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+Project Gutenberg's Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Berkman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist
+
+Author: Alexander Berkman
+
+Release Date: November 22, 2010 [EBook #34406]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+            [Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY]
+
+
+
+
+                            PRISON MEMOIRS
+                                OF AN
+                              ANARCHIST
+
+                                  BY
+
+                          ALEXANDER BERKMAN
+
+
+                               NEW YORK
+                 MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION
+                                 1912
+
+
+
+
+                      Published September, 1912
+                         Second Edition, 1920
+
+
+                     241 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+                To all those who in and out of prison
+                     fight against their bondage
+
+
+
+
+                "But this I know, that every Law
+                  That men have made for Man,
+                Since first Man took his brother's life,
+                  And the sad world began,
+                But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+                  With a most evil fan."
+
+                                                     OSCAR WILDE
+
+
+
+
+                   [Illustration: Alexander Berkman
+                        Photo by Marcia Stein]
+
+
+
+
+AS INTRODUCTORY
+
+
+I wish that everybody in the world would read this book. And my reasons
+are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group
+of social philosophers or revolutionists. I desire that the book be
+widely read because the general and careful reading of it would
+definitely add to true civilization.
+
+It is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization; for the
+following reasons:
+
+It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be sincere. More than
+that, it is a valuable thing. To be so, means unusual qualities of the
+heart and of the head; unusual qualities of character. The books that
+possess this quality are unusual books. There are not many deliberately
+autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere; there are not many
+direct human documents. This is one of these few books.
+
+Not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is
+also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. Alexander Berkman
+spent fourteen years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly harsh
+and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the
+mind and pervert the character. Berkman consciously struggled with these
+adverse, destructive conditions. He took care of his body. He took care
+of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was a moral effort. He felt
+insane ideas trying to take possession of him. Insanity is a natural
+result of prison life. It always tends to come. This man felt it,
+consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That the prison
+affected him is true. It always does. But he saved himself, essentially.
+Society tried to destroy him, but failed.
+
+If people will read this book carefully it will tend to do away with
+prisons. The public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and
+must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book
+that I know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing
+psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture after picture, sketch
+after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness
+permeating the institution, but, very touching, it shows the good
+qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized,
+helplessly struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing
+themselves. And the personality of Berkman goes through it all;
+idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful; not
+untouched, as I have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his
+essential self.
+
+What lessons there are in this book! Like all truthful documents it
+makes us love and hate our fellow men, doubt ourselves, doubt our
+society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards
+life, and not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation
+painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present simplicity of
+our moral attitudes. It tends to make us more mature.
+
+The above are the main reasons why I should like to have everybody read
+this book.
+
+But there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and
+valuable in a more special, more limited way; aspects in which only
+comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the
+opposition and hostility of many. The Russian Nihilistic origin of
+Berkman, his Anarchistic experience in America, his attempt on the life
+of Frick--an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt
+made as a result of a sincere if fanatical belief that he was called on
+by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the
+community--this part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and
+disapproval of his ideas and his act. But I see no reason why this, with
+the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a
+human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and
+psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not try to understand
+an honest man even if he feels called on to kill? There, too, it may be
+deeply instructive. There, too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a
+combative spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of course,
+but read to see.
+
+                                                   HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  CHAPTER                                               PAGE
+  Part I: The Awakening and Its Toll
+        I. THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD                           1
+       II. THE SEAT OF WAR                                23
+      III. THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH                       28
+       IV. THE ATTENTAT                                   33
+        V. THE THIRD DEGREE                               36
+       VI. THE JAIL                                       44
+      VII. THE TRIAL                                      89
+
+  Part II: The Penitentiary
+        I. DESPERATE THOUGHTS                             95
+       II. THE WILL TO LIVE                              113
+      III. SPECTRAL SILENCE                              120
+       IV. A RAY OF LIGHT                                124
+        V. THE SHOP                                      128
+       VI. MY FIRST LETTER                               136
+      VII. WINGIE                                        140
+     VIII. TO THE GIRL                                   148
+       IX. PERSECUTION                                   152
+        X. THE YEGG                                      159
+       XI. THE ROUTE SUB ROSA                            174
+      XII. "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"                           176
+     XIII. THE JUDAS                                     185
+      XIV. THE DIP                                       195
+       XV. THE URGE OF SEX                               201
+      XVI. THE WARDEN'S THREAT                           209
+     XVII. THE "BASKET" CELL                             219
+    XVIII. THE SOLITARY                                  221
+      XIX. MEMORY-GUESTS                                 232
+       XX. A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE                       240
+      XXI. THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL             264
+     XXII. THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL                  270
+    XXIII. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE                         287
+     XXIV. THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON             297
+      XXV. HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?                     300
+     XXVI. HIDING THE EVIDENCE                           307
+    XXVII. LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER                         316
+   XXVIII. FOR SAFETY                                    328
+     XXIX. DREAMS OF FREEDOM                             330
+      XXX. WHITEWASHED AGAIN                             337
+     XXXI. "AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT"           342
+    XXXII. THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED         352
+   XXXIII. THE TUNNEL                                    355
+    XXXIV. THE DEATH OF DICK                             363
+     XXXV. AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS                    364
+    XXXVI. THE UNDERGROUND                               375
+   XXXVII. ANXIOUS DAYS                                  382
+  XXXVIII. "HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM"                 389
+    XXXIX. A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE                          395
+       XL. DONE TO DEATH                                 401
+      XLI. THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO                          409
+     XLII. MARRED LIVES                                  418
+    XLIII. "PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"                   430
+     XLIV. LOVE'S DARING                                 441
+      XLV. THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF"               446
+     XLVI. A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER                        453
+    XLVII. CHUM                                          458
+   XLVIII. LAST DAYS                                     465
+
+  Part III: The Workhouse                                473
+
+  Part IV: The Resurrection                              483
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+  ALEXANDER BERKMAN (Frontispiece)
+  THE AUTHOR AT THE TIME OF THE HOMESTEAD STRIKE
+  WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA
+  FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER
+  "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"
+  CELL RANGES
+  THE TUNNEL
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD
+
+
+I
+
+Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the
+sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little
+flat--Fedya and I--when suddenly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick,
+energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I turn to her, I
+am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color.
+
+"Have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open newspaper.
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children."
+
+She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a
+wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of
+bitterness--the bitterness of helpless agony.
+
+I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement I read the vivid
+account of the tremendous struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more
+correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of
+the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and
+Steel Workers; the selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick,
+whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military
+preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with
+the Amalgamated; the fortification of the Homestead steel-works; the
+erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with
+loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs;
+the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into Homestead; and,
+finally, the terrible carnage.
+
+I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me. We sit in silence,
+each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a
+searching, significant look.
+
+
+II
+
+It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive with tobacco
+smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. I
+turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma
+of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating. Green woods and yellow
+fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving
+place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and
+alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts are busy with
+Homestead.
+
+The great battle has been fought. Never before, in all its history, has
+American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms the workers
+of Homestead have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to
+surrender, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What humiliating
+defeat for the powers that be! Does not the Pinkerton janizary represent
+organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the
+exploiters? Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the
+unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of America, have
+joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of Homestead. The
+steel-workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and
+suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on
+their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company. Yet patiently they
+had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were
+creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be
+reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding
+scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm
+challenged the Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions
+which it knew the workers could not accept. Foreseeing refusal, it
+flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel.
+Perfidious Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the
+gospel of good will and harmony. "I would lay it down as a maxim," he
+had declared, "that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until
+arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by
+the other. The right of the workingmen to combine and to form
+trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to
+enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must
+sooner or later be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men _more
+than half-way_."
+
+With smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to
+indorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected, Andrew
+Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for
+his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete
+control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression
+of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But _the market
+price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the Homestead mills_.
+The wages of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the Amalgamated
+Association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal:
+there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the
+union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the
+bloody Frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution.
+
+Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of Homestead rebelled:
+the millmen scorned the despotic ultimatum. Then Frick's hand fell. The
+war was on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land the
+tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company was bitterly denounced, the
+ruthless brutality of Frick universally execrated.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilers
+of Homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet
+the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of Anarchism
+alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it
+alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. The dissemination of
+our ideas among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the great
+struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete
+ultimate emancipation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, "Labor, Awaken!"
+would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble
+deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and
+prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution. Homestead might
+prove the first blush of the glorious Dawn. How I chafed at the
+obstacles my project encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every
+step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English
+proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery
+appeal, my friend remonstrated. Impatiently I waived aside his
+objections. As if personal considerations could for an instant be
+weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain I argued and
+pleaded. And all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new
+obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to
+compositor, begging, imploring. None dared print the appeal. And time
+was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton carnage. The
+world stood aghast.
+
+The time for speech was past. Throughout the land the toilers echoed the
+defiance of the men of Homestead. The steel-workers had rallied bravely
+to the defence; the murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But
+loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the hanks of the
+Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the People calling. Ah, the People!
+The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In my mind I see myself back in the little Russian college town, amid
+the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded
+by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called "Nihilist."
+The rushing train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all turn
+into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and
+again I sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the
+impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the
+oft-recurring refrain of "Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chernishevsky, _v
+naród_." To the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble in
+spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a clarion call the
+note rings in my ears, amidst the din of contending views and obscure
+phraseology. The People! My Greek mythology moods have often pictured
+HIM to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight
+of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery,
+in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for
+help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his
+burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated
+student debate the note rings clear: To the People, become one of them,
+share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is
+the solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? "It
+is all good and well about going to the People, but the energetic men of
+the deed, the Rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by
+individual acts of revolt against--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Ticket, please!" A heavy hand is on my shoulder. With an effort I
+realize the situation. The card-players are exchanging angry words. With
+a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away
+with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by
+the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows
+quiet.
+
+I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I
+must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A
+tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead: the People are
+manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart
+exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American
+workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight
+all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is
+the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of
+Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is
+my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No
+shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People--the toilers of the world,
+the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest
+are parasites, who have no right to exist. But to the People belongs the
+earth--by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means are
+justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The
+question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary
+circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The
+more radical the treatment, I held, the quicker the cure. Society is a
+patient; sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is
+often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it
+is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is, indeed,
+sacred and inviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the
+People, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A
+revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of
+what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and _Attentat_[1] are
+to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the
+giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the Cause
+often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it
+is the test of a true revolutionist--nay, more, his pride--to sacrifice
+all merely human feeling at the call of the People's Cause. If the
+latter demand his life, so much the better.
+
+  [1] An act of political assassination.
+
+Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime Cause? Why,
+the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no
+significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved
+People. And what could be higher in life than to be a true
+revolutionist? It is to be a _man_, a complete MAN. A being who has
+neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the
+Cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has
+risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all
+doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul
+feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even
+the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a
+characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in
+New York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls,
+was beloved by every one in our circle, the _Pioneers of Liberty_, the
+first Jewish Anarchist organization on American soil. One evening the
+closer personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding
+the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, some one
+suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary
+treasury. I objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt, and
+his former roommate, I could not allow--I argued--that funds belonging
+to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even
+necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met
+with this challenge: "Do you mean to help Edelstadt, the poet and man,
+or Edelstadt the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active
+revolutionist? His poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even
+prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private
+funds, if you will; but no money from the movement can be given, except
+for direct revolutionary activity."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?" I was
+asked by Tikhon, a young medical student, whom we playfully dubbed
+"Lingg," because of his rather successful affectation of the celebrated
+revolutionist's physical appearance.
+
+"I am revolutionist first, man afterwards," I replied, with conviction.
+
+"You are either a knave or a hero," he retorted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Lingg" was quite right. He could not know me. To his _bourgeois_ mind,
+for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded
+knavish. Well, some day he may know which I am, knave or revolutionist.
+I do not think in the term "hero," for though the type of revolutionist
+I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no
+significance for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does his duty.
+There is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a
+revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov did more, too much. In spite of my
+great admiration for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the
+Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress the touch of resentment I
+feel because the author of "What's To Be Done?" represented his
+arch-revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable,
+self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was
+a sign of weakness. Does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself,
+to steel his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal
+insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere human clay.
+
+No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations.
+For I know _I_ do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal,
+strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the
+background; aye, I am not conscious of any personality in matters
+pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by
+conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in
+short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my arrival in
+Pittsburgh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first
+thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny
+comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep.
+The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed with terror. What if
+it is lost? Suddenly my foot touches something soft. I pick it up,
+feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the
+precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar
+bill. My joy at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the
+meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for
+the first night, and in the morning I'll look up Nold or Bauer. They
+will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "I won't remain there
+long," I think, with an inward smile.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+We are nearing Washington, D. C. The train is to make a six-hour stop
+there. I curse the stupidity of the delay: something may be happening in
+Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a
+telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the
+Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick.
+
+Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that
+greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball
+of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears
+its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a
+living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the
+uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading
+in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The
+amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to
+right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees,
+dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the
+broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter.
+And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with
+new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and
+nestles closer to the golden giver of life.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the
+surpassing gladness, of being. But in a trice the picture changes.
+Before my eyes rises the Monongahela river, carrying barges filled with
+armed men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank. The blood
+gushes from the centre of his forehead. The hole ploughed by the bullet
+yawns black on the crimson face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I
+see men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the
+dead.
+
+The horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident, lived through
+in imagination before. It was the sight of an executed Nihilist. The
+Nihilists! How much of their precious blood has been shed, how many
+thousands of them line the road of Russia's suffering! Inexpressibly
+near and soul-kin I feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious
+ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to "go to
+the People," to become one with them, though despised by all whom they
+held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of
+their great sacrifice.
+
+Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of Nihilist
+Russia. I had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations.
+Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell
+mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her! Next week will be my
+twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for
+her, instead. "Mamma, mamma!" I called, when suddenly I caught her
+voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought; mother never
+speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door
+leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room closed, contrary to
+custom. In perturbation I hesitated at the door. "Shame on you, Nathan,"
+I heard my mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because he is a
+Nihilist. You are no better than"--her voice fell to a whisper, but my
+straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and
+fear--"a _palátch_."[2]
+
+  [2] Hangman.
+
+I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich uncle Nathan's unwonted
+presence at our house, the fearful word _palátch_--something awful must
+have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room.
+Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the _palátch_
+done? I moaned. "_Your_ brother," she had said to uncle. Her own
+youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened to him?
+My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the
+powerful figure of the giant _palátch_, all in black, his right arm bare
+to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the glimmer of
+the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly,
+while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched,
+the glowing black coals in the _palátch's_ head. Suddenly the two fiery
+eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the fearful
+one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and
+everywhere was the giant--on all sides of me was he--then a sudden flash
+of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the
+neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from
+mouth and ears and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about that
+head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and
+sad. "Oh, Maxim, Maxim!" I cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a
+flood of passionate hatred of the _palátch_ seized me, and I rushed,
+head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I
+came,--another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck
+him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me,
+and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head....
+
+"Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, _golubchik_?" I recognize the
+sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then
+coming closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes. Mother is
+kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears.
+Passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating:
+"_Golubchik_, what is it?"
+
+"Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?" I ask, breathlessly watching her
+face.
+
+Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns
+ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and
+her eyes grow large and round with terror. "Mamma!" I cry, throwing my
+arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel her warm breath on my cheek;
+but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping.
+
+"Who--told--you? You--know?" she whispers between sobs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is
+oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is
+kept locked. Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the
+dinner-table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse
+informs us; no one is to see her.
+
+The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim.
+Was my vision of the _palátch_ a presentiment, or the echo of an
+accomplished tragedy? Vaguely I feel guilty of mother's illness. The
+shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet there
+must be more to it, I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon,
+finding my eldest brother Maxim, named after mother's favorite brother,
+in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed
+confidential manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?"
+
+"Go to the devil, _molokossoss_[3] you!" he cries, angrily. With a show
+of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the
+floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair, and leaves the room.
+
+  [3] Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to
+      inexperienced youth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of Nihilism
+unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies. Yet a deep interest, curiosity
+about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when
+quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident.
+I am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno.
+By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious
+instruction is being introduced in the State schools. Special classes
+have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of
+Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost
+every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in
+_cheidar_.[4] But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of
+Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.
+
+  [4] Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.
+
+The roll-call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the
+Director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I
+have a private Jewish tutor at home, and,--anyway, I do not believe in
+religion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.
+
+"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects
+on solemn occasions. "Young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach
+so profound a conclusion?"
+
+His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the
+offensive tone rouse my resentment. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover
+my cherished secret. "Since I wrote the essay, 'There Is No God,'" I
+reply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I realize the
+recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming
+trouble, at school and at home. Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a
+_man_. Uncle Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I know
+his reputation for uncompromising candor, and love him for his bold,
+frank ways.
+
+"Oh, that is interesting," I hear, as in a dream, the unpleasant
+guttural voice of the Director. "When did you write it?"
+
+"Three years ago."
+
+"How old were you then?"
+
+"Twelve."
+
+"Have you the essay?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"At home."
+
+"Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, remember."
+
+His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears with the harsh
+metallic sound of my sister's piano that memorable evening of our
+musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the
+instrument tuned for the occasion.
+
+"To-morrow, then. You are dismissed."
+
+The Educational Board, in conclave assembled, reads the essay. My
+disquisition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be
+visited upon me for "precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and
+insubordination." I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to the third
+class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to
+associate with the "children" my senior class looks down upon with
+undisguised contempt. I feel disgraced, humiliated.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the
+interminable hours creep towards the afternoon, and the station clock
+drones like an endless old woman.
+
+
+III
+
+Over at last. "All aboard!"
+
+On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my
+destination. The conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going
+and coming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing
+and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless
+oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if
+reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic
+connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my
+thoughts of the past. But how different is the present! I am speeding
+toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America.
+America! I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And
+again unfold pictures of old scenes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a
+fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends
+the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated
+physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me.
+
+"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your
+mother is very ill. Are you alone with her?"
+
+"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," I reply.
+
+"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners
+of his delicately chiseled lips. "I mean of the family."
+
+"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother."
+
+"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipovitch. Could you
+sit up with her to-night?"
+
+"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar
+request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My
+presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our relations have
+been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose,
+our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict
+physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and
+haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with
+indignation.
+
+"You forget you are speaking to your mother, Al-ex-an-der"; she
+pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when
+angry with me.
+
+"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort, defiantly.
+
+"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of
+yours."
+
+I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "The low
+servant girl is as good as you."
+
+I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next
+instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. Our eyes meet. Her arm
+remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on
+the white table-cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She closes her
+eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair.
+
+Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her
+assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up the heavy saltcellar, and
+fling it violently against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass
+my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick-room. I fear she may resent
+my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands between us. But she is lying
+quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. I sit
+down at the bedside. A long time passes in silence. Mother seems to be
+asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the
+night in the chair. Suddenly I hear "Sasha!" called in a weak, faint
+voice. I bend over her. "Drink of water." As I hold the glass to her
+lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, "Ice water,
+please." I start to leave the room. "Sasha!" I hear behind me, and,
+quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to
+hers, to catch the faint words: "Help me turn to the wall." Tenderly I
+wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering
+longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg her
+forgiveness. I feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing with
+compassion and love. But I dare not kiss her--we have become estranged.
+Affectionately I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second,
+dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me.
+Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as I slowly withdraw, I feel as
+if some mysterious, yet definite, something has at the very instant left
+her body.
+
+In a few minutes I return with a glass of ice water. I hold it to her
+lips, but she seems oblivious of my presence. "She cannot have gone to
+sleep so quickly," I wonder. "Mother!" I call, softly. No reply. "Little
+mother! Mamotchka!" She does not appear to hear me. "Dearest,
+_golubchick_!" I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips
+upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and
+hear the measured voice of the doctor: "My boy, you must bear up. She is
+at rest."
+
+
+IV
+
+"Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin' for?" Bewildered I turn around
+to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the
+seat back of me.
+
+"Oh, nothing; just dreaming," I reply. Not wishing to encourage
+conversation, I pretend to become absorbed in my book.
+
+How strange is the sudden sound of English! Almost as suddenly had I
+been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother's
+death. Threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's
+passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"--which would close
+every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very
+satisfactory standing--the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel
+with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There,
+beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free
+country, where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,--the
+very realization of my youthful dreams.
+
+And now I am in America, the blessed land. The disillusionment, the
+disappointments, the vain struggles!... The kaleidoscope of my brain
+unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union
+Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night
+wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel
+hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My
+heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. "Nothing," each had
+morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp.
+Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick
+up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his
+legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper
+away, and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down
+on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have
+changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor fellow, no one wants his
+labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared
+boy passes the nights in the.... What is that pain I feel? Some one is
+bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half-dazed I
+see an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes,
+and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. Oh, it's in
+my soles! Bewildered I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the
+throat, and I face a policeman.
+
+"Are you thieves?" he bellows.
+
+Mikhail replies, sleepily: "We Russians. Want work."
+
+"Git out o' here! Off with you!"
+
+Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping
+behind us. The dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying
+figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the
+corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by
+the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to
+be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a
+tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "The bakery on Second Street,"
+Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads
+bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily
+falling behind. "Dammit, I feel bad," he says, catching up with us, as
+we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets
+reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to
+bed, we decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the
+remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the
+"fourth" in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!"
+
+The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock.
+Impatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I have
+reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the
+dread of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things, but,
+noticing that the other passengers keep their places, I precipitately
+resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my
+confusion, I turn to the open window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the
+sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot
+and cinders; the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces
+vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame
+structures, dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the workers
+who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its
+millionaires, its Carnegies and Fricks.
+
+The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns
+the needs of mankind into an Inferno of brutalizing toil. It robs man of
+his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the
+beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture
+grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into
+gold, gold, countless gold.
+
+The great, noble People! But is it really great and noble to be slaves
+and remain content? No, no! They are awakening, awakening!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE SEAT OF WAR
+
+
+Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters
+lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of
+the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of
+sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fence,
+topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike
+watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a
+thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies
+the name of "Fort Frick." Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces
+between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of
+many voices. Men carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces
+grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths
+of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is
+strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace
+stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a
+sanguinary conflict,--the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless
+struggle in which the _stronger_, the sturdy man of labor, is always the
+victim, because he acts _weakly_. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton
+barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear
+mute witness that for once the battle went to the _really strong, to the
+victim who dared_.
+
+A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of
+conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a
+weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice
+the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.
+
+"Who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly asks me.
+
+"A friend, a visitor."
+
+"Can you show credentials or a union card?"
+
+Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed.
+
+In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of
+various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American
+fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and
+talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are
+surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man.
+
+I press forward. "Listen, gentlemen, listen!" I hear the speaker's
+voice. "Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don't you?"
+
+"Yes, yes, Sheriff!" several men cry. "Go on!"
+
+"Yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the
+Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."
+
+"Go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently.
+
+"If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead."
+
+"S-s-sh! Order!"
+
+The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. "Men of Homestead! It
+is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peace. Your city is in a
+state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia and
+I hope--"
+
+"No! No!" many voices protest. "To hell with you!" The tumult drowns the
+words of the Sheriff. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the
+platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the
+general uproar.
+
+"O'Donnell! O'Donnell!" comes from several sides, the cry swelling into
+a tremendous chorus, "O'Donnell!"
+
+I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The
+assembly becomes hushed.
+
+"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, "we have
+won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the
+Pinkerton invaders out of our city--"
+
+"Damn the murderers!"
+
+"Silence! Order!"
+
+"You have won a big victory," O'Donnell continues, "a great, significant
+victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor's
+struggle for better conditions."
+
+Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "But," he continues, "you
+must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along
+with your rights. The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our homes
+and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You
+respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will
+uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!"
+He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, "Now is the time! Welcome the
+soldiers. They are not sent by that man Frick. They are the people's
+militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!"
+
+Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the
+exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back
+and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark
+man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the
+assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides.
+
+"Don't you believe it, men!" The speaker shakes his finger at the
+audience, as if to emphasize his warning. "Don't you believe that the
+soldiers are coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell. They'll
+cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers are no friends
+of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because
+that damned murderer Frick wants them."
+
+"Hear! Hear!"
+
+"Yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, "I can
+tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the
+Governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I
+say!"
+
+"No! Yes! No!" the clamor is renewed, but I can hear the speaker's voice
+rising above the din: "Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly
+Sheriff. Don't you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First _they_'ll
+come; then the blacklegs. You want 'em?"
+
+"No! No!" roars the crowd.
+
+"Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you
+understand? If you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have
+paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children they'll drive
+out, and out you will go from these"--the speaker points in the
+direction of the mills--"that's what they'll do, if you don't look out.
+We have sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers have been killed
+and maimed there, we have made the damned Company rich, and now they
+send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have
+tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out,
+I tell you!"
+
+Amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform.
+
+"McLuckie! 'Honest' McLuckie!" a voice is heard on the fringe of the
+crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, "'Honest'
+McLuckie!"
+
+I am eager to see the popular Burgess of Homestead, himself a
+poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A large-boned,
+good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the
+men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles.
+
+"I haven't prepared any speech," the Burgess begins haltingly, "but I
+want to say, I don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. There
+is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you
+stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. The
+_how_? How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That's what
+I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad to let them in. The blacklegs
+_might_ be hiding in the rear. But then again, it's bad _not_ to let the
+soldiers in. You can't stand up against 'em: they are not Pinkertons.
+And we can't fight the Government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the Governor
+won't send the militia. But if he does, I reckon the best way for us
+will be to make friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do.
+That's all I have to say."
+
+The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH
+
+
+I
+
+Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the Ohio,
+heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the
+atmosphere with the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human
+ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing,
+leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure,
+peaked and domed. Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of
+gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the
+shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms
+toward the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of
+the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog,
+oppressive and dispiriting--the symbol of our existence, with all its
+darkness and cold.
+
+This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit
+moulds the life of the great Nation. The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron
+City! Cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote
+of the great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony
+to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace fire,
+consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the
+bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health
+and blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and
+converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to Mammon by his high
+priests, the Carnegies, the Fricks.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations carried on
+between the Carnegie Company and the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in
+absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is
+the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workers
+after their victory over the Pinkertons has been refused. The ultimatum
+issued by Frick is the last word of Caesar: the union of the
+steel-workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the
+cost of shedding the blood of the last man in Homestead; the Company
+will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms
+offered, without question or discussion; he, Frick, will operate the
+mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined
+military power of the State and the Union to carry the plan into
+execution. Millmen disobeying the order to return to work under the new
+schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and evicted
+from the Company houses.
+
+
+II
+
+In an obscure alley, in the town of Homestead, there stands a one-story
+frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow
+Johnson and her four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a
+crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. When the body
+was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize in
+the mangled remains her big, strong "Jack." For weeks the neighborhood
+resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband! Where's my husband?" But
+the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the
+poor woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little orphans, she
+recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees she implored him
+not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she
+pleaded; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young
+to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she
+thought; he had promised to see what could be done. She would not listen
+to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for damages. "The crane
+was rotten," her husband's friends informed her; "the government
+inspector had condemned it." But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely he knew
+best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband's own
+carelessness?
+
+She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage.
+She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear
+John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her
+children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord's
+blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors
+the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how
+simply he talked with her. "Just like us folks," the widow says.
+
+She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback,
+who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth
+time. It reflects such importance to know some one that had come in
+intimate contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence! and
+even talked to the great magnate!
+
+"'Dear Mr. Frick,' says I," the widow is narrating, "'dear Mr. Frick,'
+I says, 'look at my poor little angels--'"
+
+A knock on the door interrupts her. "Must be one-eyed Kate," the widow
+observes. "Come in! Come in!" she calls out, cheerfully. "Poor Kate!"
+she remarks with a sigh. "Her man's got the consumption. Won't last
+long, I fear."
+
+A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two
+others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children
+begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother.
+
+"Beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "Have no fear. We are Deputy
+Sheriffs. Read this." He produces an official-looking paper. "Ordered to
+dispossess you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen
+more of--"
+
+There is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff catches the limp body of
+the widow in his arms.
+
+
+III
+
+East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh, lies basking
+in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the
+stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently
+nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of equipages
+fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies
+lending color and life to the scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The
+laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness
+irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind I see the sombre
+fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow
+rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the
+anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain....
+
+And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies
+are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The
+common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them,
+build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust.
+"Take what I give you," Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A
+luxurious place, with large garden, barns, and stable. That stable
+there,--it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. Ah,
+life could be made livable, beautiful! Why should it not be? Why so much
+misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around
+me. That is life! Joy and peace.... No! There can be no peace with such
+as Frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and
+sucking the blood of the workers. Fricks, vampires, all of them--I
+almost shout aloud--they are all one class. All in a cabal against _my_
+class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy, perhaps;
+but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile
+and laugh. What is the misery of the People to _them?_ Probably they are
+laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am of the People, but
+you belong to the Fricks. Well, it may soon be our turn to laugh....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that the conferences
+between the Carnegie Company and the Advisory Committee of the strikers
+have terminated in the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of
+the millmen. The last hope is gone! The master is determined to crush
+his rebellious slaves.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+THE ATTENTAT
+
+
+The door of Frick's private office, to the left of the reception-room,
+swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a flitting
+glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of
+the room.
+
+"Mistah Frick is engaged. He can't see you now, sah," the negro says,
+handing back my card.
+
+I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the
+reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate
+separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded
+attendant aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself
+facing Frick.
+
+For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me.
+I discern two men at the further end of the long table.
+
+"Fr--," I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless.
+It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. "He understands," it
+flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I
+raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the
+chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. "Perhaps he wears armor,"
+I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull
+the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates
+as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see
+Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm
+and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head
+and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. "Dead?"
+I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take a
+few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had
+quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks
+slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him.
+Suddenly I hear the cry, "Murder! Help!" My heart stands still as I
+realize that it is Frick shouting. "Alive?" I wonder. I hurl the
+stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck
+my hand,--I have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the
+room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and
+body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering
+behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click--but no
+explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me,
+when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp
+pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of
+the weapon slipping from my hands.
+
+"Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!" Confused voices ring in my
+ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing
+on me. Now--it's Frick's voice! Not dead?... I crawl in the direction of
+the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger
+from my pocket--I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of
+the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain--there is much
+shouting and stamping--my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted
+bodily from the floor.
+
+Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my
+head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of
+me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is
+streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a
+strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am
+filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With
+defiant hatred I look him full in the face.
+
+"Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?"
+
+Frick nods weakly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian
+dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:
+
+"Are you hurt? You're bleeding."
+
+I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar
+sensation about my eyes.
+
+"I've lost my glasses," I remark, involuntarily.
+
+"You'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head," an officer retorts.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE THIRD DEGREE
+
+
+I
+
+The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of
+footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone.
+Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and
+threats,--how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete
+indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench,
+running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep.
+
+I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it
+night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy
+touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and
+musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor,
+drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars.
+The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in
+the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring.
+My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. "Water! I want water!"
+The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it
+rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the
+roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and
+abruptly ceases.
+
+"Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?"
+
+The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the
+sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to
+breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite
+mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts
+restlessly pacing their cages.
+
+"Whatcher in for?" It comes from somewhere alongside. "Can't talk, eh?
+'Sorderly, guess."
+
+What am I in for? Oh, yes! It's Frick. Well, I shall not stay _here_
+long, anyhow. They will soon take me out--they will lean me against a
+wall--a slimy wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and
+the soldiers there.... No: they are going to hang me. Well, I shall be
+glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry. I'm suffocating....
+
+... The upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a
+single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side
+sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into
+the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a
+spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter! He
+hit me on the head. From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what
+he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to them, enlighten
+them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't know his real friends. He looks
+like a Russian peasant, with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If
+he would only look up.... Now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is
+stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he
+didn't look! He has his eyes always on the ground. Just like the
+_muzhik_. Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining
+his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the cross-piece looks. The
+horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. I hope it won't
+break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the
+picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was
+inscribed, _The Execution of Stenka Razin_. "Didn't the branch break?" I
+asked. "No, Sasha," mother replied, "Stenka--well, he weighed nothing";
+and I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxim. But mother
+smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my brother:
+"Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka such pictures. He is too young."
+"Not too young, mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man." "What!
+You young fool," father bristled with anger, "he was a murderer, a
+common rioter." But mother and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was
+deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion.
+"Not another word, now! I won't hear any more of that peasant criminal."
+The peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the
+difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn't they agree?
+He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry
+over a hanged murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked
+at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a noble man. I cried
+myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could
+ever forgive "them" the killing of the good Stenka, and why the
+weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn't it
+break?... The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my
+weight. They'll hang me like Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some
+day see the picture--and they will call me murderer--and only a few will
+know the truth--and the picture will show me hanging from.... No, they
+shall not hang me!
+
+My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of
+gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitro-glycerine cartridge
+secure in the lining. I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless
+preparations! I have, myself, prepared for the event. No, they won't
+hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead! Make your
+gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he
+is turning around. He is looking straight at me. Why, it's Frick!
+Alive?...
+
+My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars, and groan
+heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed?...
+
+
+II
+
+Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more
+distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall
+not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I
+must seem indifferent.
+
+Would I "take lunch with the Chief"? I decline, requesting a glass of
+water. Certainly; but the Chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each
+side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally
+ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is busy with thoughts
+of escape, as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large,
+well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high
+above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at
+which a middle-aged man, of distinct Irish type, is engaged with some
+papers.
+
+"Good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "Have a seat," pointing to a
+chair inside the railing. "I understand you asked for some water?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Just a few questions first. Nothing important. Your pedigree, you know.
+Mere matter of form. Answer frankly, and you shall have everything you
+want."
+
+His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating.
+
+"Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name? Your real name, I mean."
+
+"That's my real name."
+
+"You don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to Mr.
+Frick?"
+
+"I gave my real name."
+
+"And you are an agent of a New York employment firm?"
+
+"No."
+
+"That was on your card."
+
+"I wrote it to gain access to Frick."
+
+"And you gave the name 'Alexander Berkman' to gain access?"
+
+"No. I gave my real name. Whatever might happen, I did not want anyone
+else to be blamed."
+
+"Are you a Homestead striker?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Why did you attack Mr. Frick?"
+
+"He is an enemy of the People."
+
+"You got a personal grievance against him?"
+
+"No. I consider him an enemy of the People."
+
+"Where do you come from?"
+
+"From the station cell."
+
+"Come, now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman. I am your friend. I am
+going to give you a nice, comfortable cell. The other--"
+
+"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily.
+
+"How long did you serve there?"
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In the prison in Russia."
+
+"I was never before inside a cell."
+
+"Come, now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth."
+
+He motions to the officer behind my chair. The window curtains are drawn
+aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to
+the clock on the wall. The hour-hand points to V. The calendar on the
+desk reads, July--23--Saturday. Only three hours since my arrest? It
+seemed so long in the cell....
+
+"You can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is saying. "I know a
+good deal more about you than you think. We've got your friend
+Rak-metov."
+
+With difficulty I suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended
+trap. In the register of the hotel where I passed the first night in
+Pittsburgh, I signed "Rakhmetov," the name of the hero in
+Chernishevsky's famous novel.
+
+"Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you."
+
+"Then why do you ask me?"
+
+"Don't you try to be smart now. Answer my questions, d'ye hear?"
+
+His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is threatening.
+
+"Now answer me. Where do you live?"
+
+"Give me some water. I am too dry to talk."
+
+"Certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "You shall have a drink.
+Do you prefer whiskey or beer?"
+
+"I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water."
+
+"Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't let us waste time,
+then. Who are your friends?"
+
+"Give me a drink."
+
+"The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. I am having
+a nice cell fixed up for you, too. I want to be your friend, Mr.
+Berkman. Treat me right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where
+did you stop in Pittsburgh?"
+
+"I have nothing to tell you."
+
+"Answer me, or I'll--"
+
+His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist he leaps from his seat;
+but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile:
+
+"Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why
+don't you talk sensibly?"
+
+"What do you want to know?"
+
+"Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office?"
+
+Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words:
+
+"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, opposite
+the B. and O. depot. I signed the name Rakhmetov in the register there.
+It's a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to
+Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's all I have to tell you."
+
+"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We're not in any
+hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here as in the cell; it's
+pleasanter. But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just
+tell me, where do you stay in New York?"
+
+"I have told you all there is to tell."
+
+"Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends?"
+
+"I won't say another word."
+
+"Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take him back. Same
+cell."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by
+new inquisitors. They coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I
+remain indifferent. But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the
+salty food they have given me. It consumes me, it tortures and burns my
+vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The
+foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me;
+my soul is in an agony of uncertainty.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+THE JAIL
+
+
+I
+
+The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The
+clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates
+through the corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above
+hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In my ears is the yelling
+and shouting of coarse voices.
+
+"Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right a-way!"
+
+A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous, in his look
+expectant fear.
+
+"Hurry, there! To court!"
+
+"Good luck, Jimmie."
+
+The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors
+clustered about an overseer.
+
+"Who is that, Officer?" One of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand,
+and stares boldly at the prisoner. Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is
+being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his
+head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell.
+He falls heavily against the bed. "Oh, don't! For Jesus' sake, don't!"
+The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries.
+
+The visitors crowd about the cell.
+
+"What did he do? He can't come out now, Officer?"
+
+"No, ma'am. He's safe."
+
+The lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. She steps closer to the bars,
+eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays
+about her mouth.
+
+"What has he done, Officer?"
+
+"Stole some clothes, ma'am."
+
+Disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face. "Where is that man
+who--er--we read in the papers yesterday? You know--the newspaper artist
+who killed--er--that girl in such a brutal manner."
+
+"Oh, Jack Tarlin. Murderers' Row, this way, ladies."
+
+
+II
+
+The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in
+the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the
+cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and I
+feel something melt within me. Closer I press to the door. I long for
+the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft
+balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something
+out of my heart is departing with them.... But the lengthening shadows
+on the gray flagstones spread quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the
+sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click
+of a lock, and all is hushed and dark.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me with mysterious awe.
+It lives. It pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster.
+It rises and falls; approaches, recedes. It is Misery asleep. Now it
+presses heavily against my door. I hear its quickened breathing. Oh, it
+is the guard! Is it the death watch? His outline is lost in the
+semi-darkness, but I see the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they
+watch and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I nervously pace the
+floor. Unconsciously my step quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of
+steel. It grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is here and
+there, all around me. Now it flits up and down; it doubles, trebles. The
+fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On
+every side they surround me, and bar my way.
+
+I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless and broken. Ever the
+terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning
+with my every movement.
+
+
+III
+
+The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk in twos, conversing in
+subdued tones. It is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. The
+native of the western part of the State, the "Pennsylvania Dutchman," of
+stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. The son of southern Italy,
+stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick,
+nervous step. The tall, slender Spaniard, swarthy and of classic
+feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in passing,
+casts a furtive glance into my cell. The last in the line is a young
+negro, walking alone. He nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth
+of dazzling whiteness. The guard brings up the rear. He pauses at my
+door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically.
+
+"You may fall in."
+
+The cell is unlocked, and I join the line. The negro is at my side. He
+loses no time in engaging me in conversation. He is very glad, he
+assures me, that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." It was a
+shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. Now they will "call de
+night-dog off. Must been afeared o' soocide," he explains.
+
+His flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a whit disconcerted by my
+evident disinclination to talk. Would I have a cigarette? May smoke in
+the cell. One can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough"; buy anything
+'cept booze. He is full of the prison gossip. That tall man there is
+Jack Tinford, of Homestead--sure to swing--threw dynamite at the
+Pinkertons. That little "dago" will keep Jack company--cut his wife's
+throat. The "Dutchy" there is "bugs"--choked his son in sleep. Presently
+my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is
+waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree murder, though.
+Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. "His" man didn't "croak" till after
+the ninth day. He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth-day
+superstition. He is convinced they won't hang him. "Can't do't," he
+reiterates, with a happy grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Wat am
+yo doin' heah? Only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry. Yuh man didn' croak!"
+Evidently he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that I am "all
+right." "Guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. But can't hang yo,
+can't hang yo." He grows excited over the recital of his case. Minutely
+he describes the details. "Dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot I's afeared of
+'m. He know bettah now," he chuckles. "Dis ah chile am afeared of none
+ov'm. Ah ain't. 'Gwan 'way, niggah,' Ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah
+gahl be.' An' dat big black niggah grab de cleaveh,--we's in d'otel
+kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat,' Ah hollos, an' he come at me. Den
+dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle brodeh," he taps his pocket
+significantly, "an' Ah lets de ornery niggah hab it. Plum' in de belly,
+yassah, Ah does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' Ah pulls mah knife out, two
+inches, 'bout, an' den Ah gives it half twist like, an' shoves it in
+'gen." He illustrates the ghastly motion. "Dat bad niggah neveh botheh
+_me_ 'gen, noh nobody else, Ah guess. But dey can't hang me, no sah, dey
+can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later. Ah's lucky, yassah, Ah is."
+His face is wreathed in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly
+he grows serious. "Yo am strikeh? No-o-o? Not a steel-woikeh?" with
+utter amazement. "What yo wan' teh shoot Frick foah?" He does not
+attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity, as I essay an
+explanation. "Afeared t' tell. Yo am deep all right, Ahlick--dat am yuh
+name? But yo am right, yassah, yo am right. Doan' tell nobody. Dey's
+mos'ly crooks, dat dey am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. Yo jes' membuh
+dat."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is a peculiar movement in the marching line. I notice a prisoner
+leave his place. He casts an anxious glance around, and disappears in
+the niche of the cell door. The line continues on its march, and, as I
+near the man's hiding place, I hear him whisper, "Fall back, Aleck."
+Surprised at being addressed in such familiar manner, I slow down my
+pace. The man is at my side.
+
+"Say, Berk, you don't want to be seen walking with that 'dinge.'"
+
+The sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. I feel the
+impulse to resent the mutilation. The man's manner suggests a lack of
+respect, offensive to my dignity as a revolutionist.
+
+"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him.
+
+He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed chin of the elongated
+face suggest the fox. He meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his
+smoked-glass spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly
+confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with a "nigger," he
+informs me. It will make feeling against me. He himself is a Pittsburgh
+man for the last twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the
+South, in Atlanta. They have no use for "niggers" down there, he assures
+me. They must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good,
+anyway. I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward
+me. I must be very careful of appearances before the trial. My
+inexperience is quite evident, but he "knows the ropes." I must not give
+"them" an opportunity to say anything against me. My behavior in jail
+will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. He himself expects
+to "get off easy." He knows some of the judges. Mostly good men. He
+ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted three times for him at
+the last election. He closes the left eye, and playfully pokes me with
+his elbow. He hopes he'll "get before that judge." He will, if he is
+lucky, he assures me. He had always had pretty good luck. Last time he
+got off with three years, though he nearly killed "his" man. But it was
+in self-defence. Have I got a chew of tobacco about me? Don't use the
+weed? Well, it'll be easier in the "pen." What's the pen? Why, don't I
+know? The penitentiary, of course. I should have no fear. Frick ain't
+going to die. But what did I want to kill the man for? I ain't no
+Pittsburgh man, that he could see plain. What did I want to "nose in"
+for? Help the strikers? I must be crazy to talk that way. Why, it was
+none of my "cheese." Didn't I come from New York? Yes? Well, then, how
+could the strike concern me? I must have some personal grudge against
+Frick. Ever had dealings with him? No? Sure? Then it's plain "bughouse,"
+no use talking. But it's different with his case. It was his partner in
+business. He knew the skunk meant to cheat him out of money, and they
+quarreled. Did I notice the dark glasses he wears? Well, his eyes are
+bad. He only meant to scare the man. But, damn him, he croaked. Curse
+such luck. His third offence, too. Do I think the judge will have pity
+on him? Why, he is almost blind. How did he manage to "get his man"?
+Why, just an accidental shot. He didn't mean to--
+
+The gong intones its deep, full bass.
+
+"All in!"
+
+The line breaks. There is a simultaneous clatter of many doors, and I am
+in the cell again.
+
+
+IV
+
+Within, on the narrow stool, I find a tin pan filled with a dark-brown
+mixture. It is the noon meal, but the "dinner" does not look inviting:
+the pan is old and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion. The
+greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks of vegetable,
+resembles a pool of stagnant water covered with green slime. The first
+taste nauseates me, and I decide to "dine" on the remnants of my
+breakfast--a piece of bread.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pace the floor in agitation over the conversation with my
+fellow-prisoners. Why can't they understand the motives that prompted
+my act? Their manner of pitying condescension is aggravating. My
+attempted explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort.
+Not a striker myself, I could and should have had no interest in
+the struggle,--the opinion seemed final with both the negro and
+the white man. In the purpose of the act they refused to see any
+significance,--nothing beyond the mere physical effect. It would have
+been a good thing if Frick had died, because "he was bad." But it is
+"lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought, for now "they" can't
+hang me. My remark that the probable consequences to myself are not to
+be weighed in the scale against the welfare of the People, they had met
+with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as to my sanity. It is, of
+course, consoling to reflect that neither of those men can properly be
+said to represent the People. The negro is a very inferior type of
+laborer; and the other--he is a _bourgeois_, "in business." He is not
+worth while. Besides, he confessed that it is his third offence. He is a
+common criminal, not an honest producer. But that tall man--the
+Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed out to me--oh, _he_ will
+understand: he is of the real People. My heart wells up in admiration of
+the man, as I think of his participation in the memorable struggle of
+Homestead. He fought the Pinkertons, the myrmidons of Capital. Perhaps
+he helped to dynamite the barges and drive those Hessians out of town.
+He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong and determined, his
+body manly and powerful. He is of the true spirit; the embodiment of the
+great, noble People: the giant of labor grown to his full stature,
+conscious of his strength. Fearless, strong, and proud, he will conquer
+all obstacles; he will break his chains and liberate mankind.
+
+
+V
+
+Next morning, during exercise hour, I watch with beating heart for an
+opportunity to converse with the Homestead steel-worker. I shall explain
+to him the motives and purpose of my attempt on Frick. He will
+understand me; he will himself enlighten his fellow-strikers. It is very
+important _they_ should comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the
+very man to do this great service to humanity. He is the rebel-worker;
+his heroism during the struggle bears witness. I hope the People will
+not allow the enemy to hang him. He defended the rights of the Homestead
+workers, the cause of the whole working class. No, the People will never
+allow such a sacrifice. How well he carries himself! Erect, head high,
+the look of conscious dignity and strength--
+
+"Cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!"
+
+The prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the line, and advances in
+response to the guard's call. Quickly I pass along the gallery, and fall
+into the vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker.
+
+"A happy chance," I address him. "I should like to speak to you about
+something important. You are one of the Homestead strikers, are you
+not?"
+
+"Jack Tinford," he introduces himself. "What's your name?"
+
+He is visibly startled by my answer. "The man who shot Frick?" he asks.
+
+An expression of deep anxiety crosses his face. His eye wanders to the
+gate. Through the wire network I observe visitors approaching from the
+Warden's office.
+
+"They'd better not see us together," he says, impatiently. "Fall in back
+of me. Then we'll talk."
+
+Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its significance, I slowly
+fall back. His tall, broad figure completely hides me from view. He
+speaks to me in monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Homestead
+he grows more communicative, talking in an undertone, as if conversing
+with his neighbor, the Sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of
+English. I strain my ear to catch his words. The steel-workers merely
+defended themselves against armed invaders, I hear him say. They are not
+on strike: they've been locked out by Frick, because he wants to
+non-unionize the works. That's why he broke the contract with the
+Amalgamated, and hired the damned Pinkertons two months before, when all
+was peace. They shot many workers from the barges before the millmen
+"got after them." They deserved roasting alive for their unprovoked
+murders. Well, the men "fixed them all right." Some were killed, others
+committed suicide on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to
+surrender like whipped curs. A grand victory all right, if that coward
+of a sheriff hadn't got the Governor to send the militia to Homestead.
+But it was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best of three
+hundred armed Pinkertons. He himself, though, had nothing to do with the
+fight. He was sick at the time. They're trying to get the Pinkertons to
+swear his life away. One of the hounds has already made an affidavit
+that he saw him, Jack Tinford, throw dynamite at the barges, before the
+Pinkertons landed. But never mind, he is not afraid. No Pittsburgh jury
+will believe those lying murderers. He was in his sweetheart's house,
+sick abed. The girl and her mother will prove an alibi for him. And the
+Advisory Committee of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't on the
+shore. They'll swear to it in court, anyhow--
+
+Abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. For a moment he is lost
+in thought. Then he gives me a searching look, and smiles at me. As we
+turn the corner of the walk, he whispers: "Too bad you didn't kill him.
+Some business misunderstanding, eh?" he adds, aloud.
+
+Could he be serious, I wonder. Does he only pretend? He faces straight
+ahead, and I am unable to see his expression. I begin the careful
+explanation I had prepared:
+
+"Jack, it was for you, for your people that I--"
+
+Impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. I'd better be careful not to talk
+that way in court, he warns me. If Frick should die, I'd hang myself
+with such "gab." And it would only harm the steel-workers. They don't
+believe in killing; they respect the law. Of course, they had a right to
+defend their homes and families against unlawful invaders. But they
+welcomed the militia to Homestead. They showed their respect for
+authority. To be sure, Frick deserves to die. He is a murderer. But the
+mill-workers will have nothing to do with Anarchists. What did I want to
+kill him for, anyhow? I did not belong to the Homestead men. It was none
+of my business. I had better not say anything about it in court, or--
+
+The gong tolls.
+
+"All in!"
+
+
+VI
+
+I pass a sleepless night. The events of the day have stirred me to the
+very depths. Bitterness and anger against the Homestead striker fill my
+heart. My hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle of the
+People,--how contemptible he has proved himself, how cravenly small! No
+consciousness of the great mission of his class, no proud realization
+of the part he himself had acted in the noble struggle. A cowardly,
+overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for the prank he has
+played! Meanly concerned only with his own safety, and willing to resort
+to lying, in order to escape responsibility.
+
+The very thought is appalling. It is a sacrilege, an insult to the holy
+Cause, to the People. To myself, too. Not that lying is to be condemned,
+provided it is in the interest of the Cause. All means are justified in
+the war of humanity against its enemies. Indeed, the more repugnant the
+means, the stronger the test of one's nobility and devotion. All great
+revolutionists have proved that. There is no more striking example in
+the annals of the Russian movement than that peerless Nihilist--what was
+his name? Why, how peculiar that it should escape me just now! I knew it
+so well. He undermined the Winter Palace, beneath the very dining-room
+of the Tsar. What debasement, what terrible indignities he had to endure
+in the rôle of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. How his
+proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and months,--all for the sake
+of his great purpose. Wonderful man! To be worthy of your
+comradeship.... But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison.
+He is absorbed in the single thought of saving himself, the traitor. A
+veritable Judas, preparing to forswear his people and their cause,
+willing to lie and deny his participation. How proud I should be in his
+place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did! And then to die for
+it,--ah, could there be a more glorious fate for a man, a real man? To
+serve even as the least stone in the foundation of a free society, or as
+a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant People shall finally
+pass into the land of promise?
+
+A plank in the bridge.... In the _most_.[5] What a significant name! How
+it impressed me the first time I heard it! No, I saw it in print, I
+remember quite clearly. Mother had just died. I was dreaming of the New
+World, the Land of Freedom. Eagerly I read every line of "American
+news." One day, in the little Kovno library--how distinctly it all comes
+back to me--I can see myself sitting there, perusing the papers. Must
+get acquainted with the country. What is this? "Anarchists hanged in
+Chicago." There are many names--one is "Most." "What is an Anarchist?" I
+whisper to the student near by. He is from Peter,[6] he will know.
+"S--sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free America?" I wondered.
+
+  [5] Russian for "bridge."
+
+  [6] Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.
+
+How little I knew of America then! A free country, indeed, that hangs
+its noblest men. And the misery, the exploitation,--it's terrible. I
+must mention all this in court, in my defence. No, not defence--some
+fitter word. Explanation! Yes, my explanation. I need no defence: I
+don't consider myself guilty. What did the Warden mean? Fool for a
+client, he said, when I told him that I would refuse legal aid. He
+thinks I am a fool. Well, he's a _bourgeois_, he can't understand. I'll
+tell him to leave me alone. He belongs to the enemy. The lawyers, too.
+They are all in the capitalist camp. I need no lawyers. They couldn't
+explain my case. I shall not talk to the reporters, either. They are a
+lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism. They always
+misrepresent us. And they know better, too. They wrote columns of
+interviews with Most when he went to prison. All lies. I saw him off
+myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are our worst enemies. The
+Warden said that they'll come to see me to-morrow. I'll have nothing to
+say to them. They're sure to twist my words, and thus impair the effect
+of my act. It is not complete without my explanation. I shall prepare it
+very carefully. Of course, the jury won't understand. They, too, belong
+to the capitalist class. But I must use the trial to talk to the People.
+To be sure, an _Attentat_ on a Frick is in itself splendid propaganda.
+It combines the value of example with terroristic effect. But very much
+depends upon my explanation. It offers me a rare opportunity for a
+broader agitation of our ideas. The comrades outside will also use my
+act for propaganda. The People misunderstand us: they have been
+prejudiced by the capitalist press. They must be enlightened; that is
+our glorious task. Very difficult and slow work, it is true; but they
+will learn. Their patience will break, and then--the good People, they
+have always been too kind to their enemies. And brave, even in their
+suffering. Yes, very brave. Not like that fellow, the steel-worker. He
+is a disgrace to Homestead, the traitor....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pace the cell in agitation. The Judas-striker is not fit to live.
+Perhaps it would be best they should hang him. His death would help to
+open the eyes of the People to the real character of legal justice.
+Legal justice--what a travesty! They are mutually exclusive terms. Yes,
+indeed, it would be best he should be hanged. The Pinkerton will testify
+against him. He saw Jack throw dynamite. Very good. Perhaps others will
+also swear to it. The judge will believe the Pinkertons. Yes, they will
+hang him.
+
+The thought somewhat soothes my perturbation. At least the cause of the
+People will benefit to some extent. The man himself is not to be
+considered. He has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively
+personal; he can be of no further benefit to the People. Only his death
+can aid the Cause. It is best for him to end his career in the service
+of humanity. I hope he will act like a man on the scaffold. The enemy
+should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror. They'll see in him
+the spirit of the People. Of course, he is not worthy of it. But he must
+die like a rebel-worker, bravely, defiantly. I must speak to him about
+it.
+
+The deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie.
+
+
+VII
+
+There is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude of the night. The
+day's atmosphere is surcharged with noisome anxiety, the hours laden
+with impending terrors. But the night is soothing. For the first time I
+feel alone, unobserved. The "night-dog has been called off." How
+refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the hangman be robbed of his
+prey! A simple precaution against suicide, the Warden told me. I felt
+the naïve stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger. What
+a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes! His mind cannot grasp the
+impossibility of suicide before I have explained to the People the
+motive and purpose of my act. Suicide? As if the mere death of Frick was
+my object! The very thought is impossible, insulting. It outrages me
+that even a _bourgeois_ should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an
+active revolutionist. The insignificant reptile, Frick,--as if the mere
+man were worth a terroristic effort! I aimed at the many-headed hydra
+whose visible representative was Frick. The Homestead developments had
+given him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head into
+bold relief, so to speak. That alone made him worthy of the
+revolutionist's attention. Primarily, as an object lesson; it would
+strike terror into the soul of his class. They are craven-hearted, their
+conscience weighted with guilt,--and life is dear to them. Their
+strangling hold on labor might be loosened. Only for a while, no doubt.
+But that much would be gained, due to the act of the _Attentäter_. The
+People could not fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its
+own life for their cause. To give a young life, full of health and
+vitality, to give all, without a thought of self; to give all,
+voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically--could any one fail to
+understand such a love?
+
+But this is the first terrorist act in America. The People may fail to
+comprehend it thoroughly. Yet they will know that an Anarchist committed
+the deed. I will talk to them from the courtroom. And my comrades at
+liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed light on the
+questions involved. Such a deed must draw the attention of the world.
+This first act of voluntary Anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen
+think deeply. Perhaps even more so than the Chicago martyrdom. The
+latter was preëminently a lesson in capitalist justice. The culmination
+of a plutocratic conspiracy, the tragedy of 1887 lacked the element of
+voluntary Anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the People. In
+that distinctive quality my act is initial. Perhaps it will prove the
+entering wedge. The leaven of growing oppression is at work. It is for
+us, the Anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. Let the world
+learn of the misery of Homestead. The sudden thunderclap gives warning
+that beyond the calm horizon the storm is gathering. The lightning of
+social protest--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Quick, Ahlick! Plant it." Something white flutters between the bars.
+Hastily I read the newspaper clipping. Glorious! Who would have
+expected it? A soldier in one of the regiments stationed at Homestead
+called upon the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot Frick."
+My soul overflows with beautiful hopes. Such a wonderful spirit among
+the militia; perhaps the soldiers will fraternize with the strikers. It
+is by no means an impossibility: such things have happened before. After
+all, they are of the People, mostly workingmen. Their interests are
+identical with those of the strikers, and surely they hate Frick, who is
+universally condemned for his brutality, his arrogance. This
+soldier--what is his name? Iams, W. L. Iams--he typifies the best
+feeling of the regiment. The others probably lack his courage. They
+feared to respond to his cheers, especially because of the Colonel's
+presence. But undoubtedly most of them feel as Iams does. It would be
+dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the Tenth Pennsylvania. And in the
+other Homestead regiments, there must also be such noble Iamses. They
+will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the Colonel
+threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man. He is a citizen, a native.
+He has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. If he had
+condemned it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice a
+favorable sentiment? No, they can't punish him. And he is surely very
+popular among the soldiers. How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged
+before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for "the assassin
+of Mr. Frick," as the imbecile put it. Iams stepped out of the ranks,
+and boldly avowed his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it.
+But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. He even refused
+the Colonel's offer to apologize.
+
+Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist. Such a man has
+no business to belong to the militia. He should know for what purpose
+it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. After
+all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. It will enlighten him. I
+must follow the case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. It
+was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. The Warden has
+expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other
+prisoners are permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me in
+every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce
+"Anarchist." Yesterday he said to me: "The Anachrists are no good. What
+do they want, anyhow?" I replied, angrily: "First you say they are no
+good, then you ask what they want." He flushed. "Got no use for them,
+anyway." Such an imbecile! Not the least sense of justice--he condemns
+without knowing. I believe he is aiding the detectives. Why does he
+insist I should plead guilty? I have repeatedly told him that, though I
+do not deny the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright. "Better
+plead guilty, you'll get off easier. You did it, so better plead
+guilty." In vain I strove to explain to him: "I don't believe in your
+laws, I don't acknowledge the authority of your courts. I am innocent,
+morally." The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing
+about his lips. "Plead guilty. Take my advice, plead guilty."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The small, cunning eyes
+of the Warden peer intently through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well,
+he may have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture shall draw
+from me an admission incriminating the negro. The name Rakhmetov flits
+through my mind. I shall be true to that memory.
+
+"A gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the Warden informs me.
+
+"Who is he?"
+
+"A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh."
+
+"I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don't care to see the man."
+
+The Warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions. Why should he be so
+much interested in my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have
+been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden insists. I refuse.
+Finally he orders me out of the cell. Two guards lead me into the
+hallway. They halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are
+counted off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice that I am
+the only one in the line wearing glasses. The Warden enters from an
+inner office, accompanied by three visitors. They pass down the row,
+scrutinizing each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the men. One of
+the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of
+the man on my left. The Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They
+converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till
+they are alongside of me. The tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on
+my shoulder, exclaiming:
+
+"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you on Fifth Avenue, right
+in front of the Telegraph building."[7]
+
+  [7] The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company
+      were located.
+
+"I never saw you before in my life."
+
+"Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you--"
+
+"No, you did not," I interrupt, impatiently.
+
+"Take him back," the Warden commands.
+
+I protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A positive
+identification," the Warden asserts. The detective had seen me "in the
+company of two friends, inspecting the office of Mr. Frick." Indignantly
+I deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to
+involve my comrades. He grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of
+exercise that afternoon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Warden's rôle in the police plot is now apparent to me. I realize
+him in his true colors. Ignorant though he is, familiarity with police
+methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of
+the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks a depth of
+malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his
+wardenship over unfortunate human beings.
+
+This new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents
+heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is being detained at the office, I am
+sure. It is impossible that my New York comrades should have neglected
+me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a matter of due
+precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. But two or three
+days would be sufficient to perfect a _Deckadresse_.[8] Yet not a line
+has reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is being detained.
+
+  [8] A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the
+      correspondent.
+
+My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden. His infamy fills me
+with rage. The negro's warning against the occupant of the next cell
+assumes a new aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the
+Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add
+strong proof to justify the suspicion. It grows to conviction as I
+review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. The questions I
+deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the light of
+the Warden's rôle as volunteer detective. The young negro was sent to
+the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. But the
+latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and
+talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the Warden, too, is
+hand-in-glove with the police. I am convinced he himself caused the
+writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked
+Homestead, from a pretended striker. They want to blow up the mills, the
+letter said; good bombs are needed. I should send them the addresses of
+my friends who know how to make effective explosives. What a stupid
+trap! One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders
+in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned. Well, I am not to be
+caught with such chaff. But I must be on my guard. It is best I should
+decline to accept mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow.
+Yes, I'll refuse all mail.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. Not a single being
+here I may call friend; except the negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I
+hope he will give me more clippings,--perhaps there will be news of my
+comrades. I'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise to-morrow.... Oh!
+they are handing out tracts. To-morrow is Sunday,--no exercise!
+
+
+VIII
+
+The Lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. A scanty
+allowance of bread, with a tincupful of black, unsweetened coffee,
+constitutes breakfast. Supper is a repetition of the morning meal,
+except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force
+myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It tastes like greasy
+dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread.
+
+Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The atmosphere is pervaded
+with the gloom of unbroken silence. In the afternoon, I hear the
+creaking of the inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the good
+ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors on Murderers' Row are
+opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. The prisoners remain in their
+cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances.
+
+All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive
+quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on
+the bars. I hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the
+turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow
+athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver protruding from
+his pocket.
+
+Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. Female
+voices swell the melody, "Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." Slowly
+the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the
+gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "Nearer to Thee, to Thee."
+
+The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters, "Let us pray." Its
+metallic hardness rings like a command. The guards stand with lowered
+heads. Their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "Our Father who
+art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.... Forgive us our
+trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us----"
+
+"Like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is
+suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the
+stairs. The uproar increases. "Order!" Yells and catcalls drown the
+Warden's voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of
+rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have
+reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard.
+
+The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The
+prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee.
+
+"Give the s---- of b---- no supper! No supper!" roars the Warden.
+
+Sabbath benediction!
+
+The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night.
+
+
+IX
+
+In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn't die! He has almost recovered.
+I have positive information: the "blind" prisoner gave me the clipping
+during exercise. "You're a poor shot," he teased me.
+
+The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the
+intensity of a catastrophe. My imprisonment, the vexations of jail life,
+the future--all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization
+of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms
+me. I failed! Failed!... It might have been different, had I gone to
+Frick's residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in
+the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very
+morning the papers had announced Frick's intended visit to New York. I
+was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It
+was mainly his cowardice that saved him--he hid under the chair! Played
+dead! And now he lives, the vampire.... And Homestead? How will it
+affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have
+hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of
+Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be
+held accountable. The author of "Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to
+adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for
+Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his rôle as
+the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle.
+Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist
+propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be
+blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick's
+death. But his recovery....
+
+Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the
+strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia
+to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity
+to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,--our
+propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a
+very small part of the American working class. Important as this great
+struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true
+cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will
+solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The
+suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under
+capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly
+increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere
+sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know
+the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the
+core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the
+abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can
+save the world.
+
+These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the
+desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated.
+But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical
+result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is,
+always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my _Attentat_
+was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital
+interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to
+stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and
+thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead
+situation offered the psychologic social moment. What matter the
+personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my
+_Attentat_? The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act
+is accomplished.
+
+As to myself--my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for
+the Cause. But now they will send me to prison--they will bury me
+alive....
+
+Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I
+remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the
+police station, on the third day after my arrest.... Rough hands seize
+my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently
+backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.
+
+"Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!"
+
+Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the
+bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung
+high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling....
+
+"Now, Doc, quick!"
+
+There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise,
+and my mouth is torn open.
+
+"What d'ye think of _that_, eh?"
+
+The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.
+
+"What's this?" he demands, with an oath.
+
+"Candy," I reply, defiantly.
+
+
+X
+
+How full of anxiety these two weeks have been! Still no news of my
+comrades. The Warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently
+regards my last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase
+papers; they may contain something about my friends. If I could only
+learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the Girl and
+Fedya are doing! I long to know what is happening with them. But my
+interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so far away,--I
+do not count among the living. On the outside, everything seems to
+continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frick is quite well now;
+at his desk again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance. The
+police seem to have given up their hunt. How ridiculous the Chief has
+made himself by kidnaping my friend Mollock, the New York baker! The
+impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across
+the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! I suppose he is
+the only Anarchist the stupid Chief could find. My negro friend informed
+me of the kidnaping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the "silent
+baker" would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word, could they draw from him.
+Mollock's discharge by the magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous
+position. Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim
+nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades preserve silence, all
+will be well, for I was careful to leave no clew. I had told them that
+my destination was Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can
+depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom I found living in the
+same house with Nold, impressed me as rather unreliable. I thought there
+was something of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not
+trust him, and I'm afraid he might compromise the others. Why are they
+friendly, I wonder. He is probably not even a comrade. The Allegheny
+Anarchists should have nothing in common with him. It is not well for us
+to associate with the _bourgeois_-minded.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am
+"wanted at the office." There is a letter for me, but some postage is
+due on it. Would I pay?
+
+"A trap," it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall
+persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.
+
+"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the Warden.
+
+He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y."
+
+I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman's, but the
+chirography is smaller than the Girl's. I yearn for news of her. The
+letter is from Brooklyn--perhaps a _Deckadresse_!
+
+"I'll take the letter, Warden."
+
+"All right. You will open it here."
+
+"Then I don't want it."
+
+I start from the office; when the Warden detains me:
+
+"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me.
+You may go now."
+
+I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I
+shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no obligations. As with trembling
+hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I
+glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan
+the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of
+humanity. "I am not an Anarchist," I read, "but I wish you well. My
+sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify
+your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None has the
+right to take what he cannot give."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with the problem presented so
+unexpectedly. Can any one understanding my motives, doubt the
+justification of the _Attentat_? The legal aspect aside, can the
+morality of the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound law with
+right; they are opposites. The law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of
+rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. To
+be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that
+conspiracy. A revolutionist is the truly moral man: to him the interests
+of humanity are supreme; to advance them, his sole aim in life.
+Government, with its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons are
+justifiable in the noble struggle of the People against this terrible
+curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the centuries. The path of Man
+is soaked with the blood it has shed. Can this great criminal determine
+Right? Is a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? It would mean the
+perpetuation of human slavery.
+
+No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. He is the
+soldier of humanity. He has consecrated his life to the People in their
+great struggle. It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from
+the service it imposes upon him. Aye, even the duty of death. Cheerfully
+and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of
+liberty. His life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or
+enjoy while others suffer.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+How often we had discussed this, Fedya and I. He was somewhat inclined
+to sybaritism; not quite emancipated from the tendencies of his
+_bourgeois_ youth. Once in New York--I shall never forget--at the time
+when our circle had just begun the publication of the first Jewish
+Anarchist paper in America, we came to blows. We, the most intimate
+friends; yes, actually came to blows. Nobody would have believed it.
+They used to call us the Twins. If I happened to appear anywhere alone,
+they would inquire, anxiously, "What is the matter? Is your chum sick?"
+It was so unusual; we were each other's shadow. But one day I struck
+him. He had outraged my most sacred feelings: to spend twenty cents for
+a meal! It was not mere extravagance; it was positively a crime,
+incredible in a revolutionist. I could not forgive him for months. Even
+now,--two years have passed,--yet a certain feeling of resentment still
+remains with me. What right had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence?
+The movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. To spend twenty cents
+for a single meal! He was a traitor to the Cause. True, it was his first
+meal in two days, and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the
+parks. He had worked hard, too, to earn the money. But he should have
+known that he had no right to his earnings while the movement stood in
+such need of funds. His defence was unspeakably aggravating: he had
+earned ten dollars that week--he had given seven into the paper's
+treasury--he needed three dollars for his week's expenses--his shoes
+were torn, too. I had no patience with such arguments. They merely
+proved his _bourgeois_ predilections. Personal comforts could not be of
+any consideration to a true revolutionist. It was a question of the
+movement; _its_ needs, the first issue. Every penny spent for ourselves
+was so much taken from the Cause. True, the revolutionist must live. But
+luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. One could exist on five cents a
+day. Twenty cents for a single meal! Incredible. It was robbery.
+
+Poor Twin! He was deeply grieved, but he knew that I was merely just.
+The revolutionist has no personal right to anything. Everything he has
+or earns belongs to the Cause. Everything, even his affections. Indeed,
+these especially. He must not become too much attached to anything. He
+should guard against strong love or passion. The People should be his
+only great love, his supreme passion. Mere human sentiment is unworthy
+of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity, and he must ever be
+ready to respond to its call. The soldier of Revolution must not be
+lured from the field of battle by the siren song of love. Great danger
+lurks in such weakness. The Russian tyrant has frequently attempted to
+bait his prey with a beautiful woman. Our comrades there are careful not
+to associate with any woman, except of proved revolutionary character.
+Aye, her mere passive interest in the Cause is not sufficient. Love may
+transform her into a Delilah to shear one's strength. Only with a woman
+consecrated to active participation may the revolutionist associate.
+Their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration, a source of
+increased strength. Equals, thoroughly solidaric, they would the more
+successfully serve the Cause of the People. Countless Russian women bear
+witness--Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch, and many other
+heroic martyrs, tortured in the casemates of Schlüsselburg, buried alive
+in the Petropavlovka. What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect comrades
+they were, often stronger than the men. Brave, noble women that fill the
+prisons and _étapes_, tramp the toilsome road....
+
+The Siberian steppe rises before me. Its broad expanse shimmers in the
+sun's rays, and blinds the eye with white brilliancy. The endless
+monotony agonizes the sight, and stupefies the brain. It breathes the
+chill of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the terror of
+madness. In vain the eye seeks relief from the white Monster that slowly
+tightens his embrace, and threatens to swallow you in his frozen
+depth.... There, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a
+heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. It winds along the virgin bosom,
+grows redder and deeper, and ascends the mountain in a dark ribbon,
+twining and wreathing its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing
+in the hollow, and again rising on the height. Behold a man and a woman,
+hand in hand, their heads bent, on their shoulders a heavy cross, slowly
+toiling the upward way, and behind them others, men and women, young and
+old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the dismal desert,
+amid death and silence, save for the mournful clank, clank of the
+chains....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Get out now. Exercise!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As in a dream I walk along the gallery. The voice of my exercise mate
+sounds dully in my ears. I do not understand what he is saying. Does he
+know about the Nihilists, I wonder?
+
+"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?"
+
+"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a
+book. A corker, too, it was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?"
+
+"Nihilists."
+
+"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff."
+
+"What was the name?"
+
+"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff."
+
+"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?"
+
+"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A fellow needs a cast-iron
+jaw to say it every day. But the story was a corker all right. About a
+Rooshan patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you. Overheard a
+plot to kill th' king by them fellows--er--what's you call 'em?"
+
+"Nihilists?"
+
+"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to kill his Nibs and all
+the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you
+bet. But Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets in all
+kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. But he's game. I
+don't remember how it all ends, but--"
+
+"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the truth about--"
+
+"Oh, t'hell with it! Say, Berk, d'ye think they'll hang me? Won't the
+judge sympathize with a blind man? Look at me eyes. Pretty near blind,
+swear to God, I am. Won't hang a blind man, will they?"
+
+The pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and I assure him they will not hang
+a blind man. His eyes brighten, his face grows radiant with hope.
+
+Why does he love life so, I wonder. Of what value is it without a high
+purpose, uninspired by revolutionary ideals? He is small and cowardly:
+he lies to save his neck. There is nothing at all wrong with his eyes.
+But why should _I_ lie for his sake?
+
+My conscience smites me for the moment of weakness. I should not allow
+inane sentimentality to influence me: it is beneath the revolutionist.
+
+"Billy," I say with some asperity, "many innocent people have been
+hanged. The Nihilists, for instance--"
+
+"Oh, damn 'em! What do _I_ care about 'em! Will they hang _me_, that's
+what I want to know."
+
+"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. A
+look of terror spreads over his face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his
+lips parted. "Yes," I continue, "perhaps they will hang you. Many
+innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don't think you are innocent,
+either; nor blind. You don't need those glasses; there is nothing the
+matter with your eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don't want them to hang
+you. I don't believe in hanging. But I must tell you the truth, and
+you'd better be ready for the worst."
+
+Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage suffuses his cheeks
+with spots of dark red.
+
+"You're crazy! What's the use talkin' to you, anyhow? You are a damn
+Anarchist. I'm a good Catholic, I want you to know that! I haven't
+always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. I'm no
+damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I'm pretty near blind,
+and this is a Christian country, thank God! They won't hang a blind man.
+Don't you ever talk to _me_ again!"
+
+
+XI
+
+The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety
+about the approaching trial. It is part of the designed cruelty to keep
+me ignorant of the precise date. "Hold yourself ready. You may be called
+any time," the Warden had said. But the shadows are lengthening, the
+days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court
+calendar. Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My mission is
+almost accomplished,--the explanation in court, and then my life is
+done. I shall never again have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I
+may therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for the partial
+failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my
+heart. Yet why? The physical results of my act cannot affect its
+propagandistic value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above
+them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. "Bad shot, ain't
+you?" They do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and
+try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the
+revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness. They are so far
+beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests;
+they cannot understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the
+eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The "trusty" passes along the gallery. He walks slowly, dusting the iron
+railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the
+cat-o'-many-tails. Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low,
+pretending to wipe the doorsill,--there is a quick movement of his hand,
+and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my
+feet. "A stiff," he whispers.
+
+Indifferently I pick up the note. I know no one in the jail; it is
+probably some poor fellow asking for cigarettes. Placing the roll
+between the pages of a newspaper, I am surprised to find it in German.
+From whom can it be? I turn to the signature. Carl Nold? It's
+impossible; it's a trap! No, but that handwriting,--I could not mistake
+it: the small, clear chirography is undoubtedly Nold's. But how did he
+smuggle in this note? I feel the blood rush to my head as my eye flits
+over the penciled lines: Bauer and he are arrested; they are in the jail
+now, charged with conspiracy to kill Frick; detectives swore they met
+them in my company, in front of the Frick office building. They have
+engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. Would I accept his services? I
+probably have no money, and I shouldn't expect any from New York,
+because Most--what's this?--because Most has repudiated the act--
+
+The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty I walk to the gallery.
+I feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and I stumble against the
+railing.
+
+"Is yo sick, Ahlick?" It must be the negro's voice. My throat is dry; my
+lips refuse to move. Hazily I see the guard approach. He walks me to the
+cell, and lowers the berth. "You may lie down." The lock clicks, and I'm
+alone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The line marches past, up and down, up and down. The regular footfall
+beats against my brain like hammer strokes. When will they stop? My head
+aches dreadfully--I am glad I don't have to walk--it was good of the
+negro to call the guard--I felt so sick. What was it? Oh, the note!
+Where is it?
+
+The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick the newspaper up from
+the floor. With trembling hands I turn the leaves. Ah, it's here! If I
+had not found it, I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy?
+
+The sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread. Nold and Bauer
+here! Perhaps--if they act discreetly--all will be well. They are
+innocent; they can prove it. But Most! How can it be possible? Of
+course, he was displeased when I began to associate with the
+autonomists. But how can that make any difference? At such a time! What
+matter personal likes and dislikes to a revolutionist, to a Most--the
+hero of my first years in America, the name that stirred my soul in that
+little library in Kovno--Most, the Bridge of Liberty! My teacher--the
+author of the _Kriegswissenschaft_--the ideal revolutionist--he to
+denounce me, to repudiate propaganda by deed?
+
+It's incredible! I cannot believe it. The Girl will not fail to write to
+me about it. I'll wait till I hear from her. But, then, Nold is himself
+a great admirer of Most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless
+fully convinced that it is true. Yet--it is barely conceivable. How
+explain such a change in Most? To forswear his whole past, his glorious
+past! He was always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism.
+Some tremendous motive must be back of such apostasy. It has no parallel
+in Anarchist annals. But what can it be? How boldly he acted during the
+Haymarket tragedy--publicly advised the use of violence to avenge the
+capitalist conspiracy. He must have realized the danger of the speech
+for which he was later doomed to Blackwell's Island. I remember his
+defiant manner on the way to prison. How I admired his strong spirit, as
+I accompanied him on the last ride! That was only a little over a year
+ago, and he is just out a few months. Perhaps--is it possible? A coward?
+Has that prison experience influenced his present attitude? Why, it is
+terrible to think of Most--a coward? He who has devoted his entire life
+to the Cause, sacrificed his seat in the Reichstag because of
+uncompromising honesty, stood in the forefront all his life, faced peril
+and danger,--_he_ a coward? Yet, it is impossible that he should have
+suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. What could have prompted his
+denunciation of my act? Personal dislike? No, that was a matter of
+petty jealousy. His confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded.
+Did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans concerning
+Russia? That was proof of absolute faith. One could not change his
+opinion so suddenly. Moreover, it can have no bearing on his repudiation
+of a terrorist act. I can find no explanation, unless--can it be?--fear
+of personal consequences. Afraid _he_ might be held responsible,
+perhaps. Such a possibility is not excluded, surely. The enemy hates him
+bitterly, and would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to hang
+him. But that is the price one pays for his love of humanity. Every
+revolutionist is exposed to this danger. Most especially; his whole
+career has been a duel with tyranny. But he was never before influenced
+by such considerations. Is he not prepared to take the responsibility
+for his terrorist propaganda, the work of his whole life? Why has he
+suddenly been stricken with fear? Can it be? Can it be?...
+
+My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair grips my heart, as
+I hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. But it cannot be;
+Nold has made a mistake. May be the letter is a trap; it was not written
+by Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps I'll have
+a letter in the morning. The Girl--she is the only one I can
+trust--she'll tell me--
+
+My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed. Perhaps to-morrow ... a
+letter....
+
+
+XII
+
+"Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?" the Warden asks.
+
+"What 'pards'?"
+
+"Your partners, Bauer and Nold."
+
+"My comrades, you mean. I have no partners."
+
+"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers are here."
+
+"Yes, I'll see them."
+
+Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct my own case, and
+explain my act. But I shall be glad to meet my comrades. I wonder how
+they feel about their arrest,--perhaps they are inclined to blame me.
+And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side with Most--
+
+My senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies me into the hall.
+Near the wall, seated at a small table, I behold Nold and Bauer. Two
+other men are with them; their attorneys, I suppose. All eyes scrutinize
+me curiously, searchingly. Nold advances toward me. His manner is
+somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness in his heavy-browed
+eyes. He grasps my hand. The pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns
+to pour boundless confidence into my heart. For a moment a wave of
+thankfulness overwhelms me: I long to embrace him. But curious eyes bore
+into me. I glance at Bauer. There is a cheerful smile on the
+good-natured, ruddy face. The guard pushes a chair toward the table, and
+leans against the railing. His presence constrains me: he will report to
+the Warden everything said.
+
+I am introduced to the lawyers. The contrast in their appearance
+suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling. The younger man, evidently a
+recent graduate, is quick, alert, and talkative. There is an air of
+anxious expectancy about him, with a look of Semitic shrewdness in the
+long, narrow face. He enlarges upon the kind consent of his
+distinguished colleague to take charge of my case. His demeanor toward
+the elder lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. The latter
+looks bored, and is silent.
+
+"Do you wish to say something, Colonel?" the young lawyer suggests.
+
+"Nothing."
+
+He ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. His colleague looks
+abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a naughty act.
+
+"You, Mr. Berkman?" he asks.
+
+I thank them for their interest in my case. But I need no defence, I
+explain, since I do not consider myself guilty. I am exclusively
+concerned in making a public statement in the courtroom. If I am
+represented by an attorney, I should be deprived of the opportunity. Yet
+it is most vital to clarify to the People the purpose of my act, the
+circumstances--
+
+The heavy breathing opposite distracts me. I glance at the Colonel. His
+eyes are closed, and from the parted lips there issues the regular
+respiration of sound sleep. A look of mild dismay crosses the young
+lawyer's face. He rises with an apologetic smile.
+
+"You are tired, Colonel. It's awfully close here."
+
+"Let us go," the Colonel replies.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Depressed I return to the cell. The old lawyer,--how little my
+explanation interested him! He fell asleep! Why, it is a matter of life
+and death, an issue that involves the welfare of the world! I was so
+happy at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent
+Americans,--and he was sleeping! The young lawyer, too, is disgusting,
+with his air of condescending pity toward one who "will have a fool for
+a client," as he characterized my decision to conduct my own case. He
+may think such a course suicidal. Perhaps it is, in regard to
+consequences. But the length of the sentence is a matter of
+indifference to me: I'll die soon, anyway. The only thing of importance
+now is my explanation. And that man fell asleep! Perhaps he considers me
+a criminal. But what can I expect of a lawyer, when even the
+steel-worker could not understand my act? Most himself--
+
+With the name, I recollect the letters the guard had given me during the
+interview. There are three of them; one from the Girl! At last! Why did
+she not write before? They must have kept the letter in the office. Yes,
+the postmark is a week old. She'll tell me about Most,--but what is the
+use? I'm sure of it now; I read it plainly in Nold's eyes. It's all
+true. But I must see what she writes.
+
+How every line breathes her devotion to the Cause! She is the real
+Russian woman revolutionist. Her letter is full of bitterness against
+the attitude of Most and his lieutenants in the German and Jewish
+Anarchist circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement in my
+imprisonment. She refers to the financial difficulties of the little
+commune consisting of Fedya, herself, and one or two other comrades, and
+closes with the remark that, fortunately, I need no money for legal
+defence or attorneys.
+
+The staunch Girl! She and Fedya are, after all, the only true
+revolutionists I know in our ranks. The others all possess some
+weakness. I could not rely on them. The German comrades,--they are
+heavy, phlegmatic; they lack the enthusiasm of Russia. I wonder how they
+ever produced a Reinsdorf. Well, he is the exception. There is nothing
+to be expected from the German movement, excepting perhaps the
+autonomists. But they are a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept
+alive mainly by the Most and Peukert feud. Peukert, too, the life of
+their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation.
+Quite natural, of course. A terrible injustice has been done him.[9] It
+is remarkable that the false accusations have not driven him into
+obscurity. There is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean
+order, in his survival in the movement. It was that which first awakened
+my interest in him. Most's explanation, full of bitter invective,
+suggested hostile personal feeling. What a tremendous sensation I
+created at the first Jewish Anarchist Conference by demanding that the
+charges against Peukert be investigated! The result entirely failed to
+substantiate the accusations. But the Mostianer were not convinced,
+blinded by the vituperative eloquence of Most. And now ... now, again,
+they will follow, as blindly. To be sure, they will not dare take open
+stand against my act; not the Jewish comrades, at least. After all, the
+fire of Russia still smolders in their hearts. But Most's attitude
+toward me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm, and thus
+react on the propaganda. The burden of making agitation through my act
+will fall on the Girl's shoulders. She will stand a lone soldier in the
+field. She will exert her utmost efforts, I am convinced. But she will
+stand alone. Fedya will also remain loyal. But what can he do? He is not
+a speaker. Nor the rest of the commune circle. And Most? We had all been
+so intimate.... It's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice, too. Yes,
+mostly cowardice--he can't be jealous of me now! He recently left
+prison,--it must have terrorized him. The weakling! He will minimize the
+effect of my act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence
+altogether.... Now I stand alone--except for the Girl--quite alone. It
+is always so. Was not "he" alone, my beloved, "unknown" Grinevitzky,
+isolated, scorned by his comrades? But his bomb ... how it thundered...
+
+  [9] Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria,
+      was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into
+      the hands of the police. Neve was sentenced to ten years'
+      prison. Peukert always insisted that the accusation against
+      him originated with some of his political enemies among the
+      Socialists. It is certain that the arrest of Neve was not
+      due to calculated treachery on the part of Peukert, but
+      rather to indiscretion.
+
+I was just a boy then. Let me see,--it was in 1881. I was about eleven
+years old. The class was assembling after the noon recess. I had barely
+settled in my seat, when the teacher called me forward. His long pointer
+was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of Russia.
+
+"What province is that?" he demanded.
+
+"Astrakhan."
+
+"Mention its chief products."
+
+Products? The name Chernishevsky flitted through my mind. He was in
+Astrakhan,--I heard Maxim tell mother so at dinner.
+
+"Nihilists," I burst out.
+
+The boys tittered; some laughed aloud. The teacher grew purple. He
+struck the pointer violently on the floor, shivering the tapering end.
+Suddenly there broke a roll of thunder. One--two-- With a terrific
+crash, the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook beneath our
+feet. The room was hushed. Deathly pale, the teacher took a step toward
+the window, but hastily turned, and dashed from the room. The pupils
+rushed after him. I wondered at the air of fear and suspicion on the
+streets. At home every one spoke in subdued tunes. Father looked at
+mother severely, reproachfully, and Maxim was unusually silent, but his
+face seemed radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. At night, alone
+with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed, knelt at my side, and
+threw his arms around me and kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. His
+wildness frightened me. "What is it, Maximotchka?" I breathed softly. He
+ran up and down the room, kissing me and murmuring, "Glorious, glorious!
+Victory!"
+
+Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious,
+awe-inspiring words: Will of the People--tyrant removed--Free Russia....
+
+
+XIII
+
+The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. Life is so remote,
+so appallingly far away--it has abandoned me in this desert of silence.
+The distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens,
+accentuate my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life, huge,
+palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. How unmindful
+of myself, flung into the darkness,--like a furnace spark belched forth
+amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night.
+
+The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life.
+Every approach they guard, lest I enter back--I and the others here.
+Poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their
+trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces
+are haggard and anxious. They walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long
+days of waiting. Only "Blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. But
+I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am sure his eyes were
+moist when the three Italians returned from court this morning. They had
+been sentenced to death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with
+a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both hands over his
+face, weeping silently. But the old man, their father--as he was
+crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed,
+then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body
+falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards dragged him up the
+stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson
+spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he
+stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried
+hoarsely, anguished, "O Santa Maria! Sio innocente inno--"
+
+The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and fell.
+
+"Ready! Death-watch!" shouted the Warden.
+
+"In-no-cente! Death-watch!" mocked the echo under the roof.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized cry; its black despair
+chills my marrow. Exercise hour has become insupportable. The prisoners
+irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening monotony of
+the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant cruelty and brutality is
+harrowing. I wish it were all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a
+ceaseless torture. I have been waiting now almost two months. My court
+speech is prepared. I could die now, but they would suppress my
+explanation, and the People thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose.
+I owe it to the Cause--and to the true comrades--to stay on the scene
+till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind me to life. With the
+speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. Death,
+suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that
+is self-evident. If I only knew the date of my trial,--that day will be
+my last. The poor old Italian,--he and his sons, they at least know when
+they are to die. They count each day; every hour brings them closer to
+the end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps they killed
+under great provocation, in the heat of passion. But the sheriff will
+murder them in cold blood. The law of peace and order!
+
+I shall not be hanged--yet I feel as if I were dead. My life is done;
+only the last rite remains to be performed. After that--well, I'll find
+a way. When the trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. The spoon
+is of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it--on the stone floor--very
+quietly, at night--
+
+"Number six, to court! Num-ber six!"
+
+Did the turnkey call "six"? Who is in cell six? Why, it's _my_ cell! I
+feel the cold perspiration running down my back. My heart beats
+violently, my hands tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper.
+Nervously I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my name didn't
+appear yet in the court calendar column. The list is published every
+Monday--why, this is Saturday's paper--yesterday we had service--it must
+be Monday to-day. Oh, shame! They didn't give me the paper to-day, and
+it's Monday--yes, it's Monday--
+
+The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks.
+
+"Hurry, To court!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE TRIAL
+
+
+The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows
+cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the sombre light the faces
+look funereal, spectral.
+
+Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the Girl, have come to
+greet me.... Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police and court
+attendants on every side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is
+humiliating that through them I must speak to the People.
+
+"Prisoner at the bar, stand up!"
+
+The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania--the clerk vociferates--charges me with
+felonious assault on H. C. Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault
+on John G. A. Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie
+Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and
+with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons.
+
+"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
+
+I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the
+attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not
+true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only--
+
+"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts.
+
+"Not guilty. I want to explain--"
+
+"Your attorneys will do that."
+
+"I have no attorney."
+
+"The Court will appoint one to defend you."
+
+"I need no defence. I want to make a statement."
+
+"You will be given an opportunity at the proper time."
+
+Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use are all these
+preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the
+jury box there, they are to decide my fate. As if they could understand!
+They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the talesmen
+not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered.
+
+"When was the jury picked?" I demand.
+
+"You have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts.
+
+The names of the talesmen sound strange. But what matter who are the men
+to judge me? They, too, belong to the enemy. They will do the master's
+bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the
+Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and
+the new jurors file into the box.
+
+The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro employees of Frick in
+turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick
+office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the
+hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective
+who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a
+physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal.
+John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies.
+"It's a lie!" I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat.
+Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him.
+
+The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the
+State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall
+not participate in the mockery.
+
+"Call the witnesses for the defence," the judge commands.
+
+I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The
+prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my
+prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of
+the court interpreter.
+
+"I address myself to the People," I begin. "Some may wonder why I have
+declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I
+am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave
+and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an
+_Attentat_ cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It
+requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A
+lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of
+the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but
+rather the _explanation_ of the deed. It is mistaken to believe _me_ on
+trial. The actual defendant is Society--the system of injustice, of the
+organized exploitation of the People."
+
+The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he
+translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his
+inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart
+bleeds at his meaningless declamation.
+
+"Translate sentences, not single words," I remonstrate.
+
+With an impatient gesture he leaves me.
+
+"Oh, please, go on!" I cry in dismay.
+
+He returns hesitatingly.
+
+"Look at my paper," I adjure him, "and translate each sentence as I read
+it."
+
+The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is
+blind!
+
+"Let--us--continue," he stammers.
+
+"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts.
+
+"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in consternation.
+
+"It will do."
+
+"I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to--"
+
+"We allow you five more minutes."
+
+"But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the right to be
+heard."
+
+"We'll teach you differently."
+
+I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats,
+but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They
+remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.
+
+"Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?"
+
+"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your justice is a farce."
+
+"Silence!"
+
+In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards
+lead me from the courtroom.
+
+"The judge was easy on you," the Warden jeers. "Twenty-two years! Pretty
+stiff, eh?"
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+THE PENITENTIARY
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA--MAIN BUILDING]
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+DESPERATE THOUGHTS
+
+
+I
+
+"Make yourself at home, now. You'll stay here a while, huh, huh!"
+
+As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I
+wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone.
+
+Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I
+am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a
+void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my
+heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my
+eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a
+raging fire. Oh!
+
+I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face.
+Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces
+my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture.
+
+"Get up and undress. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
+
+The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare.
+Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.
+
+"Now lay down and go to sleep."
+
+Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A
+terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed,
+the wall ... I can't see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A
+faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my
+face. Oh, I can see! I can see!
+
+"What t' hell's the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?"
+
+Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.... What
+a terrible place this must be! This agony---- I cannot support it.
+Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I'll die
+to-night.... With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead
+creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The
+guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with
+closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about
+the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating.... I cannot
+live here. I must die. This very night.... Something white glimmers in
+the corner. Cautiously I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold
+it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep
+back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart.
+It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over
+here--like this--I will force it in--a little lower--a steady
+pressure--just between the ribs.... The metal feels cold. How hot my
+body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek
+the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I
+only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That's
+why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court!
+There was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. He turned his head away, he
+could not face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't
+crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed....
+
+"Keep quiet there, or I'll put you in the hole."
+
+The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I'll draw the
+blanket over my head, so. What was I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He
+is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it
+does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as the
+result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I meant to kill him,
+and he lives. My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept the
+date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was
+maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept
+interrupting me. I did not read even a third of my statement. And the
+whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor old man! He
+was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he
+was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his
+screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue.
+That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern
+him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years!
+As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place!
+Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. The old villain!
+He has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims,
+the victims of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of
+it--had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed? Yet he
+wouldn't permit me to continue my statement. "The court has been very
+patient!" I am glad I told him that I didn't expect justice, and did not
+get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang
+to my lips. No, it was best that I controlled my anger. Else they would
+have rejoiced to proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things
+help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals? We, who are ever
+ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? And they, our accusers?
+They break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the
+charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act, as if the
+minor "offences" were not included in the major, made necessary by the
+deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me
+more than seven years. But I am an Anarchist. I had attempted the life
+of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I
+knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented.
+Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge.
+Well, I expected no less, and it makes no difference now. I am going to
+die, anyway.
+
+I clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. Its narrow end against my heart,
+I test the resistance of the flesh. A violent blow will drive it between
+the ribs....
+
+One, two, three--the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence,
+resonant, compelling. Instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides,
+everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are
+noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the distance
+sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows nearer and louder. I hear
+the officers' sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening
+and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan
+the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His
+eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a
+small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the
+door is closed and locked.
+
+"Want coffee? Hold your cup."
+
+Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin
+can. In the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows,
+scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the
+dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood.
+
+"What do you mean by that?" the guard shouts at me.
+
+"I couldn't help it."
+
+"Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it out of you. Hey,
+there, Sam," the officer motions to the trusty, "no dinner for A 7, you
+hear!"
+
+"Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"
+
+"No more coffee, either."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in
+his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my
+naked feet.
+
+"Ain't you got no shoes?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Put 'em on, damn you."
+
+His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the
+either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "Damn
+you, put 'em on."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is
+still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent,
+ghostlike.
+
+
+II
+
+"Forward, march!"
+
+The lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an
+undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body
+moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand
+feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and
+falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and
+passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or
+malicious leer. Here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or
+sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped
+line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the
+ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the
+shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and
+gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the
+shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the
+last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison
+yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly
+alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron.
+The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried
+within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head,
+my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can't, I
+can't live here! I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two years! It is a
+lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die. I will! Now!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the
+cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls,
+yellow with damp--the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the
+bed--the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall--the small table
+and the rickety chair--the filthy floor, black and gray in spots....
+Why, it's stone! I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the
+corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly,
+till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and
+scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping sound. The metal is
+growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of
+blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade is
+keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand gropes for my heart. I
+touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs--here--I'll be dead when
+they find me.... If Frick had only died. So much propaganda could be
+made--that damned Most, if he hadn't turned against me! He will ruin the
+whole effect of the act. It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he
+afraid of? They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for over a
+year. He could easily prove it. The traitor! Preached propaganda by deed
+all his life--now he repudiates the first _Attentat_ in this country.
+What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he
+doesn't know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too,
+when together we set up the secret circular in the _Freiheit_ office. It
+was in William Street. We waited for the other compositors to leave;
+then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to
+Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something
+important there. Why didn't I go? What was it? Well, I can't think of it
+now. It's peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of
+revolutionists in Russia. And now.... Oh, I'll never do anything more.
+I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold--a pool of blood under me--the
+mattress will be red--no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak
+through the straw.... I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from
+my heart--I must strike right here--strong and quick--it will not pain
+much. But the edge is ragged--it may catch--or tear the flesh. They say
+the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against
+the blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close--like this--then a
+quick drive--right into the heart--it's the surest way. I must not wound
+myself--I would bleed slowly--they might discover me still alive. No,
+no! I must die at once. They'll find me dead--my heart--they'll feel
+it--not beating--the blade still in it--they'll call the doctor--"He's
+dead." And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it--she'll be
+sad--but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad--they couldn't
+torture me here--she'll know I cheated them--yes, she.... Where is she
+now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I've failed?
+And Fedya, also? If I'd only hear from her--just once. It would be
+easier to die. But she'll understand, she--
+
+"Git off that bed! Don't you know the rules, eh? Get out o' there!"
+
+Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my
+relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly,
+damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something
+repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive
+smile. Oh, it's the officer of the morning!
+
+"Foxy, ain't you? Gimme that spoon."
+
+The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the
+tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the
+spoon. I cannot afford to lose it--not to this brute--
+
+"Cap'n, here!"
+
+I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the
+spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.
+
+"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate, eh?"
+
+"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."
+
+
+III
+
+In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy
+stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped
+shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow
+parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely
+eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.
+
+"Who is this?"
+
+The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like
+face and figure. The contrast is startling.
+
+"A 7."
+
+"What is the charge, Officer?"
+
+"Two charges, Mr. McPane. Layin' in bed and tryin' soocide."
+
+A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy's wizened
+face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if
+drumming stiffly on an imaginary board.
+
+"Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm,
+to commit suicide?"
+
+"With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor."
+
+"Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as
+trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave
+offence. I'll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by
+lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer.
+He will, hm, hm, cool off."
+
+I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me.
+Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors,
+dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally
+thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger
+and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending
+over me.
+
+"A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell."
+
+"Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment."
+
+"Not safe, Mr. McPane."
+
+"We'll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers."
+
+"Git up."
+
+My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up
+the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a
+bed.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no
+weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell
+that I could use. These iron bars--I could beat my head against them.
+But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the
+brains ooze out.... But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with
+one blow? I'm afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to
+strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and
+quickest. I've always thought I'd prefer such a death--to be shot. The
+barrel close to the temple--one couldn't miss. Some people have done it
+in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver,
+either.... Through the mouth it is also fatal.... That Moscow
+student--Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov--he shot himself through
+the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I
+admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even
+left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady,
+because--he wrote--after passing through his brain, the bullet might
+damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the
+bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and
+peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my
+brother's study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I
+liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: "Sasha, Ivan
+Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time." My
+hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I
+was glad I didn't cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very
+strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her
+about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little.
+"Rather energetic," she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the
+favorable impression made by his college chum. "What did I tell you?" he
+cried, in glee; "Ivan Nikolaievitch _molodetz_![10] Think of it, he's
+only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the
+foundation of the university. _Molodetz_!" But how red were Maxim's eyes
+when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as
+he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan
+Nikolaievitch's room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the
+cotton, an I showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma
+called Max a brute. "For a woman, an unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I
+thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a
+little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly.
+They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno.
+She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she
+seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to
+talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that
+I was in love with Nadya, my sister's chum. And I had kissed our
+chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa,--I remember she threatened to tell
+mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn't come to dinner. Mamma sent the
+maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell....
+The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the
+little imp couldn't keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our
+neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me
+about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor
+would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.
+
+  [10] Clever, brave lad.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+... How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become
+of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had
+almost forgotten,--I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was
+standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I boarded. I had then
+been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She
+looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. "Don't you know me,
+Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me?" Some mistake, I thought. I
+had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited
+me into the hallway. "Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don't you
+remember? Why, you know, I was your mother's--your mother's maid." She
+blushed violently. Those red cheeks--why, certainly, it's Rosa! I
+thought of the stolen kiss. "Would I dare it now?" I wondered, suddenly
+conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. How our
+positions were changed! She looked the very _barishnya_,[11] like my
+sister. "Is your mother here?" she asked. "Mother? She died, just before
+I left." I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible
+scene when mother struck her? "I didn't know about your mother." Her
+voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always
+generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. We
+looked at each other in embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand.
+Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. "Good-bye, _Gospodin_[12]
+Berkman," she said. "I'll see you again soon. Please don't tell these
+people who I am." I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. _Gospodin_
+Berkman--somehow it echoed the servile _barinya_[13] with which the
+domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not
+gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor girl. She has not become
+emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no
+doubt. She was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she has
+learned in this country. Now she will read about me, and she'll know how
+I died.... Oh, I haven't the spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I
+can't live. I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years,
+I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't, anyhow. I might live
+here a year, or two. But twenty-two, twenty-two years! What is the use?
+No man could survive it. It's terrible, twenty-two years! Their cursed
+justice--they always talk of law. Yet legally I shouldn't have gotten
+more than seven years. Legally! As if _they_ care about "legality."
+They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand;
+but if I had seven years--perhaps I might live through it; I would try.
+But twenty-two--it's a lifetime, a whole lifetime. Seventeen is no
+better. That man Jamestown got seventeen years. He celled next to me in
+the jail. He didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small and
+puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he could live here seventeen
+years. In this hell--what an imbecile he is! He should have committed
+suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial; it's about three
+weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn't he done something? He will soon die
+here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. A strong man might live
+five years; I doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. _I_
+couldn't; no, I know I couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at most. We
+had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a
+peculiar idea of prison: I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a
+gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and
+the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes,
+and I so helpless, chained to the wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar
+idea. She said she might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a
+year, I thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms
+off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my
+flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.... And the vermin
+here, those big, brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so
+vicious and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There must be in
+the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot. I don't know how it happened.
+I was unconscious in that dark hole--it was just like my old idea of
+prison. I couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. Here it is a
+little better; but it's never light in this cell,--always in
+semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no windows; it's damp, and smells
+so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with
+blood, too. Bedbugs--augh! it's nauseating. Not much better than that
+black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle
+better,--my hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few
+years: no more than three, or may be five. But these brutal officers!
+No, no, I couldn't stand it. I want to die! I'd die here soon, anyway;
+they will kill me. But I won't give the enemy the satisfaction; they
+shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that
+they killed me. No! I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall
+have to do it--with my head against the bars--no, not now! At night,
+when it's all dark,--they couldn't save me then. It will be a terrible
+death, but it must be done.... If I only knew about "them" in New
+York--the Girl and Fedya--it would be easier to die then.... What are
+they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda out of it? They must
+be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can't live here long.
+Perhaps they wonder why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I
+could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in
+jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself
+that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me
+directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now--
+
+  [11] Young lady.
+
+  [12] Mister.
+
+  [13] Lady.
+
+"Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!" the trusty shouts into the door.
+Suddenly he whispers, "Grab it, quick!" A long, dark object is shot
+between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man
+is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can
+it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a
+white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard
+inside--it's a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my
+heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there
+is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's some one
+I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they
+permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard
+straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here--the language, the
+guards.... I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I
+ought to wash up--my head feels so heavy--I haven't washed since I got
+here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don't know, I can't
+think. But my trial--it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They
+brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard--he
+frightened me so with the bull's-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it
+must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday?
+Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I'll
+ask the trusty the next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this
+towel too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there
+is some here--
+
+My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I
+discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old
+chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy;
+near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot
+over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it
+feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The
+stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle.
+Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There's a pin in
+the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A
+note!
+
+With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing:
+
+    Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from a
+    friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we
+    know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at
+    night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls.
+    Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. So long,
+    will see you tomorrow. A true friend.
+
+I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me.
+Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My
+heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could
+escape.... Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven't I thought of it
+before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack
+the country for me. I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I'd
+be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It would make great
+propaganda: people would become much interested, and I--why, I should
+have new opportunities--
+
+The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me
+with despair. Perhaps a trap! I don't know who wrote the note. A fine
+conspirator I'd prove, to be duped so easily. But why should they want
+to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they
+are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer--the Deputy called him
+Fellings--he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his
+work, to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage?
+These things happen--they have been done in Russia. And he looks like a
+_provocateur_, the scoundrel. No, he won't get me that way. I must read
+the note again. It contains so many expressions I don't understand. I
+should "keep my lamps lit." What lamps? There are none in the cell;
+where am I to get them? And what "screws" must I watch? And the
+"stools,"--I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's
+to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says
+he will call to-morrow. I'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can
+be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I'll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I
+wish it were here!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE WILL TO LIVE
+
+
+I
+
+The days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. The gong
+regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my
+thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent.
+In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,--yet the suggestion of
+escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert
+itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind
+dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. The
+thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of
+escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience.
+Surely I have no fear of death--when the proper time arrives. But haste
+would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my
+duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda:
+escape would afford me many occasions to serve the Cause. It was
+thoughtless on my part to condemn that man Jamestown. I even resented
+his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the
+impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was unjust: Jamestown
+is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an
+undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new
+surroundings, get one's bearings in the prison. So far I have had but
+little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities
+to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the
+intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. At
+liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find,
+unaided, my way out. Oh, if I possessed the magic ring I dreamed of last
+night! It was a wonderful talisman, secreted--I fancied in the dream--by
+the goddess of the Social Revolution. I saw her quite distinctly: tall
+and commanding, the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes. She
+stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the
+queenly countenance, her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half
+pointing toward the dark wall. Eagerly I looked in the direction of the
+arched hand--there, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the
+brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. It was a heart-shaped ring
+cleft in the centre. Its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner
+with the aureole of a great hope. Impulsively I reached out, and pressed
+the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole, when, lo! the rays
+burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel,
+and dissolved the prison walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green
+fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of
+freedom. And then ... something dispelled the vision.
+
+Oh, if I had that magic heart now! To escape, to be free! May be my
+unknown friend will yet keep his word. He is probably perfecting plans,
+or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades could aid
+me, escape would be feasible. But the Girl and Fedya will never consider
+the possibility. No doubt they refrain from writing because they
+momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor Girl
+must be! Yet she should have written: it is now four days since my
+removal to the penitentiary. Every day I anxiously await the coming of
+the Chaplain, who distributes the mail.--There he is! The quick, nervous
+step has become familiar to my ear. Expectantly I follow his movements;
+I recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring
+lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda
+with the cell-house, and pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall
+amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a
+graveyard at night. Now the Chaplain pauses: he is comparing the number
+of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter.
+Some one has remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and grow
+faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner. He passes the cell-row
+on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier, and finally reaches the
+ground floor containing my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound
+approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. He is nearing the
+cell--he pauses. I can't see him yet, but I know he is comparing
+numbers. Perhaps the letter is for me. I hope the Chaplain will make no
+mistake: Range K, Cell 6, Number A 7. Something light flaps on the floor
+of the next cell, and the quick, short step has passed me by. No mail
+for me! Another twenty-four hours must elapse before I may receive a
+letter, and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my
+door.
+
+
+II
+
+The thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is driving me desperate. I
+would make use of any means, however terrible, to escape from this hell,
+to regain liberty. Liberty! What would it not offer me after this
+experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary
+activity. I would choose Russia. The Mostianer have forsaken me. I will
+keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of
+accomplishing. If there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush
+for their despicable attitude toward my act, their shameful treatment of
+me. How eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated
+devotion, to salve their guilty conscience! I should not have to
+complain of a lack of financial aid, were I to inform our intimate
+circles of my plans regarding future activity in Russia. It would be
+glorious, glorious! S--sh--
+
+It's the Chaplain. Perhaps he has mail for me to-day.... May be he is
+suppressing letters from my friends; or probably it is the Warden's
+fault: the mailbag is first examined in his office.--Now the Chaplain is
+descending to the ground floor. He pauses. It must be Cell 2 getting a
+letter. Now he is coming. The shadow is opposite my door,--gone!
+
+"Chaplain, one moment, please."
+
+"Who's calling?"
+
+"Here, Chaplain. Cell 6 K."
+
+"What is it, my boy?"
+
+"Chaplain, I should like something to read."
+
+"Read? Why, we have a splendid library, m' boy; very fine library. I
+will send you a catalogue, and you can draw one book every week."
+
+"I missed library day on this range. I'll have to wait another week. But
+I'd like to have something in the meantime, Chaplain."
+
+"You are not working, m' boy?"
+
+"No."
+
+"You have not refused to work, have you?"
+
+"No, I have not been offered any work yet."
+
+"Oh, well, you will be assigned soon. Be patient, m' boy."
+
+"But can't I have something to read now?"
+
+"Isn't there a Bible in your cell?"
+
+"A Bible? I don't believe in it, Chaplain."
+
+"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may do you good. Read it,
+m' boy."
+
+For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses my mind.
+
+"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't care for the
+modern English version. Perhaps you have one with Greek or Latin
+annotations?"
+
+"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or Greek?"
+
+"Yes, I have studied the classics."
+
+The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to the door, leaning
+against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. We
+talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools,
+social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man, this prison
+Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to Russia had impressed him
+with the great possibilities of that country. Finally he motions to a
+guard:
+
+"Let A 7 come with me."
+
+With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "Shall I
+come along, Chaplain?" he asks.
+
+"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy."
+
+Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper
+rotunda, on the left side of which is the Chaplain's office. Excited and
+alert, I absorb every detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear
+indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the Chaplain,
+as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and
+opens the door. Passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan
+of escape is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the keys--he
+lives in the Warden's house, connected with the prison--he is so
+fragile--I could easily overpower him--there is no one in the
+rotunda--I'd stifle his cries--take the keys--
+
+"Have a seat, my boy. Sit down. Here are some books. Look them over. I
+have a duplicate of my personal Bible, with annotations. It is somewhere
+here."
+
+With feverish eyes I watch him lay the keys on the desk. A quick motion,
+and they would be mine. That large and heavy one, it must belong to the
+gate. It is so big,--one blow would kill him. Ah, there is a safe! The
+Chaplain is taking some books from it. His back is turned to me. A
+thrust--and I'd lock him in.... Stealthily, imperceptibly, I draw nearer
+to the desk, my eyes fastened on the keys. Now I bend over them,
+pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand glides forward,
+slowly, cautiously. Quickly I lean over; the open book in my hands
+entirely hides the keys. My hand touches them. Desperately I clutch the
+large, heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises--
+
+"My boy, I cannot find that Bible just now, but I'll give you some other
+book. Sit down, my boy. I am so sorry about you. I am an officer of the
+State, but I think you were dealt with unjustly. Your sentence is quite
+excessive. I can well understand the state of mind that actuated you, a
+young enthusiast, in these exciting times. It was in connection with
+Homestead, is it not so, m' boy?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. That deep note of
+sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling voice--no, no, I cannot touch
+him....
+
+
+III
+
+At last, mail from New York! Letters from the Girl and Fedya. With a
+feeling of mixed anxiety and resentment, I gaze at the familiar
+handwriting. Why didn't they write before? The edge of expectancy has
+been dulled by the long suspense. The Girl and the Twin, my closest,
+most intimate friends of yesterday,--but the yesterday seems so distant
+in the past, its very reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking
+events.
+
+There is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness, in the Girl's
+letter. The failure of my act will lessen the moral effect, and diminish
+its propagandistic value. The situation is aggravated by Most. Owing to
+his disparaging attitude, the Germans remain indifferent. To a
+considerable extent, even the Jewish revolutionary element has been
+influenced by him. The Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at
+the attempted completion of my work, planned, yet impossible of
+realization.
