probably be too optimistic to hope for a very radical change. I
have been absent from my native land for many years; but in my
youth I was close to the life and thought of the peasant. Large,
heavy bodies move slowly. The proletariat of the cities has
surely become impregnated with revolutionary ideas, but the
vital element of Russia is the agrarian population. I fear,
moreover, that the dominant reaction is still very strong,
though it has no doubt been somewhat weakened by the discontent
manifesting in the army and, especially, in the navy. With all
my heart I hope that the revolution will be successful. Perhaps
a constitution is the most we can expect. But whatever the
result, the bare fact of a revolution in long-suffering Russia
is a tremendous inspiration. I should be the happiest of men to
join in the glorious struggle.
Long live the Revolution!
A.
DEAR CHUM:
Thanks for your kind offer. But I am absolutely opposed to
having any steps taken to eliminate the workhouse sentence. I
have served these many years and I shall survive one more, I
will ask no favors of the enemy. They will even twist their own
law to deprive me of the five months' good time, to which I am
entitled on the last year. I understand that I shall be allowed
only two months off, on the preposterous ground that the
workhouse term constitutes the first year of a _new_ sentence!
But I do not wish you to trouble about the matter. You have more
important work to do. Give all your energies to the good cause.
Prepare the field for the mission of Tchaikovsky and Babushka,
and I shall be with you in spirit when you embrace our brave
comrades of the Russian Revolution, whose dear names were a
hallowed treasure of my youth.
May success reward the efforts of our brothers in Russia.
A.
CHUM:
Just got word from the Deputy that my papers are signed. I
didn't wish to cause you anxiety, but I was apprehensive of some
hitch. But it's positive and settled now,--I go out on the 19th.
Just one more week! This is the happiest day in thirteen years.
Shake, Comrade.
A.
DEAREST CHUM:
My hand trembles as I write this last good-bye. I'll be gone in
an hour. My heart is too full for words. Please send enclosed
notes to my friends, and embrace them all as I embrace you now.
I shall live in the hope of meeting you all next year. Good-bye,
dear, devoted friend.
With my whole heart,
Your Comrade and Chum.
July 19, 1905.
DEAREST GIRL:
It's Wednesday morning, the 19th, at last!
Geh stiller meines Herzens Schlag
Und schliesst euch alle meine alten Wunden,
Denn dieses ist mein letzter Tag
Und dies sind seine letzten Stunden.
My last thoughts within these walls are of you, my dear, dear
Sonya, the Immutable!
Sasha.
PART III
THE WORKHOUSE
THE WORKHOUSE
I
The gates of the penitentiary open to leave me out, and I pause
involuntarily at the fascinating sight. It is a street: a line of houses
stretches before me; a woman, young and wonderfully sweet-faced, is
passing on the opposite side. My eyes follow her graceful lines, as she
turns the corner. Men stand about. They wear citizen clothes, and scan
me with curious, insistent gaze.... The handcuff grows taut on my wrist,
and I follow the sheriff into the waiting carriage. A little child runs
by. I lean out of the window to look at the rosy-cheeked, strangely
youthful face. But the guard impatiently lowers the blind, and we sit in
gloomy silence.
* * * * *
The spell of the civilian garb is upon me. It gives an exhilarating
sense of manhood. Again and again I glance at my clothes, and verify the
numerous pockets to reassure myself of the reality of the situation. I
am free, past the dismal gray walls! Free? Yet even now captive of the
law. The law!...
* * * * *
The engine puffs and shrieks, and my mind speeds back to another
journey. It was thirteen years and one week ago this day. On the wings
of an all-absorbing love I hastened to join the struggle of the
oppressed people. I left home and friends, sacrificed liberty, and
risked life. But human justice is blind: it will not see the soul on
fire. Only the shot was heard, by the Law that is deaf to the agony of
Toil. "Vengeance is mine," it saith. To the uttermost drop it will shed
the blood to exact its full pound of flesh. Twelve years and ten months!
And still another year. What horrors await me at the new prison? Poor,
faithful "Horsethief" will nevermore smile his greeting: he did not
survive six months in the terrible workhouse. But my spirit is strong; I
shall not be daunted. This garb is the visible, tangible token of
resurrection. The devotion of staunch friends will solace and cheer me.
The call of the great Cause will give strength to live, to struggle, to
conquer.
II
Humiliation overwhelms me as I don the loathed suit of striped black and
gray. The insolent look of the guard rouses my bitter resentment, as he
closely scrutinizes my naked body. But presently, the examination over,
a sense of gratification steals over me at the assertiveness of my
self-respect.
* * * * *
The ordeal of the day's routine is full of inexpressible anguish.
Accustomed to prison conditions, I yet find existence in the workhouse a
nightmare of cruelty, infinitely worse than the most inhuman aspects of
the penitentiary. The guards are surly and brutal; the food foul and
inadequate; punishment for the slightest offence instantaneous and
ruthless. The cells are even smaller than in the penitentiary, and
contain neither chair nor table. They are unspeakably ill-smelling with
the privy buckets, for the purposes of which no scrap of waste paper is
allowed. The sole ablutions of the day are performed in the morning,
when the men form in the hall and march past the spigot of running
water, snatching a handful in the constantly moving line. Absolute
silence prevails in cell-house and shop. The slightest motion of the
lips is punished with the blackjack or the dungeon, referred to with
caustic satire as the "White House."
The perverse logic of the law that visits the utmost limit of barbarity
upon men admittedly guilty of minor transgressions! Throughout the
breadth of the land the workhouses are notoriously more atrocious in
every respect than the penitentiaries and State prisons, in which are
confined men convicted of felonies. The Allegheny County Workhouse of
the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania enjoys infamous distinction as
the blackest of hells where men expiate the sins of society.
* * * * *
At work in the broom shop, I find myself in peculiarly familiar
surroundings. The cupidity of the management has evolved methods even
more inhuman than those obtaining in the State prison. The tasks imposed
upon the men necessitate feverish exertion. Insufficient product or
deficient work is not palliated by physical inability or illness. In the
conduct of the various industries, every artifice prevalent in the
penitentiary is practised to evade the law limiting convict competition.
The number of men employed in productive work by far exceeds the legally
permitted percentage; the provisions for the protection of free labor
are skilfully circumvented; the tags attached to the shop products are
designed to be obliterated as soon as the wares have left the prison;
the words "convict-made" stamped on the broom-handles are pasted over
with labels giving no indication of the place of manufacture. The
anti-convict-labor law, symbolic of the political achievements of labor,
is frustrated at every point, its element of protection a "lame and
impotent conclusion."
How significant the travesty of the law in its holy of holies! Here
legal justice immures its victims; here are buried the disinherited,
whose rags and tatters annoy respectability; here offenders are punished
for breaking the law. And here the Law is daily and hourly violated by
its pious high priests.
