THE ‘SHADOW’ OF HARTMANN.
It was with a light heart that I made my way to the Northertons’ the
following afternoon. The prospect of a chat with the smart old gentleman
and his ladies was delightful, and my only apprehensions concerned the
assemblage I possibly might find there. As a rule receptions of this
sort are tedious; prolific only of dyspepsia and boring conversations.
Upper middle-class mediocrity swarms round Mammon, and Mammon, the cult
of the senses apart, is uninteresting. With Mill I was always of opinion
that the thinker is corrupted by the pettinesses of ordinary “social”
intercourse. True, one occasionally meets a celebrity, but celebrities
who are not professional talkers are best left unseen—their repute
usually so outshines their deportment and conversation. Still, the
celebrity is tolerable provided that not too much incense is required.
The same thing cannot be said of the camp-following of mediocrities: of
contact with this the effects may be as serious as they will certainly
prove painful to a well-wisher of the human species. Happily, I rarely
suffered at the Northertons’. Ever and anon lions stalked through their
premises, and the legions of well-to-do imbeciles thronged them. But
there was generally the host or hostess to fall back upon, to say
nothing of the companionship of Lena, to whom, if the secret must be
revealed, I had for some time been engaged. The understanding was for
the present to be privy to ourselves, but I had no reason to suppose
that her worthy parents would have cause to object to the match. My
politics, which might have scared most people of their standing, merely
interested the ex-commissioner and were wholly indifferent to his wife.
But still it was satisfactory to think that Lena would shortly come of
age, and that our joint means would be sufficient to enable us to ignore
any probable obstacles. Old Mr. Matthews’s legacy had removed the last
formidable barrier.
Two years before I had the good fortune to meet the family, on that
memorable occasion when I was so hurriedly summoned from Egypt. The
promenade deck of a P. and O. steamer offers boundless facilities for
forming friendships, and during the brief interval which bridged my
start from Suez and arrival at London, I was not slow in harvesting
these advantages to the full. Old Mr. Northerton was returning home
after serving his time in the Indian Civil Service, and with him were
his wife, his two sons, and an only daughter. My singular interest in
the family hinged mainly on the latter, a charming young girl of some
eighteen summers. What that interest culminated in I have already said.
It only remains to add that the cordial relations set up between the
family and myself were never allowed to drop. The two sons were now
serving on the Indian Staff Corps, but I corresponded with them ever and
anon, and even reckoned the younger among my numerous socialist
proselytes. Old Northerton was well aware of this, and though himself a
Liberal of the old school, had no reproach for the teacher. After all a
“sub” reading Karl Marx under the punkahs of Dum-Dum was scarcely a
formidable convert.
A short walk carried me to the terrace, and ere long I was being warmly
greeted by the only three available members of the family. Mrs.
Northerton was too busy with her guests to pay me much attention, so
after a few explanations and regrets for the spoilt trip, I was borne
off in charge of the genial commissioner.
“Well, how go your election prospects?” he said, as cheerily as if my
programme favoured his class.
“Not as well as I could wish. They say I am too moderate for the
constituency. You know, of course, that Lawler, a ‘blood and thunder’
tub-thumper, is standing against me in the interests of the extreme
party.”
“So I hear, but I should scarcely have thought he would have stood a
chance.”
“On the contrary, I assure you he speaks for a numerous and very ugly
party—a party which arrears of legislation have done as much as anything
to create. Talking of this, I am not at all sure that we may not have
trouble before long. I shall do my best to have the peace kept, but
there’s no knowing to what the more reckless agitators may drive the
mob.”
“There I agree with you, sir,” broke in an acute-looking old gentleman
with spectacles; “but how do you reconcile that opinion with your own
doctrines? How can you speak and write for socialism when you grumble at
its practical enforcement? You state that you oppose revolution, but is
a constitutional settlement of the problem possible?”
“Why not? You must remember that a large section of us socialists is
against revolution. Looking back at the graduated nature of the
transition between feudalism and modern capitalism, these men would
meditate, if possible, a similar though perhaps more rapid transition
between modern capitalism and socialism. Any sudden metamorphosis of
society would, they believe, breed appalling evils. I am quite of this
way of thinking myself.”