+
+I smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed even of an attempt.
+The damningly false viewpoint of the Girl exasperates me, and I angrily
+resent the disapproving surprise I sense in both letters at my continued
+existence.
+
+I read the lines repeatedly. Every word drips bitterness into my soul.
+Have I grown morbid, or do they actually presume to reproach me with my
+failure to suicide? By what right? Impatiently I smother the accusing
+whisper of my conscience, "By the right of revolutionary ethics." The
+will to live leaps into being peremptorily, more compelling and
+imperative at the implied challenge.
+
+No, I will struggle and fight! Friend or enemy, they shall learn that I
+am not so easily done for. I will live, to escape, to conquer!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+SPECTRAL SILENCE
+
+
+The silence grows more oppressive, the solitude unbearable. My natural
+buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. With dismay I realize the
+failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. I
+feel worn in body and soul.
+
+The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, accentuates
+the enervating routine. It sounds ominously amid the stillness, like the
+portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. Unshaped fears, the more
+terrifying because vague, fill my heart. In vain I seek to drown my
+riotous thoughts by reading and exercise. The walls stand, immovable
+sentinels, hemming me in on every side, till movement grows into
+torture. In the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters dance
+before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into
+corpses and images of death. The morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The
+hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes half
+shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing rays form a
+kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my
+youth, now converging upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque
+illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is swept by a gust of
+wind. It darts hither and thither, angrily contending with the
+surrounding darkness. It whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who
+falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with
+frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look! The shadow grows and
+grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the
+officers lead me through the passage. "You're home now," the guard mocks
+me. I look back. The gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and
+on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. The walls
+frown upon me. They seem human in their cruel immobility. Their huge
+arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. I feel so
+small, unutterably weak and defenceless amid all the loneliness,--the
+breath of the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds me, and
+shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror I pause.... The chain grows
+taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. I lurch forward, and wake on
+the floor of the cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights. I listen eagerly for
+the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. But the breaking day
+brings neither hope nor gladness. Gloomy as yesterday, devoid of
+interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden: the
+rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked bread; the tasteless
+brown liquid; the passing lines of striped misery; the coarse commands;
+the heavy tread; and then--the silence of the tomb.
+
+Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage could accrue to the
+Cause from prolonging this agony. All avenues of escape are closed; the
+institution is impregnable. The good people have generously fortified
+this modern bastille; the world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed
+by the anguish of Calvary. No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these
+walls of stone, much less the heart of man. Why, then, prolong the
+agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades,--and they are
+far away and helpless.
+
+Helpless, quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy
+would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless
+vengeance would retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our
+weakness. To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago has not yet
+been avenged. _Vae victis!_ They shall forever be the victims. Only
+might is respected; it alone can influence tyrants. Had we
+strength,--but if the judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more
+than passive indignation, can I expect radical developments in
+consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It is unreasonable. Five
+years, indeed, have passed since the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the
+People have since been taught in the bitter school of oppression and
+defeat. Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the
+worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to
+strong protest, perhaps to active demand. Ah, yes! But when, when will
+the dullard realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind to his own
+slavery and degradation, can I expect him to perceive the wrong suffered
+by others? And who is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as
+deeply and clearly as we Anarchists. Even the Socialists dare not
+advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They have clothed the Goddess of
+Liberty with a fig-leaf; religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and
+injustice, has officially been declared _Privatsache_. Henceforth these
+timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of
+prejudice and superstition. Soon they will grow to _bourgeois_
+respectability, a party of "practical" politics and "sound" morality.
+What a miserable descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed
+defiance of all established institutions, _because_ they were
+established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single institution in
+our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. But only the Anarchists
+dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in
+number, lacking in power. The internal divisions, too, aggravate our
+weakness; and now, even Most has turned apostate. The Jewish comrades
+will be influenced by his attitude. Only the Girl remains. But she is
+young in the movement, and almost unknown. Undoubtedly she has talent as
+a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor health. In all the
+movement, I know of no one capable of propaganda by deed, or of an
+avenging act, except the Twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to
+undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The Twin is a true
+revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with
+slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of
+revolutionary import. But he would not harbor the thought. We held such
+queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform, an arrest,
+suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in
+Russia. How can I broach the subject to the Twin? All mail passes
+through the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially--a
+long-timer and an Anarchist--will be minutely scrutinized. There seems
+no possibility. I am buried alive in this stone grave. Escape is
+hopeless. And this agony of living death--I cannot support it....
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+A RAY OF LIGHT
+
+
+I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a
+relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I eagerly listen for the
+familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old
+rangeman[14] "sweeping up." The sensitive mouth puckered up in an
+inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his
+left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit.
+
+  [14] Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells.
+
+"Hello, Aleck! How're you feeling to-day?"
+
+He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom
+suspended in mid-stroke. I catch an occasional glance of the kind blue
+eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left,
+alert for the approach of a guard.
+
+"How're you, Aleck?"
+
+"Oh, nothing extra."
+
+"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the mill. Keep up your
+nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet."
+
+"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly.
+
+"S--sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears."
+
+"The screw?"
+
+A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"! The puzzling expression
+in the mysterious note,--perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious
+expectancy, I watch the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent,
+he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the
+one-armed sweeper. "S--sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses
+the line of my cell.
+
+I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the
+broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. A
+long shadow falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes
+stands at my door.
+
+"What you pryin' out for?" he demands.
+
+"I am not prying."
+
+"Don't you contradict me. Stand back in your hole there. Don't you be
+leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?"
+
+Down the hall the guard shouts: "Hey you, cripple! Talkin' there, wasn't
+you?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Don't you dare lie to me. You was."
+
+"Swear to God I wasn't."
+
+"W-a-all, if I ever catch you talkin' to that s---- of a b----, I'll fix
+you."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The scratching of the broom has ceased. The rangeman is dusting the
+doors. The even strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. Again the
+man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he
+diligently plies the duster.
+
+"Aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw. He's a ----. See him
+jump on me?"
+
+"What would he do to you if he saw you talking to me?"
+
+"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. I'd lose my job, too."
+
+"Then better don't talk to me."
+
+"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch _me_, not he. He didn't see
+me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff _me_, though."
+
+"But be careful."
+
+"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the
+block,[15] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. He's jest lookin' for trouble.
+Mean skunk he is, that Cornbread Tom."
+
+  [15] Cell-house.
+
+"Who?"
+
+"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread Tom, b'cause he swipes our
+corn dodger."
+
+"What's corn dodger?"
+
+"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for
+breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n stale punk. Know what punk is?
+Not long on lingo, are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk."
+
+He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful _bon mot_. Suddenly he
+pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away
+from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering:
+
+"All O. K. Road's clear. Tom's been called to the shop. Won't be back
+till dinner, thank th' Lord. Only the Cap is in the block, old man
+Mitchell, in charge of this wing. North Block it's called."
+
+"The women are in the South Block?"
+
+"Nope. Th' girls got a speshal building. South Block's th' new
+cell-house, just finished. Crowded already, an' fresh fish comin' every
+day. Court's busy in Pittsburgh all right. Know any one here?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Well, get acquainted, Aleck. It'll give you an interest. Guess that's
+what you need. I know how you feel, boy. Thought I'd die when I landed
+here. Awful dump. A guy advised me to take an interest an' make friends.
+I thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on the level, all right. Get
+acquainted, Aleck; you'll go bugs if you don't. Must vamoose now. See
+you later. My name's Wingie."
+
+"Wingie?"
+
+"That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier; was at Bull Run. Run
+so damn fast I lost my right wing, hah, hah, hah! S'long."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eagerly I look forward to the stolen talks with Wingie. They are the
+sole break in the monotony of my life. But days pass without the
+exchange of a word. Silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently
+oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I peer between the
+bars for a cheering sign of recognition. Only the quick wink of his eye
+reassures me of his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard.
+
+By degrees the ingenuity of Wingie affords us more frequent snatches of
+conversation, and I gather valuable information about the prison. The
+inmates sympathize with me, Wingie says. They know I'm "on th' level."
+I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful of the "stool pigeons,"
+who report everything to the officers. Wingie is familiar with the
+history of every keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he assures me.
+Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[16]
+Only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a
+hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to
+be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby."
+
+  [16] Fly or fly-cop, a detective.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE SHOP
+
+
+I
+
+I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the Deputy's
+office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in
+the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a
+beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid:
+he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow the idea is associated in my
+mind with a wild tigress,--and I, too, must now look like that.
+
+The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of
+the Deputy Warden.
+
+"Hands up!"
+
+The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and
+there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in
+which I am included, he says in his feminine accents:
+
+"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them
+over to Mr. Hoods."
+
+"Fall in! Forward, march!"
+
+My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager
+expectation. At last I am assigned to work! I speculate on the character
+of "Number Seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there.
+Flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The
+sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm,
+face the striped line winding snakelike through the open space. The yard
+is spacious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath
+of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty.
+Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought
+quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone
+wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing
+the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's
+quarters.
+
+"Break ranks!"
+
+We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the
+objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows.
+The air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An
+atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place.
+
+The officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky
+prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show him what to do."
+
+Considerable time passes, without Jim taking the least notice of me.
+Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands
+deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he
+whispers, hoarsely:
+
+"Fresh fish?"
+
+"What did you say?"
+
+"You bloke, long here?"
+
+"Two weeks."
+
+"Wotcher doin'?"
+
+"Twenty-one years."
+
+"Quitcher kiddin'."
+
+"It's true."
+
+"Honest? Holy gee!"
+
+The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he
+demands, abruptly:
+
+"Wat dey put you here for?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Been kickin'?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Den you'se bugs."
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or
+else dey got it in for you."
+
+"How do _you_ happen to be here?"
+
+"Me? De God damn ---- got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep
+gash over his temple. "Had a scrap wid de screws. Almost knocked me
+glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid
+_him_, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God, I will.
+I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."
+
+  [17] Guard.
+
+"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.
+
+"It ain't, eh? Wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin'
+blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, damn quick."
+
+As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing,
+prolonged and hollow.
+
+The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the
+matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and
+with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the
+gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.
+
+"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm behind wid me work."
+
+Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in
+turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the
+completion of the day's task.
+
+The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with
+a nod of the head.
+
+"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. He's
+got a twenty-one spot."[18]
+
+  [18] Sentence.
+
+"Shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily. The consumptive
+bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick.
+
+As the officer turns away, Jim pleads:
+
+"Mr. Hoods, I lose time teachin'. Won't you please take off a bit? De
+task is more'n I can do, an' I'm sick."
+
+"Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you, Jim. You're just lazy,
+that's what you are. Don't be shamming, now. It don't go with _me_."
+
+At noon the overseer calls me aside. "You are green here," he warns me,
+"pay no attention to Jim. He wanted to be bad, but we showed him
+different. He's all right now. You have a long time; see that you behave
+yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand?"
+
+As I am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to
+the cells for dinner, he recalls me:
+
+"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow Jim. He is a little
+off, you know."
+
+He points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion.
+
+
+II
+
+The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my
+throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer
+in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress
+in the work. "I'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday,
+"and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you
+go." He severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As
+the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing.
+The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to
+recover, and continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the frame,
+a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and
+then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the
+floor.
+
+The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring
+machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over
+his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I
+rushed to the officer.
+
+"Mr. Hoods, Jim has--"
+
+"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "How dare you leave it
+without permission?"
+
+"I just--"
+
+"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick.
+
+I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face
+ashen.
+
+Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached.
+
+"What's the matter here?"
+
+I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly
+touched the bleeding face with his foot.
+
+"Get up, Jim, get up!"
+
+The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom.
+
+"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. Then he shook his
+finger at me, menacingly: "Don't you ever leave your place without
+orders. Remember, you!"
+
+After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the
+doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short,
+stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
+He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "Did any one see the
+man fall?" he inquired.
+
+"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me.
+
+While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked
+my name. "Oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite
+well. Not such a bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr.
+Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is
+the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed. Always that way?"
+
+"Only since I am working in this shop."
+
+"Oh, he is all right, Doctor," the officer interposed. "He's only been
+here a week."
+
+Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard.
+
+"You want him here?"
+
+"Y-e-s: we're short of men."
+
+"Well, _I_ am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning to me, he added:
+"Report in the morning on sick list."
+
+
+III
+
+The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery
+department. The change has filled me with renewed hope. A disciplinary
+shop, to which are generally assigned the "hard cases"--inmates in the
+first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly
+prisoners--the mat shop is the point of special supervision and severest
+discipline. It is the best-guarded shop, from which escape is
+impossible. But in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the
+local industries. I may find the right opportunity. It will require
+time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the great object. The
+working conditions, also, are more favorable: the room is light and
+airy, the discipline not so stringent. My near-sightedness has secured
+for me immunity from machine work. The Deputy at first insisted that my
+eyes were "good enough" to see the numerous needles of the hosiery
+machine. It is true, I could see them; but not with sufficient
+distinctness to insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To
+admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being ordered to produce
+the task; and failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished.
+Necessity drove me to subterfuge: I pretended total inability to
+distinguish the needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to
+change my determination, I have been assigned the comparatively easy
+work of "turning" the stockings. The occupation, though tedious, is not
+exacting. It consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the
+knitting machines, whence the product issues without soles. I carry the
+pile to the table provided with an iron post, about eighteen inches
+high, topped with a small inverted disk. On this instrument the
+stockings are turned "inside out" by slipping the article over the post,
+then quickly "undressing" it. The hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to
+the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to
+me, once more to be "turned," preparatory to sorting and shipment.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice lends me great
+dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I
+seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I
+count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each operation, and
+the amount accomplished within a given time. But in spite of these
+efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects: my
+friends and the propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive
+sentence; suicide and escape.
+
+My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented
+by dread, I awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience
+the momentary relief of danger past. But the next instant I am
+overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and plunged into
+rage and despair, powerless, hopeless.
+
+Thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless
+struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the
+externally placid tenor of my Pennsylvania nightmare.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+MY FIRST LETTER
+
+
+I
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                 October 19th, 1892.
+
+    Dear Sister:[19]
+
+    It is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here. I keep
+    wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed
+    into one short month?... How I have longed for this opportunity!
+    You will understand: a month's stay is required before we are
+    permitted to write. But many, many long letters I have written
+    to you--in my mind, dear Sonya. Where shall I begin now? My
+    space is very limited, and I have so much to say to you and to
+    the Twin.--I received your letters. You need not wait till you
+    hear from me: keep on writing. I am allowed to receive all mail
+    sent, "of moral contents," in the phraseology of the rules. And
+    I shall write whenever I may.
+
+    Dear Sonya, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your
+    letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and
+    Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere
+    accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me
+    beyond words. Not because you should write thus; but that you,
+    even you, should _think_ thus. Need I enlarge? True morality
+    deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe that we
+    differ on this point.
+
+    I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of
+    Wurst[20] must have been to you. But however it may minimize
+    the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its
+    character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of
+    Wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know
+    whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this
+    point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know,
+    Sonya,--of this one thing, at least, I am sure--you will do all
+    that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much--but the Twin and
+    part of Orchard Street[21] will be with you.
+
+    Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to
+    Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?[22] You must
+    consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of
+    scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such
+    presumption.
+
+    I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who knows?...
+    Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself and friends.
+    It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which
+    daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the
+    thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in
+    my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. My hold is
+    slackening. But the Sonya thread, I know, will remain taut and
+    strong. I have always called you the Immutable.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+  [19] The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor.
+
+  [20] John Most.
+
+  [21] 54 Orchard Street--the hall in which the first Jewish
+       Anarchist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion
+       to the aid of the Jewish comrades.
+
+  [22] Tolstogub--the author's Russian nickname. The expression
+       signifies the continued survival of the writer.
+
+[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD]
+
+
+II
+
+I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for
+work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was
+seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me
+into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that green box--with
+bated breath I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the
+Chaplain to collect the mail....
+
+My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. I am
+oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread.
+Automatically I turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three,
+four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man--there
+is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and
+gathers the stockings. Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three,
+four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And the men
+all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. I just heard
+him say, "Aleck, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there,
+you're falling behind." He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution!
+And all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box,
+peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. S-sh! I hear
+a footstep. Perhaps it is the Chaplain: he will open the box with his
+quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into
+the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are so many letters
+here--I'll slip among them into the large pocket--the Chaplain will not
+notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize
+every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But
+I am safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take
+that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair;
+twenty-one, twenty-two.... What was that? Twenty-two--oh, yes,
+twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to
+serve it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank
+goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But
+what has become of the Chaplain? If he'd only come--why is he so long?
+They might miss me in the shop. No, no! that man is there--he is turning
+the stockings--they don't know I am here in the box. The Chaplain won't
+know it, either: I am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts
+me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--I
+must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to
+Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she
+is, either--the _Deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. Keep it
+up? Why? It will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to
+write any more--it is well, too--I have so much to tell Sonya--and it
+wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all right now--they'll throw the
+letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is
+general letter day. I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through
+the post-office, on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have been away
+so long. Only a month? Well, I must be patient--and not breathe so loud.
+When I get to New York, I shall not go at once into the house--Sonya
+might get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window--I wonder
+what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? Yes, Fedya will be there,
+and perhaps Claus and Sep. How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will
+embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft
+and warm--
+
+"Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!"
+
+Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard before me. The
+striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron
+feels cold. Chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from
+my hand.
+
+"Fall in line, I tell you!"
+
+"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin' after whistle. 'Fraid you
+won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? You sucker, you!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+WINGIE
+
+
+The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my
+environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the
+introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task,
+necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application.
+
+The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for
+thinking or brooding. My physical condition alarms me: the morning hours
+completely exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line
+returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude
+possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in
+mastering my sleepiness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. I
+am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the
+proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned
+me against my disrespectful and surly manner. But I am indifferent to
+consequences: what matter what happens? My waning strength is a source
+of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought
+pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering,
+no anguish. The world at large is non-existent; it is centered in Me;
+and yet I myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and
+quiet, into extinction.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the evening meal of bread
+and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the
+gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep
+bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the
+blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons
+invitingly; I yearn for sleep, for oblivion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening
+is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general
+in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. The
+world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the
+darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the
+violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to
+break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction
+in the wild play of fancy.... Existence grows more and more unbearable
+with the contrast of dream and reality. Weary of the day's routine, I
+welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the
+passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men,
+the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the
+tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of _my_ world.
+I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice.
+But I cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the People, to
+whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed; yet
+parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than
+the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their
+deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord
+in my heart.
+
+Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner
+that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence,
+yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during
+church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day.
+He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries,
+counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range
+now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the
+sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in
+his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7.
+
+  [23] Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending
+       Protestant service, and _vice versa_.
+
+"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me.
+
+"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?"
+
+"I am an atheist."
+
+"A what?"
+
+"An atheist, a non-believer."
+
+"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough."
+
+The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the
+corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon.
+Perhaps somebody is watching--
+
+"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"
+
+"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?"
+
+"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner-basket, you know.
+The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?"
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. It's _our_
+pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see;
+they steals the east[24] to make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How
+d' you like the grub, anyhow?"
+
+  [24] Yeast.
+
+"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee tastes like tepid
+water."
+
+"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee;
+'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg, Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's
+made?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect all the old punk
+that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crust's used,
+see. Like as not some syph coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't,
+you know. Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn
+'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it an' dump
+it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty
+chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It
+rooins your stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink th'
+swill."
+
+"I don't care if it kills me."
+
+"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but
+don' take it so hard. Don' think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you
+can; you jest take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who you wan'
+to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's what you wan' to do, Aleck.
+It'll keep you hustlin'. Best thing for the blues, kiddie."
+
+For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of
+sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the
+door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly
+slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a
+tender pat.
+
+Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's
+caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingie must have
+noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently
+picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence:
+
+"You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest wanted t' try you,
+see?"
+
+"How 'try me,' Wingie?"
+
+"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush
+stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, Aleck, it's--oh, wait till I
+pipe th' screw."
+
+Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I
+can distinctly follow the step of the Block Captain on the upper
+galleries. He is the sole officer in the cell-house during church
+service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance
+of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my cell.
+
+I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie leave me? His flushed
+face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the
+subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize
+his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant
+by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory
+explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back.
+
+"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the chapel for a good while
+yet."
+
+"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?"
+
+"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You are a good boy, all
+right. You don't belong here, that's what _I_ say."
+
+"Well, I _am_ here; and the chances are I'll die here."
+
+"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked down at the mouth.
+Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here,
+hell! You ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin',
+now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? You're so
+young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't you? An' talkin' about
+dyin'! Shame on you, shame!"
+
+His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth
+to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp
+assures me of returned appreciation.
+
+"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be
+black as night. Nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old
+Henry? No? Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in
+fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy
+as th' day's long. An' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. I know
+you have."
+
+"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?"
+
+"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You got rich friends, I know.
+You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't
+they?"
+
+"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?"
+
+"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? You must make a good
+record here."
+
+"Oh, I don't care for a pardon."
+
+"Wha-a-t? You're kiddin'."
+
+"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle."
+
+"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle fiddlesticks. Want
+to get out o' here?"
+
+"Of course I do."
+
+"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got t' do with
+'t? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?"
+
+"No, but against being pardoned."
+
+"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me."
+
+"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it
+would be asking favors from the government, and I am against it, you
+understand? It would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie."
+
+"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, Aleck.
+That's what you mean?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist? Hot stuff, by
+gosh! Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I
+was you, I'd take anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell.
+That's what _I_ would do, my boy."
+
+He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's
+step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance
+to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between
+the bars, he whispers very low:
+
+"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"
+
+The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my
+revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being,
+rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being
+with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to
+trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic--
+
+"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts.
+"I'm your friend."
+
+"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape.
+I have been thinking about it, but so far--"
+
+"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."
+
+"Any chance here, Wingie?"
+
+"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in
+heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way
+here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six,
+seven years ago, 'bout."
+
+"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.
+
+"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was
+helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work
+and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a
+rope together, see. They never got 'im, either."
+
+"Was he in stripes, Wingie?"
+
+"Sure he was. Only been in a few months."
+
+"How did he manage to get away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as
+an escaped prisoner?"
+
+"_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then
+hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. Or you push in th'
+back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny."
+
+"Is there any chance now through the roof?"
+
+"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' _there_. But a feller's got to be alive.
+Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff[25] you got in
+them things, tow'l an' soap?"
+
+  [25] Note.
+
+"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.
+
+"Do I? He, he, you little--"
+
+The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+TO THE GIRL
+
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                  November 18, 1892.
+
+    My dear Sonya:
+
+    It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month.
+    But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the
+    only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear,
+    affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the
+    cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager
+    expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the
+    morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand
+    shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the
+    little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will
+    flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the
+    little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is
+    long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the
+    warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly
+    to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into
+    your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air
+    grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again
+    with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The touch of
+    the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga,
+    our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the
+    _dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float
+    about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream over your
+    letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the
+    end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch
+    and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for
+    my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare
+    of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams.
+
+    And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in
+    anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real
+    world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I
+    think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is
+    in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes
+    ... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing
+    along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows
+    meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does
+    not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But
+    the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a
+    letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error
+    might happen.... No, it is impossible--my name and prison
+    number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the
+    envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery.
+    Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell.
+    There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the
+    table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment.
+    Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner.
+    No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me
+    to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the
+    blankets.... No, there is no letter!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you
+    and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get
+    used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the
+    moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We
+    are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands,
+    though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end.
+    In that consciousness we must find our solace.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+  [26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river.
+
+  [27] Folk-song.
+
+
+                                               _Sub rosa_,
+                                         Last Day of November, 1892.
+
+    Beloved Girl:
+
+    I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but
+    human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts,
+    all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to
+    look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that
+    has filled my days with strength and hope.... An embrace, a
+    lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine.
+    To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant
+    into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the
+    warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful
+    eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day
+    dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of
+    the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so
+    strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street
+    hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments!
+    But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with
+    exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face,
+    and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look
+    of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been
+    searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that
+    feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring
+    upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath
+    that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming
+    fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me
+    of the beast, hungry for prey.... The halo was dissipated. The
+    words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid
+    smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer,
+    and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about
+    us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death),
+    and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to
+    bury the dead.... But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my
+    agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips
+    upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and
+    then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld
+    seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The
+    drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of
+    torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned
+    suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all
+    misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and
+    place in the afflatus of martyrdom?
+
+    Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the
+    prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment.
+    Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... What though the
+    cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and
+    forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth
+    could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain.
+
+    The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on
+    my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom
+    reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were
+    suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was
+    locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of
+    the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly
+    dawned on me. The quick had left the dead.... Terror of the
+    reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish--
+
+    I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed
+    _sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has
+    befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of
+    which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually
+    mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.
+    Remember to sign "Sister."
+
+                              With a passionate embrace,
+
+                                                         YOUR SASHA.
+
+  [28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed
+       suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him
+       by a friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+PERSECUTION
+
+
+I
+
+Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. In the three
+months of penitentiary life I have learned many things. I doubt whether
+the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than
+the actuality of prison existence.
+
+In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and
+constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of
+them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure,
+nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial
+barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one
+could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the
+prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit,
+sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world.
+The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. The
+ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling
+and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The
+dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears
+of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract
+or Bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the
+angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to
+witness these scenes.
+
+The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to
+protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I
+witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between Johnny
+Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a
+manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my
+table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory
+has "put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months' stay has taught
+me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips.
+In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his
+product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task.
+Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer,
+though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and
+continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon.
+Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked
+boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting
+step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the
+officer:
+
+"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."
+
+"Why so?" the guard asked.
+
+"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please,
+Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Why can't you make it here?"
+
+"I'm missing socks."
+
+"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again,
+eh?"
+
+"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't.
+But my socks's missing here."
+
+"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such
+bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work
+now, and you'd better make the task, understand?"
+
+Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen
+pairs short. Bradford was "over."
+
+I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.
+
+"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh?
+Put your coat and cap on."
+
+Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the
+inevitable sentence to the dungeon.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God,
+it isn't."
+
+"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"
+
+Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward
+Bradford, who studiously avoided the look.
+
+"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.
+
+"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap."
+
+Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his
+cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he
+worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the
+growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who,
+confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly
+winking of the left eye.
+
+Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my
+direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's
+hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's
+stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into
+commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the
+prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial,
+with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness.
+
+Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the
+overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his
+mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by.
+
+"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a
+question?"
+
+"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!"
+
+"What have they done with the boys?"
+
+"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started
+the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to _him_ all
+right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk?"
+
+"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started?"
+
+"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you
+know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy,
+see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest
+lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there,
+Burk?"
+
+"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's
+fault."
+
+"How so?" the guard demanded.
+
+"He has been stealing Johnny's socks."
+
+"You didn't see him do 't."
+
+"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this--"
+
+"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too
+fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the
+Deputy."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the
+fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. His third time, too, and yet
+absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable
+treatment and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist
+to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so. But how proceed
+in the matter? Complaint against Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood
+prove futile. And the officer, informed of my action, will make life
+miserable for me: his authority in the shop is absolute.
+
+The several plans I revolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer
+examination, feasible. Considerations of personal interest struggle
+against my sense of duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his
+vacant machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing
+conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable. I determine to speak
+to the Deputy Warden at the first opportunity.
+
+Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts: is it advisable to
+mention the matter to the Deputy? It cannot benefit Johnny; it will
+involve me in trouble. But the next moment I feel ashamed of my
+weakness. I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the
+celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, I
+review the brave deeds of Hippolyte Nikitich. What a man! Single-handed
+he essayed to liberate Chernishevsky from prison. Ah, the curse of
+poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have succeeded, and the great
+inspirer of the youth of Russia would have been given back to the world.
+I dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's fight
+with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in
+court. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor in the Siberian mines, he
+defied the Russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of
+Dmokhovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of
+_kátorga_.[29] Minutely I follow his repeated attempts to escape, the
+transfer of the redoubtable prisoner to the Petropavloskaia fortress,
+and thence to the terrible Schlüsselburg prison, where Mishkin braved
+death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government
+official. Ah! thus acts the revolutionist; and I--yes, I am decided. No
+danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice.
+
+  [29] Hard labor in the mines.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At last an opportunity is at hand. The Deputy enters the shop. Tall and
+gray, slightly stooping, with head carried forward, he resembles a wolf
+following the trail.
+
+"Mr. McPane, one moment, please."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently."
+
+"You think, hm, hm. And who is this innocent Johnny, hm, Davis?"
+
+His fingers drum impatiently on the table; he measures me with mocking,
+suspicious eyes.
+
+"Machine thirty, Deputy."
+
+"Ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, Reddy Davis. Hm, he had a fight."
+
+"The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr. McPane."
+
+"So, so. And why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good man? You confess,
+then, hm, hm, you were not, hm, attending to your own work. That is bad,
+hm, very bad. Mr. Cosson!"
+
+The guard hastens to him.
+
+"Mr. Cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge against you.
+Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hm, what is your number?"
+
+"A 7."
+
+"Mr. Cosson, A 7 makes a, hm, complaint against the officer, hm, in
+charge of this shop. Please, hm, hm, note it down."
+
+Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The words "kicker," "his kid,"
+reach my ears. The Deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened
+on me in hatred.
+
+
+II
+
+I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of Wingie's cheerful spirit
+is missing. My poor friend is in trouble. From snatches of conversation
+in the shop I have pieced together the story. "Dutch" Adams, a
+third-timer and the Deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's
+allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. He demanded that Wingie, who
+was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal,
+"Dutch" reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected search of
+Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the
+charge. Wingie was sent to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five
+days my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon learned that
+he had been ordered into solitary confinement for refusing to betray the
+men who had trusted him.
+
+The fate of Wingie preys on my mind. My poor kind friend is breaking
+down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. This morning, chancing
+to pass his cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting.
+Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently I waited for the noon
+return to the block. "Hello, Wingie!" I called. He stood at the door,
+intently peering between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank,
+expressionless eyes. "Who are you?" he whimpered, brokenly. Then he
+began to babble. Suddenly the terrible truth dawned on me. My poor, poor
+friend, the first to speak a kind word to me,--he's gone mad!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+THE YEGG
+
+
+I
+
+Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. Every step,
+every movement, is so closely guarded, I seem to be hoping against hope.
+I am restive and nervous, in a constant state of excitement.
+
+Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. The task of
+the machine men has been increased; in consequence, I am falling behind
+in my work. My repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the
+overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. His
+feet wide apart, arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures
+me with narrow, fat eyes. "Oh, what's the matter with you," he drawls,
+"get a move on, won't you, Burk?" Then, changing his tone, he
+vociferates, "Don't stand there like a fool, d'ye hear? Nex' time I
+report you, to th' hole you go. That's _me_ talkin', understand?"
+
+Often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me. But for the hope of
+escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. As it
+is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low
+cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. The
+ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a
+constant torture. I seek relief--forgetfulness rather--in absorbing
+myself in the work: I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the
+previous day; I compete with myself, and find melancholy pleasure in
+establishing and breaking high records for "turning." Again, I tax my
+ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young
+neighbor. Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent
+conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips.
+To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco
+chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging
+impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer, who
+introduced himself as "Boston Red." I owe this development to the return
+of the Warden from his vacation. Yesterday he visited the shop. A
+military-looking man, with benevolent white beard and stately carriage,
+he approached me, in company with the Superintendent of Prison
+Manufactures.
+
+"Is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint smile about the
+rather coarse mouth.
+
+"Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot Frick."
+
+"I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in the English papers
+there, Berkman. How is his conduct, Superintendent?"
+
+"Good."
+
+"Well, he should have behaved outside."
+
+But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the Warden ordered the
+overseer to give me help, and thus "Boston Red" joined me at work the
+next day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of
+lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek,
+mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost
+stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me
+into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest
+and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. An interesting character,
+indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the
+sublime heights of applied cynicism."
+
+"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish him. "Why do you use
+so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you."
+
+"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.'
+That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone
+through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies,
+with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a
+quick, watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low,
+guttural tones:
+
+"Don't care for your classic language. I can use it all right, all
+right. But give me the lingo, every time. You see, pard, I'm no gun;[30]
+don't need it in me biz. I'm a yegg."
+
+  [30] Professional thief.
+
+"What's a yegg, Red?"
+
+"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term
+'tramp.'"
+
+"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you should care for the
+life of a bum."
+
+A flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant. "You are stoopid as
+the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his
+lips move as in ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained
+composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes.
+
+"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not
+discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee
+here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly
+neglected. Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive.
+It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without
+fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. Yes,
+sir, that's _me_. I ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the
+disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing
+yours truly. I am a yagg, y--a--double g, sir, of the honorable clan of
+yaggmen. Some spell it y--e--double g, but I insist on the a, sir, as
+grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic
+consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar
+misspelling."
+
+"What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?"
+
+"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose
+intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny
+hand-out as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his
+native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman.
+That's the yagg, me bye. He dares to be and do, all bulls
+notwithstanding. He lives, aye, he lives,--on the world of suckers,
+thank you, sir. Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall
+increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,' or words to that
+significant effect. A yagg's the salt of the earth, pard. A real,
+true-blood yagg will not deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with
+a city bum or gaycat. No, sirree."
+
+I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick,
+short coughs of "Red" warn me of danger. The guard is approaching with
+heavy, measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,--a sure
+indication of profound self-satisfaction.
+
+"How are you, Reddie?" he greets the assistant.
+
+"So, so."
+
+"Ain't been out long, have you?"
+
+"Two an' some."
+
+"That's pretty long for you."
+
+"Oh, I dunno. I've been out four years oncet."
+
+"Yes, you have! Been in Columbus[31] then, I s'pose."
+
+  [31] The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.
+
+"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It was Sing Sing."
+
+"Ha, ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better hustle up, fellers. I'm
+putting in ten more machines, so look lively."
+
+"When's the machines comin', Mr. Cosson?"
+
+"Pretty soon, Red."
+
+The officer passing on, "Red" whispers to me:
+
+"Aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time I'll quit. Damn his work and the
+new machines. I ain't no gaycat to work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No,
+sir, the world owes me a living, and I generally manage to get it, you
+bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free man; I can live on my
+wits, see? I don't never work outside; damme if I'll work here. I ain't
+no office-seeker. What d' I want to work for, eh? Can you tell me
+_that_?"
+
+"Are you going to refuse work?"
+
+"Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that. No, sir, I never refuse.
+They'll knock your damn block off, if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir,
+discriminately end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, me bye.
+One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion. It's a regular
+pest. _You_ never worked, did you?"
+
+The unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which I quickly suppress,
+however, observing the angry frown on "Red's" face.
+
+"You bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll pipe you. You'll
+get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag. Whatcher hehawin' about?" he
+demands, repeating the manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "D'ye mean
+t' tell me you work?"
+
+"I am a printer, a compositor," I inform him.
+
+"Get off! You're an Anarchist. I read the papers, sir. You people don't
+believe in work. You want to divvy up. Well, it is all right, I'm with
+you. Rockefeller has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied
+with that, either; he wants a fence around it."
+
+"The Anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' Red. You got your
+misinformation--"
+
+"Oh, never min', pard. I don' take stock in reforming the world. It's
+good enough for suckers, and as Holy Writ says, sir, 'Blessed be they
+that neither sow nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' Them's
+wise words, me bye. Moreover, sir, neither you nor me will live to see a
+change, so why should I worry me nut about 't? It takes all my wits to
+dodge work. It's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously
+busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. Why, you know, pard, or
+perhaps you don't, greenie, Columbus is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye
+think I worked the four-spot there? Not me; no, sirree!"
+
+"Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not in Columbus?"
+
+"'Corse I did. What of it? Think I'd open my guts to my Lord Bighead?
+I've never been within thirty miles of the York pen. It was Hail
+Columbia all right, but that's between you an' I, savvy. Don' want th'
+screws to get next."
+
+"Well, Red, how did you manage to keep away from work in Columbus?"
+
+"Manage? That's right, sir. 'Tis a word of profound significance, quite
+adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I
+managed, with a capital M. To good purpose, too, me bye. Not a stroke
+of work in a four-spot. How? I had Billie with me, that's me kid, you
+know, an' a fine boy he was, too. I had him put a jigger on me; kept it
+up for four years. There's perseverance and industry for you, sir."
+
+"What's 'putting a jigger on'?"
+
+"A jigger? Well, a jigger is--"
+
+The noon whistle interrupts the explanation. With a friendly wink in my
+direction, the assistant takes his place in the line. In silence we
+march to the cell-house, the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat
+in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard.
+
+
+II
+
+Conversation with "Boston Red," Young Davis, and occasional other
+prisoners helps to while away the tedious hours at work. But in the
+solitude of the cell, through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells
+in the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms,
+the bitter controversies between the _Mostianer_ and the defenders of my
+act, fill my thoughts and dreams. By means of fictitious, but
+significant, names, Russian and German words written backward, and
+similar devices, the Girl keeps me informed of the activities in our
+circles. I think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous
+militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak
+on my part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider her
+devotion deserving of particular commendation. She is a revolutionist;
+it is her duty to our common Cause. Courage, whole-souled zeal, is very
+rare, it is true. The Girl. Fedya, and a few others,--hence the sad lack
+of general opposition in the movement to Most's attitude.... But
+communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the
+hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation.
+With great joy I trace the ascending revolutionary tendency in _Der Arme
+Teufel_. I have persuaded the Chaplain to procure the admission of the
+ingenious Robert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals
+addressed to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket, by orders of
+the Deputy. The latter refused to make an exception even in regard to
+the _Knights of Labor Journal_. "It is an incendiary Anarchist sheet,"
+he persisted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The arrival of the _Teufel_ is a great event. What joy to catch sight of
+the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table! Tenderly I
+pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an
+animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. What
+cheering message does Reitzel bring me now? What beauties of his rich
+mind are hidden to-day in the quaint German type? Reverently I unfold
+the roll. The uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring
+paean of Hope's prophecy greets my eye,--
+
+  Gruss an Alexander Berkman!
+
+For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears. Again and again recurs
+the refrain of faith and proud courage,
+
+  Schon rüstet sich der freiheit Schaar
+  Zur heiligen Entscheidungschlacht;
+  Es enden "zweiundzwanzig" Jahr'
+  Vielleicht in e i n e r Sturmesnacht!
+
+But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality lays its heavy
+hand upon my heart. The flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom,
+and I sit brooding over the interminable succession of miserable days
+and evenings and nights.... The darkness gathers around the candle, as
+I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. Its dying agony,
+ineffectual and vain, presages my own doom, approaching, inevitable.
+Weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler--a last spasm, and
+all is utter blackness.
+
+Three bells. "Lights out!"
+
+Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The sun streaming into the many-windowed shop routs the night, and
+dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. Perhaps my little candle
+with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness,--who knows?
+Perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers,
+and hastened the coming of Day. The fancy lures me with its warming
+embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me:
+
+"Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad."
+
+Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me:
+
+"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me! Permit me to
+introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats
+of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between
+York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir,
+merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?"
+
+"What are you driving at, Red?"
+
+"They'se goin' to move me down on your row,[32] now that I'm in this
+'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this
+magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next
+yours, an' I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye? I'm
+goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume
+benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir,
+for you're my kid now, see?"
+
+  [32] Gallery.
+
+"How, your kid?"
+
+"How? My kid, of course. That's just what I mean. Any objections, sir,
+as the learned gentlemen of the law say in the honorable courts of the
+blind goddess. You betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl on a sunny
+midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky city, though; sun's ashamed here.
+But 'way down in my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River,
+Sua-a-nee-ee Riv--"
+
+"Hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started to tell me about being
+your 'kid'. Now explain, what do you mean by it?"
+
+"Really, you--" He holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post,
+gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles
+with wonder. In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution,
+and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye.
+
+"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something of this 'ere round
+globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to
+surprise me, lemme tell you. But _you_ do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do.
+Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met Cigarette Jimmie in
+Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never
+heard a ghost story; was fourteen, too. Well, I got 'im all right, ah
+right. Now he's doin' a five-bit down in Kansas, poor kiddie. Well, he
+certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous billows of life, sir,
+have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time, yes, sir, they have,
+but I never got such a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a
+body-blow, a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world, sir, to my
+settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. Well,
+damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex?"
+
+"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this to do with the question
+I asked you?"
+
+"Everythin', me bye, everythin'. You're twenty-two and don't know what a
+kid is! Well, if it don't beat raw eggs, I don't know what does. Green?
+Well, sir, it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your
+inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, I may well say, of soul,
+except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the
+early summer moon. You know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks,
+abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile.
+
+I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer.
+Yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face
+expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of
+humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with
+"classic" English, all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter
+helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps I may also glean
+from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my
+plans of escape.
+
+"Well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "Red" inquires, chaffingly.
+
+"I suppose I do."
+
+"I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can see by the tip of
+your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slough of densest
+ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not
+contradict me. I brook no sceptical attitude regarding my undoubted and
+proven perspicacity of human nature. How's that for classic style, eh?
+That'll hold you down a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you
+interrupted--eh, what? You didn't? Oh, what's the matter with you?
+Don't yer go now an' rooin the elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus
+with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now,
+boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology before your
+wondering gaze. To begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively
+aristocratic science. Not for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth
+Avenue. Nixie. But for the only genuine aristocracy of de road, sir, for
+the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad, for yours truly and his
+clan. Yes, sirree!"
+
+"I don't know what you are talking about."
+
+"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. In plain
+English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious
+comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by
+divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity.
+Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent, is the truly Christian science of
+loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice little boy. Understand now?"
+
+"How can you love a boy?"
+
+"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref boy, I can see that."
+
+"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd
+understand better."
+
+"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't long on lingo neither. How
+can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try.
+You love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy
+Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor woman; he's punk.'
+Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll...."
+
+"What!"
+
+"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se talkin' plain. Savvy now,
+Innocent Abroad?"
+
+"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red."
+
+"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil--damn me soul t' hell, what d' you
+mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee, look out!"
+
+The look of bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he
+had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the
+guard, who is now hastening toward us.
+
+"Who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters.
+"You, Davis?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Who was, then?"
+
+"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'."
+
+"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "I hit my
+elbow against the machine."
+
+"Let me see 't."
+
+The guard scrutinizes the bared arm.
+
+"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore."
+
+"It hurt, and I hollered."
+
+The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been talkin', Reddie?"
+
+"I don't think he was, Cap'n."
+
+Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at "Red," and passes on, with a
+final warning to the boy: "Don't you let me catch you at it again, you
+hear!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+During the rest of the day the overseers exercise particular vigilance
+over our end of the shop. But emboldened by the increased din of the new
+knitting machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again.
+
+"Screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept they's close to us. But
+watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. An' don' scare me
+again like that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb forget
+myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? What's his name,
+Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid all right. Just like me own Billie I tole
+you 'bout. He was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. True as
+steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th' bark to a tree.
+Say, what's that you said, you don't believe what I endeavored so
+conscientiously, sir, to drive into your noodle? You was only kiddin'
+me, wasn't you?"
+
+"No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning ghost stories, or
+whatever you call it. I don't believe in this kid love."
+
+"An' why don't you believe it?"
+
+"Why--er--well, I don't think it possible."
+
+"_What_ isn't possible?"
+
+"You know what I mean. I don't think there can be such intimacy between
+those of the same sex."
+
+"Ho, ho! _That's_ your point? Why, Alex, you're more of a damfool than
+the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. You don't believe
+it possible, you don't, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, an I'll
+show you."
+
+"Red, don't you talk to me like that," I burst out, angrily. "If you--"
+
+"Aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly. "Don't get on your
+high horse. No harm meant, Alex. You're a good boy, but you jest rattle
+me with your crazy talk. Why, you're bugs to say it's impossible. Man
+alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. It's done in every prison, an' on
+th' road, everywhere. Lord, if I had a plunk for every time I got th'
+best of a kid, I'd rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me bye."
+
+"You actually confess to such terrible practices? You're disgusting. But
+I don't really believe it, Red."
+
+"Confess hell! I confess nothin'. Terrible, disgusting! You talk like a
+man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot."
+
+"Are there no women on the road?"
+
+"Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? Women are no
+good. I wouldn't look at 'em when I can have my prushun.[33] Oh, it is
+quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of
+moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of--"
+
+  [33] A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp.
+
+"Oh, quit!"
+
+"Well, you'll know better before _your_ time's up, me virtuous sonny."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of
+illness. He has been "excused" by the doctor, the guard informs me.
+I miss his help at work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "Red's"
+companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His cynical attitude
+toward woman and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism.
+The panegyrics of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The
+very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. But
+I find solace in the reflection that "Red's" insinuations are pure
+fabrication; no credence is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being,
+could not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such
+unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast must not be
+credited with such perversion, such depravity. I should really take the
+matter more calmly. The assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely
+teasing me. These things are not credible; indeed, I don't believe they
+are possible. And even if they were, no human being would be capable of
+such iniquity. I must not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+THE ROUTE SUB ROSA
+
+
+                                                      March 4, 1893.
+
+    GIRL AND TWIN:
+
+    I am writing with despair in my heart. I was taken to Pittsburgh
+    as a witness in the trial of Nold and Bauer. I had hoped for an
+    opportunity--you understand, friends. It was a slender thread,
+    but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on
+    it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back, and I may never
+    leave this place alive.
+
+    I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. I
+    yearned for the sight of your faces. But you were not there, nor
+    any one else of our New York comrades. I knew what it meant: you
+    are having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise perhaps something
+    could be done to establish friendly relations between Rakhmetov
+    and Mr. Gebop.[34] It would require an outlay beyond the
+    resources of our own circle; others cannot be approached in this
+    matter. Nothing remains but the "inside" developments,--a
+    terribly slow process.
+
+    This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends. You
+    will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has
+    again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness.... I
+    did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it is five
+    months now) till my return from court. I suppose the excitement
+    of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce.... My head
+    was awhirl; I could not collect my thoughts. The wild hope
+    possessed me,--_pobeg_! The click of the steel, as I was
+    handcuffed to the Deputy, struck my death-knell.... The
+    unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in
+    the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the
+    moment. It seemed to me as if I were a spectator, interested,
+    but personally unconcerned, in the surroundings; and these,
+    too, were far away, of a strange world in which I had no part.
+    Only when I found myself alone in the cell, the full
+    significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with
+    crushing force.
+
+    But why sadden you? There is perhaps a cheerier side, now that
+    Nold and Bauer are here. I have not seen them yet, but their
+    very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these
+    walls there are _comrades_, men who, like myself, suffer for an
+    ideal--the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. It brings
+    me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political
+    prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture of their
+    daily existence, the politicals--even in Siberia--breathe the
+    atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage and
+    strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated by a
+    common cause! Conditions here are entirely different. Both
+    inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. They have never
+    known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice or risk his
+    life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond their
+    comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert of
+    sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would
+    gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia.
+
+    The former _podpoilnaya_[35] was suspended, because of the great
+    misfortune that befell my friend Wingie, of whom I wrote to you
+    before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tiuremshchick,[36] an old
+    soldier who really sympathizes with Wingie. I believe they
+    served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who hates his
+    despicable work. But there is a family at home, a sick wife--you
+    know the old, weak-kneed tale. I had a hint from him the other
+    day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous for him to be seen
+    at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true; but what he
+    means is, that a little money would be welcome. You know how to
+    manage the matter. Leave no traces.
+
+    I hear the felt-soled step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie a
+    hasty good-bye.
+
+                                                              SASHA.
+
+  [34] Reading backward, _pobeg_; Russian for "escape."
+
+  [35] _Sub rosa_ route.
+
+  [36] Russian for "guard."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"
+
+
+I
+
+A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio. It ensnares the
+river banks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with sombre
+mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. Within the House of Death is
+felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages.
+
+Only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs the stillness. I
+listen intently. Nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and
+apparently intentional I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of
+communication practiced by Russian politicals, and I strive to detect
+some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer as I approach the back
+wall of the cell, and instantly I am aware of a faint murmur in the
+privy. Is it fancy, or did I hear my name?
+
+"Halloa!" I call into the pipe.
+
+The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed, hollow voice: "That
+you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes. Who is it?"
+
+"Never min'. You must be deaf not to hear me callin' you all this time.
+Take that cott'n out o' your ears."
+
+"I didn't know you could talk this way."
+
+"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty pipes, no standin' water,
+see? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit to--"
+
+The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. Presently the flow
+subsides, and the knocking is resumed. I bend over the privy.
+
+"Hello, hello! That you, Aleck?"
+
+"Git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts into the pipe.
+
+"Lay down, there!"
+
+"Take that trap out o' the hole."
+
+"Quit your foolin', Horsethief."
+
+"Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellers. It's Bob, Horsethief Bob.
+I'm talkin' business. Keep quiet now, will you? Are you there, Aleck?
+Yes? Well, pay no 'tention to them dubs. 'Twas that crazy Southside Slim
+that turned th' water on--"
+
+"Who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts.
+
+"Oh, lay down, Slim, will you? Who said you was crazy? Nay, nay, you're
+bugs. Hey, Aleck, you there?"
+
+"Yes, Bob."
+
+"Oh, got me name, have you? Yes, I'm Bob, Horsethief Bob. Make no
+mistake when you see me; I'm Big Bob, the Horsethief. Can you hear me?
+It's you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes, yes."
+
+"Sure it's you? Got t' tell you somethin'. What's your number?"
+
+"A 7."
+
+"Right you are. What cell?"
+
+"6 K."
+
+"An' this is me, Big Bob, in--"
+
+"Windbag Bob," a heavy bass comments from above.
+
+"Shut up, Curley, I'm on th' line. I'm in 6 F, Aleck, top tier. Call me
+up any time I'm in, ha, ha! You see, pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you
+can talk to any range you want, but always to th' same cell as you're
+in, Cell 6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, to Shorty,
+you know--"
+
+"I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him, Bob."
+
+"Yes, you do. You list'n what I tell you, Aleck, an' you'll be all
+right. That's me talkin', Big Bob, see? Now, I say if you'd like t' chew
+th' rag with Shorty, you jest tell me. Tell Brother Bob, an' he'll
+connect you all right. Are you on? Know who's Shorty?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Yo oughter. That's Carl, Carl Nold. Know _him_, don't you?"
+
+"What!" I cry in astonishment. "Is it true, Bob? Is Nold up there on
+your gallery?"
+
+"Sure thing. Cell 14."
+
+"Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking ten minutes now. Did
+you see him?"
+
+"What's your hurry, Aleck? _You_ can't see 'im; not jest now, anyway.
+P'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. There's no hurry, Aleck. _You_ got plenty o'
+time. A few years, _rather_, ha, ha, ha!"
+
+"Hey, there, Horsethief, quit that!" I recognize "Curley's" deep bass.
+"What do you want to make the kid feel bad for?"
+
+"No harm meant, Curley," Bob returns, "I was jest joshin' him a bit."
+
+"Well, quit it."
+
+"You don' min' it, Aleck, do you?" I hear Bob again, his tones softened,
+"I didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's. I'm your friend, Aleck, you can bet
+your corn dodger on that. Say, I've got somethin' for you from Shorty, I
+mean Carl, you savvy?"
+
+"What have you, Bob?"
+
+"Nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy on this 'ere range.
+I'll sneak around to you in the mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of
+bootleg. Now, jiggaroo,[37] screw's comin'."
+
+  [37] Look out.
+
+
+II
+
+The presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and
+meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former
+environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into
+renewed life and hope.
+
+The secret exchange of notes lends color to the routine. It is like a
+fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. At
+work in the shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence.
+Again and again I review the arguments elucidating to my comrades the
+significance of my _Attentat_: they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the
+importance of the purely physical result. The exchange of views
+gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into
+closer intimacy. There is something in Carl Nold that especially
+attracts me: I sense in him a congenial spirit. His spontaneous
+frankness appeals to me; my heart echoes his grief at the realization of
+Most's unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antagonism of Bauer
+is irritating. It reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol.
+Presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself.
+The big, jovial German has earned my respect; he braved the anger of the
+judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in the
+distribution of the Anarchist leaflet among the Homestead workers. On
+the other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts on the
+witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity in my act. Their
+condemnation, as acknowledged Anarchists, was, of course, a foregone
+conclusion, and I am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had
+entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. Indeed,
+both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not
+visited upon them. Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect
+upon me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years
+will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless
+factory toil. He is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be
+handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he
+good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion
+in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily
+cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and
+discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of the movement in the twin
+cities, the personnel of Anarchist circles, and collect a fund of
+anecdotes about Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive
+shop in Allegheny is the center of the radical _inteligenzia_. With deep
+contrition Bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the rôle of my
+executioner. My unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of
+the Homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the Allegheny
+comrades. They sent an inquiry to Most, whose reply proved a warning
+against me. Unknown to me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Nold's
+house. Through the long hours of the night he lay awake, with revolver
+cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had
+determined to kill me.
+
+The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into
+the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and
+applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our
+interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection; the
+difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect.
+Every available scrap of paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers
+and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and
+the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. Even an occasional
+fly-leaf from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its
+covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously
+removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills
+us with dismay. But the genius our faithful postman, of proud
+horsethieving proclivities, proves equal to the occasion: Bob
+constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom shop, in which
+he is employed, as the base of our future supplies.
+
+The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big rolls requisitioned
+by "Horsethief" exclude the fear of famine; the smooth yellow wrapping
+paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible chirography. The
+pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. We speculate on
+the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazinelet, and
+wax warm over the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue
+of the _Zuchthausblüthen_[38] is greeted with the encouraging approval
+of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a
+rather creditable poem on the blank last page of the publication. Elated
+at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him _Meistersinger_, with
+dominion over the department of poetry. Soon we plan more pretentious
+issues: the outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three
+by five inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each issue to
+have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity; the readers
+to serve as contributing editors. The appearance of the _Blüthen_ is to
+be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers,
+whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to protect them
+against discovery. Henceforth Bauer, physically a giant, is to be known
+as "G"; because of my medium stature, I shall be designated with the
+letter "M"; and Nold, as the smallest, by "K."[39] The poet, his history
+somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened "D" for _Dichter_. "M," "K,"
+"G," are to act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to
+start the _Blüthen_ on its way, each reader contributing to the issue
+till it is returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and
+comment upon his fellow contributors. The publication, its contents
+growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom
+will devolve the editorial management of the following issue.
+
+  [38] Prison Blossoms.
+
+  [39] Initial of the German _klein_, small.
+
+The unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation.
+The little magazine is rich in contents and varied in style. The
+diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates
+speculation on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors.
+In the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of
+contending social philosophies; here a political essay rubs elbows with
+a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is
+interspersed with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence. Flashes
+of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend
+peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of
+Josh Billings into the manuscript pages.
+
+[Illustration: Special Spring Edition of the Z. Blüthen.]
+
+But the success of the _Zuchthausblüthen_ soon discovers itself a
+veritable Frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims
+of the magazinelet. The popularity of joint editorship is growing at the
+cost of unity and tendency; the Bard's astonishing facility at
+versification, coupled with his Jules Vernian imagination, causes us
+grave anxiety lest his untamable Pegasus traverse the limits of our
+paper supply. The appalling warning of the commissary that the
+improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike,
+imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies of retrenchment
+and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two Homestead men suggests
+an auspicious solution.
+
+
+III
+
+The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. Beatty, prominent in the
+Knights of Labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among
+workers representing the more radical element of American labor. Accused
+of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills,
+Dempsey and Beatty appear to me men of unusual type. Be they innocent or
+guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary
+tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands: is it not the creator
+of all the wealth in the world? Every weapon may be employed to return
+the despoiled People into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing
+of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters, an effective
+means of aiding the struggle? Therefore Dempsey and Beatty deserve
+acclaim. Morally certain of their guilt, I respect them the more for it,
+though I am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of
+wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg is also human, it is
+true, and desires to live. But one should starve rather than turn
+traitor to the cause of his class. Moreover, the individual--or any
+number of them--cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the
+imprisoned labor leaders. In the ceaseless duel of vital need against
+stupidity and malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least
+indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery, disaster.
+But perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer: by the aid of the
+faithful "Horsethief," communication with Dempsey and Beatty is
+established. With the aggressiveness of strong conviction I present to
+them my views, dwelling on the historic rôle of the _Attentäter_ and the
+social significance of conscious individual protest. The discussion
+ramifies, the interest aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper
+supply. Presently I am involved in a correspondence with several men,
+whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act I attempt to
+answer and correct with individual notes. But the method proves an
+impossible tax on our opportunities, and "KGM" finally decide to publish
+an English edition of the _Zuchthausblüthen_. The German magazinelet is
+suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the _Prison
+Blossoms_.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+THE JUDAS
+
+
+"Ah, there, Sporty!" my assistant greets me in the shop. "Stand treat on
+this festive occasion?"
+
+"Yes, Red. Have a chew," I reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug
+of tobacco.
+
+His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed
+suit of dark gray. The larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek,
+he flings to me the remnant across the table, remarking:
+
+"Don't care for't. Take back your choo, I'll keep me honor,--your plug,
+I mean, sonny. A gentleman of my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator
+on the high seas of social life,--are you on, me bye?--a gentleman, I
+repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is human have chucked
+on this here dry, thrice damned dry latitude, sir, this nocuous
+plague-spot of civilization,--say, kid, what t' hell am I talkin' about?
+Damn if I ain't clean forgot."
+
+"I'm sure I don't know, Red."
+
+"Like hell you don't! It's your glad duds, kid. Offerin' _me_ a ch-aw
+tob-b-bac-co! Christ, I'm dyin' for a drop of booze. This magnificent
+occasion deserves a wetting, sir. And, say, Aleck, it won't hurt your
+beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You look like a
+scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't old Sandy the king of
+skinners, though!"
+
+"Whom do you mean, Red?"
+
+"Who I mean, you idjot! Who but that skunk of a Warden, the Honorable
+Captain Edward S. Wright, if you please, sir. Captain of rotten old
+punks, that's what he is. You ask th' screws. He's never smelt powder;
+why, he's been _here_ most o' his life. But some o' th' screws been here
+longer, borned here, damn 'em; couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a
+steam engine, you couldn't. They can tell you all 'bout the Cap, though.
+Old Sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his name when he come 'ere, an'
+now the damn stomach-robber is rich. Reg'lar gold mine this dump's for
+'im. Only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. Got big fam'ly an' keeps
+carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t' go to Europe every year,
+an' got a big pile in th' bank to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a
+year. Good manager, ain't he? A reg'lar church member, too, damn his
+rotten soul to hell!"
+
+"Is he as bad as all that, Red?"
+
+"Is he? A hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he is. Plays the
+humanitarian racket. He had a great deal t' say t' the papers why he
+didn't believe in the brutal way Iams was punished by that Homestead
+colonel--er--what's 'is name?"
+
+"Colonel Streator, of the Tenth Pennsylvania."
+
+"That's the cur. He hung up Private Iams by the thumbs till th' poor boy
+was almost dead. For nothin', too. Suppose you remember, don't you? Iams
+had called for 'three cheers for the man who shot Frick,' an' they
+pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im out of th' regiment
+with 'is head half shaved."
+
+"It was a most barbarous thing."
+
+"An' that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't believe in such
+things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer is doin' it himself. Not a
+day but some poor con is 'cuffed up' in th' hole. That's th' kind of
+humanitarian _he_ is! It makes me wild t' think on 't. Why, kid, I even
+get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the
+dulcet symphonies of classic English. But whenever that skunk of a
+Warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually
+imperturbable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to
+'Patience on a monument smiling at grief.' Watch me, sonny, that's yours
+truly spielin'. Why, look at them dingy rags of yours. I liked you
+better in th' striped duds. They give you the hand-me-downs of that
+nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on th' books with a bran'
+new suit. See where Sandy gets his slice, eh? An' say, kid, how long are
+you here?"
+
+"About eight months, Red."
+
+"They beat you out o' two months all right. Suppose they obey their own
+rules? Nit, sir. You are aware, my precious lamb, that you are entitled
+to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of
+six months in this benevolent dump. I bet you that fresh fish at the
+loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days ago, _he_ won't be kept
+waitin' more'n six months for 'is black clothes."
+
+I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is a slender man,
+with swarthy complexion and quick, shifting eye. The expression of
+guilty cunning is repelling.
+
+"Who is that man?" I whisper to the assistant.
+
+"Like 'im, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce to you the handiwork
+of his Maker, a mealy-mouthed, oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur,
+a snivelling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass
+whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member
+of my clan,--Mr. Patrick Gallagher, of the honorable Pinkerton family,
+sir."
+
+"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The informer, who denounced
+Dempsey and Beatty?"
+
+"The very same. The dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here
+for seven years. Dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such vermin as
+Gallagher and Davidson. He was Master Workman of some district of the
+Knights of Labor. Why in hell didn't he get his own men to do th' job?
+Goes to work an' hires a brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills,
+you savvy, to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on the
+goings on, see? S'pose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the
+developments in the culinary experiment?"
+
+"Yes. Croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scabs sick
+with diarrhoea."
+
+"Make 'em sick? Why, me bye, scores of 'em croaked. I am surprised, sir,
+at your use of such a vulgar term as diarrhoea. You offend my
+aestheticism. The learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels of
+earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of
+unmentionable human obligations to nature, the mysterious and
+extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic
+obedience to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o'
+lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities of the liquid
+supply, or to--pardon my frankness, sir--to intestinal effeminacy,
+which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation
+unseemly in well-mannered Christians. Some future day, sir, there may
+arise a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days of the
+modern Bull Run--an' I kin tell you, laddie, they run and kept runnin',
+top and bottom--or some lyric bard may put to Hudibrastic verse--watch
+me climbin' th' Parnassus, kid--the poetic feet, the numbers, the
+assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when Croton Oil was King.
+Yes, sirree; but for yours truly, me hand ain't in such pies; and
+moreover, sir, I make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t'
+keep me snout out o' other people's biz."
+
+"Dempsey may be innocent, Red."
+
+"Well, th' joory didn't think so. But there's no tellin'. Honest t' God,
+Aleck, that rotten scab of a Gallagher has cast the pale hue of
+resolution, if I may borrow old Billy Shake's slang, sir, over me
+gener'ly settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plenitude of my
+heterogeneous experience with all sorts and conditions of rats and
+gaycats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order, of 1859
+vintage, damme if I ever run across such an acute form of confessionitis
+as manifested by the lout on th' loopin' machine there. You know what he
+done yesterday?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"Sent for th' distric' attorney and made another confesh."
+
+"Really? How do you know?"
+
+"Night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. I shtands in, see? The
+mick's a reg'lar Yahoo, can't hardly spell 'is own name. He daily
+requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out
+his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a hand-out with more
+dignified probity, sir. It's a cinch. Last night he gimme a great slice
+of corn dodger. It was A 1, I tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and
+half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it, though! Makes
+your mouth water, eh, kid? Well, you be good t' me, an' you kin have
+what I got. I'll divvy up with you. We-ll! Don' stand there an' gape at
+me like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation of my magnanimous
+generosity deprived you of articulate utterance, sir?"
+
+The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his suddenly
+serious manner, affect me unpleasantly. With pretended indifference, I
+decline to share his delicacies.
+
+"You need those little extras for yourself, Red," I explain. "You told
+me you suffer from indigestion. A change of diet now and then will do
+you good. But you haven't finished telling me about the new confession
+of Gallagher."
+
+"Oh, you're a sly one, Aleck; no flies on you. But it's all right, me
+bye, mebbe I can do somethin' for you some day. I'm your friend, Aleck;
+count on me. But that mutt of a Gallagher, yes, sirree, made another
+confession; damme if it ain't his third one. Ever hear such a thing? I
+got it straight from th' screw all right. I can't make the damn snitch
+out. Unreservedly I avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of
+the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb
+the repose of a right-thinking yagg in the silken lap of Morpheus.
+What's 'is game, anyhow? Shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental
+menstruation as, er--er--what's your learned opinion, my illustrious
+colleague, eh? What you grinnin' for, Four Eyes? It's a serious matter,
+sir; a highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity,
+impregnated with the pernicious virus of Pinkertonism, sir, and
+transmuted in the alembic of Carnegie alchemy. A judicious injection of
+persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of the House of Dempsey,
+and lo! three brand-new confessions, mutually contradictory and
+exclusive. Does that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?"
+
+"In the second confession he retracted his accusations against Dempsey.
+What is the third about, Red?"
+
+"Retracts his retraction, me bye. Guess why, Aleck."
+
+"I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges."
+
+"You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas cleared the man, Sandy
+notified Reed and Knox. Them's smart guys, all right; the attorneys of
+the Carnegie Company to interpret Madame Justicia, sir, in a manner--"
+
+"I know, Red," I interrupt him, "they are the lawyers who prosecuted me.
+Even in court they were giving directions to the district attorney, and
+openly whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses. He was
+just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when
+he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or
+corporation, but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth,
+charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my
+prosecution. And all the time he was the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers."
+
+"Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when
+you start jawin'. Think you're on th' platform haranguing the
+long-haired crowd? You can't convert _me_, so save your breath, man."
+
+"I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are intelligent, but a
+hopeless case. You are not the kind that could be useful to the Cause."
+
+"Glad you're next. Got me sized up all right, eh? Well, me saintly bye,
+I'm Johnny-on-the-spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the
+cause is Me, with a big M, see? A fellow's a fool not t' look out for
+number one. I give it t' you straight, Aleck. What's them high-flown
+notions of yours--oppressed humanity and suffering people--fiddlesticks!
+There you go and shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers,
+but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell me that! They
+won't do a darned thing fer you. Catch _me_ swinging for the peo-pul!
+The cattle don't deserve any better than they get, that's what _I_ say."
+
+"I don't want to discuss these questions with you, Red. You'll never
+understand, anyhow."
+
+"Git off, now. You voice a sentiment, sir, that my adequate appreciation
+of myself would prompt me to resent on the field of honor, sir. But the
+unworthy spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir, and I
+shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming the true Christian, and
+shall follow the bidding of the Master by humbly offering the other
+cheek for that chaw of th' weed I gave you. Dig down into your poke,
+kid."
+
+I hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking:
+
+"You've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual, Red. You said the
+Warden sent for the Carnegie lawyers after Gallagher had recanted his
+original confession. Well, what did they do?"
+
+"Don't know what _they_ done, but I tole you that the muttonhead sent
+for th' district attorney the same day, an' signed a third confesh. Why,
+Dempsey was tickled to death, 'cause--"
+
+He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn me of danger.
+Accompanied by the Deputy and the shop officer, the Warden is making the
+rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and
+listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes
+present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features
+framed in grayish-white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a
+benign smile:
+
+"Good morning, boys."
+
+Casting a glance at my assistant, the Warden inquires: "Your time must
+be up soon, Red?"
+
+"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs.
+
+"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine accents of the Deputy
+sound sarcastic.
+
+"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers.
+
+A flush darkens the face of the assistant. "There's more skunks out than
+in," he retorts.
+
+The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning finger, but the Warden
+laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds.
+
+We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily
+following the departing officials. Presently he whispers:
+
+"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on to 'im, all right. Didn't
+he look mad, though? Thought he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is
+lamps, kid?"
+
+"Yes. Very bright eyes."
+
+"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's th' matter. Think I'd
+get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? I knowed it the
+minute I laid me eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and
+that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all
+right. Always feelin' fine when he's hit th' pipe. That's th' time you
+kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im,
+hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in
+them socks, first thing you know."
+
+"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't _you_ ask him?"
+
+"Me? Me ask a favor o' the damn swine? Not on your tintype! You don'
+catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--"
+
+"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either."
+
+"I don't give a damn. For all I care, Aleck, and--well, confidentially
+speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the
+infundibular dehiscence of his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble
+opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to
+disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. Do you
+follow the argument, me bye?"
+
+"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What are you really
+talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer."
+
+"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to train you right; gradual,
+so to speak. It's me dooty to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here.
+I ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. I'll quit first. D'
+you think--s-s-ss!"
+
+The shop officer is returning. "Damn your impudence, Red," he shouts at
+the assistant. "Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?"
+
+"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?"
+
+"You know damn well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean
+through. You ought t' know better'n that. He was nice as pie till you
+opened that big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He gave me
+th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. Why don't you
+take it over to th' loopers, Burk?"
+
+"They have not been turned yet," I reply.
+
+"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What in hell are you
+fellows doin', I'd like t' know."
+
+"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts, defiantly.
+
+"Shut up now, an' get a move on you."
+
+"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant persists.
+
+"You better shut up, Red."
+
+"Then give us some help."
+
+"I will like hell!"
+
+The whistle sounds the dinner hour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+THE DIP
+
+
+For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work. My best efforts seem
+ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery,
+and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of
+clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me
+assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the
+vacant place.
+
+"He's a dip,"[40] Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A top-notcher," he adds,
+admiringly.
+
+  [40] Pickpocket.
+
+I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced
+association. I have never before come in personal contact with a
+professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his
+class. But they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey
+upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can be nothing in common
+between me and this man.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. His distant manner
+piques my curiosity. How unlike his scornful mien and proudly
+independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I
+remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a
+fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya
+confessed the theft. We ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head
+and looked frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his
+face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of
+him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his
+forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful
+word _vor_.[41]
+
+  [41] Thief.
+
+"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks
+in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "You needn't be
+afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly.
+
+"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation. "Why should I
+be afraid of you?"
+
+"Not of me; of the officer, I meant."
+
+"I am not afraid of him, either."
+
+"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the
+time, you know."
+
+His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct
+English, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former
+assistant, surprises me.
+
+"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, Mr.
+Berkman, but--"
+
+"How do you know my name?" I interrupt. "You have just arrived."
+
+"They call me 'Lightning Al'," he replies, with a tinge of pride. "I'm
+here only three days, but a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in
+that time. I had you pointed out to me."
+
+"What do you call your line? What are you here for?"
+
+For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch his face blush darkly.
+
+
+"You're a dead give-away. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Berkman," he corrects
+himself, "I sometimes lapse into lingo, under provocation, you know. I
+meant to say, it's easy to see that you are not next to the way--not
+familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never ask a man what he
+is in for."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Well, er--"
+
+"You are ashamed."
+
+"Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps,--I mean, to be caught at
+it--it's no credit to a gun's rep, his reputation, you understand. But
+I'm proud of the jobs I've done. I'm pretty slick, you know."
+
+"But you don't like to be asked why you were sent here."
+
+"Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions."
+
+"Against the ethics of the trade, I suppose?"
+
+"How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Berkman. But it's true, it's not the
+ethics. And it isn't a trade, either; it's a profession. Oh, you may
+smile, but I'd rather be a gun, a professional, I mean, than one of your
+stupid factory hands."
+
+"They are honest, though. Honest producers, while you are a thief."
+
+"Oh, there's no sting in that word for _me_. I take pride in being a
+thief, and what's more, I _am_ an A number one gun, you see the point?
+The best dip in the States."
+
+"A pickpocket? Stealing nickels off passengers on the street cars,
+and--"
+
+"Me? A hell of a lot _you_ know about it. Take me for such small fry, do
+you? I work only on race tracks."
+
+"You call it work?"
+
+"Sure. Damned hard work, too. Takes more brains than a whole shopful of
+your honest producers can show."
+
+"And you prefer that to being honest?"
+
+"Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. Think
+I'm so dumb I have to slave all week for a few dollars?"
+
+"But you spend most of your life in prison."
+
+"Not by a long shot. A real good gun's always got his fall money
+planted,--I mean some ready coin in case of trouble,--and a smart lawyer
+will spring you most every time; beat the case, you know. I've never
+seen the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough; and most
+judges, too. Of course, now and then, the best of us may fall; but it
+don't happen very often, and it's all in the game. This whole life is a
+game, Mr. Berkman, and every one's got his graft."
+
+"Do you mean there are no honest men?" I ask, angrily.
+
+"Pshaw! I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or Carnegie, only they got the
+law with them. And I work harder than they, I'll bet you on that. I've
+got to eat, haven't I? Of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if I could be
+sure of my bread and butter, perhaps--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket, inquiring
+pleasantly:
+
+"How're you doin', Al?"
+
+"Tip-top, Mr. Cosson. Hope you are feeling good to-day."
+
+"Never better, Al."
+
+"A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Who was that?"
+
+"Barney. Jack Barney."
+
+"Jack Barney! Why, he worked for me in the broom shop."
+
+"Yes, he did a three-spot. He often said to me, 'Al, it you ever land in
+Riverside,' he says, 'be sure you don't forget to give my best to Mr.
+Cosson, Mr. Ed. Cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'"
+
+The officer looks pleased. "Yes, I treated him white, all right," he
+remarks, continuing on his rounds.
+
+"I knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after him. "Always good
+to get on the right side of them," he adds, with a wink. "Barney told me
+about him all right. Said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a
+swell-head yap. You see, Mr. Berkman,--may I call you Aleck? It's
+shorter. Well, you see, Aleck, I make it a point to find things out.
+It's wise to know the ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That
+Jimmy McPane, the Deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his man, all
+right. Barney told me all about it; he was doing his bit, then,--I mean
+serving his sentence. You see, Aleck," he lowers his voice,
+confidentially, "I don't like to use slang; it grows on one, and every
+fly-cop can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business to
+present a fine front and use good English, so I must not get the lingo
+habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney telling me about the Deputy. He
+killed a con in cold blood. The fellow was bughouse, D. T., you know;
+saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and
+hollering 'Murder! Kill 'em!' The Deputy was just passing along, and he
+out with his gat--I mean his revolver, you know--and bangs away. He
+pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he did, the murderer. Killed
+him dead. Never was tried, either. Warden told the newspapers it was
+done in self-defence. A damn lie. Sandy knew better; everybody in the
+dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder, with no provocation at all. It's
+a regular ring, you see, and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of
+them all; and that sky-pilot, too, is an A 1 fakir. Did you hear about
+the kid born here? Before your time. A big scandal. Since then the holy
+man's got to have a screw with him at Sunday service for the females,
+and I tell you he needs watching all right."
+
+The whistle terminates the conversation.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+THE URGE OF SEX
+
+
+Sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy; I
+cannot sleep. Through the bars, I gaze upon the Ohio. The full moon
+hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains
+of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks are merry
+with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell, and voices
+call in the distance. Life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly
+near,--but all is silent and dead around me.
+
+For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. It sounded so
+youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt.
+What joy to feast my eye on her! I have not beheld a woman for many
+months: I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. My mind
+persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strains in the
+woods; and fancy wreathes sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints
+vision and image, as I pace the floor in agitation. They live, they
+breathe! I see the slender figure with the swelling bosom, the delicate
+white throat, the babyish face with large, wistful eyes. Why, it is
+Luba! My blood tingles violently, passionately, as I live over again the
+rapturous wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How temptingly
+innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips, how
+exquisite the suddenness of it all! We were in New Haven then. One by
+one we had gathered, till the little New York commune was complete. The
+Girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange city, drudging as
+compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the
+midst of a conservative household. But the Girl brought light and
+sunshine, and then came the Twin and Manya. Luba remained in New York;
+but Manya, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister, and presently
+the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. All seemed
+happy in the free atmosphere, and Luba was blooming into beautiful
+womanhood. There was a vague something about her that now and then
+roused in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. Once--it was in New
+York, a year before--I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. It
+seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called to try a game of chess
+with her father, when he informed me that Luba had been ill. She was
+recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside,
+conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows slipping from under
+the girl's head. Bending over, I involuntarily touched her hair, loosely
+hanging down the side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next
+instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips.
+The momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for
+the girl with the beautiful hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and
+a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray,
+full of grace and beauty. And all the while we talked, my eyes feasted
+on her ravishing form, and I felt envious of her future lover, and hated
+the desecration. But when I left her bedside, all trace of desire
+disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision
+affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague inquietude remained, as
+of something unattainable.
+
+Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. We had just
+returned from the performance of _Tosca_, with Sarah Bernhardt in her
+inimitable rôle. I had to pass through Luba's room on my way to the
+attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. She had already
+retired, but was still awake. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and we
+talked of the play. She glowed with the inspiration of the great
+tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the _décolleté_ of the
+actresses.
+
+"I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," I remarked. "But I had
+a powerful opera glass: their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was
+disgusting."
+
+"Do you think--mine nice?" she asked, suddenly.
+
+For a second I was bewildered. But the question sounded so enchantingly
+unpremeditated, so innocently eager.
+
+"I never--Let me see them," I said, impulsively.
+
+"No, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "I can't, I can't!"
+
+"I wont look, Luba. See, I close my eyes. Just a touch."
+
+"Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed! Only over the blanket, please, Sasha," she
+pleaded, as my hand softly stole under the covers. She gripped the sheet
+tightly, and my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm, round
+breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In fear of arousing her
+maidenly resistance, I strove to hide my exultation, while cautiously
+and tenderly I released the coverlet.
+
+"They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling the tremor of my
+voice.
+
+"You--like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes looked lustrous and
+happy.
+
+"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last covering aside, I kissed
+her between the breasts.
+
+"I'm so glad I came here," she spoke dreamily.
+
+"Were you very lonesome in New York?"
+
+"It was terrible, Sasha."
+
+"You like the change?"
+
+"Oh, you silly boy! Don't you know?"
+
+"What, Luba?"
+
+"I wanted _you_, dear." Her arms twined softly about me.
+
+I felt appalled. The Girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my
+mind, chilling me with self-reproach. The pale hue of the attained cast
+its shadow across the spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Luba's breast.
+The coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my hand
+inadvertently touched her knee.
+
+"Sasha, how _can_ you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified
+eyes.
+
+"I didn't mean to, Luba. How could you _think_ that of me?" I was deeply
+mortified.
+
+My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent embarrassment.
+
+"It is getting late, Sasha." She tenderly drew my head to her bosom.
+
+"A little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment of the virgin
+breasts was upon me, and I showered wild kisses on them, and pressed
+them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain.
+
+"You must go now, dear."
+
+"Good night, Luba."
+
+"Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me, Sashenka."
+
+I felt her detaining lips, as I left.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex grows more and more
+insistent. Scenes from the past live in my thoughts; the cell is
+peopled with familiar faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated
+before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul, and move
+with intense reality, like the portraits of my sires come to life in the
+dark, fearful nights of my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her
+window across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely, with
+modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily, in thinly disguised
+voices. Again I am with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their
+way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and
+confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to the peep-holes we had cut
+in the booth. Inwardly I resent Nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in
+revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of
+the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. But I grow indignant at
+Vainka who badgers the girls with "Tsiba,[42] tsiba, ba-aa!" and I
+soundly thrash Kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the school yard
+at little Nunya, whom I secretly adore.
+
+  [42] Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+But the note of later days returns again and again, and the scenes of
+youth recede into their dim frames. Clearer and more frequently appear
+Sonya and Luba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in America.
+What a goose she was! She would not embrace me, because it's a great
+sin, unless one is married. But how slyly she managed to arrange kissing
+games at the Sunday gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! She
+must be quite a woman now, with a husband, children ... Quickly she
+flits by, the recollection even of her name lost in the glow of
+Anarchist emotionalism and the fervent enthusiasm of my Orchard Street
+days. There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my
+Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating
+idealism. It sheds the halo of illuminating justification upon my
+blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit
+mountains. The sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes a new
+aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those first years in America!... And
+still Time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World,
+its joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewildered by the
+flurry of Castle Garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my
+fate in freedom. The Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated
+Cossacks is past. How inspiring is liberty! The very air breathes
+enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace the new
+life. I join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full
+manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my
+adopted country on the part of my family abroad,--resent it hotly. I
+feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected
+name by turning "a low, dirty workingman." I combat their snobbishness
+vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison
+between the Old and the New World. Behold the glory of liberty and
+prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor!... The loom of
+Time keeps weaving. Lone and friendless, I struggle in the new land.
+Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. There is
+no "dignity of labor." Sweatshop bread is bitter. Oppression guards the
+golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success.
+Then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of the Ideal.
+Strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of Revolution. Like a flash in
+the night, it illumines my groping. My life becomes full of new meaning
+and interest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipation.
+Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new
+humanity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is all far, far--yet every detail is sharply etched upon my memory.
+Swiftly pass before me the years of complete consecration to the
+movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of
+agitation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited
+debate, the nights of diligent study. And over all loom the Fridays in
+the little dingy hall in the Ghetto, where the handful of Russian
+refugees gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against the
+tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged words prophesy the
+near approach of a glorious Dawn. Beshawled women, and men, long-coated
+and piously bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and
+listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange Jewish,
+so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. How
+our hearts rejoice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage
+the diffident questioner, "Do you really mean--may the good Lord forgive
+me--there is no one in heaven above?"... Late in the evening the meeting
+resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's
+utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to "the corner." The
+obscure little tea room resounds with the joust of learning and wit.
+Fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul, as the
+passage-at-arms grows more heated with the advance of the night. The
+alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions,
+"Gentlemen, gentlemen, s-sh! The police station is just across the
+street." There is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at
+each other, and in the interim the Austrian Student in his mellow voice
+begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, apropos of
+nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. With sparkling
+eyes he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us
+through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the Caucasus, to engage
+in the blood-feuds of the Tcherkessi; or, enmeshed in a perilous
+flirtation with an Albanian beauty in a Moslem harem, he descants on the
+philosophy of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the Nile to
+hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures
+by introducing an acquaintance of the evening, "My excellent friend, the
+coming great Italian virtuoso, from Odessa, gentlemen. He will entertain
+us with an aria from _Trovatore_." But the circle is not in a musical
+mood: some one challenges the Student's familiarity with the Moslem
+philosophy, and the Twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the Austrian
+with Christian missionaries. There are protestations, and loud clamor
+for an explanation. The Student smilingly assents, and presently he is
+launched upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan,
+trading tea at Yachta, and aiding a political to escape to
+Vladivostok.... The night pales before the waking sun, the Twin yawns,
+and I am drowsy with--
+
+"Cof-fee! Want coffee? Hey, git up there! Didn't you hear th' bell?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+THE WARDEN'S THREAT
+
+
+I
+
+The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line
+undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the
+gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate
+ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house.
+
+"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it.
+The screw's goin' t' frisk[43] me."
+
+  [43] Search.
+
+Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in
+front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men.
+
+"Break ranks!"
+
+The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk."
+
+The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in.
+
+"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly.
+
+"I don't understand you."
+
+"Yes, you do. Have you money on you?"
+
+"I have not."
+
+"Who sends clandestine mail for you?"
+
+"What mail?"
+
+"The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in New York."
+
+I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed through official
+channels.
+
+"It went through the Chaplain's hands," I reply, boldly.
+
+"It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass Mr. Milligan. Mr.
+Cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch the newspaper from my desk."
+
+The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "Here it is!
+You talk of revolution, and comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never
+saw _that_, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say that you
+are editing--from the prison, mind you--editing an Anarchist sheet in
+New York."
+
+"You can't believe everything the papers say." I protest.
+
+"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the Deputy interposes.
+"They surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth."
+
+"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that I tried to jump over
+the wall--it's about thirty feet high--and that the guard shot me in the
+leg?"
+
+A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out:
+
+"Was the story inspired, perhaps?"
+
+"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to speak, unless addressed,
+remember. Mr. McPane, please search him."
+
+The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my
+arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every
+spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The loathsome
+touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security: I have
+nothing incriminating about me.
+
+Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket.
+
+"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round object. "A knife, Captain."
+
+"Let me see!" I cry in amazement.
+
+"Stand back!" the Warden commands. "This knife has been stolen from the
+shoe shop. On whom did you mean to use it?"
+
+"Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow dropped it into my pocket
+as we--"
+
+"That'll do. You're not so clever as you think."
+
+"It's a conspiracy!" I cry.
+
+He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes.
+
+"Well, what have you got to say?"
+
+"It's a put-up job."
+
+"Explain yourself."
+
+"Some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming--"
+
+"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy."
+
+"You searched me for money and secret letters--"
+
+"That will do now. Mr. McPane, what is the sentence for the possession
+of a dangerous weapon?"
+
+"Warden," I interrupt, "it's no weapon. The blade is only half an inch,
+and--"
+
+"Silence! I spoke to Mr. McPane."
+
+"Hm, three days, Captain."
+
+"Take him down."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the storeroom I am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad
+in the hateful stripes. Coatless and shoeless, I am led through hallways
+and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the
+dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable,--I feel its hand
+upon my head, my face. I dare not move, lest a misstep thrust me into
+the abyss. I hold my hand close to my eyes--I feel the touch of my
+lashes upon it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one
+spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is sinister; it
+seems to me I can hear it. Only now and then the hasty scrambling of
+nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible
+river rats haunts the fearful solitude.
+
+Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts; out of the sombre gray, a
+wall looms above; the silhouette of a door rises dimly before me,
+sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable.
+
+The hours drag in unbroken sameness. Not a sound reaches me from the
+cell-house. In the maddening quiet and darkness I am bereft of all
+consciousness of time, save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys
+apprises me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the silent
+guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. The double doors
+fall heavily to, the steps grow fainter and die in the distance, and all
+is dark again in the dungeon.
+
+The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The floor is cold and clammy,
+the gnawing grows louder and nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the
+starving rats attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments
+leaning against the door; and then again I pace the cell, striving to
+keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound
+of a human voice.
+
+Utterly forsaken! Cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the
+world of man receding, leaving no trace behind.... Eagerly I strain my
+ear--only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. I clutch the bars in
+desperation--a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands tear
+violently at the door--"Ho, there! Any one here?" All is silent.
+Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread
+and despair. Fear shapes convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest,
+then calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid succession
+of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my slumbering consciousness.
+
+Exhausted and weary I droop against the wall. A slimy creeping on my
+face startles me in horror, and again I pace the cell. I feel cold and
+hungry. Am I forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more. Have they
+forgotten me?...
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. My tomb will
+open--oh, to see the light, and breathe the air again....
+
+"Officer, isn't my time up yet?"
+
+"What's your hurry? You've only been here one day."
+
+The doors fall to. Ravenously I devour the bread, so small and thin,
+just a bite. Only _one_ day! Despair enfolds me like a pall. Faint with
+anguish, I sink to the floor.
+
+
+II
+
+The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable
+transformation. The sight of the human form fills me with delight, the
+sound of voices is sweet music. I feel as if I had been torn from the
+grip of death when all hope had fled me,--caught on the very brink, as
+it were, and restored to the world of the living. How bright the sun,
+how balmy the air! In keen sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The
+tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to
+rest, secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin. It is
+almost liberty, freedom!
+
+But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes throb with pain;
+every joint of my body is on the rack. The blankets had been removed
+from the dungeon; three days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was
+unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended anxiety
+lest I commit suicide with them. It is very touching, this solicitude
+for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden
+motive must be actuating the Warden. But what can it be? Probably they
+will not keep me long in the cell. When I am returned to work, I shall
+learn the truth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous confinement is
+becoming distressing. I miss the little comforts I have lost by the
+removal to the "single" cell, considerably smaller than my previous
+quarters. My library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so
+patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The cell is bare
+and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed rules affording no relief
+from the irritating whitewash. The narrow space makes exercise
+difficult: the necessity of turning at every second and third step
+transforms walking into a series of contortions. But some means must be
+devised to while away the time. I pace the floor, counting the seconds
+required to make ten turns. I recollect having heard that five miles
+constitutes a healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771
+turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide the exercise
+into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles.
+Carefully I count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal
+of the gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again.
+
+The change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades.
+I am apprehensive of the fate of the _Prison Blossoms_: strict
+surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am
+assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from
+the officers' desk at the yard door. Watchful eyes are constantly upon
+me; it is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. The rangeman
+alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been warned
+against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his position as trusty by
+spying upon the inmates. I can expect no help from him; but perhaps the
+coffee-boy may prove of service.
+
+I am planning to approach the man, when I am informed that prisoners
+from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. By means
+of the waste pipe, I learn of the developments during my stay in the
+dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient
+rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagon-load of bad meat. The
+stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing
+uncomplimentary remarks about the food. The situation was aggravated by
+an additional increase of the task. The knitters and loopers were on the
+verge of rebellion. Twice within the month had the task been enlarged.
+They sent to the Warden a request for a reduction; in reply came the
+appalling order for a further increase. Then a score of men struck. They
+remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand
+for better food and less work was complied with. With the aid of
+informers, the Warden conducted a quiet investigation. One by one the
+refractory prisoners were forced to submit. By a process of elimination
+the authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that
+a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique
+episode of a strike in the prison.
+
+An air of mystery hangs about the guards. Repeatedly I attempt to engage
+them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their
+lips. I wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when
+unexpectedly the cause is revealed.
+
+
+III
+
+It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tier.
+I stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. The overseer glances at
+me, then motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell.
+
+"Officer," I call out, "you missed me."
+
+"Smell the pot-pie, do you?"
+
+"Where's my dinner?"
+
+"You get none."
+
+The odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked forward to every
+second Sunday, reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten
+sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now--I am humiliated
+and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner.
+Angrily I rap the cup across the door; again and again I strike the tin
+against it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a sharp,
+piercing clatter.
+
+A guard hastens along. "Stop that damn racket," he commands. "What's the
+matter with you?"
+
+"I didn't get dinner."
+
+"Yes, you did."
+
+"I did not."
+
+"Well, I s'pose you don't deserve it."
+
+As he turns to leave, my can crashes against the door--one, two, three--
+
+"What t'hell do you want, eh?"
+
+"I want to see the Warden."
+
+"You can't see 'im. You better keep quiet now."
+
+"I demand to see the Warden. He is supposed to visit us every day. He
+hasn't been around for weeks. I must see him now."
+
+"If you don't shut up, I'll--"
+
+The Captain of the Block approaches.
+
+"What do you want, Berkman?"
+
+"I want to see the Warden."
+
+"Can't see him. It's Sunday."
+
+"Captain," I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell,
+"there is an excerpt here from the statutes of Pennsylvania, directing
+the Warden to visit each prisoner every day--"
+
+"Never mind, now," he interrupts. "What do you want to see the Warden
+about?"
+
+"I want to know why I got no dinner."
+
+"Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays."
+
+"What for?"
+
+"That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you want to see him."
+
+Presently the overseer returns, informing me in a confidential manner
+that he has induced "his Nibs" to grant me an audience. Admitted to the
+inner office, I find the Warden at the desk, his face flushed with
+anger.
+
+"You are reported for disturbing the peace," he shouts at me.
+
+"There is also, hm, hm, another charge against him," the Deputy
+interposes.
+
+"Two charges," the Warden continues. "Disturbing the peace and making
+demands. How dare you demand?" he roars. "Do you know where you are?"
+
+"I wanted to see you."
+
+"It is not a question of what you want or don't want. Understand that
+clearly. You are to obey the rules implicitly."
+
+"The rules direct you to visit--"
+
+"Silence! What is your request?"
+
+"I want to know why I am deprived of dinner."
+
+"It is not, hm, for _you_ to know. It is enough, hm, hm, that _we_
+know," the Deputy retorts.
+
+"Mr. McPane," the Warden interposes, "I am going to speak plainly to
+him. From this day on," he turns to me, "you are on 'Pennsylvania diet'
+for four weeks. During that time no papers or books are permitted you.
+It will give you leisure to think over your behavior. I have
+investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am satisfied it was you who
+instigated the trouble there. You shall not have another chance to
+incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. But," he
+pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you may as well
+understand it now as later--your life is not worth the trouble you give
+us. Mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at _your_ expense. For
+the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your
+pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the 'basket.'"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+THE "BASKET" CELL
+
+
+Four weeks of "Pennsylvania diet" have reduced me almost to a skeleton.
+A slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole
+meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace
+of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I am conducted to the office,
+to be examined by the physician and weighed. The whole week I look
+forward to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. The sight
+of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly smile on a
+stealthily raised face as I pass through the hall, the strange blue of
+the sky, the sweet-scented aroma of the April morning--how quickly it is
+all over! But the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the
+office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood aglow with renewed
+life. For an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite
+intoxication, and then--I am in the tomb again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant dusk is driving
+me blind. Almost no light or air reaches me through the close wire
+netting covering the barred door. The foul odor is stifling; it grips my
+throat with deathly hold. The walls hem me in; daily they press closer
+upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and I feel crushed in the
+coffin of stone. From every point the whitewashed sides glare at me,
+unyielding, inexorable, in confident assurance of their prey.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The darkness of despondency gathers day by day; the hand of despair
+weighs heavier. At night the screeching of a crow across the river
+ominously voices the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. The windows
+in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. Bleak and desolate
+wakes the day--another day, then another--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Weak and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further recedes the world of
+the living. Still day follows night, and life is in the making, but I
+have no part in the pain and travail. Like a spark from the glowing
+furnace, flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness, I
+have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. No sound reaches me
+from the island prison where beats the fervent heart of the Girl, no ray
+of hope falls across the bars of desolation. But on the threshold of
+Nirvana life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out _to be_!
+Persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and nerves my resolution. Were
+I an ordinary prisoner, I should not care to suffer all these agonies.
+To what purpose, with my impossible sentence? But my Anarchist ideals
+and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire gloating over its
+prey. No, I shall not disgrace the Cause, I shall not grieve my comrades
+by weak surrender! I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by
+threat or torture.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With difficulty I walk to the office for the weekly weighing. My step
+falters as I approach the scales, and I sway dizzily. As through a mist
+I see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body.
+Somehow I reach the "basket," mildly wondering why I did not feel the
+cold air. Perhaps they did not take me through the yard--Is it the Block
+Captain's voice? "What did you say?"
+
+"Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+THE SOLITARY
+
+
+I
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                     March 25, 1894.
+
+    DEAR FEDYA:
+
+    This letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons I missed
+    mail-day last month. Prison life, too, has its ups and downs,
+    and just now I am on the down side. We are cautioned to refrain
+    from referring to local affairs; therefore I can tell you only
+    that I am in solitary, without work. I don't know how long I am
+    to be kept "locked up." It may be a month, or a year, I hope it
+    will not be the latter.
+
+    I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you
+    sent.... We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can
+    easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to the
+    last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the
+    living.... Blessed be the shades of Guttenberg! Hugo and Zola,
+    even Gogol and Turgenev, are in the library. It is like meeting
+    an old friend in a strange land to find our own Bazarov
+    discoursing--in English.... Page after page unfolds the
+    past--the solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again
+    I roam with Leather Stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow
+    with poor Oliver Twist. But the "Captain's Daughter" irritates
+    me, and Pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature
+    in the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Tarass
+    Bulba--is it our own Tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge
+    of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old hetman
+    storming maledictions against the hated Moslems--in long-winded
+    German periods! Exasperated and offended, I turn my back upon
+    the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of the
+    requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth. Posies
+    bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but the pains
+    of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul.... Science and
+    romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy--all come
+    trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the allowance
+    of only one book at a time limits my choice. The variety of
+    reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to
+    perfect my English. But some passage in the "Starry Heavens"
+    suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with
+    the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question
+    surges through my mind, What is the use of all this study and
+    learning? And then--but why harrow you with this tenor.
+
+    I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be
+    undone: the sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will be
+    mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you also are not bedded
+    on roses. And the poor Sailor?
+
+    My space is all.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+
+II
+
+The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links
+through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer
+heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my
+face. On the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard has closed the
+hall windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The
+leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor of the
+perspiration and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless, I toss on
+the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the weight of many
+inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bedtick. But the
+Block Captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing
+me to "shake it up a bit." I am fearful of repeating the experiment: the
+clouds of dust almost strangled me; for days the cell remained hazy with
+the powdered filth. Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will
+open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my
+cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give
+me life this day.
+
+And when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence
+mounts its vigil, I may improve a favorable moment to exchange a
+greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the
+tier above me. Thrice his request for a "high gear" machine has been
+refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table.
+Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has
+repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a
+hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate
+with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The
+Warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original
+high machine. But the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go
+back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison
+discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday
+the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the Deputy, and
+assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by
+the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited
+again before the Warden the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness
+to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of
+yielding enrages him. "I'll die before I give in," he told me.
+
+From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn the sad story of his
+young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him.
+His father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for
+damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow
+destitute. Since the age of fourteen young Johnny had to support the
+whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon,
+associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling.
+One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's
+accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily
+clad in stripes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In vain I strive to absorb myself in the library book. The shoddy heroes
+of Laura Jean wake no response in my heart; the superior beings of
+Corelli, communing with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange
+and unhuman. Here, in the cell above me, cries and moans the terrible
+tragedy of Reality. What a monstrous thing it is that the whole power of
+the commonwealth, all the machinery of government, is concentrated to
+crush this unfortunate atom! Innocently guilty, too, the poor boy is.
+Ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of
+vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by a moment of weakness. Yet
+his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint
+reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy
+of organized Society! The very foundation of its existence rests upon
+the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and
+justice. Every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the
+semblance of truth; the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very
+name. Political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry
+gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant on the ruins of
+manhood--such is the morality of civilization. And over the edifice of
+this stupendous perversion the Law sits enthroned, and Religion weaves
+the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong, and bids the
+cowering helot intone, "Thy will be done!"
+
+Devoutly Johnny goes to Church, and prays forgiveness for his "sins."
+The prosecutor was "very hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole
+perceives only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons
+directly responsible for his long imprisonment. But greater minds have
+failed fully to grasp the iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns,
+even, seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep
+sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. But "man's inhumanity to man" is
+not the last word. The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the
+savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted mankind into wolves and
+sheep. In liberty and communism, none would have the will or the power
+"to make countless thousands mourn." Verily, it is the system, rather
+than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. My
+prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the Midas-hand,
+whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of Mammon.
+Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement; with savage joy the shop
+foreman cracks his whip, for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The
+famished bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon
+night, the men buried in "basket" and solitary,--what human hand would
+turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like
+fate, and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but an
+intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with
+the levers of Greed, guarded by the spawn of Hunger.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It is a Herculean task
+to rouse Apathy to the sordidness of its misery. Yet if the People would
+but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means
+of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace Anarchy! Quick and
+decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of
+their despoilers. An hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and
+superstition, and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world, and
+the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a
+regenerated humanity. Ah, if the world would but pause for one short
+while, and understand, and become free!
+
+Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical lore: only one instant
+of righteousness, and Messiah would come upon earth. The beautiful
+promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The
+merciful God requires so little of us, I had often pondered. Why will we
+not abstain from sin and evil, for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"?
+For weeks I went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent Israel
+refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening
+the deliverance. Like a divine inspiration came the solution: at the
+stroke of the noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and women of
+the Jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer. For a single stroke
+of time, all at once--behold the Messiah come! In agonizing perplexity I
+gazed at my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly smile quivered
+dismay into my thrilling heart! The children of Israel could not be
+saved thus,--he spoke sadly. Nay, not even in the most circumspect
+manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time
+to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah will come, the good tutor
+kindly consoled me. It had been promised. "But the hour hath not
+arrived," he quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the
+Deliverer."
+
+With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new hope, the
+revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken: it
+hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery. Out of the
+People's need, from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour
+of redemption. Necessity, Necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur
+numb Misery to effort, and waken the living dead. The process is
+tortuously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried
+by impatience. We must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers
+for the great upheaval. The errors of the past are to be guarded
+against: always has apparent victory been divested of its fruits, and
+paralyzed into defeat, because the People were fettered by their respect
+for property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by reliance
+upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason
+lighted in the darkness of men's minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the
+midway clouds of defeat, and sight the glory of the Social Revolution,
+and the beyond.
+
+
+III
+
+A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused sounds ring in my ears,
+and beat upon my head. I wake in nameless dread. The cell-house is
+raging with uproar: crash after crash booms through the hall; it
+thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous
+drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases.
+
+In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still. Timidly I look
+around. The cell is in darkness, and only a faint gas light flickers
+unsteadily in the corridor. Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and
+unearthly, bursting into wild laughter. And again the fearful thunder,
+now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the
+distance, then dying with a growl. And all is hushed again, and only the
+unearthly laughter rings through the hall.
+
+"Johnny, Johnny!" I call in alarm. "Johnny!"
+
+"Th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the privy. "This is
+Horsethief. Is that you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes. What _is_ it, Bob?"
+
+"Some one breakin' up housekeepin'."
+
+"Who?"
+
+"Can't tell. May be Smithy."
+
+"What Smithy, Bob?"
+
+"Crazy Smith, on crank row. Look out now, they're comin'."
+
+The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. Shadowlike, giant
+figures glide past my cell. They walk inaudibly, felt-soled and
+portentous, the long riot clubs rigid at their sides. Behind them
+others, and then the Warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With
+bated breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the
+doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierce the night: there is the
+rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling
+body, and all is quiet. Noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge
+shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun glints a ray upon the
+bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. A squad
+of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the
+floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not dead. He will
+recover, the rangeman assures me. The doctor bandaged the man's wounds,
+and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon.
+Little by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith has been
+insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four
+years ago. His "partner," Burns, has also become deranged through worry
+over his sentence of twenty-five years. His madness assumed such
+revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the
+insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank row," the Warden insisting
+that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape.
+
+
+IV
+
+The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in
+the monotony of the solitary. Owing to the illness of Bob, communication
+with my friends is almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the
+hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying sameness. By
+violent efforts of will I strangle the recurring thought of my long
+sentence, and seek forgetfulness in reading. Volume after volume passes
+through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the printed word. Page
+by page I recite the history of the Holy Church, the lives of the
+Fathers and the Saints, or read aloud, to hear a human voice, the
+mythology of Greece and India, mingling with it, for the sake of
+variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But in the midst of an
+intricate passage in the "Unknowable," or in the heart of a difficult
+mathematical problem, I suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing
+familiar figures on the library slate: 22 × 12 = 264. What is this, I
+wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious manner, to finish
+the calculation:
+
+         264 × 30 =       7,920 days.
+       7,920 × 24 =     190,080 hours.
+     190,080 × 60 =  11,404,800 minutes.
+  11,404,800 × 60 = 684,288,000 seconds.
+
+But the next moment I am aghast at the realization that my computation
+allows only 30 days per month, whereas the year consists of 365,
+sometimes even of 366 days. And again I repeat the process, multiplying
+22 by 365, and am startled to find that I have almost 700,000,000
+seconds to pass in the solitary. From the official calendar alongside of
+the rules the cheering promise faces me, Good conduct shortens time. But
+I have been repeatedly reported and punished--they will surely deprive
+me of the commutation. With great care I figure out my allowance: one
+month on the first year, one on the second; two on the third and fourth;
+three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months'
+"good time" on each succeeding year. I shall therefore have to serve
+fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in
+the workhouse. I have been here now two years. It still leaves me 14
+years and 2 months, or more than 5,170 days. Appalled by the figures, I
+pace the cell in agitation. It is hopeless! It is folly to expect to
+survive such a sentence, especially in view of the Warden's persecution,
+and the petty tyranny of the keepers.
+
+Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of unforeseen developments
+in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all
+struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute
+isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of illness and
+suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp pang I observe the thinning
+of my hair. The evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental
+collapse, insanity.... I shudder at the terrible suggestion, and lash
+myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangeman, and every
+passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the Warden, the
+guards, the judge, and that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and
+merciless, thing--the world. In the moments of reacting calm I apply
+myself to philosophy and science, determinedly, with the desperation
+born of horror. But the dread ghost is ever before me; it follows me up
+and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of "Crazy Smith" in
+the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my
+neighbor suddenly gone mad.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+MEMORY-GUESTS
+
+
+Often the Chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks words of encouragement.
+I feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions
+forbid the expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of
+oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the
+fawning convict. But I hope he feels my appreciation in the simple
+"thank you." It is kind of him to lend me books from his private
+library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing
+paper. Correspondence with the Girl and the Twin, and the unfrequent
+exchange of notes with my comrades, are the only links that still bind
+me to the living. I feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial
+incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the
+other inmates. "Old Sammy," the rangeman, grown nervous with the
+approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his
+heart. All day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the
+doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the
+solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated recital of the "news,"
+elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness.
+He interrupts his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the "thieving
+murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will
+enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember
+with towels and handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of
+the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken heart, the boys have
+not written a line in three years. He fears they have sold the little
+farmhouse, and flown to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives
+away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "I'll see, I'll see,"
+and rejoices in being "alive and still good for a while," and then
+abruptly changes the conversation, and relates minutely how "that poor,
+crazy Dick" was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to
+discover him, and to help the guards cut him down. And last week he was
+present when the physician tried to revive "the little dago," and if the
+doctor had only returned quicker from the theatre, poor Joe might have
+been saved. He "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay; 'waitin'
+for the doc,' they says. Hope they don't kill _me_ yet," he comments,
+hobbling away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction. Ever
+stronger asserts itself the love of life; the will to be roots deeper.
+But the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The
+constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the _Blossoms_. The
+eccentric Warden seems to have conceived a great fear of an Anarchist
+conspiracy: special orders have been issued, placing the trio under
+extraordinary surveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence,
+yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us in a
+manner excluding all possibility of communication. Apparently I am to be
+continued in the solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the
+South Wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery
+in the North Block. The precious magazine is suspended, and only the
+daring of the faithful "Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional
+note.
+
+Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle light, I pass the long
+winter evenings. The prison day between 7 A. M. and 9 P. M. I divide
+into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and
+reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals and "cleaning up."
+Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, borrowed from the Chaplain, I
+absorb myself in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word,
+studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. I find
+moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through
+all the vicissitudes of its existence, to its Latin or Greek source. In
+the history of the corresponding epoch, I seek the people's joys and
+tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word. Philology, with
+the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and
+comparative religion, through the mazes of metaphysics and warring
+philosophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science.
+
+Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the disciples of Socrates, flee
+Athens with the persecuted Diagoras, "the Atheist," and listen in
+ecstasy to the sweet-voiced lute of Arion; or with Suetonius I pass in
+review the Twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the
+triumph of the Eternal City. But on the very threshold of Cleopatra's
+boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three
+giant slaves with the command:
+
+"A 7, hands up! Step out to be searched!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. With difficulty I
+force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the
+past. The placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the
+quagmire seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the
+bitterness of death.
+
+The release of "Old Sammy" stirs me to the very depths. Many prisoners
+have come and gone during my stay; with some I merely touched hands as
+they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my
+existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid
+optimism, has grown dear to me. He shared with me his hopes and fears,
+divided his extra slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own
+homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something has gone out of my
+life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow
+my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the
+alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the promise of life
+and joy and liberty. Like a horrible nightmare the sombre walls fade
+away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden
+menace, faint, yet ever-present and terrible. The sun glows brilliant in
+the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odors
+are everywhere about me. All the longing of my soul wells up with
+violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself upon
+the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the dark. Silently lifts
+the veil of time. The little New York flat rises before me. The Girl is
+returning home, the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of
+death. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her
+saddened face. As on an open page, I read the suffering of her prison
+experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... The joys and
+sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again I live in the old
+surroundings. The memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little
+café at Sachs', projects clearly. The room is chilly in the November
+dusk, as I return from work and secure my accustomed place. One by one
+the old habitués drop in, and presently I am in a heated discussion with
+two Russian refugees at the table opposite. The door opens, and a young
+woman enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an
+atmosphere of strength and vitality. I wonder who the newcomer may be.
+Two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the
+revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl is evidently a
+stranger; I am quite sure I have never met her at our gatherings. I
+motion to the passing proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question.
+"You want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers. "I'll see, I'll
+see."--Somehow I find myself at her table. Without constraint, we soon
+converse like old acquaintances, and I learn that she left her home in
+Rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is a
+dressmaker, and hopes to find work in New York. I like her simple, frank
+confidence; the "comrade" on her lips thrills me. She is one of us,
+then. With a sense of pride in the movement, I enlarge upon the
+activities of our circle. There are important meetings she ought to
+attend, many people to meet; Hasselmann is conducting a course in
+sociology; Schultze is giving splendid lectures. "Have you heard Most?"
+I ask suddenly. "No? You must hear our Grand Old Man. He speaks
+to-morrow; will you come with me?"--Eagerly I look forward to the next
+evening, and hasten to the café. It is frosty outdoors as I walk the
+narrow, dark streets in animated discussion with "Comrade Rochester."
+The ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots crusted with
+filth. As we cross Delancey Street, the girl slips and almost falls,
+when I catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking
+the curbstone. "You have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes
+dancing vivaciously.... With great pride I introduce my new friend to
+the _inteligentzia_ of the Ghetto, among the exiles of the colony. Ah,
+the exaltation, the joy of being!... The whole history of revolutionary
+Russia is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental Nihilism
+and political view is harbored there. I see Hartman, surrounded by the
+halo of conspirative mystery; at his side is the _velikorussian_, with
+flowing beard and powerful frame, of the older generation of the
+_narodovoiltzy_; and there is Schewitsch, big and broad of feature, the
+typical _dvoryanin_ who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. The
+line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony: Cahan is
+among us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality;
+Solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous; Miller,
+poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named brother Brandes, looking
+consumptive from his experience in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and
+Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein--all are united in enthusiasm for the
+common cause. Types from Turgenev and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski
+and Nekrassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality,
+individualized with varying shade and light. And other elements are in
+the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of Tsardom.
+Shapes in the making, still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition
+and new environment. Who knows what shall be the amalgam, some day to be
+recast by the master hand of a new Turgenev?...
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past. With
+infinite detail I live again through the years of the inspiring
+friendship that held the Girl, the Twin, and myself in the closest bonds
+of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest
+and rich promise was life in those days, so far away, when after the
+hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory I would hasten to the
+little room in Suffolk Street! Small and narrow, with its diminutive
+table and solitary chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured
+into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's
+weal. Only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety
+chair. And if somebody else called, we would stand around the room,
+filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm
+consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing
+the glorious Dawn.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The memory of the life "outside" intensifies the misery of the solitary.
+I brood over the uselessness of my suffering. My mission in life
+terminated with the _Attentat_. What good can my continued survival do?
+My propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and
+political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me
+the duty of existence. And even if it were, the almost three years of my
+imprisonment have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration, so
+long as I remain constantly under lock and key, the subject of special
+surveillance. Communication with Nold and Bauer, too, is daily growing
+more difficult. My health is fast failing; I am barely able to walk.
+What is the use of all this misery and torture? What is the use?...
