There were Russians, too, among these gentry—for instance, Stremouhov, a
former officer from the Caucasus who had been begging in Paris as long
ago as 1847, telling a very plausible tale of some duel, an escape, and
so on, and carrying off to the intense exasperation of the servants
everything he could get: old clothes and slippers, winter vests in summer
and cotton trousers in the winter, children’s clothes, ladies’ frippery.
The Russians got up a subscription for him and sent him off to the
Foreign Legion in Algiers. He served there for five years, brought away a
testimonial and again went begging from house to house, telling about the
duel and the escape and adding various Arab adventures. Stremouhov was
growing old and people were both sorry for him and terribly sick of him.
The Russian priest attached to the London Embassy got up a subscription
to send him to Australia. He was given introductions in Melbourne, and he
himself and, what was more important, his fare were put in the captain’s
special care. Stremouhov came to say good-bye to us. We gave him a
complete outfit. I provided him with a warm overcoat, Haug with shirts
and so on. Stremouhov shed tears at parting and said: ‘Say what you like,
gentlemen, but it is no easy thing to go so far away. To break with all
one’s habits, but it must be ...’ and he kissed us and thanked us most
warmly.
I thought that Stremouhov had been for long ages on the banks of the
Victoria River when suddenly I read in _The Times_ that a Russian
officer called Stremouhov had been sentenced to three months’
imprisonment for disorderly behaviour and fighting some one in a tavern
after mutual accusations of theft and so on. Four months after that I was
walking along Oxford Street when it began to rain heavily, and as I had
no umbrella I stood under a gateway. At the very moment when I stopped,
a lanky figure under a wreck of an umbrella whisked hurriedly under
another gateway. I recognised Stremouhov. ‘What, have you come back from
Australia?’ I asked him, looking him straight in the face.
‘Ah, it’s you, and I didn’t recognise you,’ he answered in a faint and
sinking voice, ‘no, not from Australia, but from the hospital where I
have been lying for three months between life and death ... and I don’t
know why I recovered.’
‘In which hospital have you been—St. George’s?’
‘No, not here, in Southampton.’
‘How was it you fell ill and did not let any one know, and how was it you
did not go?’
‘I missed the first train. I went by the next, but the steamer had left.
I stood on the quay. I stood there and almost threw myself into the briny
depths; I went to the Reverend to whom our priest had recommended me.
“The captain,” he said, “has gone; he would not wait an hour.”’
‘And the money?’
‘He left the money with the Reverend.’
‘You took it, of course?’
‘I did, but I got no good out of it. While I was ill they stole
everything from under my pillow, wretches that they are. If only you can
help me!’
‘And here in your absence another Stremouhov has been clapped into
prison, and for three months too, for fighting with a courier. Didn’t you
hear of it?’
‘How could I hear of it, lying between life and death? I believe the rain
is giving over. Good-bye.’
‘You must be careful how you go out in the damp or you will be getting
into hospital again.’
After the Crimean War several prisoners of war, both sailors and
soldiers, were left in London, though they could not themselves say why.
For the most part given to drink, it was some time before they realised
their position. Some of them asked the Embassy to intercede for them, to
take up their cause, _aber was macht es denn dem Herrn Baron von Brunow!_
They were an extremely melancholy spectacle, tattered and emaciated; they
would sometimes cringingly, sometimes with insolence (rather unpleasant
in a narrow street after ten o’clock at night), ask for money.
In 1853 several sailors ran away from a man-of-war at Portsmouth. Some of
them were brought back in accordance with the absurd law which applies
exclusively to sailors. Several of them escaped and walked on foot from
Portsmouth to London. One of them, a young man of two-and-twenty with a
good-natured and open face, was a shoemaker and could make _schlippers_
as he called them. I bought him tools and gave him money, but he could
not get work.
It was just then that Garibaldi was sailing with his ship, _The
Commonwealth_, to Genoa, and I asked him to take the young man with
him. Garibaldi engaged him at a wage of £1 a month, promising to raise
it to £2 a month in a year’s time if he should behave well. The sailor
of course agreed, took £2 in advance from Garibaldi and brought his
belongings on to the ship.
The day after Garibaldi had left, the sailor came to me, red in the face,
drowsy and bloated-looking.
‘What has happened?’ I asked him.
‘A misfortune, your honour. I was too late for the ship.’
‘How did you come to be late?’
The sailor fell on his knees and whimpered unnaturally. The position
was not hopeless. The boat had gone to Newcastle-on-Tyne for coal. ‘I
will send you there by rail,’ I said to him, ‘but if you are too late
again this time, remember that I will do nothing for you even if you are
starving. And as the fare to Newcastle is over £1, and I would not trust
you with a shilling, I shall send for a friend and ask him to take charge
of you all night and put you into the train.’