My interlocutor laughed. He evidently thought me a reasonable enough
creature for my kind. The commissioner remarked that it was a pity that
all the party were not of my way of thinking.
“But,” I added, “I have no hesitation in saying that if I thought a
revolution would pay, for revolution I would declare myself. It is only
a question of cost complicated by dangers of reaction and anarchy. The
consideration which weighs most with me is the difficulty of organizing
and legislating at a time when panic and brutality would be rampant. I
know no men competent to stand at the helm in such tempests. Even with
civil peace to help us, a settlement would require, to my thinking,
years of patient labour. Mere revolutionary conventions, with some
ready-made constitution and brand-new panaceas for suffering, would be
impotent.”
“Impotent,” echoed the old gentleman. “By the way, you have not answered
my question.”
“The object, sir, of my agitation is to force the projected reforms on
public attention, and so to secure that most important of allies, an
effective mob-backing. But let me add that once elected to Parliament I
am prepared to stand by any Government, Tory or Radical, in supporting
the cause of order. We contend that should the revolutionary socialists
or the anarchists initiate a crusade in the streets, they must take the
consequences of their temerity.”
“Well said,” observed the ex-commissioner. “I notice in this regard that
some very disquieting rumours are afloat. Not only are many of the East
and South London workers becoming dangerous, but these miscreants, the
anarchists, are moving. You remember the fiendish massacre ten years
back when Hartmann blew up the bridge?”
“Rather.”
“Well, the police have had information that this wretch is not dead
after all. At the present moment he is believed to be in England
stirring up more mischief.”
“The deuce he is!” cried the old gentleman. “I hope they will run him to
earth.”
At this point our colloquy was broken off by Lena, who sailed gracefully
through the crowd.
“I want you for a moment, Mr. Stanley. A friend of mine, Mrs. Gryffyn,
is very anxious to make your acquaintance. She’s mad about land law
reform and women’s suffrage.”
The old gentleman grinned and Mr. Northerton eyed me pityingly. There
was no escape from the inquisitor. “Why on earth couldn’t you spare me
this, Lena?” I whispered. “I want a talk with you all alone, not an hour
with this virago.”
“Oh, it’s all right. I shall keep you company, and as she is going soon
we shall be able to get into a quiet nook and have a long chat.”
The ordeal over, I had the luxury of a _tête-à-tête_ with my _fiancée_,
and excellent use I made of the limited time at my disposal. I was very
fond of Lena, who was not only a charmingly pretty girl, but, thank
goodness! sympathized most cordially with the bulk of my political
opinions. She never of course mixed with the peculiar circles I
frequented, but dearly loved to follow my reports of the movements which
they represented. The only person remotely connected with them she knew
was Mrs. Hartmann, to whose house I had brought her in the hope that the
old lady might find a friend. Lena was often to be seen in the little
parlour at Islington, and knew probably more about the poor widow’s
troubles than any one else. As her parents gave her complete freedom of
action, she had plenty of opportunities for cultivating the
acquaintance. After our private confidences had been duly exchanged, the
conversation naturally drifted to this topic. I was anxious to know
about the old lady’s welfare, and casually mentioned the rumour which
concerned her son. “Had it reached her ears?”
[Illustration: LENA WANTS ME.]
“I am sure I don’t know,” said Lena; “she seemed in marvellously good
spirits when I saw her last, but she made no allusion whatever to the
subject. How could she, when you come to think of it? It is all very
well rejoicing over a prodigal son’s return, but this son was a fiend,
and would be much better lying quiet at the bottom of the sea, where
people imagined him.”
“But you forget, dear, that he was her only son, and always good to
her.”
“That’s true, but look at the blood on his hands. By the bye, Mrs.
Hartmann once told me the whole story. Hartmann, you know, was educated
for the profession of an engineer, and was always looked on as a prodigy
of intellectual vigour. Whatever he did he did well, and as he came into
a considerable fortune when of age, a brilliant career was predicted for
him. Mrs. Hartmann says that at that time she never knew he had any
other interests than those of his calling, but it appears from later
discoveries that when twenty-three years of age he made the acquaintance
of a German exile, one Schwartz, a miscreant of notorious opinions and
character. This man gradually inspired him with a hatred of the whole
fabric of society, and the end of it was that he became an anarchist.