III
The immediate is straining at the leash that holds memory in the
environment of the penitentiary, yet the veins of the terminated
existence still palpitate with the recollection of friends and common
suffering. The messages from Riverside are wet with tears of misery, but
Johnny, the young Magyar, strikes a note of cheer: his sentence is about
to expire; he will devote himself to the support of the little children
he had so unwittingly robbed of a father. Meanwhile he bids me courage
and hope, enclosing two dollars from the proceeds of his fancy work, "to
help along." He was much grieved, he writes, at his inability to bid me
a last farewell, because the Warden refused the request, signed by two
hundred prisoners, that I be allowed to pass along the tiers to say
good-bye. But soon, soon we shall see each other in freedom.
Words of friendship glow brightly in the darkness of the present, and
charm my visions of the near future. Coming liberty casts warming rays,
and I dwell in the atmosphere of my comrades. The Girl and the Chum are
aglow with the fires of Young Russia. Busily my mind shapes pictures of
the great struggle that transplant me to the days of my youth. In the
little tenement flat in New York we had sketched with bold stroke the
fortunes of the world--the Girl, the Twin, and I. In the dark, cage-like
kitchen, amid the smoke of the asthmatic stove, we had planned our
conspirative work in Russia. But the need of the hour had willed it
otherwise. Homestead had sounded the prelude of awakening, and my heart
had echoed the inspiring strains.
* * * * *
The banked fires of aspiration burst into life. What matter the
immediate outcome of the revolution in Russia? The yearning of my youth
wells up with spontaneous power. To live is to struggle! To struggle
against Caesar, side by side with the people: to suffer with them, and
to die, if need be. That is life. It will sadden me to part with Chum
even before I had looked deeply into the devoted face. But the Girl is
aflame with the spirit of Russia: it will be joyous work in common. The
soil of Monongahela, laden with years of anguish, has grown dear to me.
Like the moan of a broken chord wails the thought of departure. But no
ties of affection will strain at my heartstrings. Yet--the sweet face of
a little girl breaks in on my reverie, a look of reproaching sadness in
the large, wistful eyes. It is little Stella. The last years of my
penitentiary life have snatched many a grace from her charming
correspondence. Often I have sought consolation in the beautiful
likeness of her soulful face. With mute tenderness she had shared my
grief at the loss of Harry, her lips breathing sweet balm. Gray days had
warmed at her smile, and I lavished upon her all the affection with
which I was surcharged. It will be a violent stifling of her voice in my
heart, but the call of the _muzhik_ rings clear, compelling. Yet who
knows? The revolution may be over before my resurrection. In republican
Russia, with her enlightened social protestantism, life would be fuller,
richer than in this pitifully _bourgeois_ democracy. Freedom will
present the unaccustomed problem of self-support, but it is premature to
form definite plans. Long imprisonment has probably incapacitated me
for hard work, but I shall find means to earn my simple needs when I
have cast off the fetters of my involuntary parasitism.
The thought of affection, the love of woman, thrills me with ecstasy,
and colors my existence with emotions of strange bliss. But the solitary
hours are filled with recurring dread lest my life forever remain bare
of woman's love. Often the fear possesses me with the intensity of
despair, as my mind increasingly dwells on the opposite sex. Thoughts of
woman eclipse the memory of the prison affections, and the darkness of
the present is threaded with the silver needle of love-hopes.
IV
The monotony of the routine, the degradation and humiliation weigh
heavier in the shadow of liberty. My strength is failing with the hard
task in the shop, but the hope of receiving my full commutation sustains
me. The law allows five months' "good time" on every year beginning with
the ninth year of a sentence. But the Superintendent has intimated to me
that I may be granted the benefit of only two months, as a "new"
prisoner, serving the first year of a workhouse sentence. The Board of
Directors will undoubtedly take that view, he often taunts me.
Exasperation at his treatment, coupled with my protest against the abuse
of a fellow prisoner, have caused me to be ordered into the solitary.
Dear Chum is insistent on legal steps to secure my full commutation;
notwithstanding my unconditional refusal to resort to the courts, he has
initiated a _sub rosa_ campaign to achieve his object. The time drags in
torturing uncertainty. With each day the solitary grows more stifling,
maddening, till my brain reels with terror of the graveyard silence.
Like glad music sounds the stern command, "Exercise!"
In step we circle the yard, the clanking of Charley's chain mournfully
beating time. He had made an unsuccessful attempt to escape, for which
he is punished with the ball and chain. The iron cuts into his ankle,
and he trudges painfully under the heavy weight. Near me staggers Billy,
his left side completely paralyzed since he was released from the "White
House." All about me are cripples. I am in the midst of the social
refuse: the lame and the halt, the broken in body and spirit, past work,
past even crime. These were the blessed of the Nazarene; these a
Christian world breaks on the wheel. They, too, are within the scope of
my mission, they above all others--these the living indictments of a
leprous system, the excommunicated of God and man.
* * * * *
The threshold of liberty is thickly sown with misery and torment. The
days are unbearable with nervous restlessness, the nights hideous with
the hours of agonizing stillness,--the endless, endless hours.
Feverishly I pace the cell. The day will pass, it _must_ pass. With
reverent emotion I bless the shamed sun as he dips beyond the western
sky. One day nearer to the liberty that awaits me, with unrestricted
sunshine and air and life beyond the hated walls of gray, out in the
daylight, in the open. The open world!... The scent of fresh-mown hay is
in my nostrils; green fields and forests stretch before me; sweetly
ripples the mountain spring. Up to the mountain crest, to the breezes
and the sunshine, where the storm breaks in its wild fury upon my
uncovered head. Welcome the rain and the wind that sweep the foul prison
dust off my heart, and blow life and strength into my being!
Tremblingly rapturous is the thought of freedom. Out in the woods, away
from the stench of the cannibal world I shall wander, nor lift my foot
from soil or sod. Close to the breath of Nature I will press my parched
lips, on her bosom I will pass my days, drinking sustenance and strength
from the universal mother. And there, in liberty and independence, in
the vision of the mountain peaks, I shall voice the cry of the social
orphans, of the buried and the disinherited, and visualize to the living
the yearning, menacing Face of Pain.
PART IV
THE RESURRECTION
THE RESURRECTION
I
All night I toss sleeplessly on the cot, and pace the cell in nervous
agitation, waiting for the dawn. With restless joy I watch the darkness
melt, as the first rays herald the coming of the day. It is the 18th of
May--my last day, my very last! A few more hours, and I shall walk
through the gates, and drink in the warm sunshine and the balmy air, and
be free to go and come as I please, after the nightmare of thirteen
years and ten months in jail, penitentiary, and workhouse.
My step quickens with the excitement of the outside, and I try to while
away the heavy hours thinking of freedom and of friends. But my brain is
in a turmoil; I cannot concentrate my thoughts. Visions of the near
future, images of the past, flash before me, and crowd each other in
bewildering confusion.