+
+In such moments, I stand on the brink of eternity. Is it sheer apathy
+and languor that hold the weak thread of life, or nature's law and the
+inherent spirit of resistance? Were I not in the enemy's power, I should
+unhesitatingly cross the barrier. But as a pioneer of the Cause, I must
+live and struggle. Yet life without activity or interest is
+terrifying.... I long for sympathy and affection. With an aching heart I
+remember my comrades and friends, and the Girl. More and more my mind
+dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night with a passionate desire
+for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning
+fills me for the women I have known, as they pass in my mind's eye from
+the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. With a
+thrill I recall each bright look and tender accent. My heart beats
+tumultuously as I meet little Nadya, on the way to school, pretending I
+do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the
+breeze, when I surprise her stealthily watching me. I adore her
+secretly, but proudly decline my chum's offer to introduce me. How
+foolish of me! But I know no timid shrinking as I wait, on a cold winter
+evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross the yard; and how
+unceremoniously I embrace her! She is not a _barishnya_; I need not mask
+my feelings. And she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things
+"not fit for a boy" of my age. But she kisses me again, and passion
+wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand.... My Eldridge Street
+platonic sweetheart stands before me, and I tingle with every sensual
+emotion of my first years in New York.... Out of the New Haven days
+rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with unutterable longing for the
+unattained. And again I live through the experiences of the past,
+passionately visualizing every detail with images that flatter my erotic
+palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE
+
+
+I
+
+    To K. & G.
+
+    Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The
+    coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put in his
+    place.
+
+    It's lucky the old Deputy died--he was determined to keep me in
+    solitary. In the absence of the Warden, Benny Greaves, the new
+    Deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. But he has
+    issued strict orders I should not be permitted to step into the
+    yard. I'll therefore still be under special surveillance, and I
+    shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with our
+    "Faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence.
+
+    Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out of
+    the cell!
+
+                                                                  M.
+
+
+II
+
+My position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact
+with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of
+sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it
+are, successively, I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of the
+cell-house. On the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are
+labelled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries form parallelograms about each
+double cell-row; bridged at the centre, they permit easy access to the
+several ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty
+cells, are contained within the outer stone building, and comprise the
+North Block of the penitentiary. It connects with the South Wing by
+means of the rotunda.
+
+[Illustration: CELL RANGES--SOUTH BLOCK]
+
+The bottom tiers A and K serve as "receiving" ranges. Here every new
+arrival is temporarily "celled," before he is assigned to work and
+transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges
+are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and
+solitary. The lower end of the two ranges is designated "bughouse row."
+It contains the "cranks," among whom are classed inmates in different
+stages of mental aberration.
+
+My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and
+assisting at feeding, enable me to become acquainted and to form
+friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of "the
+criminal." I resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to evolve
+the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a
+digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it "criminal type." Daily
+association dispels the myth of the "species," and reveals the
+individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers
+coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear.
+There is "Reddie" Butch, a rosy-cheeked young fellow of twenty-one, as
+frank-spoken a boy as ever honored a striped suit. A jolly criminal is
+Butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song. He was "just dying to
+take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. But he couldn't afford it;
+he earned only seven dollars per week, as butcher's boy. He always gave
+his mother every penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because
+he couldn't spend anything on her. "And I goes to work and swipes a rig,
+and say, Aleck, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house, big-like.
+In I goes. 'Put on your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you
+the drive of your life.' And I did; you bet your sweet life, I did, ha,
+ha, ha!" But when he returned the rig to its owner, Butch was arrested.
+"'Just a prank, Your Honor,' I says to the Judge. And what d' you think,
+Aleck? Thought I'd die when he said three years. I was foolish, of
+course; but there's no use crying over spilt milk, ha, ha, ha! But you
+know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar
+you, eh? Well, I'll try hard to forget th' minx. She's a sweet girl,
+though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And there is Young Rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the
+great American physician. The delicate features, radiant with
+spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to Shelley; the limping gait
+recalls the tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder! He sits at the door,
+an open book in his hands,--the page is moist with the tears silently
+trickling down his face. He smiles at my approach, and his expressive
+eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking
+through the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a Summer night: the skiff
+suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"--he points to the
+river,--"near McKees Rocks." He was dragged out, unconscious. They told
+him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer! He reaches for the
+photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell with
+deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange
+a greeting, with the prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie. How he
+cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he was! In gentler
+tones I speak to the unfortunates, and encourage the new arrivals, or
+indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of
+the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my
+wake. Taking advantage of the old Block Captain's "cold in the head," I
+cautiously hint at the danger of germs lurking in the dust-laden
+atmosphere. "A little wet sawdust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you
+wouldn't catch colds so often." A capital idea, he thinks, and
+thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell.
+
+In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary. Every trifle means so
+much. "Long Joe," the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their
+needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. The poor fellow is serving
+twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "Wild Bill" and "Bighead"
+Wilson. They are constantly demanding to see the Warden. It is
+remarkable that they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in fear
+of them. "Wild Bill" is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar
+rumors concerning his intimacy with the Warden. Recently Bill complained
+of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him.
+"From the Warden's table," he remarked, with a sly wink. And Wilson is
+jocularly referred to as "the Deputy," even by the officers. He is still
+in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new
+Deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards, and issues
+orders. He is the Warden's "runner," clad with the authority of his
+master. The prisoners regard Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially
+hate them; but none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed by
+"Deputy" Wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity between the two on
+account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried
+by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is
+indifferent to the unfortunates in the cells. Butch is devoured by
+bedbugs, and "Praying" Andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. The
+simple-minded life-timer is being neglected: he has not yet recovered
+from the assault by Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer.
+I urge the rangeman to report to the Captain the need of "bedbugging"
+Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with a new mattress, and of notifying
+the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries.
+
+
+III
+
+Breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and march to the shops.
+Broom in hand, rangemen and assistants step upon the galleries, and
+commence to sweep the floors. Officers pass along the tiers, closely
+scrutinizing each cell. Now and then they pause, facing a "delinquent."
+They note his number, unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the "sick
+line" on the ground floor.
+
+One by one the men augment the row; they walk slowly, bent and coughing,
+painfully limping down the steep flights. From every range they come;
+the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a
+tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. All look withered and
+dejected,--a ghastly line, palsied and blear-eyed, blanched in the
+valley of death.
+
+The rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by
+Deputy Warden Greaves and Assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a
+prisoner, dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. Dr. Boyce
+glances at the long line, and knits his brow. He looks at his watch, and
+the frown deepens. He has much to do. Since the death of the senior
+doctor, the young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison. He
+must make the rounds of the shops before noon, and visit the patients
+in the hospital before the Warden or the Deputy drops in.
+
+Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. The
+Assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick
+line. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the
+Deputy. The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances.
+
+"Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out.
+
+A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is
+tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. He
+speaks in a hoarse voice:
+
+"Doctor, there is something the matter with my side. I have pains, and I
+cough bad at night, and in the morning--"
+
+"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his
+notebook. "Give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant.
+
+"Next!" the Deputy calls.
+
+"Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick
+prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice.
+
+The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy. The latter cries,
+impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick
+succession, with the knuckles of his hand.
+
+"Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner.
+
+"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the
+direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the
+foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered
+with bulging tumors.
+
+"Number?" the doctor inquires.
+
+"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head
+thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco.
+
+"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says
+hoarsely.
+
+"Salts. Return to work. Next!"
+
+"A one-twenty-six!"
+
+A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully
+from the line.
+
+"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid--"
+
+"What's the trouble?"
+
+"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I--"
+
+"Give him a plaster. Next!"
+
+"Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing
+livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a quick motion he pulls his shirt
+up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous
+plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "Damn yer plasters," he cries
+with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters. I'm putty near
+dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me."
+
+The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor. He stands, head bent,
+penciling, rarely glancing up. The elongated ascetic face wears a
+preoccupied look; he drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "Next!
+Numb'r? Salts! Plaster! Salts! Next!" Occasionally he glances at his
+watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere
+face grows more severe and rigid. Now and then he turns his eyes upon
+the Deputy Warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a
+thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking
+the gray beard. Cheeks protruding, mouth full of juice, the Deputy
+mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "Next!"
+and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician to
+order the man to work. Only the withered and the lame are temporarily
+excused, the Deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to
+the doctor.
+
+Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing,
+wheezing, and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning.
+Quite often, breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task, the
+men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to receive a respite
+from the killing toil,--a short intermission, or a happier, eternal
+reprieve.
+
+The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are
+sent back to their quarters, and locked up for the day. Only these, the
+permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the
+sweepers, remain within the inner walls during working hours. The pall
+of silence descends upon the House of Death.
+
+
+IV
+
+The guards creep stealthily along the tiers. Officer George Dean, lank
+and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance,
+his evil-looking eyes peering through the bars, scrutinizing every
+inmate. Suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "Hey, you, Eleven-thirty-nine! On
+the bed again! Wha-at? Sick, hell! No dinner!" Noisily he pretends to
+return to the desk "in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell
+door, and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed murmur
+proceeds from the upper galleries. Cautiously the guard advances,
+hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps
+into the center of the hall, shouting: "Cells forty-seven K, I, H!
+Talking through the pipe! Got you this time, all right." He grins
+broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to the Block Captain. The
+guards ascend the galleries. Levers are pulled, doors opened with a
+bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. For days their
+cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gaunt and cadaverous, Guard Hughes makes the rounds of the tiers, on a
+tour of inspection. With bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes
+intently through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely he walks
+along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a picture off the wall,
+there gathering a few scraps of paper. As I pass along the hall, he
+slams a door on the range above, and appears upon the gallery. His
+pockets bulge with confiscated goods. He glances around, as the Deputy
+enters from the yard. "Hey, Jasper!" the guard calls. The colored trusty
+scampers up the stairs. "Take this to the front." The officer hands him
+a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of
+cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by
+sitting in the dark for weeks. "Show 't to the Deputy," the officer
+says, in an undertone. "I'm doing business, all right!" The trusty
+laughs boisterously, "Yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am."
+
+The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front.
+The Deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. The officer casts
+his eye about the cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers.
+A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. On the bed
+are some bananas and a bunch of grapes,--forbidden fruit. The guard
+steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches
+for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. It bears the
+legend, painted in black, A 480. On the reverse side the officer reads,
+"Collins Hamilton, dated----." His watery eyes strain to decipher the
+penciled marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "Jasper!" he calls,
+"come up here." The trusty hastens to him.
+
+"You know who this man is, Jasper? A four-eighty."
+
+"Ah sure knows. Dat am Hamilton, de bank 'bezleh."
+
+"Where's he working?"
+
+"Wat _he_ wan' teh work foh? He am de Cap'n's clerk. In de awfice, _he_
+am."
+
+"All right, Jasper." The guard carefully closes the clerk's door, and
+enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean and orderly. The stone floor
+is bare, the bedding smooth; the library book, tin can, and plate, are
+neatly arranged on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the
+blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of
+secreted contraband. He reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and
+takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco,--the weekly allowance of the
+prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up, and
+thrusts it into his mouth. He produces a prison "plug" from his pocket,
+bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks
+at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the
+corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. He surveys the field,
+leans over the railing, and squints at the front. The chairs at the
+officers' desk are vacant. The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and
+stretches, and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock. He
+picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the
+book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew, and
+sprawls down on the bed.
+
+
+V
+
+At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and Assistant Deputy
+Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb physique and glowing vitality, Mr.
+Woods wears his new honors as Captain of the Block with aggressive
+self-importance. He has recently been promoted from the shop to the
+charge of the North Wing, on the morning shift, from 5 A. M. to 1 P. M.
+Every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the
+hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the opposite
+cell-row.
+
+With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the
+Assistant Deputy, in measured, low tones. The latter listens gravely,
+his head slightly bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the
+heavy-rimmed spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered,
+rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he espies the shining face of
+Jasper on an upper gallery. The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a
+large apple from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks:
+
+"How does this strike you, Jasper?"
+
+"Looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, Cunnel."
+
+Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins laughs, and motions to the
+negro. The trusty joins them at the desk.
+
+"I'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in two bites," the
+Assistant Deputy says to Woods.
+
+"Hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully.
+
+"You don't know this darky, Scot," Hopkins rejoins. "I know him for the
+last--let me see--fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. That's when you first
+came here, eh, Jasper?"
+
+"Yassah, 'bout dat."
+
+"In the old prison, then?" Woods inquires.
+
+"Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when 'Shoe-box' Miller got out,
+wasn't you?"
+
+"Yo 'member good, Cunnel. Dat Ah was, sure 'nuf. En mighty slick it
+was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed in dat shoebox, en mek his
+get-away."
+
+"Yes, yes. And this is your fourth time since then, I believe."
+
+"No, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, Cunnel. Youh remnishent am bad. Dis
+jus' free times, jus' free."
+
+"Come off, it's four."
+
+"Free, Cunnel, no moah."
+
+"Do you think, Mr. Hopkins, Jasper could eat the apple in two bites?"
+Woods reminds him.
+
+"I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line this coon couldn't
+do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple if you make it in two bites. Don't
+disgrace me, now."
+
+The negro grins, "Putty big, Cunnel, but Ah'm a gwine teh try powful
+hard."
+
+With a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his face looks like a
+veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear, and edged by large,
+shimmering tusks. With both hands he inserts the big apple, and his
+sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. He chews quickly, swallows,
+repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands. The apple has
+disappeared.
+
+The Assistant Deputy roars with laughter. "What did I tell you, eh,
+Scot? What did I tell you, ho, ho, ho!" The tears glisten in his eye.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. He relates his
+experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. Now
+and then Deputy Warden Greaves drops in. Woods rises.
+
+"Have a seat, Mr. Greaves."
+
+"That's all right, that's all right, Scot," the Deputy mumbles, his eye
+searching for the cuspidor. "Sit down, Scot: I'm as young as any of
+you."
+
+With mincing step he walks into the first cell, reserved for the
+guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps,
+wabbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into Woods's seat.
+
+"Jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty.
+
+"Yassah. Scrap, Dep'ty?"
+
+"Yah. A nip of plug, too."
+
+"Yassah, yassah, immejitly."
+
+"What are you men doing here?" the Deputy blusters at the two
+subordinates.
+
+Woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the Deputy, and then
+relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant Hopkins looks sternly at the
+Deputy Warden from above his glasses. "That's all right, Greaves," he
+says, familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Say, you should have
+seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great, big apple in two bites; as big
+as your head, I'll swear."
+
+"That sho?" the Deputy nods sleepily.
+
+The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in
+the other. The Deputy slowly opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the
+cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling
+at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his
+mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands, hoarsely:
+
+"Where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?"
+
+"Just being cleaned, Mr. Greaves," Woods replies.
+
+"Cleaned, always th' shame shtory. I ordered--ya--ordered--hey, bring
+shpittoon, Jasper." He wags his head drowsily.
+
+"He means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload," Hopkins says, with a
+wink at Woods. "It was the very first order he gave when he became
+Deputy after Jimmie McPane died. I tell you, Scot, we won't see soon
+another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all right, every inch of
+him. Wouldn't stand for the old man, the Warden, interfering with him,
+either. Not like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring
+Greaves. "Here, Benny," he raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the
+knee, "here's Jasper with your spittoon."
+
+Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about; presently,
+noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor, and spurts a long jet at
+it.
+
+"Say, Jasper," Hopkins calls to the retiring negro, "the deputy wants to
+hear that story you told us a while ago, about you got the left hind
+foot of a she-rabbit, on a moonlit night in a graveyard."
+
+"Who shaid I want to hear 't?" the Deputy bristles, suddenly wide awake.
+
+"Yes, you do, Greaves," Hopkins asserts. "The rabbit foot brings good
+luck, you know. This coon here wears it on his neck. Show it to the
+Deputy, Jasper."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Prisoner Wilson, the Warden's favorite messenger, enters from the yard.
+With quick, energetic step he passes the officers at the desk, entirely
+ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his
+unnaturally large head set close upon the heavy, almost neckless
+shoulders.
+
+"Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after?" the Deputy shouts after him.
+
+Without replying, Wilson continues on his way.
+
+"Dep'ty Wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy.
+
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. "Wilson," he calls with
+quiet sternness, "Mr. Greaves is speaking to you. Come back at once."
+
+His face purple with anger, Wilson retraces his steps. "What do you
+want, Deputy?" he demands, savagely.
+
+The Deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the
+severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently: "What do you want in the
+block?"
+
+"On Captain Edward S. Wright's business," Wilson replies with a sneer.
+
+"Well, go ahead. But next time I call you, you better come back."
+
+"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detained me
+with an idle question," Wilson snarls back.
+
+"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him.
+
+"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he departs.
+
+"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off," the Assistant mutters.
+
+"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," Woods comments.
+
+"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the Deputy says meekly.
+
+Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping
+the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly
+to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to
+the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side, and
+scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall, in
+melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the
+centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods
+resumes his seat.
+
+"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction.
+
+"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles. "Doing well."
+
+A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The officers prick up
+their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty
+tiptoes up the tiers.
+
+"It's somebody with his spoon on the door," the Assistant Deputy
+remarks, indifferently.
+
+The Block Captain motions to me. "See who's rapping there, will you?"
+
+I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to the wall, I can see
+up to the doors of the third gallery. Here and there a nose protrudes in
+the air, the bleached face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. The
+rapping grows louder as I advance.
+
+"Who is it?" I call.
+
+"Up here, 18 C."
+
+"Is that you, Ed?"
+
+"Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell th' screw I must see the doctor."
+
+I run to the desk. "Mr. Woods," I report, "18 C got a hemorrhage. Can't
+stop it. He needs the doctor."
+
+"Let him wait," the Deputy growls.
+
+"Doctor hour is over. He should have reported in the morning," the
+Assistant Deputy flares up.
+
+"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask.
+
+"Nothing! Get back to your cell."
+
+"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot," the Deputy suggests.
+
+Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18 C, and
+returns.
+
+"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in
+the morning."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner,
+enters from the yard. It is the "French Count," one of the clerks in the
+"front office."
+
+"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. He leans familiarly
+over the Deputy's chair, remarking: "I've been hunting half an hour for
+you. The Captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you."
+
+The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he asks anxiously.
+
+"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about?"
+
+"What? Quick, now."
+
+"They caught Wild Bill right in the act. Out in the yard there, back of
+the shed."
+
+The Deputy stumps heavily out into the yard.
+
+"Who's the kid?" the Assistant Deputy inquires, an amused twinkle in his
+eye.
+
+"Bobby."
+
+"Who? That boy on the whitewash gang?"
+
+"Yes, Fatty Bobby."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. The sick man is
+striking his tin can on the bars, and shaking the door. Woods hastens to
+C 18.
+
+"You stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily.
+
+"I'm sick. I want th' doctor."
+
+"This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning."
+
+"I may be dead in the morning. I want him now."
+
+"You won't see him, that's all. You keep quiet there."
+
+Furiously the prisoner raps on the door. The hall reverberates with
+hollow booming.
+
+The Block Captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. He whispers to
+the Assistant Deputy. The latter nods his head. Woods claps his hands,
+deliberately, slowly--one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend from the
+galleries, and advance to the desk. The rangemen appear at their doors.
+
+"Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock 'em in!" Woods commands.
+
+"You can stay here, Jasper," the Assistant Deputy remarks to the trusty.
+
+The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are pulled, the doors
+locked. I hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. Now they
+cease, and all is quiet.
+
+"C 18, step out here!"
+
+The door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull,
+heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud cry and a moan. They drag the
+prisoner along the range, and down the stairway. The rotunda door
+creaks, and the clamor dies away.
+
+A few minutes elapse in silence. Now some one whispers through the
+pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow. Loud coughing drowns the noises,
+and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech.
+
+The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open door of my cell. The
+negro trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arms
+covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall.
+
+Their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll in the chairs, and
+sit on the desk. They look somewhat ruffled and flustered. Jasper
+enlarges upon the piquant gossip. "Wild Bill," notorious invert and
+protégé of the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from
+the stocking shop; he has been after "Fatty Bobby" for quite a while,
+and he's forever pestering "Lady Sally," and Young Davis, too. The
+guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions. He
+responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. There is
+merriment and laughter at the officers' desk.
+
+
+VI
+
+Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen
+squad, enters the cell-house. Behind him, a score of prisoners carry
+large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. The negro trusty, his
+nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces
+with a grin: "Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!"
+
+The scene becomes animated at the front. Tables are noisily moved about,
+the tinplate rattles, and men talk and shout. With a large ladle the
+soup is dished out from the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked
+up in long rows. The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters some orders
+that remain ignored, and looks critically at the dinner pans. He
+produces a pocket knife, and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato
+here, a bit of floating vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of
+the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. He
+hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to leave. The latter stands, hands
+dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time
+with the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the kitchen men, and
+slinks into an open cell. The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move
+the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup,
+and passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by
+Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer walks to the open cell
+and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering
+his face. Woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Chief Jim," the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloonkeeper serving twelve
+years for murder, promenades down the range. Large-bellied and
+whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. With
+swelling chest, stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty
+apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging
+greetings. He pauses at a door: it's Cell 9 A,--the "Fat Kid." Jim leans
+against the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand
+steals between the bars. Now and then he glances toward the front, and
+steps closer to the door. He draws a large bundle from his bosom,
+hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw
+onions, some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the young
+prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. He
+lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork;
+then he smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars with
+both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche.
+
+As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then
+pauses at another cell. Standing away from the door, he speaks loudly
+and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he
+leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the rangeman,
+lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks. The man nods affirmatively,
+and retreats into his cell. The Chief dives into the bosom of his shirt,
+and flings a bundle through the open door. He holds out his hand,
+whispering: "Two bits. Broke now? Be sure you pay me to-morrow. That
+steak there's worth a plunk."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The gong tolls the dinner hour. The negro trusty snatches two pans, and
+hastens away. The guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in
+solitary who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms in
+single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the
+men circle the block to the centre, ascend the galleries, and are locked
+in their cells.
+
+The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step, sounds from the yard.
+The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells.
+Some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. There is
+much suppressed murmuring and whispering.
+
+Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour. Every prisoner is
+counted and locked in. Only the trusties are about.
+
+
+VII
+
+The afternoon brings a breath of relief. "Old Jimmie" Mitchell,
+rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers, on duty from
+1 till 9 P. M. The venerable Captain of the Block trudges past the
+cells, stroking his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the
+men. But the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing, and
+discourages trouble-seeking guards.
+
+Head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall, on his first round of
+the bottom ranges. Presently a voice hails him: "Oh, Mr. Mitchell! Come
+here, please."
+
+"Damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't you know better than
+to bother me when I'm counting, eh? Shut up now, God damn you. You've
+mixed me all up."
+
+He returns to the front, and begins to count again, pointing his finger
+at each occupied cell. This duty over, and his report filed, he returns
+to the offending prisoner.
+
+"What t' hell do you want, Butch?"
+
+"Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. I am walking on my socks."
+
+"Where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow? To a ball?"
+
+"Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth coaxes.
+
+"Go an' take a--thump to yourself, will you?"
+
+The officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short
+distance from the cell, to hear Butch mumbling discontentedly. The Block
+Captain retraces his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him:
+
+"What did you say? 'Damn the old skunk!' that's what you said, eh? You
+come on out of there!"
+
+With much show of violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the
+door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard:
+
+"Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im--er--give 'im a
+pair of shoes."
+
+He starts down the range, when some one calls from an upper tier:
+
+"Jimmy, Jimmy! Come on up here!"
+
+"I'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man bellows, angrily,
+"Where th' hell are you?"
+
+"Here, on B, 20 B. Right over you."
+
+The officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward the second
+gallery.
+
+"What in th' name of Jesus Christ do you want, Slim?"
+
+"Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp mixture, Jim."
+
+"Cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you big bum you. Where the
+hell did you get your cramp mixture, when you was spilling around in a
+freight car, eh?"
+
+"I got booze then," the prisoner retorts.
+
+"Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get a louzy hand-out at the
+back door, you ornery pimple on God's good earth."
+
+"Th' hell you say! The hand-out was a damn sight better'n th' rotten
+slush I get here. I wouldn't have a belly-ache, if it wasn't for th'
+hogwash they gave us to-day."
+
+"Lay down now! You talk like a horse's rosette."
+
+It's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich vocabulary of
+picturesque metaphor and simile. But there is no sting in the brusque
+speech, no rancor in the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses
+to whisper to the block trusty:
+
+"John, you better run down to the dispensary, an' get that big stiff
+some cramp mixture."
+
+Happening to glance into a cell, Mitchell notices a new arrival, a
+bald-headed man, his back against the door, reading.
+
+"Hey you!" the Block Captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner
+off his chair, "take that bald thing out of there, or I'll run you in
+for indecent exposure."
+
+He chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased with a naughty
+prank, and ascends the upper tiers.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Duster in hand, I walk along the range. The guards are engaged on the
+galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded
+inmates to the South Wing, or chatting with the trusties. The chairs at
+the officers' desk are vacant. Keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors,
+I walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in
+conversation. Johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and
+then glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by sharply
+snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger. I ply the duster diligently,
+while the Deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the
+trusties imparting information gathered during the day. Gradually they
+disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress, or nosing
+about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. The "coast is clear,"
+and I return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation.
+
+But the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted. The oft-repeated
+tirade against the "rotten grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash";
+vehement cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of a
+Warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the exchange of gossip,
+and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. Within the
+narrow circle runs the interminable tale, colored by individual
+temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is
+dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment,
+often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider
+responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor,
+the informer, the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge.
+But as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty
+rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and
+irrepressible sex desire.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL
+
+
+The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in
+their eyes. The long-timers among them seem dazed, as if with some
+terrible shock, and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys
+from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and
+moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only the "repeaters" and
+old-timers preserve their composure, scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at
+old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But
+all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, leaning
+against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious
+expectancy on their faces. They yearn for companionship, and are
+pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom
+their heavy hearts.
+
+I am minutely familiar with every detail of their "case," their
+life-history, their hopes and fears. Through the endless weeks and
+months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of
+conversation. A glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against
+the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me,--the cell-house
+grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more depressing.
+
+There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as I
+pause at his door. "Hello, Alick," he greets me in his sweet, sad voice.
+He knows me from the jail. His father and elder brother have been
+executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. He is barely
+eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He has been acting queerly of
+late: at night I often hear him muttering and walking, walking
+incessantly and muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes,
+restless, roving.
+
+"Alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you sometink. You no tell
+nobody, yes?"
+
+Assured I'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk quickly, excitedly:
+
+"Nobody dere, Alick? No scroo? S-sh! Lassa night me see ma broder. Yes,
+see Gianni. Jesu Cristo, me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den
+me fader he come. Broder and fader day stay der, on da floor, an so
+quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa in ma bed. Oh, Jesu
+Christo, me so fraida, me cry an' pray. You not know wat it mean?
+No-o-o? Me tell you. It mean me die, me die soon."
+
+His eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on his face. He knits
+his brows, as I essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly:
+
+"S-sh! Waita till me tell you all. You know watta for ma fader an'
+Gianni come outa da grave? Me tell you. Dey calla for ravange, 'cause
+dey innocente. Me tell you trut. See, we all worka in da mine, da coal
+mine, me an' my fader an' Gianni. All worka hard an' mek one dollar,
+maybe dollar quater da day. An' bigga American man, him come an' boder
+ma fader. Ma fader him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody.
+An' da American man him maka two dollars an mebbe two fifty da day an'
+him boder my fader, all da time, boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an'
+steal ma broder's shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma
+countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' An' one day him an' two Arish
+dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an' American man an Arish holler,
+'Dago s---- b---- fraida fight,' an' da American man him take a bigga
+pickax an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me an' ma
+broder an' friend we fight, an' American man him fall, an' we all go way
+home. Den p'lice come an' arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we
+killa American man. Me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma friend do.
+Me no know; him no arresta; him go home in Italia. Ma fader an' broder
+dey save nineda-sev'n dollar, an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer.
+Him no good, an' no talk much in court. We poor men, no can take case in
+oder court, an' fader him hang, an' Gianni hang, an' me get life. Ma
+fader an' broder dey come lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente
+an' wanna ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta--"
+
+The sharp snapping of Johnny, the runner, warns me of danger, and I
+hastily leave.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up and down the hall.
+The blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or lean dejectedly
+against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the
+stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture I
+witness in the prison house. Like ghastly nightmares, the shadows pass
+before me. There is "Silent Nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never
+ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he has not
+left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid features are cut and
+bleeding. Last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him,
+and left him unconscious on the floor.
+
+There is "Crazy Hunkie," the Austrian. Every morning, as the officer
+unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for
+the yard, shouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes toward the
+front and desperately grabs the door handle. The double iron gate is
+securely locked. A look of blank amazement on his face, he slowly
+returns to the cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly
+they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me wife, me seen her!" the
+Austrian cries. The blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him
+into the cell. "Me wife waiting in de yard," he moans.
+
+In the next cell is Tommy Wellman; adjoining him, Jim Grant. They are
+boys recently transferred from the reformatory. They cower in the
+corner, in terror of the scene. With tearful eyes, they relate their
+story. Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they had been sent to the
+reform school at Morganza, for snatching fruit off a corner stand.
+Maltreated and beaten, they sought to escape. Childishly they set fire
+to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. "I says to me chum,
+says I," Tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'Kid,' says I, 'let's fire de
+louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our get-away in de'
+'citement.'" They were taken to court and the good judge sentenced them
+to five years to the penitentiary. "Glad to get out of dat dump," Tommy
+comments; "it was jest fierce. Dey paddled an' starved us someting'
+turrible."
+
+In the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on the floor. It is
+Lancaster, Number 8523. He was serving seven years, and working every
+day in the mat shop. Slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for
+hour of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged. He was kept
+at his task, the Warden informing him that he had lost six months of his
+"good time" for defective work. The light hearted negro grew sullen and
+morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished
+cry in the night, "My time's up, time's up. I want to go home." The
+guards would take him from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One
+morning, in a fit of frenzy, he attacked Captain McVey, the officer of
+the shop. The Captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and
+Lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. He
+returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed
+him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, "Going home, going
+home." The Warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the
+way coaching the poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "Do you
+plead guilty?" He received seven years, the extreme penalty of the law,
+for the "attempted murder of a keeper." They brought him back to the
+prison, and locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered with
+a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. He receives
+no medical attention, and is fed on a bread-and-water diet.
+
+The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching
+with his nails fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly,
+"Going, Jesus going to Jerusalem. See, he rides the holy ass; he's going
+to his father's home. Going home, going home." As I pass he looks up,
+perplexed wonder on his face; his brows meet in a painful attempt to
+collect his wandering thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song,
+"Going home, going home; Jesus going to father's home." The guards raise
+their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell: the poor
+imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair, and the floor. Twice a month
+he is taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the hose is
+turned on the crazy negro.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The cell of "Little Sammy" is vacant. He was Number 9521, a young man
+from Altoona. I knew him quite well. He was a kind boy and a diligent
+worker; but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. He
+would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face,
+neglecting food and work. These spells generally lasted two or three
+days, Sammy refusing to leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPane, the dead
+Deputy, on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop, while
+Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPane would order the "stubborn kid" to
+the dungeon, and every time Sammy got his "head workin'," he was
+dragged, silent and motionless, to the cellar. The new Deputy has
+followed the established practice, and last evening, at "music hour,"
+while the men were scraping their instruments, "Little Sammy" was found
+on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear.
+
+At the Coroner's inquest the Warden testified that the boy was
+considered mentally defective; that he was therefore excused from work,
+and never punished.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on
+the wall:
+
+"The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge
+with humanity and kindness. * * * The aim of all prison discipline is,
+by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil and to protect the innocent
+from further harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce a
+cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of
+his nature."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL
+
+
+I
+
+The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings
+of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities.
+The personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. I find their
+average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates.
+Especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective
+service lack sympathy with the unfortunates in their charge. They are
+mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual
+drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their attitude toward
+the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. They look upon
+the men as will-less objects of iron-handed discipline, exact
+unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory whims,
+and harbor personal animosity toward the less pliant. The more
+intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties, and crave
+advancement. The authority and remuneration of a Deputy Wardenship is
+alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the
+vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded to the guard most feared by
+the inmates, and most subservient to the Warden,--a direct incitement to
+brutality, on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other.
+
+A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil War; several among
+them had suffered incarceration in Libby Prison. These often manifest a
+more sympathetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however,
+have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five
+years; some even for a longer period, like Officer Stewart, who has been
+a guard for forty years. This element is unspeakably callous and cruel.
+The prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards, and
+speculate on the days allotted them. The death of one of them is hailed
+with joy: seldom they are discharged; still more seldom do they resign.
+
+The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. New
+guards--unless drafted from the police bureau--are almost without
+exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates
+vie with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate." It is a
+point of honor in their unwritten ethics to "treat him white." They
+frown upon the fellow-convict who seeks to take advantage of the "green
+screw," by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the
+prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new
+blood. They strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the
+dangers of the position, and depreciating its financial desirability for
+an ambitious young man; they impress upon him the Warden's unfairness to
+the guards, and the lack of opportunity for advancement. Often they
+dissuade the new man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if
+he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him, in
+pretended friendliness, upon his leniency, chide him for a "soft-hearted
+tenderfoot," and improve every opportunity to initiate him into the
+practices of brutality. The system is known in the prison as "breaking
+in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing squad," the
+older officers setting the example of cruelty. Refusal to participate
+signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine
+duty, and results in immediate discharge. But such instances are
+extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer, Mr. Stewart, it
+happened only once, and the man was sickly.
+
+Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. Within a short time
+the prisoners notice the first signs of change: he grows less tolerant
+and chummy, more irritated and distant. Presently he feels himself the
+object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers. In
+some mysterious manner, the Warden is aware of his every step, berating
+him for speaking unduly long to this prisoner, or for giving another
+half a banana,--the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of commiseration
+and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful pleadings of misery to
+carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. The latter
+confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy
+with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the Warden "on charges," and
+is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated misplacement of confidence,
+occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the Warden,
+and the new officer grows embittered against the species "convict." The
+instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side,
+becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of
+the "system."
+
+
+II
+
+Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing,
+brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. Far removed from the
+strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature
+replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected
+model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull
+passivity. But beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being,
+now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth
+with the ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline rages
+the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are
+woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression.
+
+Intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption, are rampant in
+cell-house and shop. The prisoners spy upon each other, and in turn upon
+the officers. The latter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret
+doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other
+in supplying information to the keepers. Often they deliberately
+inveigle the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and
+encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce
+him to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished, usually
+remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. The _provocateur_ is
+rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. Frequently his
+treachery proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the Warden's
+official recommendation of the "model prisoner" to the State Board of
+Pardons.
+
+The stools and the trusties are an essential element in the government
+of the prison. With rare exception, every officer has one or more on his
+staff. They assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make
+out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally they are even
+called upon to help the "clubbing squad." The more intelligent stools
+enjoy the confidence of the Deputy and his assistants, and thence
+advance to the favor of the Warden. The latter places more reliance upon
+his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "I have about a hundred paid
+officers to keep watch over the prisoners," the Warden informs new
+applicant, "and two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volunteers"
+are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the
+inferior officers. They invariably secure the sinecures of the prison,
+involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. They are
+"runners," "messengers," yard and office men.
+
+Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to
+influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers, and boodlers. These
+are known in the institution as holding "political jobs." Together with
+the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the pets."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The professional craftiness of the "con man" stands him in good stead in
+the prison. A shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and
+self-confident, he applies the practiced cunning of his vocation to
+secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His
+evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the guards; his
+well-affected deference to authority flatters them. They are awed by his
+wonderful facility of expression, and great attainments in the
+mysterious world of baccarat and confidence games. At heart they envy
+the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend him in his
+need. The officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for
+him, and surreptitiously favor him with delicacies and even money. His
+game is won. The "con" has now secured the friendship and confidence of
+his keepers, and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm
+interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their
+whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the Warden's
+discrimination.
+
+The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles. But
+even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the
+confidence man. His "business" has perfected his sense of orientation;
+he quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents. He
+frets at his imprisonment, and hints at high social connections. His
+real identity is a great secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives
+from public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays his college
+education. With a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a
+State Senator; he is the only black sheep in his family; yet they are
+"good" to him, and will not disown him. But he must not bring notoriety
+upon them.
+
+Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trusties, or fearful
+of punishment, the "con man" matures his campaign. He writes a note to a
+fellow-prisoner. With much detail and thorough knowledge of prison
+conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of the institution. In
+elegant English he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance
+and brutality of the guards, and charges the Warden and the Board of
+Prison Inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. He
+denounces the Warden as a stomach-robber of poor unfortunates: the
+counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate;
+the Federal Government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person.
+Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate
+food? he demands. Does not the State appropriate thousands of dollars
+for the support of the penitentiary, besides the money received from the
+counties?--With keen scalpel the "con man" dissects the anatomy of the
+institution. One by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most
+intimate knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and so many
+dozen of stockings per day. They are not stamped "convict-made," as the
+law requires. The labels attached are misleading, and calculated to
+decoy the innocent buyer. The character of the product in the several
+mat shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great State
+of Pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. The broom shop is
+leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang Brothers:
+the law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. The stamp
+"convict-made" on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the
+source of manufacture.
+
+Thus the "con man" runs on in his note. With much show of secrecy he
+entrusts it to a notorious stool, for delivery to a friend. Soon the
+writer is called before the Warden. In the latter's hands is the note.
+The offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities are
+terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the
+secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent,
+possibly well-connected man. He must be propitiated at all cost. The
+"con man" joins the "politicians."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all
+leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. The
+"old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated experience, easily avoids hard
+labor. He has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers,
+and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. The officers are
+glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. It brings
+interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as
+the prisoner's.
+
+The seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on principle opposed to
+toil, rarely works. Generally suffering a comparatively short sentence,
+he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the
+wear and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he scorns work
+in general, prison labor in particular. He avoids it with unstinted
+expense of energy and effort. As a last resort, he plays the "jigger"
+card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every
+appearance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened by
+the infection, and prevails upon the physician to examine him. The
+doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease.
+"Ever had syphilis?" he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly.
+"Perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests. The patient looks
+diffident, blushes, cries, "No, never!" and assumes a guilty look. The
+doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is
+"excused" from work, indefinitely.
+
+The wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the yard, and adapts
+prison conditions to his habits of life. He sedulously courts the
+friendship of some young inmate, and wins his admiration by "ghost
+stories" of great daring and cunning. He puts the boy "next to de
+ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the
+guards and the advances of other prisoners. He guides the youth's steps
+through the maze of conflicting rules, and finally initiates him into
+the "higher wisdom" of "de road."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. Even
+before his arrival, the _esprit de corps_ of the "profession" is at
+work, securing a soft berth for the expected friend. If noted for
+success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the
+admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience
+and reputation. With conscious superiority he instructs them in the
+finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble-fingered "touches," and
+imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the
+good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an "honest living."
+His sentence nearing completion, the "gun" grows thoughtful, carefully
+scans the papers, forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with
+his "partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."[44] He is
+gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands,
+and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers,
+generally successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit,"
+"jollies" the officers and cajoles the Warden for new shoes, made to
+measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten-dollar allowance to
+prisoners received from counties outside of Allegheny[45]. He argues the
+need of money "to leave the State." Often he does leave. More frequently
+a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police,
+and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously
+notified by the prison authorities.
+
+  [44] Women thieves.
+
+  [45] Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the
+       County of Allegheny--in which the Western Penitentiary is
+       located--receive only five dollars.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders
+direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in
+sullen misery and dread. Day in, day out, year after year, they drudge
+at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties idling
+about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. From cell
+to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their
+days drag in deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive
+contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the
+officials. They are surprised at the new rule making attendance at
+religious service obligatory; and again at the succeeding order (the
+desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured) making
+church-going optional. They are astonished at the sudden disappearance
+of the considerate and gentle guard, Byers, and anxiously hope for his
+return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand
+methods of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal.
+
+
+III
+
+Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality.
+Released from punishment, he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain
+to the Warden of his unjust treatment. Weeks pass. At last the Captain
+visits the shop. A propitious moment! The carefully trimmed beard frames
+the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and
+lending dignity to his appearance. His eyes brighten with peculiar
+brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost
+imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he passes through the
+shop, the prisoner raises his hand. "What is it?" the Warden inquires, a
+pleasant smile on his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous
+eagerness. "Oh, well," the Captain claps him on the shoulder, "perhaps a
+mistake; an unfortunate mistake. But, then, you might have done
+something at another time, and not been punished." He laughs merrily at
+his witticism. "It's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget it," and he
+passes on.
+
+But if the Captain is in a different mood, his features harden, the
+stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear, sharp tones: "State your
+grievance in writing, on the printed slip which the officer will give
+you." The written complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches
+the Chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the Warden's office. There the
+Deputy and the Assistant Deputy read and classify the slips, placing
+some on the Captain's file and throwing others into the waste basket,
+according as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an
+unfriendly brother officer. Months pass before the prisoner is called
+for "a hearing." By that time he very likely has a more serious charge
+against the guard, who now persecutes the "kicker." But the new
+complaint has not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is
+postponed. Not infrequently men are called for a hearing, who have been
+discharged, or died since making the complaint.
+
+The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from
+the Warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest
+authority in the penitentiary--the Board of Inspectors. These are
+supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution,
+visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. The complainant
+waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience
+with the Inspectors. But the latter remain invisible, some not visiting
+the penitentiary within a year. Only the Secretary of the Board, Mr.
+Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an
+appearance. Tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere
+of sanctimoniousness. He walks leisurely through the block, passes a
+cell with a lithograph of Christ on the wall, and pauses. His hands
+folded, eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he
+inquires of the rangeman:
+
+"Whose cell is this?"
+
+"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him.
+
+It is the cell of Jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool of the prison.
+
+"He is a good man, a good man, God bless him," the Inspector says, a
+quaver in his voice.
+
+He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the
+little looking-glass and the rules, hanging awry on the wall. "It
+offends my eye," he smiles at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang
+straight."
+
+Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "Mr. Officer, please."
+
+The Inspector steps forward. "This is Inspector Reed," he corrects the
+boy. "What is it you wish?"
+
+"Oh. Mr. Inspector, I've been askin' t' see you a long time. I wanted--"
+
+"You should have sent me a slip. Have you a copy of the rules in the
+cell, my man?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Can you read?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Poor boy, did you never go to school?"
+
+"No, sir. Me moder died when I was a kid. Dey put me in de orphan an'
+den in de ref."
+
+"And your father?"
+
+"I had no fader. Moder always said he ran away before I was born'd."
+
+"They have schools in the orphan asylum. Also in the reformatory, I
+believe."
+
+"Yep. But dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment. I didn' care fer
+de school, nohow."
+
+"You were a bad boy. How old are you now?"
+
+"Sev'nteen."
+
+"What is your name?"
+
+"Tommy Wellman."
+
+"From Pittsburgh?"
+
+"Allegheny. Me moder use'ter live on de hill, near dis 'ere dump."
+
+"What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I can't stand de cell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me have some work."
+
+"Are you locked up 'for cause'?"
+
+"I smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names."
+
+"Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?"
+
+"He said me moder was a bitch, God damn his--"
+
+"Don't! Don't swear! Never take the holy name in vain. It's a great sin.
+You should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting."
+
+"I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of de cell, Mr. Inspector?"
+
+"You are in the hands of the Warden. He is very kind, and he will do
+what is best for you."
+
+"Oh, hell! I'm locked up five months now. Dat's de best _he's_ doin' fer
+me."
+
+"Don't talk like that to me," the Inspector upbraids him, severely. "You
+are a bad boy. You must pray; the good Lord will take care of you."
+
+"You get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and
+swearing.
+
+Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily paling, turns red
+with shame and anger. He motions to the Captain of the Block.
+
+"Mr. Woods, report this man for impudence to an Inspector," he orders,
+stalking out into the yard.
+
+The boy is removed to the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, I welcome the
+relief of solitude, as I am locked in the cell for the night.
+
+
+IV
+
+Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. I spend considerable
+time corresponding with Nold and Bauer: our letters are bulky--ten,
+fifteen, and twenty pages long. There is much to say! We discuss events
+in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of
+the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food.
+I share with my comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn,
+keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their paths run smoother,
+less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness
+of spirit. They, too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. The
+officer of the shop where Nold is employed has been severely reprimanded
+for "neglect of duty": the Warden had noticed Carl, in the company of
+several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of
+mattings. He ordered the guard never to allow Nold out of his sight.
+Bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has been deprived of
+his dark clothes, and reduced to the stripes for "disrespectful
+behavior." Now he is removed to the North Wing, where my cell also is
+located, while Nold is in the South Wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying
+the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our friend, the
+"Horsethief," is still coffee-boy on Bauer's range, thus enabling me to
+reach the big German. The latter, after reading my notes, returns them
+to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl. Our mail
+connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising utmost care
+not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells
+and persons.
+
+Again the _Prison Blossoms_ is revived. Most of the readers of the
+previous year, however, are missing. Dempsey and Beatty, the Knights of
+Labor men, have been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting
+confessions of the informer, Gallagher, who still remains in prison.
+"D," our poet laureate, has also been released, his short term having
+expired. His identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he
+was a "scientist of the old school, an alchemist," from which we
+inferred that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our reading
+public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element: the Duquesne
+strikers renew their "subscriptions" by contributing paper material;
+with them join Frank Shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; George,
+the prison librarian; "Billy" Ryan, professional gambler and confidence
+man; "Yale," a specialist in the art of safe blowing, and former
+university student; the "Attorney-General," a sharp lawyer; "Magazine
+Alvin," writer and novelist; "Jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is
+secure, and others. "M" and "K" act as alternate editors; the rest as
+contributors. The several departments of the little magazinelet are
+ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing Dante visiting the
+Inferno, another sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern, in
+the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription:
+
+  I sometimes hold it half a sin
+    To put in words the grief I feel,--
+    For words, like nature, half reveal
+  And half conceal the soul within.
+
+The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed
+with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of
+the _Blossoms_ consists of articles and essays of a more serious
+character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with
+now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story man," or some
+sex experience by "Magazine Alvin." One of the associate editors
+lampoons "Billygoat Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the "Shop
+Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G" relates the story of the
+recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead
+of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike
+by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon. In the next issue
+the incident is paralleled with the Pullman Car Strike, and the punished
+prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an
+ultra-original poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs."
+
+But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several
+readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarrange the
+route. During the winter, "K" produces a little booklet of German poems,
+while I elaborate the short "Story of Luba," written the previous year,
+into a novelette, dealing with life in New York and revolutionary
+circles. Presently "G" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of
+interest to a larger public, and should be preserved. We discuss the
+unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled
+into the light of day. In our perplexity we finally take counsel with
+Bob, the faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with astonishing
+levity: "Youse fellows jest go ahead an' write, an' don't bother about
+nothin'. Think I can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't
+got brains enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? Jest leave
+that to th' Horsethief, an' write till you bust th' paper works, see?"
+Thus encouraged, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we
+give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious
+project of publishing a book by "MKG"!
+
+In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. The little
+magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as
+every available scrap of writing material, to the larger purpose. We
+decide to honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary
+inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor on the eastern
+skies, the _First of May, 1895_, he steals a blushing beam upon the
+heading of the first chapter--"The Homestead Strike."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+THE SCALES OF JUSTICE
+
+
+I
+
+The summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog thickens on the Ohio;
+the prison house is dim and damp. The river sirens sound sharp and
+shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing. The sick line
+stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected. The
+prisoner in charge of tier "K" suffers a hemorrhage, and is carried to
+the hospital. From assistant, I am advanced to his position on the
+range.
+
+But one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked, and the men
+fed, while I remain under key. I wonder at the peculiar oversight, and
+rap on the bars for the officers. The Block Captain orders me to desist.
+1 request to see the Warden, but am gruffly told that he cannot be
+disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the cause of
+my punishment. I review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over
+each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I have
+unwittingly offended some trusty, or I may be the object of the secret
+enmity of a spy.
+
+The Chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the Girl, and
+glances in surprise at the closed door.
+
+"Not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks.
+
+"I'm locked up, Chaplain."
+
+"What have you done?"
+
+"Nothing that I know of."
+
+"Oh, well, you'll be out soon. Don't fret, m' boy."
+
+But the days pass, and I remain in the cell. The guards look worried,
+and vent their ill-humor in profuse vulgarity. The Deputy tries to
+appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at
+me: "Nothin'. Shtay where you are." Jasper, the colored trusty, flits up
+and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than
+ever. Numerous stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in
+confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper
+excitedly at the front desk. Assistant Deputy Hopkins goes in and out of
+the block, repeatedly calls Jasper to the office, and hovers in the
+neighborhood of my cell. The rangemen talk in suppressed tones. An air
+of mystery pervades the cell-house.
+
+Finally I am called to the Warden. With unconcealed annoyance, he
+demands:
+
+"What did you want?"
+
+"The officers locked me up--"
+
+"Who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily. "You're merely
+locked _in_."
+
+"Where's the difference?" I ask.
+
+"One is locked up 'for cause.' You're just kept in for the present."
+
+"On what charge?"
+
+"No charge. None whatever. Take him back, Officers."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. By
+contrast with the spacious hall, the cell grows smaller and narrower,
+oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains
+unexplained. Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to intercede in my
+behalf, I remain locked "in," and again return the days of solitary,
+with all their gloom and anguish of heart.
+
+
+II
+
+A ray of light is shed from New York. The Girl writes in a hopeful vein
+about the progress of the movement, and the intense interest in my case
+among radical circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a tour of
+agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable labor sentiment
+toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. Finally she informs
+me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and the
+promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. From
+Merlino I receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose,
+together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding:
+"Good cheer, dear Comrade; the last word has not yet been spoken."
+
+My mind dwells among my friends. The breath from the world of the living
+fans the smoldering fires of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates
+in my heart with trembling hope. But the revision of my sentence
+involves recourse to the courts! The sudden realization fills me with
+dismay. I cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom;
+the mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary
+traditions. In bitterness of soul, I resent my friends' ill-advised
+waking of the shades. I shall never leave the house of death....
+
+And yet mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence,
+arrives more frequently. Prominent lawyers have been consulted; their
+unanimous opinion augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was
+illegal; according to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the maximum penalty
+should not have exceeded seven years; the Supreme Court would
+undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the
+conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the
+State. And so forth.
+
+I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to decline liberty,
+apparently within reach? John Most appealed his case to the Supreme
+Court, and the Girl also took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable
+propaganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity which would
+offer such a splendid field for agitation? Would it not be folly to
+afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would without
+hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions; but it
+involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. We must,
+if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods,
+scourge the law in its own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme
+Court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence of
+impartial right. It decided against Most, sustaining the prejudiced
+verdict of the trial jury. They may do the same in my case. But that
+very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class
+justice. I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends.
+
+But before long I am informed that an application to the higher court is
+not permitted. The attorneys, upon examination of the records of the
+trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being
+legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to rulings of the
+court prejudicial to the accused. Because of the technical omission,
+there exists no basis for an appeal. They therefore advise an
+application to the Board of Pardons, on the ground that the punishment
+in my case is excessive. They are confident that the Board will act
+favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded
+sentences,--the five minor indictments being indispensible parts of the
+major charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences.
+
+The unexpected development disquiets me: the sound of "pardon" is
+detestable. What bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most
+unselfish motives, need seek pardon! Aye, of the very source that
+misinterprets and perverts them! For days the implied humiliation keeps
+agitating me; I recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name
+to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to
+refuse.
+
+An accidental conversation with the "Attorney General" disturbs my
+resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania the applicant's signature is
+not required by the Pardon Board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me.
+Yet--I reflect--the pardon of the Chicago Anarchists had contributed
+much to the dissemination of our ideas. The impartial analysis of the
+trial-evidence by Governor Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades
+from responsibility for the Haymarket tragedy, and exposed the heinous
+conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the
+labor movement. May not a similar purpose be served by my application
+for a pardon?
+
+I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We arrange for a personal
+interview, to discuss the details of the work. Unfortunately, the Girl,
+a _persona non grata_, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss
+Garrison, is to call on me within two months. At my request, the
+Chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and I impatiently
+await the first friendly face in two years.
+
+
+III
+
+As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary, comes the relief at
+the expiration of three weeks. The "K" hall-boy is still in the
+hospital, and I resume the duties of rangeman. The guards eye me with
+suspicion and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled skein,
+and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary
+retirement.
+
+The lock of my neighbor, Johnny Smith, had been tampered with. The
+youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it
+being impossible to reach the keyhole from the inside of the cell. The
+suspicion of the Warden centered upon me, but investigation by the
+stools discovered the men actually concerned, and "Dutch" Adams,
+Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now
+locked up "for cause," on my range.
+
+By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan.
+"Dutch," a repeater serving his fifth "bit," and favorite of Hopkins,
+procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the
+machine shop, where he was employed. He entrusted the rude instrument to
+Grant, a young reformatory boy, for a preliminary trial. The guileless
+youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in
+the lock--with disastrous results.
+
+The tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the _provocateur_, but "Dutch"
+is missing from the range. He has been removed to an upper gallery, and
+is assigned to a coveted position in the shops.
+
+The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape
+from Riverside, and compliment Captain Wright and the officers for so
+successfully protecting the community. The Warden is deeply affected,
+and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a
+bread-and-water diet. The Deputy walks with inflated chest; Hopkins
+issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting
+greater hardships. The tone of the guards sounds haughtier, more
+peremptory; Jasper's face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look
+pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison.
+
+
+IV
+
+I am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and
+the Warden approaches me.
+
+"A lady just called; Miss Garrison, from New York. Do you know her?"
+
+"She is one of my friends."
+
+"I dismissed her. You can't see her."
+
+"Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three months. I have had
+none in two years. I want to see her."
+
+"You can't. She needs a permit."
+
+"The Chaplain sent her one at my request."
+
+"A member of the Board of Inspectors rescinded it by telegraph."
+
+"What Inspector?"
+
+"You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused admittance."
+
+"Will you tell me the reason, Warden?"
+
+"No reason, no reason whatever."
+
+He turns on his heel, when I detain him: "Warden, it's two years since
+I've been in the dungeon. I am in the first grade now," I point to the
+recently earned dark suit. "I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am
+I deprived of visits?"
+
+"Not another word."
+
+He disappears through the yard door. From the galleries I hear the
+jeering of a trusty. A guard near by brings his thumb to his nose, and
+wriggles his fingers in my direction. Humiliated and angry, I return to
+the cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. I pour out all
+the bitterness of my heart to the Girl, dwell on the Warden's
+discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal
+to admit my visitor. In conclusion, I direct her to have a Pittsburgh
+lawyer apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to restore
+to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. I drop
+the letter in the mail-box, hoping that my outburst and the threat of
+the law will induce the Warden to retreat from his position. The Girl
+will, of course, understand the significance of the epistle, aware that
+my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect,
+and not meant to be acted upon.
+
+But the next day the Chaplain returns the letter to me. "Not so rash, my
+boy," he warns me, not unkindly. "Be patient; I'll see what I can do for
+you."
+
+"But the letter, Chaplain?"
+
+"You've wasted your paper, Aleck. I can't pass this letter. But just
+keep quiet, and I'll look into the matter."
+
+Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the Chaplain advises a personal
+interview with the Warden. The latter refers me to the Inspectors. To
+each member of the Board I address a request for a few minutes'
+conversation, but a month goes by without word from the high officials.
+The friendly runner, "Southside" Johnny, offers to give me an
+opportunity to speak to an Inspector, on the payment of ten plugs of
+tobacco. Unfortunately, I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender
+him a dollar bill of the money the Girl had sent me artfully concealed
+in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The runner is highly elated, and
+assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard
+door.
+
+Several days later, passing along the range engaged in my duties, I
+notice "Southside" entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with
+a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize
+the situation, but the next instant I am aware of Johnny's violent
+efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to show the man some fancy
+work made by the inmates, all the while drawing him closer to my door,
+with surreptitious nods at me. I approach my cell.
+
+"This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot Frick," Johnny remarks.
+
+The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest.
+
+"Good morning, Berkman," he says pleasantly. "How long are you doing?"
+
+"Twenty-two years."
+
+"I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence. You know who I
+am?"
+
+"Inspector Nevin, I believe."
+
+"Yes. You have never seen me before?"
+
+"No. I sent a request to see you recently."
+
+"When was that?"
+
+"A month ago."
+
+"Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There was no note from
+you on my file. Are you sure you sent one?"
+
+"Quite sure. I sent a request to each Inspector."
+
+"What's the trouble?"
+
+I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of visiting privileges.
+Somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes, and remarks:
+
+"You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. When did
+you have your last visitor?"
+
+"Two years ago."
+
+"Two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "Did the lady from New York
+have a permit?"
+
+The Warden hurriedly enters from the yard.
+
+"Mr. Nevin," he calls out anxiously, "I've been looking for you."
+
+"Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away,
+Captain," the Inspector remarks.
+
+"Yes, yes," the Warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'"
+
+"Oh!" the face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look. "Berkman," he turns to
+me, "you'll have to apply to the Secretary of the Board, Mr. Reed. I am
+not familiar with the internal affairs."
+
+The Warden links his arm with the Inspector, and they walk toward the
+yard door. At the entrance they are met by "Dutch" Adams, the shop
+messenger.
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Nevin," the trusty greets him. "Won't you issue me a
+special visit? My mother is sick; she wants to see me."
+
+The Warden grins at the ready fiction.
+
+"When did you have your last visit?" the Inspector inquires.
+
+"Two weeks ago."
+
+"You are entitled to one only every three months."
+
+"That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector," "Dutch" retorts
+boldly. "I know you are a kind man."
+
+Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the Warden.
+
+"Dutch is all right," the Captain nods.
+
+The Inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to
+the prisoner.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON
+
+
+                                                     April 12, 1896.
+
+    MY DEAR GIRL:
+
+    I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with
+    you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover
+    of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it
+    will reach you safely.
+
+    In my local correspondence you have been christened the
+    "Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up
+    letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual
+    interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the
+    existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to
+    expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes very
+    seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful.
+    But you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents
+    that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a
+    strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment,
+    disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of a
+    letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart
+    to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate
+    interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. And
+    then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of
+    our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications
+    from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our
+    European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself,
+    they bring me nearer to you and to life.
+
+    The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various
+    occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical
+    publications permitted. I especially regret to miss
+    _Solidarity_. I have not seen a single copy since its
+    resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of
+    Chas. W. Mowbray and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as
+    the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more
+    about our English comrades.
+
+    I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know from
+    my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The action
+    of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less
+    to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a
+    favorable decision. But that they should so cynically evade the
+    issue,--I was hardly prepared for _that_. I had hoped they would
+    at least consider the case. But evidently they were averse to
+    going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me
+    that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their
+    arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not
+    actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want
+    remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the
+    first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission
+    of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still
+    have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt
+    whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be
+    expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another
+    proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. It is
+    this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the
+    Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor, is indebted to
+    the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The
+    attorney's name is K---- D---- of Pittsburgh. He has intimated
+    to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000.00,
+    the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in
+    case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a large fee.
+    And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still,
+    you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I
+    leave the matter in your hands.
+
+    The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure
+    no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the
+    Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist plot against
+    the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance and
+    constantly discriminated against, though "K" and "G" are
+    permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile
+    terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain
+    Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was
+    Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat
+    against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited
+    Inspector Reed at his business place, and requested to see me.
+    The Inspector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty
+    walls down." I could not determine whether there is any
+    foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the
+    prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits.
+
+    That is a characteristic instance of local conditions.
+    Involuntarily I smile at Kennan's naïve indignation with the
+    brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian
+    prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true
+    conditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the
+    rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the
+    purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in
+    the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be
+    permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the
+    prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he
+    succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to
+    revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in
+    regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness
+    the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the
+    abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the
+    keynote of stupidity in power.
+
+    Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible
+    tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and lamenting, in
+    the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no Nemesis
+    in Spain?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?
+
+
+I
+
+The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. A cheerier
+atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. The
+block is airier and lighter; the guards relax their stern look, in
+anticipation of their vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till
+their approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release some one
+going back to the world.
+
+But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. The windows are closed
+and nailed; the vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with
+dryness. Smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk.
+Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The officers look
+sullen; the men are morose and discontented. The ravings of the insane
+become wilder, suicides more frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress
+every heart.
+
+The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and
+repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. The severity of the
+authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic; the
+prisoners fret, wax more querulous, and turn desperate with blind,
+spasmodic defiance.
+
+But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifest more
+coherent expression. The Lexow investigation in New York has awakened an
+echo in the prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the
+solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside.
+
+I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. Great
+care must be exercised to guard against treachery: only men of proved
+reliability may be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that
+no officer or stool scent our design. The details of the campaign are
+planned on "K" range, with Billy Ryan, Butch, Sloane, and Jimmie Grant,
+as the most trustworthy, in command. It is decided that the attack upon
+the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the
+"outside." A released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses,
+graft, and immorality rampant in Riverside. The public will demand an
+investigation. The "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators
+with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community, and
+cause the dismissal of the Warden and the introduction of reforms.
+
+A prisoner, about to be discharged, is selected for the important
+mission of enlightening the press. In great anxiety and expectation we
+await the newspapers, the day following his liberation; we scan the
+pages closely. Not a word of the penitentiary! Probably the released man
+has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors. In the joy of
+freedom, he may have looked too deeply into the cup that cheers. He will
+surely interview the papers the next day.
+
+But the days pass into weeks, without any reference in the press to the
+prison. The trusted man has failed us! The revelation of the life at
+Riverside is of a nature not to be ignored by the press. The discharged
+inmate has proved false to his promise. Bitterly the solitaries denounce
+him, and resolve to select a more reliable man among the first
+candidates for liberty.
+
+One after another, a score of men are entrusted with the mission to the
+press. But the papers remain silent. Anxiously, though every day less
+hopefully, we search their columns. Ryan cynically derides the
+faithlessness of convict promises; Butch rages and at the traitors. But
+Sloane is sternly confident in his own probity, and cheers me as I pause
+at his cell:
+
+"Never min' them rats, Aleck. You just wait till I go out. Here's the
+boy that'll keep his promise all right. What I won't do to old Sandy
+ain't worth mentionin'."
+
+"Why, you still have two years, Ed," I remind him.
+
+"Not on your tintype, Aleck. Only one and a stump."
+
+"How big is the stump?"
+
+"Wa-a-ll," he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident, "it's one year,
+elev'n months, an' twenty-sev'n days. It ain't no two years, though,
+see?"
+
+Jimmy Grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently disinclined to talk. He
+seeks to avoid me. The treachery of the released men fills him with
+resentment and suspicion of every one. He is impatient of my suggestion
+that the fault may lie with a servile press. At the mention of our
+plans, he bursts out savagely:
+
+"Forget it! You're no good, none of you. Let me be!" He turns his back
+to me, and angrily paces the cell.
+
+His actions fill me with concern. The youth seems strangely changed.
+Fortunately, his time is almost served.
+
+
+II
+
+Like wildfire the news circles the prison. "The papers are giving Sandy
+hell!" The air in the block trembles with suppressed excitement. Jimmy
+Grant, recently released, had sent a communication to the State Board of
+Charities, bringing serious charges against the management of Riverside.
+The press publishes startlingly significant excerpts from Grant's
+letter. Editorially, however, the indictment is ignored by the majority
+of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments ambiguously, in guarded
+language, suggesting the improbability of the horrible practices alleged
+by Grant. Another eulogizes Warden Wright as an intelligent and humane
+man, who has the interest of the prisoners at heart. The detailed
+accusations are briefly dismissed as unworthy of notice, because coming
+from a disgruntled criminal who had not found prison life to his liking.
+Only the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ consider the matter seriously,
+refer to the numerous complaints from discharged prisoners, and suggest
+the advisability of an investigation; they urge upon the Warden the
+necessity of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements
+regarding his management.
+
+Within a few days the President of the Board of Charities announces his
+decision to "look over" the penitentiary. December is on the wane, and
+the Board is expected to visit Riverside after the holidays.
+
+
+III
+
+    K. & G.:
+
+    Of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged
+    investigations than myself. The Lexow investigation, which
+    shocked the whole country with its exposé of police corruption,
+    has resulted in practically nothing. One or two subordinates
+    have been "scapegoated"; those "higher up" went unscathed, as
+    usual; the "system" itself remains in _statu quo_. The one who
+    has mostly profited by the spasm of morality is Goff, to whom
+    the vice crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity
+    into the national limelight. Parkhurst also has subsided,
+    probably content with the enlarged size of his flock
+    and--salary. To give the devil his due, however, I admired his
+    perseverance and courage in face of the storm of ridicule and
+    scorn that met his initial accusations against the glorious
+    police department of the metropolis. But though every charge has
+    been proved in the most absolute manner, the situation, as a
+    whole, remains unchanged.
+
+    It is the history of all investigations. As the Germans say, you
+    can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law. It
+    has again been demonstrated by the Congressional "inquiry" into
+    the Carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revelations
+    regarding Superintendent Brockway, of the Elmira Reformatory--a
+    veritable den for maiming and killing; and in numerous other
+    instances. Warden Wright also was investigated, about ten years
+    ago; a double set of books was then found, disclosing peculation
+    of appropriations and theft of the prison product; brutality and
+    murder were uncovered--yet Sandy has remained in his position.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    We can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed
+    investigation by the Board of Charities. I have no doubt it will
+    be a whitewash. But I think that we--the Anarchist trio--should
+    show our solidarity, and aid the inmates with our best efforts;
+    we must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far
+    as evidence against the management is concerned. We should leave
+    the Board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses or
+    proofs to support Grant's charges. I am confident you will agree
+    with me in this. I am collecting data for presentation to the
+    investigators; I am also preparing a list of volunteer
+    witnesses. I have seventeen numbers on my range and others from
+    various parts of this block and from the shops. They all seem
+    anxious to testify, though I am sure some will weaken when the
+    critical moment arrives. Several have already notified me to
+    erase their names. But we shall have a sufficient number of
+    witnesses; we want preferably such men as have personally
+    suffered a clubbing, the bull ring, hanging by the wrists, or
+    other punishment forbidden by the law.
+
+    I have already notified the Warden that I wish to testify before
+    the Investigation Committee. My purpose was to anticipate his
+    objection that there are already enough witnesses. I am the
+    first on the list now. The completeness of the case against the
+    authorities will surprise you. Fortunately, my position as
+    rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information I needed.
+    I will send you to-morrow duplicates of the evidence (to insure
+    greater safety for our material). For the present I append a
+    partial list of our "exhibits":
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    (1) Cigarettes and outside tobacco; bottle of whiskey and
+    "dope"; dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two
+    razors, postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband.
+    (These are for the purpose of proving the Warden a liar in
+    denying to the press the existence of gambling in the prison,
+    the selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the
+    possession of weapons, and the possibility of underground
+    communication.)
+
+    (2) Prison-made beer. A demonstration of the staleness of our
+    bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. (The beer is made
+    from fermented yeast stolen by the trusties from the bakery;
+    also from potatoes.)
+
+    (3) Favoritism; special privileges of trusties; political jobs;
+    the system of stool espionage.
+
+    (4) Pennsylvania diet; basket; dungeon; cuffing and chaining up;
+    neglect of the sick; punishment of the insane.
+
+    (5) Names and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed.
+
+    (6) Data of assaults and cutting affrays in connection with
+    "kid-business," the existence of which the Warden absolutely
+    denies.
+
+    (7) Special case of A-444, who attacked the Warden in church,
+    because of jealousy of "Lady Goldie."
+
+    (8) Graft:
+
+      (_a_) Hosiery department: fake labels, fictitious names of
+      manufacture, false book entries.
+
+      (_b_) Broom-Shop: convict labor hired out, contrary to law,
+      to Lang Bros., broom manufacturers, of Allegheny, Pa. Goods
+      sold to the United States Government, through sham middleman.
+      Labels bear legend, "Union Broom." Sample enclosed.
+
+      [Illustration]
+
+      (_c_) Mats, mattings, mops--product not stamped.
+
+      (_d_) Shoe and tailor shops: prison materials used for
+      the private needs of the Warden, the officers, and their
+      families.
+
+      (_e_) $75,000, appropriated by the State (1893) for a new
+      chapel. The bricks of the old building used for the new,
+      except one outside layer. All the work done by prisoners.
+      Architect, Mr. A. Wright, the Warden's son. Actual cost of
+      chapel, $7,000. The inmates _forced_ to attend services to
+      overcrowd the old church; after the desired appropriation
+      was secured, attendance became optional.
+
+      (_f_) Library: the 25c. tax, exacted from every unofficial
+      visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. About 50
+      visitors per day, the year round. No new books added to the
+      library in 10 years. Old duplicates donated by the public
+      libraries of Pittsburgh are catalogued as purchased new
+      books.
+
+      (_g_) Robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their labor.
+      See copy of Act of 1883, P. L. 112.
+
+
+    LAW ON PRISON LABOR AND WAGES OF CONVICTS
+
+    (Act of 1883, June 13th, P. L. 112)
+
+    Section 1--At the expiration of existing contracts Wardens are
+    directed to employ the convicts under their control for and in
+    behalf of the State.
+
+    Section 2--No labor shall be hired out by contract.
+
+    Section 4--All convicts under the control of the State and
+    county officers, and all inmates of reformatory institutions
+    engaged in the manufacture of articles for general consumption,
+    shall receive quarterly wages equal to the amount of their
+    earnings, to be fixed from time to time by the authorities of
+    the institution, from which board, lodging, clothing, and costs
+    of trial shall be deducted, and the balance paid to their
+    families or dependents; in case none such appear, the amount
+    shall be paid to the convict at the expiration of his term of
+    imprisonment.
+
+    The prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for overtime
+    work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper.
+
+    K. G., plant this and other material I'll send you, in a safe
+    place.
+
+                                                                  M.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+HIDING THE EVIDENCE
+
+
+I
+
+It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison;
+to-morrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation. Roast beef
+will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two
+cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the kitchen; they
+flit from block to yard, looking busy and important, yet halting every
+passer-by to whisper with secretive mien, "Don't say I told you. Sweet
+potatoes to-morrow!" The younger inmates seem skeptical, and strive to
+appear indifferent, the while they hover about the yard door, nostrils
+expanded, sniffing the appetizing wafts from the kitchen. Here and there
+an old-timer grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for
+Christmas. "'Too high-priced,' Sandy said," they sneer in ill humor. The
+new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps they are still too expensive? Some
+study the market quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in
+to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes
+are a "sure thing," just arrived and counted. The happy news is
+whispered about, with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety.
+There is great rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is
+querulous: he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"--stomach still
+sour from the Christmas dinner--and, anyhow, it only makes the
+week-a-day "grub" more disgusting.
+
+The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen converse freely; the yard
+gangs lounge about and cluster in little groups, that separate at the
+approach of a superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run in
+and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. "What are you
+after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "Oh, just to my cell; forgot my
+handkerchief." The guard answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile.
+"All right; go ahead, but don't be long." If "Papa" Mitchell is about,
+he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages: "Wotch
+'er got there, eh? Big family of kids _you_ have, Jim. First thing you
+know, you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." The envied bakery
+and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits,
+and the solitaries dance in glee at the sight of the savory dainty, the
+fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the
+prelude of the promised culinary symphony.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. The prisoners at first
+converse in whispers, then become bolder, and talk louder through the
+bars. As night approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity
+and animation,--light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll
+humor. A wag on the upper tier banters the passing guards, his quips and
+sallies setting the adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to
+retire. Some one shouts to a distant friend, "Hey, Bill, are you there?
+Ye-es? Stay there!" It grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the
+left sing-songs, "Fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to greet New
+Year's." A dozen voices yell their acceptance. "Little Frenchy," the
+spirited grayhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, "Me, too, boys.
+I'm viz you all right."
+
+All is still in the cell-house, save for a wild Indian whoop now and
+then by the vigil-keeping boys. The block breathes in heavy sleep; loud
+snoring sounds from the gallery above. Only the irregular tread of the
+felt-soled guards falls muffled in the silence.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight hour. A siren on the
+Ohio intones its deep-chested bass. Another joins it, then another.
+Shrill factory whistles pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a
+nearby church ring in joyful melody between. Instantly the prison is
+astir. Tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shake in fury, beds and
+chairs squeak and screech, pans slam on the floor, shoes crash against
+the walls with a dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. Unearthly
+yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive prisoner
+beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table--a veritable Bedlam of
+frenzy has broken loose in both wings. The prisoners are celebrating the
+advent of the New Year.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The voices grow hoarse and feeble. The tin clanks languidly against the
+iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker. The men are exhausted with
+the unwonted effort. The guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms
+swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight. In maudlin
+tones they command silence, and bid the men retire to bed. The younger,
+more daring, challenge the order with husky howls and catcalls,--a
+defiant shout, a groan, and all is quiet.
+
+Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twenty-four hours the
+long-repressed animal spirits are rampant. No music or recreation honors
+the New Year; the day is passed in the cell. The prisoners, securely
+barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their
+yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of tumult.
+
+
+II
+
+The month of January brings sedulous activity. Shops and block are
+overhauled, every nook and corner is scoured, and a special squad
+detailed to whitewash the cells. The yearly clean-up not being due till
+spring, I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit
+of the Board of Charities is approaching.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation. The solitaries and
+prospective witnesses are on the _qui vive_, anxious lines on their
+faces. Some manifest fear of the ill will of the Warden, as the probable
+result of their testimony. I seek to encourage them by promising to
+assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous
+consent. The safety of my data causes me grave concern, in view of the
+increasing frequency of searches. Deliberation finally resolves itself
+into the bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the cell
+set aside for the use of the officers. It is the first cell on the
+range; it is never locked, and is ignored at searches because it is not
+occupied by prisoners. The little bundle, protected with a piece of
+oilskin procured from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the
+waste pipe. A stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush
+of water, when the privy is in use. I call Officer Mitchell's attention
+to the dusty condition of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning
+and afternoon. He accedes in an offhand manner, and twice daily I
+surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked cord, renewing
+the string repeatedly.
+
+Other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited with several
+trustworthy friends on the range. Everything is ready for the
+investigation, and we confidently await the coming of the Board of
+Charities.
+
+
+III
+
+The cell-house rejoices at the absence of Scot Woods. The Block Captain
+of the morning has been "reduced to the ranks." The disgrace is
+signalized by his appearance on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the
+chilly winter blasts. The guards look upon the assignment as "punishment
+duty" for incurring the displeasure of the Warden. The keepers smile at
+the indiscreet Scot interfering with the self-granted privileges of
+"Southside" Johnny, one of the Warden's favorites. The runner who
+afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came out victorious
+in the struggle with Woods. The latter was upbraided by Captain Wright
+in the presence of Johnny, who is now officially authorized in his
+perquisites. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment,
+whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the block.
+
+I regret his absence. A severe disciplinarian, Woods was yet very
+exceptional among the guards, in that he sought to discourage the spying
+of prisoners on each other. He frowned upon the trusties, and strove to
+treat the men impartially.
+
+Mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to fill the vacancy made
+by the transfer of Woods. The charge of the block in the afternoon
+devolves upon Officer McIlvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp,
+steely eyes. He is considerably above the average warder in
+intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts as his
+assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat at the front desk.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the two cell-houses are
+frequent; the new guards are alert and active. Almost daily the Warden
+visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. Rarely
+do I find a chance to pause at the cells; I keep in touch with the men
+through the medium of notes. But one day, several fights breaking out in
+the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the
+combatants in the punishment cells. The front is deserted, and I improve
+the opportunity to talk to the solitaries. Jasper, "Southside," and Bob
+Runyon, the "politicians," also converse at the doors, Bob standing
+suspiciously close to the bars. Suddenly Officer McIlvaine appears in
+the yard door. His face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they
+fasten on the men at the cells.
+
+"Hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts. "Confound you all,
+the 'Old Man' just gave me the deuce; too much talking in the block. I
+won't stand for it, that's all," he adds petulantly.
+
+Within half an hour I am haled before the Warden. He looks worried, deep
+lines of anxiety about his mouth.
+
+"You are reported for standing at the doors," he snarls at me. "What are
+you always telling the men?"
+
+"It's the first time the officer--"
+
+"Nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always talking to the
+prisoners. They are in punishment, and you have no business with them."
+
+"Why was _I_ picked out? Others talk, too."
+
+"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to the keeper, he
+says: "How is that, Officer? The man is charging you with neglect of
+duty."
+
+"I am not charging--"
+
+"Silence! What have you to say, Mr. McIlvaine?"
+
+The guard reddens with suppressed rage. "It isn't true, Captain," he
+replies; "there was no one except Berkman."
+
+"You hear what the officer says? You are always breaking the rules.
+You're plotting; I know you,--pulling a dozen wires. You are inimical to
+the management of the institution. But I will break your connections.
+Officers, take him directly to the South Wing, you understand? He is not
+to return to his cell. Have it searched at once, thoroughly. Lock him
+up."
+
+"Warden, what for?" I demand. "I have not done anything to lose my
+position. Talking is not such a serious charge."
+
+"Very serious, very serious. You're too dangerous on the range. I'll
+spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the North Block. You've
+been there too long."
+
+"I want to remain there."
+
+"The more reason to take you away. That will do now."
+
+"No, it won't," I burst out. "I'll stay where I am."
+
+"Remove him, Mr. McIlvaine."
+
+I am taken to the South Wing and locked up in a vacant cell, neglected
+and ill-smelling. It is Number 2, Range M--the first gallery, facing the
+yard; a "double" cell, somewhat larger than those of the North Block,
+and containing a small window. The walls are damp and bare, save for the
+cardboard of printed rules and the prison calendar. It is the 27th of
+February, 1896, but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the
+cell has not been occupied since the previous November. It contains the
+usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw mattress, a small table and
+a chair. It feels cold and dreary.
+
+In thought I picture the guards ransacking my former cell. They will not
+discover anything: my material is well hidden. The Warden evidently
+suspects my plans: he fears my testimony before the investigation
+committee. My removal is to sever my connections, and now it is
+impossible for me to reach my data. I must return to the North Block;
+otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail. I can't leave my friends on
+the range in the lurch: some of them have already signified to the
+Chaplain their desire to testify; their statements will remain
+unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must rejoin them. I have told
+the Warden that I shall remain where I was, but he probably ignored it
+as an empty boast.
+
+I consider the situation, and resolve to "break up housekeeping." It is
+the sole means of being transferred to the other cell-house. It will
+involve the loss of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a
+fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken furniture will be
+used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks. But my
+return to the North Wing will be assured,--no man in stripes can remain
+in the South Wing.
+
+Alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes, producing a scrap of
+paper, a pencil, and a knife. I write a hurried note to "K," briefly
+informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are
+safe. Guardedly I attract the attention of the runner on the floor
+beneath; it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally communicates
+with "G." The note rolled into a little ball, I shoot between the bars
+to the waiting prisoner. Now everything is prepared.
+
+It is near supper time; the men are coming back from work. It would be
+advisable to wait till everybody is locked in, and the shop officers
+depart home. There will then be only three guards on duty in the block.
+But I am in a fever of indignation and anger. Furiously snatching up the
+chair, I start "breaking up."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER
+
+
+The dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness is almost visible, the
+silence oppressive; but the terror of my former experience has abated. I
+shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on
+the previous occasion,--my offence is considered very grave. Three
+charges have been entered against me: destroying State property, having
+possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the Warden. When I
+saw the officers gathering at my back, while I was facing the Captain, I
+realized its significance. They were preparing to assault me. Quickly
+advancing to the Warden, I shook my fist in his face, crying:
+
+"If they touch me, I'll hold you personally responsible."
+
+He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he demanded:
+
+"What do you mean? How dare you?"
+
+"I mean just what I say. I won't be clubbed. My friends will avenge me,
+too."
+
+He glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous silence. One by one
+they retired, only two remaining, and I was taken quietly to the
+dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The stillness is broken by a low, muffled sound. I listen intently. It
+is some one pacing the cell at the further end of the passage.
+
+"Halloo! Who's there?" I shout.
+
+No reply. The pacing continues. It must be "Silent Nick"; he never
+talks.
+
+I prepare to pass the night on the floor. It is bare; there is no bed or
+blanket, and I have been deprived of my coat and shoes. It is freezing
+in the cell; my feet grow numb, hands cold, as I huddle in the corner,
+my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. I
+try to think, but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. Guards are descending into
+the dungeon. I wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it
+is not yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I recognize the
+mumbling speech of Deputy Greaves, as he calls out to the silent
+prisoner:
+
+"Want a drink?"
+
+The double doors open noisily.
+
+"Here!"
+
+"Give me the cup," the hoarse bass resembles that of "Crazy Smithy." His
+stentorian voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by Officer
+Dean.
+
+"You can't have th' cup," the Deputy fumes.
+
+"I won't drink out of your hand, God damn you. Think I'm a cur, do you?"
+Smithy swears and curses savagely.
+
+The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow faint, and all is
+silent, save the quickened footfall of Smith, who will not talk to any
+prisoner.
+
+I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my
+ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is
+breaking. The minutes drag in dismal darkness....
+
+The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. It is
+morning! The guards hand me the day's allowance--two ounces of white
+bread and a quart of water. The wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me I've
+never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid, and
+nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow the slice, so small and thin.
+It whets my appetite, and I feel ravenously hungry.
+
+At Smith's door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. The
+Deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. The
+prisoner refuses, with a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a
+splash, followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell bucket on
+the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the
+officers. In confusion they rush out of the dungeon.
+
+Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. There is a
+hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize the rasping whisper of Hopkins,
+the tones of Woods, McIlvaine, and others. I catch the words, "Both
+sides at once." Several cells in the dungeon are provided with double
+entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous
+prisoners. Smith is always assigned to one of these cells. I shudder as
+I realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. He
+has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement, and his
+throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. Almost half his
+time he has been kept in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from
+the range twelve days. It is.... Involuntarily I shut my eyes at the
+fearful thud of the riot clubs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the keepers bringing
+another prisoner to the dungeon. I hear his violent sobbing from the
+depth of the cavern.
+
+"Who is there?" I hail him. I call repeatedly, without receiving an
+answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards.
+
+"Ho, man!" I sing out, "the screws have gone. Who are you? This is
+Aleck, Aleck Berkman."
+
+"Is that you, Aleck? This is Johnny." There is a familiar ring about the
+young voice, broken by piteous moans. But I fail to identify it.
+
+"What Johnny?"
+
+"Johnny Davis--you know--stocking shop. I've just--killed a man."
+
+In bewilderment I listen to the story, told with bursts of weeping.
+Johnny had returned to the shop; he thought he would try again: he
+wanted to earn his "good" time. Things went well for a while, till
+"Dutch" Adams became shop runner. He is the stool who got Grant and
+Johnny Smith in trouble with the fake key, and Davis would have nothing
+to do with him. But "Dutch" persisted, pestering him all the time; and
+then--
+
+"Well, you know, Aleck," the boy seems diffident, "he lied about me like
+hell: he told the fellows he _used_ me. Christ, my mother might hear
+about it! I couldn't stand it, Aleck; honest to God, I couldn't. I--I
+killed the lying cur, an' now--now I'll--I'll swing for it," he sobs as
+if his heart would break.
+
+A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice, as I strive to
+condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad, after
+all. Perhaps Adams will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong;
+he may survive.
+
+Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more cheerful, and we
+talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. Perhaps the Board
+will even clear him, he suggests. But suddenly seized with fear, he
+weeps and moans again.
+
+More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring news from the world
+above. An epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of
+recent orders. The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more
+serious offences. "Kid Tommy" is enlarging upon his trouble. "You see,
+fellers," he cries in a treble, "dat skunk of a Pete he pushes me in de
+line, and I turns round t' give 'im hell, but de screw pipes me. Got no
+chance t' choo, so I turns an' biffs him on de jaw, see?" But he is
+sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning, at most. "Them
+fellers that was scrappin' yesterday in de yard didn't go to de hole.
+Dey jest put 'em in de cell. Sandy knows de committee's comin' all
+right."
+
+Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about "Dutch"
+Adams, and I share his joy at hearing that the man's wound is not
+serious. He was cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted
+to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness; the others dance
+and sing. I recite a poem from Nekrassov; the boys don't understand a
+word, but the sorrow-laden tones appeal to them, and they request more
+Russian "pieces." But Tommy is more interested in politics, and is
+bristling with the latest news from the Magee camp. He is a great
+admirer of Quay,--"dere's a smart guy fer you, fellers; owns de whole
+Keystone shebang all right, all right. He's Boss Quay, you bet you." He
+dives into national issues, rails at Bryan, "16 to 1 Bill, you jest
+list'n to 'm, he'll give sixteen dollars to every one; he will, nit!"
+and the boys are soon involved in a heated discussion of the respective
+merits of the two political parties, Tommy staunchly siding with the
+Republican. "Me gran'fader and me fader was Republicans," he
+vociferates, "an' all me broders vote de ticket. Me fer de Gran' Ole
+Party, ev'ry time." Some one twits him on his political wisdom,
+challenging the boy to explain the difference in the money standards.
+Tommy boldly appeals to me to corroborate him; but before I have an
+opportunity to speak, he launches upon other issues, berating Spain for
+her atrocities in Cuba, and insisting that this free country cannot
+tolerate slavery at its doors. Every topic is discussed, with Tommy
+orating at top speed, and continually broaching new subjects.
+Unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs, waxes reminiscent over former
+days, and loudly smacks his lips at the "great feeds" he enjoyed on the
+rare occasions when he was free to roam the back streets of Smoky City.
+"Say, Aleck, my boy," he calls to me familiarly, "many a penny I made on
+_you_, all right. How? Why, peddlin' extras, of course! Say, dem was
+fine days, all right; easy money; papers went like hot cakes off the
+griddle. Wish you'd do it again, Aleck."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories and anecdotes, the
+boys talking incessantly, as if fearful of silence. But every now and
+then there is a lull; we become quiet, each absorbed in his own
+thoughts. The pauses lengthen--lengthen into silence. Only the faint
+steps of "Crazy Smith" disturb the deep stillness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved. But Johnny
+remains, and his apprehensions reawaken. Repeatedly during the night he
+rouses me from my drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger
+of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his assault. I allay
+his fears by dwelling on the Warden's aversion to giving publicity to
+the sex practices in the prison, and remind the boy of the Captain's
+official denial of their existence. These things happen almost every
+week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from Riverside on such
+charges.
+
+Johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about his family history,
+talking in a frank, confidential manner. With a glow of pleasure, I
+become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he
+surprises me by asking:
+
+"Friend Aleck, what do they call you in Russian?"
+
+He prefers the fond "Sashenka," enunciating the strange word with quaint
+endearment, then diffidently confesses dislike for his own name, and
+relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth;
+Felipe was his name, and he was just like himself.
+
+"Shall I call you Felipe?" I offer.
+
+"Yes, please do, Aleck, dear; no, Sashenka."
+
+The springs of affection well up within me, as I lie huddled on the
+stone floor, cold and hungry. With closed eyes, I picture the boy before
+me, with his delicate face, and sensitive, girlish lips.
+
+"Good night, dear Sashenka," he calls.
+
+"Good night, little Felipe."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the morning we are served with a slice of bread and water. I am
+tormented with thirst and hunger, and the small ration fails to assuage
+my sharp pangs. Smithy still refuses to drink out of the Deputy's hand;
+his doors remain unopened. With tremulous anxiety Johnny begs the Deputy
+Warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon, but
+Greaves curtly commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy.
+
+"Deputy," I call, boiling over with indignation, "he asked you a
+respectful question. I'd give him a decent answer."
+
+"You mind your own business, you hear?" he retorts.
+
+But I persist in defending my young friend, and berate the Deputy for
+his language. He hastens away in a towering passion, menacing me with
+"what Smithy got."
+
+Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble. The
+threat of the Deputy disquiets him, and he warns me to prepare. My cell
+is provided with a double entrance, and I am apprehensive of a sudden
+attack. But the hours pass without the Deputy returning, and our fears
+are allayed. The boy rejoices on my account, and brims over with
+appreciation of my intercession.
+
+The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence disappears, and
+we become openly tender and affectionate. The conversation lags: we feel
+weak and worn. But every little while we hail each other with words of
+encouragement. Smithy incessantly paces the cell; the gnawing of the
+river rats reaches our ears; the silence is frequently pierced by the
+wild yells of the insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. The
+quiet grows unbearable, and Johnny calls again:
+
+"What are you doing, Sashenka?"
+
+"Oh, nothing. Just thinking, Felipe."
+
+"Am I in your thoughts, dear?"
+
+"Yes, kiddie, you are."
+
+"Sasha, dear, I've been thinking, too."
+
+"What, Felipe?"
+
+"You are the only one I care for. I haven't a friend in the whole
+place."
+
+"Do you care much for me, Felipe?"
+
+"Will you promise not to laugh at me, Sashenka?"
+
+"I wouldn't laugh at you."
+
+"Cross your hand over your heart. Got it, Sasha?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, I'll tell you. I was thinking--how shall I tell you? I was
+thinking, Sashenka--if you were here with me--I would like to kiss you."
+
+An unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart, and I muse in silence.
+
+"What's the matter, Sashenka? Why don't you say something? Are you angry
+with me?"
+
+"No, Felipe, you foolish little boy."
+
+"You are laughing at me."
+
+"No, dear; I feel just as you do."
+
+"Really?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Oh, I am so glad, Sashenka."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the evening the guards descend to relieve Johnny; he is to be
+transferred to the basket, they inform him. On the way past my cell, he
+whispers: "Hope I'll see you soon, Sashenka." A friendly officer knocks
+on the outer blind door of my cell. "That you thar, Berkman? You want to
+b'have to th' Dep'ty. He's put you down for two more days for sassin'
+him."
+
+I feel more lonesome at the boy's departure. The silence grows more
+oppressive, the hours of darkness heavier.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Seven days I remain in the dungeon. At the expiration of the week,
+feeling stiff and feeble, I totter behind the guards, on the way to the
+bathroom. My body looks strangely emaciated, reduced almost to a
+skeleton. The pangs of hunger revive sharply with the shock of the cold
+shower, and the craving for tobacco is overpowering at the sight of the
+chewing officers. I look forward to being placed in a cell, quietly
+exulting at my victory as I am led to the North Wing. But, in the
+cell-house, the Deputy Warden assigns me to the lower end of Range A,
+insane department. Exasperated by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on
+edge with the dungeon experience, I storm in furious protest, demanding
+to be returned to "the hole." The Deputy, startled by my violence,
+attempts to soothe me, and finally yields. I am placed in Number 35, the
+"crank row" beginning several cells further.
+
+Upon the heels of the departing officers, the rangeman is at my door,
+bursting with the latest news. The investigation is over, the Warden
+whitewashed! For an instant I am aghast, failing to grasp the astounding
+situation. Slowly its full significance dawns on me, as Bill excitedly
+relates the story. It's the talk of the prison. The Board of Charities
+had chosen its Secretary, J. Francis Torrance, an intimate friend of the
+Warden, to conduct the investigation. As a precautionary measure, I was
+kept several additional days in the dungeon. Mr. Torrance has privately
+interviewed "Dutch" Adams, Young Smithy, and Bob Runyon, promising them
+their full commutation time, notwithstanding their bad records, and
+irrespective of their future behavior. They were instructed by the
+Secretary to corroborate the management, placing all blame upon me! No
+other witnesses were heard. The "investigation" was over within an hour,
+the committee of one retiring for dinner to the adjoining residence of
+the Warden.
+
+Several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during the afternoon,
+corroborating the story of the rangeman, and completing the details. The
+cell-house itself bears out the situation; the change in the personnel
+of the men is amazing. "Dutch" Adams has been promoted to messenger for
+the "front office," the most privileged "political" job in the prison.
+Bob Runyon, a third-timer and notorious "kid man," has been appointed a
+trusty in the shops. But the most significant cue is the advancement of
+Young Smithy to the position of rangeman. He has but recently been
+sentenced to a year's solitary for the broken key discovered in the lock
+of his door. His record is of the worst. He is a young convict of
+extremely violent temper, who has repeatedly attacked fellow-prisoners
+with dangerous weapons. Since his murderous assault upon the inoffensive
+"Praying Andy," Smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the
+escort of two guards. And now this irresponsible man is in charge of a
+range!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At supper, Young Smithy steals up to my cell, bringing a slice of
+cornbread. I refuse the peace offering, and charge him with treachery.
+At first he stoutly protests his innocence, but gradually weakens and
+pleads his dire straits in mitigation. Torrance had persuaded him to
+testify, but he avoided incriminating me. That was done by the other two
+witnesses; he merely exonerated the Warden from the charges preferred by
+James Grant. He had been clubbed four times, but he denied to the
+committee that the guards practice violence; and he supported the Warden
+in his statement that the officers are not permitted to carry clubs or
+blackjacks. He feels that an injustice has been done me, and now that he
+occupies my former position, he will be able to repay the little favors
+I did him when he was in solitary.
+
+Indignantly I spurn his offer. He pleads his youth, the torture of the
+cell, and begs my forgiveness; but I am bitter at his treachery, and bid
+him go.
+
+Officer McIlvaine pauses at my door. "Oh, what a change, what an awful
+change!" he exclaims, pityingly. I don't know whether he refers to my
+appearance, or to the loss of range liberty; but I resent his tone of
+commiseration; it was he who had selected me as a victim, to be
+reported for talking. Angrily I turn my back to him, refusing to talk.
+
+Somebody stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers between the bars.
+Whole columns detail the report of the "investigation," completely
+exonerating Warden Edward S. Wright. The base charges against the
+management of the penitentiary were the underhand work of Anarchist
+Berkman, Mr. Torrance assured the press. One of the papers contains a
+lengthy interview with Wright, accusing me of fostering discontent and
+insubordination among the men. The Captain expresses grave fear for the
+safety of the community, should the Pardon Board reduce my sentence, in
+view of the circumstance that my lawyers are preparing to renew the
+application at the next session.
+
+In great agitation I pace the cell. The statement of the Warden is fatal
+to the hope of a pardon. My life in the prison will now be made still
+more unbearable. I shall again be locked in solitary. With despair I
+think of my fate in the hands of the enemy, and the sense of my utter
+helplessness overpowers me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII
+
+FOR SAFETY
+
+
+    DEAR K.:
+
+    I know you must have been worried about me. Give no credence to
+    the reports you hear. I did not try to suicide. I was very
+    nervous and excited over the things that happened while I was in
+    the dungeon. I saw the papers after I came up--you know what
+    they said. I couldn't sleep; I kept pacing the floor. The screws
+    were hanging about my cell, but I paid no attention to them.
+    They spoke to me, but I wouldn't answer: I was in no mood for
+    talking. They must have thought something wrong with me. The
+    doctor came, and felt my pulse, and they took me to the
+    hospital. The Warden rushed in and ordered me into a
+    strait-jacket. "For safety," he said.
+
+    You know Officer Erwin; he put the jacket on me. He's a pretty
+    decent chap; I saw he hated to do it. But the evening screw is a
+    rat. He called three times during the night, and every time he'd
+    tighten the straps. I thought he'd cut my hands off; but I
+    wouldn't cry for mercy, and that made him wild. They put me in
+    the "full size" jacket that winds all around you, the arms
+    folded. They laid me, tied in the canvas, on the bed, bound me
+    to it feet and chest, with straps provided with padlocks. I was
+    suffocating in the hot ward; could hardly breathe. In the
+    morning they unbound me. My legs were paralyzed, and I could not
+    stand up. The doctor ordered some medicine for me. The head
+    nurse (he's in for murder, and he's rotten) taunted me with the
+    "black bottle." Every time he passed my bed, he'd say: "You
+    still alive? Wait till I fix something up for you." I refused
+    the medicine, and then they took me down to the dispensary,
+    lashed me to a chair, and used the pump on me. You can imagine
+    how I felt. That went on for a week; every night in the
+    strait-jacket, every morning the pump. Now I am back in the
+    block, in 6 A. A peculiar coincidence,--it's the same cell I
+    occupied when I first came here.
+
+    Don't trust Bill Say. The Warden told me he knew about the note
+    I sent you just before I smashed up. If you got it, Bill must
+    have read it and told Sandy. Only dear old Horsethief can be
+    relied upon.
+
+    How near the boundary of joy is misery! I shall never forget the
+    first morning in the jacket. I passed a restless night, but just
+    as it began to dawn I must have lost consciousness. Suddenly I
+    awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears. It seemed to me
+    as if the heavens had opened in a burst of ecstasy.... It was
+    only a little sparrow, but never before in my life did I hear
+    such sweet melody. I felt murder in my heart when the convict
+    nurse drove the poor birdie from the window ledge.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX
+
+DREAMS OF FREEDOM
+
+
+I
+
+Like an endless _miserere_ are the days in the solitary. No glimmer of
+light cheers the to-morrows. In the depths of suffering, existence
+becomes intolerable; and as of old, I seek refuge in the past. The
+stages of my life reappear as the acts of a drama which I cannot bring
+myself to cut short. The possibilities of the dark motive compel the
+imagination, and halt the thought of destruction. Misery magnifies the
+estimate of self; the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure. Despair
+engenders obstinate resistance; in its spirit hope is trembling. Slowly
+it assumes more definite shape: escape is the sole salvation. The world
+of the living is dim and unreal with distance; its voice reaches me like
+the pale echo of fantasy; the thought of its turbulent vitality is
+strange with apprehension. But the present is bitter with wretchedness,
+and gasps desperately for relief.
+
+The efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth into my life. The
+indefatigable Girl has succeeded in interesting various circles: she is
+gathering funds for my application for a rehearing before the Pardon
+Board in the spring of '98, when my first sentence of seven years will
+have expired. With a touch of old-time tenderness, I think of her
+loyalty, her indomitable perseverance in my behalf. It is she, almost
+she alone, who has kept my memory green throughout the long years. Even
+Fedya, my constant chum, has been swirled into the vortex of narrow
+ambition and self-indulgence, the plaything of commonplace fate.
+
+Resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my thoughts of the
+erstwhile twin brother of our ideal-kissed youth. By contrast, the Girl
+is silhouetted on my horizon as the sole personification of
+revolutionary persistence, the earnest of its realization. Beyond, all
+is darkness--the mystic world of falsehood and sham, that will hate and
+persecute me even as its brutal high priests in the prison. Here and
+there the gloom is rent: an unknown sympathizer, or comrade, sends a
+greeting; I pore eagerly over the chirography, and from the clear,
+decisive signature, "Voltairine de Cleyre," strive to mold the character
+and shape the features of the writer. To the Girl I apply to verify my
+"reading," and rejoice in the warm interest of the convent-educated
+American, a friend of my much-admired Comrade Dyer D. Lum, who is aiding
+the Girl in my behalf.
+
+But the efforts for a rehearing wake no hope in my heart. My comrades,
+far from the prison world, do not comprehend the full significance of
+the situation resulting from the investigation. My underground
+connections are paralyzed; I cannot enlighten the Girl. But Nold and
+Bauer are on the threshold of liberty. Within two months Carl will carry
+my message to New York. I can fully rely on his discretion and devotion;
+we have grown very intimate through common suffering. He will inform the
+Girl that nothing is to be expected from legal procedure; instead, he
+will explain to her the plan I have evolved.
+
+My position as rangeman has served me to good advantage. I have
+thoroughly familiarized myself with the institution; I have gathered
+information and explored every part of the cell-house offering the least
+likelihood of an escape. The prison is almost impregnable; Tom's attempt
+to scale the wall proved disastrous, in spite of his exceptional
+opportunities as kitchen employee, and the thick fog of the early
+morning. Several other attempts also were doomed to failure, the great
+number of guards and their vigilance precluding success. No escape has
+taken place since the days of Paddy McGraw, before the completion of the
+prison. Entirely new methods must be tried: the road to freedom leads
+underground! But digging _out_ of the prison is impracticable in the
+modern structure of steel and rock. We must force a passage _into_ the
+prison: the tunnel is to be dug from the outside! A house is to be
+rented in the neighborhood of the penitentiary, and the underground
+passage excavated beneath the eastern wall, toward the adjacent
+bath-house. No officers frequent the place save at certain hours, and I
+shall find an opportunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the
+regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are permitted to bathe.
+
+The project will require careful preparation and considerable expense.
+Skilled comrades will have to be entrusted with the secret work, the
+greater part of which must be carried on at night. Determination and
+courage will make the plan feasible, successful. Such things have been
+done before. Not in this country, it is true. But the act will receive
+added significance from the circumstance that the liberation of the
+first American political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar
+to those practised by our comrades in Russia. Who knows? It may prove
+the symbol and precursor of Russian idealism on American soil. And what
+tremendous impression the consummation of the bold plan will make! What
+a stimulus to our propaganda, as a demonstration of Anarchist initiative
+and ability! I glow with the excitement of its great possibilities, and
+enthuse Carl with my hopes. If the preparatory work is hastened, the
+execution of the plan will be facilitated by the renewed agitation
+within the prison. Rumors of a legislative investigation are afloat,
+diverting the thoughts of the administration into different channels. I
+shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades greater safety in the
+work.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+During the long years of my penitentiary life I have formed many
+friendships. I have earned the reputation of a "square man" and a "good
+fellow," have received many proofs of confidence, and appreciation of my
+uncompromising attitude toward the generally execrated management. Most
+of my friends observe the unwritten ethics of informing me of their
+approaching release, and offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me
+with little comforts. I invariably request them to visit the newspapers
+and to relate their experiences in Riverside. Some express fear of the
+Warden's enmity, of the fatal consequences in case of their return to
+the penitentiary. But the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders,
+who confidently bid me a final good-bye, unafraid of return, call
+directly from the prison on the Pittsburgh editors.
+
+Presently the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ begin to voice their censure
+of the hurried whitewash by the State Board of Charities. The attitude
+of the press encourages the guards to manifest their discontent with the
+humiliating eccentricities of the senile Warden. They protest against
+the whim subjecting them to military drill to improve their appearance,
+and resent Captain Wright's insistence that they patronize his private
+tailor, high-priced and incompetent. Serious friction has also arisen
+between the management and Mr. Sawhill, Superintendent of local
+industries. The prisoners rejoice at the growing irascibility of the
+Warden, and the deeper lines on his face, interpreting them as signs of
+worry and fear. Expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch as
+Judge Gordon, of Philadelphia, severely censures the administration of
+the Eastern Penitentiary, charging inhuman treatment, abuse of the
+insane, and graft. The labor bodies of the State demand the abolition of
+convict competition, and the press becomes more assertive in urging an
+investigation of both penitentiaries. The air is charged with rumors of
+legislative action.
+
+
+II
+
+The breath of spring is in the cell-house. My two comrades are jubilant.
+The sweet odor of May wafts the resurrection! But the threshold of life
+is guarded by the throes of new birth. A tone of nervous excitement
+permeates their correspondence. Anxiety tortures the sleepless nights;
+the approaching return to the living is tinged with the disquietude of
+the unknown, the dread of the renewed struggle for existence. But the
+joy of coming emancipation, the wine of sunshine and liberty tingles in
+every fiber, and hope flutters its disused wings.
+
+Our plans are complete. Carl is to visit the Girl, explain my project,
+and serve as the medium of communication by means of our prearranged
+system, investing apparently innocent official letters with _sub rosa_
+meaning. The initial steps will require time. Meanwhile "K" and "G" are
+to make the necessary arrangements for the publication of our book. The
+security of our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction and much
+merriment at the expense of the administration. The repeated searches
+have failed to unearth them. With characteristic daring, the faithful
+Bob had secreted them in a hole in the floor of his shop, almost under
+the very seat of the guard. One by one they have been smuggled outside
+by a friendly officer, whom we have christened "Schraube."[46] By
+degrees Nold has gained the confidence of the former mill-worker, with
+the result that sixty precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade
+in Allegheny. I am to supply the final chapters of the book through Mr.
+Schraube, whose friendship Carl is about to bequeath to me.
+
+  [46] German for "screw."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The month of May is on the wane. The last note is exchanged with my
+comrades. Dear Bob was not able to reach me in the morning, and now I
+read the lines quivering with the last pangs of release, while Nold and
+Bauer are already beyond the walls. How I yearned for a glance at Carl,
+to touch hands, even in silence! But the customary privilege was refused
+us. Only once in the long years of our common suffering have I looked
+into the eyes of my devoted friend, and stealthily pressed his hand,
+like a thief in the night. No last greeting was vouchsafed me to-day.
+The loneliness seems heavier, the void more painful.
+
+The routine is violently disturbed. Reading and study are burdensome: my
+thoughts will not be compelled. They revert obstinately to my comrades,
+and storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the distance, to
+commune with the absent. I seek diversion in the manufacture of prison
+"fancy work," ornamental little fruit baskets, diminutive articles of
+furniture, picture frames, and the like. The little momentos,
+constructed of tissue-paper rolls of various design, I send to the Girl,
+and am elated at her admiration of the beautiful workmanship and
+attractive color effects. But presently she laments the wrecked
+condition of the goods, and upon investigation I learn from the runner
+that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected for my product.
+The rotunda turnkey, in charge of the shipments, is hostile, and I
+appeal to the Chaplain. But his well-meant intercession results in an
+order from the Warden, interdicting the expressage of my work, on the
+ground of probable notes being secreted therein. I protest against the
+discrimination, suggesting the dismembering of every piece to disprove
+the charge. But the Captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to
+"take chances," and I am forced to resort to the subterfuge of having my
+articles transferred to a friendly prisoner and addressed by him to his
+mother in Beaver, Pa., thence to be forwarded to New York. At the same
+time the rotunda keeper detains a valuable piece of ivory sent to me by
+the Girl for the manufacture of ornamental toothpicks. The local ware,
+made of kitchen bones bleached in lime, turns yellow in a short time. My
+request for the ivory is refused on the plea of submitting the matter to
+the Warden's decision, who rules against me. I direct the return of it
+to my friend, but am informed that the ivory has been mislaid and cannot
+be found. Exasperated, I charge the guard with the theft, and serve
+notice that I shall demand the ivory at the expiration of my time. The
+turnkey jeers at the wild impossibility, and I am placed for a week on
+"Pennsylvania diet" for insulting an officer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX
+
+WHITEWASHED AGAIN
+
+
+                                                    CHRISTMAS, 1897.
+
+    MY DEAR CARL:
+
+    I have been despairing of reaching you _sub rosa_, but the
+    holidays brought the usual transfers, and at last friend
+    Schraube is with me. Dear Carolus, I am worn out with the misery
+    of the months since you left, and the many disappointments. Your
+    official letters were not convincing. I fail to understand why
+    the plan is not practicable. Of course, you can't write openly,
+    but you have means of giving a hint as to the "impossibilities"
+    you speak of. You say that I have become too estranged from the
+    outside, and so forth--which may be true. Yet I think the matter
+    chiefly concerns the inside, and of that I am the best judge. I
+    do not see the force of your argument when you dwell upon the
+    application at the next session of the Pardon Board. You mean
+    that the other plan would jeopardize the success of the legal
+    attempt. But there is not much hope of favorable action by the
+    Board. You have talked all this over before, but you seem to
+    have a different view now. Why?
+
+    Only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my life
+    the heart-to-heart talks we used to have here, though they were
+    only on paper. But I am much interested in your activities. It
+    seems strange that you, so long the companion of my silence,
+    should now be in the very Niagara of life, of our movement. It
+    gives me great satisfaction to know that your experience here
+    has matured you, and helped to strengthen and deepen your
+    convictions. It has had a similar effect upon me. You know what
+    a voluminous reader I am. I have read--in fact, studied--every
+    volume in the library here, and now the Chaplain supplies me
+    with books from his. But whether it be philosophy, travel, or
+    contemporary life that falls into my hands, it invariably
+    distils into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas, and the
+    beauty, the inevitability of Anarchism. But I do not want to
+    enlarge upon this subject now; we can discuss it through
+    official channels.
+
+    You know that Tony and his nephew are here. We are just getting
+    acquainted. He works in the shop; but as he is also coffee-boy,
+    we have an opportunity to exchange notes. It is fortunate that
+    his identity is not known; otherwise he would fall under special
+    surveillance. I have my eyes on Tony,--he may prove valuable.
+
+    I am still in solitary, with no prospect of relief. You know the
+    policy of the Warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything
+    that happens here. It has become a mania with him. Think of it,
+    he blames me for Johnny Davis' cutting "Dutch." He laid
+    everything at my door when the legislative investigation took
+    place. It was a worse sham than the previous whitewash. Several
+    members called to see me at the cell,--unofficially, they said.
+    They got a hint of the evidence I was prepared to give, and one
+    of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for one in my
+    position to antagonize the Warden. I replied that I was no
+    toady. He hinted that the authorities of the prison might help
+    me to procure freedom, if I would act "discreetly." I insisted
+    that I wanted to be heard by the committee. They departed,
+    promising to call me as a witness. One Senator remarked, as he
+    left: "You are too intelligent a man to be at large."
+
+    When the hearing opened, several officers were the first to take
+    the stand. The testimony was not entirely favorable to the
+    Warden. Then Mr. Sawhill was called. You know him; he is an
+    independent sort of man, with an eye upon the wardenship. His
+    evidence came like a bomb; he charged the management with
+    corruption and fraud, and so forth. The investigators took
+    fright. They closed the sessions and departed for Harrisburg,
+    announcing through the press that they would visit
+    Moyamensing[47] and then return to Riverside. But they did not
+    return. The report they submitted to the Governor exonerated the
+    Warden.
+
+    The men were gloomy over the state of affairs. A hundred
+    prisoners were prepared to testify, and much was expected from
+    the committee. I had all my facts on hand: Bob had fished out
+    for me the bundle of material from its hiding place. It was in
+    good condition, in spite of the long soaking. (I am enclosing
+    some new data in this letter, for use in our book.)
+
+    Now that he is "cleared," the Warden has grown even more
+    arrogant and despotic. Yet _some_ good the agitation in the
+    press has accomplished: clubbings are less frequent, and the
+    bull ring is temporarily abolished. But his hatred of me has
+    grown venomous. He holds us responsible (together with Dempsey
+    and Beatty) for organizing the opposition to convict labor,
+    which has culminated in the Muehlbronner law. It is to take
+    effect on the first of the year. The prison administration is
+    very bitter, because the statute, which permits only thirty-five
+    per cent. of the inmates to be employed in productive labor,
+    will considerably minimize opportunities for graft. But the men
+    are rejoicing: the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many
+    to insanity and death. The law is one of the rare instances of
+    rational legislation. Its benefit to labor in general is
+    nullified, however, by limiting convict competition only within
+    the State. The Inspectors are already seeking a market for the
+    prison products in other States, while the convict manufactures
+    of New York, Ohio, Illinois, etc., are disposed of in
+    Pennsylvania. The irony of beneficent legislation! On the other
+    hand, the inmates need not suffer for lack of employment. The
+    new law allows the unlimited manufacture, within the prison, of
+    products for local consumption. If the whine of the management
+    regarding the "detrimental effect of idleness on the convict" is
+    sincere, they could employ five times the population of the
+    prison in the production of articles for our own needs.