That Hartmann was deeply in earnest seems perfectly clear. He sacrificed
to his aim, position, comfort, reputation, his studies—in short,
everything. He regarded civilization as rotten from top to foundation,
and the present human race as ‘only fit for fuel.’ Schwartz was a
pessimist, and his pupil became one of an even deeper dye.”
“But what was his ultimate aim?”
“He thought, like some eighteenth-century writers, that man must revert
to simpler conditions of life and make a new start. He hoped, so his
mother says, that his example would fire the minds of others, and so
topple over the very pedestals of governments and law. It was absurd, he
held, for a few men to war against society, but, he added, the affection
he laboured under was catching. He trusted that one day London and the
great cities of Europe would lie in ruins.”
“But,” I interposed, “this is fanaticism, or rather madness. It is a
_disease_ bred by an effete form of civilization. Is this all the wily
anarchist plotted for?”
“Well, it’s a pretty large ‘all,’ is it not? By the way, he had one
persistent craze, the belief in some invention which was one day to
place society at his mercy.”
“So? Awkward that for society.”
We talked for some time longer, when I called my appointment to mind,
and tearing myself away from my kind friends sallied forth into the
street. It was not easy to refuse the ex-commissioner’s invitation to
dinner in view of Burnett’s dismal parlour at Stepney. Still I was not a
little interested in his guest, and anxious, so far as was possible, to
keep Burnett himself out of mischief. Hitherto he had been a mere
theorist with a very kindly side, and there seemed no reason why, with
care, he should not remain one. But he required, so I thought, watching.
With these thoughts uppermost in my mind I hailed a hansom, and ordered
the driver to drop me in the East End in a road running hard by the
anarchist’s house.
* * * * *
I can recall my entrance into that parlour most vividly. Burnett had let
me in with his usual caution. Whisking off my coat I followed him to the
parlour. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, and the gleam of
the flames—the only light in the room—lit up a whisky-bottle and some
glasses on the table, and ever and anon revealed the rude prints on the
walls and the rough deal shelves heaped with books. Everything smelt of
the practical. In the place of the Louis XIV. furniture of the
Northertons’ only a wooden table and some three or four deal chairs met
the eye, the sole article rejoicing in a cushion being a rudely-carved
sofa in the corner. The single window, I noticed, was carefully
curtained and barred. Stepping toward the mantelpiece Burnett struck a
match, and proceeded to light a couple of candles which crowned that
dusty eminence.
I then saw to my surprise that we were not alone. On a chair by the
left-hand corner of the fire sat an elderly man apparently of the higher
artisan class. His face was most unprepossessing. There was a bull-dog’s
obstinacy and attachment about it, but the eyes were unspeakably wicked
and the mouth hard and cruel. I diagnosed it at once as that of a man
whose past was best unread, whose hand had in dark by-ways been
persistently raised against his fellowmen. It takes time to analyze this
impression, but originally it seized me in a moment. I was prejudiced,
accordingly, at the outset, but judge of my astonishment and disgust
when Burnett cried, “Here, Schwartz, is my old pal Stanley.” It was the
shameless miscreant known as the shadow of Hartmann!
Coldly enough I took the proffered hand. So this was the fanatic
supposed to be long ago dead. One felt like abetting a murderer.
“Stanley seems startled,” laughed Burnett. “He is not much accustomed to
high life. Come, man, acknowledge you had a surprise.”
The meeting was half of my seeking, and decency after all forbade openly
expressed dislike. Besides, Schwartz was in practice only what Burnett
was in theory, and what possibly even I and other moderates might become
at a pinch.
“I confess,” I replied, “I was taken somewhat aback. It is seldom the
sea gives up its dead, and one does not meet celebrities like Herr
Schwartz every day.”
Schwartz laughed grimly. I could see he was pleasantly tickled.
Monstrous conceits sprout from the shedding of blood. He seemed to
chuckle that he, outcast and rebel, had hurled so many of his fellows
into nothingness. If this was the man, what of the master?
“Fill up your glass, Stanley,” and Burnett pushed the whisky across the
table. “Sit down and ask what questions you like.”
Schwartz looked me carefully over. “You say again that you answer for
this friend,” he muttered to Burnett.