* * * * *
Again and again my mind reverts to the unnecessary cruelty that has
kept me in prison three months over and above my time. It was sheer
sophistry to consider me a "new" prisoner, entitled only to two months'
commutation. As a matter of fact, I was serving the last year of a
twenty-two-year sentence, and therefore I should have received five
months time off. The Superintendent had repeatedly promised to inform me
of the decision of the Board of Directors, and every day, for weeks and
months, I anxiously waited for word from them. None ever came, and I
had to serve the full ten months.
Ah, well, it is almost over now! I have passed my last night in the
cell, and the morning is here, the precious, blessed morning!
* * * * *
How slowly the minutes creep! I listen intently, and catch the sound of
bars being unlocked on the bottom range: it is the Night Captain turning
the kitchen men out to prepare breakfast--5 A. M.! Two and a half hours
yet before I shall be called; two endless hours, and then another thirty
long minutes. Will they ever pass?... And again I pace the cell.
II
The gong rings the rising hour. In great agitation I gather up my
blankets, tincup and spoon, which must be delivered at the office before
I am discharged. My heart beats turbulently, as I stand at the door,
waiting to be called. But the guard unlocks the range and orders me to
"fall in for breakfast."
The striped line winds down the stairs, past the lynx-eyed Deputy
standing in the middle of the hallway, and slowly circles through the
centre, where each man receives his portion of bread for the day and
returns to his tier. The turnkey, on his rounds of the range, casts a
glance into my cell. "Not workin'," he says mechanically, shutting the
door in my face.
"I'm going out," I protest.
"Not till you're called," he retorts, locking me in.
* * * * *
I stand at the door, tense with suspense. I strain my ear for the
approach of a guard to call me to the office, but all remains quiet. A
vague fear steals over me: perhaps they will not release me to-day; I
may be losing time.... A feeling of nausea overcomes me, but by a strong
effort I throw off the dreadful fancy, and quicken my step. I must not
think--not think....
* * * * *
At last! The lever is pulled, my cell unlocked, and with a dozen other
men I am marched to the clothes-room, in single file and lockstep. I
await my turn impatiently, as several men are undressed and their naked
bodies scrutinized for contraband or hidden messages. The overseer
flings a small bag at each man, containing the prisoner's civilian garb,
shouting boisterously: "Hey, you! Take off them clothes, and put your
rags on."
I dress hurriedly. A guard accompanies me to the office, where my
belongings are returned to me: some money friends had sent, my watch,
and the piece of ivory the penitentiary turnkey had stolen from me, and
which I had insisted on getting back before I left Riverside. The
officer in charge hands me a railroad ticket to Pittsburgh (the fare
costing about thirty cents), and I am conducted to the prison gate.
III
The sun shines brightly in the yard, the sky is clear, the air fresh and
bracing. Now the last gate will be thrown open, and I shall be out of
sight of the guard, beyond the bars,--alone! How I have hungered for
this hour, how often in the past years have I dreamed of this rapturous
moment--to be alone, out in the open, away from the insolent eyes of my
keepers! I'll rush away from these walls and kneel on the warm sod, and
kiss the soil and embrace the trees, and with a song of joy give thanks
to Nature for the blessings of sunshine and air.
The outer door opens before me, and I am confronted by reporters with
cameras. Several tall men approach me. One of them touches me on the
shoulder, turns back the lapel of his coat, revealing a police officer's
star, and says:
"Berkman, you are to leave the city before night, by order of the
Chief."
* * * * *
The detectives and reporters trailing me to the nearby railway station
attract a curious crowd. I hasten into a car to escape their insistent
gaze, feeling glad that I have prevailed upon my friends not to meet me
at the prison.
My mind is busy with plans to outwit the detectives, who have entered
the same compartment. I have arranged to join the Girl in Detroit. I
have no particular reason to mask my movements, but I resent the
surveillance. I must get rid of the spies, somehow; I don't want their
hateful eyes to desecrate my meeting with the Girl.
* * * * *
I feel dazed. The short ride to Pittsburgh is over before I can collect
my thoughts. The din and noise rend my ears; the rushing cars, the
clanging bells, bewilder me. I am afraid to cross the street; the flying
monsters pursue me on every side. The crowds jostle me on the sidewalk,
and I am constantly running into the passers-by. The turmoil, the
ceaseless movement, disconcerts me. A horseless carriage whizzes close
by me; I turn to look at the first automobile I have ever seen, but the
living current sweeps me helplessly along. A woman passes me, with a
child in her arms. The baby looks strangely diminutive, a rosy dimple in
the laughing face. I smile back at the little cherub, and my eyes meet
the gaze of the detectives. A wild thought to escape, to get away from
them, possesses me, and I turn quickly into a side street, and walk
blindly, faster and faster. A sudden impulse seizes me at the sight of
a passing car, and I dash after it.
* * * * *
"Fare, please!" the conductor sings out, and I almost laugh out aloud at
the fleeting sense of the material reality of freedom. Conscious of the
strangeness of my action, I produce a dollar bill, and a sense of
exhilarating independence comes over me, as the man counts out the
silver coins. I watch him closely for a sign of recognition. Does he
realize that I am just out of prison? He turns away, and I feel thankful
to the dear Chum for having so thoughtfully provided me with a new suit
of clothes. It is peculiar, however, that the conductor has failed to
notice my closely cropped hair. But the man in the seat opposite seems
to be watching me. Perhaps he has recognized me by my picture in the
newspapers; or may be it is my straw hat that has attracted his
attention. I glance about me. No one wears summer headgear yet; it must
be too early in the season. I ought to change it: the detectives could
not follow me so easily then. Why, there they are on the back platform!
At the next stop I jump off the car. A hat sign arrests my eye, and I
walk into the store, and then slip quietly through a side entrance, a
dark derby on my head. I walk quickly, for a long, long time, board
several cars, and then walk again, till I find myself on a deserted
street. No one is following me now; the detectives must have lost track
of me. I feel worn and tired. Where could I rest up, I wonder, when I
suddenly recollect that I was to go directly from the prison to the
drugstore of Comrade M----. My friends must be worried, and M---- is
waiting to wire to the Girl about my release.
* * * * *
It is long past noon when I enter the drugstore. M---- seems highly
wrought up over something; he shakes my hand violently, and plies me
with questions, as he leads me into his apartments in the rear of the
store. It seems strange to be in a regular room: there is paper on the
walls, and it feels so peculiar to the touch, so different from the
whitewashed cell. I pass my hand over it caressingly, with a keen sense
of pleasure. The chairs, too, look strange, and those quaint things on
the table. The bric-a-brac absorbs my attention--the people in the room
look hazy, their voices sound distant and confused.
"Why don't you sit down, Aleck?" the tones are musical and tender; a
woman's, no doubt.
"Yes," I reply, walking around the table, and picking up a bright toy.
It represents Undine, rising from the water, the spray glistening in the
sun....
"Are you tired, Aleck?"
"N--no."
"You have just come out?"
"Yes."