‘I will pray for your honour all my life long!’
The friend who undertook to despatch him came to me and reported that he
had seen the sailor off.
Imagine my amazement when three days later the sailor appeared with a
Pole.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ I shouted at him, shaking with genuine
fury. But before the sailor could open his lips, his companion proceeded
to defend him in broken Russian, bathing his words in an atmosphere of
tobacco, wine and spirits.
‘Who are you?’
‘A Polish nobleman.’
‘Every one is a nobleman in Poland. Why have you come to me with this
scoundrel?’
The nobleman was cheeky. I observed dryly that I was not acquainted with
him, and that his presence in my room was so strange that I might call a
policeman and have him removed.
I looked at the sailor. Three days of the aristocratic company of a
nobleman had greatly advanced his education. He was not crying, but was
looking at me with drunken insolence.
‘I was taken very ill, your honour, I thought I should give up my soul to
God, but I got a little better when the train had gone.’
‘Where were you taken ill, then?’
‘On the way, that is, at the railway station.’
‘Why didn’t you go by the next train?’
‘I never thought of it, and besides, not knowing the language....’
‘Where is your ticket?’
‘Why, I have no ticket.’
‘How is that?’
‘I gave it up to a man.’
‘Well, now you can look out for other people; only be sure of one thing,
I will never help you in any case.’
‘But excuse me,’ the nobleman interposed.
‘Sir, I have nothing to say to you and desire to hear nothing from you.’
Swearing at me through his teeth, he went off with his Telemachus,
probably to the nearest public-house.
Another step downward....
Perhaps many people will ask me wonderingly what further step downward
there can be. But there _is_ a rather _great_ one—only here things are
obscure and one must step warily. I had not the _pruderie_ of Schoelcher,
and the author of the poem in which Christ converses with Marshal Bugeaud
seemed to me even more amusing after his heroic sufferings _pour un
vol avec effraction_. Even if he did steal something and break a lock,
goodness knows what he had suffered for it, and then he had toiled for
some years, perhaps with a cannon-ball chained to his legs. He had ranged
against him not only the man he had robbed but the whole State and
society, the church, the army, the police, the law, all honest men who do
not need to rob, as well as all dishonest ones who have not been caught
and tried. There are thieves of another kind, rewarded by the Government,
cherished by the authorities, blessed by the Church, protected by the
army, and not persecuted by the police, because they themselves belong
to it; these men do not filch handkerchiefs, but conversations, letters,
glances. Exile-spies are doubly spies.... With them the utmost limit of
vice and depravity is reached; below them, as below Dante’s ‘Lucifer,’
there is nothing, every step from that lowest depth is upward.
The French are great artists in this line. They are capable of adroitly
combining the externals of culture, enthusiastic phrases, the _aplomb_ of
a man whose conscience is clear and whose _point d’honneur_ is sensitive,
with the duties of a spy. Begin to suspect him, and he will challenge you
to a duel; he will fight, and fight bravely too.
The memoirs of Delahodde,[10] of Chenu,[11] and of Schnepf are a
treasure-house for the study of the filth to which civilisation leads its
vicious children. Delahodde naïvely prints that in betraying his friends
he was obliged to be as artful with them ‘as a sportsman is with game.’
Delahodde is the Alcibiades of espionage.
A young man of literary education and radical views, he came from the
provinces to Paris, poor as Job, and asked for work at the offices of
La Réforme. He was given work of some sort and did it well; little by
little he got on to friendly terms with the staff. He obtained an entry
into political circles, learnt a great deal of what was being done in the
Republican party, and continued working for several years, still on the
most friendly terms with his colleagues.
When, after the revolution of February, Caussidière went through the
papers at the Prefecture, he found that Delahodde had all this time with
the greatest accuracy furnished reports to the police of what was being
done at the office of La Réforme. Caussidière sent for Delahodde to come
to Albert’s; there witnesses awaited him. Delahodde came, suspecting
nothing, tried to defend himself, but then, seeing the impossibility,
admitted that he had written letters to the Prefect. The question arose
what was to be done with him. Some thought, and they were perfectly
right, that he should be shot on the spot like a dog. Albert opposed this
more than any one, and did not want to have a man killed _in his flat_.
Caussidière offered him a loaded pistol to shoot himself. Delahodde
refused. Some one asked him whether he would like poison. Poison, too,
he refused, but on his way to prison, like a sensible person, asked for
a mug of beer. This is a fact told me by the deputy-mayor of the twelfth
arrondissement, who accompanied him.
When the reaction began to get the upper hand and Delahodde was let out
of prison, he went away to England, but when the reaction was completely
triumphant he returned to Paris, and was a prominent figure at the
theatre and at public gatherings as a lion of a peculiar species; after
that, he published his memoirs.