“As I would for myself.”
“It is well.”
“Hartmann is alive then,” I ventured, “after all?”
“Very much so,” put in Burnett. “The most he got was a wetting. He and
Schwartz were picked up by a fishing-boat and carried to Dieppe. Hence
they made their way to Switzerland, where they have been for some years.
Hartmann had money, Schwartz devotion. Money bred money—they grew rich,
and they will yet lead anarchy to triumph, for at last, after long years
of danger, delay, and disappointment, the dream of Hartmann is
realized!”
My companions exchanged meaning glances. Evidently they were in high
spirits.
“And the deputy, the socialist, will he join us?” cried Schwartz. “He
will have no struggles, no dangers; he will tread capital underfoot; he
will raise his hand, and fortresses will rattle around him.”
Both the anarchists broke into renewed laughter. I was tired of
hyperbole and wished to get at the facts. But do what I would my men
refused to be “squeezed.” For a long time I could only glean from them
that Hartmann was in London, and plotting mischief on some hitherto
unimagined scale. At last I grew irritated at the splutter.
“Nonsense, Herr Schwartz, nonsense! Stir a step worth the noting and the
very workers will rise and crush you. I tell you your notions are
fantastic, your campaign against society maniacal. How can a few
scattered incendiaries or dynamiters, ceaselessly dodging the law, hope
to defy a state? The thing is ridiculous. As well match a pop-gun
against a Woolwich infant.”
“My friend speaks of a struggle such as one man might wage against a mob
in the street. It is not for this that Hartmann has plotted so long. It
is not to be shot by soldiers or hunted by police that he will once more
shake this city. Do you wish to guess his weapon? Take this piece of
stuff in your hand, and tell me what you think of it.”
As he spoke he rummaged his pockets and produced a small plate,
apparently of silvery grey metal, of about two square inches of surface,
and one-tenth of an inch or so in thickness. I examined it carefully.
“Now take this steel knife and hammer and test its hardness and
texture.” I did so. Burnett looked on knowingly.
“Well, it is extremely tough and hard, for I can make no impression.
What it is, however, I can’t say.”
“But its weight, its weight!” said Burnett.
I must have changed colour. “Why, it is as light or lighter than
cardboard. What an extraordinary combination of attributes!”
“Extraordinary indeed! It is the grandest of Hartmann’s strokes! But you
cannot guess its use?”
I shook my head.
“Well, suppose you try to think it out between now and Saturday night,
when I will promise to introduce you to the inventor himself.”
“What, Hartmann?”
“Yes; let us see, you address a meeting down at Turner’s Hall in this
quarter on Saturday. I will be in the audience, and we will beard the
captain in company. Midnight, Kensington Gardens, by the pond to the
left as you enter from the Queen’s Road—that is the _rendezvous_. Come,
are you ready? I think I may tell you that you will run no risks, while
at any rate you will see something strange beyond compare.”
[Illustration: “YOU CANNOT GUESS ITS USE?”]
I hesitated, the mystery was deepening, and to confront and “have it
out” with the celebrated, if hateful, anarchist, would be interesting.
And these queer hints too?
“Yes, I’m your man; but we must have no companions—for obvious reasons.”
Burnett nodded. Shortly afterwards the obnoxious German took his
departure and left us to ourselves. I am not sure that he quite trusted
my intentions, for the dread of the police spy was ever present with
him.
We two talked on till midnight. On rising to go I made a final effort to
“squeeze” the anarchist.
“Come, John, it’s no use playing the mystery man any longer. I shall
know everything by Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning. You trust
me with your other secrets, trust me with this; at any rate, a three
days’ interval can’t make much difference.”
Burnett thought a moment, stepped to his shelves, and took down a work
of somewhat antique binding. It was from the pen of a nineteenth-century
savant of high repute in his day.[1] Slowly, and without comment, he
read me the following passage:—“Yet there is a real impediment in the
way of man navigating the air, and that is the excessive weight of the
only great mechanical moving powers hitherto placed at his disposal.
When science shall have discovered some moving power greatly lighter
than any we yet know, in all probability the problem will be solved.”
Footnote 1:
Duke of Argyll, _Reign of Law_.
_The silvery grey substance had solved it!_