+
+    At present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied
+    from the outside. The purchase of a farm, following the example
+    set by the workhouse, would alone afford work for a considerable
+    number of men. I have suggested, in a letter to the Inspectors,
+    various methods by which every inmate of the institution could
+    be employed,--among them the publication of a prison paper. Of
+    course, they have ignored me. But what can you expect of a body
+    of philanthropists who have the interest of the convict so much
+    at heart that they delegated the President of the Board, George
+    A. Kelly, to oppose the parole bill, a measure certainly along
+    advanced lines of modern criminology. Owing to the influence of
+    Inspector Kelly, the bill was shelved at the last session of the
+    legislature, though the prisoners have been praying for it for
+    years. It has robbed the moneyless lifetimers of their last
+    hope: a clause in the parole bill held out to them the promise
+    of release after 20 years of good behavior.
+
+    Dark days are in store for the men. Apparently the campaign of
+    the Inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the
+    Muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and
+    sickness. They are actually causing both by keeping half the
+    population locked up. You know how quickly the solitary drives
+    certain classes of prisoners insane. Especially the more
+    ignorant element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their
+    personal troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. Think of men,
+    who cannot even read, put _incommunicado_ for months at a time,
+    for years even! Most of the colored prisoners, and those
+    accustomed to outdoor life, such as farmers and the like quickly
+    develop the germs of consumption in close confinement. Now, this
+    wilful murder--for it is nothing else--is absolutely
+    unnecessary. The yard is big and well protected by the
+    thirty-foot wall, with armed guards patrolling it. Why not give
+    the unemployed men air and exercise, since the management is
+    determined to keep them idle? I suggested the idea to the
+    Warden, but he berated me for my "habitual interference" in
+    matters that do not concern me. I often wonder at the enigma of
+    human nature. There's the Captain, a man 72 years old. He should
+    bethink himself of death, of "meeting his Maker," since he
+    pretends to believe in religion. Instead, he is bending all his
+    energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts, in
+    order to force the repeal of the law that has lessened the flow
+    of blood money. It is almost beyond belief; but you have
+    yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere upon new
+    officers. Wright has been Warden for thirty years; he has come
+    to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion; and now he is
+    furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute control.
+
+    This letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the "good" old
+    days when "KG" were here. I miss our correspondence. There are
+    some intelligent men on the range, but they are not interested
+    in the thoughts that seethe within me and call for expression.
+    Just now the chief topic of local interest (after, of course,
+    the usual discussion of the grub, women, kids, and their health
+    and troubles) is the Spanish War and the new dining-room, in
+    which the shop employees are to be fed _en masse_, out of
+    chinaware, think of it! Some of the men are tremendously
+    patriotic; others welcome the war as a sinecure affording easy
+    money and plenty of excitement. You remember Young Butch and his
+    partners, Murtha, Tommy, etc. They have recently been released,
+    too wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual labor. All
+    of them have signified their intention of joining the
+    insurrection; some are enrolling in the regular army for the
+    war. Butch is already in Cuba. I had a letter from him. There is
+    a passage in it that is tragically characteristic. He refers to
+    a skirmish he participated in. "We shot a lot of Spaniards,
+    mostly from ambush," he writes; "it was great sport." It is the
+    attitude of the military adventurer, to whom a sacred cause like
+    the Cuban uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity to
+    satisfy his lust for blood. Butch was a very gentle boy when he
+    entered the prison. But he has witnessed much heartlessness and
+    cruelty during his term of three years.
+
+    Letter growing rather long. Good night.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+  [47] The Eastern Penitentiary at Philadelphia, Pa.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI
+
+"AND BY ALL FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT"
+
+
+I
+
+A year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left me feeble and
+languid. My expectations of relief from complete isolation have been
+disappointed. Existence is grim with despair, as day by day I feel my
+vitality ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my body is
+racked with constant pains. All my heart is dark.
+
+A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds, as the session of the
+Pardon Board approaches. I clutch desperately at the faint hope of a
+favorable decision. With feverish excitement I pore over the letters of
+the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My application is
+supported by numerous labor bodies, she writes. Comrade Harry Kelly has
+been tireless in my behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public
+sympathy augurs well for the application. The United Labor League of
+Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a
+resolution favoring my release. Together with other similar expressions,
+individual and collective, it will be laid before the Pardon Board, and
+it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the
+voice of organized labor. In a ferment of anxiety and hope I count the
+days and hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as I near
+the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by
+the meeting with the Girl and my former companions, and I thrill with
+the return to the world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of
+the night.
+
+The thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon my visions. With the
+tenderness born of common misery I think of their fate, resolving to
+brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much
+to every prisoner. My first act in liberty shall be in memory of the men
+grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates
+endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many years I
+have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life,
+I feel almost guilty to leave them. But henceforth their cause shall be
+mine, a vital part of the larger, social cause. It will be my constant
+endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain every effort
+for my little friend Felipe; I must secure his release. How happy the
+boy will be to join me in liberty!... The flash of the dark lantern
+dispels my fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving
+and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict.
+
+At noon I am called to the Warden. He must have received word from the
+Board,--I reflect on the way. The Captain lounges in the armchair, his
+eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I
+control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids the guard depart,
+and a wild hope trembles in me. He is not afraid,--perhaps good news!
+
+"Sit down, Berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability. "I have just
+received a message from Harrisburg. Your attorney requests me to inform
+you that the Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is probably
+under consideration at this moment."
+
+I remain silent. The Warden scans me closely.
+
+"You would return to New York, if released?" he inquires.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What are your plans?"
+
+"Well, I have not formed any yet."
+
+"You would go back to your Anarchist friends?"
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"You have not changed your views?"
+
+"By no means."
+
+A turnkey enters. "Captain, on official business," he reports.
+
+"Wait here a moment, Berkman," the Warden remarks, withdrawing. The
+officer remains.
+
+In a few minutes the Warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave.
+
+"I have just been informed that the Board has refused you a hearing."
+
+I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. The prison rumors of
+the Warden's interference flash through my mind. The Board promised a
+rehearing at the previous application,--why this refusal?
+
+"Warden," I exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!"
+
+"Such action lies with the Inspectors," he replies evasively. The
+peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions.
+
+A feeling of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the Warden's gaze
+fastened on me, and I strive to control my emotion.
+
+"How much time have you yet?" he asks.
+
+"Over eleven years."
+
+"How long have you been locked up this time?"
+
+"Sixteen months."
+
+"There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant hallman is going home
+to-morrow. You would like the position?" he eyes me curiously.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I'll consider it."
+
+I rise weakly, but he detains me: "By the way, Berkman, look at this."
+
+He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of
+paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding.
+
+"You know what they are?" he inquires.
+
+"Plaster casts, I think."
+
+"Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well, now."
+
+I glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear impression of an
+eagle.
+
+"It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe."
+
+"I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you would know. I
+examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on
+metallurgy."
+
+"Oh, you suspect me of this?" I flare up.
+
+"No, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner. "You have drawn
+practically every book from the library. I had a talk with the Chaplain,
+and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting,
+because it would be robbing poor people."
+
+"The reading of my letters must have familiarized the Chaplain with
+Anarchist ideas."
+
+"Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might antagonize the
+management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime."
+
+"I am glad to hear it."
+
+"You would protect the Federal Government, then?"
+
+"I don't understand you."
+
+"You would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money?"
+
+"The government and the people are not synonymous."
+
+Flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "But you would protect the
+poor?"
+
+"Yes, certainly."
+
+His face brightens. "Oh, quite so, quite so," he smiles reassuringly.
+"These molds were found hidden in the North Block. No; not in a cell,
+but in the hall. We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloane; he is located
+two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the management is very anxious to get
+to the bottom of this matter. It's a crime against the people. You may
+have heard Sloane speaking to his neighbors about this."
+
+"No. I am sure you suspect an innocent person."
+
+"How so?"
+
+"Sloane is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd think of."
+
+"Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. If you should happen
+to hear anything, just rap on the door and inform the officers you are
+ill. They will be instructed to send for me at once."
+
+"I can't do it, Warden."
+
+"Why not?" he demands.
+
+"I am not a spy."
+
+"Why, certainly not, Berkman. I should not ask you to be. But you have
+friends on the range, you may learn something. Well, think the matter
+over," he adds, dismissing me.
+
+Bitter disappointment at the action of the Board, indignation at the
+Warden's suggestion, struggle within me as I reach my cell. The guard is
+about to lock me in, when the Deputy Warden struts into the block.
+
+"Officer, unlock him," he commands. "Berkman, the Captain says you are
+to be assistant rangeman. Report to Mr. McIlvaine for a broom."
+
+
+II
+
+The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. Local methods are
+of no avail, but now my opportunities for escape are more favorable.
+Considerable changes have taken place during my solitary, and the first
+necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidants have been released;
+others were transferred during the investigation period to the South
+Wing, to disrupt my connections. New men are about the cell-house and I
+miss many of my chums. The lower half of the bottom ranges A and K is
+now exclusively occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented.
+Poor Wingie has disappeared. Grown violently insane, he was repeatedly
+lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent to an asylum. There my
+unfortunate friend had died after two months. His cell is now occupied
+by "Irish Mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary. He
+hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah, baah, see the goat. I'm the
+goat, baah, baah." I shudder at the fate I have escaped, as I look at
+the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth, now
+staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed and corpse-like, their
+minds shattered, their bodies wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I
+realize that Sid and Nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total
+blank; and Patsy, the Pittsburgh bootblack, stands at the door,
+motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an inane smile.
+
+From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living dead, the silence
+broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleating of
+Mike. The whole day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and
+recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency." New
+"bughouse cases" are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners
+forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible
+misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over Johnny
+Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. He begged to be
+taken to the hospital; but his condition did not warrant it, the
+physician said. Moreover, he was "in punishment." Poor boy, how he must
+have suffered! They found him dead on the floor of his cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the
+range. The subtle hope of the Warden to corrupt me has turned to my
+advantage. I smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature,
+determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. How saddening is
+the shallowness of popular opinion! Warden Wright is hailed as a
+progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced
+modern methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an expression of
+respect and appreciation, the National Prison Association has selected
+Captain Wright as its delegate to the International Congress at
+Brussels, which is to take place in 1900. And all the time the Warden is
+designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men
+for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and
+insanity, in the attempt to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law.
+The puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public sentiment
+in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the State;
+the efforts of the Warden, disastrous though they be to the inmates, are
+doomed to failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted
+experience of thirty years. The so confidently uttered suspicion of Ed
+Sloane in regard to the counterfeiting charge, has proved mere
+lip-wisdom. The real culprit is Bob Runyon, the trusty basking in the
+Warden's special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the witness
+and protégé of Torrane, has confided to me the whole story, in a final
+effort to "set himself straight." He even exhibited to me the coins made
+by Runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell.
+And poor Sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect,
+the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness.
+
+
+III
+
+The year passes in a variety of interests. The Girl and several
+newly-won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. The Twin has
+gradually withdrawn from our New York circles, and is now entirely
+obscured on my horizon. But the Girl is staunch and devoted, and I
+keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me informed of events in
+the international labor movement, news of which is almost entirely
+lacking in the daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions of
+the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luccheni, whose acts of the
+previous winter had thrown Europe into a ferment of agitation. I hunger
+for news of the agitation against the tortures in Montjuich, the revival
+of the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep
+compassion for my persecuted comrades in the Spanish bastille. Beneath
+the suppressed tone of her letters, I read the Girl's suffering and
+pain, and feel the heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows.
+
+Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons interested in my
+case are endeavoring to secure Carnegie's signature for a renewed
+application to the Board of Pardons. The Girl conveys the information
+guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul
+the step has caused her. What terrible despair had given birth to the
+suggestion, I wonder. If the project of the underground escape had been
+put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. Why
+have my friends ignored the detailed plan I had submitted to them
+through Carl? I am confident of its feasibility and success, if we can
+muster the necessary skill and outlay. The animosity of the prison
+authorities precludes the thought of legal release. The underground
+route, very difficult and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. It
+must be realized. My _sub rosa_ communications suspended during the
+temporary absence of Mr. Schraube, I hint these thoughts in official
+mail to the Girl, but refrain from objecting to the Carnegie idea.
+
+Other matters of interest I learn from correspondence with friends in
+Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The frequent letters of Carl, still
+reminiscent of his sojourn at Riverside, thrill with the joy of active
+propaganda and of his success as public speaker. Voltairine de Cleyre
+and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by discursive epistles of
+great charm and rebellious thought. Often I pause to wonder at the
+miracle of my mail passing the censorial eyes. But the Chaplain is a
+busy man; careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a
+demand upon his time. The correspondence with Mattie I turn over to my
+neighbor Pasquale, a young Italian serving sixteen years, who has
+developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. The
+roguish eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon me. My
+thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. Deep snow
+is on the ground; it must be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is
+pressing, pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night
+of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades of green will
+sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white,
+and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of
+Johnny.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII
+
+THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED
+
+
+                                                  February 14, 1899.
+
+    DEAR CAROLUS:
+
+    The Greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. When things
+    begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious. You'll be
+    surprised,--Mr. Schraube has turned into an enemy. Mostly my own
+    fault; that's the sting of it. It will explain to you the
+    failure of the former _sub rosa_ route. The present one is safe,
+    but very temporary.
+
+    It happened last fall. From assistant I was advanced to hallman,
+    having charge of the "crank row," on Range A. A new order
+    curtailed the rations of the insane,--no cornbread, cheese, or
+    hash; only bread and coffee. As rangeman, I help to "feed," and
+    generally have "extras" left on the wagon,--some one sick, or
+    refusing food, etc. I used to distribute the extras, "on the q.
+    t.," among the men deprived of them. One day, just before
+    Christmas, an officer happened to notice Patsy chewing a piece
+    of cheese. The poor fellow is quite an imbecile; he did not know
+    enough to hide what I gave him. Well, you are aware that
+    "Cornbread Tom" does not love me. He reported me. I admitted the
+    charge to the Warden, and tried to tell him how hungry the men
+    were. He wouldn't hear of it, saying that the insane should not
+    "overload" their stomachs. I was ordered locked up. Within a
+    month I was out again, but imagine my surprise when Schraube
+    refused even to talk to me. At first I could not fathom the
+    mystery; later I learned that he was reprimanded, losing ten
+    days' pay for "allowing" me to feed the demented. He knew
+    nothing about it, of course, but he was at the time in special
+    charge of "crank row." The Schraube has been telling my friends
+    that I got him in trouble wilfully. He seems to nurse his
+    grievance with much bitterness; he apparently hates me now with
+    the hatred we often feel toward those who know our secrets. But
+    he realizes he has nothing to fear from me.
+
+    Many changes have taken place since you left. You would hardly
+    recognize the block if you returned (better stay out, though).
+    No more talking through the waste pipes; the new privies have
+    standing water. Electricity is gradually taking the place of
+    candles. The garish light is almost driving me blind, and the
+    innovation has created a new problem: how to light our pipes. We
+    are given the same monthly allowance of matches, each package
+    supposed to contain 30, but usually have 27; and last month I
+    received only 25. I made a kick, but it was in vain. The worst
+    of it is, fully a third of the matches are damp and don't light.
+    While we used candles we managed somehow, borrowing a few
+    matches occasionally from non-smokers. But now that candles are
+    abolished, the difficulty is very serious. I split each match
+    into four; sometimes I succeed in making six. There is a man on
+    the range who is an artist at it: he can make eight cuts out of
+    a match; all serviceable, too. Even at that, there is a famine,
+    and I have been forced to return to the stone age: with flint
+    and tinder I draw the fire of Prometheus.
+
+    The mess-room is in full blast. The sight of a thousand men,
+    bent over their food in complete silence, officers flanking each
+    table, is by no means appetizing. But during the Spanish war,
+    the place resembled the cell-house on New Year's eve. The
+    patriotic Warden daily read to the diners the latest news, and
+    such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard. Especially
+    did the Hobson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism. But the
+    enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that they were
+    wasting precious minutes hurrahing, and then leaving the table
+    hungry when the bell terminated the meal. Some tried to pocket
+    the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected them, and
+    after that the Warden's war reports were accompanied only with
+    loud munching and champing.
+
+    Another innovation is exercise. Your interviews with the
+    reporters, and those of other released prisoners, have at last
+    forced the Warden to allow the idle men an hour's recreation. In
+    inclement weather, they walk in the cell-house; on fine days, in
+    the yard. The reform was instituted last autumn, and the
+    improvement in health is remarkable. The doctor is
+    enthusiastically in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has
+    been so considerably reduced that he estimates his time-saving
+    at two hours daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost
+    entirely ceased masturbating. The shop employees envy the
+    "idlers" now; many have purposely precipitated trouble in order
+    to be put in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. But
+    Sandy "got next," and now those locked up "for cause" are
+    excluded from exercise.
+
+    Here are some data for our book. The population at the end of
+    last year was 956--the lowest point in over a decade. The Warden
+    admits that the war has decreased crime; the Inspectors' report
+    refers to the improved economic conditions, as compared with the
+    panicky times of the opening years in the 90's. But the
+    authorities do not appear very happy over the reduction in the
+    Riverside population. You understand the reason: the smaller the
+    total, the less men may be exploited in the industries. I am not
+    prepared to say whether there is collusion between the judges
+    and the administration of the prison, but it is very significant
+    that the class of offenders formerly sent to the workhouse are
+    being increasingly sentenced to the penitentiary, and an unusual
+    number are transferred here from the Reformatory at Huntington
+    and the Reform School of Morganza. The old-timers joke about the
+    Warden telephoning to the Criminal Court, to notify the judges
+    how many men are "wanted" for the stocking shop.
+
+    The unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying the
+    convict labor law. In every shop twice as many are employed as
+    the statute allows; the "illegal" are carried on the books as
+    men working on "State account"; that is, as cleaners and clerks,
+    not as producers. Thus it happens that in the mat shop, for
+    instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers than are
+    employed on the looms! In the broom shop there are 30 supposed
+    clerks and 15 cleaners, to a total of 53 producers legally
+    permitted. This is the way the legislation works on which the
+    labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts. The broom
+    shop is still contracted to Lang Bros., with their own foreman
+    in charge, and his son a guard in the prison.
+
+    Enough for to-day. When I hear of the safe arrival of this
+    letter, I may have more intimate things to discuss.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+THE TUNNEL
+
+
+I
+
+The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates all hope of
+release by legal means. Had the Board refused to commute my sentence
+after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. But
+the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent
+even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous
+promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied
+sentences. The authorities are determined that I should remain in the
+prison, confident that it will prove my tomb. Realizing this fires my
+defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. There is no hope
+of surviving my term. At best, even with the full benefit of the
+commutation time--which will hardly be granted me, in view of the
+attitude of the prison management--I still have over nine years to
+serve. But existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable; long
+confinement and the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure the
+nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I must therefore
+concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape.
+
+My position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. I have access to every
+part of the cell-house, excepting the "crank row." The incident of
+feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a
+special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged. But
+within my area on the range are the recent arrivals and the sane
+solitaries; the division of my duties with the new man merely
+facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various
+projects. The idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination
+born of despair. It possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping
+every thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail correspondence
+with my prison chums, that I may devote the solitude of the evening to
+the development of my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind with
+the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities. But the
+execution! Why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? Their
+tepidity irritates me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Carl for
+having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan,
+to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. My _sub rosa_ route is
+sporadic and uncertain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the
+bitter surprise I feel at their provoking indifference; but my
+reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot believe that
+conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion.
+These things have been accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The
+attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic effect. True, the
+project will require considerable outlay, and the work of skilled and
+trustworthy men. Have we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum, this
+country has produced her Zheliabovs; is the genius of America not equal
+to a Hartman?[48] The tacit skepticism of my correspondents pain me, and
+rouses my resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment of "one
+who has been so long separated" from their world, from the interests and
+struggles of the living. The consciousness of my helplessness without
+aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness. But I
+will persevere: I will compel their attention and their activity; aye,
+their enthusiasm!
+
+  [48] Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow railway,
+       undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander
+       II., in 1880.
+
+With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of Tony. The months of
+frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed
+a spirit of congeniality and good will. I exert my ingenuity to create
+opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. Through the
+aid of a friendly officer, I procure for Tony the privilege of assisting
+his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me
+to greater advantage. Gradually we become intimate, and I learn the
+story of his life, rich in adventure and experience. An Alsatian, small
+and wiry, Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the
+Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring--the very man to carry
+out my plan.
+
+For days I debate in my mind the momentous question: shall I confide the
+project to Tony? It would be placing myself in his power, jeopardizing
+the sole hope of my life. Yet it is the only way; I must rely on my
+intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless, excruciating with
+the agony of indecision. But my friend's sentence is nearing completion.
+We shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough
+consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the decisive
+step, and next day I reveal the secret to Tony.
+
+His manner allays apprehension. Serene and self-possessed, he listens
+gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly
+announces that it shall be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent
+comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the
+adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the
+careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to insure
+greater safety for our correspondence. The precaution is necessary; it
+will prove of inestimable value upon his release.
+
+With great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared, based on a
+discarded system of German shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further
+involved by the use of words of our own coinage. The cipher, thus
+perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert.
+
+But developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project.
+The building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of
+the latter for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but soon
+realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the
+penitentiary gas and sewer systems may defeat our success. There are no
+means of procuring the necessary information: Tony is confined to the
+shop, while I am never permitted out of the cell-house. In vain I strive
+to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without bringing light.
+
+My Providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard.
+The combatants are locked up on my range. One of them proves to be
+"Mac," an aged prisoner serving a third term. During his previous
+confinement, he had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties
+consisting in the weekly flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly
+familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation
+among the inmates is tinged with the odor of sycophancy. He is, however,
+the only means of solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to
+gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of
+my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured
+from my kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of an
+opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious moment to
+listening to his long-winded stories of the "great jobs" he had
+accomplished in "his" time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had
+associated, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in with th'
+fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his
+prison experiences, and leading him on to dwell upon his last "bit." He
+becomes reminiscent of his friends in Riverside, bewails the early
+graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices over his good chum
+Patty McGraw managing to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives
+"Mac" a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of
+Patty, while I express surprise that he himself had never attempted to
+take French leave. "What!" he bristles up, "think I'm such a dummy?" and
+with great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 80's" to swim
+through the sewer. I scoff at his folly, "You must have been a chump,
+Mac, to think it could be done," I remark. "I was, was I? What do you
+know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you. Just wait," and,
+snatching up his library slate, he draws a complete diagram of the
+prison sewerage. In the extreme southwest corner of the yard he
+indicates a blind underground alley.
+
+"What's this?" I ask, in surprise.
+
+"Nev'r knew _that_, did yer? It's a little tunn'l, connectin' th'
+cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen men in th' dump know 't; not
+ev'n a good many screws. Passage ain't been used fer a long time."
+
+In amazement I scan the diagram. I had noticed a little trap door at the
+very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and I had often
+wondered what purpose it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the
+happy solution of my difficulty. The "blind alley" will greatly
+facilitate our work. It is within fifteen feet, or twenty at most, of
+the southwestern wall. Its situation is very favorable: there are no
+shops in the vicinity; the place is never visited by guards or
+prisoners.
+
+The happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan: a house is
+to be rented opposite the southern wall, on Sterling Street. Preferably
+it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the
+cell-house building. Dug in a direct line across the street, and
+underneath the south wall, the tunnel will connect with the "blind
+alley." I shall manage the rest.
+
+
+II
+
+Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the Indian summer linger, as
+if unwilling to depart. But I am impatient with anxiety, and long for
+the winter. Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with tardy
+step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and with joyful heart we
+count the last hours.
+
+To-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He will at once communicate
+with my comrades, and urge the immediate realization of the great plan.
+His self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with
+enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house is to be bought or rented
+without loss of time, and the environs inspected. Perhaps operations
+could not begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected to
+further the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a splendid organizer, is
+absent from the country. But my friends will carefully follow the
+directions I have entrusted to Tony, and through him I shall keep in
+touch with the developments. I have little opportunity for _sub rosa_
+mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can correspond officially,
+without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the
+innocent-looking flourishes scattered through the page.
+
+With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and
+again I rehearse every step in the project, and study every detail. My
+mind dwells in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my duties
+on the range. More rarely I converse with the prisoners: I must take
+care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. To lose it
+would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape.
+
+As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the last year of my
+solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts.
+The little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant
+swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the
+door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In surprise I pet the bird;
+it seems quite tame. "Why, it's Dick!" the assistant exclaims. "Think of
+him coming back!" my hands tremble as I examine the little bird. With
+great joy I discover the faint marks of blue ink I had smeared under its
+wings last summer, when the Warden had ordered my little companion
+thrown out of the window. How wonderful that it should return and
+recognize the old friend and the cell! Tenderly I warm and feed the
+bird. What strange sights my little pet must have seen since he was
+driven out into the world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered!
+The bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute confidence and
+joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar. Foolish
+birdie, to return to prison for shelter and food! Cold and cruel must be
+the world, my little Dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than
+even love of liberty?
+
+So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass through the gates and soon
+return again, driven back by the world--even like you, little Dick. Yet
+others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom, than be
+warm and fed in prison--even like me, little Dick. And still others
+there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their
+friendship--even like you and, I hope, Tony, little Dick.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV
+
+THE DEATH OF DICK
+
+
+                                                       _Sub Rosa_,
+                                                      Jan. 15, 1900.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    I write in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It was all
+    on account of my bird. You remember my feathered pet, Dick. Last
+    summer the Warden ordered him put out, but when cold weather set
+    in, Dick returned. Would you believe it? He came back to my old
+    cell, and recognized me when I passed by. I kept him, and he
+    grew as tame as before--he had become a bit wild in the life
+    outside. On Christmas day, as Dick was playing near my cell, Bob
+    Runyon--the stool, you know--came by and deliberately kicked the
+    bird. When I saw Dick turn over on his side, his little eyes
+    rolling in the throes of death, I rushed at Runyon and knocked
+    him down. He was not hurt much, and everything could have passed
+    off quietly, as no screw was about. But the stool reported me to
+    the Deputy, and I was locked up.
+
+    Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow was
+    fond of Dick, and he promises to get me back on the range. He is
+    keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man in my
+    place who has only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm to take
+    charge again.
+
+    I am not disappointed at your information that "the work" will
+    have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy that
+    preparations have been started. How about those revolvers,
+    though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. In one of your
+    letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to.
+    How can that be? Jim, the plumber--you know he can be
+    trusted--has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me that
+    nothing came, so far. Why do you delay? I hope you didn't throw
+    the package through the cellar window when Jim wasn't at his
+    post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the devil could have
+    become of it? I see no sign here of the things being discovered:
+    there would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look to it, and write
+    at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV
+
+AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS
+
+
+I
+
+The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. In vain I
+rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation; it defies
+comprehension and torments me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the
+weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar, momentarily allays
+my dread. But Tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the
+package, throws me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two
+confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. It is incredible
+that Tony should seek to deceive me. Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at
+the point of delivery; there is little probability of his having missed
+the package. But supposing he has, what has become of it? Perhaps it
+fell into some dark corner of the cellar. The place must be searched at
+once.
+
+Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless means to afford
+Jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. I ransack the cell-house for old
+papers and rags; with miserly hand I gather all odds and ends, broken
+tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust. Trembling with fear of
+discovery, I empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall,
+and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement
+fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate the hall. The
+stench is overpowering; steadily the water rises, threatening to flood
+the cell-house. The place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and
+rattle on the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. The Block
+Captain yells, "Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the plumber; get Jim. Quick!"
+
+But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons.
+In constant dread of dire possibilities, I tremble at every step,
+fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the days
+pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no
+indication of untoward happening or agitation. By degrees my fears
+subside. The inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with
+danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has fortunately brought no
+results, and must apparently remain unsolved.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to the desk by Officer
+Mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, I
+casually glance out of the yard door. At the extreme northwestern end,
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the
+grass. The unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes
+my suspicion. The singular idling of the energetic guard, his furtive
+eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. Something must
+have happened. Are they suspecting the tunnel? But work has not been
+commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the
+yard, fully a thousand feet distant. In perplexity I wonder at the
+peculiar actions of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate
+would immediately be subjected to a search, and shops and cell-house
+ransacked.
+
+In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night; morning dawns without
+bringing a solution. But after breakfast the cell-house becomes
+strangely quiet; the shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are
+ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into
+the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. The Deputy and Hopkins
+scurry about the hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and
+the sharp command of the Warden resounds through the cell-house,
+"General search!"
+
+I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises of suspected
+prisoners are frequent, and I am always prepared. But some contraband is
+on hand. Quickly I snatch my writing material from the womb of the
+bedtick. In the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous
+year, a bright thought flashes across my mind. There is nothing
+dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. "Prison Types," "In
+the Streets of New York," "Parkhurst and the Prostitute," "Libertas--a
+Study in Philology," "The Slavery of Tradition"--harmless products of
+evening leisure. Let them find the booklets! I'll be severely
+reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches
+will serve to divert suspicion: the Warden will secretly rejoice that my
+mind is not busy with more dangerous activities. But the sudden search
+signifies grave developments. General overhaulings, involving temporary
+suspension of the industries and consequent financial loss, are rare.
+The search of the entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy
+confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly been found! Jim's
+failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is
+possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the
+cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it
+without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the latter's confident assertion of
+his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another
+probability. The thought is painful, disquieting. But who knows? In an
+atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best
+friendships are tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid of
+consequences, surrendered the weapons to the Warden. He would have no
+difficulty in explaining the discovery, without further betrayal of my
+confidence. Yet Jim, a "pete man"[49] of international renown, enjoys
+the reputation of a thoroughly "square man" and loyal friend. He has
+given me repeated proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to
+accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however, that his
+information is limited to the weapons. No doubt he suspects some sort of
+escape; but I have left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these
+Tony alone is entrusted.
+
+  [49] Safe blower.
+
+The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion on Tony's part is
+responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship.
+Realizing the danger of his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons
+between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously
+ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post. But the discovery of the
+revolvers vindicates the veracity of Tony, and strengthens my confidence
+in him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has
+already dared great peril for my sake.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various
+contraband. The counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating
+beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret
+investigation by Federal officials. In the general excitement, the
+sketches among my effects have been ignored, and left in my possession.
+But no clew has been found in connection with the weapons. The
+authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock
+on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered
+with. With an effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of
+the kindly old Mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he confides to me the
+information. I marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the
+discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young friend
+Russell, I had climbed to the top of the cell-house, while the inmates
+were at church, and wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in
+its place an apparent counterpart, provided by Jim. With the key in our
+possession, we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof,
+when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles,
+forcing the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy over the
+discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be
+reconciled to the failure. His time, however, being short, I have been
+urging him to accept the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape
+makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of his remaining two
+years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence.
+
+The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with
+merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. "You are right, Aleck," he
+replies, gravely, "but say, last night I thought out a scheme; it's
+great, and we're sure to make our get-a-way." With minute detail he
+pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at
+night, "holding up" the guards, binding and gagging them, and "then the
+road would be clear." The innocent boy, for all his back-country
+reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then" is the very threshold
+of difficulties. I seek to explain to him that, the guards being
+disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The
+solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, the
+key in the sole possession of the Captain of the night watch, who cannot
+be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not
+to be daunted. "We'll have to storm the rotunda, then," he remarks,
+calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. He smiles
+incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "Oh, yes,
+you will, Aleck. I don't believe a word you say. I know you're keen to
+make a get-a-way." His confidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he
+announces that he will "go it alone."
+
+The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless youth will throw
+away his life; his attempt may frustrate my own success. But it is in
+vain to dissuade him by direct means. I know the determination of the
+boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant
+youth, combined with indomitable courage. The redundance of animal
+vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia
+of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of Dutch forbears.
+The taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has dripped bitter poison into the innocent
+pranks of Russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured
+boy.
+
+I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. He has
+secreted the saws I had procured from the Girl for the attempt of the
+previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for
+liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold
+the impetuous boy in leash. But each day his restlessness increases;
+more insistently he urges my participation and a definite explanation of
+my attitude.
+
+At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair of dissuading
+Russell from his desperate purpose. From day to day I secure his solemn
+promise to await my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some
+development that would force the abandonment of his plan. But nothing
+disturbs the routine, and I grow nervous with dread lest the boy,
+reckless with impatience, thwart my great project.
+
+
+II
+
+The weather is moderating; the window sashes in the hall are being
+lowered: the signs of approaching spring multiply. I chafe at the lack
+of news from Tony, who had departed on his mission to New York. With
+greedy eyes I follow the Chaplain on his rounds of mail delivery.
+Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, I hasten along the
+range to meet the postman.
+
+"Any letters for me, Mr. Milligan?" I ask, with an effort to steady my
+voice.
+
+"No, m' boy."
+
+My eyes devour the mail in his hand. "None to-day, Aleck," he adds;
+"this is for your neighbor Pasquale."
+
+I feel apprehensive at Tony's silence. Another twenty-four hours must
+elapse before the Chaplain returns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me
+to-morrow, either. What can be the matter with my friend? So many
+dangers menace his every step--he might be sick--some accident....
+Anxious days pass without mail. Russell is becoming more insistent,
+threatening a "break." The solitaries murmur at my neglect. I am nervous
+and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard from Tony; something
+terrible must have happened. In a ferment of dread, I keep watch on the
+upper rotunda. The noon hour is approaching: the Chaplain fumbles with
+his keys; the door opens, and he trips along the ranges. Stealthily I
+follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends
+to the hall.
+
+"Good morning, Chaplain," I seek to attract his attention, wistfully
+peering at the mail in his hand.
+
+"Good morning, m' boy. Feeling good to-day?"
+
+"Thank you; pretty fair." My voice trembles at his delay, but I fear
+betraying my anxiety by renewed questioning.
+
+He passes me, and I feel sick with disappointment. Now he pauses.
+"Aleck," he calls, "I mislaid a letter for you yesterday. Here it is."
+
+With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a fever of hope and fear, I
+pore over it in the solitude of the cell. My heart palpitates violently
+as I scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning, analyzing every
+flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the
+significant dots into the structure of meaning. Glorious! A house has
+been rented--28 Sterling Street--almost opposite the gate of the south
+wall. Funds are on hand, work is to begin at once!
+
+With nimble step I walk the range. The river wafts sweet fragrance to my
+cell, the joy of spring is in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to
+liberty: the faithful comrades are steadily working underground. Perhaps
+within a month, or two at most, the tunnel will be completed. I count
+the days, crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. The news
+from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing smoothly,
+the prospects of success are splendid. I grow merry at the efforts of
+uninitiated friends in New York to carry out the suggestions of the
+attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State for a writ, on the
+ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. I consult gravely with
+Mr. Milligan upon the advisability of the step, the amiable Chaplain
+affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. I
+thank my comrades for their efforts, and urge the necessity of
+collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly I ask the
+advice of the Chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent
+enthusiasm will reach the ears of the Warden: the artifice will mask my
+secret project and lull suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance
+of success, and with much show of confidence I impress upon the trusties
+my sanguine expectation of release. I discuss the subject with officers
+and stools, till presently the prison is agog with the prospective
+liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me with
+messages to friends, and the Deputy Warden offers advice on behavior
+beyond the walls. The moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined
+to the cell-house, I shall be unable to reach the tunnel. The privilege
+of the yard is imperative.
+
+It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and I
+induce the kindly runner, "Southside" Johnny, to procure for me a brace
+of sparlings. I christen the little orphans Dick and Sis, and the memory
+of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. Old Mitchell
+is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered
+friends. But the birds languish and waste in the close air of the
+block; they need sunshine and gravel, and the dusty street to bathe in.
+Gradually I enlist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious
+performances of my pets. One day the Warden strolls in, and joins in
+admiration of the wonderful birds.
+
+"Who trained them?" he inquires.
+
+"This man," the physician indicates me. A slight frown flits over the
+Warden's face. Old Mitchell winks at me, encouragingly.
+
+"Captain," I approach the Warden, "the birds are sickly for lack of air.
+Will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard?"
+
+"Why don't you let them go? You have no permission to keep them."
+
+"Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the doctor intercedes. "They
+are too tame to take care of themselves."
+
+"Well, then," the Warden decides, "let Jasper take them out every day."
+
+"They will not go with any one except myself," I inform him. "They
+follow me everywhere."
+
+The Warden hesitates.
+
+"Why not let Berkman go out with them for a few moments," the doctor
+suggests. "I hear you expect to be free soon," he remarks to me
+casually. "Your case is up for revision?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, Berkman," the Warden motions to me, "I will permit you ten
+minutes in the yard, after your sweeping is done. What time are you
+through with it?"
+
+"At 9.30 A. M."
+
+"Mr. Mitchell, every morning, at 9.30, you will pass Berkman through the
+doors. For ten minutes, on the watch." Then turning to me, he adds:
+"You are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of sand there. If
+you cross the dead line of the sidewalk, or exceed your time a single
+minute, you will be punished."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI
+
+THE UNDERGROUND
+
+
+                                                       May 10, 1900.
+
+    MY DEAR TONY:
+
+    Your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. No sooner have I
+    sipped the rich aroma than I am athirst for more nectar. Write
+    often, dear friend; it is the only solace of suspense.
+
+    Do not worry about this end of the line. All is well. By
+    stratagem I have at last procured the privilege of the yard.
+    Only for a few minutes every morning, but I am judiciously
+    extending my prescribed time and area. The prospects are bright
+    here; every one talks of my application to the Superior Court,
+    and peace reigns--you understand.
+
+    A pity I cannot write directly to my dear, faithful comrades,
+    your coworkers. You shall be the medium. Transmit to them my
+    deepest appreciation. Tell "Yankee" and "Ibsen" and our Italian
+    comrades what I feel--I know I need not explain it further to
+    you. No one realizes better than myself the terrible risks they
+    are taking, the fearful toil in silence and darkness, almost
+    within hearing of the guards. The danger, the heroic
+    self-sacrifice--what money could buy such devotion? I grow faint
+    with the thought of their peril. I could almost cry at the
+    beautiful demonstration of solidarity and friendship. Dear
+    comrades, I feel proud of you, and proud of the great truth of
+    Anarchism that can produce such disciples, such spirit. I
+    embrace you, my noble comrades, and may you speed the day that
+    will make me happy with the sight of your faces, the touch of
+    your hands.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                             June 5.
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    Your silence was unbearable. The suspense is terrible. Was it
+    really necessary to halt operations so long? I am surprised you
+    did not foresee the shortage of air and the lack of light. You
+    would have saved so much time. It is a great relief to know that
+    the work is progressing again, and very fortunate indeed that
+    "Yankee" understands electricity. It must be hellish work to
+    pump air into the shaft. Take precautions against the whir of
+    the machinery. The piano idea is great. Keep her playing and
+    singing as much as possible, and be sure you have all windows
+    open. The beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and
+    it will drown the noises underground. Have an electric button
+    connected from the piano to the shaft; when the player sees
+    anything suspicious on the street or the guards on the wall, she
+    can at once notify the comrades to stop work.
+
+    I am enclosing the wall and yard measurements you asked. But why
+    do you need them? Don't bother with unnecessary things. From
+    house beneath the street, directly toward the southwestern wall.
+    For that you can procure measurements outside. On the inside you
+    require none. Go under wall, about 20-30 feet, till you strike
+    wall of blind alley. Cut into it, and all will be complete.
+    Write of progress without delay. Greetings to all.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            June 20.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    Your letters bewilder me. Why has the route been changed? You
+    were to go to southwest, yet you say now you are near the east
+    wall. It's simply incredible, Tony. Your explanation is not
+    convincing. If you found a gas main near the gate, you could
+    have gone around it; besides, the gate is out of your way
+    anyhow. Why did you take that direction at all? I wish, Tony,
+    you would follow my instructions and the original plan. Your
+    failure to report the change immediately, may prove fatal. I
+    could have informed you--once you were near the southeastern
+    gate--to go directly underneath; then you would have saved
+    digging under the wall; there is no stone foundation, of course,
+    beneath the gate. Now that you have turned the south-east
+    corner, you will have to come under the wall there, and it is
+    the worst possible place, because that particular part used to
+    be a swamp, and I have learned that it was filled with extra
+    masonry. Another point; an old abandoned natural-gas well is
+    somewhere under the east wall, about 300 feet from the gate.
+    Tell our friends to be on the lookout for fumes; it is a very
+    dangerous place; special precautions must be taken.
+
+    [Illustration: A--House on Sterling Street from which the Tunnel
+    started. B--Point at which the Tunnel entered under the east
+    wall. C--Mat Shop, near which the Author was permitted to take
+    his birds for ten minutes every day, for exercise. D--North
+    Block, where the Author was confined at the time of the Tunnel
+    episode. E--South Block.]
+
+    Do not mind my brusqueness, dear Tony. My nerves are on edge,
+    the suspense is driving me mad. And I must mask my feelings, and
+    smile and look indifferent. But I haven't a moment's peace. I
+    imagine the most terrible things when you fail to write. Please
+    be more punctual. I know you have your hands full; but I fear
+    I'll go insane before this thing is over. Tell me especially how
+    far you intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come
+    out. This complicates the matter. You have already gone a longer
+    distance than would have been necessary per original plan. It
+    was a grave mistake, and if you were not such a devoted friend,
+    I'd feel very cross with you. Write at once. I am arranging a
+    new _sub rosa_ route. They are building in the yard; many
+    outside drivers, you understand.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    I'm in great haste to send this. You know the shed opposite the
+    east wall. It has only a wooden floor and is not frequented much
+    by officers. A few cons are there, from the stone pile. I'll
+    attend to them. Make directly for that shed. It's a short
+    distance from wall. I enclose measurements.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    TONY:
+
+    You distract me beyond words. What has become of your caution,
+    your judgment? A hole in the grass _will not do_. I am
+    absolutely opposed to it. There are a score of men on the stone
+    pile and several screws. It is sure to be discovered. And even
+    if you leave the upper crust intact for a foot or two, how am I
+    to dive into the hole in the presence of so many? You don't seem
+    to have considered that. There is only _one_ way, the one I
+    explained in my last. Go to the shed; it's only a little more
+    work, 30-40 feet, no more. Tell the comrades the grass idea is
+    impossible. A little more effort, friends, and all will be well.
+    Answer at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    Why do you insist on the hole in the ground? I tell you again it
+    will not do. I won't consider it for a moment. I am on the
+    inside--you must let me decide what can or cannot be done here.
+    I am prepared to risk everything for liberty, would risk my life
+    a thousand times. I am too desperate now for any one to block my
+    escape; I'd break through a wall of guards, if necessary. But I
+    still have a little judgment, though I am almost insane with the
+    suspense and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the
+    break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for success.
+    I beg of you, Tony, the thing must be dug to the shed; it's only
+    a little way. After such a tremendous effort, can we jeopardize
+    it all so lightly? I assure you, the success of the hole plan is
+    unthinkable. They'd all see me go down into it; I'd be followed
+    at once--what's the use talking.
+
+    Besides, you know I have no revolvers. Of course I'll have a
+    weapon, but it will not help the escape. Another thing, your
+    change of plans has forced me to get an assistant. The man is
+    reliable, and I have only confided to him parts of the project.
+    I need him to investigate around the shed, take measurements,
+    etc. I am not permitted anywhere near the wall. But you need not
+    trouble about this; I'll be responsible for my friend. But I
+    tell you about it, so that you prepare two pair of overalls
+    instead of one. Also leave two revolvers in the house, money,
+    and cipher directions for us where to go. None of our comrades
+    is to wait for us. Let them all leave as soon as everything is
+    ready. But be sure you don't stop at the hole. Go to the shed,
+    absolutely.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    TONY:
+
+    The hole will not do. The more I think of it, the more
+    impossible I find it. I am sending an urgent call for money to
+    the Editor. You know whom I mean. Get in communication with him
+    at once. Use the money to continue work to shed.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                      June 25, 1900.
+
+    DEAR COMRADE:
+
+    The Chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of paper,
+    on urgent business. I write to you in a very great extremity.
+    You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal my case.
+    Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their attorneys. I
+    have engaged my _own_ "lawyers." Lawyers in quotation marks--a
+    prison joke, you see. I have utmost confidence in _these_
+    lawyers. They will, absolutely, procure my release, even if it
+    is not a pardon, you understand. I mean, we'll go to the
+    Superior Court, different from a Pardon Board--another prison
+    joke.
+
+    My friends are short of money. We need some _at once_. The work
+    is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds. Mark well
+    what I say: _I'll not be responsible for anything_--the worst
+    may happen--unless money is procured _at once_. You have
+    influence. I rely on you to understand and to act promptly.
+
+                              Your comrade,
+
+                                                  ALEXANDER BERKMAN.
+
+
+    MY POOR TONY:
+
+    I can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. To think that
+    you, you the cautious Tony, should be so reckless--to send me a
+    telegram. You could have ruined the whole thing. I had trouble
+    explaining to the Chaplain, but it's all right now. Of course,
+    if it must be the hole, it can't be helped. I understood the
+    meaning of your wire: from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten
+    feet to west. We'll be there on the minute--3 P. M. But July 4th
+    won't do. It's a holiday: no work; my friend will be locked up.
+    Can't leave him in the lurch. It will have to be next day, July
+    5th. It's only three days more. I wish it was over; I can't bear
+    the worry and suspense any more. May it be my Independence Day!
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                             July 6.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    It's terrible. It's all over. Couldn't make it. Went there on
+    time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right on top of
+    the spot. Impossible to do anything. I warned you they were
+    building near there. I was seen at the wall--am now strictly
+    forbidden to leave the cell-house. But my friend has been there
+    a dozen times since--the hole can't be reached: a mountain of
+    stone hides it. It won't be discovered for a little while.
+    Telegraph at once to New York for more money. You must continue
+    to the shed. I can force my way there, if need be. It's the only
+    hope. Don't lose a minute.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            July 13.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    A hundred dollars was sent to the office for me from New York. I
+    told Chaplain it is for my appeal. I am sending the money to
+    you. Have work continued at once. There is still hope. Nothing
+    suspected. But the wire that you pushed through the grass to
+    indicate the spot, was not found by my friend. Too much stone
+    over it. Go to shed at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            July 16.
+
+    Tunnel discovered. Lose no time. Leave the city immediately. I
+    am locked up on suspicion.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII
+
+ANXIOUS DAYS
+
+
+The discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with the violence of an
+avalanche. The plan of continuing the work, the trembling hope of
+escape, of liberty, life--all is suddenly terminated. My nerves, tense
+with the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly. With torpid
+brain I wonder, "Is it possible, is it really possible?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+An air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills the prison. Vague
+rumors are afloat: a wholesale jail delivery had been planned, the walls
+were to be dynamited, the guards killed. An escape has actually taken
+place, it is whispered about. The Warden wears a look of bewilderment
+and fear; the officers are alert with suspicion. The inmates manifest
+disappointment and nervous impatience. The routine is violently
+disturbed: the shops are closed, the men locked in the cells.
+
+The discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and the city
+authorities. Some children, at play on the street, had accidentally
+wandered into the yard of the deserted house opposite the prison gates.
+The piles of freshly dug soil attracted their attention; a boy,
+stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the sight of the deep
+cavern; his mother notified the agent of the house, who, by a peculiar
+coincidence, proved to be an officer of the penitentiary. But in vain
+are the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any sign of the
+tunnel within the walls. Days pass in the fruitless investigation of the
+yard--the outlet of the tunnel within the prison cannot be found.
+Perhaps the underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary? The
+Warden voices his firm conviction that the walls have not been
+penetrated. Evidently it was not the prison, he argues, which was the
+objective point of the diggers. The authorities of the City of Allegheny
+decide to investigate the passage from the house on Sterling Street. But
+the men that essay to crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to
+abandon their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping gas. It is
+suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever their purpose, have been
+trapped in the abandoned gas well and perished before the arrival of
+aid. The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition of human
+bodies; the terrible accident has forced the inmates of 28 Sterling
+Street to suspend their efforts before completing the work. The
+condition of the house--the half-eaten meal on the table, the clothing
+scattered about the rooms, the general disorder--all seem to point to
+precipitate flight.
+
+The persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident disquiets me, in
+spite of my knowledge to the contrary. Yet, perhaps the reckless Tony,
+in his endeavor to force the wire signal through the upper crust,
+perished in the well. The thought unnerves me with horror, till it is
+announced that a negro, whom the police had induced to crawl the length
+of the tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was sacrificed in
+the underground work. Still the prison authorities are unable to find
+the objective point, and it is finally decided to tear up the streets
+beneath which the tunnel winds its mysterious way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The undermined place inside the walls at last being discovered after a
+week of digging at various points in the yard, the Warden reluctantly
+admits the apparent purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing
+the press that the evident design was the liberation of the Anarchist
+prisoner. He corroborates his view by the circumstance that I had been
+reported for unpermitted presence at the east wall, pretending to
+collect gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hopkins further
+asserts having seen and talked with Carl Nold near the "criminal" house,
+a short time before the discovery of the tunnel. The developments,
+fraught with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. Fortunately, no
+clew can be found in the house, save a note in cipher which apparently
+defies the skill of experts. The Warden, on his Sunday rounds, passes my
+cell, then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. "Here, Berkman,"
+he says blandly, producing a paper, "the press is offering a
+considerable reward to any one who will decipher the note found in the
+Sterling Street house. It's reproduced here. See if you can't make it
+out." I scan the paper carefully, quickly reading Tony's directions for
+my movements after the escape. Then, returning the paper, I remark
+indifferently, "I can read several languages, Captain, but this is
+beyond me."
+
+The police and detective bureaus of the twin cities make the
+announcement that a thorough investigation conclusively demonstrates
+that the tunnel was intended for William Boyd, a prisoner serving twelve
+years for a series of daring forgeries. His "pals" had succeeded in
+clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and it is they who did
+the wonderful feat underground, to secure the liberty of the valuable
+penman. The controversy between the authorities of Allegheny and the
+management of the prison is full of animosity and bitterness. Wardens of
+prisons, chiefs of police, and detective departments of various cities
+are consulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and the
+discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic. Presently the chief
+of police of Allegheny suffers a change of heart, and sides with the
+Warden, as against his personal enemy, the head of the Pittsburgh
+detective bureau. The confusion of published views, and my persistent
+denial of complicity in the tunnel, cause the much-worried Warden to
+fluctuate. A number of men are made the victims of his mental
+uncertainty. Following my exile into solitary, Pat McGraw is locked up
+as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. In 1890 he had slipped
+through the roof of the prison, the Warden argues, and it is therefore
+reasonable to assume that the man is meditating another delivery. Jack
+Robinson, Cronin, "Nan," and a score of others, are in turn suspected by
+Captain Wright, and ordered locked up during the preliminary
+investigation. But because of absolute lack of clews the prisoners are
+presently returned to work, and the number of "suspects" is reduced to
+myself and Boyd, the Warden having discovered that the latter had
+recently made an attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola
+of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place useless for his
+purpose.
+
+A process of elimination and the espionage of the trusties gradually
+center exclusive suspicion upon myself. In surprise I learn that young
+Russell has been cited before the Captain. The fear of indiscretion on
+the part of the boy startles me from my torpor. I must employ every
+device to confound the authorities and save my friends. Fortunately none
+of the tunnelers have yet been arrested, the controversy between the
+city officials and the prison management having favored inaction. My
+comrades cannot be jeopardized by Russell. His information is limited
+to the mere knowledge of the specific person for whom the tunnel was
+intended; the names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar to him. My
+heart goes out to the young prisoner, as I reflect that never once had
+he manifested curiosity concerning the men at the secret work. Desperate
+with confinement, and passionately yearning for liberty though he was,
+he had yet offered to sacrifice his longings to aid my escape. How
+transported with joy was the generous youth when I resolved to share my
+opportunity with him! He had given faithful service in attempting to
+locate the tunnel entrance; the poor boy had been quite distracted at
+our failure to find the spot. I feel confident Russell will not betray
+the secret in his keeping. Yet the persistent questioning by the Warden
+and Inspectors is perceptibly working on the boy's mind. He is so young
+and inexperienced--barely nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent
+remark, might convert suspicion into conviction.
+
+Every day Russell is called to the office, causing me torments of
+apprehension and dread, till a glance at the returning prisoner, smiling
+encouragingly as he passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past
+for the day. With a deep pang, I observe the increasing pallor of his
+face, the growing restlessness in his eyes, the languid step. The
+continuous inquisition is breaking him down. With quivering voice he
+whispers as he passes, "Aleck, I'm afraid of them." The Warden has
+threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in his pretended ignorance
+of the tunnel. His friendship for me is well known, the Warden reasons;
+we have often been seen together in the cell-house and yard; I must
+surely have confided to Russell my plans of escape. The big, strapping
+youth is dwindling to a shadow under the terrible strain. Dear,
+faithful friend! How guilty I feel toward you, how torn in my inmost
+heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that brief instant when,
+in a panic of fear, you had denied to the Warden all knowledge of the
+slip of paper found in your cell. It cast suspicion upon me as the
+writer of the strange Jewish scrawl. The Warden scorned my explanation
+that Russell's desire to learn Hebrew was the sole reason for my writing
+the alphabet for him. The mutual denial seemed to point to some secret;
+the scrawl was similar to the cipher note found in the Sterling Street
+house, the Warden insisted. How strange that I should have so
+successfully confounded the Inspectors with the contradictory testimony
+regarding the tunnel, that they returned me to my position on the range.
+And yet the insignificant incident of Russell's hieroglyphic imitation
+of the Hebrew alphabet should have given the Warden a pretext to order
+me into solitary! How distracted and bitter I must have felt to charge
+the boy with treachery! His very reticence strengthened my suspicion,
+and all the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the innocent
+lad beyond speech. How little I suspected the terrible wound my hasty
+imputation had caused my devoted friend! In silence he suffered for
+months, without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere accident,
+I learned the fatal mistake.
+
+In vain I strive to direct my thoughts into different channels. My
+misunderstanding of Russell plagues me with recurring persistence; the
+unjust accusation torments my sleepless nights. It was a moment of
+intense joy that I experienced as I humbly begged his pardon to-day,
+when I met him in the Captain's office. A deep sense of relief, almost
+of peace, filled me at his unhesitating, "Oh, never mind, Aleck, it's
+all right; we were both excited." I was overcome by thankfulness and
+admiration of the noble boy, and the next instant the sight of his wan
+face, his wasted form, pierced me as with a knife-thrust. With the
+earnest conviction of strong faith I sought to explain to the Board of
+Inspectors the unfortunate error regarding the Jewish writing. But they
+smiled doubtfully. It was too late: their opinion of a prearranged
+agreement with Russell was settled. But the testimony of Assistant
+Deputy Hopkins that he had seen and conversed with Nold a few weeks
+before the discovery of the tunnel, and that he saw him enter the
+"criminal" house, afforded me an opportunity to divide the views among
+the Inspectors. I experienced little difficulty in convincing two
+members of the Board that Nold could not possibly have been connected
+with the tunnel, because for almost a year previously, and since, he had
+been in the employ of a St. Louis firm. They accepted my offer to prove
+by the official time-tables of the company that Nold was in St. Louis on
+the very day that Hopkins claimed to have spoken with him. The fortunate
+and very natural error of Hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance of
+Tony for that of Carl, enabled me to discredit the chief link connecting
+my friends with the tunnel. The diverging views of the police officials
+of the twin cities still further confounded the Inspectors, and I was
+gravely informed by them that the charge of attempted escape against me
+had not been conclusively substantiated. They ordered my reinstatement
+as rangeman, but the Captain, on learning the verdict, at once charged
+me before the Board with conducting a secret correspondence with
+Russell. On the pretext of the alleged Hebrew note, the Inspectors
+confirmed the Warden's judgment, and I was sentenced to the solitary and
+immediately locked up in the South Wing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII
+
+"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM"
+
+
+I
+
+The solitary is stifling with the August heat. The hall windows, high
+above the floor, cast a sickly light, shrouding the bottom range in
+darksome gloom. At every point, my gaze meets the irritating white of
+the walls, in spots yellow with damp. The long days are oppressive with
+silence; the stone cage echoes my languid footsteps mournfully.
+
+Once more I feel cast into the night, torn from the midst of the living.
+The failure of the tunnel forever excludes the hope of liberty.
+Terrified by the possibilities of the planned escape, the Warden's
+determination dooms my fate. I shall end my days in strictest seclusion,
+he has informed me. Severe punishment is visited upon any one daring to
+converse with me; even officers are forbidden to pause at my cell. Old
+Evans, the night guard, is afraid even to answer my greeting, since he
+was disciplined with the loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my
+door. It was not his fault, poor old man. The night was sultry; the
+sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were tightly closed. Almost
+suffocated with the foul air, I requested the passing Evans to raise the
+window. It had been ordered shut by the Warden, he informed me. As he
+turned to leave, three sharp raps on the bars of the upper rotunda
+almost rooted him to the spot with amazement. It was 2 A. M. No one was
+supposed to be there at night. "Come here, Evans!" I recognized the curt
+tones of the Warden. "What business have you at that man's door?" I
+could distinctly hear each word, cutting the stillness of the night. In
+vain the frightened officer sought to explain: he had merely answered a
+question, he had stopped but a moment. "I've been watching you there for
+half an hour," the irate Warden insisted. "Report to me in the morning."
+
+Since then the guards on their rounds merely glance between the bars,
+and pass on in silence. I have been removed within closer observation of
+the nightly prowling Captain, and am now located near the rotunda, in
+the second cell on the ground floor, Range Y. The stringent orders of
+exceptional surveillance have so terrorized my friends that they do not
+venture to look in my direction. A special officer has been assigned to
+the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to keep me under observation. I
+feel buried alive. Communication with my comrades has been interrupted,
+the Warden detaining my mail. I am deprived of books and papers, all my
+privileges curtailed. If only I had my birds! The company of my little
+pets would give me consolation. But they have been taken from me, and I
+fear the guards have killed them. Deprived of work and exercise I pass
+the days in the solitary, monotonous, interminable.
+
+
+II
+
+By degrees anxiety over my friends is allayed. The mystery of the tunnel
+remains unsolved. The Warden reiterates his moral certainty that the
+underground passage was intended for the liberation of the Anarchist
+prisoner. The views of the police and detective officials of the twin
+cities are hopelessly divergent. Each side asserts thorough familiarity
+with the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty parties. But
+the alleged clews proving misleading, the matter is finally abandoned.
+The passage has been filled with cement, and the official investigation
+is terminated.
+
+The safety of my comrades sheds a ray of light into the darkness of my
+existence. It is consoling to reflect that, disastrous as the failure is
+to myself, my friends will not be made victims of my longing for
+liberty. At no time since the discovery of the tunnel has suspicion been
+directed to the right persons. The narrow official horizon does not
+extend beyond the familiar names of the Girl, Nold, and Bauer. These
+have been pointed at by the accusing finger repeatedly, but the men
+actually concerned in the secret attempt have not even been mentioned.
+No danger threatens them from the failure of my plans. In a
+communication to a local newspaper, Nold has incontrovertibly proved his
+continuous residence in St. Louis for a period covering a year previous
+to the tunnel and afterwards. Bauer has recently married; at no time
+have the police been in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware
+that my former fellow-prisoner is to be discounted as a participator in
+the attempted escape. Indeed, the prison officials must have learned
+from my mail that the big German is regarded by my friends as an
+ex-comrade merely. But the suspicion of the authorities directed toward
+the Girl--with a pang of bitterness, I think of her unfortunate absence
+from the country during the momentous period of the underground work.
+With resentment I reflect that but for that I might now be at liberty!
+Her skill as an organizer, her growing influence in the movement, her
+energy and devotion, would have assured the success of the undertaking.
+But Tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure without
+learning of my plans. It is to him, to his obstinacy and conceit, that
+the failure of the project is mostly due, staunch and faithful though he
+is.
+
+In turn I lay the responsibility at the door of this friend and that,
+lashing myself into furious rage at the renegade who had appropriated a
+considerable sum of the money intended for the continuation of the
+underground work. Yet the outbursts of passion spent, I strive to find
+consolation in the correctness of the intuitive judgment that prompted
+the selection of my "lawyers," the devoted comrades who so heroically
+toiled for my sake in the bowels of the earth. Half-naked they had
+labored through the weary days and nights, stretched at full length in
+the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring and chilled in turn, their
+hands bleeding with the terrible toil. And through the weeks and months
+of nerve-racking work and confinement in the tunnel, of constant dread
+of detection and anxiety over the result, my comrades had uttered no
+word of doubt or fear, in full reliance upon their invisible friend.
+What self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had never even
+known! Dear, beloved comrades, had you succeeded, my life could never
+repay your almost superhuman efforts and love. Only the future years of
+active devotion to our great common Cause could in a measure express my
+thankfulness and pride in you, whoever, wherever you are. Nor were your
+heroism, your skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail. You
+have given an invaluable demonstration of the elemental reality of the
+Ideal, of the marvelous strength and courage born of solidaric purpose,
+of the heights devotion to a great Cause can ascend. And the lesson has
+not been lost. Almost unanimous is the voice of the press--only
+Anarchists could have achieved the wonderful feat!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind. How little thought I had
+given to my comrades, toiling underground, in the anxious days of my own
+apprehension and suspense! With increasing vividness I visualize their
+trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the herculean efforts in
+spite of ever-present danger. How terrible must have been _their_
+despair at the inability to continue the work to a successful
+termination!...
+
+My reflections fill me with renewed strength. I must live! I must live
+to meet those heroic men, to take them by the hand, and with silent lips
+pour my heart into their eyes. I shall be proud of their comradeship,
+and strive to be worthy of it.
+
+
+III
+
+The lines form in the hallway, and silently march to the shops. I peer
+through the bars, for the sight of a familiar face brings cheer, and the
+memory of the days on the range. Many friends, unseen for years, pass by
+my cell. How Big Jack has wasted! The deep chest is sunk in, the face
+drawn and yellow, with reddish spots about the cheekbones. Poor Jack, so
+strong and energetic, how languid and weak his step is now! And Jimmy is
+all broken up with rheumatism, and hops on crutches. With difficulty I
+recognize Harry Fisher. The two years have completely changed the young
+Morganza boy. He looks old at seventeen, the rosy cheeks a ghastly
+white, the delicate features immobile, hard, the large bright eyes dull
+and glassy. Vividly my friends stand before me in the youth and strength
+of their first arrival. How changed their appearance! My poor chums,
+readers of the _Prison Blossoms_, helpers in our investigation efforts,
+what wrecks the torture of hell has made of you! I recall with sadness
+the first years of my imprisonment, and my coldly impersonal valuation
+of social victims. There is Evans, the aged burglar, smiling furtively
+at me from the line. Far in the distance seems the day when I read his
+marginal note upon a magazine article I sent him, concerning the
+stupendous cost of crime. I had felt quite piqued at the flippancy of
+his comment, "We come high, but they must have us." With the severe
+intellectuality of revolutionary tradition, I thought of him and his
+kind as inevitable fungus growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying
+society. Unfortunate derelicts, indeed, yet parasites, almost devoid of
+humanity. But the threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by
+common misery. The touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the
+criminal; the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of
+kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart. Old Evans and
+Sammy and Bob,--what suffering and pain must have chilled their fiery
+souls with the winter of savage bitterness! And the resurrection
+trembles within! How terrible man's ignorance, that forever condemns
+itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! And these my friends, Davis
+and Russell, these innocently guilty,--what worse punishment could
+society inflict upon itself, than the loss of their latent nobility
+which it had killed?... Not entirely in vain are the years of suffering
+that have wakened my kinship with the humanity of _les misérables_, whom
+social stupidity has cast into the valley of death.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX
+
+A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE
+
+
+I
+
+My new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different channel. It is
+"Fighting" Tom, returned after several years of absence. By means of a
+string attached to a wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and
+Tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the
+mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival in the
+penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he informs me, and I was to
+be "let in," by his recommendation. But one of the conspirators getting
+"cold feet," the plot was betrayed to the Warden, whereupon Tom "sent
+the snitch to the hospital." As a result, however, he was kept in
+solitary till his release. In the prison he had become proficient as a
+broom-maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. There was
+nothing in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to be honest.
+But on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers
+from Illinois on an old charge. He swore vengeance against Assistant
+Deputy Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark
+that he would never return to Illinois, because he was "wanted" there.
+He lived the five years in the Joliet prison in the sole hope of
+"getting square" with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon his
+release, he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to kill Hopkins. On the
+night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to
+avenge his wrongs. But the Assistant Deputy had left the previous day on
+his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about to set fire to the
+house, when the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the
+bureau of the bedroom. It fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off
+it. Suddenly he was seized with the desire to examine the contents of
+the house. The old passion was upon him. He could not resist. Hardly
+conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth,
+and quietly stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day, as he
+was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender, he received a sentence of
+ten years. Since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in
+solitary. His health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his
+sentence. But if he is to die--he swears--he is going to take "his man"
+along.
+
+Aware of the determination of "Fighting" Tom, I realize that the safety
+of the hated officer is conditioned by Tom's lack of opportunity to
+carry out his revenge. I feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose
+craftiness in worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the
+pay-roll of the Pinkerton agency; but I exert myself to persuade Tom
+that it would be sheer insanity thus deliberately to put his head in the
+noose. He is still a young man; barely thirty. It is not worth while
+sacrificing his life for a sneak of a guard.
+
+However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments seem merely to rouse his
+resistance, and strengthen his resolution. But closer acquaintance
+reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a
+second-story expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of
+his plans of revenge. Would it not be more in conformity with his
+reputation as a skilled "gun," I argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother"
+manner? Tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more
+interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the
+suggestion of "a break." Once outside, well--"I'll get 'im all right,"
+he chuckles.
+
+
+II
+
+The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate nights we take
+turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the Night
+Captain, the opening of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly
+insignificant, yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. Many obstacles
+bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them.
+Tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. I realize the desperation
+of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in the
+solitary. It is the last resort.
+
+With utmost care we make our preparations. The summer is long past; the
+dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. We hasten to complete all
+details, in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. The
+time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date. But Tom's state
+of mind fills me with apprehension. He has become taciturn of late.
+Yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my
+signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my
+last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally a heavy groan issues from
+his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay
+awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the
+cause of the groaning. But my attempts to speak to the officers are
+ignored. The next morning I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his
+cell, and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night.
+
+
+III
+
+The peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind. Was it suicide or
+accident? Tom had been weakened by long confinement; in some manner he
+may have ruptured a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. It is
+hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt.
+Yet certain references in his notes of late, ignored at the time, assume
+new significance. He was apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was
+"after him." Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety.
+He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had laughed the matter away, familiar
+with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. Close confinement exerts
+a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are especially
+predisposed to auto-suggestion; Young Sid used to manifest every symptom
+of the diseases he read about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was
+responsible for his death. Spencer, too, had committed suicide a month
+before his release, in the firm conviction that the Warden would not
+permit his discharge. It may be that in a sudden fit of despondency, Tom
+had ended his life. Perhaps I could have saved my friend: I did not
+realize how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself
+threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible struggle that must
+have been going on in his tortured heart! Yet we were so intimate; I
+believed I understood his every feeling and emotion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news from the Girl about
+Bresci's execution of the King of Italy rouses little interest in me.
+Bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shot before the
+palace for humbly begging bread. He did well, and the agitation
+resulting from his act may advance the Cause. But it will have no
+bearing on my fate. The last hope of escape has departed with my poor
+friend. I am doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in prison,
+but the comrades will eulogize him and his act, and continue their
+efforts to regenerate the world. Yet I feel that the individual, in
+certain cases, is of more direct and immediate consequence than
+humanity. What is the latter but the aggregate of individual
+existences--and shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed for
+the metaphysical collectivity? Here, all around me, a thousand
+unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary, forsaken by God and
+man. They bleed and struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a
+little sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How helped amid the
+injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons?
+And so we must suffer and suicide, and countless others after us, till
+the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history
+of true humanity,--and meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long,
+dreary road.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Bereft of the last hope of freedom, I grow indifferent to life. The
+monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. My whole being
+longs for rest. Rest, no more to awaken. The world will not miss me. An
+atom of matter, I shall return to endless space. Everything will pursue
+its wonted course, but I shall know no more of the bitter struggle and
+strife. My friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over, and
+continue on their way. And new Brescis will arise, and more kings will
+fall, and then all, friend and enemy, will go my way, and new
+generations will be born and die, and humanity and the world be whirled
+into space and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and
+the same history and the same facts will come and go, the playthings of
+cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever.
+
+How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how small and puny
+life and all its pain and travail!... With eyes closed, I behold myself
+suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings
+gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,--just like
+Pasquale, when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine, some months
+ago. A few twitches, and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid,
+my body rigid; slowly it cools. The night guard passes. "What's this,
+eh?" He rings the rotunda bell. Keys clang; the lever is drawn, and my
+door unlocked. An officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the
+bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against the iron
+bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side; I feel his hand over my heart.
+Now he rises.
+
+"Good job, Doc?" I recognize the Deputy's voice.
+
+The physician nods.
+
+"Damn glad of it," Hopkins sneers.
+
+The Warden enters, a grin on his parchment face. With an oath I spring
+to my feet. In terror the officers rush from the cell. "Ah, I fooled
+you, didn't I, you murderers!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers of life. It engenders
+defiance, and strengthens stubborn resistance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL
+
+DONE TO DEATH
+
+
+I
+
+In my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a faint memory,
+unreal and dim. The deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me
+from the living. Letters from my comrades have become rare and
+irregular; they sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life of the
+prison is also receding; no communication reaches me from my friends.
+"Pious" John, the rangeman, is unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will
+from the days of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I
+tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough, apprising me of
+the "stiff" he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file
+of prisoners marches past my door. He looks pale and haggard, the old
+buoyant step now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension pervades his
+notes. He is constantly harassed by the officers, he writes; his task
+has been increased; he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining.
+In the broken sentences, I sense some vague misgiving, as of impending
+calamity.
+
+With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I live through the
+hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship, the days of
+terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project. My heart goes out to
+the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the
+safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship possesses
+me. In the gnawing loneliness, his face floats before me, casting the
+spell of a friendly presence, his strong features softened by sorrow,
+his eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of "Little Felipe." A
+peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy; I look forward
+eagerly to his notes. Impatiently I scan the faces in the passing line,
+wistful for the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his
+fleeting smile.
+
+How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The hours are weary with silence
+and solitude. Listlessly I turn the pages of my library book. If only I
+had the birds! I should find solace in their thoughtful eyes: Dick and
+Sis would understand and feel with me. But my poor little friends have
+disappeared; only Russell remains. My only friend! I shall not see him
+when he returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite
+side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked
+for work, I shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the
+dear boy will have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted: his
+correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to
+cheer me with the good news: another day is gone, his sentence is
+nearing its end; he will at once secure a position, and save every penny
+to aid in my release. Tacitly I concur in his ardent hope,--it would
+break his heart to be disillusioned.
+
+
+II
+
+The passing weeks and months bring no break in the dreary monotony. The
+call of the robin on the river bank rouses no echo in my heart. No sign
+of awakening spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the
+solitary. The dampness of the cell is piercing my bones; every movement
+racks my body with pain. My eyes are tortured with the eternal white of
+the walls. Sombre shadows brood around me.
+
+I long for a bit of sunshine. I wait patiently at the door: perhaps it
+is clear to-day. My cell faces west; may be the setting sun will steal a
+glance upon me. For hours I stand with naked breast close to the bars: I
+must not miss a friendly ray; it may suddenly peep into the cell and
+turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. Now a bright beam plays on my
+neck and shoulders, and I press closer to the door to welcome the dear
+stranger. He caresses me with soft touch,--perhaps it is the soul of
+little Dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song of light,--or
+may be the astral aura of my beloved Uncle Maxim, bringing warmth and
+hope. Sweet conceit of Oriental thought, barren of joy in life.... The
+sun is fading. It feels chilly in the twilight,--and now the solitary is
+once more bleak and cold.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more
+assertive in Russell's letter. The boy is jubilant and full of vitality:
+within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of
+sadness at leaving me behind permeates his communications, but he is
+enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty.
+
+Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting, as he passes in the
+line. This morning I saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in
+sign of the remaining "two and a stump." A joyous light is in his eyes,
+his step firmer, more elastic.
+
+But in the afternoon he is missing from the line. With sudden
+apprehension I wonder at his absence. Could I have overlooked him in the
+closely walking ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained
+in the cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious; he will surely
+be in line to-morrow.
+
+For three days, every morning and afternoon, I anxiously scrutinize the
+faces of the passing men; but Russell is not among them. His absence
+torments me with a thousand fears. May be the Warden has renewed his
+inquisition of the boy--perhaps he got into a fight in the shop--in the
+dungeon now--he'll lose his commutation time.... Unable to bear the
+suspense, I am about to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner
+surreptitiously hands me a note.
+
+With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold handwriting in the uneven,
+nervous scrawl. Russell is in the hospital! At work in the shop, he
+writes, he had suffered a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward
+for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of
+shamming to evade work. They threaten to have him returned to the shop,
+and he implores me to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak
+and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the cell in his
+present condition fills him with horror.
+
+I send an urgent request to see the Chaplain. But the guard informs me
+that Mr. Milligan is absent; he is not expected at the office till the
+following week. I prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred
+to the South Block, to deliver a note to the Warden, in which I appeal
+on behalf of Russell. But several days pass, and still no reply from
+Captain Wright. Finally I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford
+Frank, the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. As
+the "medicine boy" pours the prescribed pint of "horse salts" through
+the funnel inserted between the bars, I hastily inquire:
+
+"Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he?"
+
+"What Russell?" he asks indifferently.
+
+"Russell Schroyer, put four days ago under observation,"
+
+"Oh, that poor kid! Why, he is paralyzed."
+
+For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it cannot be. Some
+mistake.
+
+"Frank, I mean young Schroyer, from the construction shop. He's Number
+2608."
+
+"Your friend Russell; I know who you mean. I'm sorry for the boy. He is
+paralyzed, all right."
+
+"But.... No, it can't be! Why, Frank, it was just a chill and a little
+weakness."
+
+"Look here, Aleck. I know you're square, and you can keep a secret all
+right. I'll tell you something if you won't give me away."
+
+"Yes, yes, Frank. What is it?"
+
+"Sh--sh. You know Flem, the night nurse? Doing a five spot for murder.
+His father and the Warden are old cronies. That's how he got to be
+nurse; don't know a damn thing about it, an' careless as hell. Always
+makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for Russell. Now don't
+ever say I told you. Flem got the wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some
+acid in the injection. Paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at the faint hope
+that it cannot be--some mistake--perhaps Frank has exaggerated. But in
+the morning the "medicine boy" confirms my worst fears: the doctor has
+said the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation: there is
+something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes; he is unable to move
+them, and suffers great pain. It can't be fever, he thinks; but the
+physician will not tell him what is the matter....
+
+The kindly Frank is sympathetic; every day he passes notes between us,
+and I try to encourage Russell. He will improve, I assure him; his time
+is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem
+to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he
+learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. His notes grow piteous with
+misery. Tears fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry, "Oh, Aleck, I
+am so young. I don't want to die." He implores me to visit him; if I
+could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. He distrusts
+the convict attendants who harry and banter the country lad; their
+heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. Exasperated
+by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday threw a saucer at
+him. He was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed
+youth to the dungeon. Plagued and tormented, in great suffering, Russell
+grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and officers are persecuting
+him, he writes; they will soon do him to death, if I will not come to
+his rescue. If he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to
+recover.
+
+Every evening Frank brings sadder news: Russell is feeling worse; he is
+so nervous, the doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the
+doors in the ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of
+slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws Russell into
+convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports; decomposition has already
+set in. The boy is in terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain,
+and calling for me.
+
+Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, I resolve
+upon a way to visit the hospital. In the morning, as the guard hands me
+the bread ration and shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and
+door. With an involuntary cry I withdraw my maimed and bleeding
+fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary. By tacit permission
+of the friendly "medicine boy" I pass to the second floor, where the
+wards are located, and quickly steal to Russell's bedside. The look of
+mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand.
+"Oh, dear Aleck," he whispers, "I'm so glad they let you come. I'll get
+well if you'll nurse me." The shadow of death is in his eyes; the body
+exudes decomposition. Bereft of speech, I gently press his white,
+emaciated hand. The weary eyes close, and the boy falls into slumber.
+Silently I touch his dry lips, and steal away.
+
+In the afternoon I appeal to the Warden to permit me to nurse my friend.
+It is the boy's dying wish; it will ease his last hours. The Captain
+refers me to the Inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be
+subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon I ask permission
+to arrange a collection among the prisoners: Russell firmly believes
+that he would improve in an outside hospital, and the Pardon Board might
+grant the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate
+subscription lists among the inmates, and two years previously I had
+collected a hundred and twenty-three dollars for the pardon of a
+lifetimer. But the Warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is
+dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I suggest the Chaplain
+for the mission, or some prisoner selected by the authorities. But this
+offer is also vetoed, the Warden berating me for having taken advantage
+of my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely, and
+threatening to punish me with the dungeon. I plead with him for
+permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence,
+and constantly calling for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the
+Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he informs me, on
+condition that a guard be present at the meeting. For a moment I
+hesitate. The desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of
+irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform; but I cannot expose
+the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by my refusal,
+perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel
+from the visit, the Warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks very grave, as he
+whispers:
+
+"Aleck, you must bear up."
+
+"Russell--?"
+
+"Yes, Aleck."
+
+"Worse? Tell me, Frank."
+
+"He is dead. Bear up, Aleck. His last thought was of you. He was
+unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end--it was 9.33--he sat
+up in bed so suddenly, he frightened me. His arm shot out, and he cried,
+'Good bye, Aleck.'"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI
+
+THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO
+
+
+I
+
+                                                      July 10, 1901.
+
+    DEAR GIRL:
+
+    This is from the hospital, _sub rosa_. Just out of the
+    strait-jacket, after eight days.
+
+    For over a year I was in the strictest solitary; for a long time
+    mail and reading matter were denied me. I have no words to
+    describe the horror of the last months.... I have passed through
+    a great crisis. Two of my best friends died in a frightful
+    manner. The death of Russell, especially, affected me. He was
+    very young, and my dearest and most devoted friend, and he died
+    a terrible death. The doctor charged the boy with shamming, but
+    now he says it was spinal meningitis. I cannot tell you the
+    awful truth,--it was nothing short of murder, and my poor friend
+    rotted away by inches. When he died they found his back one mass
+    of bedsores. If you could read the pitiful letters he wrote,
+    begging to see me, and to be nursed by me! But the Warden
+    wouldn't permit it. In some manner his agony seemed to affect
+    me, and I began to experience the pains and symptoms that
+    Russell described in his notes. I knew it was my sick fancy; I
+    strove against it, but presently my legs showed signs of
+    paralysis, and I suffered excruciating pain in the spinal
+    column, just like Russell. I was afraid that I would be done to
+    death like my poor friend. I grew suspicious of every guard, and
+    would barely touch the food, for fear of its being poisoned. My
+    "head was workin'," they said. And all the time I knew it was my
+    diseased imagination, and I was in terror of going mad.... I
+    tried so hard to fight it, but it would always creep up, and get
+    hold of me stronger and stronger. Another week of solitary would
+    have killed me.
+
+    I was on the verge of suicide. I demanded to be relieved from
+    the cell, and the Warden ordered me punished. I was put in the
+    strait-jacket. They bound my body in canvas, strapped my arms to
+    the bed, and chained my feet to the posts. I was kept that way
+    eight days, unable to move, rotting in my own excrement.
+    Released prisoners called the attention of our new Inspector to
+    my case. He refused to believe that such things were being done
+    in the penitentiary. Reports spread that I was going blind and
+    insane. Then the Inspector visited the hospital and had me
+    released from the jacket.
+
+    I am in pretty bad shape, but they put me in the general ward
+    now, and I am glad of the chance to send you this note.
+
+                                                              Sasha.
+
+
+II
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                    July 25th, 1901.
+
+    DEAR SONYA:
+
+    I cannot tell you how happy I am to be allowed to write to you
+    again. My privileges have been restored by our new Inspector, a
+    very kindly man. He has relieved me from the cell, and now I am
+    again on the range. The Inspector requested me to deny to my
+    friends the reports which have recently appeared in the papers
+    concerning my condition. I have not been well of late, but now I
+    hope to improve. My eyes are very poor. The Inspector has given
+    me permission to have a specialist examine them. Please arrange
+    for it through our local comrades.
+
+    There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A new
+    commutation law has been passed, which reduces my sentence by
+    2-1/2 years. It still leaves me a long time, of course; almost 4
+    years here, and another year to the workhouse. However, it is a
+    considerable gain, and if I should not get into solitary again,
+    I may--I am almost afraid to utter the thought--I may live to
+    come out. I feel as if I am being resurrected.
+
+    The new law benefits the short-timers proportionately much more
+    than the men with longer sentences. Only the poor lifers do not
+    share in it. We were very anxious for a while, as there were
+    many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional.
+    Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved
+    ineffectual. Think of men who will see something
+    unconstitutional in allowing the prisoners a little more good
+    time than the commutation statute of 40 years ago. As if a
+    little kindness to the unfortunates--really justice--is
+    incompatible with the spirit of Jefferson! We were greatly
+    worried over the fate of this statute, but at last the first
+    batch has been released, and there is much rejoicing over it.
+
+    There is a peculiar history about this new law, which may
+    interest you; it sheds a significant side light. It was
+    especially designed for the benefit of a high Federal officer
+    who was recently convicted of aiding two wealthy Philadelphia
+    tobacco manufacturers to defraud the government of a few
+    millions, by using counterfeit tax stamps. Their influence
+    secured the introduction of the commutation bill and its hasty
+    passage. The law would have cut their sentences almost in two,
+    but certain newspapers seem to have taken offence at having been
+    kept in ignorance of the "deal," and protests began to be
+    voiced. The matter finally came up before the Attorney General
+    of the United States, who decided that the men in whose special
+    interest the law was engineered, could not benefit by it,
+    because a State law does not affect U. S. prisoners, the latter
+    being subject to the Federal commutation act. Imagine the
+    discomfiture of the politicians! An attempt was even made to
+    suspend the operation of the statute. Fortunately it failed, and
+    now the "common" State prisoners, who were not at all meant to
+    profit, are being released. The legislature has unwittingly
+    given some unfortunates here much happiness.
+
+    I was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a
+    visit. I could hardly credit it: the first comrade I have been
+    allowed to see in nine years! It was Harry Gordon, and I was so
+    overcome by the sight of the dear friend, I could barely speak.
+    He must have prevailed upon the new Inspector to issue a permit.
+    The latter is now Acting Warden, owing to the serious illness of
+    Captain Wright. Perhaps he will allow me to see my sister. Will
+    you kindly communicate with her at once? Meantime I shall try to
+    secure a pass. With renewed hope, and always with green memory
+    of you,
+
+                                                               Alex.
+
+
+III
+
+                                                       _Sub Rosa_,
+                                                      Dec. 20, 1901.
+
+    DEAREST GIRL:
+
+    I know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected
+    you.... The sight of your face after all these years completely
+    unnerved me. I could not think, I could not speak. It was as if
+    all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the living, were
+    concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was dangling from
+    your watch chain.... I couldn't take my eyes off it, I couldn't
+    keep my hand from playing with it. It absorbed my whole
+    being.... And all the time I felt how nervous you were at my
+    silence, and I couldn't utter a word.
+
+    Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen each
+    other under the present conditions. It was lucky they did not
+    recognize you: they took you for my "sister," though I believe
+    your identity was suspected after you had left. You would surely
+    not have been permitted the visit, had the old Warden been here.
+    He was ill at the time. He never got over the shock of the
+    tunnel, and finally he has been persuaded by the prison
+    physician (who has secret aspirations to the Wardenship) that
+    the anxieties of his position are a menace to his advanced age.
+    Considerable dissatisfaction has also developed of late against
+    the Warden among the Inspectors. Well, he has resigned at last,
+    thank goodness! The prisoners have been praying for it for
+    years, and some of the boys on the range celebrated the event by
+    getting drunk on wood alcohol. The new Warden has just assumed
+    charge, and we hope for improvement. He is a physician by
+    profession, with the title of Major in the Pennsylvania militia.
+
+    It was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious
+    friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary worry
+    over my health, and my renewed persecution. You remember that in
+    July the new Inspector released me from the strait-jacket and
+    assigned me to work on the range. But I was locked up again in
+    October, after the McKinley incident. The President of the Board
+    of Inspectors was at the time in New York. He inquired by wire
+    what I was doing. Upon being informed that I was working on the
+    range, he ordered me into solitary. The new Warden, on assuming
+    office, sent for me. "They give you a bad reputation," he said;
+    "but I will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do
+    what is right by me." He spoke brusquely, in the manner of a man
+    closing a business deal, with the power of dictating terms. He
+    reminded me of Bismarck at Versailles. Yet he did not seem
+    unkind; the thought of escape was probably in his mind. But the
+    new law has germinated the hope of survival; my weakened
+    condition and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at
+    last decided me to abandon the idea of escape. I therefore
+    replied to the Warden: "I will do what is right by you, if you
+    treat _me_ right." Thereupon he assigned me to work on the
+    range. It is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the
+    cell-house after the close solitary.
+
+    And you, dear friend? In your letters I feel how terribly torn
+    you are by the events of the recent months. I lived in great
+    fear for your safety, and I can barely credit the good news that
+    you are at liberty. It seems almost a miracle.
+
+    I followed the newspapers with great anxiety. The whole country
+    seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. To a considerable
+    extent the press fanned the fires of persecution. Here in the
+    prison very little sincere grief was manifested. Out out of
+    hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary
+    remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner
+    corresponds to the average citizen--their patriotism is very
+    passive, except when stimulated by personal interest, or
+    artificially excited. But if the press mirrored the sentiment of
+    the people, the nation must have suddenly relapsed into
+    cannibalism. There were moments when I was in mortal dread for
+    your very life, and for the safety of the other arrested
+    comrades. In previous letters you hinted that it was official
+    rivalry and jealousy, and your absence from New York, to which
+    you owe your release. You may be right; yet I believe that your
+    attitude of proud self-respect and your admirable self-control
+    contributed much to the result. You were splendid, dear; and I
+    was especially moved by your remark that you would faithfully
+    nurse the wounded man, if he required your services, but that
+    the poor boy, condemned and deserted by all, needed and deserved
+    your sympathy and aid more than the president. More strikingly
+    than your letters, that remark discovered to me the great change
+    wrought in us by the ripening years. Yes, in us, in both, for my
+    heart echoed your beautiful sentiment. How impossible such a
+    thought would have been to us in the days of a decade ago! We
+    should have considered it treason to the spirit of revolution;
+    it would have outraged all our traditions even to admit the
+    humanity of an official representative of capitalism. Is it not
+    very significant that we two--you living in the very heart of
+    Anarchist thought and activity, and I in the atmosphere of
+    absolute suppression and solitude--should have arrived at the
+    same evolutionary point after a decade of divergent paths?
+
+    You have alluded in a recent letter to the ennobling and
+    broadening influence of sorrow. Yet not upon every one does it
+    exert a similar effect. Some natures grow embittered, and shrink
+    with the poison of misery. I often wonder at my lack of
+    bitterness and enmity, even against the old Warden--and surely I
+    have good cause to hate him. Is it because of greater maturity?
+    I rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. The love of
+    the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days, vital
+    as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than
+    emotional. Fortunately so, I think. For those like Fedya and
+    Lewis and Pauline, and numerous others, soon have their
+    emotionally inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of
+    the social protestant. Only aspirations that spontaneously leap
+    from the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic
+    forces. The revolutionist is born. Beneath our love and hatred
+    of former days lay inherent rebellion, and the passionate desire
+    for liberty and life.
+
+    In the long years of isolation I have looked deeply into my
+    heart. With open mind and sincere purpose, I have revised every
+    emotion and every thought. Away from my former atmosphere and
+    the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil, I have divested
+    myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. I have studied
+    the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life, and pondered
+    over human destiny. For weeks and months I would be absorbed in
+    the domain of "pure reason," or discuss with Leibnitz the
+    question of free will, and seek to penetrate, beyond Spencer,
+    into the Unknowable. Political science and economics, law and
+    criminology--I studied them with unprejudiced mind, and sought
+    to slacken my soul's thirst by delving deeply into religion and
+    theology, seeking the "Key to Life" at the feet of Mrs. Eddy,
+    expectantly listening for the voice of disembodied, studying
+    Koreshanity and Theosophy, absorbing the _prana_ of knowledge
+    and power, and concentrating upon the wisdom of the Yogi. And
+    after years of contemplation and study, chastened by much
+    sorrow and suffering, I arise from the broken fetters of the
+    world's folly and delusions, to behold the threshold of a new
+    life of liberty and equality. My youth's ideal of a free
+    humanity in the vague future has become clarified and
+    crystallized into the living truth of Anarchy, as the sustaining
+    elemental force of my every-day existence.
+
+    Often I have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom dear
+    at the price of enthusiasm? At 30 one is not so reckless, not so
+    fanatical and one-sided as at 20. With maturity we become more
+    universal; but life is a Shylock that cannot be cheated of his
+    due. For every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound or a scar
+    to show. We grow broader; but too often the heart contracts as
+    the mind expands, and the fires are burning down while we are
+    learning. At such moments my mind would revert to the days when
+    the momentarily expected approach of the Social Revolution
+    absorbed our exclusive interest. The raging present and its
+    conflicting currents passed us by, while our eyes were riveted
+    upon the Dawn, in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise. Life and
+    its manifold expressions were vexatious to the spirit of revolt;
+    and poetry, literature, and art were scorned as hindrances to
+    progress, unless they sounded the tocsin of immediate
+    revolution. Humanity was sharply divided in two warring
+    camps,--the noble People, the producers, who yearned for the
+    light of the new gospel, and the hated oppressors, the
+    exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that
+    was to give back to man his heritage. If only "the good People"
+    were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully
+    they would embrace Anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised
+    land!
+
+    The splendid naivety of the days that resented as a personal
+    reflection the least misgiving of the future; the enthusiasm
+    that discounted the power of inherent prejudice and
+    predilection! Magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the
+    hatred of oppression and the love of liberty! Woe indeed to the
+    man or the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of
+    Prometheus,--for it is youth that has climbed the heights....
+    But maturity has clarified the way, and the stupendous task of
+    human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified
+    vision of hearts that grow not cold.
+
+    And you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time, you
+    have yet happily kept your heart young. I have rejoiced at it
+    in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident
+    from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening
+    at Buffalo. I share your view entirely; for that very reason, it
+    is the more distressing to disagree with you in one very
+    important particular: the value of Leon's act. I know the
+    terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish
+    persecution to which you have been subjected. Worse than all
+    must have been to you the general lack of understanding for such
+    phenomena; and, sadder yet, the despicable attitude of some
+    would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. But I am
+    confident you will not mistake my expressed disagreement for
+    condemnation.
+
+    We need not discuss the phase of the _Attentat_ which manifested
+    the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest against
+    social wrong. Such phenomena are the natural result of evil
+    conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the river banks by
+    the swelling mountain torrents. But I cannot agree with you
+    regarding the social value of Leon's act.
+
+    I have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of his
+    inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the
+    rebellion of his soul. It throws a significant light upon the
+    causes of the _Attentat_. Indeed, it is at once the greatest
+    tragedy of martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of
+    society, that it forces the noblest men and women to shed human
+    blood, though their souls shrink from it. But the more
+    imperative it is that drastic methods of this character be
+    resorted to only as a last extremity. To prove of value, they
+    must be motived by social rather than individual necessity, and
+    be directed against a real and immediate enemy of the people.
+    The significance of such a deed is understood by the popular
+    mind--and in that alone is the propagandistic, educational
+    importance of an _Attentat_, except if it is exclusively an act
+    of terrorism.
+
+    Now, I do not believe that this deed was terroristic; and I
+    doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity
+    for its performance was not manifest. That you may not
+    misunderstand, I repeat: as an expression of personal revolt it
+    was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing
+    conditions. But the background of social necessity was lacking,
+    and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent
+    nullified.
+
+    In Russia, where political oppression is popularly felt, such a
+    deed would be of great value. But the scheme of political
+    subjection is more subtle in America. And though McKinley was
+    the chief representative of our modern slavery, he could not be
+    considered in the light of a direct and immediate enemy of the
+    people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat is visible and
+    tangible. The real despotism of republican institutions is far
+    deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the popular delusion
+    of self-government and independence. That is the subtle source
+    of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it cannot be reached with a
+    bullet.
+
+    In modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression is the
+    real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its handmaid. Hence
+    the battle is to be waged in the economic rather than the
+    political field. It is therefore that I regard my own act as far
+    more significant and educational than Leon's. It was directed
+    against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as such by the
+    people.
+
+    As long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts
+    and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of the
+    race--our Czolgoszes--burst forth in "rockets of iron." But does
+    this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or merely
+    confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? The struggle of
+    labor against capital is a class war, essentially and chiefly
+    economic. In that arena the battles must be fought.
+
+    It was not these considerations, of course, that inspired the
+    nation-wide man-hunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals.
+    Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness. The
+    brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole
+    proceeding, the thirst for the blood of the martyr,--these make
+    one almost despair of humanity.
+
+    I must close. The friend to smuggle out this letter will be
+    uneasy about its bulk. Send me sign of receipt, and I hope that
+    you may be permitted a little rest and peace, to recover from
+    the nightmare of the last months.
+
+                                                              SASHA.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII
+
+MARRED LIVES
+
+
+I
+
+The discussion with the Girl is a source of much mortification. Harassed
+on every side, persecuted by the authorities, and hounded even into the
+street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative
+disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. I realize
+the inadequacy of the written word, and despair at the hopelessness of
+human understanding, as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the
+Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued
+correspondence with the Girl accentuates the divergence of our views,
+painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying
+even common conclusions.
+
+By degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's
+correspondence. Our discussion lags, and soon ceases entirely. The world
+of the outside, temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the
+urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison.
+
+
+II
+
+A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house. The new commutation
+law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. In the shops and yard the
+men excitedly discuss the increased "good time," and prisoners flit
+about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out"
+their time of release. Even the solitaries, on the verge of despair, and
+the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless years, are instilled with
+new courage and hope.
+
+The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment of the new
+Warden the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. Pleasant
+surprise is manifest at the welcome change in "the grub." I wonder at
+the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas dinner. The
+men impatiently frown down the occasional "kicker." The Warden is
+"green," they argue; he did not know that we are supposed to get currant
+bread for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a chanc't."
+The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon, and the men thrill
+with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's
+dinner!" With gratification we hear the Major's expression of disgust at
+the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell
+and dungeon as barbarous, and the promise of radical reforms. As an
+earnest of his régime he has released from solitary the men whom Warden
+Wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defence of
+Murphy and Mong. Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had
+accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in Elk City several
+years previously. The criminal trial, involving the suicide of an
+officer[50] whom the Warden had forced to testify against the
+defendants, resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon
+Captain Wright ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be
+punished.
+
+  [50] Officer Robert G. Hunter, who committed suicide August 30,
+       1901, in Clarion, Pa. (where the trial took place). He left
+       a written confession, in which he accused Warden E. S.
+       Wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew
+       to be innocent.
+
+The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules,
+abolishes the "holy-stoning"[51] of the cell-house floor because of the
+detrimental effect of the dust, and decides to separate the consumptive
+and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Upon
+examination, 40 per cent. of the population are discovered in various
+stages of tuberculosis, and 20 per cent. insane. The death rate from
+consumption is found to range between 25 and 60 per cent. At light tasks
+in the block and the yard the Major finds employment for the sickly
+inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the
+rest of the men at work in the shop. With the exception of a number of
+dangerously insane, who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner
+in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of idleness
+resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved.
+
+  [51] The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand
+       into their surfaces.
+
+The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon,
+produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. The gloom of
+the cell-house perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at
+music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with the strains of
+merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band.
+
+
+III
+
+New faces greet me on the range. But many old friends are missing. Billy
+Ryan is dead of consumption; "Frenchy" and Ben have become insane;
+Little Mat, the Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remembrance
+I think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering.
+Some of the old-timers have survived, but broken in spirit and health.
+"Praying" Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips
+constantly moving in prayer. "Me innocent," the old man reiterates, "God
+him know." Last month the Board has again refused to pardon the
+lifetimer, and now he is bereft of hope. "Me have no more money. My
+children they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now no more
+money." Aleck Killain has also been refused by the Board at the same
+session. He is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service, and
+the most popular lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions
+of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers, a
+woman was found dead. No clew could be discovered, and Aleck was
+sentenced to life, because he could not be forced to divulge the names
+of the men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the sad news:
+the authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the
+information desired by them. He looks sere with confinement, his eyes
+full of a mute sadness that can find no words. His face is deeply
+seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. In the long years of our
+friendship I have never seen Aleck laugh. Once or twice he smiled, and
+his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly,
+with a perceptible effort.
+
+"Yes, Aleck," he is saying, "it's true. They refused me."
+
+"But they pardoned Mac," I retort hotly. "He confessed to a cold-blooded
+murder, and he's only been in four years."
+
+"Good luck," he remarks.
+
+"How, good luck?"
+
+"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm."
+
+"Well, what of it?"
+
+"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son a pardon."
+
+"But on what ground did they dismiss your application? They know you are
+innocent."
+
+"District Attorney came to me. 'You're innocent, we know. Tell us who
+did the murder.' I had nothing to tell. Pardon refused."
+
+"Is there any hope later on, Aleck?"
+
+"When the present administration are all dead, perhaps."
+
+Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He walks weakly, with
+halting step.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. "I'm
+here again, friend Aleck," he smiles apologetically. "What could I do?
+The old woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. Th' farm was sold
+that I was borned in," his voice trembles with emotion. "I couldn't find
+th' boys, an' no one wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'Go to
+th' pogy',[52] they told me. I couldn't, Aleck. I've worked all me
+life; I don't want no charity. I made a bluff," he smiles between
+tears,--"Broke into a store, and here I am."
+
+  [52] Poorhouse.
+
+With surprise I recognize "Tough" Monk among the first-grade men. For
+years he had been kept in stripes, and constantly punished for bad work
+in the hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in the prison:
+not once in five years had he accomplished his task. But the new Warden
+transferred him to the construction shop, where Monk was employed at his
+trade of blacksmith. "I hated that damn sock makin'," he tells me.
+"I've struck it right now, an' the Major says I'm the best worker in th'
+shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh, would you? Major promised me a ten-spot
+for the fancy iron work I did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. Says
+it's artistic, see? That's me all right; it's work I like. I won't lose
+any time, either. Warden says Old Sandy was a fool for makin' me knit
+socks with them big paws of mine. Th' Major is aw' right, aw' right."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With a glow of pleasure I meet "Smiling" Al, my colored friend from the
+jail. The good-natured boy looks old and infirm. His kindness has
+involved him in much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for
+shouldering the faults of others, and now the Inspectors have informed
+him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. He has
+grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. Every morning is
+tense with expectation. "Might be Ah goes to-day, Aleck," he hopefully
+smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks pass. The suspense is
+torturing the young negro, and he is visibly failing day by day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A familiar voice greets me. "Hello, Berk, ain't you glad t' see an old
+pal?" Big Dave beams on me with his cheerful smile.
+
+"No, Davy. I hoped you wouldn't come back."
+
+He becomes very grave. "Yes, I swore I'd swing sooner than come back.
+Didn't get a chanc't. You see," he explains, his tone full of
+bitterness, "I goes t' work and gets a job, good job, too; an' I keeps
+'way from th' booze an' me pals. But th' damn bulls was after me. Got me
+sacked from me job three times, an' den I knocked one of 'em on th'
+head. Damn his soul to hell, wish I'd killed 'im. 'Old offender,' they
+says to the jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker all
+right for tryin' t' be straight."
+
+
+IV
+
+In the large cage at the centre of the block, the men employed about the
+cell-house congregate in their idle moments. The shadows steal silently
+in and out of the inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within
+sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men lounging about the
+sawdust barrel, absorbed in "Snakes" Wilson's recital of his protracted
+struggle with "Old Sandy." He relates vividly his persistent waking at
+night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "Murder! I see snakes!"
+With admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old
+criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former
+Warden to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital, where his
+snake-seeing propensities would become dormant, to suffer again violent
+awakening the moment he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years
+the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and
+the strait-jacket, till the Warden yielded, and "Snakes" was permanently
+established in the comparative freedom of the special room.
+
+Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the
+"Four-eyed Yegg," who styles himself "Bill Nye," or excitedly discussing
+the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of Pittsburgh
+winning the baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's
+dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation of the Deputy
+Warden is discussed. The Major is gradually weeding out the "old gang,"
+it is gossiped. A colonel of the militia is to secure the position of
+assistant to the Warden. This source of conversation is inexhaustible,
+every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated
+debate. But at the 'lookout's' whimpered warning of an approaching
+guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and
+cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by; with short legs wide apart, he
+stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking
+eyebrows.
+
+"Quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? All of a sudden, too. And
+mighty busy, every damn one of you. You 'Snakes' there, what business
+you got here, eh?"
+
+"I've jest come in fer a broom."
+
+"You old reprobate, you, I saw you sneak in there an hour ago, and
+you've been chawin' the rag to beat the band. Think this a barroom, do
+you? Get to your cells, all of you."
+
+He trudges slowly away, mumbling: "You loafers, when I catch you here
+again, don't you dare talk so loud."
+
+One by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other
+upon their happy escape. Presently several rangemen join the group.
+Conversation becomes animated; voices are raised in dispute. But anger
+subsides, and a hush falls upon the men, as Blind Charley gropes his way
+along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for his hand, and leads him to a seat
+on the barrel. "Feelin' better to-day, Charley?" he asks gently.
+
+"Ye-es. I--think a little--better," the blind man says in an uncertain,
+hesitating manner. His face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has
+not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. It happened only a few
+months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for
+liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was
+growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A
+head appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one suddenly cried.
+There was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charley caught at his eyes. He
+staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't
+see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was
+utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charley
+fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. But they had
+fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,--alone and blind.
+
+"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says kindly. "How are your
+eyes?"
+
+"I think--a bit--better."
+
+The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is
+destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden
+calamity, Charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured.
+
+"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning it--didn't seem
+so--dark. It was like--a film over my eyes. Perhaps--it may--get better
+yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope
+confirmed.
+
+"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes.
+
+"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing "Snakes" by the
+throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It
+looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do
+you see things like in a fog, Charley?"
+
+"Yes, yes, just like that."
+
+"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little things got to
+be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever."
+
+"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously. "What did you do?"
+
+"Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker here is giving you some
+applications, ain't he?"
+
+"Yes; but he says it's for the inflammation."
+
+"That's right. That's what the doctors told me. You just take it easy,
+Charley; don't worry. You'll come out all right, see if you don't."
+
+Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up
+a warning finger to silence the giggling "Snowball Kid." Then, with
+sudden vehemence, he exclaims: "By God, Charley, if I ever meet that
+Judge of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here hands, so
+help me! It's a damn shame to send you here in this condition. You
+should have gone to a hospital, that's what I say. But cheer up, old
+boy, you won't have to serve your three years; you can bet on that.
+We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we,
+boys?"
+
+With unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking
+pledges of contributions. "Doctor George" appears around the corner,
+industriously polishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to
+corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A smile of timid
+joy suffuses the sightless face, as Bill Nye slaps him on the shoulder,
+crying jovially, "What did I tell you, eh? You'll be O. K. soon, and
+meantime keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done you," and
+with a violent wink in the direction of "Snakes," the yegg launches upon
+a reminiscence of his youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the
+spirit of vengeance was strong within him. He has always religiously
+revenged any wrong he was made to suffer, but the incident that afforded
+him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen
+then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a
+small country place. One evening, as the family gathered in the large
+sitting-room, his sister Mary said something which deeply offended him.
+In great rage he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street, he
+was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the
+town. The man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to
+some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. "Quick as a
+flash a brilliant idea struck me," Bill narrates, warming to his story.
+"Never short of them, anyhow," he remarks parenthetically, "but here was
+my revenge! 'you mean a whore-house, don't you?' I ask the fellow. Yes,
+that's what was wanted, my man says. 'Why,' says I to him, kind of
+suddenly, 'see the house there right across the street? That's the place
+you want,' and I point out to him the house where the old lady and my
+three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant like--waiting
+for me, you know. Well, the man gives me a quarter, and up he goes,
+knocks on the door and steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see
+what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with
+a bang and something comes out with a rush, and falls on the veranda,
+and mother she's got a broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed
+one of them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they rain it
+upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split my sides laughing. By
+an' by I return to the house, and mother and sisters are kind of
+excited, and I says innocent-like, 'What's up, girls?' Well, you ought
+to hear 'em! Talk, did they? 'That beast of a man, the dirty thing that
+came to the house and insulted us with--' they couldn't even mention the
+awful things he said; and Mary--that's the sis I got mad at--she cries,
+'Oh, Billie, you're so big and strong, I wish you was here when that
+nasty old thing came up.'"
+
+The boys are hilarious over the story, and "Doctor George" motions me
+aside to talk over "old times." With a hearty pressure I greet my
+friend, whom I had not seen since the days of the first investigation.
+Suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and only
+recently returned to his former position in the block. His beautiful
+thick hair has grown thin and gray; he looks aged and worn. With sadness
+I notice his tone of bitterness. "They almost killed me, Aleck!" he
+says; "if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old Warden." Throughout
+his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her
+unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness
+and despair. "The dear girl," he muses, "I'd be dead if it wasn't for
+her." But his release is approaching. He has almost served the sentence
+of sixteen years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at
+Leechburg, during which the cashier was killed. The other two men
+convicted of the crime have both died in prison. The Doctor alone has
+survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he repeats. But the six months at
+the workhouse fill him with apprehension. He has been informed that the
+place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. However,
+his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence
+suspended, and full liberty may be at hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII
+
+"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"
+
+
+The presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. George is an
+intelligent man; the long years of incarceration have not circumscribed
+his intellectual horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his
+interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours
+conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories
+and problems of the day. He has a broad grasp of affairs, but his
+temperament and Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear
+to me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice,
+and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines.
+The recent death of Liebknecht and the American lecture tour of Peter
+Kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social
+questions. There are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend,
+whose great-grandfather was among the signers of the Declaration, waxes
+eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the
+Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the Republic. A
+Democrat of the Jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old Warden
+on account of his favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience,
+he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once
+entertained.
+
+"Why, Aleck, there _is_ no justice," he says vehemently; "no, not even
+in the best democracy. Ten years ago I would have staked my life on the
+courts. To-day I know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is
+wrong. You see, I have been here nine years. I have met and made friends
+with hundreds of criminals. Some were pretty desperate, and many of them
+scoundrels. But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover some
+good quality, if he's scratched right. Look at that fellow there," he
+points to a young prisoner scrubbing an upper range, "that's 'Johnny the
+Hunk.' He's in for murder. Now what did the judge and jury know about
+him? Just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. One Saturday he
+attended a wedding, with a chum of his. They were both drunk when they
+went out into the street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to
+arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. The cop must have lost his head--he
+shot the fellow dead. It was right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and
+got a pistol, and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with drink.
+Well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly
+sixteen. They gave him fifteen years. Now he's all in--they've just
+ruined the boy's life. And what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess
+what he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told him that the
+widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she has three children, and takes
+in washing. Do you know what Johnny did? He went around among the cons,
+and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work he is making;
+he's an artist at it. He sent the woman the money, and begged her to
+forgive him."
+
+"Is that true, Doctor?"
+
+"Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some business, and the boy
+had just sent the money to the woman. The Chaplain was so much moved by
+it, he told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You know what
+that woman did?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever
+goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. She didn't want anything to do
+with him, she wrote. But she kept the money."
+
+"How did Johnny take it?"
+
+"It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy cried over the
+letter, and told the Chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. But
+every minute he can spare he works on that fancy work, and every month
+he sends her money. That's the _criminal_ the judge sentenced to fifteen
+years in this hell!"
+
+My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal
+with our social ills. "Why, look at the courts!" he exclaims, "they
+don't concern themselves with crime. They merely punish the criminal,
+absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the
+predisposing causes."
+
+"But, George," I rejoin, "it is the economic system of exploitation, the
+dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want,
+which are responsible for most crimes."
+
+"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corruption in our public
+life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the
+spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be
+so much violence and crime, even under what you call the capitalist
+system. At any rate, there is no doubt the law is an absolute failure in
+dealing with crime. The criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics.
+Give him to the doctor instead of the jailer."
+
+"You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered a product of
+anthropological and physical factors. But don't you see that you must
+also examine society, to determine to what extent social conditions are
+responsible for criminal actions? And if that were done, I believe most
+crimes would be found to be misdirected energy--misdirected because of
+false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest."
+
+"Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase of the question. But
+aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are
+making of it. For one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old,
+without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting
+prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. The blackjack and the
+dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what
+the social causes of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform.
+The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True reformation can
+emanate only from voluntary impulse, inspired and cultivated by
+intelligent advice and kind treatment. But reformation which is the
+result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish
+like smoke the moment fear abates. And you know, Aleck, the
+reformatories are even worse than the prisons. Look at the fellows here
+from the various reform schools. Why, it's a disgrace! The boys who come
+from the outside are decent fellows. But those kids from the
+reformatories--one-third of the cons here have graduated there--they are
+terrible. You can spot them by looking at them. They are worse than
+street prostitutes."
+
+My friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as
+"the girls," "Sallies," and "punks," who for gain traffic in sexual
+gratification. But he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of
+homosexuality; his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal
+desires. As a medical man, and a student, he is deeply interested in the
+manifestations of suppressed sex. He speaks with profound sympathy of
+the brilliant English man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and
+stupidity has driven to prison and to death because his sex life did not
+conform to the accepted standards. In detail, my friend traces the
+various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and I
+warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the
+intimate emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner, he had
+not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. He had heard
+of pederasty; but like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither
+understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered
+abnormal and vicious. In prison he was horrified at the perversion that
+frequently came under his observation. For two years the very thought of
+such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused to speak to the
+men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning
+them--"with my prejudices rather than my reason," he remarks. But the
+forces of suppression were at work. "Now, this is in confidence, Aleck,"
+he cautions me. "I know you will understand. Probably you yourself have
+experienced the same thing. I'm glad I can talk to some one about it;
+the other fellows here wouldn't understand it. It makes me sick to see
+how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is caught. And the
+officers, too, though you know as well as I that quite a number of them
+are addicted to these practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the
+same story with every one here, especially the long-timers. I was
+terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen years--I didn't
+believe for a moment I could live through it. I was abusing myself
+pretty badly. Still, after a while, when I got work and began to take an
+interest in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex instinct
+awakened. I was young: about twenty-five, strong and healthy. Sometimes
+I thought I'd get crazy with passion. You remember when we were celling
+together on that upper range, on R; you were in the stocking shop then,
+weren't you? Don't you remember?"