It requires an effort to talk. The last year, in the workhouse, I have
barely spoken a dozen words; there was always absolute silence. The
voices disturb me. The presence of so many people--there are three or
four about me--is oppressive. The room reminds me of the cell, and the
desire seizes me to rush out into the open, to breathe the air and see
the sky.
"I'm going," I say, snatching up my hat.
IV
The train speeds me to Detroit, and I wonder vaguely how I reached the
station. My brain is numb; I cannot think. Field and forest flit by in
the gathering dusk, but the surroundings wake no interest in me. "I am
rid of the detectives"--the thought persists in my mind, and I feel
something relax within me, and leave me cold, without emotion or desire.
* * * * *
With an effort I descend to the platform, and sway from side to side, as
I cross the station at Detroit. A man and a girl hasten toward me, and
grasp me by the hand. I recognize Carl. The dear boy, he was a most
faithful and cheering correspondent all these years since he left the
penitentiary. But who is the girl with him, I wonder, when my gaze falls
on a woman leaning against a pillar. She looks intently at me. The wave
of her hair, the familiar eyes--why, it's the Girl! How little she has
changed! I take a few steps forward, somewhat surprised that she did not
rush up to me like the others. I feel pleased at her self-possession:
the excited voices, the quick motions, disturb me. I walk slowly toward
her, but she does not move. She seems rooted to the spot, her hand
grasping the pillar, a look of awe and terror in her face. Suddenly she
throws her arms around me. Her lips move, but no sound reaches my ear.
We walk in silence. The Girl presses a bouquet into my hand. My heart is
full, but I cannot talk. I hold the flowers to my face, and mechanically
bite the petals.
V
Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee pass before me like a troubled dream. I
have a faint recollection of a sea of faces, restless and turbulent, and
I in its midst. Confused voices beat like hammers on my head, and then
all is very still. I stand in full view of the audience. Eyes are turned
on me from every side, and I grow embarrassed. The crowd looks dim and
hazy; I feel hot and cold, and a great longing to flee. The
perspiration is running down my back; my knees tremble violently, the
floor is slipping from under my feet--there is a tumult of hand
clapping, loud cheers and bravos.
We return to Carl's house, and men and women grasp my hand and look at
me with eyes of curious awe. I fancy a touch of pity in their tones, and
am impatient of their sympathy. A sense of suffocation possesses me
within doors, and I dread the presence of people. It is torture to talk;
the sound of voices agonizes me. I watch for an opportunity to steal out
of the house. It soothes me to lose myself among the crowds, and a sense
of quiet pervades me at the thought that I am a stranger to every one
about me. I roam the city at night, and seek the outlying country,
conscious only of a desire to be alone.
VI
I am in the Waldheim, the Girl at my side. All is quiet in the cemetery,
and I feel a great peace. No emotion stirs me at the sight of the
monument, save a feeling of quiet sadness. It represents a woman, with
one hand placing a wreath on the fallen, with the other grasping a
sword. The marble features mirror unutterable grief and proud defiance.
I glance at the Girl. Her face is averted, but the droop of her head
speaks of suffering. I hold out my hand to her, and we stand in mute
sorrow at the graves of our martyred comrades.... I have a vision of
Stenka Razin, as I had seen him pictured in my youth, and at his side
hang the bodies of the men buried beneath my feet. Why are they dead? I
wonder. Why should I live? And a great desire to lie down with them is
upon me. I clutch the iron post, to keep from falling.
* * * * *
Steps sound behind me, and I turn to see a girl hastening toward us. She
is radiant with young womanhood; her presence breathes life and the joy
of it. Her bosom heaves with panting; her face struggles with a solemn
look.
"I ran all the way," her voice is soft and low; "I was afraid I might
miss you."
The Girl smiles. "Let us go in somewhere to rest up, Alice." Turning to
me, she adds, "She ran to see--you."
How peculiar the Girl should conceive such an idea! It is absurd. Why
should Alice be anxious to see me? I look old and worn; my step is
languid, unsteady.... Bitter thoughts fill my mind, as we ride back on
the train to Chicago.
"You are sad," the Girl remarks. "Alice is very much taken with you.
Aren't you glad?"
"You are mistaken," I reply.
"I'm sure of it," the Girl persists. "Shall I ask her?"
She turns to Alice.
"Oh, I like you so much, Sasha," Alice whispers. I look up timidly at
her. She is leaning toward me in the abandon of artless tenderness, and
a great joy steals over me, as I read in her eyes frank affection.
VII
New York looks unexpectedly familiar, though I miss many old landmarks.
It is torture to be indoors, and I roam the streets, experiencing a
thrill of kinship when I locate one of my old haunts.
I feel little interest in the large meeting arranged to greet me back
into the world. Yet I am conscious of some curiosity about the comrades
I may meet there. Few of the old guard have remained. Some dropped from
the ranks; others died. John Most will not be there. I cherished the
hope of meeting him again, but he died a few months before my release.
He had been unjust to me; but who is free from moments of weakness? The
passage of time has mellowed the bitterness of my resentment, and I
think of him, my first teacher of Anarchy, with old-time admiration. His
unique personality stands out in strong relief upon the flat background
of his time. His life was the tragedy of the ever unpopular pioneer. A
social Lear, his whitening years brought only increasing isolation and
greater lack of understanding, even within his own circle. He had
struggled and suffered much; he gave his whole life to advance the
Cause, only to find at the last that he who crosses the threshold must
leave all behind, even friendship, even comradeship.
* * * * *
My old friend, Justus Schwab, is also gone, and Brady, the big Austrian.
Few of the comrades of my day have survived. The younger generation
seems different, unsatisfactory. The Ghetto I had known has also
disappeared. Primitive Orchard Street, the scene of our pioneer
meetings, has conformed to business respectability; the historic lecture
hall, that rang with the breaking chains of the awakening people, has
been turned into a dancing-school; the little cafe "around the corner,"
the intellectual arena of former years, is now a counting-house. The
fervid enthusiasm of the past, the spontaneous comradeship in the common
cause, the intoxication of world-liberating zeal--all are gone with the
days of my youth. I sense the spirit of cold deliberation in the new
set, and a tone of disillusioned wisdom that chills and estranges me.
* * * * *
The Girl has also changed. The little Sailor, my companion of the days
that thrilled with the approach of the Social Revolution, has become a
woman of the world. Her mind has matured, but her wider interests
antagonize my old revolutionary traditions that inspired every day and
colored our every act with the direct perception of the momentarily
expected great upheaval. I feel an instinctive disapproval of many
things, though particular instances are intangible and elude my
analysis. I sense a foreign element in the circle she has gathered about
her, and feel myself a stranger among them. Her friends and admirers
crowd her home, and turn it into a sort of salon. They talk art and
literature; discuss science and philosophize over the disharmony of
life. But the groans of the dungeon find no gripping echo there. The
Girl is the most revolutionary of them all; but even she has been
infected by the air of intellectual aloofness, false tolerance and
everlasting pessimism. I resent the situation, the more I become
conscious of the chasm between the Girl and myself. It seems
unbridgeable; we cannot recover the intimate note of our former
comradeship. With pain I witness her evident misery. She is untiring in
her care and affection; the whole circle lavishes on me sympathy and
tenderness. But through it all I feel the commiserating tolerance toward
a sick child. I shun the atmosphere of the house, and flee to seek the
solitude of the crowded streets and the companionship of the plain,
untutored underworld.