Spies are invariably to be found in all groups of exiles; they are
recognised, discovered, beaten, but they do their job with complete
success. In Paris the police know all the secrets of London; the day
of Delescluze’s,[12] and afterwards of Boichot’s,[13] secret arrival
in France was so well known that they were seized at Calais as soon as
they stepped off the boat. At the trial of the Communists at Cologne,
documents and letters were read that had been ‘bought in London,’ as the
Prussian commissioner of police naïvely admitted at the trial.
In 1849 I made the acquaintance of an exiled Austrian journalist called
Engländer. He was very clever and very sarcastic, and later on published
a series of lively articles on the historical development of Socialism in
Kolatchek’s _Jahrbücher_. This Engländer had been imprisoned in Paris in
connection with the case called the ‘Case of the Correspondents.’
All sorts of rumours were current about him; at last he turned up himself
in London. Here another Austrian exile, Dr. Hefner, who was greatly
respected by his fellow-countrymen, said that Engländer had been in the
pay of the Prefect in Paris, and that he had been put in prison for
infidelity to the French police, who were jealous of the Austrian embassy
in whose service he was also employed. Engländer led a dissipated life,
which needs plenty of money, and the Prefect alone apparently did not
provide enough.
The German exiles discussed it and discussed it, and sent for Engländer
to answer these charges. Engländer tried to turn it off with a joke, but
Hefner was relentless. Then the unfaithful consort of the two polices
leapt up with a flushed face and tears in his eyes, and said: ‘Well,
then, I _am_ guilty to a great extent, but it is not for him to accuse
me’; and he flung on the table a letter from the Prefect which made it
clear that Hefner, too, was receiving payment from him.
There was living in Paris a certain N., also an Austrian refugee. I made
his acquaintance at the end of 1848. His comrades used to describe an
extraordinarily valiant action performed by him during the revolution in
Vienna. The insurgents were short of gunpowder. N. undertook to bring
it by rail, and brought it. A married man with children, he was in
great poverty in Paris. In 1853 I found him in London in great straits;
he was living with his family in two small rooms in one of the poorest
back-streets of Soho. Nothing succeeded that he undertook. He set up a
laundry in which his wife and another exile washed the linen, while N.
delivered it; but the comrade went away to America and the laundry failed.
He wanted to get a job in a commercial office, and being a very
intelligent fellow and well educated, he might have earned a good salary
but for references; without references you cannot take a step in England.
I gave him my name as one: and in connection with this introduction a
German refugee, O., observed to me that it was a mistake on my part to do
so, that the man did not enjoy a good reputation and was supposed to be
in relations with the French police.
About that time Reihel brought my children to London. He took great
interest in N. I told him what was said about the latter.
Reihel laughed heartily; he was ready to answer for N. as for himself,
and pointed to his poverty as the best refutation of the charge. This
last consideration to some extent convinced me, too. In the evening
Reihel went out for a walk and came back late, looking pale and upset. He
came in to me for a minute, and complaining of a violent sick headache
was about to go to bed. I looked at him and said:—
‘You have something on your mind. _Heraus damit!_’
‘Yes, you have guessed right ... but first give me your word of honour
that you will tell no one.’
‘I daresay, but what nonsense! Leave it to my conscience.’
‘I could not rest after hearing from you about N., and in spite of the
promise I had given to you I made up my mind to question him, and have
been to see him. His wife is going to be confined in a day or two, their
poverty is awful.... What it cost me to begin to speak! I called him out
into the street, and at last, plucking up all my courage, said to him:
“Do you know that Herzen was warned of this and that? I am convinced that
it is a calumny. Do let me clear up the business.” “I thank you,” he
answered me gloomily, “but that is not necessary; I know where the story
comes from. In a moment of despair, starving, I offered the Prefect in
Paris my services to keep him _au courant_ with news of the exiles. He
sent me three hundred francs and I have never written to him since.”’
Reihel was almost weeping.
‘Listen,’ I said: ‘until his wife has been confined and is recovered,
I give you my word not to speak. Let him get a job in an office and
leave political circles, but if I hear fresh evidence and he is still in
relations with the exiles I will show him up. Damn the fellow!’
Reihel went away. Ten days later at dinner-time N. came in to see me,
pale and in distress. ‘You can imagine,’ he said, ‘how hard it is for
me to take this step; but look where I will, I can see no hope of help
except from you. My wife will be brought to bed within a few hours, we
have neither coal nor tea nor a cup of milk in the house, not a farthing,
nor one woman who will help, nor means to send for a doctor.’ Utterly
exhausted, he sank on to a chair, and hiding his face in his hands said:
‘The only thing left for me is to blow out my brains, anyway I shall not
see this misery.’