+
+"Of course I remember, George. You were in the cell next mine. We could
+see out on the river. It was in the summer: we could hear the excursion
+boats, and the girls singing and dancing."
+
+"That, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I really believe the
+whole blessed range used to 'indulge' then. Think of the precious
+material fed to the fishes," he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty
+into the river."
+
+"Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies."
+
+"Yes, orgies; that's just what they were. As a matter of fact, I don't
+believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself,
+at one time or another."
+
+"If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known some men to
+masturbate four and five times a day. Kept it up for months, too."
+
+"Yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. As a medical man I think
+that self-abuse, if practised no more frequently than ordinary coition,
+would be no more injurious than the latter. But it can't be done. It
+grows on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous than the
+first."
+
+"What do you call the second?"
+
+"Well, the first is the dejection stage. Hopeless and despondent, you
+seek forgetfulness in onanism. You don't care what happens. It's what I
+might call mechanical self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. This
+stage passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take an
+interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to do, before long.
+The second stage is the psychic and mental. It is not the result of
+dejection. With the gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a
+comparatively normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. At this
+stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. It is the more
+dangerous phase, because the frequency of the practice grows with the
+recurring thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. While the first was
+mechanical, giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing
+lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved
+woman, or one desired, and affords intense joy. Therein is its
+allurement and danger; and that's why the habit gains in strength. The
+more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon
+your sole source of pleasure. Many become helpless victims. I have
+noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this
+respect."
+
+"I have had the same experience. The narrower your mental horizon, the
+more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. That is probably
+the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement."
+
+"No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities for observation
+of the solitaries and the new men. What did you notice, Aleck?"
+
+"Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of
+a factory worker. As a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from
+solitary. They are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters,
+and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who have no
+interests beyond their personal life, soon become victims of insanity.
+I've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or
+fancy work,--it's their only salvation."
+
+"If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories
+and ideals; I'm sure of it. And I continued my medical studies, and
+sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects."
+
+For a moment George pauses. The veins of his forehead protrude, as if he
+is undergoing a severe mental struggle. Presently he says: "Aleck, I'm
+going to speak very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject.
+I'll give you my intimate experiences, and I want you to be just as
+frank with me. I think it's one of the most important things, and I want
+to learn all I can about it. Very little is known about it, and much
+less understood."
+
+"About what, George?"
+
+"About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second phase of onanism. With
+a strong effort I overcame it. Not entirely, of course. But I have
+succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain
+intervals. But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested
+themselves. It was like a psychic awakening. The desire to love
+something was strong upon me. Once I caught a little mouse in my cell,
+and tamed it a bit. It would eat out of my hand, and come around at meal
+times, and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. I
+learned to love it. Honestly, Aleck, I cried when it died. And then, for
+a long time, I felt as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted
+something to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for affection.
+Somehow the thought of woman gradually faded from my mind. When I saw my
+wife, it was just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel toward her
+sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I noticed a young boy.
+He had been in only a short time, and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth
+little face and sweet lips--he reminded me of a girl I used to court
+before I married. After that I frequently surprised myself thinking of
+the lad. I felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get
+friendly. I became acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a
+medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble
+he suffered. The doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and
+physics all the time. Well, Aleck, I could hardly believe it myself, but
+I grew so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed without my
+seeing him. I would take big chances to get near him. I was rangeman
+then, and he was assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to
+talk. I got him interested in literature, and advised him what to read,
+for he didn't know what to do with his time. He had a fine character,
+that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. At first it was only a
+liking for him, but it increased all the time, till I couldn't think of
+any woman. But don't misunderstand me, Aleck; it wasn't that I wanted a
+'kid.' I swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me
+whatever; but this boy--his name was Floyd--he became so dear to me,
+why, I used to give him everything I could get. I had a friendly guard,
+and he'd bring me fruit and things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it,
+but I always gave it to Floyd. And, Aleck--you remember when I was down
+in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for the sake of that boy. He did
+something, and I took the blame on myself. And the last time--they kept
+me nine days chained up--I hit a fellow for abusing Floyd: he was small
+and couldn't defend himself. I did not realize it at the time, Aleck,
+but I know now that I was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly in
+love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved him without the
+least taint of sex desire. It was the purest affection I ever felt in my
+life. It was all-absorbing, and I would have sacrificed my life for him
+if he had asked it. But by degrees the psychic stage began to manifest
+all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. I remember the
+first time he kissed me. It was early in the morning; only the rangemen
+were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. He put both
+hands between the bars, and pressed his lips to mine. Aleck, I tell you,
+never in my life had I experienced such bliss as at that moment. It's
+five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think of it. It came
+suddenly; I didn't expect it. It was entirely spontaneous: our eyes met,
+and it seemed as if something drew us together. He told me he was very
+fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used to neglect my work,
+and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew
+terribly jealous, too, though I had no cause. I passed through every
+phase of a passionate love. With this difference, though--I felt a touch
+of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. That I didn't
+do. It seemed to me a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him.
+But after a while that feeling also wore off, and I desired sexual
+relation with him. He said he loved me enough to do even that for me,
+though he had never done it before. He hadn't been in any reformatory,
+you know. And yet, somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it; I loved the
+lad too much for it. Perhaps you will smile, Aleck, but it was real,
+true love. When Floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I
+felt that I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his hand
+again, or get one more kiss. You--you're laughing?" he asks abruptly, a
+touch of anxiety in his voice.
+
+"No, George. I am grateful for your confidence. I think it is a
+wonderful thing; and, George--I had felt the same horror and disgust at
+these things, as you did. But now I think quite differently about them."
+
+"Really, Aleck? I'm glad you say so. Often I was troubled--is it
+viciousness or what, I wondered; but I could never talk to any one about
+it. They take everything here in such a filthy sense. Yet I knew in my
+heart that it was a true, honest emotion."
+
+"George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just as beautiful as love
+for a woman. I had a friend here; his name was Russell; perhaps you
+remember him. I felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved
+him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible shock to me. It
+almost drove me insane."
+
+Silently George holds out his hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV
+
+LOVE'S DARING
+
+
+                                               Castle on the Ohio,
+                                                      Aug. 18, 1902.
+
+    MY DEAR CAROLUS:
+
+    You know the saying, "Der eine hat den Beutel, der andere das
+    Geld." I find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with my
+    correspondents. I have the leisure, but theirs is the advantage
+    of the paper supply. Thus runs the world. But you, a most
+    faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long while.
+    Therefore this unexpected _sub rosa_ chance is for you.
+
+    My dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me, don't
+    fashion your philosophy in the image of disappointment. All life
+    is a multiplied pain; its highest expressions, love and
+    friendship, are sources of the most heart-breaking sorrow. That
+    has been my experience; no doubt, yours also. And you are aware
+    that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the
+    grief and anguish, are so much more acute, more bitter and
+    lasting. What then? Shall one seal his emotions, or barricade
+    his heart? Ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some
+    claim. But remember, dear Carl, mere wisdom is a barren life.
+
+    I think it a natural reaction against your prison existence that
+    you feel the need of self-indulgence. But it is a temporary
+    phase, I hope. You want to live and enjoy, you say. But surely
+    you are mistaken to believe that the time is past when we
+    cheerfully sacrificed all to the needs of the cause. The first
+    flush of emotional enthusiasm may have paled, but in its place
+    there is the deeper and more lasting conviction that permeates
+    one's whole being. There come moments when one asks himself the
+    justification of his existence, the meaning of his life. No
+    torment is more excruciating and overwhelming than the failure
+    to find an answer. You will discover it neither in physical
+    indulgence nor in coldly intellectual pleasure. Something more
+    substantial is needed. In this regard, life outside does not
+    differ so very much from prison existence. The narrower your
+    horizon--the more absorbed you are in your immediate
+    environment, and dependent upon it--the sooner you decay,
+    morally and mentally. You can, in a measure, escape the
+    sordidness of life only by living for something higher.
+
+    Perhaps that is the secret of my survival. Wider interests have
+    given me strength. And other phases there are. From your own
+    experience you know what sustaining satisfaction is found in
+    prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human dignity,
+    because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense of
+    self-respect. I have seen prisoners offer most desperate
+    resistance in defence of their manhood. On my part it has been a
+    continuous struggle. Do you remember the last time I was in the
+    dungeon? It was on the occasion of Comrade Kropotkin's presence
+    in this country, during his last lecture tour. The old Warden
+    was here then; he informed me that I would not be permitted to
+    see our Grand Old Man. I had a tilt with him, but I did not
+    succeed in procuring a visiting card. A few days later I
+    received a letter from Peter. On the envelope, under my name,
+    was marked, "Political prisoner." The Warden was furious. "We
+    have no political prisoners in a free country," he thundered,
+    tearing up the envelope. "But you have political grafters," I
+    retorted. We argued the matter heatedly, and I demanded the
+    envelope. The Warden insisted that I apologize. Of course I
+    refused, and I had to spend three days in the dungeon.
+
+    There have been many changes since then. Your coming to
+    Pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place (they
+    knew you had the facts) helped to bring matters to a point. They
+    assigned me to a range, and I am still holding the position. The
+    new Warden is treating me more decently. He "wants no trouble
+    with me," he told me. But he has proved a great disappointment.
+    He started in with promising reforms, but gradually he has
+    fallen into the old ways. In some respects his régime is even
+    worse than the previous one. He has introduced a system of
+    "economy" which barely affords us sufficient food. The dungeon
+    and basket, which he had at first abolished, are in operation
+    again, and the discipline is daily becoming more drastic. The
+    result is more brutality and clubbings, more fights and cutting
+    affairs, and general discontent. The new management cannot plead
+    ignorance, for the last 4th of July the men gave a demonstration
+    of the effects of humane treatment. The Warden had assembled
+    the inmates in the chapel, promising to let them pass the day in
+    the yard, on condition of good behavior. The Inspectors and the
+    old guards advised against it, arguing the "great risk" of such
+    a proceeding. But the Major decided to try the experiment. He
+    put the men on their honor, and turned them loose in the yard.
+    He was not disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the
+    least mishap; there was not even a single report. We began to
+    breathe easier, when presently the whole system was reversed. It
+    was partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the
+    Warden; and the latter completely lost his head when a trusty
+    made his escape from the hospital. It seems to have terrorized
+    the Warden into abandoning all reforms. He has also been
+    censured by the Inspectors because of the reduced profits from
+    the industries. Now the tasks have been increased, and even the
+    sick and consumptives are forced to work. The labor bodies of
+    the State have been protesting in vain. How miserably weak is
+    the Giant of Toil, because unconscious of his strength!
+
+    The men are groaning, and wishing Old Sandy back. In short,
+    things are just as they were during your time. Men and Wardens
+    may come and go, but the system prevails. More and more I am
+    persuaded of the great truth: given authority and the
+    opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially
+    the same, no matter what particular set of men, or of
+    "principles," happens to be in the saddle.
+
+    Fortunately I am on the "home run." I'm glad you felt that the
+    failure of my application to the Superior Court would not
+    depress me. I built no castles upon it. Yet I am glad it has
+    been tried. It was well to demonstrate once more that neither
+    lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals, are
+    interested in doing justice. My lawyers had such a strong case,
+    from the legal standpoint, that the State Pardon Board resorted
+    to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. And now
+    the Superior Court thought it the better part of wisdom to
+    ignore the argument that I am being illegally detained. They
+    simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases
+    that entirely evade the question at issue.
+
+    Well, to hell with them. I have "2 an' a stump" (stump, 11
+    months) and I feel the courage of perseverance. But I hope that
+    the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation law.
+    There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians are angry
+    that their efforts in behalf of the wealthy U. S. grafters in
+    the Eastern Penitentiary failed. They begrudge the "common"
+    prisoner the increased allowance of good time. However, I shall
+    "make" it. Of course, you understand that both French leave and
+    Dutch act are out of the question now. I have decided to
+    stay--till I can _walk_ through the gates.
+
+    In reference to French leave, have you read about the Biddle
+    affair? I think it was the most remarkable attempt in the
+    history of the country. Think of the wife of the Jail Warden
+    helping prisoners to escape! The boys here were simply wild with
+    joy. Every one hoped they would make good their escape, and old
+    Sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught. But all the
+    bloodhounds of the law were unchained; the Biddle boys got no
+    chance at all.
+
+    The story is this. The brothers Biddle, Jack and Ed, and Walter
+    Dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a man. It
+    was Dorman who fired the shot, but he turned State's evidence.
+    The State rewards treachery. Dorman escaped the noose, but the
+    two brothers were sentenced to die. As is customary, they were
+    visited in the jail by the "gospel ladies," among them the wife
+    of the Warden. You probably remember him--Soffel; he was Deputy
+    Warden when we were in the jail, and a rat he was, too. Well, Ed
+    was a good-looking man, with soft manners, and so forth. Mrs.
+    Soffel fell in love with him. It was mutual, I believe. Now
+    witness the heroism a woman is capable of, when she loves. Mrs.
+    Soffel determined to save the two brothers; I understand they
+    promised her to quit their criminal life. Every day she would
+    visit the condemned men, to console them. Pretending to read the
+    gospel, she would stand close to the doors, to give them an
+    opportunity to saw through the bars. She supplied them with
+    revolvers, and they agreed to escape together. Of course, she
+    could not go back to her husband, for she loved Ed, loved him
+    well enough never even to see her children again. The night for
+    the escape was set. The brothers intended to separate
+    immediately after the break, subsequently to meet together with
+    Mrs. Soffel. But the latter insisted on going with them. Ed
+    begged her not to. He knew that it was sheer suicide for all of
+    them. But she persisted, and Ed acquiesced, fully realizing that
+    it would prove fatal. Don't you think it showed a noble trait in
+    the boy? He did not want her to think that he was deserting her.
+    The escape from the jail was made successfully; they even had
+    several hours' start. But snow had fallen, and it was easy to
+    trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. The brutality of the
+    man-hunters is past belief. When the detectives came upon the
+    boys, they fired their Winchesters into the two brothers. Even
+    when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and
+    helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into Ed, killing him.
+    Jack died later, and Mrs. Soffel was placed in jail. You can
+    imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. Mrs. Soffel was
+    denounced by her husband, and all the good Christian women cried
+    "Unclean!" and clamored for the punishment of their unfortunate
+    sister. She is now here, serving two years for aiding in the
+    escape. I caught a glimpse of her when she came in. She has a
+    sympathetic face, that bears signs of deep suffering; she must
+    have gone through a terrible ordeal. Think of the struggle
+    before she decided upon the desperate step; then the days and
+    weeks of anxiety, as the boys were sawing the bars and preparing
+    for the last chance! I should appreciate the love of a woman
+    whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters of convention.
+    In some ways this woman reminds me of the Girl--the type that
+    possesses the courage and strength to rise above all
+    considerations for the sake of the man or the cause held dear.
+    How little the world understands the vital forces of life!
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV
+
+THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF"
+
+
+I
+
+It is September the nineteenth. The cell-house is silent and gray in the
+afternoon dusk. In the yard the rain walks with long strides, hastening
+in the dim twilight, hastening whither the shadows have gone. I stand at
+the door, in reverie. In the sombre light, I see myself led through the
+gate yonder,--it was ten years ago this day. The walls towered
+menacingly in the dark, the iron gripped my heart, and I was lost in
+despair. I should not have believed then that I could survive the long
+years of misery and pain. But the nimble feet of the rain patter
+hopefully; its tears dissipate the clouds, and bring light; and soon I
+shall step into the sunshine, and come forth grown and matured, as the
+world must have grown in the struggle of suffering--
+
+"Fresh fish!" a rangeman announces, pointing to the long line of striped
+men, trudging dejectedly across the yard, and stumbling against each
+other in the unaccustomed lockstep. The door opens, and Aleck Killain,
+the lifetimer, motions to me. He walks with measured, even step along
+the hall. Rangeman "Coz" and Harry, my young assistant, stealthily crowd
+with him into my cell. The air of mystery about them arouses my
+apprehension.
+
+"What's the matter, boys?" I ask.
+
+They hesitate and glance at each other, smiling diffidently.
+
+"You speak, Killain," Harry whispers.
+
+The lifetimer carefully unwraps a little package, and I become aware of
+the sweet scent of flowers perfuming the cell. The old prisoner stammers
+in confusion, as he presents me with a rose, big and red. "We swiped it
+in the greenhouse," he says.
+
+"Fer you, Aleck," Harry adds.
+
+"For your tenth anniversary," corrects "Coz." "Good luck to you, Aleck."
+
+Mutely they grip my hand, and steal out of the cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In solitude I muse over the touching remembrance. These men--they are
+the shame Society hides within the gray walls. These, and others like
+them. Daily they come to be buried alive in this grave; all through the
+long years they have been coming, and the end is not yet. Robbed of joy
+and life, their being is discounted in the economy of existence. And all
+the while the world has been advancing, it is said; science and
+philosophy, art and letters, have made great strides. But wherein is the
+improvement that augments misery and crowds the prisons? The discovery
+of the X-ray will further scientific research, I am told. But where is
+the X-ray of social insight that will discover in human understanding
+and mutual aid the elements of true progress? Deceptive is the advance
+that involves the ruthless sacrifice of peace and health and life;
+superficial and unstable the civilization that rests upon the
+treacherous sands of strife and warfare. The progress of science and
+industry, far from promoting man's happiness and social harmony, merely
+accentuates discontent and sharpens the contrasts. The knowledge gained
+at so much cost of suffering and sacrifice bears bitter fruit, for lack
+of wisdom to apply the lessons learned. There are no limits to the
+achievements of man, were not humanity divided against itself,
+exhausting its best energies in sanguinary conflict, suicidal and
+unnecessary. And these, the thousands stepmothered by cruel stupidity,
+are the victims castigated by Society for her own folly and sins. There
+is Young Harry. A child of the slums, he has never known the touch of a
+loving hand. Motherless, his father a drunkard, the heavy arm of the law
+was laid upon him at the age of ten. From reform school to reformatory
+the social orphan has been driven about.--"You know, Aleck," he says, "I
+nev'r had no real square meal, to feel full, you know; 'cept once, on
+Christmas, in de ref." At the age of nineteen, he has not seen a day of
+liberty since early childhood.
+
+Three years ago he was transferred to the penitentiary, under a sentence
+of sixteen years for an attempted escape from the Morganza reform
+school, which resulted in the death of a keeper. The latter was foreman
+in the tailor shop, in which Harry was employed together with a number
+of other youths. The officer had induced Harry to do overwork, above the
+regular task, for which he rewarded the boy with an occasional dainty of
+buttered bread or a piece of corn-cake. By degrees Harry's voluntary
+effort became part of his routine work, and the reward in delicacies
+came more rarely. But when they entirely ceased the boy rebelled,
+refusing to exert himself above the required task. He was reported, but
+the Superintendent censured the keeper for the unauthorized increase of
+work. Harry was elated; but presently began systematic persecution that
+made the boy's life daily more unbearable. In innumerable ways the
+hostile guard sought to revenge his defeat upon the lad, till at last,
+driven to desperation, Harry resolved upon escape. With several other
+inmates the fourteen-year-old boy planned to flee to the Rocky
+Mountains, there to hunt the "wild" Indians, and live the independent
+and care-free life of Jesse James. "You know, Aleck," Harry confides to
+me, reminiscently, "we could have made it easy; dere was eleven of us.
+But de kids was all sore on de foreman. He 'bused and beat us, an' some
+of de boys wouldn' go 'cept we knock de screw out first. It was me pal
+Nacky that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den I hit 'im, lightly. But
+dey all said in court that I hit 'im both times. Nacky's people had
+money, an' he beat de case, but I got soaked sixteen years." His eyes
+fill with tears and he says plaintively: "I haven't been outside since I
+was a little kid, an' now I'm sick, an' will die here mebbe."
+
+
+II
+
+Conversing in low tones, we sweep the range. I shorten my strokes to
+enable Harry to keep pace. Weakly he drags the broom across the floor.
+His appearance is pitifully grotesque. The sickly features, pale with
+the color of the prison whitewash, resemble a little child's. But the
+eyes look oldish in their wrinkled sockets, the head painfully out of
+proportion with the puny, stunted body. Now and again he turns his gaze
+on me, and in his face there is melancholy wonder, as if he is seeking
+something that has passed him by. Often I ponder, Is there a crime more
+appalling and heinous than the one Society has committed upon him, who
+is neither man nor youth and never was child? Crushed by the heel of
+brutality, this plant had never budded. Yet there is the making of a
+true man in him. His mentality is pathetically primitive, but he
+possesses character and courage, and latent virgin forces. His emotional
+frankness borders on the incredible; he is unmoral and unsocial, as a
+field daisy might be, surrounded by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious
+of its own being. It distresses me to witness the yearning that comes
+into his eyes at the mention of the "outside." Often he asks: "Tell me,
+Aleck, how does it feel to walk on de street, to know that you're free
+t' go where you damn please, wid no screw to foller you?" Ah, if he'd
+only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so careful not to get into
+trouble! He would like to keep company with a nice girl, he confides,
+blushingly; he had never had one. But he fears his days are numbered.
+His lungs are getting very bad, and now that his father has died, he has
+no one to help him get a pardon. Perhaps father wouldn't have helped
+him, either; he was always drunk, and never cared for his children. "He
+had no business t' have any children," Harry comments passionately. And
+he can't expect any assistance from his sister; the poor girl barely
+makes a living in the factory. "She's been workin' ev'r so long in the
+pickle works," Harry explains. "That feller, the boss there, must be
+rich; it's a big factory," he adds, naïvely, "he oughter give 'er enough
+to marry on." But he fears he will die in the prison. There is no one to
+aid him, and he has no friends. "I never had no friend," he says,
+wistfully; "there ain't no real friends. De older boys in de ref always
+used me, an' dey use all de kids. But dey was no friends, an' every one
+was against me in de court, an' dey put all de blame on me. Everybody
+was always against me," he repeats bitterly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Alone in the cell, I ponder over his words. "Everybody was always
+against me," I hear the boy say. I wake at night, with the quivering
+cry in the darkness, "Everybody against me!" Motherless in childhood,
+reared in the fumes of brutal inebriation, cast into the slums to be
+crushed under the wheels of the law's Juggernaut, was the fate of this
+social orphan. Is this the fruit of progress? this the spirit of our
+Christian civilization? In the hours of solitude, the scheme of
+existence unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. In variegated design and
+divergent angle it presents an endless panorama of stunted minds and
+tortured bodies, of universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental
+aspect of the boy's desolate life. And I behold all the suffering and
+agony resolve themselves in the dominance of the established, in
+tradition and custom that heavily encrust humanity, weighing down the
+already fettered soul till its wings break and it beats helplessly
+against the artificial barriers.... The blanched face of Misery is
+silhouetted against the night. The silence sobs with the piteous cry of
+the crushed boy. And I hear the cry, and it fills my whole being with
+the sense of terrible wrong and injustice, with the shame of my kind,
+that sheds crocodile tears while it swallows its helpless prey. The
+submerged moan in the dark. I will echo their agony to the ears of the
+world. I have suffered with them, I have looked into the heart of Pain,
+and with its voice and anguish I will speak to humanity, to wake it from
+sloth and apathy, and lend hope to despair.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The months speed in preparation for the great work. I must equip myself
+for the mission, for the combat with the world that struggles so
+desperately to defend its chains. The day of my resurrection is
+approaching, and I will devote my new life to the service of my
+fellow-sufferers. The world shall hear the tortured; it shall behold the
+shame it has buried within these walls, yet not eliminated. The ghost
+of its crimes shall rise and harrow its ears, till the social conscience
+is roused to the cry of its victims. And perhaps with eyes once opened,
+it will behold the misery and suffering in the world beyond, and Man
+will pause in his strife and mad race to ask himself, wherefore?
+whither?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI
+
+A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER
+
+
+I
+
+With deep gratification I observe the unfoldment of Harry's mind. My
+friendship has wakened in him hope and interest in life. Merely to
+please me, he smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading
+the mapped-out course. But as time passed he became absorbed in the
+studies, developing a thirst for knowledge that is transforming his
+primitive intelligence into a mentality of great power and character.
+Often I marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing from
+the depths of a prison friendship. "I did not believe in friendship,
+Aleck," Harry says, as we ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now I
+feel that I wouldn't be here, if I had had then a real friend. It isn't
+only that we suffer together, but you have made me feel that our minds
+can rise above these rules and bars. You know, the screws have warned me
+against you, and I was afraid of you. I don't know how to put it, Aleck,
+but the first time we had that long talk last year, I felt as if
+something walked right over from you to me. And since then I have had
+something to live for. You know, I have seen so much of the priests, I
+have no use for the church, and I don't believe in immortality. But the
+idea I got from you clung to me, and it was so persistent, I really
+think there is such a thing as immortality of an idea."
+
+For an instant the old look of helpless wonder is in his face, as if he
+is at a loss to master the thought. He pauses in his work, his eyes
+fastened on mine. "I got it, Aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up
+his pallid features. "You remember the story you told me about them
+fellers--Oh,"--he quickly corrects himself--"when I get excited, I drop
+into my former bad English. Well, you know the story you told me of the
+prisoners in Siberia; how they escape sometimes, and the peasants,
+though forbidden to house them, put food outside of their huts, so that
+an escaped man may not starve to death. You remember, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes, Harry. I'm glad you haven't forgotten it."
+
+"Forgotten? Why, Aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting at my door, I saw a
+sparrow hopping about in the hall. It looked cold and hungry. I threw a
+piece of bread to it, but the Warden came by and made me pick it up, and
+drive the bird away. Somehow I thought of the peasants in Siberia, and
+how they share their food with escaped men. Why should the bird starve
+as long as I have bread? Now every night I place a few pieces near the
+door, and in the morning, just when it begins to dawn, and every one is
+asleep, the bird steals up and gets her breakfast. It's the immortality
+of an idea, Aleck."
+
+
+II
+
+The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon Harry. The foul hot air
+of the cell-house is aggravating his complaint, and now the physician
+has pronounced him in an advanced stage of consumption. The disease is
+ravaging the population. Hygienic rules are ignored, and no precautions
+are taken against contagion. Harry's health is fast failing. He walks
+with an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my gaze. "I
+feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't believe it's the con. It's
+just a bad cold."
+
+He clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now and then the cunning
+of suspicion tests my faith. Pretending to wash his hands, he asks: "Can
+I use your towel, Aleck? Sure you're not afraid?" My apparent confidence
+seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies with renewed hope. I
+strive to lighten his work on the range, and his friend "Coz," who
+attends the officers' table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of
+fruit and cake left after their meals. The kind-hearted Italian, serving
+a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure weaving hair chains in
+the dim light of the cell, and invests the proceeds in warm underwear
+for his consumptive friend. "I don't need it myself, I'm too
+hot-blooded, anyhow," he lightly waves aside Harry's objections. He
+shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame, and anxiously
+hovers over the boy, mothering him with unobtrusive tenderness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At the first sign of spring, "Coz" conspires with me to procure for
+Harry the privilege of the yard. The consumptives are deprived of air,
+immured in the shop or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. In
+view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining time, the
+Inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard. I
+have not touched the soil since the discovery of the tunnel, in July
+1900, almost four years ago. But Harry is in greater need of fresh air,
+and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege for him, instead.
+His health would improve, and in the meantime we will bring his case
+before the Pardon Board. It was an outrage to send him to the
+penitentiary, "Coz" asserts vehemently. "Harry was barely fourteen then,
+a mere child. Think of a judge who will give such a kid sixteen years!
+Why, it means death. But what can you expect! Remember the little boy
+who was sent here--it was somewhere around '97--he was just twelve years
+old, and he didn't look more than ten. They brought him here in
+knickerbockers, and the fellows had to bend over double to keep in
+lockstep with him. He looked just like a baby in the line. The first
+pair of long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so frightened,
+he'd stand at the door and cry all the time. Well, they got ashamed of
+themselves after a while, and sent him away to some reformatory, but he
+spent about six months here then. Oh, what's the use talking," "Coz"
+concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all right. But may be we can
+get Harry a pardon. Honest, Aleck, I feel as if he's my own child. We've
+been friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy, only he
+never had a chance. Make a list, Aleck. I'll ask the Chaplain how much
+I've got in the office. I think it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three
+dollars. It's all for Harry."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The spring warms into summer before the dime and quarter donations total
+the amount required by the attorney to carry Harry's case to the Pardon
+Board. But the sick boy is missing from the range. For weeks his dry,
+hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the men awake, till at
+last the doctor ordered him transferred to the hospital. His place on
+the range has been taken by "Big Swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who
+shuffles along the hall, moaning in pain. The passing guards mimic him,
+and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "Hey, you! Get a move on, and quit
+your shammin'." He starts in affright; pressing both hands against his
+side, he shrinks at the officer's touch. "You fakir, we're next to
+_you_, all right." An uncomprehending, sickly smile spreads over the
+sere face, as he murmurs plaintively, "Yis, sir, me seek, very seek."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII
+
+CHUM
+
+
+I
+
+The able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old
+and decrepit remain in the cell-house. But even the light duties of
+assistant prove too difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he
+is shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to
+stifle his groans. I protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to
+the office. The Deputy's desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of
+the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of Second Assistant
+Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin. "I knew you wouldn't
+behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop."
+
+The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls
+in with long, swinging step. He glances over the report against me. "Is
+that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Go back to your work, Berkman."
+
+But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into the cell-house, in
+charge of the barber gang. As I take my turn in the first chair, the
+guard hastens toward me. "Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't
+your turn. You take _that_ chair," pointing toward the second barber, a
+former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher."
+
+"It _is_ my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my seat.
+
+"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.
+
+"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He
+advances toward me threateningly.
+
+"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.
+
+Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns
+purple, and strides toward the office to report me.
+
+
+II
+
+"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the
+right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell. "But never min', old boy," he
+smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got
+other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer
+right away. I'll call for it."
+
+The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot
+identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His
+sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details
+of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my rights. It
+is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the
+hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus
+persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected,
+may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the
+Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before
+taking action.
+
+I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner;
+intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot
+account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such
+means of communicating with me.
+
+Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he
+whispers.
+
+"Who gave you the note, Coz?"
+
+"I don't know if I should tell you."
+
+"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this note unless I know to
+whom I am writing."
+
+"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may tell you."
+
+"Then better go and ask him first."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns. From the delay I judge
+that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily
+accessible. At last the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell.
+
+"It's all right, Aleck," he says.
+
+"Who is he?" I ask impatiently.
+
+"I'll bet you'll never guess."
+
+"Tell me, then."
+
+"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw."
+
+"Can't be a prisoner?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Who, then?"
+
+"He is a fine fellow, Aleck."
+
+"Come now, tell me."
+
+"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop."
+
+"The weaving department?"
+
+"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him. Answer at once."
+
+
+III
+
+    DEAR MR. J. M.:
+
+    I hardly know how to write to you. It is the most remarkable
+    thing that has happened to me in all the years of my
+    confinement. To think that you, a perfect stranger--and not a
+    prisoner, at that--should offer to intercede in my behalf
+    because you feel that an injustice has been done! It is almost
+    incredible, but "Coz" has informed me that you are determined to
+    see the Warden in this matter. I assure you I appreciate your
+    sense of justice more than I can express it. But I most urgently
+    request you not to carry out your plan. With the best of
+    intentions, your intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself
+    as well as to me. A shop foreman, you are not supposed to know
+    what is happening in the block. The Warden is a martinet, and
+    extremely vain of his authority. He will resent your
+    interference. I don't know who you are, but your indignation at
+    what you believe an injustice characterizes you as a man of
+    principle, and you are evidently inclined to be friendly toward
+    me. I should be very unhappy to be the cause of your discharge.
+    You need your job, or you would not be here. I am very, very
+    thankful to you, but I urge you most earnestly to drop the
+    matter. I must fight my own battles. Moreover, the situation is
+    not very serious, and I shall come out all right.
+
+                              With much appreciation,
+
+                                                               A. B.
+
+
+    DEAR MR. M.:
+
+    I feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my request. It
+    is best so. You need not worry about me. I expect to receive a
+    hearing before the Deputy, and he seems a decent chap. You will
+    pardon me when I confess that I smiled at your question whether
+    your correspondence is welcome. Your notes are a ray of sunshine
+    in the darkness, and I am intensely interested in the
+    personality of a man whose sense of justice transcends
+    considerations of personal interest. You know, no great heroism
+    is required to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of
+    our own advantage. But where the other fellow is concerned,
+    especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract"
+    justice--and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize
+    their reputation or comfort for that.
+
+    Since our correspondence began, I have had occasion to speak to
+    some of the men in your charge. I want to thank you in their
+    name for your considerate and humane treatment of them.
+
+    "Coz" is at the door, and I must hurry. Trust no one with notes,
+    except him. We have been friends for years, and he can tell you
+    all you wish to know about my life here.
+
+                                        Cordially,
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    MY DEAR M.:
+
+    There is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding the effects
+    of the solitary upon me. I do not think they will keep me in
+    long; at any rate, remember that I do not wish you to intercede.
+
+    You will be pleased to know that my friend Harry shows signs of
+    improvement, thanks to your generosity. "Coz" has managed to
+    deliver to him the tid-bits and wine you sent. You know the
+    story of the boy. He has never known the love of a mother, nor
+    the care of a father. A typical child of the disinherited, he
+    was thrown, almost in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the
+    world. At the age of ten the law declared him a criminal. He has
+    never since seen a day of liberty. At twenty he is dying of
+    prison consumption. Was the Spanish Inquisition ever guilty of
+    such organized child murder? With desperate will-power he
+    clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. He is firmly
+    convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules
+    confine him to the hospital. His friends here have collected a
+    fund to bring his case before the Pardon Board; it is to be
+    heard next month. That devoted soul, "Coz," has induced the
+    doctor to issue a certificate of Harry's critical condition, and
+    he may be released soon. I have grown very fond of the boy so
+    much sinned against. I have watched his heart and mind blossom
+    in the sunshine of a little kindness, and now--I hope that at
+    least his last wish will be gratified: just once to walk on the
+    street, and not hear the harsh command of the guard. He begs me
+    to express to his unknown friend his deepest gratitude.
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    DEAR M.:
+
+    The Deputy has just released me. I am happy with a double
+    happiness, for I know how pleased you will be at the good turn
+    of affairs. It is probably due to the fact that my neighbor, the
+    Big Swede--you've heard about him--was found dead in the
+    strait-jacket this morning. The doctor and officers all along
+    pretended that he was shamming. It was a most cruel murder; by
+    the Warden's order the sick Swede was kept gagged and bound
+    every night. I understand that the Deputy opposed such brutal
+    methods, and now it is rumored that he intends to resign. But I
+    hope he will remain. There is something big and broad-minded
+    about the gigantic Colonel. He tries to be fair, and he has
+    saved many a prisoner from the cruelty of the Major. The latter
+    is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is
+    characteristic that his methods involve curtailment of rations,
+    and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the books.
+    He has recently cut the milk allowance of the hospital patients,
+    notwithstanding the protests of the doctor. He has also
+    introduced severe punishment for talking. You know, when you
+    have not uttered a word for days and weeks, you are often seized
+    with an uncontrollable desire to give vent to your feelings.
+    These infractions of the rules are now punished by depriving you
+    of tobacco and of your Sunday dinner. Every Sunday from 30 to 50
+    men are locked up on the top range, to remain without food all
+    day. The system is called "Killicure" (kill or cure) and it
+    involves considerable graft, for I know numbers of men who have
+    not received tobacco or a Sunday dinner for months.
+
+    Warden Wm. Johnston seems innately cruel. Recently he introduced
+    the "blind" cell,--door covered with solid sheet iron. It is
+    much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually admits no air,
+    and men are kept in it from 30 to 60 days. Prisoner Varnell was
+    locked up in such a cell 79 days, becoming paralyzed. But even
+    worse than these punishments is the more refined brutality of
+    torturing the boys with the uncertainty of release and the
+    increasing deprivation of good time. This system is developing
+    insanity to an alarming extent.
+
+    Amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the Chaplain is a
+    refreshing oasis of humanity. I noticed in one of your letters
+    the expression, "because of economic necessity," and--I
+    wondered. To be sure, the effects of economic causes are not to
+    be underestimated. But the extremists of the materialistic
+    conception discount character, and thus help to vitiate it. The
+    factor of personality is too often ignored by them. Take the
+    Chaplain, for instance. In spite of the surrounding swamp of
+    cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding all disappointment and
+    ingratitude, he is to-day, after 30 years of incumbency, as full
+    of faith in human nature and as sympathetic and helpful, as
+    years ago. He has had to contend against the various
+    administrations, and he is a poor man; necessity has not stifled
+    his innate kindness.
+
+    And this is why I wondered. "Economic necessity"--has Socialism
+    pierced the prison walls?
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    DEAR, DEAR COMRADE:
+
+    Can you realize how your words, "I am socialistically inclined,"
+    warmed my heart? I wish I could express to you all the intensity
+    of what I feel, my dear _friend_ and _comrade_. To have so
+    unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably lightens this
+    miserable existence. What matter that you do not entirely share
+    my views,--we are comrades in the common cause of human
+    emancipation. It was indeed well worth while getting in trouble
+    to have found you, dear friend. Surely I have good cause to be
+    content, even happy. Your friendship is a source of great
+    strength, and I feel equal to struggling through the ten months,
+    encouraged and inspired by your comradeship and devotion. Every
+    evening I cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the
+    thought that I am a day nearer to the precious moment when I
+    shall turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the
+    great work, and to meet you, dear Chum, face to face, to grip
+    your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade!
+
+                                        Most fraternally,
+
+                                                               Alex.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII
+
+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 café "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 portières 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."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by 
+Alexander Berkman
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+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" />
+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Berkman.
+    </title>
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+
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+    .poem             {margin-left:30%; margin-right:20%; text-align: left;}
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+    .regards {text-align: right; margin-right: 20em;}
+
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+<pre>
+
+Project Gutenberg's Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Berkman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist
+
+Author: Alexander Berkman
+
+Release Date: November 22, 2010 [EBook #34406]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;">
+<img src="images/univsymbol.png" width="448" height="209" alt="UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY" title="UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY" />
+<span class="caption">UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY</span>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+<h1>PRISON MEMOIRS<br />
+
+<small>OF AN</small><br />
+
+<big>ANARCHIST</big></h1>
+
+<h4>BY</h4>
+<h2>ALEXANDER BERKMAN</h2>
+
+<h5>NEW YORK<br />
+<span class="smcap">Mother Earth Publishing Association</span><br />
+1912</h5>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 15%;" />
+
+<p class="center">
+Published September, 1912<br />
+Second Edition, 1920</p>
+<hr style="width: 15%;" />
+
+<p class="center">
+241 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW YORK<br />
+</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<h3>
+To all those who in and out of prison<br />
+fight against their bondage<br />
+</h3>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 15%;" />
+<div class='poem'><p>
+"But this I know, that every Law<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That men have made for Man,</span><br />
+Since first Man took his brother's life,<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the sad world began,</span><br />
+But straws the wheat and saves the chaff<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">With a most evil fan."</span><br />
+</p>
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Oscar Wilde</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 458px;">
+<a name="Berkman" id="Berkman"></a>
+<span class="caption">Alexander Berkman<br />
+Photo by Marcia Stein</span>
+<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="458" height="640" alt="Alexander Berkman" title="Alexander Berkman" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<h2>AS INTRODUCTORY</h2>
+
+
+<p>I wish that everybody in the world would read this
+book. And my reasons are not due to any desire on my
+part that people should join any group of social philosophers
+or revolutionists. I desire that the book be
+widely read because the general and careful reading of
+it would definitely add to true civilization.</p>
+
+<p>It is a contribution to the writings which promote
+civilization; for the following reasons:</p>
+
+<p>It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be
+sincere. More than that, it is a valuable thing. To be
+so, means unusual qualities of the heart and of the head;
+unusual qualities of character. The books that possess
+this quality are unusual books. There are not many
+deliberately autobiographical writings that are markedly
+sincere; there are not many direct human documents.
+This is one of these few books.</p>
+
+<p>Not only has this book the interest of the human
+document, but it is also a striking proof of the power of
+the human soul. Alexander Berkman spent fourteen
+years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly
+harsh and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy
+the body, weaken the mind and pervert the character.
+Berkman consciously struggled with these adverse, destructive
+conditions. He took care of his body. He
+took care of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was
+a moral effort. He felt insane ideas trying to take possession
+of him. Insanity is a natural result of prison
+life. It always tends to come. This man felt it,
+consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That
+the prison affected him is true. It always does. But he
+saved himself, essentially. Society tried to destroy him,
+but failed.</p>
+
+<p>If people will read this book carefully it will tend
+to do away with prisons. The public, once vividly
+conscious of what prison life is and must be, would not
+be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book
+that I know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing
+psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture
+after picture, sketch after sketch, not only the obvious
+brutality, stupidity, ugliness permeating the institution,
+but, very touching, it shows the good qualities and instincts
+of the human heart perverted, demoralized, helplessly
+struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing
+themselves. And the personality of Berkman
+goes through it all; idealistic, courageous, uncompromising,
+sincere, truthful; not untouched, as I have said, by
+his surroundings, but remaining his essential self.</p>
+
+<p>What lessons there are in this book! Like all truthful
+documents it makes us love and hate our fellow
+men, doubt ourselves, doubt our society, tends to make
+us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards life, and
+not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation
+painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present
+simplicity of our moral attitudes. It tends to make us
+more mature.</p>
+
+<p>The above are the main reasons why I should like to
+have everybody read this book.</p>
+
+<p>But there are other aspects of the book which are
+interesting and valuable in a more special, more limited
+way; aspects in which only comparatively few persons
+will be interested, and which will arouse the opposition
+and hostility of many. The Russian Nihilistic origin of
+Berkman, his Anarchistic experience in America, his attempt
+on the life of Frick&mdash;an attempt made at a violent
+industrial crisis, an attempt made as a result of a sincere
+if fanatical belief that he was called on by his destiny
+to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the
+community&mdash;this part of the book will arouse extreme
+disagreement and disapproval of his ideas and his act.
+But I see no reason why this, with the rest, should not
+rather be regarded as an integral part of a human document,
+as part of the record of a life, with its social and
+psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not
+try to understand an honest man even if he feels called
+on to kill? There, too, it may be deeply instructive.
+There, too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a combative
+spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of
+course, but read to see.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Hutchins Hapgood.</span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<h2>CONTENTS</h2>
+
+
+
+<div class='center'>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Contents">
+<tr><td align='center' colspan='3'><b><a href="#Part_I">Part I</a>: The Awakening and Its Toll</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Chapter</span></td><td>&nbsp;</td><td align='right'><span class="smcap">Page</span></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Call of Homestead</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Seat of War</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Spirit of Pittsburgh</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Attentat</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Third Degree</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Jail</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_44">44</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Trial</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_89">89</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='center' colspan='3'><b><a href="#Part_II">Part II</a>: The Penitentiary</b></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>I.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Desperate Thoughts</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_95">95</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>II.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Will to Live</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>III.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Spectral Silence</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>IV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Ray of Light</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_124">124</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>V.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Shop</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_128">128</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>VI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">My First Letter</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_136">136</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>VII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Wingie</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_140">140</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>VIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">To the Girl</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>IX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Persecution</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_152">152</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>X.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Yegg</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_159">159</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Route Sub Rosa</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_174">174</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XII.</td><td align='left'>"<span class="smcap">Zuchthausbluethen</span>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Judas</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_185">185</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Dip</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Urge of Sex</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_201">201</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XVI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Warden's Threat</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_209">209</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XVII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The "Basket" Cell</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XVIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Solitary</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XIX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Memory-Guests</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Day in the Cell-House</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_240">240</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Deeds of the Good to the Evil</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_264">264</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Grist of the Prison-Mill</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Scales of Justice</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Thoughts that Stole Out of Prison</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_297">297</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">How Shall the Depths Cry?</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXVI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Hiding the Evidence</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXVII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Love's Dungeon Flower</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_316">316</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXVIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">For Safety</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_328">328</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXIX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Dreams of Freedom</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_330">330</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Whitewashed Again</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_337">337</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXI.</td><td align='left'>"<span class="smcap">And by All Forgot, We Rot and Rot</span>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_342">342</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Deviousness of Reform Law Applied</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_352">352</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Tunnel</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_355">355</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Death of Dick</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_363">363</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">An Alliance With the Birds</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_364">364</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXVI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Underground</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_375">375</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXVII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Anxious Days</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_382">382</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXVIII.</td><td align='left'>"<span class="smcap">How Men Their Brothers Maim</span>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_389">389</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XXXIX.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A New Plan of Escape</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_395">395</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XL.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Done to Death</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_401">401</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Shock at Buffalo</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_409">409</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Marred Lives</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_418">418</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLIII.</td><td align='left'>"<span class="smcap">Passing the Love of Woman</span>"</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_430">430</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLIV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Love's Daring</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_441">441</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLV.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">The Bloom of "The Barren Staff"</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_446">446</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLVI.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">A Child's Heart-Hunger</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_453">453</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLVII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Chum</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_458">458</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='right'>XLVIII.</td><td align='left'><span class="smcap">Last Days</span></td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_465">465</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='center' colspan='3'><b><a href="#Part_III">Part III</a></b></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align='left'>The Workhouse</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_473">473</a></td> </tr>
+<tr><td align='center' colspan='3'><b><a href="#Part_IV">Part IV</a></b></td></tr>
+<tr><td>&nbsp;</td><td align='left'>The Resurrection</td><td align='right'><a href="#Page_483">483</a></td> </tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<h2>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
+
+<div class='center'>
+<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Illustrations">
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Berkman"><span class="smcap">Alexander Berkman</span> (Frontispiece)</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Strike"><span class="smcap">The Author at the Time of the Homestead Strike</span></a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Penitentiary"><span class="smcap">Western Penitentiary of Pennsylvania</span></a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Facsimile"><span class="smcap">Facsimile of Prison Letter</span></a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Zuchthausbluethen">"<span class="smcap">Zuchthausbluethen</span>"</a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Cell"><span class="smcap">Cell Ranges</span></a></td></tr>
+<tr><td align='center'><a href="#Tunnel"><span class="smcap">The Tunnel</span></a></td></tr>
+</table></div>
+
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<h2><a name="Part_I" id="Part_I"></a>PART I</h2>
+
+<h1>THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL</h1>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 462px;">
+<a name="Strike" id="Strike"></a>
+<img src="images/alexander.jpg" width="462" height="640" alt="Alexander Berkman" title="Alexander Berkman" />
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
+
+<h3>THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my
+mind. It is the sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly
+sitting in the back of our little flat&mdash;Fedya and I&mdash;when
+suddenly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick,
+energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As
+I turn to her, I am struck by the peculiar gleam in her
+eyes and the heightened color.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open
+newspaper.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed
+women and children."</p>
+
+<p>She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words
+ring like the cry of a wounded animal, the melodious
+voice tinged with the harshness of bitterness&mdash;the
+bitterness of helpless agony.</p>
+
+<p>I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement
+I read the vivid account of the tremendous
+struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more correctly, the
+lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the
+part of the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated
+Association of Iron and Steel Workers; the selection,
+for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick, whose
+attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret
+military preparations while designedly prolonging the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
+peace negotiations with the Amalgamated; the fortification
+of the Homestead steel-works; the erection of a
+high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided
+with loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army
+of Pinkerton thugs; the attempt to smuggle them, in the
+dead of night, into Homestead; and, finally, the terrible
+carnage.</p>
+
+<p>I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me.
+We sit in silence, each busy with his own thoughts.
+Only now and then we exchange a word, a searching,
+significant look.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive
+with tobacco smoke; the boisterous talk of the
+men playing cards near by annoys me. I turn to the
+window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the
+rich aroma of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating.
+Green woods and yellow fields circle in the distance,
+whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving place to other
+circling fields and woods. The country looks young and
+alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts
+are busy with Homestead.</p>
+
+<p>The great battle has been fought. Never before, in
+all its history, has American labor won such a signal
+victory. By force of arms the workers of Homestead
+have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to surrender,
+to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What
+humiliating defeat for the powers that be! Does not the
+Pinkerton janizary represent organized authority, forever
+crushing the toiler in the interest of the exploiters?
+Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the
+unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of
+America, have joyously acclaimed the rebellious man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span>hood
+of Homestead. The steel-workers were not the
+aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and suffered. Out
+of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry;
+on their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company.
+Yet patiently they had waited for the promised
+greater share of the wealth they were creating. Like
+a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were
+to be reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused
+to continue the sliding scale previously agreed upon as
+a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm challenged the
+Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions
+which it knew the workers could not accept.
+Foreseeing refusal, it flaunted warlike preparations
+to crush the union under the iron heel. Perfidious
+Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed
+the gospel of good will and harmony. "I would
+lay it down as a maxim," he had declared, "that there
+is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until arbitration
+of differences has been offered by one party and refused
+by the other. The right of the workingmen to combine
+and to form trades-unions is no less sacred than the
+right of the manufacturer to enter into association and
+conference with his fellows, and it must sooner or later
+be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men
+<i>more than half-way</i>."</p>
+
+<p>With smooth words the great philanthropist had
+persuaded the workers to indorse the high tariff.
+Every product of his mills protected, Andrew
+Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel
+billets, in return for his generous contribution to
+the Republican campaign fund. In complete control of
+the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a
+depression of prices, as a seeming consequence of a
+lower duty. But <i>the market price of billets was the sole
+standard of wages in the Homestead mills</i>. The wages<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span>
+of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the
+Amalgamated Association to arbitrate the new scale met
+with contemptuous refusal: there was nothing to
+arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the
+union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected
+Henry C. Frick, the bloody Frick of the coke regions,
+to carry the program into execution.</p>
+
+<p>Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood
+of Homestead rebelled: the millmen scorned the despotic
+ultimatum. Then Frick's hand fell. The war was
+on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the
+land the tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company
+was bitterly denounced, the ruthless brutality of Frick
+universally execrated.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment
+was urgent. The toilers of Homestead had defied the
+oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet the
+steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of
+Anarchism alone could imbue discontent with conscious
+revolutionary purpose; it alone could lend wings to the
+aspirations of labor. The dissemination of our ideas
+among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the
+great struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the
+way to complete ultimate emancipation.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring
+call, "Labor, Awaken!" would fire the hearts of the disinherited,
+and inspire them to noble deeds. It would
+carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and
+prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution.
+Homestead might prove the first blush of the glorious
+Dawn. How I chafed at the obstacles my project
+encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every
+step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into
+popular English proved unavailing. It would endanger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>
+me to distribute such a fiery appeal, my friend remonstrated.
+Impatiently I waived aside his objections. As
+if personal considerations could for an instant be
+weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain
+I argued and pleaded. And all the while precious
+moments were being wasted, and new obstacles barred
+the way. I rushed frantically from printer to compositor,
+begging, imploring. None dared print the
+appeal. And time was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the
+news of the Pinkerton carnage. The world stood
+aghast.</p>
+
+<p>The time for speech was past. Throughout the land
+the toilers echoed the defiance of the men of Homestead.
+The steel-workers had rallied bravely to the defence; the
+murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But
+loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the
+hanks of the Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the
+People calling. Ah, the People! The grand, mysterious,
+yet so near and real, People....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In my mind I see myself back in the little Russian
+college town, amid the circle of Petersburg students, home
+for their vacation, surrounded by the halo of that vague
+and wonderful something we called "Nihilist." The rushing
+train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all
+turn into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of
+centuries; and again I sit among superior beings, reverently
+listening to the impassioned discussion of dimly
+understood high themes, with the oft-recurring refrain of
+"Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chernishevsky, <i>v nar&oacute;d</i>." To
+the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble
+in spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a
+clarion call the note rings in my ears, amidst the din of
+contending views and obscure phraseology. The People!
+My Greek mythology moods have often pictured <small>HIM</small>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>
+to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders
+the weight of the world, his back bent, his face the
+mirror of unutterable misery, in his eye the look of
+hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for help.
+Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his
+burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but
+in the heated student debate the note rings clear: To
+the People, become one of them, share their joys and
+sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is the
+solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from
+Odessa saying? "It is all good and well about going to
+the People, but the energetic men of the deed, the
+Rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by
+individual acts of revolt against&mdash;"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Ticket, please!" A heavy hand is on my shoulder.
+With an effort I realize the situation. The card-players
+are exchanging angry words. With a deft movement
+the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks
+away with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets
+the players. Twitted by the other passengers, they soon
+subside, and presently the car grows quiet.</p>
+
+<p>I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back
+into reverie. I must form a definite plan of action. My
+purpose is quite clear to me. A tremendous struggle is
+taking place at Homestead: the People are manifesting
+the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My
+heart exults. This is, at last, what I have always
+hoped for from the American workingman: once
+aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight all
+obstacles, and conquer even more than his original
+demands. It is the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated
+in the steel-workers of Homestead, Pennsylvania. What
+supreme joy to aid in this work! That is my natural
+mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span>
+shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People&mdash;the
+toilers of the world, the producers&mdash;comprise, to me,
+the universe. They alone count. The rest are parasites,
+who have no right to exist. But to the People
+belongs the earth&mdash;by right, if not in fact. To make it
+so in fact, all means are justifiable; nay, advisable, even
+to the point of taking life. The question of moral right
+in such matters often agitated the revolutionary circles
+I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme
+view. The more radical the treatment, I held, the
+quicker the cure. Society is a patient; sick constitutionally
+and functionally. Surgical treatment is often imperative.
+The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable;
+it is the highest duty of every true revolutionist.
+Human life is, indeed, sacred and inviolate. But
+the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the People,
+is in no way to be considered as the taking of a
+life. A revolutionist would rather perish a thousand
+times than be guilty of what is ordinarily called murder.
+In truth, murder and <i>Attentat</i><a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> are to me opposite terms.
+To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the giving of
+life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the
+Cause often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an
+unpleasant act; but it is the test of a true revolutionist&mdash;nay,
+more, his pride&mdash;to sacrifice all merely human
+feeling at the call of the People's Cause. If the latter
+demand his life, so much the better.</p>
+
+<p>Could anything be nobler than to die for a
+grand, a sublime Cause? Why, the very life of a
+true revolutionist has no other purpose, no significance
+whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of
+the beloved People. And what could be higher in
+life than to be a true revolutionist? It is to be a <i>man</i>,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span>
+a complete <small>MAN</small>. A being who has neither personal
+interests nor desires above the necessities of the Cause;
+one who has emancipated himself from being merely
+human, and has risen above that, even to the height
+of conviction which excludes all doubt, all regret; in
+short, one who in the very inmost of his soul feels
+himself revolutionist first, human afterwards.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed,
+far more so than even the extreme radicals of my own
+circle. My mind reverts to a characteristic incident in
+connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in New
+York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the
+tenderest of souls, was beloved by every one in our
+circle, the <i>Pioneers of Liberty</i>, the first Jewish Anarchist
+organization on American soil. One evening the closer
+personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for
+aiding the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade
+to Denver, some one suggesting that money be drawn
+for the purpose from the revolutionary treasury. I
+objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt,
+and his former roommate, I could not allow&mdash;I argued&mdash;that
+funds belonging to the movement be devoted to
+private purposes, however good and even necessary
+those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments
+I met with this challenge: "Do you mean to
+help Edelstadt, the poet and man, or Edelstadt the
+revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active revolutionist?
+His poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may
+indirectly even prove of some propagandistic value. Aid
+our friend with your private funds, if you will; but no
+money from the movement can be given, except for
+direct revolutionary activity."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Do you mean that the poet is less to you than
+the revolutionist?" I was asked by Tikhon, a young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>
+medical student, whom we playfully dubbed "Lingg,"
+because of his rather successful affectation of the
+celebrated revolutionist's physical appearance.</p>
+
+<p>"I am revolutionist first, man afterwards," I replied,
+with conviction.</p>
+
+<p>"You are either a knave or a hero," he retorted.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Lingg" was quite right. He could not know me.
+To his <i>bourgeois</i> mind, for all his imitation of the
+Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded knavish.
+Well, some day he may know which I am, knave or
+revolutionist. I do not think in the term "hero," for
+though the type of revolutionist I feel myself to be
+might popularly be so called, the word has no significance
+for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does
+his duty. There is no heroism in that: it is neither
+more nor less than a revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov
+did more, too much. In spite of my great admiration
+for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced
+the Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress
+the touch of resentment I feel because the author
+of "What's To Be Done?" represented his arch-revolutionist
+Rakhmetov as going through a system of
+unspeakable, self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for
+future exigencies. It was a sign of weakness. Does a
+real revolutionist need to prepare himself, to steel his
+nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal
+insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere
+human clay.</p>
+
+<p>No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting
+preparations. For I know <i>I</i> do not need them.
+The feeling is quite impersonal, strange as it may
+seem. My own individuality is entirely in the background;
+aye, I am not conscious of any personality
+in matters pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span>
+revolutionist, a terrorist by conviction, an instrument
+for furthering the cause of humanity; in short, a
+Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon
+my arrival in Pittsburgh.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with
+a start. My first thought is of my wallet, containing
+important addresses of Allegheny comrades, which I was
+trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep.
+The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed
+with terror. What if it is lost? Suddenly my foot
+touches something soft. I pick it up, feeling tremendously
+relieved to find all the contents safe: the
+precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of
+Frick, and a dollar bill. My joy at recovering the wallet
+is not a whit dampened by the meagerness of my funds.
+The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for the first
+night, and in the morning I'll look up Nold or Bauer.
+They will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "I
+won't remain there long," I think, with an inward smile.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>We are nearing Washington, D. C. The train is to
+make a six-hour stop there. I curse the stupidity of the
+delay: something may be happening in Pittsburgh or
+Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a
+telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the
+atrocities of the Carnegie Company, the brutality of
+Frick.</p>
+
+<p>Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful
+picture that greets my eye as I step from the train. The
+sun has risen, a large ball of deep red, pouring a flood of
+gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears its proud head
+majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a
+living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span>
+to kiss the uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy,
+and then spreading in a broadening embrace down
+the shoulders of the towering giant. The amber waves
+entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush
+on, to right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon
+the stately trees, dallying amid leaves and branches,
+finally unfolding themselves over the broad avenue, and
+ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter.
+And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue
+quiver with new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the
+contented sigh of bliss, and nestles closer to the golden
+giver of life.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before,
+the great joy, the surpassing gladness, of being. But in
+a trice the picture changes. Before my eyes rises the
+Monongahela river, carrying barges filled with armed
+men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank.
+The blood gushes from the centre of his forehead. The
+hole ploughed by the bullet yawns black on the crimson
+face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I see men
+running toward the river, and women kneeling by the
+side of the dead.</p>
+
+<p>The horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident,
+lived through in imagination before. It was the
+sight of an executed Nihilist. The Nihilists! How
+much of their precious blood has been shed, how
+many thousands of them line the road of Russia's
+suffering! Inexpressibly near and soul-kin I feel to those
+men and women, the adored, mysterious ones of my
+youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to
+"go to the People," to become one with them, though
+despised by all whom they held dear, persecuted and
+ridiculed even by the benighted objects of their great
+sacrifice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first
+impression of Nihilist Russia. I had just passed my
+second year's gymnasium examinations. Overflowing
+with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to
+tell mother the joyful news. How happy it will make
+her! Next week will be my twelfth birthday, but
+mother need give me no present. I have one for
+her, instead. "Mamma, mamma!" I called, when suddenly
+I caught her voice, raised in anger. Something
+has happened, I thought; mother never speaks so
+loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the
+door leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room
+closed, contrary to custom. In perturbation I hesitated
+at the door. "Shame on you, Nathan," I heard my
+mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because
+he is a Nihilist. You are no better than"&mdash;her voice
+fell to a whisper, but my straining ear distinctly caught
+the dread word, uttered with hatred and fear&mdash;"a
+<i>pal&aacute;tch</i>."<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>
+
+<p>I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich
+uncle Nathan's unwonted presence at our house, the
+fearful word <i>pal&aacute;tch</i>&mdash;something awful must have happened.
+I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my
+room. Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the
+bed. What has the <i>pal&aacute;tch</i> done? I moaned. "<i>Your</i>
+brother," she had said to uncle. Her own youngest
+brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened
+to him? My excited imagination conjured up
+horrible visions. There stood the powerful figure of
+the giant <i>pal&aacute;tch</i>, all in black, his right arm bare to the
+shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the
+glimmer of the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly,
+so torturingly slowly, while my heart ceased beating and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>my feverish eyes followed, bewitched, the glowing black
+coals in the <i>pal&aacute;tch's</i> head. Suddenly the two fiery eyes
+fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the
+fearful one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher
+and higher, and everywhere was the giant&mdash;on all sides
+of me was he&mdash;then a sudden flash of steel, and
+in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the
+neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood
+gushing from mouth and ears and throat. Something
+looked ghastly familiar about that head with the broad
+white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and sad.
+"Oh, Maxim, Maxim!" I cried, terror-stricken: the
+next moment a flood of passionate hatred of the <i>pal&aacute;tch</i>
+seized me, and I rushed, head bent, toward the one-eyed
+monster. Nearer and nearer I came,&mdash;another
+quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body
+struck him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and
+heavy, right upon me, and I felt his fearful weight
+crushing my arms, my chest, my head....</p>
+
+<p>"Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, <i>golubchik</i>?"
+I recognize the sweet, tender voice of my
+mother, sounding far away and strange, then coming
+closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes.
+Mother is kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes
+bathed in tears. Passionately she showers kisses upon
+my face and hands, entreating: "<i>Golubchik</i>, what is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?" I
+ask, breathlessly watching her face.</p>
+
+<p>Her sudden change of expression chills my heart
+with fear. She turns ghostly white, large drops of
+perspiration stand on her forehead, and her eyes grow
+large and round with terror. "Mamma!" I cry, throwing
+my arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel
+her warm breath on my cheek; but, without uttering a
+word, she bursts into vehement weeping.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Who&mdash;told&mdash;you? You&mdash;know?" she whispers between
+sobs.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The pall of death seems to have descended upon our
+home. The house is oppressively silent. Everybody
+walks about in slippers, and the piano is kept locked.
+Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the
+dinner-table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is
+very ill, the nurse informs us; no one is to see her.</p>
+
+<p>The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what
+has happened to Maxim. Was my vision of the <i>pal&aacute;tch</i>
+a presentiment, or the echo of an accomplished tragedy?
+Vaguely I feel guilty of mother's illness. The shock of
+my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet
+there must be more to it, I try to persuade my troubled
+spirit. One afternoon, finding my eldest brother Maxim,
+named after mother's favorite brother, in a very cheerful
+mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed confidential
+manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?"</p>
+
+<p>"Go to the devil, <i>molokossoss</i><a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> you!" he cries, angrily.
+With a show of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim
+throws his paper on the floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting
+the chair, and leaves the room.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the
+question of Nihilism unsolved. I am absorbed in my
+studies. Yet a deep interest, curiosity about the mysterious
+and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness,
+when quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity
+by a school incident. I am fifteen now, in the fourth
+grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno. By direction
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span>of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious instruction
+is being introduced in the State schools. Special
+classes have been opened at the gymnasium for the
+religious instruction of Jewish pupils. The parents of
+the latter resent the innovation; almost every Jewish
+child receives religious training at home or in <i>cheidar</i>.<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>
+But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts
+of Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.</p>
+
+<p>The roll-call at the first session finds me missing.
+Summoned before the Director for an explanation, I state
+that I failed to attend because I have a private Jewish
+tutor at home, and,&mdash;anyway, I do not believe in religion.
+The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.</p>
+
+<p>"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural
+voice he affects on solemn occasions. "Young
+man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach so profound
+a conclusion?"</p>
+
+<p>His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of
+his words and the offensive tone rouse my resentment.
+Impulsively, defiantly, I discover my cherished secret.
+"Since I wrote the essay, 'There Is No God,'" I
+reply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I
+realize the recklessness of my confession. I have a
+fleeting sense of coming trouble, at school and at home.
+Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a <i>man</i>. Uncle
+Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I
+know his reputation for uncompromising candor, and
+love him for his bold, frank ways.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, that is interesting," I hear, as in a dream, the
+unpleasant guttural voice of the Director. "When did
+you write it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Three years ago."</p>
+
+<p>"How old were you then?"</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p>
+<p>"Twelve."</p>
+
+<p>"Have you the essay?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Where?"</p>
+
+<p>"At home."</p>
+
+<p>"Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, remember."</p>
+
+<p>His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears
+with the harsh metallic sound of my sister's piano that
+memorable evening of our musicale when, in a spirit of
+mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the instrument
+tuned for the occasion.</p>
+
+<p>"To-morrow, then. You are dismissed."</p>
+
+<p>The Educational Board, in conclave assembled, reads
+the essay. My disquisition is unanimously condemned.
+Exemplary punishment is to be visited upon me for "precocious
+godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and insubordination."
+I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to
+the third class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a
+year, and forces me to associate with the "children" my
+senior class looks down upon with undisguised contempt.
+I feel disgraced, humiliated.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory,
+while the interminable hours creep towards the afternoon,
+and the station clock drones like an endless old
+woman.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>Over at last. "All aboard!"</p>
+
+<p>On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing
+me nearer to my destination. The conductor drawling
+out the stations, the noisy going and coming produce
+almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing
+and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>
+nevertheless oblivious to them. Faster than the train
+rushes my fancy, as if reviewing a panorama of vivid
+scenes, apparently without organic connection with each
+other, yet somehow intimately associated in my thoughts
+of the past. But how different is the present! I am
+speeding toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the
+industrial struggle of America. America! I dwell wonderingly
+on the unuttered sound. Why in America?
+And again unfold pictures of old scenes.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed
+country place, in a fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg,
+where the family generally spends the summer months.
+As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated
+physician of the resort, steps out of the house and
+beckons to me.</p>
+
+<p>"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his
+courtly manner, "your mother is very ill. Are you alone
+with her?"</p>
+
+<p>"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance,"
+I reply.</p>
+
+<p>"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile
+hovers about the corners of his delicately chiseled lips.
+"I mean of the family."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother."</p>
+
+<p>"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander
+Ossipovitch. Could you sit up with her to-night?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at
+the peculiar request. Mother has been improving, the
+nurses have assured me. My presence at her bedside
+may prove irksome to her. Our relations have been
+strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped
+Rose, our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented
+mother's right to inflict physical punishment on the
+servants. I can see her now, erect and haughty, facing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
+me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with
+indignation.</p>
+
+<p>"You forget you are speaking to your mother,
+Al-ex-an-der"; she pronounces the name in four distinct
+syllables, as is her habit when angry with me.</p>
+
+<p>"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort,
+defiantly.</p>
+
+<p>"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial
+is no concern of yours."</p>
+
+<p>I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my
+lips: "The low servant girl is as good as you."</p>
+
+<p>I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy
+ladle, and the next instant a sharp pain pierces my
+left hand. Our eyes meet. Her arm remains motionless,
+her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on the
+white table-cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She
+closes her eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair.</p>
+
+<p>Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary
+impulse to rush to her assistance. Without uttering a
+word, I pick up the heavy saltcellar, and fling it violently
+against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass
+my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and
+leave the house.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick-room.
+I fear she may resent my intrusion: the shadow of
+the past stands between us. But she is lying quietly
+on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my
+entrance. I sit down at the bedside. A long time passes
+in silence. Mother seems to be asleep. It is growing
+dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the night in
+the chair. Suddenly I hear "Sasha!" called in a weak,
+faint voice. I bend over her. "Drink of water." As I
+hold the glass to her lips, she slightly turns away her
+head, saying very low, "Ice water, please." I start to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>
+leave the room. "Sasha!" I hear behind me, and, quickly
+tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely
+to hers, to catch the faint words: "Help me turn to the
+wall." Tenderly I wrap my arms around the weak,
+emaciated body, and an overpowering longing seizes me
+to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg
+her forgiveness. I feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing
+with compassion and love. But I dare not kiss
+her&mdash;we have become estranged. Affectionately I hold
+her in my arms for just the shadow of a second,
+dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging
+within me. Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as
+I slowly withdraw, I feel as if some mysterious, yet
+definite, something has at the very instant left her body.</p>
+
+<p>In a few minutes I return with a glass of ice water.
+I hold it to her lips, but she seems oblivious of my
+presence. "She cannot have gone to sleep so quickly,"
+I wonder. "Mother!" I call, softly. No reply. "Little
+mother! Mamotchka!" She does not appear to hear me.
+"Dearest, <i>golubchick</i>!" I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden
+fear, pressing my hot lips upon her face. Then I become
+conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and hear the
+measured voice of the doctor: "My boy, you must bear
+up. She is at rest."</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>"Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin' for?"
+Bewildered I turn around to meet the coarse, yet not
+unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the seat back
+of me.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, nothing; just dreaming," I reply. Not wishing
+to encourage conversation, I pretend to become absorbed
+in my book.</p>
+
+<p>How strange is the sudden sound of English!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span>
+Almost as suddenly had I been transplanted to American
+soil. Six months passed after my mother's death.
+Threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's
+passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"&mdash;which
+would close every professional avenue to me, in
+spite of my otherwise very satisfactory standing&mdash;the
+situation aggravated by a violent quarrel with my
+guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America.
+There, beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement,
+a glorious free country, where men walked erect in
+the full stature of manhood,&mdash;the very realization of
+my youthful dreams.</p>
+
+<p>And now I am in America, the blessed land. The
+disillusionment, the disappointments, the vain struggles!... The
+kaleidoscope of my brain unfolds them all
+before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union
+Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my
+roommates. The night wind sweeps across the cheerless
+park, chilling us to the bone. I feel hungry and tired,
+fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My
+heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends.
+"Nothing," each had morosely reported at our nightly
+meeting, after the day's weary tramp. Fedya groans in
+uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick
+up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread
+it over his legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a
+sudden blast tears the paper away, and whirls it off into
+the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down on his head,
+I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks
+have changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor
+fellow, no one wants his labor. How his mother would
+suffer if she knew that her carefully reared boy
+passes the nights in the.... What is that pain I feel?
+Some one is bending over me, looming unnaturally
+large in the darkness. Half-dazed I see an arm swing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span>
+to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes,
+and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a
+lash. Oh, it's in my soles! Bewildered I spring to my
+feet. A rough hand grabs me by the throat, and I face
+a policeman.</p>
+
+<p>"Are you thieves?" he bellows.</p>
+
+<p>Mikhail replies, sleepily: "We Russians. Want
+work."</p>
+
+<p>"Git out o' here! Off with you!"</p>
+
+<p>Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front,
+Mikhail limping behind us. The dimly lighted streets
+are deserted, save for a hurrying figure here and
+there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the
+corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements,
+are caught up by the wind, rushed to some distance,
+then carried in a spiral upwards, to be followed by
+another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a
+tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "The bakery on
+Second Street," Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps
+quicken. Shoulders raised, heads bent, and shivering,
+we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily
+falling behind. "Dammit, I feel bad," he says, catching
+up with us, as we step into an open hallway. A thorough
+inspection of our pockets reveals the possession of
+twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to bed, we
+decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased
+for the remaining two cents are divided equally, each
+taking a few puffs of the "fourth" in the box. Fedya
+and I sleep on the steps of the city hall.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!"</p>
+
+<p>The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the
+violence of a shock. Impatient as I am of the long
+journey, the realization that I have reached my destina<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>tion
+comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the dread
+of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things,
+but, noticing that the other passengers keep their places,
+I precipitately resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation
+be noticed. To hide my confusion, I turn to the open
+window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the sky,
+shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is
+heavy with soot and cinders; the smell is nauseating.
+In the distance, giant furnaces vomit pillars of fire, the
+lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame structures,
+dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the
+workers who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh,
+reared its millionaires, its Carnegies and Fricks.</p>
+
+<p>The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social
+justice that turns the needs of mankind into an Inferno
+of brutalizing toil. It robs man of his soul, drives the
+sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the
+beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and
+hellish torture grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel,
+transmutes human lives into gold, gold, countless gold.</p>
+
+<p>The great, noble People! But is it really great and
+noble to be slaves and remain content? No, no! They
+are awakening, awakening!</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SEAT OF WAR</h3>
+
+
+<p>Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches
+before me, its waters lazily rippling in the sunlight, and
+softly crooning to the murmur of the woods on the hazy
+shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of sharp
+contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board
+fence, topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect
+heightened by warlike watch-towers and ramparts. The
+sinister wall looks down on me with a thousand hollow
+eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies
+the name of "Fort Frick." Groups of excited people
+crowd the open spaces between the river and the fort,
+filling the air with the confusion of many voices. Men
+carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces grimy,
+eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the
+black mouths of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the
+passages, and the ground is strewn with burning cinders,
+empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace stacks, and
+piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath
+of a sanguinary conflict,&mdash;the symbol of our industrial
+life, of the ruthless struggle in which the <i>stronger</i>, the
+sturdy man of labor, is always the victim, because he
+acts <i>weakly</i>. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton
+barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered
+gangplank, bear mute witness that for once the battle
+went to the <i>really strong, to the victim who dared</i>.</p>
+
+<p>A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span>wart
+men, the power of conscious strength in their step
+and bearing. Each of them carries a weapon: some Winchesters,
+others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice
+the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.</p>
+
+<p>"Who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly
+asks me.</p>
+
+<p>"A friend, a visitor."</p>
+
+<p>"Can you show credentials or a union card?"</p>
+
+<p>Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they
+allow me to proceed.</p>
+
+<p>In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd
+of men and women of various types: the short, broad-faced
+Slav, elbowing his tall American fellow-striker;
+the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and
+talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The
+people are surging about a raised platform, on which
+stands a large, heavy man.</p>
+
+<p>I press forward. "Listen, gentlemen, listen!" I hear
+the speaker's voice. "Just a few words, gentlemen!
+You all know who I am, don't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes, Sheriff!" several men cry. "Go on!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who I
+am. Your Sheriff, the Sheriff of Allegheny County, of
+the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."</p>
+
+<p>"Go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead."</p>
+
+<p>"S-s-sh! Order!"</p>
+
+<p>The speaker advances to the edge of the platform.
+"Men of Homestead! It is my sworn duty, as Sheriff,
+to preserve the peace. Your city is in a state of lawlessness.
+I have asked the Governor to send the militia and
+I hope&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"No! No!" many voices protest. "To hell with you!"
+The tumult drowns the words of the Sheriff. Shaking
+his clenched fist, his foot stamping the platform, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
+shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the
+general uproar.</p>
+
+<p>"O'Donnell! O'Donnell!" comes from several sides,
+the cry swelling into a tremendous chorus, "O'Donnell!"</p>
+
+<p>I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend
+the platform. The assembly becomes hushed.</p>
+
+<p>"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating
+manner, "we have won a great, noble victory
+over the Company. We have driven the Pinkerton
+invaders out of our city&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Damn the murderers!"</p>
+
+<p>"Silence! Order!"</p>
+
+<p>"You have won a big victory," O'Donnell continues,
+"a great, significant victory, such as was never before
+known in the history of labor's struggle for better
+conditions."</p>
+
+<p>Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "But,"
+he continues, "you must show the world that you desire
+to maintain peace and order along with your rights.
+The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our
+homes and drove them out; rightly so. But you are
+law-abiding citizens. You respect the law and the
+authority of the State. Public opinion will uphold you
+in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time,
+friends!" He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm,
+"Now is the time! Welcome the soldiers. They are
+not sent by that man Frick. They are the people's
+militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them
+as friends!"</p>
+
+<p>Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval,
+greets the exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument,
+and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking
+into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark
+man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span>
+gradually draws the assembly closer to the front.
+Slowly the tumult subsides.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you believe it, men!" The speaker shakes
+his finger at the audience, as if to emphasize his
+warning. "Don't you believe that the soldiers are
+coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell.
+They'll cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers.
+The soldiers are no friends of ours. I know what I am
+talking about. They are coming here because that
+damned murderer Frick wants them."</p>
+
+<p>"Hear! Hear!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering
+with emotion, "I can tell you just how it is. The
+scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the Governor for
+troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do
+it, I say!"</p>
+
+<p>"No! Yes! No!" the clamor is renewed, but I can
+hear the speaker's voice rising above the din: "Yes,
+bribed him. You all know this cowardly Sheriff. Don't
+you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First <i>they</i>'ll come;
+then the blacklegs. You want 'em?"</p>
+
+<p>"No! No!" roars the crowd.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep
+out the soldiers, you understand? If you don't, they'll
+drive you out from the homes you have paid for with
+your blood. You and your wives and children they'll
+drive out, and out you will go from these"&mdash;the speaker
+points in the direction of the mills&mdash;"that's what they'll
+do, if you don't look out. We have sweated and bled
+in these mills, our brothers have been killed and maimed
+there, we have made the damned Company rich, and
+now they send the soldiers here to shoot us down like
+the Pinkerton thugs have tried to. And you want to
+welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out, I
+tell you!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the
+platform.</p>
+
+<p>"McLuckie! 'Honest' McLuckie!" a voice is heard on
+the fringe of the crowd, and as one man the assembly
+takes up the cry, "'Honest' McLuckie!"</p>
+
+<p>I am eager to see the popular Burgess of Homestead,
+himself a poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company.
+A large-boned, good-natured-looking workingman
+elbows his way to the front, the men readily making
+way for him with nods and pleasant smiles.</p>
+
+<p>"I haven't prepared any speech," the Burgess begins
+haltingly, "but I want to say, I don't see how you are
+going to fight the soldiers. There is a good deal of truth
+in what the brother before me said; but if you stop to
+think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing.
+The <i>how</i>? How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers
+out? That's what I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad
+to let them in. The blacklegs <i>might</i> be hiding in the
+rear. But then again, it's bad <i>not</i> to let the soldiers in.
+You can't stand up against 'em: they are not Pinkertons.
+And we can't fight the Government of Pennsylvania.
+Perhaps the Governor won't send the militia. But if
+he does, I reckon the best way for us will be to make
+friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do.
+That's all I have to say."</p>
+
+<p>The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the
+banks of the Ohio, heavily breathing the spirit of
+feverish activity, and permeating the atmosphere with
+the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human
+ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and
+recrossing, leaving in their trail a thousand winding
+passages, mounds of structure, peaked and domed.
+Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of
+gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way,
+now hugging the shore, now hiding in affright, and
+again timidly stretching its arms toward the wrathful
+monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of
+the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom
+of thick fog, oppressive and dispiriting&mdash;the symbol
+of our existence, with all its darkness and cold.</p>
+
+<p>This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism,
+whose spirit moulds the life of the great Nation.
+The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron City! Cold as steel,
+hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote of the
+great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing
+harmony to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is
+a furnace fire, consuming, destroying, devastating: a
+country-wide furnace, in which the bones and marrow
+of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
+blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor
+plate, and converted into engines of murder to be consecrated
+to Mammon by his high priests, the Carnegies,
+the Fricks.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations
+carried on between the Carnegie Company and
+the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in absolute
+control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace,
+is the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch
+held out by the workers after their victory over the
+Pinkertons has been refused. The ultimatum issued by
+Frick is the last word of Caesar: the union of the steel-workers
+is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even
+at the cost of shedding the blood of the last man in
+Homestead; the Company will deal only with individual
+workers, who must accept the terms offered, without
+question or discussion; he, Frick, will operate the mills
+with non-union labor, even if it should require the
+combined military power of the State and the Union to
+carry the plan into execution. Millmen disobeying the
+order to return to work under the new schedule of
+reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and
+evicted from the Company houses.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>In an obscure alley, in the town of Homestead,
+there stands a one-story frame house, looking old and
+forlorn. It is occupied by the widow Johnson and her
+four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a
+crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of
+metal. When the body was carried into the house, the
+distracted woman refused to recognize in the mangled
+remains her big, strong "Jack." For weeks the neigh<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>borhood
+resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband!
+Where's my husband?" But the loving care of kind-hearted
+neighbors has now somewhat restored the poor
+woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little
+orphans, she recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick.
+On her knees she implored him not to drive her out
+of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she pleaded;
+she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were
+too young to work; she herself was hardly able to
+walk. Frick was very kind, she thought; he had promised
+to see what could be done. She would not listen
+to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for
+damages. "The crane was rotten," her husband's
+friends informed her; "the government inspector had
+condemned it." But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely
+he knew best about the crane. Did he not say it was
+her poor husband's own carelessness?</p>
+
+<p>She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for
+extending the mortgage. She had lived in such mortal
+dread lest her own little home, where dear John had
+been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and
+her children driven into the street. She must never
+forget to ask the Lord's blessing upon the good Mr.
+Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors the
+story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he
+received her, how simply he talked with her. "Just like
+us folks," the widow says.</p>
+
+<p>She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor
+Mary, the hunchback, who, with undiminished interest,
+hears the recital for the twentieth time. It reflects such
+importance to know some one that had come in intimate
+contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence!
+and even talked to the great magnate!</p>
+
+<p>"'Dear Mr. Frick,' says I," the widow is narrating,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span>
+"'dear Mr. Frick,' I says, 'look at my poor little
+angels&mdash;'"</p>
+
+<p>A knock on the door interrupts her. "Must be one-eyed
+Kate," the widow observes. "Come in! Come in!"
+she calls out, cheerfully. "Poor Kate!" she remarks
+with a sigh. "Her man's got the consumption. Won't
+last long, I fear."</p>
+
+<p>A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway.
+Behind him appear two others. Frightened, the widow
+rises from the chair. One of the children begins to cry,
+and runs to hide behind his mother.</p>
+
+<p>"Beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "Have no
+fear. We are Deputy Sheriffs. Read this." He produces
+an official-looking paper. "Ordered to dispossess
+you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a
+dozen more of&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>There is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff
+catches the limp body of the widow in his arms.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh,
+lies basking in the afternoon sun. The broad
+avenue looks cool and inviting: the stately trees touch
+their shadows across the carriage road, gently nodding
+their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of
+equipages fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses
+and uniformed flunkies lending color and life to the
+scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The laughter of the
+ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness
+irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind
+I see the sombre fence, the fortifications and cannon;
+the piteous figure of the widow rises before me, the
+little children weeping, and again I hear the anguished
+cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen
+seem pleased; the ladies are happy. Why should they
+concern themselves with misery and want? The
+common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and
+clothe them, build these beautiful palaces, and be content
+with the charitable crust. "Take what I give you,"
+Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A luxurious
+place, with large garden, barns, and stable. That stable
+there,&mdash;it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's
+home. Ah, life could be made livable, beautiful! Why
+should it not be? Why so much misery and strife?
+Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around me.
+That is life! Joy and peace.... No! There can be no
+peace with such as Frick and these parasites in carriages
+riding on our backs, and sucking the blood of the workers.
+Fricks, vampires, all of them&mdash;I almost shout aloud&mdash;they
+are all one class. All in a cabal against <i>my</i>
+class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy,
+perhaps; but a conspiracy nevertheless. And
+the fine ladies on horseback smile and laugh. What is
+the misery of the People to <i>them?</i> Probably they are
+laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am
+of the People, but you belong to the Fricks. Well, it
+may soon be our turn to laugh....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that
+the conferences between the Carnegie Company and the
+Advisory Committee of the strikers have terminated in
+the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of
+the millmen. The last hope is gone! The master is
+determined to crush his rebellious slaves.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE ATTENTAT</h3>
+
+
+<p>The door of Frick's private office, to the left of the
+reception-room, swings open as the colored attendant
+emerges, and I catch a flitting glimpse of a black-bearded,
+well-knit figure at a table in the back of the
+room.</p>
+
+<p>"Mistah Frick is engaged. He can't see you now,
+sah," the negro says, handing back my card.</p>
+
+<p>I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk
+slowly out of the reception-room. But quickly retracing
+my steps, I pass through the gate separating the clerks
+from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded attendant
+aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself
+facing Frick.</p>
+
+<p>For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the
+windows, dazzles me. I discern two men at the further
+end of the long table.</p>
+
+<p>"Fr&mdash;," I begin. The look of terror on his face
+strikes me speechless. It is the dread of the conscious
+presence of death. "He understands," it flashes through
+my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver.
+As I raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both
+hands the arm of the chair, and attempt to rise. I aim
+at his head. "Perhaps he wears armor," I reflect. With
+a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull
+the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span>
+room reverberates as with the booming of cannon. I
+hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see Frick on his knees,
+his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm and
+possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He
+is lying head and shoulders under the large armchair,
+without sound or motion. "Dead?" I wonder. I must
+make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take
+a few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man,
+whose presence I had quite forgotten, leaps upon me.
+I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks slender and
+small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with
+him. Suddenly I hear the cry, "Murder! Help!" My
+heart stands still as I realize that it is Frick shouting.
+"Alive?" I wonder. I hurl the stranger aside and fire
+at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck my
+hand,&mdash;I have missed! He grapples with me, and we
+wrestle across the room. I try to throw him, but spying
+an opening between his arm and body, I thrust the
+revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering
+behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click&mdash;but
+no explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger,
+still clinging to me, when suddenly something heavy
+strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp pains shoot
+through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious
+of the weapon slipping from my hands.</p>
+
+<p>"Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!"
+Confused voices ring in my ears. Painfully I strive to
+rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing on me.
+Now&mdash;it's Frick's voice! Not dead?... I crawl in
+the direction of the sound, dragging the struggling men
+with me. I must get the dagger from my pocket&mdash;I
+have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of the
+man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain&mdash;there
+is much shouting and stamping&mdash;my arms are
+pulled and twisted, and I am lifted bodily from the floor.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me.
+An officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my
+eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of me, supported
+by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black
+beard is streaked with red, and blood is oozing from
+his neck. For an instant a strange feeling, as of
+shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am filled
+with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist.
+With defiant hatred I look him full in the face.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your
+assailant?"</p>
+
+<p>Frick nods weakly.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A
+young man in civilian dress, who is accompanying the
+police, inquires, not unkindly:</p>
+
+<p>"Are you hurt? You're bleeding."</p>
+
+<p>I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but
+there is a peculiar sensation about my eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"I've lost my glasses," I remark, involuntarily.</p>
+
+<p>"You'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head,"
+an officer retorts.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
+
+<h3>THE THIRD DEGREE</h3>
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+
+<p>The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter;
+the sound of footsteps dies away. The officers are gone.
+It is a relief to be alone. Their insolent looks and
+stupid questions, insinuations and threats,&mdash;how disgusting
+and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete
+indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the
+wooden bench, running along the wall of the cell, and
+at once fall asleep.</p>
+
+<p>I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and
+dark around me. Is it night? My hand gropes blindly,
+hesitantly. Something wet and clammy touches my
+cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is
+damp and musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly
+my foot feels the floor, drawing my body forward, all
+my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars. The feel of
+iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my
+mouth in the narrow opening, I draw quick, short
+breaths. I am hot, perspiring. My throat is dry to
+cracking; I cannot swallow. "Water! I want water!"
+The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The
+sound rolls up; it rises from gallery to gallery, and
+strikes the opposite corner under the roof; now it crawls
+underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and abruptly
+ceases.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?"</p>
+
+<p>The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of
+the corridor. But the sound relieves me. Now the air
+feels better; it is not so difficult to breathe. I begin to
+distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite mine.
+There are dark forms at the doors. The men within
+look like beasts restlessly pacing their cages.</p>
+
+<p>"Whatcher in for?" It comes from somewhere
+alongside. "Can't talk, eh? 'Sorderly, guess."</p>
+
+<p>What am I in for? Oh, yes! It's Frick. Well, I
+shall not stay <i>here</i> long, anyhow. They will soon take
+me out&mdash;they will lean me against a wall&mdash;a slimy
+wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and
+the soldiers there.... No: they are going to hang me.
+Well, I shall be glad when they take me out of here.
+I am so dry. I'm suffocating....</p>
+
+<p>... The upright irons of the barred door grow
+faint, and melt into a single line; it adjusts itself crosswise
+between the upper and side sills. It resembles
+a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into
+the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and
+picks up a spade. Now he stands with one foot in the
+hole. It is the carpenter! He hit me on the head.
+From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what
+he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to
+them, enlighten them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't
+know his real friends. He looks like a Russian peasant,
+with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If he
+would only look up.... Now he sinks the beam into the
+ground; he is stamping down the earth. I will catch
+his eye as he turns around. Ah, he didn't look! He has
+his eyes always on the ground. Just like the <i>muzhik</i>.
+Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining
+his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span>
+cross-piece looks. The horizontal beam seems too long;
+out of proportion. I hope it won't break. I remember
+the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the
+picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree.
+Underneath was inscribed, <i>The Execution of Stenka
+Razin</i>. "Didn't the branch break?" I asked. "No,
+Sasha," mother replied, "Stenka&mdash;well, he weighed
+nothing"; and I wondered at the peculiar look she
+exchanged with Maxim. But mother smiled sadly
+at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my
+brother: "Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka
+such pictures. He is too young." "Not too young,
+mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man."
+"What! You young fool," father bristled with anger,
+"he was a murderer, a common rioter." But mother
+and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was deeply
+incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion.
+"Not another word, now! I won't hear any
+more of that peasant criminal." The peculiar divergence
+of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the
+difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why
+couldn't they agree? He must have been a good man, I
+finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry over a hanged
+murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she
+looked at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a
+noble man. I cried myself to sleep over the unspeakable
+injustice, wondering how I could ever forgive "them"
+the killing of the good Stenka, and why the weak-looking
+branch did not break with his weight. Why
+didn't it break?... The scaffold they will prepare for
+me might break with my weight. They'll hang me like
+Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some day see the
+picture&mdash;and they will call me murderer&mdash;and only a
+few will know the truth&mdash;and the picture will show me
+hanging from.... No, they shall not hang me!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep
+sense of gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitro-glycerine
+cartridge secure in the lining. I smile at the
+imaginary carpenter. Useless preparations! I have,
+myself, prepared for the event. No, they won't hang me.
+My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead!
+Make your gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat.
+Is he done already? Now he is turning around. He is
+looking straight at me. Why, it's Frick! Alive?...</p>
+
+<p>My brain is on fire. I press my head against the
+bars, and groan heavily. Alive? Have I failed?
+Failed?...</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of
+the keys grows more distinct. I must compose myself.
+Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall not witness my
+agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I
+must seem indifferent.</p>
+
+<p>Would I "take lunch with the Chief"? I decline,
+requesting a glass of water. Certainly; but the Chief
+wishes to see me first. Flanked on each side by a
+policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally
+ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is
+busy with thoughts of escape, as I carefully note the
+surroundings. I am in a large, well-furnished room,
+the heavily curtained windows built unusually high
+above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the
+roll-top desk, at which a middle-aged man, of distinct
+Irish type, is engaged with some papers.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "Have a
+seat," pointing to a chair inside the railing. "I understand
+you asked for some water?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Just a few questions first. Nothing important.
+Your pedigree, you know. Mere matter of form.
+Answer frankly, and you shall have everything you
+want."</p>
+
+<p>His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating.</p>
+
+<p>"Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name?
+Your real name, I mean."</p>
+
+<p>"That's my real name."</p>
+
+<p>"You don't mean you gave your real name on the
+card you sent in to Mr. Frick?"</p>
+
+<p>"I gave my real name."</p>
+
+<p>"And you are an agent of a New York employment
+firm?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"That was on your card."</p>
+
+<p>"I wrote it to gain access to Frick."</p>
+
+<p>"And you gave the name 'Alexander Berkman' to
+gain access?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. I gave my real name. Whatever might
+happen, I did not want anyone else to be blamed."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you a Homestead striker?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Why did you attack Mr. Frick?"</p>
+
+<p>"He is an enemy of the People."</p>
+
+<p>"You got a personal grievance against him?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. I consider him an enemy of the People."</p>
+
+<p>"Where do you come from?"</p>
+
+<p>"From the station cell."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman.
+I am your friend. I am going to give you a nice, comfortable
+cell. The other&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"How long did you serve there?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where?"</p>
+
+<p>"In the prison in Russia."</p>
+
+<p>"I was never before inside a cell."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth."</p>
+
+<p>He motions to the officer behind my chair. The
+window curtains are drawn aside, exposing me to the
+full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to the
+clock on the wall. The hour-hand points to V. The
+calendar on the desk reads, July&mdash;23&mdash;Saturday. Only
+three hours since my arrest? It seemed so long in the
+cell....</p>
+
+<p>"You can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is
+saying. "I know a good deal more about you than you
+think. We've got your friend Rak-metov."</p>
+
+<p>With difficulty I suppress a smile at the stupidity of
+the intended trap. In the register of the hotel where
+I passed the first night in Pittsburgh, I signed "Rakhmetov,"
+the name of the hero in Chernishevsky's famous
+novel.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about
+you."</p>
+
+<p>"Then why do you ask me?"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you try to be smart now. Answer my questions,
+d'ye hear?"</p>
+
+<p>His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is
+threatening.</p>
+
+<p>"Now answer me. Where do you live?"</p>
+
+<p>"Give me some water. I am too dry to talk."</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "You
+shall have a drink. Do you prefer whiskey or beer?"</p>
+
+<p>"I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom.
+I want water."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't
+let us waste time, then. Who are your friends?"</p>
+
+<p>"Give me a drink."</p>
+
+<p>"The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get
+a drink. I am having a nice cell fixed up for you, too.
+I want to be your friend, Mr. Berkman. Treat me
+right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where
+did you stop in Pittsburgh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have nothing to tell you."</p>
+
+<p>"Answer me, or I'll&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist
+he leaps from his seat; but, suddenly controlling himself,
+he says, with a reassuring smile:</p>
+
+<p>"Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be
+an intelligent man. Why don't you talk sensibly?"</p>
+
+<p>"What do you want to know?"</p>
+
+<p>"Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office?"</p>
+
+<p>Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words:</p>
+
+<p>"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants'
+Hotel, opposite the B. and O. depot. I signed
+the name Rakhmetov in the register there. It's a
+fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman.
+I went to Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's
+all I have to tell you."</p>
+
+<p>"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman.
+We're not in any hurry. Take your seat. You
+may as well stay here as in the cell; it's pleasanter.
+But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you.
+Just tell me, where do you stay in New York?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have told you all there is to tell."</p>
+
+<p>"Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends?"</p>
+
+<p>"I won't say another word."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take
+him back. Same cell."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Every morning and evening, during three days, the
+scene is repeated by new inquisitors. They coax and
+threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I remain indifferent.
+But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated
+by the salty food they have given me. It consumes me,
+it tortures and burns my vitals through the sleepless
+nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The foul
+air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave
+torments me; my soul is in an agony of uncertainty.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE JAIL</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant
+going and coming. The clatter of levers, the slamming
+of iron doors, continually reverberates through the
+corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above
+hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In
+my ears is the yelling and shouting of coarse voices.</p>
+
+<p>"Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right
+a-way!"</p>
+
+<p>A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is
+nervous, in his look expectant fear.</p>
+
+<p>"Hurry, there! To court!"</p>
+
+<p>"Good luck, Jimmie."</p>
+
+<p>The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes
+a group of visitors clustered about an overseer.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is that, Officer?" One of the ladies advances,
+lorgnette in hand, and stares boldly at the prisoner.
+Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is being led past
+by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash,
+his head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust
+him violently into a cell. He falls heavily against
+the bed. "Oh, don't! For Jesus' sake, don't!" The
+shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries.</p>
+
+<p>The visitors crowd about the cell.</p>
+
+<p>"What did he do? He can't come out now, Officer?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"No, ma'am. He's safe."</p>
+
+<p>The lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. She
+steps closer to the bars, eagerly peering into the
+darkness. A smile of exciting security plays about
+her mouth.</p>
+
+<p>"What has he done, Officer?"</p>
+
+<p>"Stole some clothes, ma'am."</p>
+
+<p>Disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face.
+"Where is that man who&mdash;er&mdash;we read in the papers
+yesterday? You know&mdash;the newspaper artist who
+killed&mdash;er&mdash;that girl in such a brutal manner."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, Jack Tarlin. Murderers' Row, this way,
+ladies."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky,
+visible from my cell in the western wing of the jail.
+I stand close to the bars to catch the cheering rays.
+They glide across my face with tender, soft caress,
+and I feel something melt within me. Closer I press
+to the door. I long for the precious embrace to surround
+me, to envelop me, to pour its soft balm into my aching
+soul. The last rays are fading away, and something
+out of my heart is departing with them.... But the
+lengthening shadows on the gray flagstones spread
+quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the sounds die out.
+I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click
+of a lock, and all is hushed and dark.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me
+with mysterious awe. It lives. It pulsates with slow,
+measured breathing, as of some monster. It rises
+and falls; approaches, recedes. It is Misery asleep.
+Now it presses heavily against my door. I hear its quick<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>ened
+breathing. Oh, it is the guard! Is it the death
+watch? His outline is lost in the semi-darkness, but I see
+the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they watch
+and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I
+nervously pace the floor. Unconsciously my step
+quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of steel. It
+grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is
+here and there, all around me. Now it flits up and
+down; it doubles, trebles. The fearful eyes stare at
+me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On
+every side they surround me, and bar my way.</p>
+
+<p>I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless
+and broken. Ever the terrible gaze is upon me,
+watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning with
+my every movement.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk
+in twos, conversing in subdued tones. It is a motley
+crowd from the ends of the world. The native of the
+western part of the State, the "Pennsylvania Dutchman,"
+of stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. The
+son of southern Italy, stocky and black-eyed, alert
+suspicion on his face, walks with quick, nervous step.
+The tall, slender Spaniard, swarthy and of classic feature,
+looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in
+passing, casts a furtive glance into my cell. The last
+in the line is a young negro, walking alone. He nods
+and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth of dazzling
+whiteness. The guard brings up the rear. He pauses
+at my door, his sharp eye measuring me severely,
+critically.</p>
+
+<p>"You may fall in."</p>
+
+<p>The cell is unlocked, and I join the line. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span>
+negro is at my side. He loses no time in engaging
+me in conversation. He is very glad, he assures me,
+that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." It
+was a shame to deprive me of exercise for four days.
+Now they will "call de night-dog off. Must been afeared
+o' soocide," he explains.</p>
+
+<p>His flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a
+whit disconcerted by my evident disinclination to talk.
+Would I have a cigarette? May smoke in the cell.
+One can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough";
+buy anything 'cept booze. He is full of the prison
+gossip. That tall man there is Jack Tinford, of
+Homestead&mdash;sure to swing&mdash;threw dynamite at the
+Pinkertons. That little "dago" will keep Jack company&mdash;cut
+his wife's throat. The "Dutchy" there is "bugs"&mdash;choked
+his son in sleep. Presently my talkative companion
+volunteers the information that he also is
+waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree
+murder, though. Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully.
+"His" man didn't "croak" till after the ninth day.
+He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the
+ninth-day superstition. He is convinced they won't
+hang him. "Can't do't," he reiterates, with a happy
+grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Wat am
+yo doin' heah? Only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry.
+Yuh man didn' croak!" Evidently he expects no
+answer, immediately assuring me that I am "all right."
+"Guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. But can't
+hang yo, can't hang yo." He grows excited over the
+recital of his case. Minutely he describes the details.
+"Dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot I's afeared of 'm. He
+know bettah now," he chuckles. "Dis ah chile am
+afeared of none ov'm. Ah ain't. 'Gwan 'way, niggah,'
+Ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah gahl be.' An' dat
+big black niggah grab de cleaveh,&mdash;we's in d'otel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span>
+kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat,' Ah hollos, an' he
+come at me. Den dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle
+brodeh," he taps his pocket significantly, "an' Ah lets de
+ornery niggah hab it. Plum' in de belly, yassah, Ah
+does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' Ah pulls mah knife
+out, two inches, 'bout, an' den Ah gives it half twist
+like, an' shoves it in 'gen." He illustrates the ghastly
+motion. "Dat bad niggah neveh botheh <i>me</i> 'gen, noh
+nobody else, Ah guess. But dey can't hang me, no
+sah, dey can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later.
+Ah's lucky, yassah, Ah is." His face is wreathed in
+a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly he
+grows serious. "Yo am strikeh? No-o-o? Not a
+steel-woikeh?" with utter amazement. "What yo wan'
+teh shoot Frick foah?" He does not attempt to disguise
+his impatient incredulity, as I essay an explanation.
+"Afeared t' tell. Yo am deep all right, Ahlick&mdash;dat
+am yuh name? But yo am right, yassah, yo am
+right. Doan' tell nobody. Dey's mos'ly crooks, dat dey
+am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. Yo jes' membuh dat."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>There is a peculiar movement in the marching
+line. I notice a prisoner leave his place. He casts
+an anxious glance around, and disappears in the
+niche of the cell door. The line continues on its
+march, and, as I near the man's hiding place, I hear
+him whisper, "Fall back, Aleck." Surprised at being
+addressed in such familiar manner, I slow down my
+pace. The man is at my side.</p>
+
+<p>"Say, Berk, you don't want to be seen walking
+with that 'dinge.'"</p>
+
+<p>The sound of my shortened name grates harshly
+on my ear. I feel the impulse to resent the mutilation.
+The man's manner suggests a lack of respect, offensive
+to my dignity as a revolutionist.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him.</p>
+
+<p>He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed
+chin of the elongated face suggest the fox. He meets
+my gaze with a sharp look from above his smoked-glass
+spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly
+confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with
+a "nigger," he informs me. It will make feeling against
+me. He himself is a Pittsburgh man for the last
+twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the
+South, in Atlanta. They have no use for "niggers"
+down there, he assures me. They must be taught to
+keep their place, and they are no good, anyway.
+I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed
+toward me. I must be very careful of appearances
+before the trial. My inexperience is quite evident,
+but he "knows the ropes." I must not give "them"
+an opportunity to say anything against me. My
+behavior in jail will weigh with the judge in determining
+my sentence. He himself expects to "get off easy."
+He knows some of the judges. Mostly good men.
+He ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted
+three times for him at the last election. He closes
+the left eye, and playfully pokes me with his elbow.
+He hopes he'll "get before that judge." He will, if
+he is lucky, he assures me. He had always had
+pretty good luck. Last time he got off with three
+years, though he nearly killed "his" man. But it was
+in self-defence. Have I got a chew of tobacco about
+me? Don't use the weed? Well, it'll be easier in
+the "pen." What's the pen? Why, don't I know?
+The penitentiary, of course. I should have no fear.
+Frick ain't going to die. But what did I want to kill
+the man for? I ain't no Pittsburgh man, that he
+could see plain. What did I want to "nose in" for?
+Help the strikers? I must be crazy to talk that way.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span>
+Why, it was none of my "cheese." Didn't I come from
+New York? Yes? Well, then, how could the strike
+concern me? I must have some personal grudge
+against Frick. Ever had dealings with him? No?
+Sure? Then it's plain "bughouse," no use talking.
+But it's different with his case. It was his partner
+in business. He knew the skunk meant to cheat him
+out of money, and they quarreled. Did I notice the
+dark glasses he wears? Well, his eyes are bad. He
+only meant to scare the man. But, damn him, he
+croaked. Curse such luck. His third offence, too.
+Do I think the judge will have pity on him? Why,
+he is almost blind. How did he manage to "get
+his man"? Why, just an accidental shot. He didn't
+mean to&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The gong intones its deep, full bass.</p>
+
+<p>"All in!"</p>
+
+<p>The line breaks. There is a simultaneous clatter
+of many doors, and I am in the cell again.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>Within, on the narrow stool, I find a tin pan filled
+with a dark-brown mixture. It is the noon meal, but
+the "dinner" does not look inviting: the pan is old
+and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion.
+The greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks
+of vegetable, resembles a pool of stagnant water covered
+with green slime. The first taste nauseates me, and I
+decide to "dine" on the remnants of my breakfast&mdash;a
+piece of bread.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I pace the floor in agitation over the conversation
+with my fellow-prisoners. Why can't they understand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span>
+the motives that prompted my act? Their manner of
+pitying condescension is aggravating. My attempted
+explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort.
+Not a striker myself, I could and should have had no
+interest in the struggle,&mdash;the opinion seemed final with
+both the negro and the white man. In the purpose of the
+act they refused to see any significance,&mdash;nothing beyond
+the mere physical effect. It would have been a good
+thing if Frick had died, because "he was bad." But
+it is "lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought,
+for now "they" can't hang me. My remark that the
+probable consequences to myself are not to be weighed
+in the scale against the welfare of the People, they had
+met with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as
+to my sanity. It is, of course, consoling to reflect
+that neither of those men can properly be said to
+represent the People. The negro is a very inferior
+type of laborer; and the other&mdash;he is a <i>bourgeois</i>,
+"in business." He is not worth while. Besides, he
+confessed that it is his third offence. He is a common
+criminal, not an honest producer. But that tall man&mdash;the
+Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed
+out to me&mdash;oh, <i>he</i> will understand: he is of the real
+People. My heart wells up in admiration of the
+man, as I think of his participation in the memorable
+struggle of Homestead. He fought the Pinkertons,
+the myrmidons of Capital. Perhaps he helped to
+dynamite the barges and drive those Hessians out of
+town. He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong
+and determined, his body manly and powerful. He is
+of the true spirit; the embodiment of the great,
+noble People: the giant of labor grown to his full
+stature, conscious of his strength. Fearless, strong,
+and proud, he will conquer all obstacles; he will break
+his chains and liberate mankind.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>V</h4>
+
+<p>Next morning, during exercise hour, I watch with
+beating heart for an opportunity to converse with the
+Homestead steel-worker. I shall explain to him the
+motives and purpose of my attempt on Frick. He
+will understand me; he will himself enlighten his
+fellow-strikers. It is very important <i>they</i> should
+comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the very
+man to do this great service to humanity. He is the
+rebel-worker; his heroism during the struggle bears
+witness. I hope the People will not allow the enemy
+to hang him. He defended the rights of the Homestead
+workers, the cause of the whole working class. No, the
+People will never allow such a sacrifice. How well he
+carries himself! Erect, head high, the look of conscious
+dignity and strength&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!"</p>
+
+<p>The prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the
+line, and advances in response to the guard's call.
+Quickly I pass along the gallery, and fall into the
+vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker.</p>
+
+<p>"A happy chance," I address him. "I should like
+to speak to you about something important. You are
+one of the Homestead strikers, are you not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Jack Tinford," he introduces himself. "What's
+your name?"</p>
+
+<p>He is visibly startled by my answer. "The man
+who shot Frick?" he asks.</p>
+
+<p>An expression of deep anxiety crosses his face.
+His eye wanders to the gate. Through the wire network
+I observe visitors approaching from the Warden's
+office.</p>
+
+<p>"They'd better not see us together," he says,
+impatiently. "Fall in back of me. Then we'll talk."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its
+significance, I slowly fall back. His tall, broad figure
+completely hides me from view. He speaks to me in
+monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Homestead
+he grows more communicative, talking in an
+undertone, as if conversing with his neighbor, the
+Sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of English.
+I strain my ear to catch his words. The steel-workers
+merely defended themselves against armed invaders,
+I hear him say. They are not on strike: they've been
+locked out by Frick, because he wants to non-unionize
+the works. That's why he broke the contract with
+the Amalgamated, and hired the damned Pinkertons
+two months before, when all was peace. They shot
+many workers from the barges before the millmen
+"got after them." They deserved roasting alive for
+their unprovoked murders. Well, the men "fixed them
+all right." Some were killed, others committed suicide
+on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to
+surrender like whipped curs. A grand victory all
+right, if that coward of a sheriff hadn't got the
+Governor to send the militia to Homestead. But it
+was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best
+of three hundred armed Pinkertons. He himself,
+though, had nothing to do with the fight. He was sick
+at the time. They're trying to get the Pinkertons to
+swear his life away. One of the hounds has already
+made an affidavit that he saw him, Jack Tinford, throw
+dynamite at the barges, before the Pinkertons landed.
+But never mind, he is not afraid. No Pittsburgh jury
+will believe those lying murderers. He was in his
+sweetheart's house, sick abed. The girl and her mother
+will prove an alibi for him. And the Advisory Committee
+of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't
+on the shore. They'll swear to it in court, anyhow<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span>&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>Abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. For
+a moment he is lost in thought. Then he gives me a
+searching look, and smiles at me. As we turn the
+corner of the walk, he whispers: "Too bad you didn't
+kill him. Some business misunderstanding, eh?" he
+adds, aloud.</p>
+
+<p>Could he be serious, I wonder. Does he only pretend?
+He faces straight ahead, and I am unable to see
+his expression. I begin the careful explanation I had
+prepared:</p>
+
+<p>"Jack, it was for you, for your people that I&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. I'd better
+be careful not to talk that way in court, he warns me.
+If Frick should die, I'd hang myself with such "gab."
+And it would only harm the steel-workers. They
+don't believe in killing; they respect the law. Of
+course, they had a right to defend their homes and
+families against unlawful invaders. But they welcomed
+the militia to Homestead. They showed their respect
+for authority. To be sure, Frick deserves to die. He
+is a murderer. But the mill-workers will have nothing
+to do with Anarchists. What did I want to kill him
+for, anyhow? I did not belong to the Homestead
+men. It was none of my business. I had better not
+say anything about it in court, or&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The gong tolls.</p>
+
+<p>"All in!"</p>
+
+
+<h4>VI</h4>
+
+<p>I pass a sleepless night. The events of the day
+have stirred me to the very depths. Bitterness and
+anger against the Homestead striker fill my heart.
+My hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle
+of the People,&mdash;how contemptible he has proved himself,
+how cravenly small! No consciousness of the great<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span>
+mission of his class, no proud realization of the part
+he himself had acted in the noble struggle. A cowardly,
+overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for
+the prank he has played! Meanly concerned only with
+his own safety, and willing to resort to lying, in order
+to escape responsibility.</p>
+
+<p>The very thought is appalling. It is a sacrilege,
+an insult to the holy Cause, to the People. To myself,
+too. Not that lying is to be condemned, provided it
+is in the interest of the Cause. All means are justified
+in the war of humanity against its enemies. Indeed,
+the more repugnant the means, the stronger the test
+of one's nobility and devotion. All great revolutionists
+have proved that. There is no more striking example
+in the annals of the Russian movement than that
+peerless Nihilist&mdash;what was his name? Why, how
+peculiar that it should escape me just now! I knew it
+so well. He undermined the Winter Palace, beneath
+the very dining-room of the Tsar. What debasement,
+what terrible indignities he had to endure in the r&ocirc;le
+of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. How
+his proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and
+months,&mdash;all for the sake of his great purpose. Wonderful
+man! To be worthy of your comradeship....
+But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison.
+He is absorbed in the single thought of saving
+himself, the traitor. A veritable Judas, preparing to
+forswear his people and their cause, willing to lie and
+deny his participation. How proud I should be in his
+place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did!