* * * * *
In a Bowery resort I come across Dan, my assistant on the range during
my last year in the penitentiary.
"Hello, Aleck," he says, taking me aside, "awful glad to see you out of
hell. Doing all right?"
"So, so, Dan. And you?"
"Rotten, Aleck, rotten. You know it was my first bit, and I swore I'd
never do a crooked job again. Well, they turned me out with a five-spot,
after four years' steady work, mind you, and three of them working my
head off on a loom. Then they handed me a pair of Kentucky jeans, that
any fly-cop could spot a mile off. My friends went back on me--that
five-spot was all I had in the world, and it didn't go a long way.
Liberty ain't what it looks to a fellow through the bars, Aleck, but
it's hell to go back. I don't know what to do."
"How do you happen here, Dan? Could you get no work at home, in Oil
City?"
"Home, hell! I wish I had a home and friends, like you, Aleck. Christ,
d'you think I'd ever turn another trick? But I got no home and no
friends. Mother died before I came out, and I found no home. I got a job
in Oil City, but the bulls tipped me off for an ex-con, and I beat my
way here. I tried to do the square thing, Aleck, but where's a fellow to
turn? I haven't a cent and not a friend in the world."
Poor Dan! I feel powerless to help him, even with advice. Without
friends or money, his "liberty" is a hollow mockery, even worse than
mine. Five years ago he was a strong, healthy young man. He committed a
burglary, and was sent to prison. Now he is out, his body weakened, his
spirit broken; he is less capable than ever to survive in the struggle.
What is he to do but commit another crime and be returned to prison?
Even I, with so many advantages that Dan is lacking, with kind comrades
and helpful friends, I can find no place in this world of the outside. I
have been torn out, and I seem unable to take root again. Everything
looks so different, changed. And yet I feel a great hunger for life. I
could enjoy the sunshine, the open, and freedom of action. I could make
my life and my prison experience useful to the world. But I am
incapacitated for the struggle. I do not fit in any more, not even in
the circle of my comrades. And this seething life, the turmoil and the
noises of the city, agonize me. Perhaps it would be best for me to
retire to the country, and there lead a simple life, close to nature.
VIII
The summer is fragrant with a thousand perfumes, and a great peace is in
the woods. The Hudson River shimmers in the distance, a solitary sail on
its broad bosom. The Palisades on the opposite side look immutable,
eternal, their undulating tops melting in the grayish-blue horizon.
Puffs of smoke rise from the valley. Here, too, has penetrated the
restless spirit. The muffled thunder of blasting breaks in upon the
silence. The greedy hand of man is desecrating the Palisades, as it has
desecrated the race. But the big river flows quietly, and the sailboat
glides serenely on the waters. It skips over the foaming waves, near the
spot I stand on, toward the great, busy city. Now it is floating past
the high towers, with their forbidding aspect. It is Sing Sing prison.
Men groan and suffer there, and are tortured in the dungeon. And I--I am
a useless cog, an idler, while others toil; and I keep mute, while
others suffer.
* * * * *
My mind dwells in the prison. The silence rings with the cry of pain;
the woods echo the agony of the dungeon. I start at the murmur of the
leaves; the trees with their outstretched arms bar my way, menacing me
like the guards on the prison walls. Their monster shapes follow me in
the valley.
At night I wake in cold terror. The agonized cry of Crazy Smithy is in
my ears, and again I hear the sickening thud of the riot clubs on the
prisoner's head. The solitude is harrowing with the memory of the
prison; it haunts me with the horrors of the basket cell. Away, I must
away, to seek relief amidst the people!
* * * * *
Back in the city, I face the problem of support. The sense of dependence
gnaws me. The hospitality of my friends is boundless, but I cannot
continue as the beneficiary of their generosity. I had declined the
money gift presented to me on my release by the comrades: I felt I could
not accept even their well-meant offering. The question of earning my
living is growing acute. I cannot remain idle. But what shall I turn to?
I am too weak for factory work. I had hoped to secure employment as a
compositor, but the linotype has made me superfluous. I might be engaged
as a proof-reader. My former membership in the Typographical Union will
enable me to join the ranks of labor.
My physical condition, however, precludes the immediate realization of
my plans. Meanwhile some comrades suggest the advisability of a short
lecture tour: it will bring me in closer contact with the world, and
serve to awaken new interest in life. The idea appeals to me. I shall be
doing work, useful work. I shall voice the cry of the depths, and
perhaps the people will listen, and some may understand!
IX
With a great effort I persevere on the tour. The strain is exhausting my
strength, and I feel weary and discontented. My innate dread of public
speaking is aggravated by the necessity of constant association with
people. The comrades are sympathetic and attentive, but their very care
is a source of annoyance. I long for solitude and quiet. In the midst of
people, the old prison instinct of escape possesses me. Once or twice
the wild idea of terminating the tour has crossed my mind. The thought
is preposterous, impossible. Meetings have already been arranged in
various cities, and my appearance widely announced. It would disgrace
me, and injure the movement, were I to prove myself so irresponsible. I
owe it to the Cause, and to my comrades, to keep my appointments. I must
fight off this morbid notion.
* * * * *
My engagement in Pittsburgh aids my determination. Little did I dream in
the penitentiary that I should live to see that city again, even to
appear in public there! Looking back over the long years of
imprisonment, of persecution and torture, I marvel that I have survived.
Surely it was not alone physical capacity to suffer--how often had I
touched the threshold of death, and trembled on the brink of insanity
and self-destruction! Whatever strength and perseverance I possessed,
they alone could not have saved my reason in the night of the dungeon,
or preserved me in the despair of the solitary. Poor Wingie, Ed Sloane,
and "Fighting" Tom; Harry, Russell, Crazy Smithy--how many of my friends
have perished there! It was the vision of an ideal, the consciousness
that I suffered for a great Cause, that sustained me. The very
exaggeration of my self-estimate was a source of strength: I looked upon
myself as a representative of a world movement; it was my duty to
exemplify the spirit and dignity of the ideas it embodied. I was not a
prisoner, merely; I was an Anarchist in the hands of the enemy; as such,
it devolved upon me to maintain the manhood and self-respect my ideals
signified. The example of the political prisoners in Russia inspired me,
and my stay in the penitentiary was a continuous struggle that was the
breath of life.