I sent at once to kind-hearted Paul Darasz, gave N. some money, and
soothed him as far as I could. Next day Darasz came to tell me that the
birth had gone off well.
Meanwhile the rumour, which had probably originated in personal enmity,
of N.’s connections with the French police was more and more widely
circulated, and at last T., a well-known Vienna _clubiste_ and agitator,
whose speech led the populace to hang Latour,[14] asserted right and
left that he had himself read a letter from the Prefect accompanying a
despatch of money. Evidently N.’s exposure was of great moment to T. He
came himself to me to confirm N.’s guilt.
My position was becoming difficult. Haug was living with me; hitherto I
had said no word to him, but now this reticence was becoming indelicate
and dangerous. I told him about it, making no mention of Reihel, as I
did not want to mix him up in the drama, which seemed to offer every
possibility of a fifth act in a police court or at the Old Bailey. What
I had dreaded beforehand was just what happened, ‘the Bouillon boiled
over.’[15] I could scarcely pacify Haug and restrain him from marching
off to N.’s garret. I knew that N. must come to us with some manuscripts
he had been copying, and advised him to await his arrival. Haug agreed,
and one morning ran in to me, pale with fury, and announced that N. was
below. I made haste to throw my papers into the table drawer and go down.
Haug was shouting and N. was shouting. The interchange was already rather
violent. The strength of the bad language was increasing and increasing.
The expression of N.’s face, contorted by resentment and shame, was
sinister. Haug was intensely excited and confused. As things were going,
it was far easier to come to splitting skulls than reaching the truth.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said suddenly in the midst of their talk, ‘allow me to
stop you for a moment.’
They stopped.
‘It seems to me that you are spoiling your case by overheat; before
abusing each other you ought to put the question quite clearly——’
‘Whether I am a spy or not?’ shouted N. ‘I will allow no man on earth to
put such a question to me.’
‘No, that is not the question I meant; you are accused by a certain
person, and not by him alone, of having received money from the Prefect
of Police at Paris.’
‘Who is that person?’
‘T.’
‘He is a blackguard.’
‘That is not the point. Have you received money or not?’
‘I have,’ said N. with strained composure, looking Haug and me in the
face. Haug made a convulsive grimace and uttered a sort of moan of
impatience to begin reviling N. again. I took Haug by the hand and said:
‘Well, that is all we want.’
‘No, it is not all,’ answered N. ‘You ought to know that I have never
compromised any one by a single line.’
‘That fact can only be confirmed by your correspondent Pietri, and he is
not an acquaintance of ours.’
‘Well, am I a criminal and you my judges or what? What makes you imagine
that I am bound to justify myself to you? I think too highly of my own
dignity to let it depend on the opinion of any one like Haug or you.
I will never set my foot again within this house,’ added N., proudly
putting on his hat and opening the door. ‘You may be perfectly sure of
that,’ I said after him. He slammed the door and went out. Haug was
for plunging after him, but, laughing, I held him back and paraphrased
the words of Siéyès: ‘_Nous sommes aujourd’hui ce que nous avons été
hier—déjeunons!_’
N. went straight off to T. The bulky, shiny Silenus of whom Mazzini once
said, ‘I always think that he has been fried in olive oil and not wiped
afterwards,’ had not yet left his bed. The door opened, and before him
stood N. with drowsy and puffy eyes.
‘You told Herzen that I received money from the Prefect?’
‘I did.’
‘What for?’
‘Because you have.’
‘Though you knew that I have sent no report. Take that for it.’ With
these words N. spat into T.’s face and walked out.... The infuriated
Silenus, determined to be quits with him, leapt from his bed, snatched
up the chamber-pot, and seizing his chance as N. descended the stairs,
emptied the contents on his head, saying as he did so: ‘And you take
that.’ This epilogue diverted me unspeakably.
‘You see how well I did,’ I said to Haug, ‘to stop you. Why, what could
you have done to the head of the luckless correspondent of Pietri equal
to that? He won’t be dry till the Second Coming.’
One would have thought the thing must have ended with this German
vendetta, but there is still a little sequel to this epilogue. An old
gentleman called V., I am told a kind and honest man, undertook to defend
N. He called together a committee of Germans, and invited me as _one of
the accusers_. I wrote to him that I should not come to the committee,
that all I knew about it was limited to the fact that N. in my presence
had confessed to Haug that he had received money from the Prefect. V.
was not satisfied with this; he wrote to me that N. was guilty in fact,
but morally blameless, and enclosed a letter of N.’s to him. N., among
other things, drew his attention to the _strangeness_ of my behaviour.
‘Herzen,’ he said, ‘knew about that money long before from Mr. Reihel,
and not only said nothing till T. made his accusation, but even gave me
two pounds after that, and when my wife was ill, sent the doctor at his
own expense!’
_Sehr gut!_