+And then to die for it,&mdash;ah, could there be a more
+glorious fate for a man, a real man? To serve even
+as the least stone in the foundation of a free society,
+or as a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant
+People shall finally pass into the land of promise?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>A plank in the bridge.... In the <i>most</i>.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> What a
+significant name! How it impressed me the first time
+I heard it! No, I saw it in print, I remember quite
+clearly. Mother had just died. I was dreaming of
+the New World, the Land of Freedom. Eagerly I
+read every line of "American news." One day, in the
+little Kovno library&mdash;how distinctly it all comes back
+to me&mdash;I can see myself sitting there, perusing the
+papers. Must get acquainted with the country. What
+is this? "Anarchists hanged in Chicago." There are
+many names&mdash;one is "Most." "What is an Anarchist?"
+I whisper to the student near by. He is from Peter,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a>
+he will know. "S&mdash;sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free
+America?" I wondered.</p>
+
+<p>How little I knew of America then! A free country,
+indeed, that hangs its noblest men. And the misery,
+the exploitation,&mdash;it's terrible. I must mention all this
+in court, in my defence. No, not defence&mdash;some fitter
+word. Explanation! Yes, my explanation. I need
+no defence: I don't consider myself guilty. What did
+the Warden mean? Fool for a client, he said, when
+I told him that I would refuse legal aid. He thinks I
+am a fool. Well, he's a <i>bourgeois</i>, he can't understand.
+I'll tell him to leave me alone. He belongs to the
+enemy. The lawyers, too. They are all in the capitalist
+camp. I need no lawyers. They couldn't explain my
+case. I shall not talk to the reporters, either. They
+are a lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism.
+They always misrepresent us. And they know better,
+too. They wrote columns of interviews with Most
+when he went to prison. All lies. I saw him off
+myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are
+our worst enemies. The Warden said that they'll
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span>come to see me to-morrow. I'll have nothing to say
+to them. They're sure to twist my words, and thus
+impair the effect of my act. It is not complete without
+my explanation. I shall prepare it very carefully. Of
+course, the jury won't understand. They, too, belong
+to the capitalist class. But I must use the trial to
+talk to the People. To be sure, an <i>Attentat</i> on a Frick
+is in itself splendid propaganda. It combines the
+value of example with terroristic effect. But very
+much depends upon my explanation. It offers me a
+rare opportunity for a broader agitation of our ideas.
+The comrades outside will also use my act for
+propaganda. The People misunderstand us: they have
+been prejudiced by the capitalist press. They must
+be enlightened; that is our glorious task. Very difficult
+and slow work, it is true; but they will learn. Their
+patience will break, and then&mdash;the good People, they
+have always been too kind to their enemies. And brave,
+even in their suffering. Yes, very brave. Not like that
+fellow, the steel-worker. He is a disgrace to Homestead,
+the traitor....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I pace the cell in agitation. The Judas-striker is
+not fit to live. Perhaps it would be best they should
+hang him. His death would help to open the eyes of the
+People to the real character of legal justice. Legal
+justice&mdash;what a travesty! They are mutually exclusive
+terms. Yes, indeed, it would be best he should be
+hanged. The Pinkerton will testify against him. He
+saw Jack throw dynamite. Very good. Perhaps others
+will also swear to it. The judge will believe the Pinkertons.
+Yes, they will hang him.</p>
+
+<p>The thought somewhat soothes my perturbation.
+At least the cause of the People will benefit to some
+extent. The man himself is not to be considered.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span>
+He has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively
+personal; he can be of no further benefit to the People.
+Only his death can aid the Cause. It is best for him
+to end his career in the service of humanity. I hope
+he will act like a man on the scaffold. The enemy
+should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror.
+They'll see in him the spirit of the People. Of course,
+he is not worthy of it. But he must die like a rebel-worker,
+bravely, defiantly. I must speak to him about it.</p>
+
+<p>The deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie.</p>
+
+
+<h4>VII</h4>
+
+<p>There is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude
+of the night. The day's atmosphere is surcharged with
+noisome anxiety, the hours laden with impending
+terrors. But the night is soothing. For the first time I
+feel alone, unobserved. The "night-dog has been called
+off." How refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the
+hangman be robbed of his prey! A simple precaution
+against suicide, the Warden told me. I felt the na&iuml;ve
+stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger.
+What a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes!
+His mind cannot grasp the impossibility of suicide
+before I have explained to the People the motive and
+purpose of my act. Suicide? As if the mere death
+of Frick was my object! The very thought is impossible,
+insulting. It outrages me that even a <i>bourgeois</i>
+should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an active
+revolutionist. The insignificant reptile, Frick,&mdash;as if
+the mere man were worth a terroristic effort! I aimed
+at the many-headed hydra whose visible representative
+was Frick. The Homestead developments had given
+him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head
+into bold relief, so to speak. That alone made him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span>
+worthy of the revolutionist's attention. Primarily, as
+an object lesson; it would strike terror into the soul
+of his class. They are craven-hearted, their conscience
+weighted with guilt,&mdash;and life is dear to them. Their
+strangling hold on labor might be loosened. Only for
+a while, no doubt. But that much would be gained,
+due to the act of the <i>Attent&auml;ter</i>. The People could not
+fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its
+own life for their cause. To give a young life, full of
+health and vitality, to give all, without a thought of self;
+to give all, voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically&mdash;could
+any one fail to understand such a love?</p>
+
+<p>But this is the first terrorist act in America. The
+People may fail to comprehend it thoroughly. Yet they
+will know that an Anarchist committed the deed. I will
+talk to them from the courtroom. And my comrades
+at liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed
+light on the questions involved. Such a deed must draw
+the attention of the world. This first act of voluntary
+Anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen think
+deeply. Perhaps even more so than the Chicago martyrdom.
+The latter was pre&euml;minently a lesson in capitalist
+justice. The culmination of a plutocratic conspiracy,
+the tragedy of 1887 lacked the element of voluntary
+Anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the People.
+In that distinctive quality my act is initial. Perhaps
+it will prove the entering wedge. The leaven of
+growing oppression is at work. It is for us, the
+Anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. Let the
+world learn of the misery of Homestead. The sudden
+thunderclap gives warning that beyond the calm horizon
+the storm is gathering. The lightning of social protest&mdash;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Quick, Ahlick! Plant it." Something white flutters
+between the bars. Hastily I read the newspaper clipping.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span>
+Glorious! Who would have expected it? A soldier in
+one of the regiments stationed at Homestead called upon
+the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot
+Frick." My soul overflows with beautiful hopes. Such
+a wonderful spirit among the militia; perhaps the soldiers
+will fraternize with the strikers. It is by no means
+an impossibility: such things have happened before.
+After all, they are of the People, mostly workingmen.
+Their interests are identical with those of the strikers,
+and surely they hate Frick, who is universally condemned
+for his brutality, his arrogance. This soldier&mdash;what
+is his name? Iams, W. L. Iams&mdash;he typifies the
+best feeling of the regiment. The others probably lack
+his courage. They feared to respond to his cheers,
+especially because of the Colonel's presence. But
+undoubtedly most of them feel as Iams does. It would
+be dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the Tenth
+Pennsylvania. And in the other Homestead regiments,
+there must also be such noble Iamses. They will not
+permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the
+Colonel threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man.
+He is a citizen, a native. He has the right to express
+his opinion regarding my deed. If he had condemned
+it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice
+a favorable sentiment? No, they can't punish him.
+And he is surely very popular among the soldiers.
+How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged before
+the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for
+"the assassin of Mr. Frick," as the imbecile put it.
+Iams stepped out of the ranks, and boldly avowed
+his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it.
+But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker.
+He even refused the Colonel's offer to apologize.</p>
+
+<p>Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist.
+Such a man has no business to belong to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span>
+the militia. He should know for what purpose it is
+intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of
+labor. After all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed.
+It will enlighten him. I must follow the
+case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings.
+It was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship.
+The Warden has expressly interdicted the passing
+of newspapers to me, though the other prisoners are
+permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me
+in every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot
+even pronounce "Anarchist." Yesterday he said to me:
+"The Anachrists are no good. What do they want,
+anyhow?" I replied, angrily: "First you say they
+are no good, then you ask what they want." He
+flushed. "Got no use for them, anyway." Such an
+imbecile! Not the least sense of justice&mdash;he condemns
+without knowing. I believe he is aiding the
+detectives. Why does he insist I should plead guilty?
+I have repeatedly told him that, though I do not deny
+the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright.
+"Better plead guilty, you'll get off easier. You did it,
+so better plead guilty." In vain I strove to explain to
+him: "I don't believe in your laws, I don't acknowledge
+the authority of your courts. I am innocent, morally."
+The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept
+playing about his lips. "Plead guilty. Take my advice,
+plead guilty."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The
+small, cunning eyes of the Warden peer intently
+through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well, he may
+have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture
+shall draw from me an admission incriminating the
+negro. The name Rakhmetov flits through my mind.
+I shall be true to that memory.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"A gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the
+Warden informs me.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is he?"</p>
+
+<p>"A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh."</p>
+
+<p>"I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don't care to see
+the man."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions.
+Why should he be so much interested in
+my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have
+been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden
+insists. I refuse. Finally he orders me out of the cell.
+Two guards lead me into the hallway. They halt me
+at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are counted
+off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice
+that I am the only one in the line wearing glasses. The
+Warden enters from an inner office, accompanied by
+three visitors. They pass down the row, scrutinizing
+each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the
+men. One of the strangers makes a motion as if to put
+his hand on the shoulder of the man on my left. The
+Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They converse
+in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass
+slowly back, till they are alongside of me. The tall
+stranger puts his hand familiarly on my shoulder,
+exclaiming:</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you
+on Fifth Avenue, right in front of the Telegraph
+building."<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p>
+
+<p>"I never saw you before in my life."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"No, you did not," I interrupt, impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>"Take him back," the Warden commands.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p>
+<p>I protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A
+positive identification," the Warden asserts. The detective
+had seen me "in the company of two friends,
+inspecting the office of Mr. Frick." Indignantly I deny
+the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy
+to involve my comrades. He grows livid with
+rage, and orders me deprived of exercise that afternoon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The Warden's r&ocirc;le in the police plot is now apparent
+to me. I realize him in his true colors. Ignorant
+though he is, familiarity with police methods has developed
+in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of
+the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks
+a depth of malice, his crude vanity glorying in the
+successful abuse of his wardenship over unfortunate
+human beings.</p>
+
+<p>This new appreciation of his character clarifies
+various incidents heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is
+being detained at the office, I am sure. It is impossible
+that my New York comrades should have neglected me
+so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a
+matter of due precaution, they would not communicate
+with me at once. But two or three days would be
+sufficient to perfect a <i>Deckadresse</i>.<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> Yet not a line has
+reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is
+being detained.</p>
+
+<p>My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden.
+His infamy fills me with rage. The negro's warning
+against the occupant of the next cell assumes a new
+aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there
+by the Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant
+in themselves, add strong proof to justify the suspicion.
+It grows to conviction as I review various circumstances
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span>concerning my neighbor. The questions I deemed
+foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the
+light of the Warden's r&ocirc;le as volunteer detective. The
+young negro was sent to the dungeon for warning me
+against the spy in the next cell. But the latter is never
+reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and
+talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the
+Warden, too, is hand-in-glove with the police. I am
+convinced he himself caused the writing of those letters
+he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked Homestead,
+from a pretended striker. They want to blow up
+the mills, the letter said; good bombs are needed. I
+should send them the addresses of my friends who know
+how to make effective explosives. What a stupid trap!
+One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike
+leaders in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned.
+Well, I am not to be caught with such chaff. But I must
+be on my guard. It is best I should decline to accept
+mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow.
+Yes, I'll refuse all mail.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret.
+Not a single being here I may call friend; except the
+negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I hope he will
+give me more clippings,&mdash;perhaps there will be news of
+my comrades. I'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise
+to-morrow.... Oh! they are handing out tracts. To-morrow
+is Sunday,&mdash;no exercise!</p>
+
+
+<h4>VIII</h4>
+
+<p>The Lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners
+of dinner. A scanty allowance of bread, with a tincupful
+of black, unsweetened coffee, constitutes breakfast.
+Supper is a repetition of the morning meal, except that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>
+the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force
+myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It
+tastes like greasy dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of
+burnt bread.</p>
+
+<p>Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The
+atmosphere is pervaded with the gloom of unbroken
+silence. In the afternoon, I hear the creaking of the
+inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the
+good ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors
+on Murderers' Row are opened partly, at a fifteen-degree
+angle. The prisoners remain in their cells, with the
+guards stationed at the gallery entrances.</p>
+
+<p>All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in
+the oppressive quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome
+floor; now it oscillates on the bars. I hear the
+muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the turnkey
+passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow
+athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver
+protruding from his pocket.</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in
+the corridor. Female voices swell the melody, "Nearer
+my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." Slowly the volume
+expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with
+the gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "Nearer to
+Thee, to Thee."</p>
+
+<p>The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters,
+"Let us pray." Its metallic hardness rings like a command.
+The guards stand with lowered heads. Their
+lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "Our Father
+who art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread....
+Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass
+against us&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper
+gallery. There is suppressed giggling in the cells.
+Pellmell the officers rush up the stairs. The uproar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span>
+increases. "Order!" Yells and catcalls drown the
+Warden's voice. Doors are violently opened and shut.
+The thunder of rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all
+is quiet: the guards have reached the galleries. Only
+hasty tiptoeing is heard.</p>
+
+<p>The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the
+supper hour. The prisoners stand at the doors, cup in
+hand, ready to receive the coffee.</p>
+
+<p>"Give the s&mdash;&mdash; of b&mdash;&mdash; no supper! No supper!"
+roars the Warden.</p>
+
+<p>Sabbath benediction!</p>
+
+<p>The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for
+the night.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IX</h4>
+
+<p>In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn't die! He
+has almost recovered. I have positive information: the
+"blind" prisoner gave me the clipping during exercise.
+"You're a poor shot," he teased me.</p>
+
+<p>The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my
+heart. I feel it with the intensity of a catastrophe. My
+imprisonment, the vexations of jail life, the future&mdash;all
+is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization
+of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation
+overwhelms me. I failed! Failed!... It
+might have been different, had I gone to Frick's residence.
+It was my original intention, too. But the house
+in the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to
+wait: that very morning the papers had announced
+Frick's intended visit to New York. I was determined
+he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It
+was mainly his cowardice that saved him&mdash;he hid under
+the chair! Played dead! And now he lives, the vampire....
+And Homestead? How will it affect condi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>tions
+there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have
+hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot
+only made use of Frick to destroy the hated union. He
+himself was absent, he could not be held accountable.
+The author of "Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to
+adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick,
+responsibility for Homestead conditions would rest
+with Carnegie. To support his r&ocirc;le as the friend of
+labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle.
+Such a development of affairs would have greatly
+advanced the Anarchist propaganda. However some
+may condemn my act, the workers could not be blind to
+the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick's
+death. But his recovery....</p>
+
+<p>Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same
+results. If not, the strike was virtually lost when the
+steel-workers permitted the militia to take possession
+of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity
+to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be
+lost,&mdash;our propaganda is the chief consideration. The
+Homestead workers are but a very small part of the
+American working class. Important as this great struggle
+is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their
+true cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in
+it; it alone will solve the labor problem. No other consideration
+deserves attention. The suffering of individuals,
+of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under
+capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must
+constantly increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist
+cannot be influenced by mere sentimentality. We bleed
+for the People, we suffer for them, but we know the
+real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false
+to the core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew.
+Only with the abolition of exploitation will labor gain
+justice. Anarchism alone can save the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure
+to accomplish the desired result is grievously exasperating,
+and I feel deeply humiliated. But I shall be the
+sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical
+result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value;
+and that is, always, the supreme consideration. The
+chief purpose of my <i>Attentat</i> was to call attention to our
+social iniquities; to arouse a vital interest in the sufferings
+of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to stimulate
+discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act,
+and thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the
+world. The Homestead situation offered the psychologic
+social moment. What matter the personal consequences
+to Frick? the merely physical results of my <i>Attentat</i>?
+The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the
+act is accomplished.</p>
+
+<p>As to myself&mdash;my disappointment is bitter, indeed.
+I wanted to die for the Cause. But now they will send
+me to prison&mdash;they will bury me alive....</p>
+
+<p>Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my
+coat, when suddenly I remember my great loss. In
+agony, I live through again the scene in the police station,
+on the third day after my arrest.... Rough hands
+seize my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head
+is thrust violently backward, and I face the Chief. He
+clutches me by the throat.</p>
+
+<p>"Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!"</p>
+
+<p>Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling
+the room, the bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me
+from the floor, his feet flung high in the air, and
+everything is whirling, whirling....</p>
+
+<p>"Now, Doc, quick!"</p>
+
+<p>There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are
+gripped as by a vise, and my mouth is torn open.</p>
+
+<p>"What d'ye think of <i>that</i>, eh?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite
+cartridge.</p>
+
+<p>"What's this?" he demands, with an oath.</p>
+
+<p>"Candy," I reply, defiantly.</p>
+
+
+<h4>X</h4>
+
+<p>How full of anxiety these two weeks have been!
+Still no news of my comrades. The Warden is not
+offering me any more mail; he evidently regards my
+last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase
+papers; they may contain something about my friends.
+If I could only learn what propaganda is being made out
+of my act, and what the Girl and Fedya are doing! I
+long to know what is happening with them. But my
+interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so
+far away,&mdash;I do not count among the living. On the outside,
+everything seems to continue as usual, as if nothing
+had happened. Frick is quite well now; at his desk
+again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance.
+The police seem to have given up their hunt. How
+ridiculous the Chief has made himself by kidnaping my
+friend Mollock, the New York baker! The impudence
+of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman
+across the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice!
+I suppose he is the only Anarchist the stupid
+Chief could find. My negro friend informed me of the
+kidnaping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the
+"silent baker" would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word,
+could they draw from him. Mollock's discharge by the
+magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous position.
+Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a
+victim nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades
+preserve silence, all will be well, for I was careful to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span>
+leave no clew. I had told them that my destination was
+Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can
+depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom
+I found living in the same house with Nold, impressed
+me as rather unreliable. I thought there was something
+of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not
+trust him, and I'm afraid he might compromise the
+others. Why are they friendly, I wonder. He is probably
+not even a comrade. The Allegheny Anarchists
+should have nothing in common with him. It is not
+well for us to associate with the <i>bourgeois</i>-minded.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who
+informs me that I am "wanted at the office." There is
+a letter for me, but some postage is due on it. Would
+I pay?</p>
+
+<p>"A trap," it flits through my mind, as I accompany
+the overseer. I shall persist in my refusal to accept
+decoy mail.</p>
+
+<p>"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the
+Warden.</p>
+
+<p>He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked,
+Brooklyn, N. Y."</p>
+
+<p>I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently
+a woman's, but the chirography is smaller than the Girl's.
+I yearn for news of her. The letter is from Brooklyn&mdash;perhaps
+a <i>Deckadresse</i>!</p>
+
+<p>"I'll take the letter, Warden."</p>
+
+<p>"All right. You will open it here."</p>
+
+<p>"Then I don't want it."</p>
+
+<p>I start from the office; when the Warden detains me:</p>
+
+<p>"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you
+must return it to me. You may go now."</p>
+
+<p>I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important
+in the letter, I shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span>
+obligations. As with trembling hand I tear open the
+envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I glance
+at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously
+I scan the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings,
+in the name of humanity. "I am not an Anarchist,"
+I read, "but I wish you well. My sympathy, however,
+is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify your
+attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None
+has the right to take what he cannot give."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with
+the problem presented so unexpectedly. Can any one
+understanding my motives, doubt the justification of the
+<i>Attentat</i>? The legal aspect aside, can the morality of
+the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound
+law with right; they are opposites. The law is immoral:
+it is the conspiracy of rulers and priests against the
+workers, to continue their subjection. To be law-abiding
+means to acquiesce, if not directly participate,
+in that conspiracy. A revolutionist is the truly moral
+man: to him the interests of humanity are supreme;
+to advance them, his sole aim in life. Government, with
+its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons are justifiable
+in the noble struggle of the People against this
+terrible curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the
+centuries. The path of Man is soaked with the blood it
+has shed. Can this great criminal determine Right? Is
+a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? It would
+mean the perpetuation of human slavery.</p>
+
+<p>No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist
+morality. He is the soldier of humanity. He has consecrated
+his life to the People in their great struggle.
+It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from
+the service it imposes upon him. Aye, even the duty
+of death. Cheerfully and joyfully he would die a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>
+thousand times to hasten the triumph of liberty. His
+life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or
+enjoy while others suffer.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>How often we had discussed this, Fedya and I. He
+was somewhat inclined to sybaritism; not quite emancipated
+from the tendencies of his <i>bourgeois</i> youth.
+Once in New York&mdash;I shall never forget&mdash;at the time
+when our circle had just begun the publication of the
+first Jewish Anarchist paper in America, we came to
+blows. We, the most intimate friends; yes, actually
+came to blows. Nobody would have believed it. They
+used to call us the Twins. If I happened to appear
+anywhere alone, they would inquire, anxiously, "What
+is the matter? Is your chum sick?" It was so unusual;
+we were each other's shadow. But one day I struck
+him. He had outraged my most sacred feelings: to
+spend twenty cents for a meal! It was not mere
+extravagance; it was positively a crime, incredible in a
+revolutionist. I could not forgive him for months.
+Even now,&mdash;two years have passed,&mdash;yet a certain
+feeling of resentment still remains with me. What right
+had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence? The
+movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. To
+spend twenty cents for a single meal! He was a traitor
+to the Cause. True, it was his first meal in two days,
+and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the
+parks. He had worked hard, too, to earn the money.
+But he should have known that he had no right to his
+earnings while the movement stood in such need of
+funds. His defence was unspeakably aggravating: he
+had earned ten dollars that week&mdash;he had given seven
+into the paper's treasury&mdash;he needed three dollars for
+his week's expenses&mdash;his shoes were torn, too. I had
+no patience with such arguments. They merely proved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span>
+his <i>bourgeois</i> predilections. Personal comforts could not
+be of any consideration to a true revolutionist. It was
+a question of the movement; <i>its</i> needs, the first issue.
+Every penny spent for ourselves was so much taken
+from the Cause. True, the revolutionist must live.
+But luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. One could
+exist on five cents a day. Twenty cents for a single
+meal! Incredible. It was robbery.</p>
+
+<p>Poor Twin! He was deeply grieved, but he knew
+that I was merely just. The revolutionist has no personal
+right to anything. Everything he has or earns
+belongs to the Cause. Everything, even his affections.
+Indeed, these especially. He must not become too much
+attached to anything. He should guard against strong
+love or passion. The People should be his only great
+love, his supreme passion. Mere human sentiment is
+unworthy of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity,
+and he must ever be ready to respond to its call. The
+soldier of Revolution must not be lured from the field
+of battle by the siren song of love. Great danger lurks
+in such weakness. The Russian tyrant has frequently
+attempted to bait his prey with a beautiful woman.
+Our comrades there are careful not to associate with
+any woman, except of proved revolutionary character.
+Aye, her mere passive interest in the Cause is not
+sufficient. Love may transform her into a Delilah to
+shear one's strength. Only with a woman consecrated
+to active participation may the revolutionist associate.
+Their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration,
+a source of increased strength. Equals, thoroughly
+solidaric, they would the more successfully serve the
+Cause of the People. Countless Russian women bear
+witness&mdash;Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch,
+and many other heroic martyrs, tortured in the
+casemates of Schl&uuml;sselburg, buried alive in the Petro<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span>pavlovka.
+What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect
+comrades they were, often stronger than the men.
+Brave, noble women that fill the prisons and <i>&eacute;tapes</i>,
+tramp the toilsome road....</p>
+
+<p>The Siberian steppe rises before me. Its broad
+expanse shimmers in the sun's rays, and blinds the eye
+with white brilliancy. The endless monotony agonizes
+the sight, and stupefies the brain. It breathes the chill
+of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the
+terror of madness. In vain the eye seeks relief from
+the white Monster that slowly tightens his embrace, and
+threatens to swallow you in his frozen depth....
+There, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a
+heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. It winds along
+the virgin bosom, grows redder and deeper, and ascends
+the mountain in a dark ribbon, twining and wreathing
+its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing in the
+hollow, and again rising on the height. Behold a man
+and a woman, hand in hand, their heads bent, on their
+shoulders a heavy cross, slowly toiling the upward way,
+and behind them others, men and women, young and
+old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the
+dismal desert, amid death and silence, save for the
+mournful clank, clank of the chains....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Get out now. Exercise!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>As in a dream I walk along the gallery. The voice
+of my exercise mate sounds dully in my ears. I do
+not understand what he is saying. Does he know about
+the Nihilists, I wonder?</p>
+
+<p>"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the
+dump below, a guy lent me a book. A corker, too, it
+was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nihilists."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff."</p>
+
+<p>"What was the name?"</p>
+
+<p>"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A
+fellow needs a cast-iron jaw to say it every day. But
+the story was a corker all right. About a Rooshan
+patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you.
+Overheard a plot to kill th' king by them fellows&mdash;er&mdash;what's
+you call 'em?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nihilists?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to
+kill his Nibs and all the dookes, to make one of their
+own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you bet. But
+Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets
+in all kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes
+out. But he's game. I don't remember how it all ends,
+but&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the
+truth about&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, t'hell with it! Say, Berk, d'ye think they'll
+hang me? Won't the judge sympathize with a blind
+man? Look at me eyes. Pretty near blind, swear to
+God, I am. Won't hang a blind man, will they?"</p>
+
+<p>The pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and I assure
+him they will not hang a blind man. His eyes brighten,
+his face grows radiant with hope.</p>
+
+<p>Why does he love life so, I wonder. Of what value
+is it without a high purpose, uninspired by revolutionary
+ideals? He is small and cowardly: he lies to save his
+neck. There is nothing at all wrong with his eyes. But
+why should <i>I</i> lie for his sake?</p>
+
+<p>My conscience smites me for the moment of weak<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>ness.
+I should not allow inane sentimentality to influence
+me: it is beneath the revolutionist.</p>
+
+<p>"Billy," I say with some asperity, "many innocent
+people have been hanged. The Nihilists, for instance&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, damn 'em! What do <i>I</i> care about 'em! Will
+they hang <i>me</i>, that's what I want to know."</p>
+
+<p>"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profanation
+of my ideal. A look of terror spreads over his
+face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his lips parted.
+"Yes," I continue, "perhaps they will hang you. Many
+innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don't think
+you are innocent, either; nor blind. You don't need
+those glasses; there is nothing the matter with your
+eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don't want them to
+hang you. I don't believe in hanging. But I must tell
+you the truth, and you'd better be ready for the worst."</p>
+
+<p>Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage
+suffuses his cheeks with spots of dark red.</p>
+
+<p>"You're crazy! What's the use talkin' to you, anyhow?
+You are a damn Anarchist. I'm a good Catholic,
+I want you to know that! I haven't always did right,
+but the good father confessed me last week. I'm no
+damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I'm
+pretty near blind, and this is a Christian country, thank
+God! They won't hang a blind man. Don't you ever
+talk to <i>me</i> again!"</p>
+
+
+<h4>XI</h4>
+
+<p>The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony,
+broken only by my anxiety about the approaching trial.
+It is part of the designed cruelty to keep me ignorant
+of the precise date. "Hold yourself ready. You may
+be called any time," the Warden had said. But the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>
+shadows are lengthening, the days come and go, and
+still my name has not appeared on the court calendar.
+Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My
+mission is almost accomplished,&mdash;the explanation in
+court, and then my life is done. I shall never again
+have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I may
+therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for
+the partial failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment
+is gnawing at my heart. Yet why? The
+physical results of my act cannot affect its propagandistic
+value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above
+them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound
+me. "Bad shot, ain't you?" They do not dream how
+keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and try to appear
+indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the
+revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness.
+They are so far beneath me; they live in the
+swamp of their narrow personal interests; they cannot
+understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may
+reach the eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the
+heights.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The "trusty" passes along the gallery. He walks
+slowly, dusting the iron railing, then turns to give my
+door a few light strokes with the cat-o'-many-tails.
+Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low, pretending
+to wipe the doorsill,&mdash;there is a quick movement of his
+hand, and a little roll of white is shot between the lower
+bars, falling at my feet. "A stiff," he whispers.</p>
+
+<p>Indifferently I pick up the note. I know no one in
+the jail; it is probably some poor fellow asking for
+cigarettes. Placing the roll between the pages of a
+newspaper, I am surprised to find it in German.
+From whom can it be? I turn to the signature. Carl
+Nold? It's impossible; it's a trap! No, but that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span>
+handwriting,&mdash;I could not mistake it: the small, clear
+chirography is undoubtedly Nold's. But how did he
+smuggle in this note? I feel the blood rush to my head
+as my eye flits over the penciled lines: Bauer and he are
+arrested; they are in the jail now, charged with conspiracy
+to kill Frick; detectives swore they met them in
+my company, in front of the Frick office building. They
+have engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. Would I
+accept his services? I probably have no money, and I
+shouldn't expect any from New York, because Most&mdash;what's
+this?&mdash;because Most has repudiated the act&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty
+I walk to the gallery. I feel feverish: my feet drag
+heavily, and I stumble against the railing.</p>
+
+<p>"Is yo sick, Ahlick?" It must be the negro's voice.
+My throat is dry; my lips refuse to move. Hazily I see
+the guard approach. He walks me to the cell, and lowers
+the berth. "You may lie down." The lock clicks, and
+I'm alone.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The line marches past, up and down, up and down.
+The regular footfall beats against my brain like hammer
+strokes. When will they stop? My head aches dreadfully&mdash;I
+am glad I don't have to walk&mdash;it was good of
+the negro to call the guard&mdash;I felt so sick. What was it?
+Oh, the note! Where is it?</p>
+
+<p>The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick
+the newspaper up from the floor. With trembling hands
+I turn the leaves. Ah, it's here! If I had not found it,
+I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy?</p>
+
+<p>The sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread.
+Nold and Bauer here! Perhaps&mdash;if they act discreetly&mdash;all
+will be well. They are innocent; they can prove
+it. But Most! How can it be possible? Of course,
+he was displeased when I began to associate with the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span>
+autonomists. But how can that make any difference?
+At such a time! What matter personal likes and dislikes
+to a revolutionist, to a Most&mdash;the hero of my first
+years in America, the name that stirred my soul in that
+little library in Kovno&mdash;Most, the Bridge of Liberty!
+My teacher&mdash;the author of the <i>Kriegswissenschaft</i>&mdash;the
+ideal revolutionist&mdash;he to denounce me, to repudiate
+propaganda by deed?</p>
+
+<p>It's incredible! I cannot believe it. The Girl will not
+fail to write to me about it. I'll wait till I hear from
+her. But, then, Nold is himself a great admirer of
+Most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless
+fully convinced that it is true. Yet&mdash;it is barely conceivable.
+How explain such a change in Most? To
+forswear his whole past, his glorious past! He was
+always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism.
+Some tremendous motive must be back of such
+apostasy. It has no parallel in Anarchist annals. But
+what can it be? How boldly he acted during the Haymarket
+tragedy&mdash;publicly advised the use of violence to
+avenge the capitalist conspiracy. He must have realized
+the danger of the speech for which he was later doomed
+to Blackwell's Island. I remember his defiant manner
+on the way to prison. How I admired his strong spirit,
+as I accompanied him on the last ride! That was only
+a little over a year ago, and he is just out a few months.
+Perhaps&mdash;is it possible? A coward? Has that prison
+experience influenced his present attitude? Why, it is
+terrible to think of Most&mdash;a coward? He who has
+devoted his entire life to the Cause, sacrificed his seat in
+the Reichstag because of uncompromising honesty, stood
+in the forefront all his life, faced peril and danger,&mdash;<i>he</i>
+a coward? Yet, it is impossible that he should have
+suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. What could
+have prompted his denunciation of my act? Personal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span>
+dislike? No, that was a matter of petty jealousy. His
+confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded.
+Did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans
+concerning Russia? That was proof of absolute faith.
+One could not change his opinion so suddenly. Moreover,
+it can have no bearing on his repudiation of a
+terrorist act. I can find no explanation, unless&mdash;can it
+be?&mdash;fear of personal consequences. Afraid <i>he</i> might
+be held responsible, perhaps. Such a possibility is not
+excluded, surely. The enemy hates him bitterly, and
+would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to
+hang him. But that is the price one pays for his love
+of humanity. Every revolutionist is exposed to this
+danger. Most especially; his whole career has been a
+duel with tyranny. But he was never before influenced
+by such considerations. Is he not prepared to take the
+responsibility for his terrorist propaganda, the work of
+his whole life? Why has he suddenly been stricken with
+fear? Can it be? Can it be?...</p>
+
+<p>My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair
+grips my heart, as I hesitatingly admit to myself the
+probable truth. But it cannot be; Nold has made a mistake.
+May be the letter is a trap; it was not written by
+Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps
+I'll have a letter in the morning. The Girl&mdash;she is
+the only one I can trust&mdash;she'll tell me&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed.
+Perhaps to-morrow ... a letter....</p>
+
+
+<h4>XII</h4>
+
+<p>"Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?"
+the Warden asks.</p>
+
+<p>"What 'pards'?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Your partners, Bauer and Nold."</p>
+
+<p>"My comrades, you mean. I have no partners."</p>
+
+<p>"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers
+are here."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I'll see them."</p>
+
+<p>Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct
+my own case, and explain my act. But I shall be glad
+to meet my comrades. I wonder how they feel about
+their arrest,&mdash;perhaps they are inclined to blame me.
+And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side
+with Most&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>My senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies
+me into the hall. Near the wall, seated at a small table,
+I behold Nold and Bauer. Two other men are with
+them; their attorneys, I suppose. All eyes scrutinize me
+curiously, searchingly. Nold advances toward me. His
+manner is somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness
+in his heavy-browed eyes. He grasps my hand.
+The pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns to pour
+boundless confidence into my heart. For a moment a
+wave of thankfulness overwhelms me: I long to embrace
+him. But curious eyes bore into me. I glance at Bauer.
+There is a cheerful smile on the good-natured, ruddy
+face. The guard pushes a chair toward the table, and
+leans against the railing. His presence constrains me:
+he will report to the Warden everything said.</p>
+
+<p>I am introduced to the lawyers. The contrast in
+their appearance suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling.
+The younger man, evidently a recent graduate, is quick,
+alert, and talkative. There is an air of anxious
+expectancy about him, with a look of Semitic shrewdness
+in the long, narrow face. He enlarges upon the
+kind consent of his distinguished colleague to take
+charge of my case.  His demeanor toward the elder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span>
+lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. The
+latter looks bored, and is silent.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you wish to say something, Colonel?" the young
+lawyer suggests.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing."</p>
+
+<p>He ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. His
+colleague looks abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a
+naughty act.</p>
+
+<p>"You, Mr. Berkman?" he asks.</p>
+
+<p>I thank them for their interest in my case. But I
+need no defence, I explain, since I do not consider myself
+guilty. I am exclusively concerned in making a
+public statement in the courtroom. If I am represented
+by an attorney, I should be deprived of the opportunity.
+Yet it is most vital to clarify to the People the purpose
+of my act, the circumstances&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The heavy breathing opposite distracts me. I glance
+at the Colonel. His eyes are closed, and from the parted
+lips there issues the regular respiration of sound sleep.
+A look of mild dismay crosses the young lawyer's face.
+He rises with an apologetic smile.</p>
+
+<p>"You are tired, Colonel. It's awfully close here."</p>
+
+<p>"Let us go," the Colonel replies.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Depressed I return to the cell. The old lawyer,&mdash;how
+little my explanation interested him! He fell
+asleep! Why, it is a matter of life and death, an issue
+that involves the welfare of the world! I was so happy
+at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent
+Americans,&mdash;and he was sleeping! The young lawyer,
+too, is disgusting, with his air of condescending pity
+toward one who "will have a fool for a client," as he
+characterized my decision to conduct my own case. He
+may think such a course suicidal. Perhaps it is, in regard
+to consequences. But the length of the sentence<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span>
+is a matter of indifference to me: I'll die soon, anyway.
+The only thing of importance now is my explanation.
+And that man fell asleep! Perhaps he considers me a
+criminal. But what can I expect of a lawyer, when even
+the steel-worker could not understand my act? Most
+himself&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>With the name, I recollect the letters the guard had
+given me during the interview. There are three of
+them; one from the Girl! At last! Why did she not
+write before? They must have kept the letter in the
+office. Yes, the postmark is a week old. She'll tell me
+about Most,&mdash;but what is the use? I'm sure of it now;
+I read it plainly in Nold's eyes. It's all true. But I
+must see what she writes.</p>
+
+<p>How every line breathes her devotion to the Cause!
+She is the real Russian woman revolutionist. Her letter
+is full of bitterness against the attitude of Most and
+his lieutenants in the German and Jewish Anarchist
+circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement
+in my imprisonment. She refers to the financial
+difficulties of the little commune consisting of Fedya,
+herself, and one or two other comrades, and closes with
+the remark that, fortunately, I need no money for legal
+defence or attorneys.</p>
+
+<p>The staunch Girl! She and Fedya are, after all, the
+only true revolutionists I know in our ranks. The others
+all possess some weakness. I could not rely on them.
+The German comrades,&mdash;they are heavy, phlegmatic;
+they lack the enthusiasm of Russia. I wonder how they
+ever produced a Reinsdorf. Well, he is the exception.
+There is nothing to be expected from the German movement,
+excepting perhaps the autonomists. But they are
+a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept alive mainly by
+the Most and Peukert feud. Peukert, too, the life of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span>
+their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation.
+Quite natural, of course. A terrible injustice
+has been done him.<a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a> It is remarkable that the false
+accusations have not driven him into obscurity. There
+is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean
+order, in his survival in the movement. It was that
+which first awakened my interest in him. Most's explanation,
+full of bitter invective, suggested hostile personal
+feeling. What a tremendous sensation I created
+at the first Jewish Anarchist Conference by demanding
+that the charges against Peukert be investigated! The
+result entirely failed to substantiate the accusations. But
+the Mostianer were not convinced, blinded by the vituperative
+eloquence of Most. And now ... now, again,
+they will follow, as blindly. To be sure, they will not
+dare take open stand against my act; not the Jewish
+comrades, at least. After all, the fire of Russia still
+smolders in their hearts. But Most's attitude toward
+me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm,
+and thus react on the propaganda. The burden of
+making agitation through my act will fall on the Girl's
+shoulders. She will stand a lone soldier in the field.
+She will exert her utmost efforts, I am convinced. But
+she will stand alone. Fedya will also remain loyal. But
+what can he do? He is not a speaker. Nor the rest
+of the commune circle. And Most? We had all been
+so intimate.... It's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice,
+too. Yes, mostly cowardice&mdash;he can't be jealous of me
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>now! He recently left prison,&mdash;it must have terrorized
+him. The weakling! He will minimize the effect of my
+act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence altogether....
+Now I stand alone&mdash;except for the Girl&mdash;quite
+alone. It is always so. Was not "he" alone,
+my beloved, "unknown" Grinevitzky, isolated, scorned
+by his comrades? But his bomb ... how it thundered...</p>
+
+<p>I was just a boy then. Let me see,&mdash;it was in 1881.
+I was about eleven years old. The class was assembling
+after the noon recess. I had barely settled in my seat,
+when the teacher called me forward. His long pointer
+was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of
+Russia.</p>
+
+<p>"What province is that?" he demanded.</p>
+
+<p>"Astrakhan."</p>
+
+<p>"Mention its chief products."</p>
+
+<p>Products? The name Chernishevsky flitted through
+my mind. He was in Astrakhan,&mdash;I heard Maxim tell
+mother so at dinner.</p>
+
+<p>"Nihilists," I burst out.</p>
+
+<p>The boys tittered; some laughed aloud. The teacher
+grew purple. He struck the pointer violently on the
+floor, shivering the tapering end. Suddenly there broke
+a roll of thunder. One&mdash;two&mdash; With a terrific crash,
+the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook
+beneath our feet. The room was hushed. Deathly pale,
+the teacher took a step toward the window, but hastily
+turned, and dashed from the room. The pupils rushed
+after him. I wondered at the air of fear and suspicion
+on the streets. At home every one spoke in subdued
+tunes. Father looked at mother severely, reproachfully,
+and Maxim was unusually silent, but his face seemed
+radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. At night,
+alone with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span>
+knelt at my side, and threw his arms around me and
+kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. His wildness
+frightened me. "What is it, Maximotchka?" I breathed
+softly. He ran up and down the room, kissing me and
+murmuring, "Glorious, glorious! Victory!"</p>
+
+<p>Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he
+whispered mysterious, awe-inspiring words: Will of the
+People&mdash;tyrant removed&mdash;Free Russia....</p>
+
+
+<h4>XIII</h4>
+
+<p>The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude.
+Life is so remote, so appallingly far away&mdash;it has abandoned
+me in this desert of silence. The distant puffing
+of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens, accentuate
+my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life,
+huge, palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted
+course. How unmindful of myself, flung into the darkness,&mdash;like
+a furnace spark belched forth amid fire and
+smoke into the blackness of night.</p>
+
+<p>The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch
+every gate of life. Every approach they guard, lest
+I enter back&mdash;I and the others here. Poor unfortunates,
+how irritated and nervous they are growing as their
+trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their
+eyes; their faces are haggard and anxious. They walk
+weakly, haltingly, worn with the long days of waiting.
+Only "Blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. But
+I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am
+sure his eyes were moist when the three Italians returned
+from court this morning. They had been sentenced to
+death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with
+a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both
+hands over his face, weeping silently. But the old man,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span>
+their father&mdash;as he was crossing the hallway, we saw
+him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed, then
+lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his
+body falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards
+dragged him up the stairway, his legs hitting the stone
+with a dull thud, the fresh crimson spreading over his
+white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he
+stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised,
+he cried hoarsely, anguished, "O Santa Maria!
+Sio innocente inno&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and
+fell.</p>
+
+<p>"Ready! Death-watch!" shouted the Warden.</p>
+
+<p>"In-no-cente! Death-watch!" mocked the echo under
+the roof.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized
+cry; its black despair chills my marrow. Exercise hour
+has become insupportable. The prisoners irritate me:
+each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening
+monotony of the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant
+cruelty and brutality is harrowing. I wish it were
+all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a ceaseless
+torture. I have been waiting now almost two months.
+My court speech is prepared. I could die now, but they
+would suppress my explanation, and the People thus
+remain ignorant of my aim and purpose. I owe it to
+the Cause&mdash;and to the true comrades&mdash;to stay on the
+scene till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind
+me to life. With the speech, my opportunities for propaganda
+will be exhausted. Death, suicide, is the only
+logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that is self-evident.
+If I only knew the date of my trial,&mdash;that
+day will be my last. The poor old Italian,&mdash;he and his
+sons, they at least know when they are to die. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>
+count each day; every hour brings them closer to the
+end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps
+they killed under great provocation, in the heat
+of passion. But the sheriff will murder them in cold
+blood. The law of peace and order!</p>
+
+<p>I shall not be hanged&mdash;yet I feel as if I were
+dead. My life is done; only the last rite remains to be
+performed. After that&mdash;well, I'll find a way. When the
+trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. The spoon is
+of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it&mdash;on the stone floor&mdash;very
+quietly, at night&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Number six, to court! Num-ber six!"</p>
+
+<p>Did the turnkey call "six"? Who is in cell six?
+Why, it's <i>my</i> cell! I feel the cold perspiration running
+down my back. My heart beats violently, my hands
+tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper. Nervously
+I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my
+name didn't appear yet in the court calendar column.
+The list is published every Monday&mdash;why, this is Saturday's
+paper&mdash;yesterday we had service&mdash;it must be Monday
+to-day. Oh, shame! They didn't give me the paper
+to-day, and it's Monday&mdash;yes, it's Monday&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks.</p>
+
+<p>"Hurry, To court!"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE TRIAL</h3>
+
+
+<p>The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard.
+The stained windows cast sickly rays into the silent
+chamber. In the sombre light the faces look funereal,
+spectral.</p>
+
+<p>Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the
+Girl, have come to greet me.... Everywhere cold eyes
+meet my gaze. Police and court attendants on every side.
+Several newspaper men draw near. It is humiliating
+that through them I must speak to the People.</p>
+
+<p>"Prisoner at the bar, stand up!"</p>
+
+<p>The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania&mdash;the clerk
+vociferates&mdash;charges me with felonious assault on H. C.
+Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault on John G. A.
+Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie
+Company on three occasions, each constituting a
+separate indictment; and with unlawfully carrying concealed
+weapons.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"</p>
+
+<p>I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I
+do not deny the attempt on Frick, but the accusation of
+having assaulted Leishman is not true. I have visited
+the Carnegie offices only&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts.</p>
+
+<p>"Not guilty. I want to explain&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Your attorneys will do that."</p>
+
+<p>"I have no attorney."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"The Court will appoint one to defend you."</p>
+
+<p>"I need no defence. I want to make a statement."</p>
+
+<p>"You will be given an opportunity at the proper
+time."</p>
+
+<p>Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use
+are all these preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone
+conclusion. The men in the jury box there, they are to
+decide my fate. As if they could understand! They
+measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were
+the talesmen not examined in my presence? They were
+already seated when I entered.</p>
+
+<p>"When was the jury picked?" I demand.</p>
+
+<p>"You have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts.</p>
+
+<p>The names of the talesmen sound strange. But what
+matter who are the men to judge me? They, too, belong
+to the enemy. They will do the master's bidding. Yet
+I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the Juggernaut.
+At random, I select four names from the printed
+list, and the new jurors file into the box.</p>
+
+<p>The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro
+employees of Frick in turn take the witness stand. They
+had seen me three times in the Frick office, they testify.
+They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the hired
+witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the
+detective who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the
+jail. He is followed by a physician who states that each
+wound of Frick might have proved fatal. John G. A.
+Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies.
+"It's a lie!" I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me
+into the seat. Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to
+avoid my eye, as I confront him.</p>
+
+<p>The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the
+witnesses for the State. They have spoken falsely; there
+is no truth in them, and I shall not participate in the
+mockery.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Call the witnesses for the defence," the judge
+commands.</p>
+
+<p>I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with
+my statement. The prosecutor demands that I speak
+English. But I insist on reading my prepared paper, in
+German. The judge rules to permit me the services of
+the court interpreter.</p>
+
+<p>"I address myself to the People," I begin. "Some
+may wonder why I have declined a legal defence. My
+reasons are twofold. In the first place, I am an Anarchist:
+I do not believe in man-made law, designed to
+enslave and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary
+phenomenon like an <i>Attentat</i> cannot be measured
+by the narrow standards of legality. It requires a view
+of the social background to be adequately understood.
+A lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from
+the standpoint of the law. Yet the real question at
+issue is not a defence of myself, but rather the <i>explanation</i>
+of the deed. It is mistaken to believe <i>me</i> on trial.
+The actual defendant is Society&mdash;the system of injustice,
+of the organized exploitation of the People."</p>
+
+<p>The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and
+shrill. Word for word he translates my utterance, the
+sentences broken, disconnected, in his inadequate English.
+The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart
+bleeds at his meaningless declamation.</p>
+
+<p>"Translate sentences, not single words," I remonstrate.</p>
+
+<p>With an impatient gesture he leaves me.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, please, go on!" I cry in dismay.</p>
+
+<p>He returns hesitatingly.</p>
+
+<p>"Look at my paper," I adjure him, "and translate
+each sentence as I read it."</p>
+
+<p>The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing
+stare. The man is blind!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Let&mdash;us&mdash;continue," he stammers.</p>
+
+<p>"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts.</p>
+
+<p>"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in consternation.</p>
+
+<p>"It will do."</p>
+
+<p>"I have declined the services of attorneys to get time
+to&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"We allow you five more minutes."</p>
+
+<p>"But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the
+right to be heard."</p>
+
+<p>"We'll teach you differently."</p>
+
+<p>I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen
+leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries
+forward, and whispers to them. They remain in the
+jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you anything to say why sentence should not
+be passed upon you?"</p>
+
+<p>"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your justice
+is a farce."</p>
+
+<p>"Silence!"</p>
+
+<p>In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench.
+Hurriedly the guards lead me from the courtroom.</p>
+
+<p>"The judge was easy on you," the Warden jeers.
+"Twenty-two years! Pretty stiff, eh?"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="Part_II" id="Part_II"></a>PART II</h2>
+
+<h1>THE PENITENTIARY</h1>
+
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 800px;">
+<a name="Penitentiary" id="Penitentiary"></a>
+<span class="caption">WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA&mdash;MAIN BUILDING</span>
+<img src="images/prisoncell.jpg" width="800" height="455" alt="WESTERN PENITENTIARY" title="WESTERN PENITENTIARY" />
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
+
+<h3>DESPERATE THOUGHTS</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>"Make yourself at home, now. You'll stay here a
+while, huh, huh!"</p>
+
+<p>As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man
+speaking to me, I wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel
+so weary, I long to be alone.</p>
+
+<p>Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding.
+All is silent, and I am alone. A nameless weight
+oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a void.
+Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw
+pillow, my heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my
+sight, and consumes my eyelids. Now it pierces my
+head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a raging fire.
+Oh!</p>
+
+<p>I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is
+pouring into my face. Terrified, I press my hands to
+my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces my lids, and
+blinds me with maddening torture.</p>
+
+<p>"Get up and undress. What's the matter with you,
+anyhow?"</p>
+
+<p>The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous
+glare. Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Now lay down and go to sleep."</p>
+
+<p>Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before
+my eyes. A terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone
+blind? I grope for the bed, the wall ... I can't see!
+With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A faint click
+reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into
+my face. Oh, I can see! I can see!</p>
+
+<p>"What t' hell's the matter with you, eh? Go to
+sleep. You hear?"</p>
+
+<p>Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange
+horrors haunt me.... What a terrible place this must
+be! This agony&mdash;&mdash; I cannot support it. Twenty-two
+years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I'll die
+to-night.... With bated breath I creep from the bed.
+The iron bedstead creaks. In affright I draw back,
+feigning sleep. All remains silent. The guard did not
+hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with
+closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all
+around. I grope about the cell. The wall is damp,
+musty. The odors are nauseating.... I cannot live
+here. I must die. This very night.... Something
+white glimmers in the corner. Cautiously I bend over.
+It is a spoon. For a moment I hold it indifferently; then
+a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep
+back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand
+feels for my heart. It is beating violently. I will put
+the narrow end of the spoon over here&mdash;like this&mdash;I
+will force it in&mdash;a little lower&mdash;a steady pressure&mdash;just
+between the ribs.... The metal feels cold. How hot
+my body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my
+side. My fingers seek the edge. It is dull. I must
+press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I only had my
+revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode.
+That's why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he
+looked at me in court! There was hate in his eyes, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span>
+fear, too. He turned his head away, he could not face
+me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't
+crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed....</p>
+
+<p>"Keep quiet there, or I'll put you in the hole."</p>
+
+<p>The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning.
+I'll draw the blanket over my head, so. What was
+I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He is well, and
+I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course,
+it does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda
+is there, as the result of my act. That was the
+main purpose. But I meant to kill him, and he lives.
+My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept
+the date secret. They were afraid my friends would be
+present. It was maddening the way the prosecuting
+attorney and the judge kept interrupting me. I did not
+read even a third of my statement. And the whole
+effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor
+old man! He was deeply offended when I corrected his
+translation. I did not know he was blind. I called him
+back, and suffered renewed torture at his screeching. I
+was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue.
+That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the
+matter did not concern him. He must have known that
+the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years! As if
+it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible
+place! Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example
+of me. The old villain! He has been doing it all his
+life: making an example of social victims, the victims
+of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of
+it&mdash;had I anything to say why sentence should not be
+passed? Yet he wouldn't permit me to continue my
+statement. "The court has been very patient!" I am
+glad I told him that I didn't expect justice, and did not
+get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the
+epithet that sprang to my lips. No, it was best that I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span>
+controlled my anger. Else they would have rejoiced to
+proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things
+help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals?
+We, who are ever ready to give our lives for liberty,
+criminals? And they, our accusers? They break their
+own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the
+charges against me. They made six indictments out of
+one act, as if the minor "offences" were not included in
+the major, made necessary by the deed itself. They
+thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me more
+than seven years. But I am an Anarchist. I had
+attempted the life of a great magnate; in him capitalism
+felt itself attacked. Of course, I knew they would take
+advantage of my refusal to be legally represented.
+Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum
+penalty on each charge. Well, I expected no less, and
+it makes no difference now. I am going to die, anyway.</p>
+
+<p>I clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. Its narrow
+end against my heart, I test the resistance of the flesh.
+A violent blow will drive it between the ribs....</p>
+
+<p>One, two, three&mdash;the deep metallic bass floats upon
+the silence, resonant, compelling. Instantly all is
+motion: overhead, on the sides, everything is vibrant
+with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are
+noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the
+distance sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows
+nearer and louder. I hear the officers' sharp command,
+the familiar click of locks, doors opening and shutting.
+Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With
+a moan the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A
+guard unlocks the door. His eyes rest on me curiously,
+suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a small loaf of
+bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before
+the door is closed and locked.</p>
+
+<p>"Want coffee? Hold your cup."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into
+my bent, rusty tin can. In the semi-darkness of the cell
+the steaming liquid overflows, scalding my bare feet.
+With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the dimly-lit hall
+the floor looks stained with blood.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean by that?" the guard shouts
+at me.</p>
+
+<p>"I couldn't help it."</p>
+
+<p>"Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it
+out of you. Hey, there, Sam," the officer motions to the
+trusty, "no dinner for A 7, you hear!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"</p>
+
+<p>"No more coffee, either."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>The guard measures me with a look of scornful
+hatred. Malice mirrors in his face. Involuntarily I step
+back into the cell. His gaze falls on my naked feet.</p>
+
+<p>"Ain't you got no shoes?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Put 'em on, damn you."</p>
+
+<p>His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one
+cheek to the either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown
+splashes on my feet. "Damn you, put 'em on."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have
+died away. All is still in the dark hall. Only occasional
+shadows flit by, silent, ghostlike.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>"Forward, march!"</p>
+
+<p>The lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep,
+resembles an undulating snake, wriggling from side to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span>
+side, its black-and-gray body moving forward, yet apparently
+remaining in the same spot. A thousand feet strike
+the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising
+and falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers,
+approaches and passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive
+in their stolid indifference or malicious leer. Here and
+there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or sympathetic
+expression, but accentuates the features of the striped
+line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look
+of the ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended,
+with hand touching the shoulder of the man in front, all
+uniformly clad in horizontal black and gray, the men
+seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the
+shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks,
+stern and alert.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the
+hollow thud of the last footfall, behind the closed double
+door leading into the prison yard. The pall of silence
+descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly alone, deserted
+and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and
+iron. The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible
+weight. I am buried within the narrow walls; the
+massive rock is pressing down upon my head, my sides.
+I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can't,
+I can't live here! I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two
+years! It is a lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die.
+I will! Now!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed.
+My eyes wander over the cell, faintly lit by the light in
+the hall: the whitewashed walls, yellow with damp&mdash;the
+splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the bed&mdash;the
+clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall&mdash;the
+small table and the rickety chair&mdash;the filthy floor, black
+and gray in spots.... Why, it's stone! I can sharpen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span>
+the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the corner. The tin
+glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly,
+till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches
+and scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping
+sound. The metal is growing hot in my hand. I pass
+the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of blood trickle
+down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade
+is keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand
+gropes for my heart. I touch the spot with the blade.
+Between the ribs&mdash;here&mdash;I'll be dead when they find
+me.... If Frick had only died. So much propaganda
+could be made&mdash;that damned Most, if he hadn't turned
+against me! He will ruin the whole effect of the act.
+It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he afraid of?
+They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for
+over a year. He could easily prove it. The traitor!
+Preached propaganda by deed all his life&mdash;now he
+repudiates the first <i>Attentat</i> in this country. What
+tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now
+he denies me, he doesn't know me. The wretch! He
+knew me well enough and trusted me, too, when together
+we set up the secret circular in the <i>Freiheit</i> office.
+It was in William Street. We waited for the other
+compositors to leave; then we worked all night. It was
+to recommend me: I planned to go to Russia then.
+Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something
+important there. Why didn't I go? What was it?
+Well, I can't think of it now. It's peculiar, though. But
+America was more important. Plenty of revolutionists in
+Russia. And now.... Oh, I'll never do anything more.
+I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold&mdash;a pool of blood
+under me&mdash;the mattress will be red&mdash;no, it will be
+dark-red, and the blood will soak through the straw....
+I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from
+my heart&mdash;I must strike right here&mdash;strong and quick<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>&mdash;it
+will not pain much. But the edge is ragged&mdash;it may
+catch&mdash;or tear the flesh. They say the skin is tough.
+I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against the
+blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close&mdash;like
+this&mdash;then a quick drive&mdash;right into the heart&mdash;it's the
+surest way. I must not wound myself&mdash;I would bleed
+slowly&mdash;they might discover me still alive. No, no!
+I must die at once. They'll find me dead&mdash;my heart&mdash;they'll
+feel it&mdash;not beating&mdash;the blade still in it&mdash;they'll
+call the doctor&mdash;"He's dead." And the Girl and Fedya
+and the others will hear of it&mdash;she'll be sad&mdash;but she
+will understand. Yes, she will be glad&mdash;they couldn't
+torture me here&mdash;she'll know I cheated them&mdash;yes,
+she.... Where is she now? What does she think of
+it all? Does she, too, think I've failed? And Fedya,
+also? If I'd only hear from her&mdash;just once. It would
+be easier to die. But she'll understand, she&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Git off that bed! Don't you know the rules, eh?
+Get out o' there!"</p>
+
+<p>Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon
+falls from my relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking
+on the stone loudly, damningly. My heart stands still
+as I face the guard. There is something repulsively
+familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a
+derisive smile. Oh, it's the officer of the morning!</p>
+
+<p>"Foxy, ain't you? Gimme that spoon."</p>
+
+<p>The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing
+and hatred of the tall guard fill my being. For a
+second I hesitate. I must hide the spoon. I cannot
+afford to lose it&mdash;not to this brute&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Cap'n, here!"</p>
+
+<p>I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully
+examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over
+his face.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate,
+eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>In the rotunda, connecting the north and south
+cell-houses, the Deputy stands at a high desk. Angular
+and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is
+a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment.
+The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The
+steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is this?"</p>
+
+<p>The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates
+the cadaver-like face and figure. The contrast is
+startling.</p>
+
+<p>"A 7."</p>
+
+<p>"What is the charge, Officer?"</p>
+
+<p>"Two charges, Mr. McPane. Layin' in bed and
+tryin' soocide."</p>
+
+<p>A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over
+the Deputy's wizened face. The long, heavy fingers of
+his right hand work convulsively, as if drumming stiffly
+on an imaginary board.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm.
+How did he try to, hm, hm, to commit suicide?"</p>
+
+<p>"With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such
+charge as, hm, hm, as trying suicide in this institution.
+Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave offence. I'll see
+about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by
+lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him
+down, Officer. He will, hm, hm, cool off."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference
+possesses me. Vaguely I am conscious of the guards
+leading me through dark corridors, dragging me down
+steep flights, half undressing me, and finally thrusting
+me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl.
+I stagger and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes.
+Some one is bending over me.</p>
+
+<p>"A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell."</p>
+
+<p>"Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment."</p>
+
+<p>"Not safe, Mr. McPane."</p>
+
+<p>"We'll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the
+cell, Officers."</p>
+
+<p>"Git up."</p>
+
+<p>My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move.
+I am lifted and carried up the stairs, through corridors
+and halls, and then thrown heavily on a bed.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would
+be best. But I have no weapon! They have taken
+away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell that I
+could use. These iron bars&mdash;I could beat my head
+against them. But oh! it is such a horrible death. My
+skull would break, and the brains ooze out.... But the
+bars are smooth. Would my skull break with one blow?
+I'm afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak
+to strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the
+easiest and quickest. I've always thought I'd prefer such
+a death&mdash;to be shot. The barrel close to the temple&mdash;one
+couldn't miss. Some people have done it in
+front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no
+revolver, either.... Through the mouth it is also<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span>
+fatal.... That Moscow student&mdash;Russov was his
+name; yes, Ivan Russov&mdash;he shot himself through
+the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself
+for a woman; but I admired his courage. How coolly he
+had made all preparations; he even left a note directing
+that his gold watch be given to the landlady, because&mdash;he
+wrote&mdash;after passing through his brain, the bullet
+might damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually
+happened that way. I saw the bullet imbedded in the
+wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and peaceful,
+I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that
+in my brother's study, after our lessons. What a
+splendid tutor he was! I liked him from the first, when
+mother introduced him: "Sasha, Ivan Nikolaievitch will
+be your instructor in Latin during vacation time." My
+hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like
+a vise. But I was glad I didn't cry out. I admired
+him for it; I felt he must be very strong and manly to
+have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told
+her about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister
+blushed a little. "Rather energetic," she observed. And
+Maxim felt so happy over the favorable impression
+made by his college chum. "What did I tell you?" he
+cried, in glee; "Ivan Nikolaievitch <i>molodetz</i>!<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> Think
+of it, he's only twenty. Graduates next year. The
+youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university.
+<i>Molodetz</i>!" But how red were Maxim's eyes when he
+brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said,
+as long as he lived: he had dug it out, with his own
+hands, from the wall of Ivan Nikolaievitch's room. At
+dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the cotton,
+an I showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics,
+and mamma called Max a brute. "For a woman, an
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span>unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I thought he was
+foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt
+a little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been
+more manly. They all said she was very beautiful, the
+acknowledged belle of Kovno. She was tall and stately,
+but I thought she walked too stiffly; she seemed self-conscious
+and artificial. Mother said I was too young
+to talk of such things. How shocked she would have
+been had she known that I was in love with Nadya, my
+sister's chum. And I had kissed our chambermaid, too.
+Dear little Rosa,&mdash;I remember she threatened to tell
+mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn't come to dinner.
+Mamma sent the maid to call me, but I refused to go
+till Rosa promised not to tell.... The sweet girl, with
+those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the
+little imp couldn't keep the secret. She told Tatanya,
+the cook of our neighbor, the Latin instructor at the
+gymnasium. Next day he teased me about the servant
+girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor
+would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>... How far off it all seems. Centuries away.
+I wonder what has become of her. Where is Rosa now?
+Why, she must be here, in America. I had almost forgotten,&mdash;I
+met her in New York. It was such a surprise.
+I was standing on the stoop of the tenement house where
+I boarded. I had then been only a few months in the
+country. A young lady passed by. She looked up at me,
+then turned and ascended the steps. "Don't you know
+me, Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me?"
+Some mistake, I thought. I had never before seen this
+beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited me into
+the hallway. "Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa.
+Don't you remember? Why, you know, I was your
+mother's&mdash;your mother's maid." She blushed violently.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span>
+Those red cheeks&mdash;why, certainly, it's Rosa! I thought
+of the stolen kiss. "Would I dare it now?" I wondered,
+suddenly conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed
+so prosperous. How our positions were changed! She
+looked the very <i>barishnya</i>,<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> like my sister. "Is your
+mother here?" she asked. "Mother? She died, just
+before I left." I glanced apprehensively at her. Did
+she remember that terrible scene when mother struck
+her? "I didn't know about your mother." Her voice
+was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl,
+always generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to
+her for mother's insult. We looked at each other in
+embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand.
+Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. "Good-bye,
+<i>Gospodin</i><a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> Berkman," she said. "I'll see you again soon.
+Please don't tell these people who I am." I experienced
+a feeling of guilt and shame. <i>Gospodin</i> Berkman&mdash;somehow
+it echoed the servile <i>barinya</i><a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a> with which the
+domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery,
+Rosa had not gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor
+girl. She has not become emancipated. I never saw
+her at our meetings; she is conservative, no doubt. She
+was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she
+has learned in this country. Now she will read about
+me, and she'll know how I died.... Oh, I haven't the
+spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I can't live.
+I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven
+years, I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't,
+anyhow. I might live here a year, or two. But twenty-two,
+twenty-two years! What is the use? No man
+could survive it. It's terrible, twenty-two years! Their
+cursed justice&mdash;they always talk of law. Yet legally I
+shouldn't have gotten more than seven years. Legally!
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span>As if <i>they</i> care about "legality." They wanted to make
+an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand;
+but if I had seven years&mdash;perhaps I might live through
+it; I would try. But twenty-two&mdash;it's a lifetime, a whole
+lifetime. Seventeen is no better. That man Jamestown
+got seventeen years. He celled next to me in the jail.
+He didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small
+and puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he
+could live here seventeen years. In this hell&mdash;what an
+imbecile he is! He should have committed suicide long
+ago. They sent him away before my trial; it's about three
+weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn't he done something?
+He will soon die here, anyway; it would be better to
+suicide. A strong man might live five years; I doubt it,
+though; perhaps a very strong man might. <i>I</i> couldn't;
+no, I know I couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at
+most. We had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya,
+and I. I had then such a peculiar idea of prison: I
+thought I would be sitting on the floor in a gruesome,
+black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall;
+and the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour
+my face and my eyes, and I so helpless, chained to the
+wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar idea. She said she
+might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a year, I
+thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the
+worms off with my feet; it would take the vermin that
+long to eat all my flesh, till they got to my heart; that
+would be fatal.... And the vermin here, those big,
+brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so vicious
+and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There
+must be in the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot.
+I don't know how it happened. I was unconscious in
+that dark hole&mdash;it was just like my old idea of prison.
+I couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. Here it
+is a little better; but it's never light in this cell,&mdash;always
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span>in semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no
+windows; it's damp, and smells so foully all the time.
+The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with blood, too.
+Bedbugs&mdash;augh! it's nauseating. Not much better than
+that black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the
+wall. Just a trifle better,&mdash;my hands are not chained.
+Perhaps I could live here a few years: no more than
+three, or may be five. But these brutal officers! No, no,
+I couldn't stand it. I want to die! I'd die here soon,
+anyway; they will kill me. But I won't give the enemy
+the satisfaction; they shall not be able to say that they
+are torturing me in prison, or that they killed me. No!
+I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall have
+to do it&mdash;with my head against the bars&mdash;no, not now!
+At night, when it's all dark,&mdash;they couldn't save me then.
+It will be a terrible death, but it must be done....
+If I only knew about "them" in New York&mdash;the Girl
+and Fedya&mdash;it would be easier to die then.... What are
+they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda
+out of it? They must be waiting to hear of my suicide.
+They know I can't live here long. Perhaps they wonder
+why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I could
+not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my
+cell in jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had
+prepared to hang myself that night, but they must have
+suspected something. They brought me directly here
+from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been
+dead now&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!" the trusty
+shouts into the door. Suddenly he whispers, "Grab it,
+quick!" A long, dark object is shot between the bars
+into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man
+is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown
+paper. What can it be? The outside cover protects
+two layers of old newspaper; then a white object comes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span>
+to view. A towel! There is something round and
+hard inside&mdash;it's a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness
+steals into my heart, as I wonder who the donor may
+be. It is good to know that there is at least one being
+here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's some one I
+knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things?
+Are they permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it
+is a relief from the hard straw bed. Everything is so
+hard and coarse here&mdash;the language, the guards....
+I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat.
+I ought to wash up&mdash;my head feels so heavy&mdash;I haven't
+washed since I got here. When did I come? Let me
+see; what is to-day? I don't know, I can't think. But
+my trial&mdash;it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September.
+They brought me here in the afternoon; no, in
+the evening. And that guard&mdash;he frightened me so with
+the bull's-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it must
+have been longer than that. Have I been here only
+since yesterday? Why, it seems such a long time! Can
+this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I'll ask the trusty the
+next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this towel
+too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him;
+or may be there is some here&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness
+of the cell. I discern objects quite clearly.
+There is a small wooden table and an old chair; in
+the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the
+privy; near it, in the center of the wall opposite the
+door, is a water spigot over a narrow, circular basin.
+The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it feels refreshing.
+The rub-down with the towel is invigorating.
+The stimulated blood courses through my veins with a
+pleasing tingle. Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle,
+pricks my face. There's a pin in the towel. As I draw
+it out, something white flutters to the floor. A note!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the
+penciled writing:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from
+a friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along,
+we know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps
+lit at night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than
+bulls. Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say.
+So long, will see you tomorrow. A true friend.</p></div>
+
+<p>I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar
+language baffles me. Vaguely I surmise its meaning:
+evidently an escape is being planned. My heart beats
+violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could
+escape.... Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven't
+I thought of it before? What a glorious thing it would
+be! Of course, they would ransack the country for me.
+I should have to hide. But what does it matter?
+I'd be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It
+would make great propaganda: people would become
+much interested, and I&mdash;why, I should have new
+opportunities&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous
+thought, overwhelming me with despair. Perhaps a
+trap! I don't know who wrote the note. A fine conspirator
+I'd prove, to be duped so easily. But why
+should they want to trap me? And who? Some guard?
+What purpose could it serve? But they are so mean,
+so brutal. That tall officer&mdash;the Deputy called him
+Fellings&mdash;he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me.
+This may be his work, to get me in trouble. Would
+he really stoop to such an outrage? These things
+happen&mdash;they have been done in Russia. And he looks
+like a <i>provocateur</i>, the scoundrel. No, he won't get me
+that way. I must read the note again. It contains so
+many expressions I don't understand. I should "keep
+my lamps lit." What lamps? There are none in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span>
+cell; where am I to get them? And what "screws"
+must I watch? And the "stools,"&mdash;I have only a chair
+here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's to be used
+as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The
+note says he will call to-morrow. I'll be able to tell by
+his looks whether he can be trusted. Yes, yes, that
+will be best. I'll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I wish it
+were here!</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER II</h2>
+
+<h3>THE WILL TO LIVE</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The days drag interminably in the semidarkness
+of the cell. The gong regulates my existence with
+depressing monotony. But the tenor of my thoughts
+has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent.
+In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,&mdash;yet
+the suggestion of escape has germinated
+hope. The will to live is beginning to assert itself,
+growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder
+that my mind dwells upon suicide more and more rarely,
+ever more cursorily. The thought of self-destruction
+fills me with dismay. Every possibility of escape must
+first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience.
+Surely I have no fear of death&mdash;when the proper time
+arrives. But haste would be highly imprudent;
+worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my duty as a
+revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda:
+escape would afford me many occasions to serve the
+Cause. It was thoughtless on my part to condemn that
+man Jamestown. I even resented his seemingly unforgivable
+delay in committing suicide, considering the
+impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was
+unjust: Jamestown is, no doubt, forming his plans. It
+takes time to mature such an undertaking: one must
+first familiarize himself with the new surroundings, get<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span>
+one's bearings in the prison. So far I have had but little
+chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the
+authorities to keep me in solitary confinement, and in
+consequent ignorance of the intricate system of hallways,
+double gates, and winding passages. At liberty to leave
+this place, it would prove difficult for me to find, unaided,
+my way out. Oh, if I possessed the magic ring I dreamed
+of last night! It was a wonderful talisman, secreted&mdash;I
+fancied in the dream&mdash;by the goddess of the Social
+Revolution. I saw her quite distinctly: tall and commanding,
+the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes.
+She stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness
+suffusing the queenly countenance, her arm extended
+above me, half in blessing, half pointing toward the
+dark wall. Eagerly I looked in the direction of the
+arched hand&mdash;there, in a crevice, something luminous
+glowed with the brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning
+sun. It was a heart-shaped ring cleft in the centre.
+Its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner with the
+aureole of a great hope. Impulsively I reached out, and
+pressed the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole,
+when, lo! the rays burst into a fire that spread and instantly
+melted the iron and steel, and dissolved the prison
+walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green fields and
+woods, and men and women playfully at work in the
+sunshine of freedom. And then ... something dispelled
+the vision.</p>
+
+<p>Oh, if I had that magic heart now! To escape,
+to be free! May be my unknown friend will yet keep
+his word. He is probably perfecting plans, or perhaps
+it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades
+could aid me, escape would be feasible. But the Girl
+and Fedya will never consider the possibility. No doubt
+they refrain from writing because they momentarily
+expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>
+Girl must be! Yet she should have written: it is now
+four days since my removal to the penitentiary. Every
+day I anxiously await the coming of the Chaplain,
+who distributes the mail.&mdash;There he is! The quick,
+nervous step has become familiar to my ear.
+Expectantly I follow his movements; I recognize the
+vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring
+lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting
+the upper rotunda with the cell-house, and
+pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall amid the
+silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing
+a graveyard at night. Now the Chaplain pauses: he is
+comparing the number of the wooden block hanging
+outside the cell with that on the letter. Some one has
+remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and
+grow faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner.
+He passes the cell-row on the opposite side, ascends the
+topmost tier, and finally reaches the ground floor containing
+my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound
+approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. He
+is nearing the cell&mdash;he pauses. I can't see him yet, but
+I know he is comparing numbers. Perhaps the letter is
+for me. I hope the Chaplain will make no mistake:
+Range K, Cell 6, Number A 7. Something light flaps
+on the floor of the next cell, and the quick, short step
+has passed me by. No mail for me! Another twenty-four
+hours must elapse before I may receive a letter,
+and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause
+at my door.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is
+driving me desperate. I would make use of any means,
+however terrible, to escape from this hell, to regain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span>
+liberty. Liberty! What would it not offer me after this
+experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for
+revolutionary activity. I would choose Russia. The
+Mostianer have forsaken me. I will keep aloof, but they
+shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of accomplishing.
+If there is a spark of manhood in them, they
+will blush for their despicable attitude toward my act,
+their shameful treatment of me. How eager they will
+then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated devotion,
+to salve their guilty conscience! I should not have to
+complain of a lack of financial aid, were I to inform
+our intimate circles of my plans regarding future activity
+in Russia. It would be glorious, glorious! S&mdash;sh&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>It's the Chaplain. Perhaps he has mail for me
+to-day.... May be he is suppressing letters from my
+friends; or probably it is the Warden's fault: the mailbag
+is first examined in his office.&mdash;Now the Chaplain is
+descending to the ground floor. He pauses. It must be
+Cell 2 getting a letter. Now he is coming. The shadow
+is opposite my door,&mdash;gone!</p>
+
+<p>"Chaplain, one moment, please."</p>
+
+<p>"Who's calling?"</p>
+
+<p>"Here, Chaplain. Cell 6 K."</p>
+
+<p>"What is it, my boy?"</p>
+
+<p>"Chaplain, I should like something to read."</p>
+
+<p>"Read? Why, we have a splendid library, m' boy;
+very fine library. I will send you a catalogue, and you
+can draw one book every week."</p>
+
+<p>"I missed library day on this range. I'll have to
+wait another week. But I'd like to have something in
+the meantime, Chaplain."</p>
+
+<p>"You are not working, m' boy?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"You have not refused to work, have you?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, I have not been offered any work yet."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well, you will be assigned soon. Be patient,
+m' boy."</p>
+
+<p>"But can't I have something to read now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Isn't there a Bible in your cell?"</p>
+
+<p>"A Bible? I don't believe in it, Chaplain."</p>
+
+<p>"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may
+do you good. Read it, m' boy."</p>
+
+<p>For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses
+my mind.</p>
+
+<p>"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't
+care for the modern English version. Perhaps you have
+one with Greek or Latin annotations?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or
+Greek?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I have studied the classics."</p>
+
+<p>The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to
+the door, leaning against it in the attitude of a man
+prepared for a long conversation. We talk about the
+classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools,
+social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man,
+this prison Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to
+Russia had impressed him with the great possibilities of
+that country. Finally he motions to a guard:</p>
+
+<p>"Let A 7 come with me."</p>
+
+<p>With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks
+the door. "Shall I come along, Chaplain?" he asks.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy."</p>
+
+<p>Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway
+to the upper rotunda, on the left side of which is the
+Chaplain's office. Excited and alert, I absorb every
+detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear indifferent,
+while furtively following every movement of the
+Chaplain, as he selects the rotunda key from the large
+bunch in his hand, and opens the door. Passionate
+longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan of escape<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span>
+is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the
+keys&mdash;he lives in the Warden's house, connected with
+the prison&mdash;he is so fragile&mdash;I could easily overpower
+him&mdash;there is no one in the rotunda&mdash;I'd stifle his cries&mdash;take
+the keys&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Have a seat, my boy. Sit down. Here are some
+books. Look them over. I have a duplicate of my
+personal Bible, with annotations. It is somewhere here."</p>
+
+<p>With feverish eyes I watch him lay the keys on the
+desk. A quick motion, and they would be mine. That
+large and heavy one, it must belong to the gate. It is
+so big,&mdash;one blow would kill him. Ah, there is a safe!
+The Chaplain is taking some books from it. His back
+is turned to me. A thrust&mdash;and I'd lock him in....
+Stealthily, imperceptibly, I draw nearer to the desk, my
+eyes fastened on the keys. Now I bend over them,
+pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand
+glides forward, slowly, cautiously. Quickly I lean over;
+the open book in my hands entirely hides the keys. My
+hand touches them. Desperately I clutch the large,
+heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"My boy, I cannot find that Bible just now, but I'll
+give you some other book. Sit down, my boy. I am
+so sorry about you. I am an officer of the State, but I
+think you were dealt with unjustly. Your sentence is
+quite excessive. I can well understand the state of
+mind that actuated you, a young enthusiast, in these
+exciting times. It was in connection with Homestead,
+is it not so, m' boy?"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. That
+deep note of sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling
+voice&mdash;no, no, I cannot touch him....</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>At last, mail from New York! Letters from the
+Girl and Fedya. With a feeling of mixed anxiety
+and resentment, I gaze at the familiar handwriting.
+Why didn't they write before? The edge of expectancy
+has been dulled by the long suspense. The Girl and
+the Twin, my closest, most intimate friends of yesterday,&mdash;but
+the yesterday seems so distant in the past, its very
+reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking events.</p>
+
+<p>There is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness,
+in the Girl's letter. The failure of my act will
+lessen the moral effect, and diminish its propagandistic
+value. The situation is aggravated by Most. Owing
+to his disparaging attitude, the Germans remain indifferent.
+To a considerable extent, even the Jewish
+revolutionary element has been influenced by him. The
+Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at the attempted
+completion of my work, planned, yet impossible
+of realization.</p>
+
+<p>I smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed
+even of an attempt. The damningly false viewpoint of
+the Girl exasperates me, and I angrily resent the disapproving
+surprise I sense in both letters at my continued
+existence.</p>
+
+<p>I read the lines repeatedly. Every word drips
+bitterness into my soul. Have I grown morbid, or do
+they actually presume to reproach me with my failure
+to suicide? By what right? Impatiently I smother the
+accusing whisper of my conscience, "By the right of
+revolutionary ethics." The will to live leaps into being
+peremptorily, more compelling and imperative at the
+implied challenge.</p>
+
+<p>No, I will struggle and fight! Friend or enemy,
+they shall learn that I am not so easily done for. I will
+live, to escape, to conquer!</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER III</h2>
+
+<h3>SPECTRAL SILENCE</h3>
+
+
+<p>The silence grows more oppressive, the solitude
+unbearable. My natural buoyancy is weighted down by
+a nameless dread. With dismay I realize the failing
+elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity.
+I feel worn in body and soul.</p>
+
+<p>The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or
+meals, accentuates the enervating routine. It sounds
+ominously amid the stillness, like the portent of some
+calamity, horrible and sudden. Unshaped fears, the
+more terrifying because vague, fill my heart. In vain
+I seek to drown my riotous thoughts by reading and
+exercise. The walls stand, immovable sentinels, hemming
+me in on every side, till movement grows into torture.
+In the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters
+dance before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures,
+now dissolving into corpses and images of death. The
+morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The hissing gas
+jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes
+half shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing
+rays form a kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now
+crystallizing into scenes of my youth, now converging
+upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque
+illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is
+swept by a gust of wind. It darts hither and thither,
+angrily contending with the surrounding darkness. It
+whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who falters, then<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span>
+advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with
+frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look! The
+shadow grows and grows, till it mounts the iron gates
+that fall heavily behind me, as the officers lead me
+through the passage. "You're home now," the guard
+mocks me. I look back. The gray pile looms above me,
+cold and forbidding, and on its crest stands the black
+figure leering at me in triumph. The walls frown upon
+me. They seem human in their cruel immobility.
+Their huge arms tower into the night, as if to crush
+me on the instant. I feel so small, unutterably weak
+and defenceless amid all the loneliness,&mdash;the breath of
+the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds
+me, and shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror
+I pause.... The chain grows taut, the sharp edges
+cut into my wrist. I lurch forward, and wake on the
+floor of the cell.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights.
+I listen eagerly for the tolling of the gong, bidding
+darkness depart. But the breaking day brings neither
+hope nor gladness. Gloomy as yesterday, devoid of
+interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and
+leaden: the rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked
+bread; the tasteless brown liquid; the passing
+lines of striped misery; the coarse commands; the heavy
+tread; and then&mdash;the silence of the tomb.</p>
+
+<p>Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage
+could accrue to the Cause from prolonging this
+agony. All avenues of escape are closed; the institution
+is impregnable. The good people have generously
+fortified this modern bastille; the world at large may
+sleep in peace, undisturbed by the anguish of Calvary.
+No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these walls of
+stone, much less the heart of man. Why, then, prolong<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span>
+the agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps
+my comrades,&mdash;and they are far away and helpless.</p>
+
+<p>Helpless, quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were
+strong, the enemy would not dare commit such outrages,
+knowing that quick and merciless vengeance would
+retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our weakness.
+To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago
+has not yet been avenged. <i>Vae victis!</i> They shall
+forever be the victims. Only might is respected; it alone
+can influence tyrants. Had we strength,&mdash;but if the
+judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more than
+passive indignation, can I expect radical developments
+in consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It
+is unreasonable. Five years, indeed, have passed since
+the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the People have since
+been taught in the bitter school of oppression and defeat.
+Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed,
+if the worker would understand my aims and motives,
+he could be roused to strong protest, perhaps to active
+demand. Ah, yes! But when, when will the dullard
+realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind
+to his own slavery and degradation, can I expect him
+to perceive the wrong suffered by others? And who
+is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as
+deeply and clearly as we Anarchists. Even the Socialists
+dare not advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They
+have clothed the Goddess of Liberty with a fig-leaf;
+religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and injustice,
+has officially been declared <i>Privatsache</i>. Henceforth
+these timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread
+upon the toes of prejudice and superstition. Soon they
+will grow to <i>bourgeois</i> respectability, a party of "practical"
+politics and "sound" morality. What a miserable
+descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed
+defiance of all established institutions, <i>because</i> they were<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span>
+established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single
+institution in our pseudo-civilization that deserves to
+exist. But only the Anarchists dare wage war upon all
+and every form of wrong, and they are few in number,
+lacking in power. The internal divisions, too, aggravate
+our weakness; and now, even Most has turned apostate.
+The Jewish comrades will be influenced by his attitude.
+Only the Girl remains. But she is young in the movement,
+and almost unknown. Undoubtedly she has talent
+as a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor
+health. In all the movement, I know of no one capable
+of propaganda by deed, or of an avenging act, except
+the Twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to
+undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The
+Twin is a true revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and
+irresponsible, perhaps, with slight aristocratic leanings,
+yet quite reliable in matters of revolutionary import.
+But he would not harbor the thought. We held such
+queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform,
+an arrest, suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable
+disappearance, as in Russia. How can I broach
+the subject to the Twin? All mail passes through
+the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially&mdash;a
+long-timer and an Anarchist&mdash;will be minutely
+scrutinized. There seems no possibility. I am buried
+alive in this stone grave. Escape is hopeless. And this
+agony of living death&mdash;I cannot support it....</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2>
+
+<h3>A RAY OF LIGHT</h3>
+
+
+<p>I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight
+of a human form is a relief. Every morning, after
+breakfast, I eagerly listen for the familiar swish-swash
+on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old rangeman<a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>
+"sweeping up." The sensitive mouth puckered up in
+an inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the
+broom with his left, the top of the handle pressed under
+the armpit.</p>
+
+<p>"Hello, Aleck! How're you feeling to-day?"</p>
+
+<p>He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of
+the wall, the broom suspended in mid-stroke. I catch
+an occasional glance of the kind blue eyes, while his
+head is in constant motion, turning to right and left,
+alert for the approach of a guard.</p>
+
+<p>"How're you, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, nothing extra."</p>
+
+<p>"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the
+mill. Keep up your nerve, you'll be all right, old boy.
+You're young yet."</p>
+
+<p>"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly.</p>
+
+<p>"S&mdash;sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got
+long ears."</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p>
+<p>"The screw?"</p>
+
+<p>A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"!
+The puzzling expression in the mysterious note,&mdash;perhaps
+this man wrote it. In anxious expectancy, I watch the
+rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent, he
+hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke
+of the one-armed sweeper. "S&mdash;sh!" he cautions, without
+turning, as he crosses the line of my cell.</p>
+
+<p>I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular
+swish-swash of the broom. But the more practiced ear
+of the old prisoner did not err. A long shadow falls
+across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes
+stands at my door.</p>
+
+<p>"What you pryin' out for?" he demands.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not prying."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you contradict me. Stand back in your hole
+there. Don't you be leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?"</p>
+
+<p>Down the hall the guard shouts: "Hey you, cripple!
+Talkin' there, wasn't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you dare lie to me. You was."</p>
+
+<p>"Swear to God I wasn't."</p>
+
+<p>"W-a-all, if I ever catch you talkin' to that s&mdash;&mdash; of
+a b&mdash;&mdash;, I'll fix you."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The scratching of the broom has ceased. The
+rangeman is dusting the doors. The even strokes of
+the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. Again the man stops
+at my door, his head turning right and left, the while
+he diligently plies the duster.</p>
+
+<p>"Aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw.
+He's a &mdash;&mdash;. See him jump on me?"</p>
+
+<p>"What would he do to you if he saw you talking
+to me?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know.
+I'd lose my job, too."</p>
+
+<p>"Then better don't talk to me."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch <i>me</i>, not
+he. He didn't see me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff
+<i>me</i>, though."</p>
+
+<p>"But be careful."</p>
+
+<p>"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He
+has no biz in the block,<a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time.
+He's jest lookin' for trouble. Mean skunk he is, that
+Cornbread Tom."</p>
+
+<p>"Who?"</p>
+
+<p>"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread
+Tom, b'cause he swipes our corn dodger."</p>
+
+<p>"What's corn dodger?"</p>
+
+<p>"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk
+of cornbread for breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n
+stale punk. Know what punk is? Not long on lingo,
+are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk."</p>
+
+<p>He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful <i>bon mot</i>.
+Suddenly he pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture
+of warning, tiptoes away from the cell. In a few minutes
+he returns, whispering:</p>
+
+<p>"All O. K. Road's clear. Tom's been called to the
+shop. Won't be back till dinner, thank th' Lord. Only
+the Cap is in the block, old man Mitchell, in charge of
+this wing. North Block it's called."</p>
+
+<p>"The women are in the South Block?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nope. Th' girls got a speshal building. South
+Block's th' new cell-house, just finished. Crowded
+already, an' fresh fish comin' every day. Court's busy
+in Pittsburgh all right. Know any one here?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p>
+<p>"Well, get acquainted, Aleck. It'll give you an
+interest. Guess that's what you need. I know how you
+feel, boy. Thought I'd die when I landed here. Awful
+dump. A guy advised me to take an interest an' make
+friends. I thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on
+the level, all right. Get acquainted, Aleck; you'll go
+bugs if you don't. Must vamoose now. See you later.
+My name's Wingie."</p>
+
+<p>"Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier;
+was at Bull Run. Run so damn fast I lost my right
+wing, hah, hah, hah! S'long."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Eagerly I look forward to the stolen talks with
+Wingie. They are the sole break in the monotony of
+my life. But days pass without the exchange of a word.
+Silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently
+oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I
+peer between the bars for a cheering sign of recognition.
+Only the quick wink of his eye reassures me of
+his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard.</p>
+
+<p>By degrees the ingenuity of Wingie affords us more
+frequent snatches of conversation, and I gather valuable
+information about the prison. The inmates sympathize
+with me, Wingie says. They know I'm "on th'
+level." I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful
+of the "stool pigeons," who report everything to the
+officers. Wingie is familiar with the history of every
+keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he assures me.
+Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an'
+an ex-fly."<a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>
+Only three "screws" are on night duty
+in each block, but there are a hundred overseers to
+"run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to
+be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby."</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER V</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SHOP</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom
+of the Deputy's office. Humiliation overcomes
+me as my eye falls, for the first time in the full light
+of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a
+beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is
+painfully vivid: he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow
+the idea is associated in my mind with a wild
+tigress,&mdash;and I, too, must now look like that.</p>
+
+<p>The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the
+tall, lank figure of the Deputy Warden.</p>
+
+<p>"Hands up!"</p>
+
+<p>The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining
+a hand here and there. He separates the men into
+groups; then, pointing to the one in which I am included,
+he says in his feminine accents:</p>
+
+<p>"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to
+Number Seven. Turn them over to Mr. Hoods."</p>
+
+<p>"Fall in! Forward, march!"</p>
+
+<p>My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged
+into eager expectation. At last I am assigned to work!
+I speculate on the character of "Number Seven," and
+on the possibilities of escape from there. Flanked by
+guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The
+sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>
+crooked arm, face the striped line winding snakelike
+through the open space. The yard is spacious and clean,
+the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath of
+fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing
+for liberty. Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity
+to escape. The thought quickens my observation.
+Bounded north, east, and south by the stone wall, the
+two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing
+the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme
+south, the women's quarters.</p>
+
+<p>"Break ranks!"</p>
+
+<p>We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty
+I distinguish the objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room,
+with its small, barred windows. The air is heavy with
+dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An
+atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place.</p>
+
+<p>The officer in charge assigns me to a machine
+occupied by a lanky prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show
+him what to do."</p>
+
+<p>Considerable time passes, without Jim taking the
+least notice of me. Bent low over the machine, he
+seems absorbed in the work, his hands deftly manipulating
+the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he
+whispers, hoarsely:</p>
+
+<p>"Fresh fish?"</p>
+
+<p>"What did you say?"</p>
+
+<p>"You bloke, long here?"</p>
+
+<p>"Two weeks."</p>
+
+<p>"Wotcher doin'?"</p>
+
+<p>"Twenty-one years."</p>
+
+<p>"Quitcher kiddin'."</p>
+
+<p>"It's true."</p>
+
+<p>"Honest? Holy gee!"</p>
+
+<p>The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while,
+then he demands, abruptly:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Wat dey put you here for?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know."</p>
+
+<p>"Been kickin'?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Den you'se bugs."</p>
+
+<p>"Why so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere
+'cept he's bugs, or else dey got it in for you."</p>
+
+<p>"How do <i>you</i> happen to be here?"</p>
+
+<p>"Me? De God damn &mdash;&mdash; got it in for me. See dis?"
+He points to a deep gash over his temple. "Had a scrap
+wid de screws. Almost knocked me glimmer out. It
+was dat big bull<a name="FNanchor_17_17" id="FNanchor_17_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a> dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid
+<i>him</i>, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By
+God, I will. I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.</p>
+
+<p>"It ain't, eh? Wat d'<i>you</i> know 'bout it? I've got the
+con bad, spittin' blood every night. Dis dust's killin'
+me. Kill you, too, damn quick."</p>
+
+<p>As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a
+fit of coughing, prolonged and hollow.</p>
+
+<p>The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled
+in the fringes of the matting. Recovering his breath,
+Jim snatches the knife at his side, and with a few deft
+strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the gleaming
+thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm
+behind wid me work."</p>
+
+<p>Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched
+across the loom, in turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends
+every effort to hasten the completion of the day's task.</p>
+
+<p>The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he
+inquires, indicating me with a nod of the head.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p>
+<p>"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place
+for de kid. He's got a twenty-one spot."<a name="FNanchor_18_18" id="FNanchor_18_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>
+
+<p>"Shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily.
+The consumptive bends over his work, fearfully eyeing
+the keeper's measuring stick.</p>
+
+<p>As the officer turns away, Jim pleads:</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Hoods, I lose time teachin'. Won't you please
+take off a bit? De task is more'n I can do, an' I'm sick."</p>
+
+<p>"Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you,
+Jim. You're just lazy, that's what you are. Don't be
+shamming, now. It don't go with <i>me</i>."</p>
+
+<p>At noon the overseer calls me aside. "You are green
+here," he warns me, "pay no attention to Jim. He
+wanted to be bad, but we showed him different. He's
+all right now. You have a long time; see that you behave
+yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand?"</p>
+
+<p>As I am about to resume my place in the line forming
+to march back to the cells for dinner, he recalls me:</p>
+
+<p>"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow
+Jim. He is a little off, you know."</p>
+
+<p>He points toward my head, with a significant rotary
+motion.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the
+dust has inflamed my throat, and my eyesight is weakening
+in the constant dusk. The officer in charge has
+repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow
+progress in the work. "I'll give you another chance,"
+he cautioned me yesterday, "and if you don't make a
+good mat by next week, down in the hole you go." He
+severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>As the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an
+attack of coughing. The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow,
+but in a moment he seemed to recover, and
+continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the
+frame, a look of terror spread over his face, he began
+panting for breath, and then a stream of dark blood
+gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the floor.</p>
+
+<p>The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner
+at the neighboring machine cast a furtive look at
+the prostrate form, and bent lower over his work. Jim
+lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I
+rushed to the officer.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Hoods, Jim has&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me.
+"How dare you leave it without permission?"</p>
+
+<p>"I just&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy
+stick.</p>
+
+<p>I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips
+parted, his face ashen.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached.</p>
+
+<p>"What's the matter here?"</p>
+
+<p>I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious
+man, then lightly touched the bleeding face with
+his foot.</p>
+
+<p>"Get up, Jim, get up!"</p>
+
+<p>The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg
+of the loom.</p>
+
+<p>"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered.
+Then he shook his finger at me, menacingly: "Don't
+you ever leave your place without orders. Remember,
+you!"</p>
+
+<p>After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had
+been forgotten, the doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin,
+the senior prison physician, a short, stocky man of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span>
+advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his
+eye. He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital.
+"Did any one see the man fall?" he inquired.</p>
+
+<p>"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me.</p>
+
+<p>While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously.
+Presently he asked my name. "Oh, the celebrated case,"
+he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite well. Not such a
+bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr.
+Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know.
+By the way, what is the matter with your eyes? They
+are inflamed. Always that way?"</p>
+
+<p>"Only since I am working in this shop."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, he is all right, Doctor," the officer interposed.
+"He's only been here a week."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard.</p>
+
+<p>"You want him here?"</p>
+
+<p>"Y-e-s: we're short of men."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, <i>I</i> am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning
+to me, he added: "Report in the morning on sick list."</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal
+to the hosiery department. The change has filled me
+with renewed hope. A disciplinary shop, to which are
+generally assigned the "hard cases"&mdash;inmates in the first
+stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly
+prisoners&mdash;the mat shop is the point of special supervision
+and severest discipline. It is the best-guarded
+shop, from which escape is impossible. But in the
+hosiery department, a recent addition to the local industries.
+I may find the right opportunity. It will require
+time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the
+great object. The working conditions, also, are more
+favorable: the room is light and airy, the discipline not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span>
+so stringent. My near-sightedness has secured for me
+immunity from machine work. The Deputy at first
+insisted that my eyes were "good enough" to see the
+numerous needles of the hosiery machine. It is true, I
+could see them; but not with sufficient distinctness to
+insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To
+admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being
+ordered to produce the task; and failure, or faulty work,
+would be severely punished. Necessity drove me to subterfuge:
+I pretended total inability to distinguish the
+needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to
+change my determination, I have been assigned the comparatively
+easy work of "turning" the stockings. The occupation,
+though tedious, is not exacting. It consists in
+gathering the hosiery manufactured by the knitting machines,
+whence the product issues without soles. I carry
+the pile to the table provided with an iron post, about
+eighteen inches high, topped with a small inverted disk.
+On this instrument the stockings are turned "inside out"
+by slipping the article over the post, then quickly "undressing"
+it. The hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to
+the looping machines, by which the product is finished
+and sent back to me, once more to be "turned," preparatory
+to sorting and shipment.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice
+lends me great dexterity in the work, but the hours
+of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I seek to hasten
+time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I
+count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each
+operation, and the amount accomplished within a given
+time. But in spite of these efforts, my mind persistently
+reverts to unprofitable subjects: my friends and the
+propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive sentence;
+suicide and escape.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless
+weight, or tormented by dread, I awake with a start,
+breathless and affrighted, to experience the momentary
+relief of danger past. But the next instant I am overwhelmed
+by the consciousness of my surroundings, and
+plunged into rage and despair, powerless, hopeless.</p>
+
+<p>Thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in
+the ceaseless struggle of hope and discouragement, of
+life and death, amid the externally placid tenor of my
+Pennsylvania nightmare.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2>
+
+<h3>MY FIRST LETTER</h3>
+
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+Direct to Box A 7, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Allegheny City, Pa., &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+October 19th, 1892.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>Dear Sister:<a name="FNanchor_19_19" id="FNanchor_19_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p>
+
+<p>It is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here.
+I keep wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be
+compressed into one short month?... How I have longed for
+this opportunity! You will understand: a month's stay is required
+before we are permitted to write. But many, many long
+letters I have written to you&mdash;in my mind, dear Sonya. Where
+shall I begin now? My space is very limited, and I have so
+much to say to you and to the Twin.&mdash;I received your letters.
+You need not wait till you hear from me: keep on writing. I
+am allowed to receive all mail sent, "of moral contents," in the
+phraseology of the rules. And I shall write whenever I may.</p>
+
+<p>Dear Sonya, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your
+letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and
+Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere
+accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me
+beyond words. Not because you should write thus; but that
+you, even you, should <i>think</i> thus. Need I enlarge? True
+morality deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe
+that we differ on this point.</p>
+
+<p>I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of
+Wurst<a name="FNanchor_20_20" id="FNanchor_20_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a>
+must have been to you. But however it may minimize
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span>
+the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its character.
+This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of Wurst, a great
+deal could have been accomplished. I don't know whether it
+has been done: your letter is very meagre on this point. Yet
+it is of supreme interest to me. But I know, Sonya,&mdash;of this
+one thing, at least, I am sure&mdash;you will do all that is in your
+power. Perhaps it is not much&mdash;but the Twin and part of
+Orchard Street<a name="FNanchor_21_21" id="FNanchor_21_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> will be with you.</p>
+
+<p>Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment,
+as to Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?<a name="FNanchor_22_22" id="FNanchor_22_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a>
+You must consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies
+of scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to
+such presumption.</p>
+
+<p>I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who
+knows?... Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself
+and friends. It will help to keep me in touch with the
+outside world, which daily seems to recede further. I clutch
+desperately at the thread that still binds me to the living&mdash;it
+seems to unravel in my hands, the thin skeins are breaking,
+one by one. My hold is slackening. But the Sonya thread, I
+know, will remain taut and strong. I have always called you
+the Immutable.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Alex.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;">
+<a name="Facsimile" id="Facsimile"></a>
+<span class="caption">FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD</span>
+<img src="images/letter.jpg" width="401" height="640" alt="FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER" title="FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER" />
+</div>
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when
+the line formed for work this morning. But the moment
+the missive left my hands, I was seized with a great
+longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me
+into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that
+green box&mdash;with bated breath I'd flatten myself in the
+darkest recess, and wait for the Chaplain to collect the
+mail....</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p>
+<p>My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters
+in my brain. I am oblivious of the forming lines, the
+sharp commands, the heavy tread. Automatically I turn
+the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three, four, two
+pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the
+man&mdash;there is something familiar about him. He bends
+over the looping machines and gathers the stockings.
+Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three, four, two
+pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And
+the men all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer,
+also. I just heard him say, "Aleck, work a little faster,
+can't you? See the piles there, you're falling behind."
+He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution! And all
+the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green
+box, peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for
+the postman. S-sh! I hear a footstep. Perhaps it is
+the Chaplain: he will open the box with his quick,
+nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them
+into the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are
+so many letters here&mdash;I'll slip among them into the large
+pocket&mdash;the Chaplain will not notice me. He'll think it's
+just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize every word, for it's
+the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But I am
+safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will
+take that man there for me. He is counting nineteen,
+twenty, ten pair; twenty-one, twenty-two.... What
+was that? Twenty-two&mdash;oh, yes, twenty-two, that's my
+sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to serve
+it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary,
+thank goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going
+out in my letter. But what has become of the Chaplain?
+If he'd only come&mdash;why is he so long? They might miss
+me in the shop. No, no! that man is there&mdash;he is turning
+the stockings&mdash;they don't know I am here in the box.
+The Chaplain won't know it, either: I am invisible; he'll
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span>
+think it's a letter when he puts me in his pocket, and then
+he'll seal me in an envelope and address&mdash;I must flatten
+myself so his hand shouldn't feel&mdash;and he'll address me to
+Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her&mdash;he
+doesn't know who she is, either&mdash;the <i>Deckadresse</i> is
+splendid&mdash;we must keep it up. Keep it up? Why? It
+will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to
+write any more&mdash;it is well, too&mdash;I have so much to tell
+Sonya&mdash;and it wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all
+right now&mdash;they'll throw the letters into the mail-carrier's
+bag&mdash;there'll be many of them&mdash;this is general letter day.
+I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through the post-office,
+on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have
+been away so long. Only a month? Well, I must be
+patient&mdash;and not breathe so loud. When I get to New
+York, I shall not go at once into the house&mdash;Sonya might
+get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window&mdash;I
+wonder what she'll be doing&mdash;and who will be at home?
+Yes, Fedya will be there, and perhaps Claus and Sep.
+How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will embrace me&mdash;she'll
+throw her arms around my neck&mdash;they'll feel so
+soft and warm&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!"</p>
+
+<p>Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard
+before me. The striped men pass me, enveloped in a
+mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron feels cold. Chills
+shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from
+my hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Fall in line, I tell you!"</p>
+
+<p>"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin'
+after whistle. 'Fraid you won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two
+spot, eh? You sucker, you!"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2>
+
+<h3>WINGIE</h3>
+
+
+<p>The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness
+of my environment. The hosiery department is
+past the stage of experiment; the introduction of additional
+knitting machines has enlarged my task, necessitating
+increased effort and more sedulous application.</p>
+
+<p>The shop routine now demands all my attention. It
+leaves little time for thinking or brooding. My physical
+condition alarms me: the morning hours completely
+exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the
+line returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A
+feeling of lassitude possesses me, my feet drag heavily,
+and I experience great difficulty in mastering my
+sleepiness.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of
+food nauseates me. I am nervous and morbid: the sight
+of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the proximity of a
+guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly
+warned me against my disrespectful and surly manner.
+But I am indifferent to consequences: what matter what
+happens? My waning strength is a source of satisfaction:
+perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought
+pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be
+no more suffering, no anguish. The world at large is
+non-existent; it is centered in Me; and yet I myself stand
+aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and quiet, into
+extinction.</p>
+
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the
+evening meal of bread and coffee untouched. My candle
+remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the gathering dusk, conscious
+only of the longing to hear the gong's deep
+bass,&mdash;the three bells tolling the order to retire. I
+welcome the blessed permission to fall into bed. The
+coarse straw mattress beckons invitingly; I yearn for
+sleep, for oblivion.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my
+apathy. But the awakening is brief: the tone of the letter
+is guarded, their contents too general in character,
+the matters that might kindle my interest are missing.
+The world and its problems are drifting from my horizon.
+I am cast into the darkness. No ray of sunshine holds
+out the promise of spring.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon
+me with the violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in
+despair, now threatening to break down the barriers of
+sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction in the wild
+play of fancy.... Existence grows more and more
+unbearable with the contrast of dream and reality.
+Weary of the day's routine, I welcome the solitude of the
+cell, impatient even of the greeting of the passing convict.
+I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men,
+the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the
+image of the tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning.
+They are not of <i>my</i> world. I would aid them, as in
+duty bound to the victims of social injustice. But I
+cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the
+People, to whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates,
+indeed; yet parasites upon the producers, less
+in degree, but no less in kind than the rich exploiters. By
+virtue of my principles, rather than their deserts, I must
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span>
+give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord
+in my heart.</p>
+
+<p>Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note
+about his manner that breathes cheer and encouragement.
+Often I long for his presence, yet he seldom finds opportunity
+to talk with me, save Sundays during church
+service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see
+him to-day. He must be careful of the Block Captain,
+on his rounds of the galleries, counting the church delinquents.<a name="FNanchor_23_23" id="FNanchor_23_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a>
+The Captain is passing on the range now. I
+recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the
+sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell.
+He pencils in his note-book the number on the wooden
+block over the door, A 7.</p>
+
+<p>"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up,
+he frowns on me.</p>
+
+<p>"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay
+in for?"</p>
+
+<p>"I am an atheist."</p>
+
+<p>"A what?"</p>
+
+<p>"An atheist, a non-believer."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore
+'nough."</p>
+
+<p>The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight.
+He has turned the corner. Wingie will take advantage
+now. I hope he will come soon. Perhaps somebody is
+watching&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"</p>
+
+<p>"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do
+you get such luxuries?"</p>
+
+<p>"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span>
+dinner-basket, you know. The cheap guy saved it after
+breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what
+he is. It's <i>our</i> pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery.
+That's why our punk is stale, see; they steals the east<a name="FNanchor_24_24" id="FNanchor_24_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> to
+make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How d' you
+like the grub, anyhow?"</p>
+
+<p>"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee
+tastes like tepid water."</p>
+
+<p>"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no
+damn coffee; 'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg,
+Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's made?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect
+all the old punk that the cons dump out with their dinner
+pans. Only the crust's used, see. Like as not some syph
+coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't, you know.
+Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an'
+burn 'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling
+water over it an' dump it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you
+know, an' throw a little dirty chic'ry in&mdash;there's your
+<i>coffee</i>. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It rooins your
+stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink
+th' swill."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't care if it kills me."</p>
+
+<p>"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a
+tough bit, I know, but don' take it so hard. Don' think
+of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you can; you jest
+take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who
+you wan' to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's
+what you wan' to do, Aleck. It'll keep you hustlin'. Best
+thing for the blues, kiddie."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p>
+<p>For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The
+soft eyes are full of sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly.
+He leans the broom against the door, glances
+quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly slips
+a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my
+cheek a tender pat.</p>
+
+<p>Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike
+of a man's caress. Yet I would not offend my kind
+friend. But Wingie must have noticed my annoyance:
+he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently picking up
+the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence:</p>
+
+<p>"You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest
+wanted t' try you, see?"</p>
+
+<p>"How 'try me,' Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see&mdash;" he hesitates,
+a faint flush stealing over his prison pallor, "you see,
+Aleck, it's&mdash;oh, wait till I pipe th' screw."</p>
+
+<p>Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his
+embarrassment. I can distinctly follow the step of the
+Block Captain on the upper galleries. He is the sole
+officer in the cell-house during church service. The unlocking
+of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance
+of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my
+cell.</p>
+
+<p>I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie
+leave me? His flushed face, the halting speech of the
+usually loquacious rangeman, the subterfuge employed to
+"sneak off,"&mdash;as he himself would characterize his hasty
+departure,&mdash;all seem very peculiar. What could he have
+meant by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve
+a satisfactory explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back.</p>
+
+<p>"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the
+chapel for a good while yet."</p>
+
+<p>"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span>
+are a good boy, all right. You don't belong here, that's
+what <i>I</i> say."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I <i>am</i> here; and the chances are I'll die here."</p>
+
+<p>"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked
+down at the mouth. Now, don't you fill your head with
+such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here, hell! You ain't
+goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin',
+now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin',
+see? You're so young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one,
+ain't you? An' talkin' about dyin'! Shame on
+you, shame!"</p>
+
+<p>His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends
+a ray of warmth to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand
+between the bars. His firm clasp assures me of returned
+appreciation.</p>
+
+<p>"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers.
+You'd think they'd be black as night. Nit, my boy, the
+jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old Henry? No?
+Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in
+fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild,
+but he's happy as th' day's long. An' you got plenty
+friends; true blue, too. I know you have."</p>
+
+<p>"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?"</p>
+
+<p>"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You
+got rich friends, I know. You was mixed up with Frick.
+Well, your friends are all right, ain't they?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see?
+You must make a good record here."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I don't care for a pardon."</p>
+
+<p>"Wha-a-t? You're kiddin'."</p>
+
+<p>"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on
+principle."</p>
+
+<p>"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle
+fiddlesticks. Want to get out o' here?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Of course I do."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's
+principle got t' do with 't? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin'
+out?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, but against being pardoned."</p>
+
+<p>"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me."</p>
+
+<p>"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for
+a pardon, because it would be asking favors from the
+government, and I am against it, you understand? It
+would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie."</p>
+
+<p>"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you
+won't ask, Aleck. That's what you mean?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist?
+Hot stuff, by gosh! Can't make you out, though.
+Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I was you, I'd take
+anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell. That's
+what <i>I</i> would do, my boy."</p>
+
+<p>He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint
+echo of the Captain's step reaches us from a gallery on
+the opposite side. With a quick glance to right and left,
+Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between
+the bars, he whispers very low:</p>
+
+<p>"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of
+liberty, my revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence,
+all flame into being, rousing a wild, tumultuous
+beating of my heart, pervading my whole being with hope,
+intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to
+trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if
+reading my thoughts. "I'm your friend."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not
+opposed to an escape. I have been thinking about it, but
+so far&mdash;"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."</p>
+
+<p>"Any chance here, Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's
+many a star in heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky
+one. Hasn't been a get-a-way here since Paddy McGraw
+sneaked over th' roof, that's&mdash;lemme see, six, seven years
+ago, 'bout."</p>
+
+<p>"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.</p>
+
+<p>"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block,
+you know. Paddy was helpin' lay th' roof. When he got
+good an' ready, he jest goes to work and slides down th'
+roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a rope together,
+see. They never got 'im, either."</p>
+
+<p>"Was he in stripes, Wingie?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure he was. Only been in a few months."</p>
+
+<p>"How did he manage to get away in stripes?
+Wouldn't he be recognized as an escaped prisoner?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>That</i> bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get
+planted till dark, then hold up th' first bloke you see an'
+take 'is duds. Or you push in th' back door of a rag
+joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny."</p>
+
+<p>"Is there any chance now through the roof?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' <i>there</i>. But a feller's
+got to be alive. Many ways to kill a cat, you know.
+Remember the stiff<a name="FNanchor_25_25" id="FNanchor_25_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> you got in them things, tow'l an'
+soap?"</p>
+
+<p>"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.</p>
+
+<p>"Do I? He, he, you little&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears.</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+
+<h3>TO THE GIRL</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+Direct to Box A 7, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Allegheny City, Pa., &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+November 18, 1892.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>My dear Sonya:</p>
+
+<p>It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month.