Was it the extreme self-consciousness of the idealist, the power of
revolutionary traditions, or simply the persistent will to be? Most
likely, it was the fusing of all three, that shaped my attitude in
prison and kept me alive. And now, on my way to Pittsburgh, I feel the
same spirit within me, at the threat of the local authorities to prevent
my appearance in the city. Some friends seek to persuade me to cancel my
lecture there, alarmed at the police preparations to arrest me.
Something might happen, they warn me: legally I am still a prisoner out
on parole. I am liable to be returned to the penitentiary, without
trial, for the period of my commutation time--eight years and two
months--if convicted of a felony before the expiration of my full
sentence of twenty-two years.
But the menace of the enemy stirs me from apathy, and all my old
revolutionary defiance is roused within me. For the first time during
the tour, I feel a vital interest in life, and am eager to ascend the
platform.
An unfortunate delay on the road brings me into Pittsburgh two hours
late for the lecture. Comrade M---- is impatiently waiting for me, and
we hasten to the meeting. On the way he informs me that the hall is
filled with police and prison guards; the audience is in a state of
great suspense; the rumor has gone about that the authorities are
determined to prevent my appearance.
I sense an air of suppressed excitement, as I enter the hall, and elbow
my way through the crowded aisle. Some one grips my arm, and I recognize
"Southside" Johnny, the friendly prison runner. "Aleck, take care," he
warns me, "the bulls are layin' for you."
X
The meeting is over, the danger past. I feel worn and tired with the
effort of the evening.
My next lecture is to take place in Cleveland, Ohio. The all-night ride
in the stuffy smoker aggravates my fatigue, and sets my nerves on edge.
I arrive in the city feeling feverish and sick. To engage a room in a
hotel would require an extra expense from the proceeds of the tour,
which are intended for the movement; moreover, it would be sybaritism,
contrary to the traditional practice of Anarchist lecturers. I decide to
accept the hospitality of some friend during my stay in the city.
For hours I try to locate the comrade who has charge of arranging the
meetings. At his home I am told that he is absent. His parents, pious
Jews, look at me askance, and refuse to inform me of their son's
whereabouts. The unfriendly attitude of the old folks drives me into the
street again, and I seek out another comrade. His family gathers about
me. Their curious gaze is embarrassing; their questions idle. My pulse
is feverish, my head heavy. I should like to rest up before the lecture,
but a constant stream of comrades flows in on me, and the house rings
with their joy of meeting me. The talking wearies me; their ardent
interest searches my soul with rude hands. These men and women--they,
too, are different from the comrades of my day; their very language
echoes the spirit that has so depressed me in the new Ghetto. The abyss
in our feeling and thought appalls me.
With failing heart I ascend the platform in the evening. It is chilly
outdoors, and the large hall, sparsely filled and badly lit, breathes
the cold of the grave upon me. The audience is unresponsive. The lecture
on Crime and Prisons that so thrilled my Pittsburgh meeting, wakes no
vital chord. I feel dispirited. My voice is weak and expressionless; at
times it drops to a hoarse whisper. I seem to stand at the mouth of a
deep cavern, and everything is dark within. I speak into the blackness;
my words strike metallically against the walls, and are thrown back at
me with mocking emphasis. A sense of weariness and hopelessness
possesses me, and I conclude the lecture abruptly.
The comrades surround me, grasp my hand, and ply me with questions about
my prison life, the joy of liberty and of work. They are undisguisedly
disappointed at my anxiety to retire, but presently it is decided that I
should accept the proffered hospitality of a comrade who owns a large
house in the suburbs.
The ride is interminable, the comrade apparently living several miles
out in the country. On the way he talks incessantly, assuring me
repeatedly that he considers it a great privilege to entertain me. I nod
sleepily.
Finally we arrive. The place is large, but squalid. The low ceilings
press down on my head; the rooms look cheerless and uninhabited.
Exhausted by the day's exertion, I fall into heavy sleep.
Awakening in the morning, I am startled to find a stranger in my bed.
His coat and hat are on the floor, and he lies snoring at my side, with
overshirt and trousers on. He must have fallen into bed very tired,
without even detaching the large cuffs, torn and soiled, that rattle on
his hands.
The sight fills me with inexpressible disgust. All through the years of
my prison life, my nights had been passed in absolute solitude. The
presence of another in my bed is unutterably horrifying. I dress
hurriedly, and rush out of the house.
A heavy drizzle is falling; the air is close and damp. The country looks
cheerless and dreary. But one thought possesses me: to get away from the
stranger snoring in my bed, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the
house with its low ceilings, out into the open, away from the presence
of man. The sight of a human being repels me, the sound of a voice is
torture to me. I want to be alone, always alone, to have peace and
quiet, to lead a simple life in close communion with nature. Ah, nature!
That, too, I have tried, and found more impossible even than the turmoil
of the city. The silence of the woods threatened to drive me mad, as did
the solitude of the dungeon. A curse upon the thing that has
incapacitated me for life, made solitude as hateful as the face of man,
made life itself impossible to me! And is it for this I have yearned and
suffered, for this spectre that haunts my steps, and turns day into a
nightmare--this distortion, Life? Oh, where is the joy of expectation,
the tremulous rapture, as I stood at the door of my cell, hailing the
blush of the dawn, the day of resurrection! Where the happy moments that
lit up the night of misery with the ecstasy of freedom, which was to
give me back to work and joy! Where, where is it all? Is liberty sweet
only in the anticipation, and life a bitter awakening?
The rain has ceased. The sun peeps through the clouds, and glints its
rays upon a shop window. My eye falls on the gleaming barrel of a
revolver. I enter the place, and purchase the weapon.
I walk aimlessly, in a daze. It is beginning to rain again; my body is
chilled to the bone, and I seek the shelter of a saloon on an obscure
street.
In the corner of the dingy back room I notice a girl. She is very young,
with an air of gentility about her, that is somewhat marred by her
quick, restless look.
We sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour outdoors. The girl is
toying with a glass of whiskey.
Angry voices reach us from the street. There is a heavy shuffling of
feet, and a suppressed cry. A woman lurches through the swinging door,
and falls against a table.
The girl rushes to the side of the woman, and assists her into a chair.
"Are you hurt, Madge?" she asks sympathetically.
The woman looks up at her with bleary eyes. She raises her hand, passes
it slowly across her mouth, and spits violently.
"He hit me, the dirty brute," she whimpers, "he hit me. But I sha'n't
give him no money; I just won't, Frenchy."
The girl is tenderly wiping her friend's bleeding face. "Sh-sh, Madge,
sh--sh!" she warns her, with a glance at the approaching waiter.
"Drunk again, you old bitch," the man growls. "You'd better vamoose
now."
"Oh, let her be, Charley, won't you?" the girl coaxes. "And, say, bring
me a bitters."
"The dirty loafer! It's money, always gimme money," the woman mumbles;
"and I've had such bad luck, Frenchy. You know it's true. Don't you,
Frenchy?"
"Yes, yes, dear," the girl soothes her. "Don't talk now. Lean your head
on my shoulder, so! You'll be all right in a minute."