+But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,&mdash;the
+only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your
+dear, affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return
+to the cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager
+expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the
+morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand
+shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the
+little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will
+flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the
+little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is
+long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the
+warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching
+softly to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm
+into your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the
+air grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,&mdash;I am
+again with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The
+touch of the <i>velikorussian</i> in your eyes and hair conjures up
+the Volga, our beautiful <i>bogatir</i>,<a name="FNanchor_26_26" id="FNanchor_26_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a> and the strains of the
+<i>dubinushka</i>,<a name="FNanchor_27_27" id="FNanchor_27_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a> trembling with suffering and yearning, float
+about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream
+over your letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I
+reach the end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed
+by your touch and your presence, and I am conscious only of
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span>
+the longing for my cell,&mdash;in the quiet of the evening, freed from
+the nightmare of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our
+dreams.</p>
+
+<p>And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass
+in anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own,
+my real world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of
+emotion I think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment
+your letter is in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should
+strange eyes ... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet.
+Now he is passing along the galleries, distributing the mail. The
+bundle grows meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor.
+Oh! if he does not come to my cell quickly, he may have no
+letters left. But the next moment I smile at the childish thought,&mdash;if
+there is a letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet
+some error might happen.... No, it is impossible&mdash;my name
+and prison number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain
+across the envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in
+delivery. Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten
+to the cell. There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the
+bed, on the table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment.
+Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that
+dark corner. No, none there,&mdash;but it can't be that there is no
+mail for me to-day! I must look again&mdash;it may have dropped
+among the blankets.... No, there is no letter!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever
+with you and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall
+never get used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality
+of the moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I
+hardly care. We are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices
+the Cause demands, though the individual perish, humanity will
+profit in the end. In that consciousness we must find our
+solace.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Alex.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+<i>Sub rosa</i>, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Last Day of November, 1892.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>Beloved Girl:</p>
+
+<p>I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting,
+but human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my
+thoughts, all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to
+see you, to look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful
+promise that has filled my days with strength and hope....
+An embrace, a lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg<a name="FNanchor_28_28" id="FNanchor_28_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> would
+have been mine. To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute,
+immortal instant into your soul, and then die at your hands,
+Beloved, with the warm breath of your caress wafting me into
+peaceful eternity&mdash;oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of
+our day dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the
+image of the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious
+face, so strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston
+Street hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired
+moments! But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts,
+with exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at
+your face, and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in
+the evil look of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps
+you had been searched! He followed our every moment, like
+a famished cat that feigns indifference, yet is alert with every
+nerve to spring upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated
+viciousness beneath that meek exterior. The accelerated movement
+of his drumming fingers, as he deliberately seated himself
+between us, warned me of the beast, hungry for prey.... The
+halo was dissipated. The words froze within me, and I could
+meet you only with a vapid smile, and on the instant it was
+mirrored in my soul as a leer, and I was filled with anger and
+resentment at everything about us&mdash;myself, the Deputy (I
+could have throttled him to death), and&mdash;at you, dear. Yes,
+Sonya, even at you: the quick come to bury the dead.... But
+the next moment, the unworthy throb of my agonized soul was
+stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips upon your hand.
+How it trembled! I held it between my own, and then, as I
+lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld seemed to
+bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span>
+drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of
+torture&mdash;were <i>you</i> not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned
+suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all misunderstanding,
+all resentment, and lifting us above time and
+place in the afflatus of martyrdom?</p>
+
+<p>Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words.
+Only the prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred
+moment. Then we spoke&mdash;mechanically, trivialities.... What
+though the cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the
+seconds, and forbade the sound of our dear Russian,&mdash;nor
+heaven nor earth could violate the sacrament sealed with our
+pain.</p>
+
+<p>The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the
+rotunda on my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No
+whir of loom reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day:
+all activities were suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But
+when the door was locked, and I found myself alone, all
+alone within the walls of the tomb, the full significance of your
+departure suddenly dawned on me. The quick had left the dead....
+Terror of the reality seized me and I was swept by a
+paroxysm of anguish&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter
+mailed <i>sub rosa</i> is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who
+has befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token
+of which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually mentioning
+the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.
+Remember to sign "Sister."</p>
+
+<p class="regards">With a passionate embrace,</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Your Sasha.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2>
+
+<h3>PERSECUTION</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers.
+In the three months of penitentiary life I have learned
+many things. I doubt whether the vague terrors pictured
+by my inexperience were more dreadful than the
+actuality of prison existence.</p>
+
+<p>In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of
+bitterness and constant irritation. Notwithstanding all
+its terrors, perhaps because of them, I had always
+thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, nature
+comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial
+barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's
+thoughts and emotions; one could be his real self, shedding
+all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. But
+how different is this life! It is full of deceit, sham, and
+pharisaism&mdash;an aggravated counterpart of the outside
+world. The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,&mdash;these find
+here a rich soil. The ill-will of a guard portends disaster,
+to be averted only by truckling and flattery, and
+servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The
+dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into
+the pleased ears of the Christian ladies, taking care he
+be not surprised without tract or Bible,&mdash;and presently
+simulated piety secures a pardon, for the angels rejoice
+at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to witness
+these scenes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to
+the new inmate: to protest against injustice is unavailing
+and dangerous. Yesterday I witnessed in the shop a
+characteristic incident&mdash;a fight between Johnny Davis
+and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys.
+Johnny, a manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting
+machine, a few feet from my table. Opposite him is
+Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory has
+"put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months'
+stay has taught me the art of conversing by an almost
+imperceptible motion of the lips. In this manner I
+learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his
+product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage
+in the task. Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny
+complained to the overseer, though without accusing
+Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and continued
+to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent
+to the dungeon. Yesterday morning he returned to
+work. The change in the rosy-cheeked boy was startling:
+pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting
+step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him
+say to the officer:</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."</p>
+
+<p>"Why so?" the guard asked.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another
+machine, please, Mr. Cosson."</p>
+
+<p>"Why can't you make it here?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm missing socks."</p>
+
+<p>"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to
+go to th' hole again, eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear
+to God, I couldn't. But my socks's missing here."</p>
+
+<p>"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't
+come with no such bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span>
+while I'm around. You go to work now, and you'd
+better make the task, understand?"</p>
+
+<p>Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken,
+Johnny proved eighteen pairs short. Bradford was
+"over."</p>
+
+<p>I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.</p>
+
+<p>"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You
+won't make the task, eh? Put your coat and cap on."</p>
+
+<p>Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the
+Deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my
+fault, so help me God, it isn't."</p>
+
+<p>"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"</p>
+
+<p>Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then
+wandered toward Bradford, who studiously avoided
+the look.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get
+your coat and cap."</p>
+
+<p>Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning
+he came up, his cheeks more sunken, his eyes more
+hollow. With desperate energy he worked. He toiled
+steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the growing
+pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford,
+who, confident of the officer's favor, met the look
+of hatred with a sly winking of the left eye.</p>
+
+<p>Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly
+turned his head in my direction. I smiled encouragingly,
+and at that same instant I saw Jack's hand slip across the
+table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's stockings.
+The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into
+commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated
+boy from the prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were
+taken to the Deputy for trial, with Senior Officer Cosson
+as the sole witness.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open
+window I saw the overseer return. He entered the shop,
+a smile about the corners of his mouth. I resolved to
+speak to him when he passed by.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness,
+"may I ask you a question?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!"</p>
+
+<p>"What have they done with the boys?"</p>
+
+<p>"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh?
+You see, he started the fight, so he won't have to make
+the task. Oh, I'm next to <i>him</i> all right. They can't fool
+me so easy, can they, Burk?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see
+how the fight started?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first.
+That's enough, you know. 'Brad' will be back in the
+shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy, see; he's a good
+worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest
+lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to
+lose, is there, Burk?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it
+was all Bradford's fault."</p>
+
+<p>"How so?" the guard demanded.</p>
+
+<p>"He has been stealing Johnny's socks."</p>
+
+<p>"You didn't see him do 't."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no
+good anyway; he's too fresh. You'd better say nothing
+about it, see? My word goes with the Deputy."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor
+Johnny is already the fourth day in the dreaded dungeon.
+His third time, too, and yet absolutely innocent. My
+blood boils at the thought of the damnable treatment
+and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span>
+to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so.
+But how proceed in the matter? Complaint against
+Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood prove futile. And
+the officer, informed of my action, will make life miserable
+for me: his authority in the shop is absolute.</p>
+
+<p>The several plans I revolve in my mind do not
+prove, upon closer examination, feasible. Considerations
+of personal interest struggle against my sense of
+duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his vacant
+machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the
+accusing conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable.
+I determine to speak to the Deputy Warden at the first
+opportunity.</p>
+
+<p>Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts:
+is it advisable to mention the matter to the Deputy?
+It cannot benefit Johnny; it will involve me in trouble.
+But the next moment I feel ashamed of my weakness.
+I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth,
+the celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense
+of my own unworthiness, I review the brave deeds of
+Hippolyte Nikitich. What a man! Single-handed he
+essayed to liberate Chernishevsky from prison. Ah, the
+curse of poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have
+succeeded, and the great inspirer of the youth of Russia
+would have been given back to the world. I dwell
+on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's
+fight with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his
+remarkable speech in court. Sentenced to ten years of
+hard labor in the Siberian mines, he defied the Russian
+tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of Dmokhovsky,
+his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen
+years of <i>k&aacute;torga</i>.<a name="FNanchor_29_29" id="FNanchor_29_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> Minutely I follow his repeated attempts
+to escape, the transfer of the redoubtable prisoner
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span>to the Petropavloskaia fortress, and thence to the terrible
+Schl&uuml;sselburg prison, where Mishkin braved death by
+avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high
+government official. Ah! thus acts the revolutionist;
+and I&mdash;yes, I am decided. No danger shall seal my
+lips against outrage and injustice.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>At last an opportunity is at hand. The Deputy enters
+the shop. Tall and gray, slightly stooping, with head
+carried forward, he resembles a wolf following the
+trail.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. McPane, one moment, please."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently."</p>
+
+<p>"You think, hm, hm. And who is this innocent
+Johnny, hm, Davis?"</p>
+
+<p>His fingers drum impatiently on the table; he
+measures me with mocking, suspicious eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Machine thirty, Deputy."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, Reddy Davis.
+Hm, he had a fight."</p>
+
+<p>"The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr.
+McPane."</p>
+
+<p>"So, so. And why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good
+man? You confess, then, hm, hm, you were not, hm,
+attending to your own work. That is bad, hm, very
+bad. Mr. Cosson!"</p>
+
+<p>The guard hastens to him.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge
+against you. Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hm, what
+is your number?"</p>
+
+<p>"A 7."</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Cosson, A 7 makes a, hm, complaint against
+the officer, hm, in charge of this shop. Please, hm,
+hm, note it down."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span>Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The
+words "kicker," "his kid," reach my ears. The Deputy
+nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened on me
+in hatred.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of
+Wingie's cheerful spirit is missing. My poor friend is
+in trouble. From snatches of conversation in the shop I
+have pieced together the story. "Dutch" Adams, a third-timer
+and the Deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost
+his month's allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet.
+He demanded that Wingie, who was stakeholder, share
+the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal, "Dutch"
+reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected
+search of Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus
+apparently substantiating the charge. Wingie was sent
+to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five days
+my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon
+learned that he had been ordered into solitary confinement
+for refusing to betray the men who had trusted
+him.</p>
+
+<p>The fate of Wingie preys on my mind. My poor
+kind friend is breaking down under the effects of the
+dreadful sentence. This morning, chancing to pass his
+cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting.
+Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently
+I waited for the noon return to the block. "Hello,
+Wingie!" I called. He stood at the door, intently peering
+between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank,
+expressionless eyes. "Who are you?" he whimpered,
+brokenly. Then he began to babble. Suddenly the terrible
+truth dawned on me. My poor, poor friend, the
+first to speak a kind word to me,&mdash;he's gone mad!</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER X</h2>
+
+<h3>THE YEGG</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of
+escape. Every step, every movement, is so closely
+guarded, I seem to be hoping against hope. I am restive
+and nervous, in a constant state of excitement.</p>
+
+<p>Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame
+of mind. The task of the machine men has been
+increased; in consequence, I am falling behind in my
+work. My repeated requests for assistance have been
+ignored by the overseer, who improves every opportunity
+to insult and humiliate me. His feet wide apart,
+arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures
+me with narrow, fat eyes. "Oh, what's the matter with
+you," he drawls, "get a move on, won't you, Burk?"
+Then, changing his tone, he vociferates, "Don't stand
+there like a fool, d'ye hear? Nex' time I report you, to
+th' hole you go. That's <i>me</i> talkin', understand?"</p>
+
+<p>Often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me.
+But for the hope of escape, I should not be able to bear
+this abuse and persecution. As it is, the guard is almost
+overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low
+cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and
+harass me. The ceaseless dropping of the poison is
+making my days in the shop a constant torture. I seek
+relief&mdash;forgetfulness rather&mdash;in absorbing myself in the
+work: I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span>
+previous day; I compete with myself, and find melancholy
+pleasure in establishing and breaking high records for
+"turning." Again, I tax my ingenuity to perfect means
+of communication with Johnny Davis, my young neighbor.
+Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a
+silent conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional
+motion of the lips. To facilitate the latter method, I
+am cultivating the habit of tobacco chewing. The
+practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging
+impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer,
+who introduced himself as "Boston Red." I owe
+this development to the return of the Warden from
+his vacation. Yesterday he visited the shop. A military-looking
+man, with benevolent white beard and stately
+carriage, he approached me, in company with the Superintendent
+of Prison Manufactures.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint
+smile about the rather coarse mouth.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot
+Frick."</p>
+
+<p>"I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in
+the English papers there, Berkman. How is his conduct,
+Superintendent?"</p>
+
+<p>"Good."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, he should have behaved outside."</p>
+
+<p>But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the
+Warden ordered the overseer to give me help, and thus
+"Boston Red" joined me at work the next day.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting
+me in the art of lipless conversation. A large quid of
+tobacco inflating his left cheek, mouth slightly open and
+curved, he delights in recounting "ghost stories," under
+the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me
+into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span>
+of interest and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows.
+An interesting character, indeed, who facetiously pretends
+to "look down upon the world from the sublime
+heights of applied cynicism."</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish
+him. "Why do you use so much slang? It's rather
+difficult for me to follow you."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said
+'teach' you, not 'learn.' That's how they talk in school.
+Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone through college.
+Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies,
+with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the
+large shop with a quick, watchful eye. Head bent over
+the work, he continues in low, guttural tones:</p>
+
+<p>"Don't care for your classic language. I can use
+it all right, all right. But give me the lingo, every
+time. You see, pard, I'm no gun;<a name="FNanchor_30_30" id="FNanchor_30_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> don't need it in
+me biz. I'm a yegg."</p>
+
+<p>"What's a yegg, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to
+my kind the term 'tramp.'"</p>
+
+<p>"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you
+should care for the life of a bum."</p>
+
+<p>A flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant.
+"You are stoopid as the rest of 'em," he retorts, with
+considerable heat, and I notice his lips move as in
+ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained
+composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the
+least, you are not discriminative in your terminology.
+No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee here, pard, you're
+a good boy, but your education has been sadly neglected.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>
+Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive.
+It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may
+say without fear of contradiction, that this insult is
+quite supervacaneous. Yes, sir, that's <i>me</i>. I ain't no
+bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the disgraceful
+epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing
+yours truly. I am a yagg, y&mdash;a&mdash;double g, sir, of
+the honorable clan of yaggmen. Some spell it y&mdash;e&mdash;double
+g, but I insist on the a, sir, as grammatically
+more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic
+consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded
+by vulgar misspelling."</p>
+
+<p>"What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?"</p>
+
+<p>"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down
+city bloke, whose intellectual horizon, sir, revolves
+around the back door, with a skinny hand-out as his
+center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his
+native heath and roam the wide world, a free and
+independent gentleman. That's the yagg, me bye. He
+dares to be and do, all bulls notwithstanding. He lives,
+aye, he lives,&mdash;on the world of suckers, thank you, sir.
+Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall
+increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,'
+or words to that significant effect. A yagg's the salt
+of the earth, pard. A real, true-blood yagg will not
+deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with a city
+bum or gaycat. No, sirree."</p>
+
+<p>I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term,
+when the quick, short coughs of "Red" warn me of
+danger. The guard is approaching with heavy, measured
+tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,&mdash;a
+sure indication of profound self-satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>"How are you, Reddie?" he greets the assistant.</p>
+
+<p>"So, so."</p>
+
+<p>"Ain't been out long, have you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Two an' some."</p>
+
+<p>"That's pretty long for you."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I dunno. I've been out four years oncet."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, you have! Been in Columbus<a name="FNanchor_31_31" id="FNanchor_31_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a> then, I s'pose."</p>
+
+<p>"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It was Sing Sing."</p>
+
+<p>"Ha, ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better
+hustle up, fellers. I'm putting in ten more machines, so
+look lively."</p>
+
+<p>"When's the machines comin', Mr. Cosson?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pretty soon, Red."</p>
+
+<p>The officer passing on, "Red" whispers to me:</p>
+
+<p>"Aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time I'll quit. Damn
+his work and the new machines. I ain't no gaycat to
+work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No, sir, the world
+owes me a living, and I generally manage to get it, you
+bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free
+man; I can live on my wits, see? I don't never work
+outside; damme if I'll work here. I ain't no office-seeker.
+What d' I want to work for, eh? Can you tell
+me <i>that</i>?"</p>
+
+<p>"Are you going to refuse work?"</p>
+
+<p>"Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that.
+No, sir, I never refuse. They'll knock your damn block
+off, if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir, discriminately
+end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, me bye.
+One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion.
+It's a regular pest. <i>You</i> never worked, did you?"</p>
+
+<p>The unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which
+I quickly suppress, however, observing the angry frown
+on "Red's" face.</p>
+
+<p>"You bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll
+pipe you. You'll get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag.
+Whatcher hehawin' about?" he demands, repeating the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span>manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "D'ye mean t'
+tell me you work?"</p>
+
+<p>"I am a printer, a compositor," I inform him.</p>
+
+<p>"Get off! You're an Anarchist. I read the papers,
+sir. You people don't believe in work. You want to
+divvy up. Well, it is all right, I'm with you. Rockefeller
+has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied
+with that, either; he wants a fence around it."</p>
+
+<p>"The Anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' Red. You
+got your misinformation&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, never min', pard. I don' take stock in reforming
+the world. It's good enough for suckers, and as
+Holy Writ says, sir, 'Blessed be they that neither sow
+nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' Them's
+wise words, me bye. Moreover, sir, neither you nor
+me will live to see a change, so why should I worry
+me nut about 't? It takes all my wits to dodge work.
+It's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously
+busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. Why,
+you know, pard, or perhaps you don't, greenie, Columbus
+is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye think I worked
+the four-spot there? Not me; no, sirree!"</p>
+
+<p>"Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not
+in Columbus?"</p>
+
+<p>"'Corse I did. What of it? Think I'd open my
+guts to my Lord Bighead? I've never been within
+thirty miles of the York pen. It was Hail Columbia
+all right, but that's between you an' I, savvy. Don'
+want th' screws to get next."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Red, how did you manage to keep away from
+work in Columbus?"</p>
+
+<p>"Manage? That's right, sir. 'Tis a word of profound
+significance, quite adequately descriptive of my
+humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I managed,
+with a capital M. To good purpose, too, me bye. Not
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span>
+a stroke of work in a four-spot. How? I had Billie
+with me, that's me kid, you know, an' a fine boy he
+was, too. I had him put a jigger on me; kept it up
+for four years. There's perseverance and industry for
+you, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"What's 'putting a jigger on'?"</p>
+
+<p>"A jigger? Well, a jigger is&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The noon whistle interrupts the explanation. With
+a friendly wink in my direction, the assistant takes
+his place in the line. In silence we march to the cell-house,
+the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat
+in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Conversation with "Boston Red," Young Davis, and
+occasional other prisoners helps to while away the
+tedious hours at work. But in the solitude of the cell,
+through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells in
+the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing
+antagonisms, the bitter controversies between the
+<i>Mostianer</i> and the defenders of my act, fill my thoughts
+and dreams.  By means of fictitious, but significant,
+names, Russian and German words written backward,
+and similar devices, the Girl keeps me informed of the
+activities in our circles. I think admiringly, yet quite
+impersonally, of her strenuous militancy in championing
+my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak on my
+part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider
+her devotion deserving of particular commendation.
+She is a revolutionist; it is her duty to our common
+Cause. Courage, whole-souled zeal, is very rare, it is
+true. The Girl. Fedya, and a few others,&mdash;hence the
+sad lack of general opposition in the movement to
+Most's attitude.... But communications from comrades<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>
+and unknown sympathizers germinate the hope of an
+approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation.
+With great joy I trace the ascending revolutionary
+tendency in <i>Der Arme Teufel</i>. I have persuaded the
+Chaplain to procure the admission of the ingenious Robert
+Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals addressed
+to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket,
+by orders of the Deputy. The latter refused to make an
+exception even in regard to the <i>Knights of Labor Journal</i>.
+"It is an incendiary Anarchist sheet," he persisted.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The arrival of the <i>Teufel</i> is a great event. What
+joy to catch sight of the paper snugly reposing between
+the legs of the cell table! Tenderly I pick it up, fondling
+the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an animate,
+living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings.
+What cheering message does Reitzel bring me now?
+What beauties of his rich mind are hidden to-day in the
+quaint German type? Reverently I unfold the roll. The
+uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring
+paean of Hope's prophecy greets my eye,&mdash;</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+Gruss an Alexander Berkman!<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears.
+Again and again recurs the refrain of faith and proud
+courage,</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+Schon r&uuml;stet sich der freiheit Schaar<br />
+Zur heiligen Entscheidungschlacht;<br />
+Es enden "zweiundzwanzig" Jahr'<br />
+Vielleicht in e i n e r Sturmesnacht!<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality
+lays its heavy hand upon my heart. The flickering of
+the candle accentuates the gloom, and I sit brooding
+over the interminable succession of miserable days and
+evenings and nights.... The darkness gathers around
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span>
+the candle, as I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle
+to be. Its dying agony, ineffectual and vain, presages
+my own doom, approaching, inevitable.  Weaker and
+fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler&mdash;a last spasm,
+and all is utter blackness.</p>
+
+<p>Three bells. "Lights out!"</p>
+
+<p>Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The sun streaming into the many-windowed shop
+routs the night, and dispels the haze of the fire-spitting
+city. Perhaps my little candle with its bold defiance has
+shortened the reign of darkness,&mdash;who knows? Perhaps
+the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his
+slumbers, and hastened the coming of Day. The fancy
+lures me with its warming embrace, when suddenly the
+assistant startles me:</p>
+
+<p>"Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy,
+me lad."</p>
+
+<p>Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me:</p>
+
+<p>"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at
+me! Permit me to introduce to you, sir, a gentleman
+who has sounded the sharps and flats of life, and faced
+the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between
+York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying
+colors, sir, merely by being wise and preserving a stiff
+upper lip; see th' point?"</p>
+
+<p>"What are you driving at, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"They'se goin' to move me down on your row,<a name="FNanchor_32_32" id="FNanchor_32_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a> now
+that I'm in this 'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall
+choose to remain, sir, in this magnificent hosiery establishment,
+but I see there's a vacant cell next yours, an'
+I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye?
+I'm goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span>speak, assume benevolent guardianship over you; over
+you and your morals, yes, sir, for you're my kid now,
+see?"</p>
+
+<p>"How, your kid?"</p>
+
+<p>"How? My kid, of course. That's just what I
+mean. Any objections, sir, as the learned gentlemen
+of the law say in the honorable courts of the blind
+goddess. You betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl
+on a sunny midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky
+city, though; sun's ashamed here. But 'way down in
+my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River,
+Sua-a-nee-ee Riv&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started
+to tell me about being your 'kid'. Now explain, what
+do you mean by it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Really, you&mdash;" He holds the unturned stocking
+suspended over the post, gazing at me with half-closed,
+cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles with wonder.
+In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution,
+and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye.</p>
+
+<p>"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something
+of this 'ere round globe, some mighty strange
+sights, too, and there ain't many things to surprise me,
+lemme tell you. But <i>you</i> do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do.
+Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met
+Cigarette Jimmie in Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should
+snicker. He was, for sure. Never heard a ghost story;
+was fourteen, too. Well, I got 'im all right, ah right.
+Now he's doin' a five-bit down in Kansas, poor kiddie.
+Well, he certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous
+billows of life, sir, have since flown into the shoreless
+ocean of time, yes, sir, they have, but I never got such
+a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a body-blow,
+a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world,
+sir, to my settled estimate of the world's supercilious<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>
+righteousness. Well, damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say,
+how old are you, Alex?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this
+to do with the question I asked you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Everythin', me bye, everythin'. You're twenty-two
+and don't know what a kid is! Well, if it don't beat
+raw eggs, I don't know what does. Green? Well, sir,
+it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your
+inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, I may well
+say, of soul, except to compare it with the virtuous
+condition of green corn in the early summer moon. You
+know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks, abruptly,
+with an evident effort to suppress a smile.</p>
+
+<p>I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance
+of a direct answer. Yet I cannot find it in my heart
+to be angry with him; the face expressive of a deep-felt
+conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of humorous
+cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp
+slang with "classic" English, all disarm my irritation.
+Besides, his droll chatter helps to while away the tedious
+hours at work; perhaps I may also glean from this
+experienced old-timer some useful information regarding
+my plans of escape.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "Red"
+inquires, chaffingly.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose I do."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can
+see by the tip of your olfactory organ that you are
+steeped in the slough of densest ignorance concerning
+the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not
+contradict me. I brook no sceptical attitude regarding
+my undoubted and proven perspicacity of human nature.
+How's that for classic style, eh? That'll hold you down
+a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you interrupted&mdash;eh,
+what? You didn't? Oh, what's the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span>
+matter with you? Don't yer go now an' rooin the
+elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus with an insignificant
+interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now,
+boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology
+before your wondering gaze. To begin with, sir,
+moonology is an exclusively aristocratic science. Not
+for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth Avenue.
+Nixie. But for the only genuine aristocracy of de road,
+sir, for the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad,
+for yours truly and his clan. Yes, sirree!"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know what you are talking about."</p>
+
+<p>"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon
+you, kid. In plain English, sir, I shall endeavor
+to generate within your postliminious comprehension a
+discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by
+divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity
+or ambiguity. Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent,
+is the truly Christian science of loving your neighbor,
+provided he be a nice little boy. Understand now?"</p>
+
+<p>"How can you love a boy?"</p>
+
+<p>"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref boy,
+I can see that."</p>
+
+<p>"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk
+plainly, I'd understand better."</p>
+
+<p>"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't long
+on lingo neither. How can a self-respecting gentleman
+explain himself to you? But I'll try. You love a boy
+as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy
+Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor
+woman; he's punk.' Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy
+that'll...."</p>
+
+<p>"What!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se
+talkin' plain. Savvy now, Innocent Abroad?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil&mdash;damn me
+soul t' hell, what d' you mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee,
+look out!"</p>
+
+<p>The look of bewilderment on his face startles me.
+In his excitement, he had raised his voice almost to a
+shout, attracting the attention of the guard, who is now
+hastening toward us.</p>
+
+<p>"Who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously
+eyeing the knitters. "You, Davis?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Who was, then?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance
+at me. "I hit my elbow against the machine."</p>
+
+<p>"Let me see 't."</p>
+
+<p>The guard scrutinizes the bared arm.</p>
+
+<p>"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore."</p>
+
+<p>"It hurt, and I hollered."</p>
+
+<p>The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been
+talkin', Reddie?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't think he was, Cap'n."</p>
+
+<p>Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at "Red," and
+passes on, with a final warning to the boy: "Don't you
+let me catch you at it again, you hear!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>During the rest of the day the overseers exercise
+particular vigilance over our end of the shop. But
+emboldened by the increased din of the new knitting
+machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again.</p>
+
+<p>"Screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept
+they's close to us. But watch your lips, boy; the damn
+bulls got sharp lamps. An' don' scare me again like
+that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb
+forget myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span>
+he? What's his name, Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid
+all right. Just like me own Billie I tole you 'bout.
+He was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. True
+as steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot
+like th' bark to a tree. Say, what's that you said, you
+don't believe what I endeavored so conscientiously, sir,
+to drive into your noodle? You was only kiddin' me,
+wasn't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning
+ghost stories, or whatever you call it. I don't believe
+in this kid love."</p>
+
+<p>"An' why don't you believe it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why&mdash;er&mdash;well, I don't think it possible."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>What</i> isn't possible?"</p>
+
+<p>"You know what I mean. I don't think there can
+be such intimacy between those of the same sex."</p>
+
+<p>"Ho, ho! <i>That's</i> your point? Why, Alex, you're
+more of a damfool than the casual observer, sir, would
+be apt to postulate. You don't believe it possible, you
+don't, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, an I'll
+show you."</p>
+
+<p>"Red, don't you talk to me like that," I burst out,
+angrily. "If you&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly.
+"Don't get on your high horse. No harm meant, Alex.
+You're a good boy, but you jest rattle me with your
+crazy talk. Why, you're bugs to say it's impossible.
+Man alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. It's done in
+every prison, an' on th' road, everywhere. Lord, if
+I had a plunk for every time I got th' best of a kid,
+I'd rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me bye."</p>
+
+<p>"You actually confess to such terrible practices?
+You're disgusting. But I don't really believe it, Red."</p>
+
+<p>"Confess hell! I confess nothin'. Terrible, disgusting!
+You talk like a man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Are there no women on the road?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a
+kid? Women are no good. I wouldn't look at 'em when
+I can have my prushun.<a name="FNanchor_33_33" id="FNanchor_33_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a> Oh, it is quite evident, sir,
+you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of
+moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden
+tree of&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, quit!"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you'll know better before <i>your</i> time's up, me
+virtuous sonny."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>For several days my assistant fails to appear in the
+shop on account of illness. He has been "excused" by
+the doctor, the guard informs me. I miss his help at
+work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "Red's"
+companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His
+cynical attitude toward woman and sex morality has
+roused in me a spirit of antagonism. The panegyrics
+of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The
+very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and
+disgusts me. But I find solace in the reflection that
+"Red's" insinuations are pure fabrication; no credence
+is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being, could
+not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such
+unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast
+must not be credited with such perversion, such
+depravity. I should really take the matter more calmly.
+The assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely teasing
+me. These things are not credible; indeed, I don't
+believe they are possible. And even if they were, no
+human being would be capable of such iniquity. I must
+not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me.</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE ROUTE SUB ROSA</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p class="author">March 4, 1893.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Girl and Twin</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I am writing with despair in my heart. I was taken to
+Pittsburgh as a witness in the trial of Nold and Bauer. I had
+hoped for an opportunity&mdash;you understand, friends. It was a
+slender thread, but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake
+everything on it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back,
+and I may never leave this place alive.</p>
+
+<p>I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom.
+I yearned for the sight of your faces. But you were not there,
+nor any one else of our New York comrades. I knew what it
+meant: you are having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise
+perhaps something could be done to establish friendly relations
+between Rakhmetov and Mr. Gebop.<a name="FNanchor_34_34" id="FNanchor_34_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a> It would require an
+outlay beyond the resources of our own circle; others cannot
+be approached in this matter. Nothing remains but the "inside"
+developments,&mdash;a terribly slow process.</p>
+
+<p>This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends.
+You will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has
+again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness....
+I did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it
+is five months now) till my return from court. I suppose the
+excitement of being on the outside galvanized me for the
+nonce.... My head was awhirl; I could not collect my
+thoughts. The wild hope possessed me,&mdash;<i>pobeg</i>! The click of
+the steel, as I was handcuffed to the Deputy, struck my death-knell....
+The unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people
+and loud voices in the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all
+absorbed me in the moment. It seemed to me as if I were a
+spectator, interested, but personally unconcerned, in the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span>
+surroundings; and these, too, were far away, of a strange world
+in which I had no part. Only when I found myself alone in
+the cell, the full significance of the lost occasion was borne in
+upon me with crushing force.</p>
+
+<p>But why sadden you? There is perhaps a cheerier side,
+now that Nold and Bauer are here. I have not seen them yet,
+but their very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within
+these walls there are <i>comrades</i>, men who, like myself, suffer
+for an ideal&mdash;the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me.
+It brings me closer, in a measure, to the environment of
+political prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture
+of their daily existence, the politicals&mdash;even in Siberia&mdash;breathe
+the atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage
+and strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated
+by a common cause! Conditions here are entirely different.
+Both inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. They
+have never known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice
+or risk his life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond
+their comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert
+of sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would
+gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia.</p>
+
+<p>The former <i>podpoilnaya</i><a name="FNanchor_35_35" id="FNanchor_35_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">[35]</a> was suspended, because of the
+great misfortune that befell my friend Wingie, of whom I wrote
+to you before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tiuremshchick,<a name="FNanchor_36_36" id="FNanchor_36_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">[36]</a>
+an old soldier who really sympathizes with Wingie. I believe
+they served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who
+hates his despicable work. But there is a family at home, a
+sick wife&mdash;you know the old, weak-kneed tale. I had a hint
+from him the other day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous
+for him to be seen at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true;
+but what he means is, that a little money would be welcome.
+You know how to manage the matter. Leave no traces.</p>
+
+<p>I hear the felt-soled step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie
+a hasty good-bye.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Sasha.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XII</h2>
+
+<h3>"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio.
+It ensnares the river banks in its mysterious embrace,
+veils tree and rock with sombre mist, and mocks the
+sun with angry frown. Within the House of Death is
+felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in
+the iron cages.</p>
+
+<p>Only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs
+the stillness. I listen intently. Nearer and more audible
+seem the sounds, hesitating and apparently intentional
+I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of communication
+practiced by Russian politicals, and I strive
+to detect some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer
+as I approach the back wall of the cell, and instantly I
+am aware of a faint murmur in the privy. Is it fancy,
+or did I hear my name?</p>
+
+<p>"Halloa!" I call into the pipe.</p>
+
+<p>The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed,
+hollow voice: "That you, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. Who is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Never min'. You must be deaf not to hear me
+callin' you all this time. Take that cott'n out o' your
+ears."</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't know you could talk this way."</p>
+
+<p>"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span>
+pipes, no standin' water, see? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit
+to&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water.
+Presently the flow subsides, and the knocking is resumed.
+I bend over the privy.</p>
+
+<p>"Hello, hello! That you, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts
+into the pipe.</p>
+
+<p>"Lay down, there!"</p>
+
+<p>"Take that trap out o' the hole."</p>
+
+<p>"Quit your foolin', Horsethief."</p>
+
+<p>"Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellers. It's
+Bob, Horsethief Bob. I'm talkin' business. Keep quiet
+now, will you? Are you there, Aleck? Yes? Well, pay
+no 'tention to them dubs. 'Twas that crazy Southside
+Slim that turned th' water on&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, lay down, Slim, will you? Who said you was
+crazy? Nay, nay, you're bugs. Hey, Aleck, you there?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Bob."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, got me name, have you? Yes, I'm Bob, Horsethief
+Bob. Make no mistake when you see me; I'm Big
+Bob, the Horsethief. Can you hear me? It's you,
+Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Sure it's you? Got t' tell you somethin'. What's
+your number?"</p>
+
+<p>"A 7."</p>
+
+<p>"Right you are. What cell?"</p>
+
+<p>"6 K."</p>
+
+<p>"An' this is me, Big Bob, in&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Windbag Bob," a heavy bass comments from above.</p>
+
+<p>"Shut up, Curley, I'm on th' line. I'm in 6 F, Aleck,
+top tier. Call me up any time I'm in, ha, ha! You see,
+pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you can talk to any range
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>
+you want, but always to th' same cell as you're in, Cell
+6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, to
+Shorty, you know&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him,
+Bob."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, you do. You list'n what I tell you, Aleck, an'
+you'll be all right. That's me talkin', Big Bob, see?
+Now, I say if you'd like t' chew th' rag with Shorty, you
+jest tell me. Tell Brother Bob, an' he'll connect you all
+right. Are you on? Know who's Shorty?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Yo oughter. That's Carl, Carl Nold. Know <i>him</i>,
+don't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"What!" I cry in astonishment. "Is it true, Bob?
+Is Nold up there on your gallery?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure thing. Cell 14."</p>
+
+<p>"Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking
+ten minutes now. Did you see him?"</p>
+
+<p>"What's your hurry, Aleck? <i>You</i> can't see 'im; not
+jest now, anyway. P'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. There's no
+hurry, Aleck. <i>You</i> got plenty o' time. A few years,
+<i>rather</i>, ha, ha, ha!"</p>
+
+<p>"Hey, there, Horsethief, quit that!" I recognize
+"Curley's" deep bass. "What do you want to make the
+kid feel bad for?"</p>
+
+<p>"No harm meant, Curley," Bob returns, "I was jest
+joshin' him a bit."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, quit it."</p>
+
+<p>"You don' min' it, Aleck, do you?" I hear Bob again,
+his tones softened, "I didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's.
+I'm your friend, Aleck, you can bet your corn dodger
+on that. Say, I've got somethin' for you from Shorty,
+I mean Carl, you savvy?"</p>
+
+<p>"What have you, Bob?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span>
+on this 'ere range. I'll sneak around to you in the
+mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of bootleg. Now,
+jiggaroo,<a name="FNanchor_37_37" id="FNanchor_37_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">[37]</a> screw's comin'."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The presence of my comrades is investing existence
+with interest and meaning. It has brought to me a
+breeze from the atmosphere of my former environment;
+it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into
+renewed life and hope.</p>
+
+<p>The secret exchange of notes lends color to the
+routine. It is like a fresh mountain streamlet joyfully
+rippling through a stagnant swamp. At work in the
+shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence.
+Again and again I review the arguments elucidating
+to my comrades the significance of my <i>Attentat</i>:
+they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the importance of
+the purely physical result. The exchange of views gradually
+ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance
+into closer intimacy. There is something in Carl
+Nold that especially attracts me: I sense in him a congenial
+spirit. His spontaneous frankness appeals to me;
+my heart echoes his grief at the realization of Most's
+unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antagonism
+of Bauer is irritating. It reflects his desperate
+clinging to the shattered idol. Presently, however, a
+better understanding begins to manifest itself. The
+big, jovial German has earned my respect; he braved
+the anger of the judge by consistently refusing to betray
+the man who aided him in the distribution of the Anarchist
+leaflet among the Homestead workers. On the
+other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span>
+on the witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity
+in my act. Their condemnation, as acknowledged Anarchists,
+was, of course, a foregone conclusion, and I
+am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had
+entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited
+them. Indeed, both have expressed surprise that the
+maximum revenge of the law was not visited upon them.
+Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect upon
+me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of
+five years will afford him a long-needed vacation from
+many years of ceaseless factory toil. He is facetiously
+anxious lest capitalist industry be handicapped by the
+loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he
+good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly
+affianced.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is
+pleasure and diversion in the correspondence. The
+notes have grown into bulky letters, daily cementing
+our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions,
+and discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of
+the movement in the twin cities, the personnel of Anarchist
+circles, and collect a fund of anecdotes about
+Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive
+shop in Allegheny is the center of the radical
+<i>inteligenzia</i>. With deep contrition Bauer confesses how
+narrowly he escaped the r&ocirc;le of my executioner. My
+unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of
+the Homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the
+Allegheny comrades. They sent an inquiry to Most,
+whose reply proved a warning against me. Unknown to
+me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Nold's house.
+Through the long hours of the night he lay awake,
+with revolver cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious
+move on my part, he had determined to kill me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually
+broadening into the larger scope of socio-political
+theories, methods of agitation, and applied tactics. The
+discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our
+interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection;
+the difficulty of procuring writing materials
+assumes a serious aspect. Every available scrap of
+paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers and
+magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly
+erased, and the frayed tatters microscopically covered
+with ink. Even an occasional fly-leaf from library books
+has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its covers, and
+every evidence of its previous association dexterously
+removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence
+and fills us with dismay. But the genius
+our faithful postman, of proud horsethieving proclivities,
+proves equal to the occasion: Bob constitutes himself
+our commissary, designating the broom shop, in
+which he is employed, as the base of our future supplies.</p>
+
+<p>The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big
+rolls requisitioned by "Horsethief" exclude the fear of
+famine; the smooth yellow wrapping paper affords the
+luxury of larger and more legible chirography. The
+pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects.
+We speculate on the possibility of converting our correspondence
+into a magazinelet, and wax warm over
+the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue
+of the <i>Zuchthausbl&uuml;then</i><a name="FNanchor_38_38" id="FNanchor_38_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">[38]</a> is greeted with the encouraging
+approval of our sole subscriber, whose contribution
+surprises us in the form of a rather creditable poem
+on the blank last page of the publication. Elated at
+the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him <i>Meistersinger</i>,
+with dominion over the department of poetry.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span>
+Soon we plan more pretentious issues: the outward
+size of the publication is to remain the same, three by five
+inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each
+issue to have a different editor, to ensure equality of
+opportunity; the readers to serve as contributing editors.
+The appearance of the <i>Bl&uuml;then</i> is to be regulated
+by the time required to complete the circle of readers,
+whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to
+protect them against discovery. Henceforth Bauer,
+physically a giant, is to be known as "G"; because of
+my medium stature, I shall be designated with the
+letter "M"; and Nold, as the smallest, by "K."<a name="FNanchor_39_39" id="FNanchor_39_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_39_39" class="fnanchor">[39]</a> The
+poet, his history somewhat shrouded in mystery, is
+christened "D" for <i>Dichter</i>. "M," "K," "G," are to
+act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to
+start the <i>Bl&uuml;then</i> on its way, each reader contributing
+to the issue till it is returned to the original editor, to
+enable him to read and comment upon his fellow contributors.
+The publication, its contents growing
+transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon
+whom will devolve the editorial management of the
+following issue.</p>
+
+<p>The unique arrangement proves a source of much
+pleasure and recreation. The little magazine is rich in
+contents and varied in style. The diversity of handwriting
+heightens the interest, and stimulates speculation
+on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors.
+In the arena of the diminutive publication, there
+rages the conflict of contending social philosophies; here
+a political essay rubs elbows with a witty anecdote, and
+a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is interspersed
+with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence.
+Flashes of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span>
+of orthography lend peculiar charm to the unconventional
+editorials, and waft a breath of Josh Billings
+into the manuscript pages.</p>
+
+<p>But the success of the <i>Zuchthausbl&uuml;then</i> soon discovers
+itself a veritable Frankenstein, which threatens
+the original foundation and aims of the magazinelet. The
+popularity of joint editorship is growing at the cost of
+unity and tendency; the Bard's astonishing facility at
+versification, coupled with his Jules Vernian imagination,
+causes us grave anxiety lest his untamable Pegasus
+traverse the limits of our paper supply. The appalling
+warning of the commissary that the improvident
+drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike,
+imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies
+of retrenchment and economy, when unexpectedly the
+arrival of two Homestead men suggests an auspicious
+solution.</p>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 401px;">
+<a name="Zuchthausbluethen" id="Zuchthausbluethen"></a>
+<img src="images/bird.jpg" width="401" height="640" alt="Special Spring Edition" title="Special Spring Edition" />
+<span class="caption">Special Spring Edition<br />
+of the<br />
+Z. Bl&uuml;then.</span>
+</div>
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J.
+Beatty, prominent in the Knights of Labor organization,
+offers opportunity for propaganda among workers representing
+the more radical element of American labor.
+Accused of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers
+in the mills, Dempsey and Beatty appear to me
+men of unusual type. Be they innocent or guilty, the
+philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary
+tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands:
+is it not the creator of all the wealth in the world?
+Every weapon may be employed to return the despoiled
+People into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing
+of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters,
+an effective means of aiding the struggle? Therefore
+Dempsey and Beatty deserve acclaim. Morally certain
+of their guilt, I respect them the more for it, though I
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span>
+am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme
+of wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg
+is also human, it is true, and desires to live. But one
+should starve rather than turn traitor to the cause of his
+class. Moreover, the individual&mdash;or any number of
+them&mdash;cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us
+in contact with the imprisoned labor leaders. In the
+ceaseless duel of vital need against stupidity and malice,
+caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least
+indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery,
+disaster. But perseverance and intelligent purpose
+conquer: by the aid of the faithful "Horsethief,"
+communication with Dempsey and Beatty is established.
+With the aggressiveness of strong conviction I present to
+them my views, dwelling on the historic r&ocirc;le of the
+<i>Attent&auml;ter</i> and the social significance of conscious individual
+protest. The discussion ramifies, the interest
+aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper supply.
+Presently I am involved in a correspondence with
+several men, whose questions and misinterpretations regarding
+my act I attempt to answer and correct with
+individual notes. But the method proves an impossible
+tax on our opportunities, and "KGM" finally decide
+to publish an English edition of the <i>Zuchthausbl&uuml;then</i>.
+The German magazinelet is suspended, and in its place
+appears the first issue of the <i>Prison Blossoms</i>.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE JUDAS</h3>
+
+
+<p>"Ah, there, Sporty!" my assistant greets me in the
+shop. "Stand treat on this festive occasion?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Red. Have a chew," I reply with a smile,
+handing him my fresh plug of tobacco.</p>
+
+<p>His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes
+my changed suit of dark gray. The larger part
+of the plug swelling out his cheek, he flings to me the
+remnant across the table, remarking:</p>
+
+<p>"Don't care for't. Take back your choo, I'll keep
+me honor,&mdash;your plug, I mean, sonny. A gentleman of
+my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator on the high
+seas of social life,&mdash;are you on, me bye?&mdash;a gentleman,
+I repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is
+human have chucked on this here dry, thrice damned
+dry latitude, sir, this nocuous plague-spot of civilization,&mdash;say,
+kid, what t' hell am I talkin' about? Damn
+if I ain't clean forgot."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure I don't know, Red."</p>
+
+<p>"Like hell you don't! It's your glad duds, kid.
+Offerin' <i>me</i> a ch-aw tob-b-bac-co! Christ, I'm dyin'
+for a drop of booze. This magnificent occasion deserves
+a wetting, sir. And, say, Aleck, it won't hurt your
+beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span>
+look like a scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't
+old Sandy the king of skinners, though!"</p>
+
+<p>"Whom do you mean, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"Who I mean, you idjot! Who but that skunk
+of a Warden, the Honorable Captain Edward S. Wright,
+if you please, sir. Captain of rotten old punks, that's
+what he is. You ask th' screws. He's never smelt
+powder; why, he's been <i>here</i> most o' his life. But some
+o' th' screws been here longer, borned here, damn 'em;
+couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a steam engine,
+you couldn't. They can tell you all 'bout the Cap,
+though. Old Sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his
+name when he come 'ere, an' now the damn stomach-robber
+is rich. Reg'lar gold mine this dump's for 'im.
+Only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. Got big fam'ly
+an' keeps carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t'
+go to Europe every year, an' got a big pile in th' bank
+to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a year. Good
+manager, ain't he? A reg'lar church member, too, damn
+his rotten soul to hell!"</p>
+
+<p>"Is he as bad as all that, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"Is he? A hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he
+is. Plays the humanitarian racket. He had a great
+deal t' say t' the papers why he didn't believe in the
+brutal way Iams was punished by that Homestead
+colonel&mdash;er&mdash;what's 'is name?"</p>
+
+<p>"Colonel Streator, of the Tenth Pennsylvania."</p>
+
+<p>"That's the cur. He hung up Private Iams by the
+thumbs till th' poor boy was almost dead. For nothin',
+too. Suppose you remember, don't you? Iams had
+called for 'three cheers for the man who shot Frick,' an'
+they pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im
+out of th' regiment with 'is head half shaved."</p>
+
+<p>"It was a most barbarous thing."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>"An'
+that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't
+believe in such things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer
+is doin' it himself. Not a day but some poor con is
+'cuffed up' in th' hole. That's th' kind of humanitarian
+<i>he</i> is! It makes me wild t' think on 't. Why, kid, I
+even get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir,
+are attuned to the dulcet symphonies of classic English.
+But whenever that skunk of a Warden is the
+subject of conversation, sir, even my usually imperturbable
+serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not
+equal to 'Patience on a monument smiling at grief.'
+Watch me, sonny, that's yours truly spielin'. Why, look
+at them dingy rags of yours. I liked you better in th'
+striped duds. They give you the hand-me-downs of
+that nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on
+th' books with a bran' new suit. See where Sandy
+gets his slice, eh? An' say, kid, how long are you here?"</p>
+
+<p>"About eight months, Red."</p>
+
+<p>"They beat you out o' two months all right. Suppose
+they obey their own rules? Nit, sir. You are aware,
+my precious lamb, that you are entitled to discard your
+polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of
+six months in this benevolent dump. I bet you that fresh
+fish at the loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days
+ago, <i>he</i> won't be kept waitin' more'n six months for 'is
+black clothes."</p>
+
+<p>I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is
+a slender man, with swarthy complexion and quick,
+shifting eye. The expression of guilty cunning is
+repelling.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is that man?" I whisper to the assistant.</p>
+
+<p>"Like 'im, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce
+to you the handiwork of his Maker, a mealy-mouthed,
+oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur, a snivelling,
+fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>
+whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting
+member of my clan,&mdash;Mr. Patrick Gallagher,
+of the honorable Pinkerton family, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The informer,
+who denounced Dempsey and Beatty?"</p>
+
+<p>"The very same. The dirty snitch that got those
+fellows railroaded here for seven years. Dempsey was
+a fool to bunch up with such vermin as Gallagher and
+Davidson. He was Master Workman of some district
+of the Knights of Labor. Why in hell didn't he get
+his own men to do th' job? Goes to work an' hires a
+brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills, you savvy,
+to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on
+the goings on, see? S'pose you have oriented yourself,
+sir, concerning the developments in the culinary experiment?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. Croton oil is supposed to have been used to
+make the scabs sick with diarrh[oe]a."</p>
+
+<p>"Make 'em sick? Why, me bye, scores of 'em
+croaked. I am surprised, sir, at your use of such a
+vulgar term as diarrh[oe]a. You offend my aestheticism.
+The learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels
+of earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal
+increase of unmentionable human obligations
+to nature, the mysterious and extravagant popularity
+of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic obedience
+to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o'
+lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities
+of the liquid supply, or to&mdash;pardon my frankness, sir&mdash;to
+intestinal effeminacy, which, in flaccid excitability,
+persisted in ill-timed relaxation unseemly in well-mannered
+Christians. Some future day, sir, there may arise
+a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days
+of the modern Bull Run&mdash;an' I kin tell you, laddie,
+they run and kept runnin', top and bottom&mdash;or some
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span>
+lyric bard may put to Hudibrastic verse&mdash;watch me
+climbin' th' Parnassus, kid&mdash;the poetic feet, the numbers,
+the assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when
+Croton Oil was King. Yes, sirree; but for yours truly,
+me hand ain't in such pies; and moreover, sir, I make it
+an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t' keep me
+snout out o' other people's biz."</p>
+
+<p>"Dempsey may be innocent, Red."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, th' joory didn't think so. But there's no
+tellin'. Honest t' God, Aleck, that rotten scab of a
+Gallagher has cast the pale hue of resolution, if I may
+borrow old Billy Shake's slang, sir, over me gener'ly
+settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plenitude
+of my heterogeneous experience with all sorts
+and conditions of rats and gaycats, sir, fortified by a
+natural genius of no mean order, of 1859 vintage,
+damme if I ever run across such an acute form of
+confessionitis as manifested by the lout on th' loopin'
+machine there. You know what he done yesterday?"</p>
+
+<p>"What?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sent for th' distric' attorney and made another
+confesh."</p>
+
+<p>"Really? How do you know?"</p>
+
+<p>"Night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. I
+shtands in, see? The mick's a reg'lar Yahoo, can't
+hardly spell 'is own name. He daily requisitions upon
+my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out
+his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a hand-out
+with more dignified probity, sir. It's a cinch. Last
+night he gimme a great slice of corn dodger. It was
+A 1, I tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and half a
+tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it,
+though! Makes your mouth water, eh, kid? Well,
+you be good t' me, an' you kin have what I got. I'll divvy
+up with you. We-ll! Don' stand there an' gape at me
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span>
+like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation
+of my magnanimous generosity deprived you of articulate
+utterance, sir?"</p>
+
+<p>The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer,
+and his suddenly serious manner, affect me unpleasantly.
+With pretended indifference, I decline to share his delicacies.</p>
+
+<p>"You need those little extras for yourself, Red," I
+explain. "You told me you suffer from indigestion. A
+change of diet now and then will do you good. But
+you haven't finished telling me about the new confession
+of Gallagher."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, you're a sly one, Aleck; no flies on you. But
+it's all right, me bye, mebbe I can do somethin' for
+you some day. I'm your friend, Aleck; count on me.
+But that mutt of a Gallagher, yes, sirree, made another
+confession; damme if it ain't his third one. Ever hear
+such a thing? I got it straight from th' screw all
+right. I can't make the damn snitch out. Unreservedly
+I avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of
+the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated
+to disturb the repose of a right-thinking yagg
+in the silken lap of Morpheus. What's 'is game,
+anyhow? Shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental
+menstruation as, er&mdash;er&mdash;what's your learned opinion,
+my illustrious colleague, eh? What you grinnin' for,
+Four Eyes? It's a serious matter, sir; a highly instructive
+phenomenon of intellectual vacuity, impregnated with the
+pernicious virus of Pinkertonism, sir, and transmuted in
+the alembic of Carnegie alchemy. A judicious injection
+of persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of
+the House of Dempsey, and lo! three brand-new confessions,
+mutually contradictory and exclusive. Does
+that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"In the second confession he retracted his accusations
+against Dempsey. What is the third about, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"Retracts his retraction, me bye. Guess why, Aleck."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original
+charges."</p>
+
+<p>"You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas
+cleared the man, Sandy notified Reed and Knox. Them's
+smart guys, all right; the attorneys of the Carnegie
+Company to interpret Madame Justicia, sir, in a manner&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I know, Red," I interrupt him, "they are the
+lawyers who prosecuted me. Even in court they were
+giving directions to the district attorney, and openly
+whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses.
+He was just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it
+sounded so ridiculous when he told the jury that he
+was not in the service of any individual or corporation,
+but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth,
+charged with the sacred duty of protecting its
+interests in my prosecution. And all the time he was
+the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers."</p>
+
+<p>"Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a
+word in edgewise when you start jawin'. Think you're
+on th' platform haranguing the long-haired crowd? You
+can't convert <i>me</i>, so save your breath, man."</p>
+
+<p>"I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are
+intelligent, but a hopeless case. You are not the kind
+that could be useful to the Cause."</p>
+
+<p>"Glad you're next. Got me sized up all right, eh?
+Well, me saintly bye, I'm Johnny-on-the-spot to serve
+the cause, all right, all right, and the cause is Me, with
+a big M, see? A fellow's a fool not t' look out for
+number one. I give it t' you straight, Aleck. What's
+them high-flown notions of yours&mdash;oppressed humanity
+and suffering people&mdash;fiddlesticks! There you go and
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span>
+shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers,
+but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell
+me that! They won't do a darned thing fer you. Catch
+<i>me</i> swinging for the peo-pul! The cattle don't deserve
+any better than they get, that's what <i>I</i> say."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't want to discuss these questions with you,
+Red. You'll never understand, anyhow."</p>
+
+<p>"Git off, now. You voice a sentiment, sir, that my
+adequate appreciation of myself would prompt me to
+resent on the field of honor, sir. But the unworthy
+spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir,
+and I shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming
+the true Christian, and shall follow the bidding of the
+Master by humbly offering the other cheek for that
+chaw of th' weed I gave you. Dig down into your
+poke, kid."</p>
+
+<p>I hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking:</p>
+
+<p>"You've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual,
+Red. You said the Warden sent for the Carnegie
+lawyers after Gallagher had recanted his original confession.
+Well, what did they do?"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't know what <i>they</i> done, but I tole you that
+the muttonhead sent for th' district attorney the same
+day, an' signed a third confesh. Why, Dempsey was
+tickled to death, 'cause&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn
+me of danger. Accompanied by the Deputy and the
+shop officer, the Warden is making the rounds of the
+machines, pausing here and there to examine the work,
+and listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully
+sparkling eyes present a striking contrast to the sedate
+manner and seamed features framed in grayish-white.
+Approaching the table, he greets us with a benign smile:</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, boys."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Casting a glance at my assistant, the Warden inquires:
+"Your time must be up soon, Red?"</p>
+
+<p>"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine
+accents of the Deputy sound sarcastic.</p>
+
+<p>"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers.</p>
+
+<p>A flush darkens the face of the assistant. "There's
+more skunks out than in," he retorts.</p>
+
+<p>The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning
+finger, but the Warden laughs lightly, and continues on
+his rounds.</p>
+
+<p>We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive,
+his eyes stealthily following the departing officials.
+Presently he whispers:</p>
+
+<p>"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on
+to 'im, all right. Didn't he look mad, though? Thought
+he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is lamps, kid?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. Very bright eyes."</p>
+
+<p>"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's
+th' matter. Think I'd get off as easy if he wasn't chuck
+full of th' stuff? I knowed it the minute I laid me
+eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and
+that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th'
+signals, all right. Always feelin' fine when he's hit th'
+pipe. That's th' time you kin get anythin' you wan'
+of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im, hit 'im
+for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be
+drowned in them socks, first thing you know."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't <i>you</i> ask him?"</p>
+
+<p>"Me? Me ask a favor o' the damn swine? Not on
+your tintype! You don' catch me to vouchsafe the high
+and mighty, sir, the opportunity&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't give a damn. For all I care, Aleck, and&mdash;well,
+confidentially speaking, sir, they may ensconce<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span>
+their precious hosiery in the infundibular dehiscence of
+his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble opinion,
+young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness
+to disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside
+out, sir. Do you follow the argument, me bye?"</p>
+
+<p>"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What
+are you really talking about? I do wish you'd speak
+plainer."</p>
+
+<p>"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to
+train you right; gradual, so to speak. It's me dooty
+to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here. I ain't
+goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. I'll quit first.
+D' you think&mdash;s-s-ss!"</p>
+
+<p>The shop officer is returning. "Damn your impudence,
+Red," he shouts at the assistant. "Why don't you
+keep that tongue of yours in check?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?"</p>
+
+<p>"You know damn well what's the trouble. You made
+the old man mad clean through. You ought t' know
+better'n that. He was nice as pie till you opened that
+big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He
+gave me th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun'
+here. Why don't you take it over to th' loopers, Burk?"</p>
+
+<p>"They have not been turned yet," I reply.</p>
+
+<p>"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What
+in hell are you fellows doin', I'd like t' know."</p>
+
+<p>"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts,
+defiantly.</p>
+
+<p>"Shut up now, an' get a move on you."</p>
+
+<p>"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant
+persists.</p>
+
+<p>"You better shut up, Red."</p>
+
+<p>"Then give us some help."</p>
+
+<p>"I will like hell!"</p>
+
+<p>The whistle sounds the dinner hour.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE DIP</h3>
+
+
+<p>For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work.
+My best efforts seem ineffectual in the face of the
+increasing mountain of unturned hosiery, and the officer
+grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of
+clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to
+give me assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed
+and nervous, takes the vacant place.</p>
+
+<p>"He's a dip,"<a name="FNanchor_40_40" id="FNanchor_40_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_40_40" class="fnanchor">[40]</a> Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A
+top-notcher," he adds, admiringly.</p>
+
+<p>I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality
+implied by the forced association. I have never before
+come in personal contact with a professional thief, and
+I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his class. But they
+are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately
+prey upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can
+be nothing in common between me and this man.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking.
+His distant manner piques my curiosity. How unlike
+his scornful mien and proudly independent bearing is
+my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I remember
+the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom
+by a fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing
+their lunches, and Kolya confessed the theft. We ran
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>
+after the prisoner, and he hung his head and looked
+frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his
+face. He did not return to school, and I wondered
+what had become of him. The terror in his eyes
+haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his forehead
+shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful
+word <i>vor</i>.<a name="FNanchor_41_41" id="FNanchor_41_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_41_41" class="fnanchor">[41]</a></p>
+
+<p>"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my
+reverie. He speaks in well-modulated tones, the accents
+nasal and decided. "You needn't be afraid to talk," he
+adds, patronizingly.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation.
+"Why should I be afraid of you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not of me; of the officer, I meant."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not afraid of him, either."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help
+while away the time, you know."</p>
+
+<p>His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper.
+The correct English, in striking contrast with the
+peculiar language of my former assistant, surprises me.</p>
+
+<p>"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a
+long sentence, Mr. Berkman, but&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"How do you know my name?" I interrupt. "You
+have just arrived."</p>
+
+<p>"They call me 'Lightning Al'," he replies, with a
+tinge of pride. "I'm here only three days, but a fellow
+in my line can learn a great deal in that time. I had
+you pointed out to me."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you call your line? What are you
+here for?"</p>
+
+<p>For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch
+his face blush darkly.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"You're a dead give-away. Oh, excuse me, Mr.
+Berkman," he corrects himself, "I sometimes lapse into
+lingo, under provocation, you know. I meant to say,
+it's easy to see that you are not next to the way&mdash;not
+familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never
+ask a man what he is in for."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, er&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You are ashamed."</p>
+
+<p>"Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps,&mdash;I mean,
+to be caught at it&mdash;it's no credit to a gun's rep, his
+reputation, you understand. But I'm proud of the jobs
+I've done. I'm pretty slick, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"But you don't like to be asked why you were sent
+here."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions."</p>
+
+<p>"Against the ethics of the trade, I suppose?"</p>
+
+<p>"How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Berkman. But it's
+true, it's not the ethics. And it isn't a trade, either; it's
+a profession. Oh, you may smile, but I'd rather be a
+gun, a professional, I mean, than one of your stupid
+factory hands."</p>
+
+<p>"They are honest, though. Honest producers, while
+you are a thief."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, there's no sting in that word for <i>me</i>. I take
+pride in being a thief, and what's more, I <i>am</i> an A
+number one gun, you see the point? The best dip in
+the States."</p>
+
+<p>"A pickpocket? Stealing nickels off passengers on
+the street cars, and&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Me? A hell of a lot <i>you</i> know about it. Take me
+for such small fry, do you? I work only on race tracks."</p>
+
+<p>"You call it work?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Sure. Damned hard work, too. Takes more
+brains than a whole shopful of your honest producers
+can show."</p>
+
+<p>"And you prefer that to being honest?"</p>
+
+<p>"Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer
+makes in a year. Think I'm so dumb I have to slave
+all week for a few dollars?"</p>
+
+<p>"But you spend most of your life in prison."</p>
+
+<p>"Not by a long shot. A real good gun's always got
+his fall money planted,&mdash;I mean some ready coin in case
+of trouble,&mdash;and a smart lawyer will spring you most
+every time; beat the case, you know. I've never seen
+the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough;
+and most judges, too. Of course, now and then, the
+best of us may fall; but it don't happen very often, and
+it's all in the game. This whole life is a game, Mr.
+Berkman, and every one's got his graft."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you mean there are no honest men?" I ask,
+angrily.</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw! I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or
+Carnegie, only they got the law with them. And I work
+harder than they, I'll bet you on that. I've got to eat,
+haven't I? Of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if I
+could be sure of my bread and butter, perhaps&mdash;"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket,
+inquiring pleasantly:</p>
+
+<p>"How're you doin', Al?"</p>
+
+<p>"Tip-top, Mr. Cosson. Hope you are feeling good
+to-day."</p>
+
+<p>"Never better, Al."</p>
+
+<p>"A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr.
+Cosson."</p>
+
+<p>"Who was that?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Barney. Jack Barney."</p>
+
+<p>"Jack Barney! Why, he worked for me in the
+broom shop."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, he did a three-spot. He often said to me, 'Al,
+it you ever land in Riverside,' he says, 'be sure you
+don't forget to give my best to Mr. Cosson, Mr. Ed.
+Cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'"</p>
+
+<p>The officer looks pleased. "Yes, I treated him white,
+all right," he remarks, continuing on his rounds.</p>
+
+<p>"I knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after
+him. "Always good to get on the right side of them,"
+he adds, with a wink. "Barney told me about him all
+right. Said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a
+swell-head yap. You see, Mr. Berkman,&mdash;may I call
+you Aleck? It's shorter. Well, you see, Aleck, I make
+it a point to find things out. It's wise to know the
+ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That Jimmy
+McPane, the Deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his
+man, all right. Barney told me all about it; he was
+doing his bit, then,&mdash;I mean serving his sentence. You
+see, Aleck," he lowers his voice, confidentially, "I don't
+like to use slang; it grows on one, and every fly-cop
+can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business
+to present a fine front and use good English, so I must
+not get the lingo habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney
+telling me about the Deputy. He killed a con in cold
+blood. The fellow was bughouse, D. T., you know;
+saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning,
+swinging a chair and hollering 'Murder! Kill 'em!' The
+Deputy was just passing along, and he out with his
+gat&mdash;I mean his revolver, you know&mdash;and bangs away.
+He pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he
+did, the murderer. Killed him dead. Never was tried,
+either. Warden told the newspapers it was done in
+self-defence. A damn lie. Sandy knew better; every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>body
+in the dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder,
+with no provocation at all. It's a regular ring, you see,
+and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of them all;
+and that sky-pilot, too, is an A 1 fakir. Did you hear
+about the kid born here? Before your time. A big
+scandal. Since then the holy man's got to have a screw
+with him at Sunday service for the females, and I tell
+you he needs watching all right."</p>
+
+<p>The whistle terminates the conversation.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE URGE OF SEX</h3>
+
+
+<p>Sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is
+hot and stuffy; I cannot sleep. Through the bars, I gaze
+upon the Ohio. The full moon hangs above the river,
+bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains of a
+sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks
+are merry with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like
+a silvery bell, and voices call in the distance. Life is
+joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly near,&mdash;but all is
+silent and dead around me.</p>
+
+<p>For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my
+ears. It sounded so youthful and buoyant, so fondly
+alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt. What joy to feast
+my eye on her! I have not beheld a woman for many
+months: I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender
+touch. My mind persistently reverts to the voice on the
+river, the sweet strains in the woods; and fancy wreathes
+sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints vision
+and image, as I pace the floor in agitation. They live,
+they breathe! I see the slender figure with the swelling
+bosom, the delicate white throat, the babyish face with
+large, wistful eyes. Why, it is Luba! My blood tingles
+violently, passionately, as I live over again the rapturous
+wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How
+temptingly innocent sounded the immodest invitation on
+the velvety lips, how exquisite the suddenness of it all!
+We were in New Haven then. One by one we had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>
+gathered, till the little New York commune was complete.
+The Girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange
+city, drudging as compositor on a country weekly, the
+evenings cold and cheerless in the midst of a conservative
+household. But the Girl brought light and sunshine,
+and then came the Twin and Manya. Luba remained
+in New York; but Manya, devoted little soul, yearned
+for her sister, and presently the three girls worked
+side by side in the corset factory. All seemed happy
+in the free atmosphere, and Luba was blooming into
+beautiful womanhood. There was a vague something
+about her that now and then roused in me a fond longing,
+a rapturous desire. Once&mdash;it was in New York, a year
+before&mdash;I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her.
+It seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called
+to try a game of chess with her father, when he informed
+me that Luba had been ill. She was recovering now,
+and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside,
+conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows
+slipping from under the girl's head. Bending over, I
+involuntarily touched her hair, loosely hanging down the
+side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next
+instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves
+to my lips. The momentary sense of shame was lost in
+the feeling of reverence for the girl with the beautiful
+hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and a deep
+yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite
+disarray, full of grace and beauty. And all the while we
+talked, my eyes feasted on her ravishing form, and I felt
+envious of her future lover, and hated the desecration.
+But when I left her bedside, all trace of desire disappeared,
+and the inspiration of the moment faded like a
+vision affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague
+inquietude remained, as of something unattainable.</p>
+
+<p>Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span>
+bliss. We had just returned from the performance
+of <i>Tosca</i>, with Sarah Bernhardt in her inimitable
+r&ocirc;le. I had to pass through Luba's room on my way
+to the attic, in the little house occupied by the commune.
+She had already retired, but was still awake. I
+sat down on the edge of the bed, and we talked of the
+play. She glowed with the inspiration of the great
+tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the <i>d&eacute;collet&eacute;</i>
+of the actresses.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," I
+remarked. "But I had a powerful opera glass: their
+breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was disgusting."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think&mdash;mine nice?" she asked, suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>For a second I was bewildered. But the question
+sounded so enchantingly unpremeditated, so innocently
+eager.</p>
+
+<p>"I never&mdash;Let me see them," I said, impulsively.</p>
+
+<p>"No, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "I can't, I
+can't!"</p>
+
+<p>"I wont look, Luba. See, I close my eyes. Just a
+touch."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed! Only over the blanket,
+please, Sasha," she pleaded, as my hand softly stole
+under the covers. She gripped the sheet tightly, and
+my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm,
+round breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In
+fear of arousing her maidenly resistance, I strove to
+hide my exultation, while cautiously and tenderly I released
+the coverlet.</p>
+
+<p>"They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling
+the tremor of my voice.</p>
+
+<p>"You&mdash;like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes
+looked lustrous and happy.</p>
+
+<p>"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last covering
+aside, I kissed her between the breasts.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"I'm so glad I came here," she spoke dreamily.</p>
+
+<p>"Were you very lonesome in New York?"</p>
+
+<p>"It was terrible, Sasha."</p>
+
+<p>"You like the change?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, you silly boy! Don't you know?"</p>
+
+<p>"What, Luba?"</p>
+
+<p>"I wanted <i>you</i>, dear." Her arms twined softly
+about me.</p>
+
+<p>I felt appalled. The Girl, my revolutionary plans,
+flitted through my mind, chilling me with self-reproach.
+The pale hue of the attained cast its shadow across the
+spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Luba's breast. The
+coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my
+hand inadvertently touched her knee.</p>
+
+<p>"Sasha, how <i>can</i> you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up
+with terrified eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't mean to, Luba. How could you <i>think</i>
+that of me?" I was deeply mortified.</p>
+
+<p>My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent
+embarrassment.</p>
+
+<p>"It is getting late, Sasha." She tenderly drew my
+head to her bosom.</p>
+
+<p>"A little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment
+of the virgin breasts was upon me, and I showered
+wild kisses on them, and pressed them passionately,
+madly, till she cried out in pain.</p>
+
+<p>"You must go now, dear."</p>
+
+<p>"Good night, Luba."</p>
+
+<p>"Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me,
+Sashenka."</p>
+
+<p>I felt her detaining lips, as I left.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex
+grows more and more insistent. Scenes from the past<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span>
+live in my thoughts; the cell is peopled with familiar
+faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated
+before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my
+soul, and move with intense reality, like the portraits
+of my sires come to life in the dark, fearful nights of
+my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her window
+across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely,
+with modestly averted gaze, and then call
+back saucily, in thinly disguised voices. Again I am
+with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their
+way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright
+and confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to
+the peep-holes we had cut in the booth. Inwardly I
+resent Nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in revenge dive
+beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of
+the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. But
+I grow indignant at Vainka who badgers the girls with
+"Tsiba,<a name="FNanchor_42_42" id="FNanchor_42_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_42_42" class="fnanchor">[42]</a> tsiba, ba-aa!" and I soundly thrash Kolya for
+shouting nasty epithets across the school yard at little
+Nunya, whom I secretly adore.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>But the note of later days returns again and again,
+and the scenes of youth recede into their dim frames.
+Clearer and more frequently appear Sonya and Luba, and
+the little sweetheart of my first months in America. What
+a goose she was! She would not embrace me, because
+it's a great sin, unless one is married. But how slyly
+she managed to arrange kissing games at the Sunday
+gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! She
+must be quite a woman now, with a husband,
+children ... Quickly she flits by, the recollection even
+of her name lost in the glow of Anarchist emotionalism
+and the fervent enthusiasm of my Orchard Street days.
+There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span>of my Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation
+to obscurely pulsating idealism. It sheds the halo of
+illuminating justification upon my blindly rebellious
+spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit mountains.
+The sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes
+a new aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those
+first years in America!... And still Time's woof and
+warp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World, its
+joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewildered
+by the flurry of Castle Garden, yet strong with
+hope and courage to carve my fate in freedom. The
+Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated Cossacks is
+past. How inspiring is liberty! The very air breathes
+enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace
+the new life. I join the ranks of the world's producers,
+and glory in the full manhood conferred by the
+dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my adopted
+country on the part of my family abroad,&mdash;resent it
+hotly. I feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced
+my parents' respected name by turning "a low, dirty
+workingman." I combat their snobbishness vehemently,
+and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison
+between the Old and the New World. Behold
+the glory of liberty and prosperity, the handiwork of a
+nation that honors labor!... The loom of Time keeps
+weaving. Lone and friendless, I struggle in the new
+land. Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the
+worker dreary. There is no "dignity of labor." Sweatshop
+bread is bitter. Oppression guards the golden promise,
+and servile brutality is the only earnest of success.
+Then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of
+the Ideal. Strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of
+Revolution. Like a flash in the night, it illumines my
+groping. My life becomes full of new meaning and interest,
+translated into the struggle of a world's emancipa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span>tion.
+Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in
+the music of the new humanity.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>It is all far, far&mdash;yet every detail is sharply etched
+upon my memory. Swiftly pass before me the years of
+complete consecration to the movement, the self-imposed
+poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of agitation
+in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings
+of spirited debate, the nights of diligent study.
+And over all loom the Fridays in the little dingy hall
+in the Ghetto, where the handful of Russian refugees
+gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against
+the tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged
+words prophesy the near approach of a glorious Dawn.
+Beshawled women, and men, long-coated and piously
+bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and
+listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the
+strange Jewish, so perplexedly interspersed with the
+alien words of the new evangel. How our hearts rejoice,
+as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage
+the diffident questioner, "Do you really mean&mdash;may
+the good Lord forgive me&mdash;there is no one in
+heaven above?"... Late in the evening the meeting
+resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over
+the speaker's utterances, the select circle finally adjourning
+to "the corner." The obscure little tea room resounds
+with the joust of learning and wit. Fascinating
+is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul,
+as the passage-at-arms grows more heated with the
+advance of the night. The alert-eyed host diplomatically
+pacifies the belligerent factions, "Gentlemen, gentlemen,
+s-sh! The police station is just across the street." There
+is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at
+each other, and in the interim the Austrian Student in his
+mellow voice begins an interminable story of personal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span>
+reminiscence, apropos of nothing and starting nowhere,
+but intensely absorbing. With sparkling eyes he holds us
+spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us
+through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the
+Caucasus, to engage in the blood-feuds of the Tcherkessi;
+or, enmeshed in a perilous flirtation with an Albanian
+beauty in a Moslem harem, he descants on the philosophy
+of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the
+Nile to hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting
+the amazing adventures by introducing an acquaintance
+of the evening, "My excellent friend, the coming great
+Italian virtuoso, from Odessa, gentlemen. He will
+entertain us with an aria from <i>Trovatore</i>." But the
+circle is not in a musical mood: some one challenges
+the Student's familiarity with the Moslem philosophy,
+and the Twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the
+Austrian with Christian missionaries. There are protestations,
+and loud clamor for an explanation. The
+Student smilingly assents, and presently he is launched
+upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan,
+trading tea at Yachta, and aiding a political to escape
+to Vladivostok.... The night pales before the waking
+sun, the Twin yawns, and I am drowsy with&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Cof-fee! Want coffee? Hey, git up there! Didn't
+you hear th' bell?"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE WARDEN'S THREAT</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly
+the dark-gray line undulates across the shop, and draws
+its sinuous length along the gloaming yard. The shadowy
+waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate ghostlike, and
+are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house.</p>
+
+<p>"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind
+me, "quick, plant it. The screw's goin' t' frisk<a name="FNanchor_43_43" id="FNanchor_43_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_43_43" class="fnanchor">[43]</a> me."</p>
+
+<p>Something small and hard is thrust into my coat
+pocket. The guard in front stops short, suspiciously
+scanning the passing men.</p>
+
+<p>"Break ranks!"</p>
+
+<p>The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in
+the office, Berk."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I
+am led in.</p>
+
+<p>"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand you."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, you do. Have you money on you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have not."</p>
+
+<p>"Who sends clandestine mail for you?"</p>
+
+<p>"What mail?"</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p>
+<p>"The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in New York."</p>
+
+<p>I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed
+through official channels.</p>
+
+<p>"It went through the Chaplain's hands," I reply,
+boldly.</p>
+
+<p>"It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass Mr.
+Milligan. Mr. Cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch
+the newspaper from my desk."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the
+marked item. "Here it is! You talk of revolution, and
+comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never saw
+<i>that</i>, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say
+that you are editing&mdash;from the prison, mind you&mdash;editing
+an Anarchist sheet in New York."</p>
+
+<p>"You can't believe everything the papers say." I
+protest.</p>
+
+<p>"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right,"
+the Deputy interposes. "They surely didn't make the
+story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth."</p>
+
+<p>"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that
+I tried to jump over the wall&mdash;it's about thirty feet
+high&mdash;and that the guard shot me in the leg?"</p>
+
+<p>A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively
+I blurt out:</p>
+
+<p>"Was the story inspired, perhaps?"</p>
+
+<p>"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to
+speak, unless addressed, remember. Mr. McPane, please
+search him."</p>
+
+<p>The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck
+and shoulders, down my arms and body, pressing in my
+armpits, gripping my legs, covering every spot, and
+immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The
+loathsome touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought
+of my security: I have nothing incriminating about me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket.</p>
+
+<p>"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round
+object. "A knife, Captain."</p>
+
+<p>"Let me see!" I cry in amazement.</p>
+
+<p>"Stand back!" the Warden commands. "This knife
+has been stolen from the shoe shop. On whom did you
+mean to use it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow
+dropped it into my pocket as we&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"That'll do. You're not so clever as you think."</p>
+
+<p>"It's a conspiracy!" I cry.</p>
+
+<p>He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile
+dancing in his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what have you got to say?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's a put-up job."</p>
+
+<p>"Explain yourself."</p>
+
+<p>"Some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were
+coming&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy."</p>
+
+<p>"You searched me for money and secret letters&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"That will do now. Mr. McPane, what is the sentence
+for the possession of a dangerous weapon?"</p>
+
+<p>"Warden," I interrupt, "it's no weapon. The blade
+is only half an inch, and&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Silence! I spoke to Mr. McPane."</p>
+
+<p>"Hm, three days, Captain."</p>
+
+<p>"Take him down."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In the storeroom I am stripped of my suit of dark
+gray, and again clad in the hateful stripes. Coatless and
+shoeless, I am led through hallways and corridors, down
+a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the dungeon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span>&mdash;I
+feel its hand upon my head, my face. I dare not move,
+lest a misstep thrust me into the abyss. I hold my hand
+close to my eyes&mdash;I feel the touch of my lashes upon
+it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one
+spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is
+sinister; it seems to me I can hear it. Only now and
+then the hasty scrambling of nimble feet suddenly rends
+the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible river rats
+haunts the fearful solitude.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts; out
+of the sombre gray, a wall looms above; the silhouette
+of a door rises dimly before me, sloping upward and
+growing compact and impenetrable.</p>
+
+<p>The hours drag in unbroken sameness. Not a sound
+reaches me from the cell-house. In the maddening quiet
+and darkness I am bereft of all consciousness of time,
+save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys apprises
+me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the
+silent guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of
+water. The double doors fall heavily to, the steps grow
+fainter and die in the distance, and all is dark again in
+the dungeon.</p>
+
+<p>The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The
+floor is cold and clammy, the gnawing grows louder and
+nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the starving rats
+attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments
+leaning against the door; and then again I pace
+the cell, striving to keep awake, wondering whether it be
+night or day, yearning for the sound of a human voice.</p>
+
+<p>Utterly forsaken! Cast into the stony bowels of the
+underground, the world of man receding, leaving no
+trace behind.... Eagerly I strain my ear&mdash;only the
+ceaseless, fearful gnawing. I clutch the bars in despera<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span>tion&mdash;a
+hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands
+tear violently at the door&mdash;"Ho, there! Any one here?"
+All is silent. Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving
+nightmares of mortal dread and despair. Fear shapes
+convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest, then
+calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid
+succession of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my
+slumbering consciousness.</p>
+
+<p>Exhausted and weary I droop against the wall. A
+slimy creeping on my face startles me in horror, and
+again I pace the cell. I feel cold and hungry. Am I
+forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more.
+Have they forgotten me?...</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart.
+My tomb will open&mdash;oh, to see the light, and breathe the
+air again....</p>
+
+<p>"Officer, isn't my time up yet?"</p>
+
+<p>"What's your hurry? You've only been here one
+day."</p>
+
+<p>The doors fall to. Ravenously I devour the bread,
+so small and thin, just a bite. Only <i>one</i> day! Despair
+enfolds me like a pall. Faint with anguish, I sink to the
+floor.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell
+is a veritable transformation. The sight of the human
+form fills me with delight, the sound of voices is sweet
+music. I feel as if I had been torn from the grip of
+death when all hope had fled me,&mdash;caught on the very
+brink, as it were, and restored to the world of the living.
+How bright the sun, how balmy the air! In keen
+sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The tick is soiled,
+the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to rest,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>
+secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin.
+It is almost liberty, freedom!</p>
+
+<p>But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes
+throb with pain; every joint of my body is on the rack.
+The blankets had been removed from the dungeon; three
+days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was unnecessarily
+cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended
+anxiety lest I commit suicide with them. It is very
+touching, this solicitude for my safety, in view of the
+flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden motive must
+be actuating the Warden. But what can it be? Probably
+they will not keep me long in the cell. When I
+am returned to work, I shall learn the truth.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous
+confinement is becoming distressing. I miss the little
+comforts I have lost by the removal to the "single" cell,
+considerably smaller than my previous quarters. My
+library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so
+patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The
+cell is bare and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed
+rules affording no relief from the irritating whitewash.
+The narrow space makes exercise difficult: the necessity
+of turning at every second and third step transforms
+walking into a series of contortions. But some means
+must be devised to while away the time. I pace the
+floor, counting the seconds required to make ten turns.
+I recollect having heard that five miles constitutes a
+healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771
+turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide
+the exercise into three parts, adding a few extra laps to
+make sure of five miles. Carefully I count, and am
+overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal of the
+gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again.</p>
+
+<p>The change of location has interrupted communica<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span>tion
+with my comrades. I am apprehensive of the fate
+of the <i>Prison Blossoms</i>: strict surveillance makes the
+prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am
+assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet
+distant from the officers' desk at the yard door. Watchful
+eyes are constantly upon me; it is impossible for
+any prisoner to converse with me. The rangeman alone
+could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been
+warned against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his
+position as trusty by spying upon the inmates. I can
+expect no help from him; but perhaps the coffee-boy
+may prove of service.</p>
+
+<p>I am planning to approach the man, when I am
+informed that prisoners from the hosiery department
+are locked up on the upper gallery. By means of the
+waste pipe, I learn of the developments during my stay
+in the dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees
+with the insufficient rations was intensified by the arrival
+of a wagon-load of bad meat. The stench permeated the
+yard, and several men were punished for passing uncomplimentary
+remarks about the food. The situation was
+aggravated by an additional increase of the task. The
+knitters and loopers were on the verge of rebellion.
+Twice within the month had the task been enlarged. They
+sent to the Warden a request for a reduction; in reply
+came the appalling order for a further increase. Then
+a score of men struck. They remained in the cells,
+refusing to return to the shop unless the demand for
+better food and less work was complied with. With the
+aid of informers, the Warden conducted a quiet investigation.
+One by one the refractory prisoners were forced
+to submit. By a process of elimination the authorities
+sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that
+a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for
+the unique episode of a strike in the prison.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>An air of mystery hangs about the guards.
+Repeatedly I attempt to engage them in conversation,
+but the least reference to the strike seals their lips. I
+wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when
+unexpectedly the cause is revealed.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner
+wagon along the tier. I stand at the door, ready to
+receive the meal. The overseer glances at me, then
+motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell.</p>
+
+<p>"Officer," I call out, "you missed me."</p>
+
+<p>"Smell the pot-pie, do you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Where's my dinner?"</p>
+
+<p>"You get none."</p>
+
+<p>The odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked
+forward to every second Sunday, reaches my nostrils
+and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten sparingly all
+week in expectation of the treat, and now&mdash;I am
+humiliated and enraged by being so unceremoniously
+deprived of the rare dinner. Angrily I rap the cup
+across the door; again and again I strike the tin against
+it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a
+sharp, piercing clatter.</p>
+
+<p>A guard hastens along. "Stop that damn racket,"
+he commands. "What's the matter with you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't get dinner."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, you did."</p>
+
+<p>"I did not."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I s'pose you don't deserve it."</p>
+
+<p>As he turns to leave, my can crashes against the
+door&mdash;one, two, three&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"What t'hell do you want, eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want to see the Warden."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"You can't see 'im. You better keep quiet now."</p>
+
+<p>"I demand to see the Warden. He is supposed to
+visit us every day. He hasn't been around for weeks.
+I must see him now."</p>
+
+<p>"If you don't shut up, I'll&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The Captain of the Block approaches.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you want, Berkman?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want to see the Warden."</p>
+
+<p>"Can't see him. It's Sunday."</p>
+
+<p>"Captain," I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall
+of the cell, "there is an excerpt here from the statutes
+of Pennsylvania, directing the Warden to visit each
+prisoner every day&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Never mind, now," he interrupts. "What do you
+want to see the Warden about?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want to know why I got no dinner."</p>
+
+<p>"Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays."</p>
+
+<p>"What for?"</p>
+
+<p>"That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you
+want to see him."</p>
+
+<p>Presently the overseer returns, informing me in a
+confidential manner that he has induced "his Nibs" to
+grant me an audience. Admitted to the inner office, I
+find the Warden at the desk, his face flushed with anger.</p>
+
+<p>"You are reported for disturbing the peace," he
+shouts at me.</p>
+
+<p>"There is also, hm, hm, another charge against him,"
+the Deputy interposes.</p>
+
+<p>"Two charges," the Warden continues. "Disturbing
+the peace and making demands. How dare you
+demand?" he roars. "Do you know where you are?"</p>
+
+<p>"I wanted to see you."</p>
+
+<p>"It is not a question of what you want or don't want.
+Understand that clearly. You are to obey the rules
+implicitly."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"The rules direct you to visit&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Silence! What is your request?"</p>
+
+<p>"I want to know why I am deprived of dinner."</p>
+
+<p>"It is not, hm, for <i>you</i> to know. It is enough, hm,
+hm, that <i>we</i> know," the Deputy retorts.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. McPane," the Warden interposes, "I am going
+to speak plainly to him. From this day on," he turns
+to me, "you are on 'Pennsylvania diet' for four weeks.
+During that time no papers or books are permitted you.
+It will give you leisure to think over your behavior.
+I have investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am
+satisfied it was you who instigated the trouble there.
+You shall not have another chance to incite the men,
+even if you live as long as your sentence. But," he
+pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you
+may as well understand it now as later&mdash;your life is not
+worth the trouble you give us. Mark you well, whatever
+the cost, it will be at <i>your</i> expense. For the present
+you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your
+pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the
+'basket.'"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XVII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE "BASKET" CELL</h3>
+
+
+<p>Four weeks of "Pennsylvania diet" have reduced me
+almost to a skeleton. A slice of wheat bread with a
+cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole meal, with
+twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every
+trace of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I
+am conducted to the office, to be examined by the
+physician and weighed. The whole week I look forward
+to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. The
+sight of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly
+smile on a stealthily raised face as I pass through the
+hall, the strange blue of the sky, the sweet-scented aroma
+of the April morning&mdash;how quickly it is all over! But
+the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the
+office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood
+aglow with renewed life. For an instant my brain
+reels with the sudden rush of exquisite intoxication,
+and then&mdash;I am in the tomb again.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant
+dusk is driving me blind. Almost no light or air
+reaches me through the close wire netting covering the
+barred door. The foul odor is stifling; it grips my throat
+with deathly hold. The walls hem me in; daily they
+press closer upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and
+I feel crushed in the coffin of stone. From every point
+the whitewashed sides glare at me, unyielding, inexorable,
+in confident assurance of their prey.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The darkness of despondency gathers day by day;
+the hand of despair weighs heavier. At night the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span>
+screeching of a crow across the river ominously voices
+the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. The windows
+in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind.
+Bleak and desolate wakes the day&mdash;another day, then
+another&mdash;</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Weak and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further
+recedes the world of the living. Still day follows night,
+and life is in the making, but I have no part in the pain
+and travail. Like a spark from the glowing furnace,
+flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness,
+I have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten.
+No sound reaches me from the island prison where beats
+the fervent heart of the Girl, no ray of hope falls across
+the bars of desolation. But on the threshold of Nirvana
+life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out
+<i>to be</i>! Persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and
+nerves my resolution. Were I an ordinary prisoner, I
+should not care to suffer all these agonies. To what purpose,
+with my impossible sentence? But my Anarchist
+ideals and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire
+gloating over its prey. No, I shall not disgrace the
+Cause, I shall not grieve my comrades by weak surrender!
+I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted
+by threat or torture.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>With difficulty I walk to the office for the weekly
+weighing. My step falters as I approach the scales, and
+I sway dizzily. As through a mist I see the doctor bending
+over me, his head pressing against my body. Somehow
+I reach the "basket," mildly wondering why I did
+not feel the cold air. Perhaps they did not take me
+through the yard&mdash;Is it the Block Captain's voice?
+"What did you say?"</p>
+
+<p>"Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now."</p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XVIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SOLITARY</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+Direct to Box A 7, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Allegheny City, Pa., &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+March 25, 1894.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Fedya</span>:</p>
+
+<p>This letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons I missed
+mail-day last month. Prison life, too, has its ups and downs,
+and just now I am on the down side. We are cautioned to
+refrain from referring to local affairs; therefore I can tell
+you only that I am in solitary, without work. I don't know how
+long I am to be kept "locked up." It may be a month, or a year,
+I hope it will not be the latter.</p>
+
+<p>I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies
+you sent.... We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you
+can easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to
+the last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the
+living.... Blessed be the shades of Guttenberg! Hugo and
+Zola, even Gogol and Turgenev, are in the library. It is like
+meeting an old friend in a strange land to find our own Bazarov
+discoursing&mdash;in English.... Page after page unfolds the past&mdash;the
+solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again I roam
+with Leather Stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow with
+poor Oliver Twist. But the "Captain's Daughter" irritates me,
+and Pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature in
+the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Tarass
+Bulba&mdash;is it our own Tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge
+of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old hetman
+storming maledictions against the hated Moslems&mdash;in long-winded
+German periods! Exasperated and offended, I turn my back
+upon the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>
+the requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth.
+Posies bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but
+the pains of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul....
+Science and romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy&mdash;all
+come trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the
+allowance of only one book at a time limits my choice. The
+variety of reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps
+to perfect my English. But some passage in the "Starry Heavens"
+suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with
+the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question
+surges through my mind, What is the use of all this study and
+learning? And then&mdash;but why harrow you with this tenor.</p>
+
+<p>I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be
+undone: the sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will
+be mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you also are not
+bedded on roses. And the poor Sailor?</p>
+
+<p>My space is all.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Alex.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags
+its heavy links through every change of misery. The
+cell is suffocating with the summer heat; rarely does
+the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my
+face. On the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard
+has closed the hall windows opposite my cell. Not a
+breath of air is stirring. The leaden hours of the night
+are insufferable with the foul odor of the perspiration
+and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless, I toss
+on the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the
+weight of many inmates have demoralized it out of all
+semblance of a bedtick. But the Block Captain persistently
+ignores my request for new straw, directing me
+to "shake it up a bit." I am fearful of repeating the
+experiment: the clouds of dust almost strangled me; for
+days the cell remained hazy with the powdered filth.
+Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will open<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>
+before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted
+past my cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious
+tonic that is to give me life this day.</p>
+
+<p>And when the block has belched forth its striped
+prey, and silence mounts its vigil, I may improve a
+favorable moment to exchange a greeting with Johnny
+Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the tier
+above me. Thrice his request for a "high gear" machine
+has been refused, and the tall youth forced to work
+doubled over a low table. Unable to exert his best
+efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has repeatedly
+been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered
+a hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow
+cough. Desperate with the dread of consumption,
+Johnny has refused to return to work. The Warden,
+relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume
+his original high machine. But the boy has grown
+obdurate: he is determined not to go back to the shop
+whose officer caused him so much trouble. The
+prison discipline takes no cognizance of the situation.
+Regularly every Monday the torture is repeated: the
+youth is called before the Deputy, and assigned to the
+hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed
+by the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary,
+to be cited again before the Warden the ensuing Monday.
+I chafe at my helplessness to aid the boy. His course
+is suicidal, but the least suggestion of yielding enrages
+him. "I'll die before I give in," he told me.</p>
+
+<p>From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn
+the sad story of his young life. He is nineteen, with a
+sentence of five years before him. His father, a brakeman,
+was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for
+damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving
+the widow destitute. Since the age of fourteen young
+Johnny had to support the whole family. Lately he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span>
+was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon,
+associating with a rough element that gradually drew
+him into gambling. One day a shortage of twelve dollars
+was discovered in the boy's accounts: the mills of
+justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily clad
+in stripes.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In vain I strive to absorb myself in the library book.
+The shoddy heroes of Laura Jean wake no response in
+my heart; the superior beings of Corelli, communing
+with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange and
+unhuman. Here, in the cell above me, cries and moans
+the terrible tragedy of Reality. What a monstrous thing
+it is that the whole power of the commonwealth, all the
+machinery of government, is concentrated to crush this
+unfortunate atom! Innocently guilty, too, the poor boy
+is. Ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble
+creature of vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by
+a moment of weakness. Yet his deviation from the path
+of established ethics is but a faint reflection of the lives
+of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy of
+organized Society! The very foundation of its existence
+rests upon the negation and defiance of every professed
+principle of right and justice. Every feature of its face
+is a caricature, a travesty upon the semblance of truth;
+the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very name.
+Political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry
+gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant
+on the ruins of manhood&mdash;such is the morality of
+civilization. And over the edifice of this stupendous
+perversion the Law sits enthroned, and Religion weaves
+the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong,
+and bids the cowering helot intone, "Thy will be done!"</p>
+
+<p>Devoutly Johnny goes to Church, and prays forgiveness
+for his "sins." The prosecutor was "very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>
+hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole perceives
+only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons
+directly responsible for his long imprisonment.
+But greater minds have failed fully to grasp the
+iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns, even,
+seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit
+with his deep sympathy for the poor, the oppressed.
+But "man's inhumanity to man" is not the last word.
+The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the
+savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted
+mankind into wolves and sheep. In liberty and communism,
+none would have the will or the power "to make
+countless thousands mourn." Verily, it is the system,
+rather than individuals, that is the source of pollution
+and degradation. My prison-house environment is
+but another manifestation of the Midas-hand, whose
+cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of
+Mammon. Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement;
+with savage joy the shop foreman cracks his whip,
+for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The famished
+bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling
+in the dungeon night, the men buried in "basket" and
+solitary,&mdash;what human hand would turn the key upon
+a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like fate,
+and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but
+an intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger
+prison locked with the levers of Greed, guarded by the
+spawn of Hunger.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It
+is a Herculean task to rouse Apathy to the sordidness
+of its misery. Yet if the People would but realize the
+depths of their degradation and be informed of the
+means of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace
+Anarchy! Quick and decisive would be the victory of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span>
+the workers against the handful of their despoilers. An
+hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and superstition,
+and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world,
+and the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted
+upon the hills of a regenerated humanity. Ah, if the
+world would but pause for one short while, and understand,
+and become free!</p>
+
+<p>Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical
+lore: only one instant of righteousness, and Messiah
+would come upon earth. The beautiful promise had
+strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The
+merciful God requires so little of us, I had often
+pondered. Why will we not abstain from sin and evil,
+for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"? For weeks I
+went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent
+Israel refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant
+with projects of hastening the deliverance. Like a
+divine inspiration came the solution: at the stroke of the
+noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and
+women of the Jewry throughout the world should bow
+in prayer. For a single stroke of time, all at once&mdash;behold
+the Messiah come! In agonizing perplexity I gazed at
+my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly
+smile quivered dismay into my thrilling heart! The
+children of Israel could not be saved thus,&mdash;he spoke
+sadly. Nay, not even in the most circumspect manner,
+affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth
+time to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah
+will come, the good tutor kindly consoled me. It had
+been promised. "But the hour hath not arrived," he
+quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of
+the Deliverer."</p>
+
+<p>With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new
+hope, the revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi
+was wise beyond his ken: it hath been given to no man to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span>
+hasten the march of delivery. Out of the People's need,
+from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour
+of redemption. Necessity, Necessity alone, with its iron
+heel, will spur numb Misery to effort, and waken the
+living dead. The process is tortuously slow, but the
+gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried by impatience.
+We must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the
+workers for the great upheaval. The errors of the past
+are to be guarded against: always has apparent victory
+been divested of its fruits, and paralyzed into defeat,
+because the People were fettered by their respect for
+property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by
+reliance upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out,
+and the torch of reason lighted in the darkness of men's
+minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the midway clouds
+of defeat, and sight the glory of the Social Revolution,
+and the beyond.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused
+sounds ring in my ears, and beat upon my head. I wake
+in nameless dread. The cell-house is raging with uproar:
+crash after crash booms through the hall; it thunders
+against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some
+monstrous drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases.</p>
+
+<p>In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still.
+Timidly I look around. The cell is in darkness, and only
+a faint gas light flickers unsteadily in the corridor.
+Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and unearthly,
+bursting into wild laughter. And again the fearful
+thunder, now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering
+menacingly in the distance, then dying with a growl.
+And all is hushed again, and only the unearthly laughter
+rings through the hall.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Johnny, Johnny!" I call in alarm. "Johnny!"</p>
+
+<p>"Th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the
+privy. "This is Horsethief. Is that you, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. What <i>is</i> it, Bob?"</p>
+
+<p>"Some one breakin' up housekeepin'."</p>
+
+<p>"Who?"</p>
+
+<p>"Can't tell. May be Smithy."</p>
+
+<p>"What Smithy, Bob?"</p>
+
+<p>"Crazy Smith, on crank row. Look out now, they're
+comin'."</p>
+
+<p>The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges.
+Shadowlike, giant figures glide past my cell. They walk
+inaudibly, felt-soled and portentous, the long riot clubs
+rigid at their sides. Behind them others, and then the
+Warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With
+bated breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other
+men at the doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter
+pierce the night: there is the rattling of iron, violent
+scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling body, and all
+is quiet. Noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge
+shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun
+glints a ray upon the bloody trail in the hall, and hides
+behind the gathering mist. A squad of men in gray and
+black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the
+floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not
+dead. He will recover, the rangeman assures me. The
+doctor bandaged the man's wounds, and then the prisoner,
+still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon. Little
+by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith
+has been insane, at times violently, ever since his impris<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span>onment,
+about four years ago. His "partner," Burns, has
+also become deranged through worry over his sentence of
+twenty-five years. His madness assumed such revolting
+expression that the authorities caused his commitment
+to the insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank
+row," the Warden insisting that he is shamming to gain
+an opportunity to escape.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman
+are events in the monotony of the solitary. Owing
+to the illness of Bob, communication with my friends is
+almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the
+hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying
+sameness. By violent efforts of will I strangle the
+recurring thought of my long sentence, and seek forgetfulness
+in reading. Volume after volume passes
+through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the
+printed word. Page by page I recite the history of the
+Holy Church, the lives of the Fathers and the Saints, or
+read aloud, to hear a human voice, the mythology of
+Greece and India, mingling with it, for the sake of
+variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But
+in the midst of an intricate passage in the "Unknowable,"
+or in the heart of a difficult mathematical problem, I
+suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing familiar
+figures on the library slate: 22 &times; 12 = 264. What is
+this, I wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious
+manner, to finish the calculation:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+264 &times; 30 = 7,920 days.<br />
+7,920 &times; 24 = 190,080 hours.<br />
+190,080 &times; 60 = 11,404,800 minutes.<br />
+11,404,800 &times; 60 = 684,288,000 seconds.<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>But the next moment I am aghast at the realization<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span>
+that my computation allows only 30 days per month,
+whereas the year consists of 365, sometimes even of
+366 days. And again I repeat the process, multiplying
+22 by 365, and am startled to find that I have almost
+700,000,000 seconds to pass in the solitary. From the
+official calendar alongside of the rules the cheering
+promise faces me, Good conduct shortens time. But I
+have been repeatedly reported and punished&mdash;they will
+surely deprive me of the commutation. With great care
+I figure out my allowance: one month on the first year,
+one on the second; two on the third and fourth; three on
+the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months'
+"good time" on each succeeding year. I shall therefore
+have to serve fifteen years and three months in this place,
+and then eleven months in the workhouse. I have been
+here now two years. It still leaves me 14 years and
+2 months, or more than 5,170 days. Appalled by
+the figures, I pace the cell in agitation. It is hopeless!
+It is folly to expect to survive such a sentence, especially
+in view of the Warden's persecution, and the petty
+tyranny of the keepers.</p>
+
+<p>Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of
+unforeseen developments in the world at large that will
+somehow result in my liberation, all struggle in confusion,
+leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute
+isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of
+illness and suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp
+pang I observe the thinning of my hair. The evidence
+of physical decay rouses the fear of mental collapse,
+insanity.... I shudder at the terrible suggestion, and
+lash myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the
+rangeman, and every passing convict, my heart seething
+with hatred of the Warden, the guards, the judge, and
+that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and merciless,
+thing&mdash;the world. In the moments of reacting calm I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>
+apply myself to philosophy and science, determinedly,
+with the desperation born of horror. But the dread ghost
+is ever before me; it follows me up and down the cell,
+mocks me with the wild laughter of "Crazy Smith" in
+the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and
+waking of my neighbor suddenly gone mad.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2>
+
+<h3>MEMORY-GUESTS</h3>
+
+
+<p>Often the Chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks
+words of encouragement. I feel deeply moved by his
+sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions forbid the
+expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of
+oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the
+obsequiousness of the fawning convict. But I hope he
+feels my appreciation in the simple "thank you." It is
+kind of him to lend me books from his private library,
+and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing
+paper. Correspondence with the Girl and the Twin,
+and the unfrequent exchange of notes with my comrades,
+are the only links that still bind me to the living.
+I feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial
+incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting
+interest for the other inmates. "Old Sammy," the rangeman,
+grown nervous with the approach of liberty, inverts
+a hundred opportunities to unburden his heart. All day
+long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the
+doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly
+to the solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated
+recital of the "news," elaborately discussed and commented
+upon with impassioned earnestness. He interrupts
+his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the
+"thieving murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details
+of the meal he will enjoy on the day of release, the
+imprisoned friends he will remember with towels and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span>
+handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of
+the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken
+heart, the boys have not written a line in three years.
+He fears they have sold the little farmhouse, and flown
+to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives away
+the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "I'll see,
+I'll see," and rejoices in being "alive and still good for
+a while," and then abruptly changes the conversation, and
+relates minutely how "that poor, crazy Dick" was yesterday
+found hanging in the cell, and he the first to discover
+him, and to help the guards cut him down. And last
+week he was present when the physician tried to revive
+"the little dago," and if the doctor had only returned
+quicker from the theatre, poor Joe might have been
+saved. He "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay;
+'waitin' for the doc,' they says. Hope they don't kill <i>me</i>
+yet," he comments, hobbling away.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction.
+Ever stronger asserts itself the love of life;
+the will to be roots deeper. But the hope of escape
+recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The constant
+harassing has forced the discontinuation of the <i>Blossoms</i>.
+The eccentric Warden seems to have conceived a great
+fear of an Anarchist conspiracy: special orders have
+been issued, placing the trio under extraordinary
+surveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence,
+yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to
+separate us in a manner excluding all possibility of communication.
+Apparently I am to be continued in the
+solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the South
+Wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an
+upper gallery in the North Block. The precious magazine
+is suspended, and only the daring of the faithful
+"Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional note.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle
+light, I pass the long winter evenings. The prison day
+between 7 <small>A. M.</small> and 9 <small>P. M.</small> I divide into three parts,
+devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and
+reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals
+and "cleaning up." Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries,
+borrowed from the Chaplain, I absorb myself
+in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word,
+studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and
+suffix. I find moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing
+some simple expression through all the vicissitudes of its
+existence, to its Latin or Greek source. In the history
+of the corresponding epoch, I seek the people's joys and
+tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word.
+Philology, with the background of history, leads me into
+the pastures of mythology and comparative religion,
+through the mazes of metaphysics and warring philosophies,
+to rationalism and evolutionary science.</p>
+
+<p>Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the disciples
+of Socrates, flee Athens with the persecuted
+Diagoras, "the Atheist," and listen in ecstasy to the
+sweet-voiced lute of Arion; or with Suetonius I pass in
+review the Twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages
+swelling the triumph of the Eternal City. But on the
+very threshold of Cleopatra's boudoir, about to enter
+with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three giant
+slaves with the command:</p>
+
+<p>"A 7, hands up! Step out to be searched!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock.
+With difficulty I force myself to pick up the thread of
+my life amid the spirits of the past. The placid waters
+have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the quagmire
+seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the bitterness
+of death.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The release of "Old Sammy" stirs me to the very
+depths. Many prisoners have come and gone during
+my stay; with some I merely touched hands as they
+passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace
+in my existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling
+eyes and fervid optimism, has grown dear to me. He
+shared with me his hopes and fears, divided his extra
+slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own
+homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something
+has gone out of my life with him, leaving a void,
+saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow my friend
+through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the
+alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the
+promise of life and joy and liberty. Like a horrible
+nightmare the sombre walls fade away, and only a dark
+shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden menace,
+faint, yet ever-present and terrible. The sun glows
+brilliant in the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon
+the azure, and sweet odors are everywhere about me.
+All the longing of my soul wells up with violent passion,
+and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself
+upon the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful
+bliss....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the
+dark. Silently lifts the veil of time. The little New
+York flat rises before me. The Girl is returning home,
+the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of
+death. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look
+of challenge in her saddened face. As on an open page,
+I read the suffering of her prison experience, the
+sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... The joys and
+sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again
+I live in the old surroundings. The memorable scene
+of our first meeting, in the little caf&eacute; at Sachs', projects<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span>
+clearly. The room is chilly in the November dusk, as
+I return from work and secure my accustomed place.
+One by one the old habitu&eacute;s drop in, and presently I am
+in a heated discussion with two Russian refugees at the
+table opposite. The door opens, and a young woman
+enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she
+diffuses an atmosphere of strength and vitality. I
+wonder who the newcomer may be. Two years in the
+movement have familiarized me with the personnel of
+the revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl
+is evidently a stranger; I am quite sure I have never
+met her at our gatherings. I motion to the passing
+proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question. "You
+want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers.
+"I'll see, I'll see."&mdash;Somehow I find myself at her table.
+Without constraint, we soon converse like old acquaintances,
+and I learn that she left her home in Rochester
+to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is
+a dressmaker, and hopes to find work in New York.
+I like her simple, frank confidence; the "comrade" on her
+lips thrills me. She is one of us, then. With a sense
+of pride in the movement, I enlarge upon the activities
+of our circle. There are important meetings she ought
+to attend, many people to meet; Hasselmann is conducting
+a course in sociology; Schultze is giving splendid
+lectures. "Have you heard Most?" I ask suddenly.
+"No? You must hear our Grand Old Man. He speaks
+to-morrow; will you come with me?"&mdash;Eagerly I look
+forward to the next evening, and hasten to the caf&eacute;.
+It is frosty outdoors as I walk the narrow, dark streets
+in animated discussion with "Comrade Rochester." The
+ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots
+crusted with filth. As we cross Delancey Street, the girl
+slips and almost falls, when I catch her in my arms just
+in time to prevent her head striking the curbstone. "You<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span>
+have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes dancing
+vivaciously.... With great pride I introduce my new
+friend to the <i>inteligentzia</i> of the Ghetto, among the
+exiles of the colony.  Ah, the exaltation, the joy of
+being!... The whole history of revolutionary Russia
+is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental
+Nihilism and political view is harbored there. I see
+Hartman, surrounded by the halo of conspirative mystery;
+at his side is the <i>velikorussian</i>, with flowing beard
+and powerful frame, of the older generation of the
+<i>narodovoiltzy</i>; and there is Schewitsch, big and broad of
+feature, the typical <i>dvoryanin</i> who has cast in his lot
+with the proletariat. The line of contending faiths is
+not drawn sharply in the colony: Cahan is among us,
+stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality;
+Solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous;
+Miller, poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named
+brother Brandes, looking consumptive from his experience
+in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and
+Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein&mdash;all are united in
+enthusiasm for the common cause. Types from Turgenev
+and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski and Nekrassov,
+mingle in the seeming confusion of reality, individualized
+with varying shade and light. And other
+elements are in the colony, the splashed quivers of the
+simmering waters of Tsardom. Shapes in the making,
+still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition and
+new environment. Who knows what shall be the amalgam,
+some day to be recast by the master hand of a
+new Turgenev?...</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of
+the past. With infinite detail I live again through the
+years of the inspiring friendship that held the Girl, the
+Twin, and myself in the closest bonds of revolutionary<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span>
+aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest
+and rich promise was life in those days, so far away,
+when after the hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory
+I would hasten to the little room in Suffolk Street!
+Small and narrow, with its diminutive table and solitary
+chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured into
+the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of
+the world's weal. Only two could sit on the little cot,
+the third on the rickety chair. And if somebody else
+called, we would stand around the room, filling the
+air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the
+firm consciousness that we were hastening the steps of
+progress, advancing the glorious Dawn.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The memory of the life "outside" intensifies the
+misery of the solitary. I brood over the uselessness of
+my suffering. My mission in life terminated with the
+<i>Attentat</i>. What good can my continued survival do?
+My propagandistic value as a living example of class
+injustice and political persecution is not of sufficient importance
+to impose upon me the duty of existence. And
+even if it were, the almost three years of my imprisonment
+have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration,
+so long as I remain constantly under lock
+and key, the subject of special surveillance. Communication
+with Nold and Bauer, too, is daily growing more
+difficult. My health is fast failing; I am barely able to
+walk. What is the use of all this misery and torture?
+What is the use?...</p>
+
+<p>In such moments, I stand on the brink of eternity.
+Is it sheer apathy and languor that hold the weak thread
+of life, or nature's law and the inherent spirit of resistance?