The girl sways to and fro, gently patting the woman on the head, and all
is still in the room. The woman's breathing grows regular and louder.
She snores, and the young girl slowly unwinds her arms and resumes her
seat.
I motion to her. "Will you have a drink with me?"
"With pleasure," she smiles. "Poor thing," she nods toward the sleeper,
"her fellow beats her and takes all she makes."
"You have a kind heart, Frenchy."
"We girls must be good to each other; no one else will. Some men are so
mean, just too mean to live or let others live. But some are nice. Of
course, some twirls are bad, but we ain't all like that and--" she
hesitates.
"And what?"
"Well, some have seen better days. I wasn't always like this," she adds,
gulping down her drink.
Her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy. She asks
abruptly:
"You like poetry?"
"Ye--es. Why?"
"I write. Oh, you don't believe me, do you? Here's something of mine,"
and with a preliminary cough, she begins to recite with exaggerated
feeling:
Mother dear, the days were young
When posies in our garden hung.
Upon your lap my golden head I laid,
With pure and happy heart I prayed.
"I remember those days," she adds wistfully.
We sit in the dusk, without speaking. The lights are turned on, and my
eye falls on a paper lying on the table. The large black print announces
an excursion to Buffalo.
"Will you come with me?" I ask the girl, pointing to the advertisement.
"To Buffalo?"
"Yes."
"You're kidding."
"No. Will you come?"
"Sure."
Alone with me in the stateroom, "Frenchy" grows tender and playful. She
notices my sadness, and tries to amuse me. But I am thinking of the
lecture that is to take place in Cleveland this very hour: the anxiety
of my comrades, the disappointment of the audience, my absence, all prey
on my mind. But who am I, to presume to teach? I have lost my bearings;
there is no place for me in life. My bridges are burned.
The girl is in high spirits, but her jollity angers me. I crave to speak
to her, to share my misery and my grief. I hint at the impossibility of
life, and my superfluity in the world, but she looks bored, not grasping
the significance of my words.
"Don't talk so foolish, boy," she scoffs. "What do you care about work
or a place? You've got money; what more do you want? You better go down
now and fetch something to drink."
Returning to the stateroom, I find "Frenchy" missing. In a sheltered
nook on the deck I recognize her in the lap of a stranger. Heart-sore
and utterly disgusted, I retire to my berth. In the morning I slip
quietly off the boat.
* * * * *
The streets are deserted; the city is asleep. In the fog and rain, the
gray buildings resemble the prison walls, the tall factory chimneys
standing guard like monster sentinels. I hasten away from the hated
sight, and wander along the docks. The mist weaves phantom shapes, and I
see a multitude of people and in their midst a boy, pale, with large,
lustrous eyes. The crowd curses and yells in frenzied passion, and arms
are raised, and blows rain down on the lad's head. The rain beats
heavier, and every drop is a blow. The boy totters and falls to the
ground. The wistful face, the dreamy eyes--why, it is Czolgosz!
Accursed spot! I cannot die here. I must to New York, to be near my
friends in death!
XI
Loud knocking wakes me.
"Say, Mister," a voice calls behind the door, "are you all right?"
"Yes."
"Will you have a bite, or something?"
"No."
"Well, as you please. But you haven't left your room going on two days
now."
* * * * *
Two days, and still alive? The road to death is so short, why suffer? An
instant, and I shall be no more, and only the memory of me will abide
for a little while in this world. _This_ world? Is there another? If
there is anything in Spiritualism, Carl will learn of it. In the prison
we had been interested in the subject, and we had made a compact that he
who is the first to die, should appear in spirit to the other. Pretty
fancy of foolish man, born of immortal vanity! Hereafter, life after
death--children of earth's misery. The disharmony of life bears dreams
of peace and bliss, but there is no harmony save in death. Who knows but
that even then the atoms of my lifeless clay will find no rest, tossed
about in space to form new shapes and new thoughts for aeons of human
anguish.
And so Carl will not see me after death. Our compact will not be kept,
for nothing will remain of my "soul" when I am dead, as nothing remains
of the sum when its units are gone. Dear Carl, he will be distraught at
my failure to come to Detroit. He had arranged a lecture there,
following Cleveland. It is peculiar that I should not have thought of
wiring him that I was unable to attend. He might have suspended
preparations. But it did not occur to me, and now it is too late.
The Girl, too, will be in despair over my disappearance. I cannot notify
her now--I am virtually dead. Yet I crave to see her once more before I
depart, even at a distance. But that also is too late. I am almost dead.
* * * * *
I dress mechanically, and step into the street. The brilliant sunshine,
the people passing me by, the children playing about, strike on my
consciousness with pleasing familiarity. The desire grips me to be one
of them, to participate in their life. And yet it seems strange to think
of myself as part of this moving, breathing humanity. Am I not dead?
I roam about all day. At dusk I am surprised to find myself near the
Girl's home. The fear seizes me that I might be seen and recognized. A
sense of guilt steals over me, and I shrink away, only to return again
and again to the familiar spot.
I pass the night in the park. An old man, a sailor out of work, huddles
close to me, seeking the warmth of my body. But I am cold and cheerless,
and all next day I haunt again the neighborhood of the Girl. An
irresistible force attracts me to the house. Repeatedly I return to my
room and snatch up the weapon, and then rush out again. I am fearful of
being seen near the "Den," and I make long detours to the Battery and
the Bronx, but again and again I find myself watching the entrance and
speculating on the people passing in and out of the house. My mind
pictures the Girl, with her friends about her. What are they discussing,
I wonder. "Why, myself!" it flits through my mind. The thought appalls
me. They must be distraught with anxiety over my disappearance. Perhaps
they think me dead!
I hasten to a telegraph office, and quickly pen a message to the Girl:
"Come. I am waiting here."
In a flurry of suspense I wait for the return of the messenger. A little
girl steps in, and I recognize Tess, and inwardly resent that the Girl
did not come herself.
"Aleck," she falters, "Sonya wasn't home when your message came. I'll
run to find her."
The old dread of people is upon me, and I rush out of the place, hoping
to avoid meeting the Girl. I stumble through the streets, retrace my
steps to the telegraph office, and suddenly come face to face with her.
Her appearance startles me. The fear of death is in her face, mute
horror in her eyes.
"Sasha!" Her hand grips my arm, and she steadies my faltering step.
XII
I open my eyes. The room is light and airy; a soothing quiet pervades
the place. The portieres part noiselessly, and the Girl looks in.
"Awake, Sasha?" She brightens with a happy smile.
"Yes. When did I come here?"
"Several days ago. You've been very sick, but you feel better now, don't
you, dear?"
Several days? I try to recollect my trip to Buffalo, the room on the
Bowery. Was it all a dream?
"Where was I before I came here?" I ask.
"You--you were--absent," she stammers, and in her face is visioned the
experience of my disappearance.
* * * * *
With tender care the Girl ministers to me. I feel like one recovering
from a long illness: very weak, but with a touch of joy in life. No one
is permitted to see me, save one or two of the Girl's nearest friends,
who slip in quietly, pat my hand in mute sympathy, and discreetly
retire. I sense their understanding, and am grateful that they make no
allusion to the events of the past days.
The care of the Girl is unwavering. By degrees I gain strength. The room
is bright and cheerful; the silence of the house soothes me. The warm
sunshine is streaming through the open window; I can see the blue sky,
and the silvery cloudlets. A little bird hops upon the sill, looks
steadily at me, and chirps a greeting. It brings back the memory of
Dick, my feathered pet, and of my friends in prison. I have done nothing
for the agonized men in the dungeon darkness--have I forgotten them? I
have the opportunity; why am I idle?
* * * * *
The Girl calls cheerfully: "Sasha, our friend Philo is here. Would you
like to see him?"
I welcome the comrade whose gentle manner and deep sympathy have
endeared him to me in the days since my return. There is something
unutterably tender about him. The circle had christened him "the
philosopher," and his breadth of understanding and non-invasive
personality have been a great comfort to me.
His voice is low and caressing, like the soft crooning of a mother
rocking her child to sleep. "Life is a problem," he is saying, "a
problem whose solution consists in trying to solve it. Schopenhauer may
have been right," he smiles, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, "but
his love of life was so strong, his need for expression so compelling,
he had to write a big book to prove how useless is all effort. But his
very sincerity disproves him. Life is its own justification. The
disharmony of life is more seeming than real; and what is real of it, is
the folly and blindness of man. To struggle against that folly, is to
create greater harmony, wider possibilities. Artificial barriers
circumscribe and dwarf life, and stifle its manifestations. To break
those barriers down, is to find a vent, to expand, to express oneself.
And that is life, Aleck: a continuous struggle for expression. It
mirrors itself in nature, as in all the phases of man's existence. Look
at the little vine struggling against the fury of the storm, and
clinging with all its might to preserve its hold. Then see it stretch
toward the sunshine, to absorb the light and the warmth, and then freely
give back of itself in multiple form and wealth of color. We call it
beautiful then, for it has found expression. That is life, Aleck, and
thus it manifests itself through all the gradations we call evolution.
The higher the scale, the more varied and complex the manifestations,
and, in turn, the greater the need for expression. To suppress or thwart
it, means decay, death. And in this, Aleck, is to be found the main
source of suffering and misery. The hunger of life storms at the gates
that exclude it from the joy of being, and the individual soul
multiplies its expressions by being mirrored in the collective, as the
little vine mirrors itself in its many flowers, or as the acorn
individualizes itself a thousandfold in the many-leafed oak. But I am
tiring you, Aleck."
"No, no, Philo. Continue; I want to hear more."
"Well, Aleck, as with nature, so with man. Life is never at a
standstill; everywhere and ever it seeks new manifestations, more
expansion. In art, in literature, as in the affairs of men, the struggle
is continual for higher and more intimate expression. That is
progress--the vine reaching for more sunshine and light. Translated into
the language of social life, it means the individualization of the mass,
the finding of a higher level, the climbing over the fences that shut
out life. Everywhere you see this reaching out. The process is
individual and social at the same time, for the species lives in the
individual as much as the individual persists in the species. The
individual comes first; his clarified vision is multiplied in his
immediate environment, and gradually permeates through his generation
and time, deepening the social consciousness and widening the scope of
existence. But perhaps you have not found it so, Aleck, after your many
years of absence?"
"No, dear Philo. What you have said appeals to me very deeply. But I
have found things so different from what I had pictured them. Our
comrades, the movement--it is not what I thought it would be."
"It is quite natural, Aleck. A change has taken place, but its meaning
is apt to be distorted through the dim vision of your long absence. I
know well what you miss, dear friend: the old mode of existence, the
living on the very threshold of the revolution, so to speak. And
everything looks strange to you, and out of joint. But as you stay a
little longer with us, you will see that it is merely a change of form;
the essence is the same. We are the same as before, Aleck, only made
deeper and broader by years and experience. Anarchism has cast off the
swaddling bands of the small, intimate circles of former days; it has
grown to greater maturity, and become a factor in the larger life of
Society. You remember it only as a little mountain spring, around which
clustered a few thirsty travelers in the dreariness of the capitalist
desert. It has since broadened and spread as a strong current that
covers a wide area and forces its way even into the very ocean of life.
You see, dear Aleck, the philosophy of Anarchism is beginning to pervade
every phase of human endeavor. In science, in art, in literature,
everywhere the influence of Anarchist thought is creating new values;
its spirit is vitalizing social movements, and finding interpretation
in life. Indeed, Aleck, we have not worked in vain. Throughout the world
there is a great awakening. Even in this socially most backward country,
the seeds sown are beginning to bear fruit. Times have changed, indeed;
but encouragingly so, Aleck. The leaven of discontent, ever more
conscious and intelligent, is moulding new social thought and new
action. To-day our industrial conditions, for instance, present a
different aspect from those of twenty years ago. It was then possible
for the masters of life to sacrifice to their interests the best friends
of the people. But to-day the spontaneous solidarity and awakened
consciousness of large strata of labor is a guarantee against the
repetition of such judicial murders. It is a most significant sign,
Aleck, and a great inspiration to renewed effort."
* * * * *
The Girl enters. "Are you crooning Sasha to sleep, Philo?" she laughs.
"Oh, no!" I protest, "I'm wide awake and much interested in Philo's
conversation."
"It is getting late," he rejoins. "I must be off to the meeting."
"What meeting?" I inquire,
"The Czolgosz anniversary commemoration."
"I think--I'd like to come along."
"Better not, Sasha," my friend advises. "You need some light
distraction."
"Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre," the Girl suggests.
"Stella has tickets. She'd be happy to have you come, Sasha."
* * * * *
Returning home in the evening, I find the "Den" in great excitement. The
assembled comrades look worried, talk in whispers, and seem to avoid my
glance. I miss several familiar faces.
"Where are the others?" I ask.
The comrades exchange troubled looks, and are silent.
"Has anything happened? Where are they?" I insist.
"I may as well tell you," Philo replies, "but be calm, Sasha. The police
have broken up our meeting. They have clubbed the audience, and arrested
a dozen comrades."
"Is it serious, Philo?"
"I am afraid it is. They are going to make a test case. Under the new
'Criminal Anarchy Law' our comrades may get long terms in prison. They
have taken our most active friends."
* * * * *
The news electrifies me. I feel myself transported into the past, the
days of struggle and persecution. Philo was right! The enemy is
challenging, the struggle is going on!... I see the graves of Waldheim
open, and hear the voices from the tomb.
* * * * *
A deep peace pervades me, and I feel a great joy in my heart.
"Sasha, what is it?" Philo cries in alarm.
"My resurrection, dear friend. I have found work to do."