+Were I not in the enemy's power, I should
+unhesitatingly cross the barrier. But as a pioneer of
+the Cause, I must live and struggle. Yet life without<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span>
+activity or interest is terrifying.... I long for sympathy
+and affection. With an aching heart I remember my
+comrades and friends, and the Girl. More and more
+my mind dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night
+with a passionate desire for the sight of a sweet face,
+the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning fills me for
+the women I have known, as they pass in my mind's
+eye from the time of my early youth to the last kiss of
+feminine lips. With a thrill I recall each bright look
+and tender accent. My heart beats tumultuously as I
+meet little Nadya, on the way to school, pretending I
+do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks
+floating in the breeze, when I surprise her stealthily
+watching me. I adore her secretly, but proudly decline
+my chum's offer to introduce me. How foolish of me!
+But I know no timid shrinking as I wait, on a cold
+winter evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross
+the yard; and how unceremoniously I embrace her! She
+is not a <i>barishnya</i>; I need not mask my feelings. And
+she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things
+"not fit for a boy" of my age. But she kisses me again,
+and passion wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand....
+My Eldridge Street platonic sweetheart stands before
+me, and I tingle with every sensual emotion of my
+first years in New York.... Out of the New Haven
+days rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with unutterable
+longing for the unattained. And again I live
+through the experiences of the past, passionately visualizing
+every detail with images that flatter my erotic
+palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of
+sex.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XX</h2>
+
+<h3>A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>To K. &amp; G.</p>
+
+<p>Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The
+coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put
+in his place.</p>
+
+<p>It's lucky the old Deputy died&mdash;he was determined to keep
+me in solitary. In the absence of the Warden, Benny Greaves,
+the new Deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. But
+he has issued strict orders I should not be permitted to step
+into the yard. I'll therefore still be under special surveillance,
+and I shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with
+our "Faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence.</p>
+
+<p>Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out
+of the cell!</p>
+
+<p class="author">M.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>My position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities
+for closer contact with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman
+in taking care of a row of sixty-four cells situated
+on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it are, successively,
+I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of
+the cell-house. On the opposite side, facing the river,
+the ranges are labelled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries
+form parallelograms about each double cell-row; bridged
+at the centre, they permit easy access to the several
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span>
+ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and
+forty cells, are contained within the outer stone building,
+and comprise the North Block of the penitentiary.
+It connects with the South Wing by means of the
+rotunda.</p>
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 455px;">
+<a name="Cell" id="Cell"></a>
+<span class="caption">CELL RANGES&mdash;SOUTH BLOCK</span>
+<img src="images/cellrange.jpg" width="455" height="640" alt="CELL RANGES" title="CELL RANGES" />
+</div>
+
+<p>The bottom tiers A and K serve as "receiving"
+ranges. Here every new arrival is temporarily "celled,"
+before he is assigned to work and transferred to the gallery
+occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges are
+also located the men undergoing special punishment in
+basket and solitary. The lower end of the two ranges
+is designated "bughouse row." It contains the "cranks,"
+among whom are classed inmates in different stages of
+mental aberration.</p>
+
+<p>My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the
+cell doors, and assisting at feeding, enable me to become
+acquainted and to form friendships. I marvel at the
+inadequacy of my previous notions of "the criminal."
+I resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to
+evolve the intricate convolutions of a living human brain
+out of the shape of a digit cut from a dead hand, and
+labels it "criminal type." Daily association dispels the
+myth of the "species," and reveals the individual. Growing
+intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers coarsened
+by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and
+fear. There is "Reddie" Butch, a rosy-cheeked young
+fellow of twenty-one, as frank-spoken a boy as ever
+honored a striped suit. A jolly criminal is Butch, with
+his irrepressible smile and gay song. He was "just dying
+to take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. But he
+couldn't afford it; he earned only seven dollars per week,
+as butcher's boy. He always gave his mother every
+penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because
+he couldn't spend anything on her. "And I goes to work
+and swipes a rig, and say, Aleck, you ought to see me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span>
+drive to me girl's house, big-like. In I goes. 'Put on
+your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you the
+drive of your life.' And I did; you bet your sweet life,
+I did, ha, ha, ha!" But when he returned the rig to its
+owner, Butch was arrested. "'Just a prank, Your
+Honor,' I says to the Judge. And what d' you think,
+Aleck? Thought I'd die when he said three years. I was
+foolish, of course; but there's no use crying over spilt
+milk, ha, ha, ha! But you know, the worst of it is, me
+girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar you, eh? Well,
+I'll try hard to forget th' minx. She's a sweet girl,
+though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>And there is Young Rush, the descendant of the
+celebrated family of the great American physician. The
+delicate features, radiant with spirituality, bear a striking
+resemblance to Shelley; the limping gait recalls the
+tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder! He sits at the
+door, an open book in his hands,&mdash;the page is moist with
+the tears silently trickling down his face. He smiles at
+my approach, and his expressive eyes light up the darkened
+cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking through
+the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a Summer night:
+the skiff suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"&mdash;he
+points to the river,&mdash;"near McKees Rocks." He was
+dragged out, unconscious. They told him the girl was
+dead, and that he was her murderer! He reaches for
+the photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from
+cell to cell with deliberate stroke, all the while watching
+for an opportunity to exchange a greeting, with the
+prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie. How he
+cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he
+was! In gentler tones I speak to the unfortunates, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span>
+encourage the new arrivals, or indulge some demented
+prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of the
+hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows
+in my wake. Taking advantage of the old Block Captain's
+"cold in the head," I cautiously hint at the danger
+of germs lurking in the dust-laden atmosphere. "A
+little wet sawdust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you
+wouldn't catch colds so often." A capital idea, he thinks,
+and thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed
+in my cell.</p>
+
+<p>In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary.
+Every trifle means so much. "Long Joe," the rangeman,
+whose duty it is to attend to their needs, is engrossed
+with his own troubles.  The poor fellow is serving
+twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "Wild
+Bill" and "Bighead" Wilson. They are constantly
+demanding to see the Warden. It is remarkable that
+they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in
+fear of them. "Wild Bill" is a self-confessed invert, and
+there are peculiar rumors concerning his intimacy with
+the Warden. Recently Bill complained of indigestion,
+and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him.
+"From the Warden's table," he remarked, with a sly
+wink. And Wilson is jocularly referred to as "the
+Deputy," even by the officers. He is still in stripes, but
+he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new
+Deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards,
+and issues orders. He is the Warden's "runner," clad
+with the authority of his master. The prisoners regard
+Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially hate them; but
+none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed
+by "Deputy" Wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity
+between the two on account of a young prisoner who
+prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried by the complex
+intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is indifferent<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>
+to the unfortunates in the cells. Butch is devoured by
+bedbugs, and "Praying" Andy's mattress is flattened into
+a pancake. The simple-minded life-timer is being neglected:
+he has not yet recovered from the assault by
+Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer.
+I urge the rangeman to report to the Captain the need
+of "bedbugging" Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with a
+new mattress, and of notifying the doctor of the increasing
+signs of insanity among the solitaries.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>Breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and
+march to the shops. Broom in hand, rangemen and
+assistants step upon the galleries, and commence to
+sweep the floors. Officers pass along the tiers, closely
+scrutinizing each cell. Now and then they pause, facing
+a "delinquent." They note his number, unlock the door,
+and the prisoner joins the "sick line" on the ground floor.</p>
+
+<p>One by one the men augment the row; they walk
+slowly, bent and coughing, painfully limping down the
+steep flights. From every range they come; the old and
+decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic,
+a tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. All
+look withered and dejected,&mdash;a ghastly line, palsied and
+blear-eyed, blanched in the valley of death.</p>
+
+<p>The rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters,
+accompanied by Deputy Warden Greaves and
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a prisoner,
+dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. Dr.
+Boyce glances at the long line, and knits his brow. He
+looks at his watch, and the frown deepens. He has
+much to do. Since the death of the senior doctor, the
+young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison.
+He must make the rounds of the shops before noon,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span>
+and visit the patients in the hospital before the Warden
+or the Deputy drops in.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the
+hall entrance. The Assistant Deputy, pad in hand,
+places himself at the head of the sick line. The doctor
+leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the Deputy.
+The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances.</p>
+
+<p>"Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out.</p>
+
+<p>A slender young man leaves the line and approaches
+the doctor. He is tall and well featured, the large eyes
+lustrous in the pale face. He speaks in a hoarse voice:</p>
+
+<p>"Doctor, there is something the matter with my side.
+I have pains, and I cough bad at night, and in the morning&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking
+up from his notebook. "Give him some salts," he adds,
+with a nod to his assistant.</p>
+
+<p>"Next!" the Deputy calls.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few
+days?" the sick prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice.</p>
+
+<p>The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy.
+The latter cries, impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking
+the desk twice, in quick succession, with the knuckles of
+his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of
+tobacco juice in the direction of the cuspidor. It strikes
+sidewise, and splashes over the foot of the approaching
+new patient, a young negro, his neck covered with bulging
+tumors.</p>
+
+<p>"Number?" the doctor inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy
+mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh handful
+of "scrap" tobacco.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce,"
+the negro says hoarsely.</p>
+
+<p>"Salts. Return to work. Next!"</p>
+
+<p>"A one-twenty-six!"</p>
+
+<p>A young man with parchment-like face, sere and
+yellow, walks painfully from the line.</p>
+
+<p>"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm
+afraid&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"What's the trouble?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Give him a plaster. Next!"</p>
+
+<p>"Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his
+face growing livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a
+quick motion he pulls his shirt up to his head. His chest
+and back are entirely covered with porous plasters; not
+an inch of skin is visible. "Damn yer plasters," he cries
+with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters.
+I'm putty near dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me."</p>
+
+<p>The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him
+into the rotunda.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>One by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor.
+He stands, head bent, penciling, rarely glancing up. The
+elongated ascetic face wears a preoccupied look; he
+drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "Next! Numb'r?
+Salts! Plaster! Salts! Next!" Occasionally he glances
+at his watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow
+deepens, and the austere face grows more severe and
+rigid. Now and then he turns his eyes upon the Deputy
+Warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working,
+a thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and
+heavily streaking the gray beard. Cheeks protruding,
+mouth full of juice, the Deputy mumbles unintelligently,
+turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "Next!" and gives
+two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span>
+to order the man to work. Only the withered and the
+lame are temporarily excused, the Deputy striking the
+desk thrice to convey the permission to the doctor.</p>
+
+<p>Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to
+the shops, coughing, wheezing, and moaning, only to
+repeat the ordeal the following morning. Quite often,
+breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task,
+the men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to
+receive a respite from the killing toil,&mdash;a short intermission,
+or a happier, eternal reprieve.</p>
+
+<p>The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful
+in the shops, are sent back to their quarters, and locked
+up for the day. Only these, the permitted delinquents,
+the insane, the men in solitary, and the sweepers, remain
+within the inner walls during working hours. The pall
+of silence descends upon the House of Death.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>The guards creep stealthily along the tiers. Officer
+George Dean, lank and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his
+sharply hooked nose in advance, his evil-looking eyes
+peering through the bars, scrutinizing every inmate.
+Suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "Hey, you, Eleven-thirty-nine!
+On the bed again! Wha-at? Sick, hell!
+No dinner!" Noisily he pretends to return to the desk
+"in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell door,
+and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed
+murmur proceeds from the upper galleries. Cautiously
+the guard advances, hastily passes several cells, pauses
+a moment, and then quickly steps into the center of the
+hall, shouting: "Cells forty-seven K, I, H! Talking
+through the pipe! Got you this time, all right." He
+grins broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to
+the Block Captain. The guards ascend the galleries.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span>
+Levers are pulled, doors opened with a bang, and the
+three prisoners are marched to the office. For days
+their cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Gaunt and cadaverous, Guard Hughes makes the
+rounds of the tiers, on a tour of inspection. With
+bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes intently
+through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely
+he walks along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a
+picture off the wall, there gathering a few scraps of
+paper. As I pass along the hall, he slams a door on the
+range above, and appears upon the gallery. His pockets
+bulge with confiscated goods. He glances around, as
+the Deputy enters from the yard. "Hey, Jasper!" the
+guard calls. The colored trusty scampers up the stairs.
+"Take this to the front." The officer hands him a
+dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little
+square of cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed
+prisoner had saved up by sitting in the dark for
+weeks. "Show 't to the Deputy," the officer says, in an
+undertone. "I'm doing business, all right!" The trusty
+laughs boisterously, "Yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am."</p>
+
+<p>The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick
+look to the front. The Deputy is disappearing through
+the rotunda door. The officer casts his eye about the
+cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers.
+A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the
+floor. On the bed are some bananas and a bunch of
+grapes,&mdash;forbidden fruit. The guard steps back to the
+gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches for
+the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell.
+It bears the legend, painted in black, A 480. On the
+reverse side the officer reads, "Collins Hamilton, dated&mdash;&mdash;."
+His watery eyes strain to decipher the penciled
+marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "Jasper!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>
+he calls, "come up here." The trusty hastens to him.</p>
+
+<p>"You know who this man is, Jasper? A four-eighty."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah sure knows. Dat am Hamilton, de bank 'bezleh."</p>
+
+<p>"Where's he working?"</p>
+
+<p>"Wat <i>he</i> wan' teh work foh? He am de Cap'n's
+clerk. In de awfice, <i>he</i> am."</p>
+
+<p>"All right, Jasper." The guard carefully closes the
+clerk's door, and enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean
+and orderly. The stone floor is bare, the bedding smooth;
+the library book, tin can, and plate, are neatly arranged
+on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the
+blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the
+pillow in search of secreted contraband. He reaches
+up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and takes down the
+little bag of scrap tobacco,&mdash;the weekly allowance of
+the prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand,
+shakes it up, and thrusts it into his mouth. He produces
+a prison "plug" from his pocket, bites off a piece, spits
+in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks at his
+watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice
+into the corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery.
+He surveys the field, leans over the railing, and squints
+at the front. The chairs at the officers' desk are vacant.
+The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and stretches,
+and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock.
+He picks up the library book, listlessly examines the
+cover, flings the book on the shelf, spits disgustedly,
+then takes another chew, and sprawls down on the bed.</p>
+
+
+<h4>V</h4>
+
+<p>At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span>
+physique and glowing vitality, Mr. Woods wears his
+new honors as Captain of the Block with aggressive
+self-importance. He has recently been promoted from
+the shop to the charge of the North Wing, on the morning
+shift, from 5 <small>A. M.</small> to 1 <small>P. M.</small> Every now and
+then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the
+hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the
+opposite cell-row.</p>
+
+<p>With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses
+his superior, the Assistant Deputy, in measured,
+low tones. The latter listens gravely, his head slightly
+bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the heavy-rimmed
+spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered,
+rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he
+espies the shining face of Jasper on an upper gallery.
+The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a large apple
+from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks:</p>
+
+<p>"How does this strike you, Jasper?"</p>
+
+<p>"Looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, Cunnel."</p>
+
+<p>Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins
+laughs, and motions to the negro. The trusty joins them
+at the desk.</p>
+
+<p>"I'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in
+two bites," the Assistant Deputy says to Woods.</p>
+
+<p>"Hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't know this darky, Scot," Hopkins rejoins.
+"I know him for the last&mdash;let me see&mdash;fifteen, eighteen,
+twenty years. That's when you first came here, eh, Jasper?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yassah, 'bout dat."</p>
+
+<p>"In the old prison, then?" Woods inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when 'Shoe-box'
+Miller got out, wasn't you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yo 'member good, Cunnel. Dat Ah was, sure 'nuf.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span>
+En mighty slick it was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed
+in dat shoebox, en mek his get-away."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes. And this is your fourth time since then,
+I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"No, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, Cunnel. Youh
+remnishent am bad. Dis jus' free times, jus' free."</p>
+
+<p>"Come off, it's four."</p>
+
+<p>"Free, Cunnel, no moah."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think, Mr. Hopkins, Jasper could eat the
+apple in two bites?" Woods reminds him.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line
+this coon couldn't do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple if
+you make it in two bites. Don't disgrace me, now."</p>
+
+<p>The negro grins, "Putty big, Cunnel, but Ah'm a
+gwine teh try powful hard."</p>
+
+<p>With a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his
+face looks like a veritable cavern, reaching from ear to
+ear, and edged by large, shimmering tusks. With both
+hands he inserts the big apple, and his sharp teeth come
+down with a loud snap. He chews quickly, swallows,
+repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands.
+The apple has disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>The Assistant Deputy roars with laughter. "What
+did I tell you, eh, Scot? What did I tell you, ho, ho,
+ho!" The tears glisten in his eye.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the
+hour. He relates his experiences, tells humorous anecdotes,
+and the officers are merry. Now and then Deputy
+Warden Greaves drops in. Woods rises.</p>
+
+<p>"Have a seat, Mr. Greaves."</p>
+
+<p>"That's all right, that's all right, Scot," the Deputy
+mumbles, his eye searching for the cuspidor. "Sit down,
+Scot: I'm as young as any of you."</p>
+
+<p>With mincing step he walks into the first cell, re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span>served
+for the guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket,
+takes several quick gulps, wabbles back to the desk, and
+sinks heavily into Woods's seat.</p>
+
+<p>"Jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty.</p>
+
+<p>"Yassah. Scrap, Dep'ty?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yah. A nip of plug, too."</p>
+
+<p>"Yassah, yassah, immejitly."</p>
+
+<p>"What are you men doing here?" the Deputy blusters
+at the two subordinates.</p>
+
+<p>Woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the
+Deputy, and then relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant
+Hopkins looks sternly at the Deputy Warden from
+above his glasses. "That's all right, Greaves," he says,
+familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Say, you
+should have seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great,
+big apple in two bites; as big as your head, I'll swear."</p>
+
+<p>"That sho?" the Deputy nods sleepily.</p>
+
+<p>The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap
+in one hand, a plug in the other. The Deputy slowly
+opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the cell, remains
+there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling
+at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink,
+sits down, fills his mouth with tobacco, glances at the
+floor, and demands, hoarsely:</p>
+
+<p>"Where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?"</p>
+
+<p>"Just being cleaned, Mr. Greaves," Woods replies.</p>
+
+<p>"Cleaned, always th' shame shtory. I ordered&mdash;ya&mdash;ordered&mdash;hey,
+bring shpittoon, Jasper." He wags his
+head drowsily.</p>
+
+<p>"He means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload,"
+Hopkins says, with a wink at Woods. "It was the very
+first order he gave when he became Deputy after Jimmie
+McPane died. I tell you, Scot, we won't see soon
+another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all
+right, every inch of him. Wouldn't stand for the old<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span>
+man, the Warden, interfering with him, either. Not
+like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring
+Greaves. "Here, Benny," he raises his voice and slaps
+the deputy on the knee, "here's Jasper with your spittoon."</p>
+
+<p>Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about;
+presently, noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor,
+and spurts a long jet at it.</p>
+
+<p>"Say, Jasper," Hopkins calls to the retiring negro,
+"the deputy wants to hear that story you told us a while
+ago, about you got the left hind foot of a she-rabbit,
+on a moonlit night in a graveyard."</p>
+
+<p>"Who shaid I want to hear 't?" the Deputy bristles,
+suddenly wide awake.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, you do, Greaves," Hopkins asserts. "The rabbit
+foot brings good luck, you know. This coon here
+wears it on his neck. Show it to the Deputy, Jasper."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Prisoner Wilson, the Warden's favorite messenger,
+enters from the yard. With quick, energetic step he
+passes the officers at the desk, entirely ignoring their
+presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his unnaturally
+large head set close upon the heavy, almost
+neckless shoulders.</p>
+
+<p>"Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after?" the Deputy
+shouts after him.</p>
+
+<p>Without replying, Wilson continues on his way.</p>
+
+<p>"Dep'ty Wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of
+hatred and envy.</p>
+
+<p>Assistant Deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. "Wilson,"
+he calls with quiet sternness, "Mr. Greaves is
+speaking to you. Come back at once."</p>
+
+<p>His face purple with anger, Wilson retraces his steps.
+"What do you want, Deputy?" he demands, savagely.</p>
+
+<p>The Deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span>
+but catching the severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently:
+"What do you want in the block?"</p>
+
+<p>"On Captain Edward S. Wright's business," Wilson
+replies with a sneer.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, go ahead. But next time I call you, you better
+come back."</p>
+
+<p>"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him
+that you detained me with an idle question," Wilson
+snarls back.</p>
+
+<p>"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him.</p>
+
+<p>"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he
+departs.</p>
+
+<p>"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off,"
+the Assistant mutters.</p>
+
+<p>"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated,"
+Woods comments.</p>
+
+<p>"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the
+Deputy says meekly.</p>
+
+<p>Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro
+busies himself, wiping the yellow-stained floor around
+the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly to the open
+cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks
+up to the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to
+the other side, and scans the bottom range. Long and
+dismal stretches the hall, in melancholy white and gray,
+the gloomy cell-building brooding in the centre, like some
+monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods
+resumes his seat.</p>
+
+<p>"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles.
+"Doing well."</p>
+
+<p>A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The
+officers prick up their ears. The rasping continues and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span>
+grows louder. The negro trusty tiptoes up the tiers.</p>
+
+<p>"It's somebody with his spoon on the door," the
+Assistant Deputy remarks, indifferently.</p>
+
+<p>The Block Captain motions to me. "See who's rapping
+there, will you?"</p>
+
+<p>I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to
+the wall, I can see up to the doors of the third gallery.
+Here and there a nose protrudes in the air, the bleached
+face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. The rapping
+grows louder as I advance.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is it?" I call.</p>
+
+<p>"Up here, 18 C."</p>
+
+<p>"Is that you, Ed?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell th' screw I must
+see the doctor."</p>
+
+<p>I run to the desk. "Mr. Woods," I report, "18 C
+got a hemorrhage. Can't stop it. He needs the doctor."</p>
+
+<p>"Let him wait," the Deputy growls.</p>
+
+<p>"Doctor hour is over. He should have reported in
+the morning," the Assistant Deputy flares up.</p>
+
+<p>"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing! Get back to your cell."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot,"
+the Deputy suggests.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment
+at 18 C, and returns.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to
+report on sick list in the morning."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and
+polished manner, enters from the yard. It is the "French
+Count," one of the clerks in the "front office."</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers.
+He leans familiarly over the Deputy's chair, remarking:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span>
+"I've been hunting half an hour for you. The Captain is
+a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you."</p>
+
+<p>The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he
+asks anxiously.</p>
+
+<p>"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's
+about?"</p>
+
+<p>"What? Quick, now."</p>
+
+<p>"They caught Wild Bill right in the act. Out in the
+yard there, back of the shed."</p>
+
+<p>The Deputy stumps heavily out into the yard.</p>
+
+<p>"Who's the kid?" the Assistant Deputy inquires, an
+amused twinkle in his eye.</p>
+
+<p>"Bobby."</p>
+
+<p>"Who? That boy on the whitewash gang?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Fatty Bobby."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent.
+The sick man is striking his tin can on the bars, and
+shaking the door. Woods hastens to C 18.</p>
+
+<p>"You stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sick. I want th' doctor."</p>
+
+<p>"This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning."</p>
+
+<p>"I may be dead in the morning. I want him now."</p>
+
+<p>"You won't see him, that's all. You keep quiet
+there."</p>
+
+<p>Furiously the prisoner raps on the door. The hall
+reverberates with hollow booming.</p>
+
+<p>The Block Captain returns to the desk, his face
+crimson. He whispers to the Assistant Deputy. The
+latter nods his head. Woods claps his hands, deliberately,
+slowly&mdash;one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend
+from the galleries, and advance to the desk. The rangemen
+appear at their doors.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock 'em in!"
+Woods commands.</p>
+
+<p>"You can stay here, Jasper," the Assistant Deputy
+remarks to the trusty.</p>
+
+<p>The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are
+pulled, the doors locked. I hear the tread of many feet
+on the third gallery. Now they cease, and all is quiet.</p>
+
+<p>"C 18, step out here!"</p>
+
+<p>The door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping,
+and the dull, heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud
+cry and a moan. They drag the prisoner along the range,
+and down the stairway. The rotunda door creaks, and
+the clamor dies away.</p>
+
+<p>A few minutes elapse in silence. Now some one whispers
+through the pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow.
+Loud coughing drowns the noises, and then the rotunda
+door opens with a plaintive screech.</p>
+
+<p>The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open
+door of my cell. The negro trusty dusts and brushes
+the officers, their hacks and arms covered with whitewash,
+as if they had been rubbed against the wall.</p>
+
+<p>Their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll
+in the chairs, and sit on the desk. They look somewhat
+ruffled and flustered. Jasper enlarges upon the piquant
+gossip. "Wild Bill," notorious invert and prot&eacute;g&eacute; of
+the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the
+kids from the stocking shop; he has been after "Fatty
+Bobby" for quite a while, and he's forever pestering
+"Lady Sally," and Young Davis, too. The guards are
+astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions.
+He responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates
+excitedly. There is merriment and laughter at the officers'
+desk.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>VI</h4>
+
+<p>Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge
+of the kitchen squad, enters the cell-house. Behind him,
+a score of prisoners carry large wooden tubs filled with
+steaming liquid. The negro trusty, his nostrils expanded
+and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces with
+a grin: "Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!"</p>
+
+<p>The scene becomes animated at the front. Tables are
+noisily moved about, the tinplate rattles, and men talk and
+shout. With a large ladle the soup is dished out from
+the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked up in
+long rows. The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters
+some orders that remain ignored, and looks critically at
+the dinner pans. He produces a pocket knife, and ambles
+along the tables, spearing a potato here, a bit of floating
+vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of the
+cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at
+the food. He hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to
+leave. The latter stands, hands dug into his pockets,
+short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time with
+the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the
+kitchen men, and slinks into an open cell. The prisoner
+fusses about, pretends to move the empty tubs out of
+the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup, and
+passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful,
+strolls by Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer
+walks to the open cell and surprises the guard, his head
+thrown back, the large pan covering his face. Woods
+smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Chief Jim," the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloonkeeper
+serving twelve years for murder, promenades down the
+range. Large-bellied and whitecapped, he wears an air
+of prosperity and independence. With swelling chest,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>
+stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty
+apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding
+and exchanging greetings. He pauses at a door: it's
+Cell 9 A,&mdash;the "Fat Kid." Jim leans against the wall,
+his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand
+steals between the bars. Now and then he glances
+toward the front, and steps closer to the door. He draws
+a large bundle from his bosom, hastily tears it open, and
+produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw onions,
+some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the
+young prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings
+between the bars. He lifts his apron, fans the
+door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork; then he
+smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars
+with both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche.</p>
+
+<p>As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several
+quick steps, then pauses at another cell. Standing away
+from the door, he speaks loudly and laughs boisterously,
+his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he leaves,
+advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the
+rangeman, lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks.
+The man nods affirmatively, and retreats into his cell.
+The Chief dives into the bosom of his shirt, and flings
+a bundle through the open door. He holds out his hand,
+whispering: "Two bits. Broke now? Be sure you pay
+me to-morrow. That steak there's worth a plunk."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The gong tolls the dinner hour. The negro trusty
+snatches two pans, and hastens away. The guards unlock
+the prisoners, excepting the men in solitary who are
+deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms
+in single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then,
+pan in hand, the men circle the block to the centre,
+ascend the galleries, and are locked in their cells.</p>
+
+<p>The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span>
+sounds from the yard. The shop workers enter, receive
+the pan of soup, and walk to the cells. Some sniff the
+air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. There
+is much suppressed murmuring and whispering.</p>
+
+<p>Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour.
+Every prisoner is counted and locked in. Only the
+trusties are about.</p>
+
+
+<h4>VII</h4>
+
+<p>The afternoon brings a breath of relief. "Old Jimmie"
+Mitchell, rough-spoken and kind, heads the second
+shift of officers, on duty from 1 till 9 <small>P. M.</small> The venerable
+Captain of the Block trudges past the cells, stroking
+his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the
+men. But the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing,
+and discourages trouble-seeking guards.</p>
+
+<p>Head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall,
+on his first round of the bottom ranges. Presently a
+voice hails him: "Oh, Mr. Mitchell! Come here, please."</p>
+
+<p>"Damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't
+you know better than to bother me when I'm counting,
+eh? Shut up now, God damn you. You've mixed me
+all up."</p>
+
+<p>He returns to the front, and begins to count again,
+pointing his finger at each occupied cell. This duty over,
+and his report filed, he returns to the offending prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>"What t' hell do you want, Butch?"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. I am walking
+on my socks."</p>
+
+<p>"Where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow?
+To a ball?"</p>
+
+<p>"Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth
+coaxes.</p>
+
+<p>"Go an' take a&mdash;thump to yourself, will you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful,
+but pauses a short distance from the cell, to hear Butch
+mumbling discontentedly. The Block Captain retraces
+his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him:</p>
+
+<p>"What did you say? 'Damn the old skunk!' that's
+what you said, eh? You come on out of there!"</p>
+
+<p>With much show of violence he inserts the key into
+the lock, pulls the door open with a bang, and hails a
+passing guard:</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im&mdash;er&mdash;give
+'im a pair of shoes."</p>
+
+<p>He starts down the range, when some one calls from
+an upper tier:</p>
+
+<p>"Jimmy, Jimmy! Come on up here!"</p>
+
+<p>"I'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man
+bellows, angrily, "Where th' hell are you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Here, on B, 20 B. Right over you."</p>
+
+<p>The officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward
+the second gallery.</p>
+
+<p>"What in th' name of Jesus Christ do you want,
+Slim?"</p>
+
+<p>"Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp
+mixture, Jim."</p>
+
+<p>"Cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you
+big bum you. Where the hell did you get your cramp
+mixture, when you was spilling around in a freight car,
+eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I got booze then," the prisoner retorts.</p>
+
+<p>"Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get
+a louzy hand-out at the back door, you ornery pimple on
+God's good earth."</p>
+
+<p>"Th' hell you say! The hand-out was a damn sight
+better'n th' rotten slush I get here. I wouldn't have a
+belly-ache, if it wasn't for th' hogwash they gave us
+to-day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Lay down now! You talk like a horse's rosette."</p>
+
+<p>It's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich
+vocabulary of picturesque metaphor and simile. But
+there is no sting in the brusque speech, no rancor in
+the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses
+to whisper to the block trusty:</p>
+
+<p>"John, you better run down to the dispensary, an'
+get that big stiff some cramp mixture."</p>
+
+<p>Happening to glance into a cell, Mitchell notices
+a new arrival, a bald-headed man, his back against the
+door, reading.</p>
+
+<p>"Hey you!" the Block Captain shouts at him,
+startling the green prisoner off his chair, "take that bald
+thing out of there, or I'll run you in for indecent exposure."</p>
+
+<p>He chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased
+with a naughty prank, and ascends the upper tiers.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Duster in hand, I walk along the range. The guards
+are engaged on the galleries, examining cells, overseeing
+the moving of the newly-graded inmates to the South
+Wing, or chatting with the trusties. The chairs at the
+officers' desk are vacant. Keeping alert watch on the
+rotunda doors, I walk from cell to cell, whiling away
+the afternoon hours in conversation. Johnny, the
+friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and then
+glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by
+sharply snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger.
+I ply the duster diligently, while the Deputy and his
+assistants linger about, surrounded by the trusties imparting
+information gathered during the day. Gradually
+they disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in
+progress, or nosing about the kitchen and assiduously
+killing time. The "coast is clear," and I return to pick
+up the thread of interrupted conversation.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>But the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted.
+The oft-repeated tirade against the "rotten
+grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash"; vehement
+cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of
+a Warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the
+exchange of gossip, and then back again to berating the
+food and the treatment. Within the narrow circle runs
+the interminable tale, colored by individual temperament,
+intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is
+dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and
+bitter resentment, often breathing dire vengeance against
+those whom they consider responsible for their misfortune,
+including the police, the prosecutor, the informer,
+the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge. But
+as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope
+and liberty rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling
+undercurrent of frank and irrepressible sex desire.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL</h3>
+
+
+<p>The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of
+fear and despair in their eyes. The long-timers among
+them seem dazed, as if with some terrible shock, and fall
+upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys from the
+reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep
+and moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only
+the "repeaters" and old-timers preserve their composure,
+scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at old acquaintances, and
+exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But
+all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the
+door, leaning against the bars, an expression of bewildered
+hopelessness or anxious expectancy on their faces.
+They yearn for companionship, and are pathetically eager
+to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom their
+heavy hearts.</p>
+
+<p>I am minutely familiar with every detail of their
+"case," their life-history, their hopes and fears. Through
+the endless weeks and months on the range, their tragedies
+are the sole subject of conversation. A glance into
+the mournful faces, pressed close against the bars, and
+the panorama of misery rises before me,&mdash;the cell-house
+grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more
+depressing.</p>
+
+<p>There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with
+a faint smile as I pause at his door. "Hello, Alick," he
+greets me in his sweet, sad voice. He knows me from
+the jail. His father and elder brother have been ex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>ecuted,
+and he commuted to life because of youth. He
+is barely eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He
+has been acting queerly of late: at night I often hear
+him muttering and walking, walking incessantly and
+muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes, restless,
+roving.</p>
+
+<p>"Alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you
+sometink. You no tell nobody, yes?"</p>
+
+<p>Assured I'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk
+quickly, excitedly:</p>
+
+<p>"Nobody dere, Alick? No scroo? S-sh! Lassa
+night me see ma broder. Yes, see Gianni. Jesu Cristo,
+me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den me fader
+he come. Broder and fader day stay der, on da floor,
+an so quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa
+in ma bed. Oh, Jesu Christo, me so fraida, me cry an'
+pray. You not know wat it mean? No-o-o? Me tell
+you. It mean me die, me die soon."</p>
+
+<p>His eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on
+his face. He knits his brows, as I essay to calm him,
+and continues hurriedly:</p>
+
+<p>"S-sh! Waita till me tell you all. You know watta
+for ma fader an' Gianni come outa da grave? Me tell
+you. Dey calla for ravange, 'cause dey innocente. Me
+tell you trut. See, we all worka in da mine, da coal
+mine, me an' my fader an' Gianni. All worka hard an'
+mek one dollar, maybe dollar quater da day. An' bigga
+American man, him come an' boder ma fader. Ma fader
+him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody.
+An' da American man him maka two dollars an mebbe
+two fifty da day an' him boder my fader, all da time,
+boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an' steal ma broder's
+shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma
+countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' An' one day him
+an' two Arish dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span>
+American man an Arish holler, 'Dago s&mdash;&mdash; b&mdash;&mdash; fraida
+fight,' an' da American man him take a bigga pickax
+an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me
+an' ma broder an' friend we fight, an' American man
+him fall, an' we all go way home. Den p'lice come an'
+arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we killa American
+man. Me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma
+friend do. Me no know; him no arresta; him go home in
+Italia. Ma fader an' broder dey save nineda-sev'n dollar,
+an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer. Him no
+good, an' no talk much in court. We poor men, no can
+take case in oder court, an' fader him hang, an' Gianni
+hang, an' me get life. Ma fader an' broder dey come
+lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente an' wanna
+ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The sharp snapping of Johnny, the runner, warns
+me of danger, and I hastily leave.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up
+and down the hall. The blanched faces peer wistfully
+through the bars, or lean dejectedly against the wall, a
+vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the
+stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality
+and torture I witness in the prison house. Like ghastly
+nightmares, the shadows pass before me. There is
+"Silent Nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never ceasing,
+his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he
+has not left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid
+features are cut and bleeding. Last night he had attempted
+suicide, and the guards beat him, and left him
+unconscious on the floor.</p>
+
+<p>There is "Crazy Hunkie," the Austrian. Every
+morning, as the officer unlocks his door to hand in
+the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for the yard,
+shouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span>
+toward the front and desperately grabs the door handle.
+The double iron gate is securely locked. A look of
+blank amazement on his face, he slowly returns to the
+cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly
+they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me
+wife, me seen her!" the Austrian cries. The blood gushing
+from his mouth and nose, they kick him into the
+cell. "Me wife waiting in de yard," he moans.</p>
+
+<p>In the next cell is Tommy Wellman; adjoining him,
+Jim Grant. They are boys recently transferred from the
+reformatory. They cower in the corner, in terror of
+the scene. With tearful eyes, they relate their story.
+Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they had been sent
+to the reform school at Morganza, for snatching fruit
+off a corner stand. Maltreated and beaten, they sought
+to escape. Childishly they set fire to the dormitory, almost
+in sight of the keepers. "I says to me chum, says
+I," Tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'Kid,' says I,
+'let's fire de louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll
+make our get-away in de' 'citement.'" They were taken
+to court and the good judge sentenced them to five years
+to the penitentiary. "Glad to get out of dat dump,"
+Tommy comments; "it was jest fierce. Dey paddled an'
+starved us someting' turrible."</p>
+
+<p>In the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on
+the floor. It is Lancaster, Number 8523. He was serving
+seven years, and working every day in the mat shop.
+Slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for hour
+of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged.
+He was kept at his task, the Warden informing him
+that he had lost six months of his "good time" for defective
+work. The light hearted negro grew sullen and
+morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced
+by his anguished cry in the night, "My time's up, time's
+up. I want to go home." The guards would take him<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span>
+from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One morning,
+in a fit of frenzy, he attacked Captain McVey, the
+officer of the shop. The Captain received a slight scratch
+on the neck, and Lancaster was kept chained to the
+wall of the dungeon for ten days. He returned to the
+cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed
+him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, "Going
+home, going home." The Warden and several officers
+accompanied him to court, on the way coaching the
+poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "Do you
+plead guilty?" He received seven years, the extreme
+penalty of the law, for the "attempted murder of a
+keeper." They brought him back to the prison, and
+locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered
+with a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light
+and air. He receives no medical attention, and is fed
+on a bread-and-water diet.</p>
+
+<p>The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed
+and unkempt, scratching with his nails fantastic shapes
+on the stone, and babbling stupidly, "Going, Jesus going
+to Jerusalem. See, he rides the holy ass; he's going to
+his father's home. Going home, going home." As I
+pass he looks up, perplexed wonder on his face; his
+brows meet in a painful attempt to collect his wandering
+thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song,
+"Going home, going home; Jesus going to father's home."
+The guards raise their hands to their nostrils as they
+approach the cell: the poor imbecile evacuates on the
+table, the chair, and the floor. Twice a month he is
+taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the
+hose is turned on the crazy negro.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The cell of "Little Sammy" is vacant. He was Number
+9521, a young man from Altoona. I knew him quite
+well. He was a kind boy and a diligent worker; but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span>
+now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy.
+He would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare
+on his face, neglecting food and work. These spells
+generally lasted two or three days, Sammy refusing to
+leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPane, the dead Deputy,
+on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop,
+while Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPane would
+order the "stubborn kid" to the dungeon, and every time
+Sammy got his "head workin'," he was dragged, silent
+and motionless, to the cellar. The new Deputy has followed
+the established practice, and last evening, at
+"music hour," while the men were scraping their instruments,
+"Little Sammy" was found on the floor of the
+cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear.</p>
+
+<p>At the Coroner's inquest the Warden testified that
+the boy was considered mentally defective; that he was
+therefore excused from work, and never punished.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets
+the printed rules on the wall:</p>
+
+<p>"The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner
+in their charge with humanity and kindness. * * * The
+aim of all prison discipline is, by enforcing the law, to
+restrain the evil and to protect the innocent from further
+harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce
+a cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out
+the better principles of his nature."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes
+me with the workings of the institution, and brings me
+in close contact with the authorities. The personnel of
+the guards is of very inferior character. I find their
+average intelligence considerably lower than that of the
+inmates. Especially does the element recruited from the
+police and the detective service lack sympathy with the
+unfortunates in their charge. They are mostly men discharged
+from city employment because of habitual
+drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their
+attitude toward the prisoners is summed up in coercion
+and suppression. They look upon the men as will-less
+objects of iron-handed discipline, exact unquestioning
+obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory
+whims, and harbor personal animosity toward the
+less pliant. The more intelligent among the officers
+scorn inferior duties, and crave advancement. The
+authority and remuneration of a Deputy Wardenship is
+alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the
+fittest for the vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded
+to the guard most feared by the inmates, and most subservient
+to the Warden,&mdash;a direct incitement to brutality,
+on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other.</p>
+
+<p>A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span>
+War; several among them had suffered incarceration in
+Libby Prison. These often manifest a more sympathetic
+spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however,
+have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen
+to twenty-five years; some even for a longer period, like
+Officer Stewart, who has been a guard for forty years.
+This element is unspeakably callous and cruel. The
+prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old
+guards, and speculate on the days allotted them. The
+death of one of them is hailed with joy: seldom they
+are discharged; still more seldom do they resign.</p>
+
+<p>The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the
+dismal lives. New guards&mdash;unless drafted from the
+police bureau&mdash;are almost without exception lenient and
+forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates vie
+with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate."
+It is a point of honor in their unwritten ethics
+to "treat him white." They frown upon the fellow-convict
+who seeks to take advantage of the "green screw,"
+by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of
+the prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent
+the infusion of new blood. They strive to discourage
+the applicant by exaggerating the dangers of the position,
+and depreciating its financial desirability for an
+ambitious young man; they impress upon him the Warden's
+unfairness to the guards, and the lack of opportunity
+for advancement. Often they dissuade the new
+man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if
+he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate
+with him, in pretended friendliness, upon his leniency,
+chide him for a "soft-hearted tenderfoot," and improve
+every opportunity to initiate him into the practices of
+brutality. The system is known in the prison as "breaking
+in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing
+squad," the older officers setting the example of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span>
+cruelty. Refusal to participate signifies insubordination
+to his superiors and the shirking of routine duty, and
+results in immediate discharge. But such instances are
+extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer,
+Mr. Stewart, it happened only once, and the man was
+sickly.</p>
+
+<p>Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard.
+Within a short time the prisoners notice the first signs
+of change: he grows less tolerant and chummy, more
+irritated and distant. Presently he feels himself the
+object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers.
+In some mysterious manner, the Warden is
+aware of his every step, berating him for speaking unduly
+long to this prisoner, or for giving another half a
+banana,&mdash;the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of
+commiseration and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful
+pleadings of misery to carry a message to the sick
+wife or child of a prisoner. The latter confides the
+secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy
+with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the Warden
+"on charges," and is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated
+misplacement of confidence, occasional betrayal
+by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the Warden,
+and the new officer grows embittered against the species
+"convict." The instinct of self-preservation, harassed
+and menaced on every side, becomes more assertive, and
+the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of the "system."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and
+pulverizing, brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the
+inmates. Far removed from the strife and struggle of
+the larger world, I yet witness its miniature replica, more
+agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span>
+model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity
+and dull passivity. But beneath the torpid surface
+smolder the fires of being, now crackling faintly under
+a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth with the
+ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline
+rages the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate
+meshes are woven in the quagmire of darkness
+and suppression.</p>
+
+<p>Intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption,
+are rampant in cell-house and shop. The prisoners spy
+upon each other, and in turn upon the officers. The latter
+encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret doings
+of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete
+with each other in supplying information to the keepers.
+Often they deliberately inveigle the trustful prisoner
+into a fake plot to escape, help and encourage him in the
+preparations, and at the critical moment denounce him
+to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished,
+usually remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue.
+The <i>provocateur</i> is rewarded with greater liberty
+and special privileges. Frequently his treachery
+proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the Warden's
+official recommendation of the "model prisoner"
+to the State Board of Pardons.</p>
+
+<p>The stools and the trusties are an essential element
+in the government of the prison. With rare exception,
+every officer has one or more on his staff. They assist
+him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make
+out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally
+they are even called upon to help the "clubbing squad."
+The more intelligent stools enjoy the confidence of the
+Deputy and his assistants, and thence advance to the
+favor of the Warden. The latter places more reliance
+upon his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "I
+have about a hundred paid officers to keep watch over<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span>
+the prisoners," the Warden informs new applicant, "and
+two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volunteers"
+are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding
+that of the inferior officers. They invariably secure
+the sinecures of the prison, involving little work and
+affording opportunity for espionage. They are "runners,"
+"messengers," yard and office men.</p>
+
+<p>Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are
+awarded to influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers,
+and boodlers. These are known in the institution
+as holding "political jobs." Together with the
+stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the
+pets."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The professional craftiness of the "con man" stands
+him in good stead in the prison. A shrewd judge of
+human nature, quick-witted and self-confident, he applies
+the practiced cunning of his vocation to secure whatever
+privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His
+evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the
+guards; his well-affected deference to authority flatters
+them. They are awed by his wonderful facility of expression,
+and great attainments in the mysterious world
+of baccarat and confidence games. At heart they envy
+the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend
+him in his need. The officers exert themselves to
+please him, secure light work for him, and surreptitiously
+favor him with delicacies and even money. His game
+is won. The "con" has now secured the friendship and
+confidence of his keepers, and will continue to exploit
+them by pretended warm interest in their physical complaints,
+their family troubles, and their whispered ambition
+of promotion and fear of the Warden's discrimination.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims
+of his wiles. But even the higher officials, more
+difficult to approach, do not escape the confidence man.
+His "business" has perfected his sense of orientation; he
+quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents.
+He frets at his imprisonment, and hints at
+high social connections. His real identity is a great
+secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives from
+public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays
+his college education. With a deprecating nod he confesses
+that his father is a State Senator; he is the only
+black sheep in his family; yet they are "good" to him,
+and will not disown him. But he must not bring notoriety
+upon them.</p>
+
+<p>Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the
+trusties, or fearful of punishment, the "con man" matures
+his campaign. He writes a note to a fellow-prisoner.
+With much detail and thorough knowledge of
+prison conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of
+the institution. In elegant English he criticizes the
+management, dwells upon the ignorance and brutality of
+the guards, and charges the Warden and the Board of
+Prison Inspectors with graft, individually and collectively.
+He denounces the Warden as a stomach-robber
+of poor unfortunates: the counties pay from twenty-five
+to thirty cents per day for each inmate; the Federal Government,
+for its quota of men, fifty cents per person.
+Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively
+inadequate food? he demands. Does not the
+State appropriate thousands of dollars for the support
+of the penitentiary, besides the money received from
+the counties?&mdash;With keen scalpel the "con man" dissects
+the anatomy of the institution. One by one he
+analyzes the industries, showing the most intimate
+knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span>
+so many dozen of stockings per day. They are not
+stamped "convict-made," as the law requires. The labels
+attached are misleading, and calculated to decoy the
+innocent buyer. The character of the product in the
+several mat shops is similarly an infraction of the
+statutes of the great State of Pennsylvania for the protection
+of free labor. The broom shop is leased by contract
+to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang
+Brothers: the law expressly forbids contract labor in
+prisons. The stamp "convict-made" on the brooms is
+pasted over with a label, concealing the source of manufacture.</p>
+
+<p>Thus the "con man" runs on in his note. With
+much show of secrecy he entrusts it to a notorious stool,
+for delivery to a friend. Soon the writer is called before
+the Warden. In the latter's hands is the note. The
+offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities
+are terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate
+familiarity with the secrets of the prison house, in the
+possession of an intelligent, possibly well-connected man.
+He must be propitiated at all cost. The "con man" joins
+the "politicians."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads
+devious paths, all leading to the highway of enlarged
+liberty and privilege. The "old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated
+experience, easily avoids hard labor. He has
+many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers,
+and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home.
+The officers are glad to renew the old acquaintance and
+talk over old times. It brings interest into their
+tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as the
+prisoner's.</p>
+
+<p>The seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on
+principle opposed to toil, rarely works. Generally suffer<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span>ing
+a comparatively short sentence, he looks upon his
+imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the wear
+and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he
+scorns work in general, prison labor in particular. He
+avoids it with unstinted expense of energy and effort.
+As a last resort, he plays the "jigger" card, producing
+an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every appearance
+of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened
+by the infection, and prevails upon the physician
+to examine him. The doctor wonders at the wound,
+closely resembling the dreaded disease. "Ever had
+syphilis?" he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly.
+"Perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests.
+The patient looks diffident, blushes, cries, "No, never!"
+and assumes a guilty look. The doctor is now convinced
+the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is "excused"
+from work, indefinitely.</p>
+
+<p>The wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the
+yard, and adapts prison conditions to his habits of life.
+He sedulously courts the friendship of some young inmate,
+and wins his admiration by "ghost stories" of great
+daring and cunning. He puts the boy "next to de
+ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the
+abuse of the guards and the advances of other prisoners.
+He guides the youth's steps through the maze of conflicting
+rules, and finally initiates him into the "higher wisdom"
+of "de road."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues
+in the prison. Even before his arrival, the <i>esprit de corps</i>
+of the "profession" is at work, securing a soft berth
+for the expected friend. If noted for success and skill,
+he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the admiration
+of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience
+and reputation. With conscious superiority he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span>
+instructs them in the finesse of his trade, practices them
+in nimble-fingered "touches," and imbues them with the
+philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the
+good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an
+"honest living." His sentence nearing completion, the
+"gun" grows thoughtful, carefully scans the papers,
+forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with his
+"partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."<a name="FNanchor_44_44" id="FNanchor_44_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_44_44" class="fnanchor">[44]</a>
+He is gravely concerned with the somewhat
+roughened condition of his hands, and the possible dulling
+of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers, generally
+successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit," "jollies"
+the officers and cajoles the Warden for new shoes,
+made to measure in the local shops, and insists on the
+ten-dollar allowance to prisoners received from counties
+outside of Allegheny<a name="FNanchor_45_45" id="FNanchor_45_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_45_45" class="fnanchor">[45]</a>. He argues the need of money
+"to leave the State." Often he does leave. More frequently
+a number of charges against the man are held
+in reserve by the police, and he is arrested at the gate
+by detectives who have been previously notified by the
+prison authorities.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional
+offenders direct from the field, factory, and mine,
+plod along in the shops, in sullen misery and dread. Day
+in, day out, year after year, they drudge at the monotonous
+work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties
+idling about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly
+increased. From cell to shop and back again, always
+under the stern eyes of the guards, their days drag in
+deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span>contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms
+between the officials. They are surprised at the new
+rule making attendance at religious service obligatory;
+and again at the succeeding order (the desired appropriation
+for a new chapel having been secured) making
+church-going optional. They are astonished at the sudden
+disappearance of the considerate and gentle guard,
+Byers, and anxiously hope for his return, not knowing
+that the officer who discouraged the underhand methods
+of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating
+partiality. Released from punishment, he patiently
+awaits an opportunity to complain to the Warden of
+his unjust treatment. Weeks pass. At last the Captain
+visits the shop. A propitious moment! The carefully
+trimmed beard frames the stern face in benevolent white,
+mellowing the hard features and lending dignity to his
+appearance. His eyes brighten with peculiar brilliancy
+as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost
+imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he
+passes through the shop, the prisoner raises his hand.
+"What is it?" the Warden inquires, a pleasant smile on
+his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous
+eagerness. "Oh, well," the Captain claps him on the
+shoulder, "perhaps a mistake; an unfortunate mistake.
+But, then, you might have done something at another
+time, and not been punished." He laughs merrily at
+his witticism. "It's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget
+it," and he passes on.</p>
+
+<p>But if the Captain is in a different mood, his features
+harden, the stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear,
+sharp tones: "State your grievance in writing, on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>
+printed slip which the officer will give you." The written
+complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches
+the Chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the Warden's
+office. There the Deputy and the Assistant Deputy read
+and classify the slips, placing some on the Captain's file
+and throwing others into the waste basket, according as
+the accusation is directed against a friendly or an unfriendly
+brother officer. Months pass before the prisoner
+is called for "a hearing." By that time he very likely
+has a more serious charge against the guard, who now
+persecutes the "kicker." But the new complaint has
+not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is postponed.
+Not infrequently men are called for a hearing,
+who have been discharged, or died since making the
+complaint.</p>
+
+<p>The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive
+satisfaction from the Warden, sends a written complaint
+to some member of the highest authority in the
+penitentiary&mdash;the Board of Inspectors. These are supposed
+to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the
+institution, visit the inmates, and minister to their moral
+needs. The complainant waits, mails several more slips,
+and wonders why he receives no audience with the
+Inspectors. But the latter remain invisible, some not
+visiting the penitentiary within a year. Only the Secretary
+of the Board, Mr. Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh,
+occasionally puts in an appearance. Tall and lean,
+immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere of
+sanctimoniousness.  He walks leisurely through the
+block, passes a cell with a lithograph of Christ on the
+wall, and pauses. His hands folded, eyes turned upwards,
+lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he inquires
+of the rangeman:</p>
+
+<p>"Whose cell is this?"</p>
+
+<p>"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>It is the cell of Jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool
+of the prison.</p>
+
+<p>"He is a good man, a good man, God bless him,"
+the Inspector says, a quaver in his voice.</p>
+
+<p>He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully
+adjusts the little looking-glass and the rules, hanging
+awry on the wall. "It offends my eye," he smiles
+at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang straight."</p>
+
+<p>Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "Mr.
+Officer, please."</p>
+
+<p>The Inspector steps forward. "This is Inspector
+Reed," he corrects the boy. "What is it you wish?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh. Mr. Inspector, I've been askin' t' see you a long
+time. I wanted&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You should have sent me a slip. Have you a copy
+of the rules in the cell, my man?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Can you read?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Poor boy, did you never go to school?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, sir. Me moder died when I was a kid. Dey
+put me in de orphan an' den in de ref."</p>
+
+<p>"And your father?"</p>
+
+<p>"I had no fader. Moder always said he ran away
+before I was born'd."</p>
+
+<p>"They have schools in the orphan asylum. Also in
+the reformatory, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"Yep. But dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment.
+I didn' care fer de school, nohow."</p>
+
+<p>"You were a bad boy. How old are you now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sev'nteen."</p>
+
+<p>"What is your name?"</p>
+
+<p>"Tommy Wellman."</p>
+
+<p>"From Pittsburgh?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Allegheny. Me moder use'ter live on de hill, near
+dis 'ere dump."</p>
+
+<p>"What did you wish to see me about?"</p>
+
+<p>"I can't stand de cell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me
+have some work."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you locked up 'for cause'?"</p>
+
+<p>"I smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?"</p>
+
+<p>"He said me moder was a bitch, God damn his&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't! Don't swear! Never take the holy name
+in vain. It's a great sin. You should have reported the
+man to your officer, instead of fighting."</p>
+
+<p>"I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of de cell,
+Mr. Inspector?"</p>
+
+<p>"You are in the hands of the Warden. He is very
+kind, and he will do what is best for you."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, hell! I'm locked up five months now. Dat's
+de best <i>he's</i> doin' fer me."</p>
+
+<p>"Don't talk like that to me," the Inspector upbraids
+him, severely. "You are a bad boy. You must pray;
+the good Lord will take care of you."</p>
+
+<p>"You get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden
+fury, cursing and swearing.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily
+paling, turns red with shame and anger. He motions
+to the Captain of the Block.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Woods, report this man for impudence to an
+Inspector," he orders, stalking out into the yard.</p>
+
+<p>The boy is removed to the dungeon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and
+torture, I welcome the relief of solitude, as I am locked
+in the cell for the night.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening.
+I spend considerable time corresponding with Nold and
+Bauer: our letters are bulky&mdash;ten, fifteen, and twenty
+pages long. There is much to say! We discuss events
+in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment
+of the inmates, the frequent clubbings and
+suicides, the unwholesome food. I share with my
+comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn,
+keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their
+paths run smoother, less eventful than mine, yet not
+without much heartache and bitterness of spirit. They,
+too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. The officer
+of the shop where Nold is employed has been severely
+reprimanded for "neglect of duty": the Warden had
+noticed Carl, in the company of several other prisoners,
+passing through the yard with a load of mattings. He
+ordered the guard never to allow Nold out of his sight.
+Bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has
+been deprived of his dark clothes, and reduced to the
+stripes for "disrespectful behavior." Now he is removed
+to the North Wing, where my cell also is located, while
+Nold is in the South Wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying
+the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our
+friend, the "Horsethief," is still coffee-boy on Bauer's
+range, thus enabling me to reach the big German. The
+latter, after reading my notes, returns them to our
+trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl.
+Our mail connections are therefore complete, each of
+us exercising utmost care not to be trapped during the
+frequent surprises of searching our cells and persons.</p>
+
+<p>Again the <i>Prison Blossoms</i> is revived. Most of the
+readers of the previous year, however, are missing.
+Dempsey and Beatty, the Knights of Labor men, have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>
+been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting
+confessions of the informer, Gallagher, who still remains
+in prison. "D," our poet laureate, has also been released,
+his short term having expired. His identity remains a
+mystery, he having merely hinted that he was a "scientist
+of the old school, an alchemist," from which we inferred
+that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our
+reading public from the more intelligent and trustworthy
+element: the Duquesne strikers renew their "subscriptions"
+by contributing paper material; with them join
+Frank Shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; George,
+the prison librarian; "Billy" Ryan, professional gambler
+and confidence man; "Yale," a specialist in the art of safe
+blowing, and former university student; the "Attorney-General,"
+a sharp lawyer; "Magazine Alvin," writer and
+novelist; "Jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is secure,
+and others. "M" and "K" act as alternate editors; the
+rest as contributors. The several departments of the
+little magazinelet are ornamented with pen and ink drawings,
+one picturing Dante visiting the Inferno, another
+sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern,
+in the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the
+inscription:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+I sometimes hold it half a sin<br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To put in words the grief I feel,&mdash;</span><br />
+<span style="margin-left: 1em;">For words, like nature, half reveal</span><br />
+And half conceal the soul within.<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>The editorials are short, pithy comments on local
+events, interspersed with humorous sketches and caricatures
+of the officials; the balance of the <i>Blossoms</i> consists
+of articles and essays of a more serious character,
+embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics,
+with now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story
+man," or some sex experience by "Magazine
+Alvin." One of the associate editors lampoons "Billy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>goat
+Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the
+"Shop Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G"
+relates the story of the recent strike in his shop, the
+men's demand for clear pump water instead of the liquid
+mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the
+strike by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon.
+In the next issue the incident is paralleled with the
+Pullman Car Strike, and the punished prisoners eulogized
+for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an ultra-original
+poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs."</p>
+
+<p>But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change
+of location of several readers, the illness and death of
+two contributors, badly disarrange the route. During
+the winter, "K" produces a little booklet of German
+poems, while I elaborate the short "Story of Luba,"
+written the previous year, into a novelette, dealing with
+life in New York and revolutionary circles. Presently
+"G" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of interest
+to a larger public, and should be preserved. We
+discuss the unique plan, wondering how the intellectual
+contraband could be smuggled into the light of day. In
+our perplexity we finally take counsel with Bob, the
+faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with
+astonishing levity: "Youse fellows jest go ahead an'
+write, an' don't bother about nothin'. Think I can walk
+off all right with a team of horses, but ain't got brains
+enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? Jest
+leave that to th' Horsethief, an' write till you bust th'
+paper works, see?" Thus encouraged, with entire confidence
+in our resourceful friend, we give the matter
+serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious
+project of publishing a book by "MKG"!</p>
+
+<p>In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to
+work. The little magazine is suspended, and we devote
+all our spare time, as well as every available scrap of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>
+writing material, to the larger purpose. We decide to
+honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary
+inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor
+on the eastern skies, the <i>First of May, 1895</i>, he steals a
+blushing beam upon the heading of the first chapter&mdash;"The
+Homestead Strike."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SCALES OF JUSTICE</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog
+thickens on the Ohio; the prison house is dim and
+damp. The river sirens sound sharp and shrill, and the
+cells echo with coughing and wheezing. The sick line
+stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and
+dejected. The prisoner in charge of tier "K" suffers a
+hemorrhage, and is carried to the hospital. From assistant,
+I am advanced to his position on the range.</p>
+
+<p>But one morning the levers are pulled, the cells
+unlocked, and the men fed, while I remain under key.
+I wonder at the peculiar oversight, and rap on the bars
+for the officers. The Block Captain orders me to desist.
+1 request to see the Warden, but am gruffly told that
+he cannot be disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack
+my brain to fathom the cause of my punishment. I
+review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over each
+detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I
+have unwittingly offended some trusty, or I may be the
+object of the secret enmity of a spy.</p>
+
+<p>The Chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter
+from the Girl, and glances in surprise at the closed door.</p>
+
+<p>"Not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm locked up, Chaplain."</p>
+
+<p>"What have you done?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Nothing that I know of."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, well, you'll be out soon. Don't fret, m' boy."</p>
+
+<p>But the days pass, and I remain in the cell. The
+guards look worried, and vent their ill-humor in profuse
+vulgarity. The Deputy tries to appear mysterious,
+wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at me:
+"Nothin'. Shtay where you are." Jasper, the colored
+trusty, flits up and down the hall, tremendously busy,
+his black face more lustrous than ever. Numerous
+stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in
+confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and
+whisper excitedly at the front desk. Assistant Deputy
+Hopkins goes in and out of the block, repeatedly calls
+Jasper to the office, and hovers in the neighborhood of
+my cell. The rangemen talk in suppressed tones. An
+air of mystery pervades the cell-house.</p>
+
+<p>Finally I am called to the Warden. With unconcealed
+annoyance, he demands:</p>
+
+<p>"What did you want?"</p>
+
+<p>"The officers locked me up&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily.
+"You're merely locked <i>in</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"Where's the difference?" I ask.</p>
+
+<p>"One is locked up 'for cause.' You're just kept in
+for the present."</p>
+
+<p>"On what charge?"</p>
+
+<p>"No charge. None whatever. Take him back,
+Officers."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal
+and dreary. By contrast with the spacious hall, the cell
+grows smaller and narrower, oppressing me with a sense
+of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains unexplained.
+Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to
+intercede in my behalf, I remain locked "in," and again<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span>
+return the days of solitary, with all their gloom and
+anguish of heart.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>A ray of light is shed from New York. The Girl
+writes in a hopeful vein about the progress of the movement,
+and the intense interest in my case among radical
+circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a
+tour of agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable
+labor sentiment toward me, manifested in the
+cities he had visited. Finally she informs me of a
+plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and
+the promising outlook for the collection of the necessary
+funds. From Merlino I receive a sum of money already
+contributed for the purpose, together with a letter of
+appreciation and encouragement, concluding: "Good
+cheer, dear Comrade; the last word has not yet been
+spoken."</p>
+
+<p>My mind dwells among my friends. The breath
+from the world of the living fans the smoldering fires
+of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates in my
+heart with trembling hope. But the revision of my sentence
+involves recourse to the courts! The sudden realization
+fills me with dismay. I cannot be guilty of a
+sacrifice of principle to gain freedom; the mere suggestion
+rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary
+traditions. In bitterness of soul, I resent my friends'
+ill-advised waking of the shades. I shall never leave
+the house of death....</p>
+
+<p>And yet mail from my friends, full of expectation
+and confidence, arrives more frequently. Prominent
+lawyers have been consulted; their unanimous opinion
+augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was
+illegal; according to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span>
+maximum penalty should not have exceeded seven years;
+the Supreme Court would undoubtedly reverse the
+judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the conviction
+on charges not constituting a crime under the laws
+of the State. And so forth.</p>
+
+<p>I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to
+decline liberty, apparently within reach? John Most appealed
+his case to the Supreme Court, and the Girl also
+took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable propaganda
+resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity
+which would offer such a splendid field for agitation?
+Would it not be folly to afford the enemy the
+triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would without
+hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions;
+but it involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire
+of its prey. We must, if necessary, fight the beast of
+oppression with its own methods, scourge the law in its
+own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme Court
+is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence
+of impartial right. It decided against Most, sustaining
+the prejudiced verdict of the trial jury. They
+may do the same in my case. But that very circumstance
+will serve to confirm our arraignment of class justice.
+I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends.</p>
+
+<p>But before long I am informed that an application
+to the higher court is not permitted. The attorneys,
+upon examination of the records of the trial, discovered
+a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being
+legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to
+rulings of the court prejudicial to the accused. Because
+of the technical omission, there exists no basis for an
+appeal. They therefore advise an application to the
+Board of Pardons, on the ground that the punishment
+in my case is excessive. They are confident that the
+Board will act favorably, in view of the obvious uncon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span>stitutionality
+of the compounded sentences,&mdash;the five
+minor indictments being indispensible parts of the major
+charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences.</p>
+
+<p>The unexpected development disquiets me: the sound
+of "pardon" is detestable. What bitter irony that the
+noblest intentions, the most unselfish motives, need seek
+pardon! Aye, of the very source that misinterprets and
+perverts them! For days the implied humiliation keeps
+agitating me; I recoil from the thought of personally
+affixing my name to the meek supplication of the printed
+form, and finally decide to refuse.</p>
+
+<p>An accidental conversation with the "Attorney General"
+disturbs my resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania
+the applicant's signature is not required by the
+Pardon Board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me.
+Yet&mdash;I reflect&mdash;the pardon of the Chicago Anarchists
+had contributed much to the dissemination of our ideas.
+The impartial analysis of the trial-evidence by Governor
+Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades from
+responsibility for the Haymarket tragedy, and exposed
+the heinous conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and
+able representatives of the labor movement. May not
+a similar purpose be served by my application for a
+pardon?</p>
+
+<p>I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We
+arrange for a personal interview, to discuss the details
+of the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a <i>persona non
+grata</i>, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss Garrison,
+is to call on me within two months. At my request,
+the Chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission,
+and I impatiently await the first friendly face in two
+years.</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary,
+comes the relief at the expiration of three weeks. The
+"K" hall-boy is still in the hospital, and I resume the
+duties of rangeman. The guards eye me with suspicion
+and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled
+skein, and learn the details of the abortive escape that
+caused my temporary retirement.</p>
+
+<p>The lock of my neighbor, Johnny Smith, had been
+tampered with. The youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily
+had the aid of another, it being impossible to reach
+the keyhole from the inside of the cell. The suspicion
+of the Warden centered upon me, but investigation by
+the stools discovered the men actually concerned, and
+"Dutch" Adams, Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were
+chastised in the dungeon, and are now locked up "for
+cause," on my range.</p>
+
+<p>By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of
+the frustrated plan. "Dutch," a repeater serving his
+fifth "bit," and favorite of Hopkins, procured a piece
+of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the
+machine shop, where he was employed. He entrusted
+the rude instrument to Grant, a young reformatory boy,
+for a preliminary trial. The guileless youth easily
+walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken
+in the lock&mdash;with disastrous results.</p>
+
+<p>The tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the
+<i>provocateur</i>, but "Dutch" is missing from the range.
+He has been removed to an upper gallery, and is assigned
+to a coveted position in the shops.</p>
+
+<p>The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate
+attempt to escape from Riverside, and compliment Captain
+Wright and the officers for so successfully protecting
+the community. The Warden is deeply affected, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span>
+orders the additional punishment of the offenders with
+a bread-and-water diet. The Deputy walks with inflated
+chest; Hopkins issues orders curtailing the privileges of
+the inmates, and inflicting greater hardships. The tone
+of the guards sounds haughtier, more peremptory; Jasper's
+face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look
+pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the
+prison.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>I am standing at my cell, when the door of the
+rotunda slowly opens, and the Warden approaches me.</p>
+
+<p>"A lady just called; Miss Garrison, from New York.
+Do you know her?"</p>
+
+<p>"She is one of my friends."</p>
+
+<p>"I dismissed her. You can't see her."</p>
+
+<p>"Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three
+months. I have had none in two years. I want to see
+her."</p>
+
+<p>"You can't. She needs a permit."</p>
+
+<p>"The Chaplain sent her one at my request."</p>
+
+<p>"A member of the Board of Inspectors rescinded it
+by telegraph."</p>
+
+<p>"What Inspector?"</p>
+
+<p>"You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused
+admittance."</p>
+
+<p>"Will you tell me the reason, Warden?"</p>
+
+<p>"No reason, no reason whatever."</p>
+
+<p>He turns on his heel, when I detain him: "Warden,
+it's two years since I've been in the dungeon. I am in
+the first grade now," I point to the recently earned dark
+suit. "I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am I
+deprived of visits?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not another word."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>He disappears through the yard door. From the
+galleries I hear the jeering of a trusty. A guard near by
+brings his thumb to his nose, and wriggles his fingers in
+my direction. Humiliated and angry, I return to the
+cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. I pour
+out all the bitterness of my heart to the Girl, dwell on
+the Warden's discrimination against me, and repeat our
+conversation and his refusal to admit my visitor. In
+conclusion, I direct her to have a Pittsburgh lawyer
+apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to
+restore to me the privileges allowed by the law to the
+ordinary prisoner. I drop the letter in the mail-box,
+hoping that my outburst and the threat of the law will
+induce the Warden to retreat from his position. The
+Girl will, of course, understand the significance of the
+epistle, aware that my reference to a court process is
+a diplomatic subterfuge for effect, and not meant to be
+acted upon.</p>
+
+<p>But the next day the Chaplain returns the letter to
+me. "Not so rash, my boy," he warns me, not unkindly.
+"Be patient; I'll see what I can do for you."</p>
+
+<p>"But the letter, Chaplain?"</p>
+
+<p>"You've wasted your paper, Aleck. I can't pass
+this letter. But just keep quiet, and I'll look into the
+matter."</p>
+
+<p>Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the Chaplain
+advises a personal interview with the Warden. The
+latter refers me to the Inspectors. To each member of
+the Board I address a request for a few minutes' conversation,
+but a month goes by without word from the high
+officials. The friendly runner, "Southside" Johnny,
+offers to give me an opportunity to speak to an Inspector,
+on the payment of ten plugs of tobacco. Unfortunately,
+I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender him a
+dollar bill of the money the Girl had sent me artfully<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>
+concealed in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The
+runner is highly elated, and assures me of success, directing
+me to keep careful watch on the yard door.</p>
+
+<p>Several days later, passing along the range engaged
+in my duties, I notice "Southside" entering from the
+yard, in friendly conversation with a strange gentleman
+in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize the
+situation, but the next instant I am aware of Johnny's
+violent efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to
+show the man some fancy work made by the inmates,
+all the while drawing him closer to my door, with surreptitious
+nods at me. I approach my cell.</p>
+
+<p>"This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot
+Frick," Johnny remarks.</p>
+
+<p>The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, Berkman," he says pleasantly.
+"How long are you doing?"</p>
+
+<p>"Twenty-two years."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence.
+You know who I am?"</p>
+
+<p>"Inspector Nevin, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. You have never seen me before?"</p>
+
+<p>"No. I sent a request to see you recently."</p>
+
+<p>"When was that?"</p>
+
+<p>"A month ago."</p>
+
+<p>"Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There
+was no note from you on my file. Are you sure you
+sent one?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite sure. I sent a request to each Inspector."</p>
+
+<p>"What's the trouble?"</p>
+
+<p>I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of
+visiting privileges. Somewhat surprised, he glances at
+my dark clothes, and remarks:</p>
+
+<p>"You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled
+to visits. When did you have your last visitor?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Two years ago."</p>
+
+<p>"Two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "Did
+the lady from New York have a permit?"</p>
+
+<p>The Warden hurriedly enters from the yard.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Nevin," he calls out anxiously, "I've been looking
+for you."</p>
+
+<p>"Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being
+sent away, Captain," the Inspector remarks.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes," the Warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!" the face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look.
+"Berkman," he turns to me, "you'll have to apply to the
+Secretary of the Board, Mr. Reed. I am not familiar
+with the internal affairs."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden links his arm with the Inspector, and
+they walk toward the yard door. At the entrance they
+are met by "Dutch" Adams, the shop messenger.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, Mr. Nevin," the trusty greets him.
+"Won't you issue me a special visit? My mother is sick;
+she wants to see me."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden grins at the ready fiction.</p>
+
+<p>"When did you have your last visit?" the Inspector
+inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"Two weeks ago."</p>
+
+<p>"You are entitled to one only every three months."</p>
+
+<p>"That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector,"
+"Dutch" retorts boldly. "I know you are a kind
+man."</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the
+Warden.</p>
+
+<p>"Dutch is all right," the Captain nods.</p>
+
+<p>The Inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it,
+and hands it to the prisoner.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXIV</h2>
+
+<h3>THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">April 12, 1896.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Girl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with
+you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover
+of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it
+will reach you safely.</p>
+
+<p>In my local correspondence you have been christened
+the "Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up letter-writing
+through the endless years, the points of mutual interest
+gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the
+existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to
+expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes
+very seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is
+fitful. But you are never disappointing. It is not so much
+the contents that matter: these increasingly sound like the language
+of a strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment,
+disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of
+a letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart
+to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate interest
+which alone can support a regular correspondence. And
+then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of
+our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications
+from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement
+and of our European comrades. Your letters are so much
+part of yourself, they bring me nearer to you and to life.</p>
+
+<p>The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various
+occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical
+publications permitted. I especially regret to miss <i>Solidarity</i>.
+I have not seen a single copy since its resurrection two years
+ago. I have followed the activities of Chas. W. Mowbray and
+the recent tour of John Turner, so far as the press accounts<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span>
+are concerned. I hope you'll write more about our English
+comrades.</p>
+
+<p>I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know
+from my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The
+action of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me.
+No less to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic
+as to a favorable decision. But that they should so cynically
+evade the issue,&mdash;I was hardly prepared for <i>that</i>. I had hoped
+they would at least consider the case. But evidently they were
+averse to going on record, one way or another. The lawyers
+informed me that they were not even allowed an opportunity
+to present their arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong
+complained of is not actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving
+the sentence we want remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means
+that I must serve the first sentence of seven years, before applying
+for the remission of the other indictments. Discounting
+commutation time, I still have about a year to complete the first
+sentence. I doubt whether it is advisable to try again. Little
+justice can be expected from those quarters. But I want to
+submit another proposition to you; consult with our friends
+regarding it. It is this: there is a prisoner here who has just
+been pardoned by the Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor,
+is indebted to the prisoner's lawyer for certain political
+services. The attorney's name is K&mdash;&mdash; D&mdash;&mdash; of Pittsburgh.
+He has intimated to his client that he will guarantee my release
+for $1,000.00, the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be
+paid <i>only</i> in case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a
+large fee. And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering;
+still, you know that almost anything can be bought
+from politicians. I leave the matter in your hands.</p>
+
+<p>The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure
+no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure
+reason, the Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist
+plot against the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance
+and constantly discriminated against, though "K" and
+"G" are permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile
+terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain
+Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was
+Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat
+against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited Inspector
+Reed at his business place, and requested to see me. The In<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span>spector
+refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty walls
+down." I could not determine whether there is any foundation
+for the story, but it is circulated here, and the prisoners firmly
+believe it explains my deprivation of visits.</p>
+
+<p>That is a characteristic instance of local conditions. Involuntarily
+I smile at Kennan's na&iuml;ve indignation with the brutalities
+he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian prisons.
+He would find it almost impossible to learn the true conditions
+in the American prisons: he would be conducted the
+rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the purpose;
+he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in the
+dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be
+permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the
+prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he succeeded
+in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to
+revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in
+regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness
+the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the
+abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the
+keynote of stupidity in power.</p>
+
+<p>Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the
+terrible tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and
+lamenting, in the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is
+there no Nemesis in Spain?</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXV</h2>
+
+<h3>HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison.
+A cheerier atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house
+in the summer. The block is airier and lighter;
+the guards relax their stern look, in anticipation of their
+vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till their
+approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release
+some one going back to the world.</p>
+
+<p>But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter.
+The windows are closed and nailed; the vitiated air,
+artificially heated, is suffocating with dryness. Smoke
+darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk.
+Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The
+officers look sullen; the men are morose and discontented.
+The ravings of the insane become wilder, suicides more
+frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress every heart.</p>
+
+<p>The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute
+suffering and repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers.
+The severity of the authorities increases, methods of
+penalizing are more drastic; the prisoners fret, wax
+more querulous, and turn desperate with blind, spasmodic
+defiance.</p>
+
+<p>But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction
+manifest more coherent expression. The Lexow
+investigation in New York has awakened an echo in the
+prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the
+solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing
+the project. Great care must be exercised to guard
+against treachery: only men of proved reliability may
+be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that
+no officer or stool scent our design. The details of the
+campaign are planned on "K" range, with Billy Ryan,
+Butch, Sloane, and Jimmie Grant, as the most trustworthy,
+in command. It is decided that the attack upon
+the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated
+from the "outside." A released prisoner is to inform
+the press of the abuses, graft, and immorality rampant
+in Riverside. The public will demand an investigation.
+The "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators
+with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the
+community, and cause the dismissal of the Warden and
+the introduction of reforms.</p>
+
+<p>A prisoner, about to be discharged, is selected for the
+important mission of enlightening the press. In great
+anxiety and expectation we await the newspapers, the
+day following his liberation; we scan the pages closely.
+Not a word of the penitentiary! Probably the released
+man has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors.
+In the joy of freedom, he may have looked too deeply
+into the cup that cheers. He will surely interview the
+papers the next day.</p>
+
+<p>But the days pass into weeks, without any reference
+in the press to the prison. The trusted man has failed
+us! The revelation of the life at Riverside is of a nature
+not to be ignored by the press. The discharged inmate
+has proved false to his promise. Bitterly the solitaries
+denounce him, and resolve to select a more reliable man
+among the first candidates for liberty.</p>
+
+<p>One after another, a score of men are entrusted with
+the mission to the press. But the papers remain silent.
+Anxiously, though every day less hopefully, we search<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span>
+their columns. Ryan cynically derides the faithlessness
+of convict promises; Butch rages and at the
+traitors. But Sloane is sternly confident in his own
+probity, and cheers me as I pause at his cell:</p>
+
+<p>"Never min' them rats, Aleck. You just wait till I
+go out. Here's the boy that'll keep his promise all right.
+What I won't do to old Sandy ain't worth mentionin'."</p>
+
+<p>"Why, you still have two years, Ed," I remind him.</p>
+
+<p>"Not on your tintype, Aleck. Only one and a stump."</p>
+
+<p>"How big is the stump?"</p>
+
+<p>"Wa-a-ll," he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident,
+"it's one year, elev'n months, an' twenty-sev'n days. It
+ain't no two years, though, see?"</p>
+
+<p>Jimmy Grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently
+disinclined to talk. He seeks to avoid me. The treachery
+of the released men fills him with resentment and
+suspicion of every one. He is impatient of my suggestion
+that the fault may lie with a servile press. At the
+mention of our plans, he bursts out savagely:</p>
+
+<p>"Forget it! You're no good, none of you. Let me
+be!" He turns his back to me, and angrily paces the cell.</p>
+
+<p>His actions fill me with concern. The youth seems
+strangely changed. Fortunately, his time is almost
+served.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Like wildfire the news circles the prison. "The papers
+are giving Sandy hell!" The air in the block
+trembles with suppressed excitement. Jimmy Grant,
+recently released, had sent a communication to the State
+Board of Charities, bringing serious charges against the
+management of Riverside. The press publishes startlingly
+significant excerpts from Grant's letter. Editorially,
+however, the indictment is ignored by the majority
+of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span>
+ambiguously, in guarded language, suggesting the improbability
+of the horrible practices alleged by Grant.
+Another eulogizes Warden Wright as an intelligent and
+humane man, who has the interest of the prisoners at
+heart. The detailed accusations are briefly dismissed as
+unworthy of notice, because coming from a disgruntled
+criminal who had not found prison life to his liking.
+Only the <i>Leader</i> and the <i>Dispatch</i> consider the matter
+seriously, refer to the numerous complaints from discharged
+prisoners, and suggest the advisability of an
+investigation; they urge upon the Warden the necessity
+of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements
+regarding his management.</p>
+
+<p>Within a few days the President of the Board of
+Charities announces his decision to "look over" the penitentiary.
+December is on the wane, and the Board is
+expected to visit Riverside after the holidays.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p>K. &amp; G.:</p>
+
+<p>Of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged
+investigations than myself. The Lexow investigation, which
+shocked the whole country with its expos&eacute; of police corruption,
+has resulted in practically nothing. One or two subordinates
+have been "scapegoated"; those "higher up" went unscathed, as
+usual; the "system" itself remains in <i>statu quo</i>. The one who has
+mostly profited by the spasm of morality is Goff, to whom the
+vice crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity into
+the national limelight. Parkhurst also has subsided, probably
+content with the enlarged size of his flock and&mdash;salary. To give
+the devil his due, however, I admired his perseverance and
+courage in face of the storm of ridicule and scorn that met his
+initial accusations against the glorious police department of
+the metropolis. But though every charge has been proved in
+the most absolute manner, the situation, as a whole, remains
+unchanged.</p>
+
+<p>It is the history of all investigations. As the Germans say,
+you can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span>
+It has again been demonstrated by the Congressional "inquiry"
+into the Carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revelations
+regarding Superintendent Brockway, of the Elmira Reformatory&mdash;a
+veritable den for maiming and killing; and in
+numerous other instances. Warden Wright also was investigated,
+about ten years ago; a double set of books was then
+found, disclosing peculation of appropriations and theft of the
+prison product; brutality and murder were uncovered&mdash;yet Sandy
+has remained in his position.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>We can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed investigation
+by the Board of Charities. I have no doubt it will
+be a whitewash. But I think that we&mdash;the Anarchist trio&mdash;should
+show our solidarity, and aid the inmates with our best efforts;
+we must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far as
+evidence against the management is concerned. We should
+leave the Board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses
+or proofs to support Grant's charges. I am confident you
+will agree with me in this. I am collecting data for presentation
+to the investigators; I am also preparing a list of
+volunteer witnesses. I have seventeen numbers on my range
+and others from various parts of this block and from the shops.
+They all seem anxious to testify, though I am sure some will
+weaken when the critical moment arrives. Several have already
+notified me to erase their names. But we shall have a sufficient
+number of witnesses; we want preferably such men as
+have personally suffered a clubbing, the bull ring, hanging by
+the wrists, or other punishment forbidden by the law.</p>
+
+<p>I have already notified the Warden that I wish to testify
+before the Investigation Committee. My purpose was to anticipate
+his objection that there are already enough witnesses. I am
+the first on the list now. The completeness of the case against
+the authorities will surprise you. Fortunately, my position as
+rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information I
+needed. I will send you to-morrow duplicates of the evidence
+(to insure greater safety for our material). For the present I
+append a partial list of our "exhibits":</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>(1) Cigarettes and outside tobacco; bottle of whiskey and "dope";
+dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two razors,
+postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband. (These
+are for the purpose of proving the Warden a liar in denying<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span>
+to the press the existence of gambling in the prison, the
+selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the possession
+of weapons, and the possibility of underground communication.)</p>
+
+<p>(2) Prison-made beer. A demonstration of the staleness of our
+bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. (The beer
+is made from fermented yeast stolen by the trusties from
+the bakery; also from potatoes.)</p>
+
+<p>(3) Favoritism; special privileges of trusties; political jobs; the
+system of stool espionage.</p>
+
+<p>(4) Pennsylvania diet; basket; dungeon; cuffing and chaining
+up; neglect of the sick; punishment of the insane.</p>
+
+<p>(5) Names and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed.</p>
+
+<p>(6) Data of assaults and cutting affrays in connection with
+"kid-business,"
+the existence of which the Warden absolutely
+denies.</p>
+
+<p>(7) Special case of A-444, who attacked the Warden in church,
+because of jealousy of "Lady Goldie."</p>
+
+<p>(8) Graft:</p>
+
+<p>(<i>a</i>) Hosiery department: fake labels, fictitious names
+of manufacture, false book entries.</p>
+
+<p>(<i>b</i>) Broom-Shop: convict labor hired out, contrary to
+law, to Lang Bros., broom manufacturers, of Allegheny, Pa.
+Goods sold to the United States Government, through sham
+middleman. Labels bear legend, "Union Broom." Sample
+enclosed.</p>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 336px;">
+<img src="images/adv.jpg" width="336" height="403" alt="Union Broom" title="Union Broom" />
+</div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>(<i>c</i>) Mats, mattings, mops&mdash;product not stamped.</p>
+
+<p>(<i>d</i>) Shoe and tailor shops: prison materials used for
+the private needs of the Warden, the officers, and their
+families.</p>
+
+<p>(<i>e</i>) $75,000, appropriated by the State (1893) for a new
+chapel. The bricks of the old building used for the new,
+except one outside layer. All the work done by prisoners.
+Architect, Mr. A. Wright, the Warden's son. Actual cost of
+chapel, $7,000. The inmates <i>forced</i> to attend services to
+overcrowd the old church; after the desired appropriation
+was secured, attendance became optional.</p>
+
+<p>(<i>f</i>) Library: the 25c. tax, exacted from every unofficial
+visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. About 50 visitors
+per day, the year round. No new books added to the library
+in 10 years. Old duplicates donated by the public libraries
+of Pittsburgh are catalogued as purchased new books.</p>
+
+<p>(<i>g</i>) Robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their
+labor. See copy of Act of 1883, P. L. 112.</p>
+
+<h4>LAW ON PRISON LABOR AND WAGES OF CONVICTS<br />
+(Act of 1883, June 13th, P. L. 112)</h4>
+
+<p>Section 1&mdash;At the expiration of existing contracts
+Wardens are directed to employ the convicts under their
+control for and in behalf of the State.</p>
+
+<p>Section 2&mdash;No labor shall be hired out by contract.</p>
+
+<p>Section 4&mdash;All convicts under the control of the
+State and county officers, and all inmates of reformatory
+institutions engaged in the manufacture of articles for
+general consumption, shall receive quarterly wages equal
+to the amount of their earnings, to be fixed from time to
+time by the authorities of the institution, from which
+board, lodging, clothing, and costs of trial shall be deducted,
+and the balance paid to their families or dependents;
+in case none such appear, the amount shall be paid
+to the convict at the expiration of his term of imprisonment.</p>
+
+<p>The prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for
+overtime work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper.</p>
+
+<p>K. G., plant this and other material I'll send you, in a safe
+place.</p>
+
+<p class="author">M.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
+
+<h3>HIDING THE EVIDENCE</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipation
+fills the prison; to-morrow's feast is the exciting
+subject of conversation. Roast beef will be served for
+dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two
+cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the
+kitchen; they flit from block to yard, looking busy and
+important, yet halting every passer-by to whisper with
+secretive mien, "Don't say I told you. Sweet potatoes
+to-morrow!" The younger inmates seem skeptical, and
+strive to appear indifferent, the while they hover about
+the yard door, nostrils expanded, sniffing the appetizing
+wafts from the kitchen. Here and there an old-timer
+grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for
+Christmas. "'Too high-priced,' Sandy said," they sneer
+in ill humor. The new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps
+they are still too expensive? Some study the market
+quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in
+to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that
+the sweet potatoes are a "sure thing," just arrived and
+counted. The happy news is whispered about, with confident
+assurance, yet tinged with anxiety. There is great
+rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is querulous:
+he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"&mdash;stomach
+still sour from the Christmas dinner&mdash;and, anyhow,
+it only makes the week-a-day "grub" more disgusting.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen converse
+freely; the yard gangs lounge about and cluster
+in little groups, that separate at the approach of a
+superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run
+in and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously.
+"What are you after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "Oh,
+just to my cell; forgot my handkerchief." The guard
+answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile. "All
+right; go ahead, but don't be long." If "Papa" Mitchell
+is about, he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling
+with packages: "Wotch 'er got there, eh? Big
+family of kids <i>you</i> have, Jim. First thing you know,
+you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." The envied
+bakery and kitchen employees supply their friends with
+extra holiday tidbits, and the solitaries dance in glee at
+the sight of the savory dainty, the fresh brown bread
+generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the prelude
+of the promised culinary symphony.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. The
+prisoners at first converse in whispers, then become
+bolder, and talk louder through the bars. As night
+approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity
+and animation,&mdash;light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse
+jests and droll humor. A wag on the upper tier banters
+the passing guards, his quips and sallies setting the
+adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong
+sounds the order to retire. Some one shouts to a distant
+friend, "Hey, Bill, are you there? Ye-es? Stay there!"
+It grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the left
+sing-songs, "Fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to
+greet New Year's." A dozen voices yell their acceptance.
+"Little Frenchy," the spirited grayhead on the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span>
+top tier, vociferates shrilly, "Me, too, boys. I'm viz you
+all right."</p>
+
+<p>All is still in the cell-house, save for a wild Indian
+whoop now and then by the vigil-keeping boys. The
+block breathes in heavy sleep; loud snoring sounds from
+the gallery above. Only the irregular tread of the felt-soled
+guards falls muffled in the silence.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight
+hour. A siren on the Ohio intones its deep-chested bass.
+Another joins it, then another. Shrill factory whistles
+pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a nearby
+church ring in joyful melody between. Instantly the
+prison is astir. Tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors
+shake in fury, beds and chairs squeak and screech, pans
+slam on the floor, shoes crash against the walls with a
+dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. Unearthly
+yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive
+prisoner beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table&mdash;a
+veritable Bedlam of frenzy has broken loose in both
+wings. The prisoners are celebrating the advent of the
+New Year.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The voices grow hoarse and feeble. The tin clanks
+languidly against the iron, the grating of the doors sounds
+weaker. The men are exhausted with the unwonted
+effort. The guards stumbled up the galleries, their
+forms swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight.
+In maudlin tones they command silence, and bid
+the men retire to bed. The younger, more daring, challenge
+the order with husky howls and catcalls,&mdash;a defiant
+shout, a groan, and all is quiet.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twenty-four
+hours the long-repressed animal spirits are rampant.
+No music or recreation honors the New Year;
+the day is passed in the cell. The prisoners, securely
+barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and
+sorrow, their yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of
+tumult.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The month of January brings sedulous activity.
+Shops and block are overhauled, every nook and corner
+is scoured, and a special squad detailed to whitewash
+the cells. The yearly clean-up not being due till spring,
+I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected
+visit of the Board of Charities is approaching.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation.
+The solitaries and prospective witnesses are on the <i>qui
+vive</i>, anxious lines on their faces. Some manifest fear
+of the ill will of the Warden, as the probable result of
+their testimony. I seek to encourage them by promising
+to assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw
+their previous consent. The safety of my data causes me
+grave concern, in view of the increasing frequency of
+searches. Deliberation finally resolves itself into the
+bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the
+cell set aside for the use of the officers. It is the first
+cell on the range; it is never locked, and is ignored at
+searches because it is not occupied by prisoners. The
+little bundle, protected with a piece of oilskin procured
+from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the
+waste pipe. A stout cord secures it from being washed
+away by the rush of water, when the privy is in use.
+I call Officer Mitchell's attention to the dusty condition<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span>
+of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning and
+afternoon. He accedes in an offhand manner, and twice
+daily I surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked
+cord, renewing the string repeatedly.</p>
+
+<p>Other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited
+with several trustworthy friends on the range.
+Everything is ready for the investigation, and we confidently
+await the coming of the Board of Charities.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The cell-house rejoices at the absence of Scot Woods.
+The Block Captain of the morning has been "reduced to
+the ranks." The disgrace is signalized by his appearance
+on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the chilly winter
+blasts. The guards look upon the assignment as "punishment
+duty" for incurring the displeasure of the Warden.
+The keepers smile at the indiscreet Scot interfering
+with the self-granted privileges of "Southside"
+Johnny, one of the Warden's favorites. The runner who
+afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came
+out victorious in the struggle with Woods. The latter
+was upbraided by Captain Wright in the presence of
+Johnny, who is now officially authorized in his perquisites.
+Sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid
+comment, whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the
+block.</p>
+
+<p>I regret his absence. A severe disciplinarian, Woods
+was yet very exceptional among the guards, in that he
+sought to discourage the spying of prisoners on each
+other. He frowned upon the trusties, and strove to
+treat the men impartially.</p>
+
+<p>Mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to
+fill the vacancy made by the transfer of Woods. The
+charge of the block in the afternoon devolves upon Offi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span>cer
+McIlvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp, steely
+eyes. He is considerably above the average warder in
+intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts
+as his assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat
+at the front desk.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the
+two cell-houses are frequent; the new guards are alert
+and active. Almost daily the Warden visits the ranges,
+leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. Rarely
+do I find a chance to pause at the cells; I keep in touch
+with the men through the medium of notes. But one
+day, several fights breaking out in the shops, the block
+officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the combatants
+in the punishment cells. The front is deserted,
+and I improve the opportunity to talk to the solitaries.
+Jasper, "Southside," and Bob Runyon, the "politicians,"
+also converse at the doors, Bob standing suspiciously
+close to the bars. Suddenly Officer McIlvaine appears
+in the yard door. His face is flushed, his eyes filling with
+wrath as they fasten on the men at the cells.</p>
+
+<p>"Hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts.
+"Confound you all, the 'Old Man' just gave me the
+deuce; too much talking in the block. I won't stand
+for it, that's all," he adds petulantly.</p>
+
+<p>Within half an hour I am haled before the Warden.
+He looks worried, deep lines of anxiety about his mouth.</p>
+
+<p>"You are reported for standing at the doors," he
+snarls at me. "What are you always telling the men?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's the first time the officer&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always
+talking to the prisoners. They are in punishment, and
+you have no business with them."</p>
+
+<p>"Why was <i>I</i> picked out? Others talk, too."</p>
+
+<p>"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>
+the keeper, he says: "How is that, Officer? The man
+is charging you with neglect of duty."</p>
+
+<p>"I am not charging&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Silence! What have you to say, Mr. McIlvaine?"</p>
+
+<p>The guard reddens with suppressed rage. "It isn't
+true, Captain," he replies; "there was no one except
+Berkman."</p>
+
+<p>"You hear what the officer says? You are always
+breaking the rules. You're plotting; I know you,&mdash;pulling
+a dozen wires. You are inimical to the management
+of the institution. But I will break your connections.
+Officers, take him directly to the South Wing, you
+understand? He is not to return to his cell. Have it
+searched at once, thoroughly. Lock him up."</p>
+
+<p>"Warden, what for?" I demand. "I have not done
+anything to lose my position. Talking is not such a
+serious charge."</p>
+
+<p>"Very serious, very serious. You're too dangerous
+on the range. I'll spoil your infernal schemes by removing
+you from the North Block. You've been there too
+long."</p>
+
+<p>"I want to remain there."</p>
+
+<p>"The more reason to take you away. That will do
+now."</p>
+
+<p>"No, it won't," I burst out. "I'll stay where I am."</p>
+
+<p>"Remove him, Mr. McIlvaine."</p>
+
+<p>I am taken to the South Wing and locked up in a
+vacant cell, neglected and ill-smelling. It is Number 2,
+Range M&mdash;the first gallery, facing the yard; a "double"
+cell, somewhat larger than those of the North Block, and
+containing a small window. The walls are damp and
+bare, save for the cardboard of printed rules and the
+prison calendar. It is the 27th of February, 1896, but
+the calendar is of last year, indicating that the cell has
+not been occupied since the previous November. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span>
+contains the usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw
+mattress, a small table and a chair. It feels cold and
+dreary.</p>
+
+<p>In thought I picture the guards ransacking my former
+cell. They will not discover anything: my material is
+well hidden. The Warden evidently suspects my plans:
+he fears my testimony before the investigation committee.
+My removal is to sever my connections, and now
+it is impossible for me to reach my data. I must return
+to the North Block; otherwise all our plans are doomed
+to fail. I can't leave my friends on the range in the
+lurch: some of them have already signified to the Chaplain
+their desire to testify; their statements will remain
+unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must rejoin
+them. I have told the Warden that I shall remain
+where I was, but he probably ignored it as an empty
+boast.</p>
+
+<p>I consider the situation, and resolve to "break up
+housekeeping." It is the sole means of being transferred
+to the other cell-house. It will involve the loss
+of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a
+fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken
+furniture will be used for defence, generally rush the
+prisoner with blackjacks. But my return to the North
+Wing will be assured,&mdash;no man in stripes can remain in
+the South Wing.</p>
+
+<p>Alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes, producing
+a scrap of paper, a pencil, and a knife. I write
+a hurried note to "K," briefly informing him of the new
+developments, and intimating that our data are safe.
+Guardedly I attract the attention of the runner on the
+floor beneath; it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally
+communicates with "G." The note rolled into
+a little ball, I shoot between the bars to the waiting
+prisoner. Now everything is prepared.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>It is near supper time; the men are coming back from
+work. It would be advisable to wait till everybody is
+locked in, and the shop officers depart home. There will
+then be only three guards on duty in the block. But I
+am in a fever of indignation and anger. Furiously
+snatching up the chair, I start "breaking up."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2>
+
+<h3>LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER</h3>
+
+
+<p>The dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness
+is almost visible, the silence oppressive; but the terror
+of my former experience has abated. I shall probably
+be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than
+on the previous occasion,&mdash;my offence is considered very
+grave. Three charges have been entered against me:
+destroying State property, having possession of a knife,
+and uttering a threat against the Warden. When I
+saw the officers gathering at my back, while I was facing
+the Captain, I realized its significance. They were preparing
+to assault me. Quickly advancing to the Warden,
+I shook my fist in his face, crying:</p>
+
+<p>"If they touch me, I'll hold you personally responsible."</p>
+
+<p>He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he demanded:</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean? How dare you?"</p>
+
+<p>"I mean just what I say. I won't be clubbed. My
+friends will avenge me, too."</p>
+
+<p>He glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous
+silence. One by one they retired, only two remaining,
+and I was taken quietly to the dungeon.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The stillness is broken by a low, muffled sound. I
+listen intently. It is some one pacing the cell at the
+further end of the passage.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Halloo! Who's there?" I shout.</p>
+
+<p>No reply. The pacing continues. It must be "Silent
+Nick"; he never talks.</p>
+
+<p>I prepare to pass the night on the floor. It is bare;
+there is no bed or blanket, and I have been deprived of
+my coat and shoes. It is freezing in the cell; my feet
+grow numb, hands cold, as I huddle in the corner, my
+head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the
+stone floor. I try to think, but my thoughts are wandering,
+my brain frigid.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor.
+Guards are descending into the dungeon. I wonder
+whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it is not
+yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I
+recognize the mumbling speech of Deputy Greaves, as
+he calls out to the silent prisoner:</p>
+
+<p>"Want a drink?"</p>
+
+<p>The double doors open noisily.</p>
+
+<p>"Here!"</p>
+
+<p>"Give me the cup," the hoarse bass resembles that of
+"Crazy Smithy." His stentorian voice sounds cracked
+since he was shot in the neck by Officer Dean.</p>
+
+<p>"You can't have th' cup," the Deputy fumes.</p>
+
+<p>"I won't drink out of your hand, God damn you.
+Think I'm a cur, do you?" Smithy swears and curses
+savagely.</p>
+
+<p>The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow
+faint, and all is silent, save the quickened footfall of
+Smith, who will not talk to any prisoner.</p>
+
+<p>I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at
+times to strain my ear for every sound from the rotunda
+above, wondering whether day is breaking. The minutes
+drag in dismal darkness....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like
+sweet music. It is morning! The guards hand me the
+day's allowance&mdash;two ounces of white bread and a quart
+of water. The wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me I've
+never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid,
+and nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow
+the slice, so small and thin. It whets my appetite, and I
+feel ravenously hungry.</p>
+
+<p>At Smith's door the scene of the previous evening
+is repeated. The Deputy insists that the man drink out
+of the cup held by a guard. The prisoner refuses, with
+a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a splash,
+followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell
+bucket on the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of
+his privy upon the officers. In confusion they rush out
+of the dungeon.</p>
+
+<p>Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar.
+There is a hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize
+the rasping whisper of Hopkins, the tones of Woods,
+McIlvaine, and others. I catch the words, "Both sides
+at once." Several cells in the dungeon are provided
+with double entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks
+upon obstreperous prisoners. Smith is always assigned
+to one of these cells. I shudder as I realize that
+the officers are preparing to club the demented man.
+He has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary
+confinement, and his throat still bleeds occasionally from
+the bullet wound. Almost half his time he has been kept
+in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from the
+range twelve days. It is.... Involuntarily I shut my
+eyes at the fearful thud of the riot clubs.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the
+keepers bringing another prisoner to the dungeon. I
+hear his violent sobbing from the depth of the cavern.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Who is there?" I hail him. I call repeatedly, without
+receiving an answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid
+of listening guards.</p>
+
+<p>"Ho, man!" I sing out, "the screws have gone. Who
+are you? This is Aleck, Aleck Berkman."</p>
+
+<p>"Is that you, Aleck? This is Johnny." There is a
+familiar ring about the young voice, broken by piteous
+moans. But I fail to identify it.</p>
+
+<p>"What Johnny?"</p>
+
+<p>"Johnny Davis&mdash;you know&mdash;stocking shop. I've just&mdash;killed
+a man."</p>
+
+<p>In bewilderment I listen to the story, told with bursts
+of weeping. Johnny had returned to the shop; he
+thought he would try again: he wanted to earn his "good"
+time. Things went well for a while, till "Dutch" Adams
+became shop runner. He is the stool who got Grant and
+Johnny Smith in trouble with the fake key, and Davis
+would have nothing to do with him. But "Dutch" persisted,
+pestering him all the time; and then&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Well, you know, Aleck," the boy seems diffident, "he
+lied about me like hell: he told the fellows he <i>used</i> me.
+Christ, my mother might hear about it! I couldn't stand
+it, Aleck; honest to God, I couldn't. I&mdash;I killed the lying
+cur, an' now&mdash;now I'll&mdash;I'll swing for it," he sobs as
+if his heart would break.</p>
+
+<p>A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my
+voice, as I strive to condole with him and utter the
+hope that it may not be so bad, after all. Perhaps Adams
+will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong; he
+may survive.</p>
+
+<p>Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more
+cheerful, and we talk of the coming investigation and
+local affairs. Perhaps the Board will even clear him, he
+suggests. But suddenly seized with fear, he weeps and
+moans again.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring
+news from the world above. An epidemic of fighting
+seems to have broken out in the wake of recent orders.
+The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more serious
+offences. "Kid Tommy" is enlarging upon his trouble.
+"You see, fellers," he cries in a treble, "dat skunk of a
+Pete he pushes me in de line, and I turns round t' give
+'im hell, but de screw pipes me. Got no chance t' choo,
+so I turns an' biffs him on de jaw, see?" But he is
+sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning,
+at most. "Them fellers that was scrappin' yesterday
+in de yard didn't go to de hole. Dey jest put 'em in de
+cell. Sandy knows de committee's comin' all right."</p>
+
+<p>Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire
+anxiously about "Dutch" Adams, and I share his joy at
+hearing that the man's wound is not serious. He was
+cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted
+to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness;
+the others dance and sing. I recite a poem from Nekrassov;
+the boys don't understand a word, but the sorrow-laden
+tones appeal to them, and they request more Russian
+"pieces." But Tommy is more interested in politics,
+and is bristling with the latest news from the Magee
+camp. He is a great admirer of Quay,&mdash;"dere's a smart
+guy fer you, fellers; owns de whole Keystone shebang
+all right, all right. He's Boss Quay, you bet you." He
+dives into national issues, rails at Bryan, "16 to 1 Bill,
+you jest list'n to 'm, he'll give sixteen dollars to every
+one; he will, nit!" and the boys are soon involved in a
+heated discussion of the respective merits of the two
+political parties, Tommy staunchly siding with the Republican.
+"Me gran'fader and me fader was Republicans,"
+he vociferates, "an' all me broders vote de ticket.
+Me fer de Gran' Ole Party, ev'ry time." Some one
+twits him on his political wisdom, challenging the boy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span>
+to explain the difference in the money standards. Tommy
+boldly appeals to me to corroborate him; but before
+I have an opportunity to speak, he launches upon other
+issues, berating Spain for her atrocities in Cuba, and
+insisting that this free country cannot tolerate slavery
+at its doors. Every topic is discussed, with Tommy
+orating at top speed, and continually broaching new subjects.
+Unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs, waxes
+reminiscent over former days, and loudly smacks his
+lips at the "great feeds" he enjoyed on the rare occasions
+when he was free to roam the back streets of Smoky City.
+"Say, Aleck, my boy," he calls to me familiarly, "many
+a penny I made on <i>you</i>, all right. How? Why, peddlin'
+extras, of course! Say, dem was fine days, all right;
+easy money; papers went like hot cakes off the griddle.
+Wish you'd do it again, Aleck."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories
+and anecdotes, the boys talking incessantly, as if fearful
+of silence. But every now and then there is a lull; we
+become quiet, each absorbed in his own thoughts. The
+pauses lengthen&mdash;lengthen into silence. Only the faint
+steps of "Crazy Smith" disturb the deep stillness.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved.
+But Johnny remains, and his apprehensions reawaken.
+Repeatedly during the night he rouses me from my
+drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger
+of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his
+assault. I allay his fears by dwelling on the Warden's
+aversion to giving publicity to the sex practices in the
+prison, and remind the boy of the Captain's official denial
+of their existence. These things happen almost every<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span>
+week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from
+Riverside on such charges.</p>
+
+<p>Johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about
+his family history, talking in a frank, confidential manner.
+With a glow of pleasure, I become aware of the
+note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he surprises
+me by asking:</p>
+
+<p>"Friend Aleck, what do they call you in Russian?"</p>
+
+<p>He prefers the fond "Sashenka," enunciating the
+strange word with quaint endearment, then diffidently
+confesses dislike for his own name, and relates the story
+he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth;
+Felipe was his name, and he was just like himself.</p>
+
+<p>"Shall I call you Felipe?" I offer.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, please do, Aleck, dear; no, Sashenka."</p>
+
+<p>The springs of affection well up within me, as I lie
+huddled on the stone floor, cold and hungry. With
+closed eyes, I picture the boy before me, with his delicate
+face, and sensitive, girlish lips.</p>
+
+<p>"Good night, dear Sashenka," he calls.</p>
+
+<p>"Good night, little Felipe."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In the morning we are served with a slice of bread
+and water. I am tormented with thirst and hunger, and
+the small ration fails to assuage my sharp pangs.
+Smithy still refuses to drink out of the Deputy's hand;
+his doors remain unopened. With tremulous anxiety
+Johnny begs the Deputy Warden to tell him how much
+longer he will remain in the dungeon, but Greaves curtly
+commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy.</p>
+
+<p>"Deputy," I call, boiling over with indignation, "he
+asked you a respectful question. I'd give him a decent
+answer."</p>
+
+<p>"You mind your own business, you hear?" he retorts.</p>
+
+<p>But I persist in defending my young friend, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span>
+berate the Deputy for his language. He hastens away
+in a towering passion, menacing me with "what Smithy
+got."</p>
+
+<p>Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of
+the trouble. The threat of the Deputy disquiets him,
+and he warns me to prepare. My cell is provided with
+a double entrance, and I am apprehensive of a sudden
+attack. But the hours pass without the Deputy returning,
+and our fears are allayed. The boy rejoices on my
+account, and brims over with appreciation of my intercession.</p>
+
+<p>The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence
+disappears, and we become openly tender and
+affectionate. The conversation lags: we feel weak and
+worn. But every little while we hail each other with
+words of encouragement. Smithy incessantly paces the
+cell; the gnawing of the river rats reaches our ears; the
+silence is frequently pierced by the wild yells of the
+insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. The
+quiet grows unbearable, and Johnny calls again:</p>
+
+<p>"What are you doing, Sashenka?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, nothing. Just thinking, Felipe."</p>
+
+<p>"Am I in your thoughts, dear?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, kiddie, you are."</p>
+
+<p>"Sasha, dear, I've been thinking, too."</p>
+
+<p>"What, Felipe?"</p>
+
+<p>"You are the only one I care for. I haven't a friend
+in the whole place."</p>
+
+<p>"Do you care much for me, Felipe?"</p>
+
+<p>"Will you promise not to laugh at me, Sashenka?"</p>
+
+<p>"I wouldn't laugh at you."</p>
+
+<p>"Cross your hand over your heart. Got it, Sasha?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I'll tell you. I was thinking&mdash;how shall I tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span>
+you? I was thinking, Sashenka&mdash;if you were here with
+me&mdash;I would like to kiss you."</p>
+
+<p>An unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart,
+and I muse in silence.</p>
+
+<p>"What's the matter, Sashenka? Why don't you say
+something? Are you angry with me?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, Felipe, you foolish little boy."</p>
+
+<p>"You are laughing at me."</p>
+
+<p>"No, dear; I feel just as you do."</p>
+
+<p>"Really?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, I am so glad, Sashenka."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In the evening the guards descend to relieve Johnny;
+he is to be transferred to the basket, they inform him.
+On the way past my cell, he whispers: "Hope I'll see you
+soon, Sashenka." A friendly officer knocks on the outer
+blind door of my cell. "That you thar, Berkman? You
+want to b'have to th' Dep'ty. He's put you down for two
+more days for sassin' him."</p>
+
+<p>I feel more lonesome at the boy's departure. The
+silence grows more oppressive, the hours of darkness
+heavier.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Seven days I remain in the dungeon. At the expiration
+of the week, feeling stiff and feeble, I totter
+behind the guards, on the way to the bathroom. My
+body looks strangely emaciated, reduced almost to a
+skeleton. The pangs of hunger revive sharply with the
+shock of the cold shower, and the craving for tobacco
+is overpowering at the sight of the chewing officers. I
+look forward to being placed in a cell, quietly exulting
+at my victory as I am led to the North Wing. But, in
+the cell-house, the Deputy Warden assigns me to the
+lower end of Range A, insane department. Exasperated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>
+by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on edge with the
+dungeon experience, I storm in furious protest, demanding
+to be returned to "the hole." The Deputy, startled
+by my violence, attempts to soothe me, and finally yields.
+I am placed in Number 35, the "crank row" beginning
+several cells further.</p>
+
+<p>Upon the heels of the departing officers, the rangeman
+is at my door, bursting with the latest news. The
+investigation is over, the Warden whitewashed! For
+an instant I am aghast, failing to grasp the astounding
+situation. Slowly its full significance dawns on me, as
+Bill excitedly relates the story. It's the talk of the
+prison. The Board of Charities had chosen its Secretary,
+J. Francis Torrance, an intimate friend of the
+Warden, to conduct the investigation. As a precautionary
+measure, I was kept several additional days in the
+dungeon. Mr. Torrance has privately interviewed "Dutch" Adams, Young Smithy, and Bob Runyon,
+promising them their full commutation time, notwithstanding
+their bad records, and irrespective of their
+future behavior. They were instructed by the Secretary
+to corroborate the management, placing all blame upon
+me! No other witnesses were heard. The "investigation"
+was over within an hour, the committee of one
+retiring for dinner to the adjoining residence of the
+Warden.</p>
+
+<p>Several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during
+the afternoon, corroborating the story of the rangeman,
+and completing the details. The cell-house itself bears
+out the situation; the change in the personnel of the men
+is amazing. "Dutch" Adams has been promoted to messenger
+for the "front office," the most privileged "political"
+job in the prison. Bob Runyon, a third-timer and
+notorious "kid man," has been appointed a trusty in the
+shops. But the most significant cue is the advancement<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span>
+of Young Smithy to the position of rangeman. He has
+but recently been sentenced to a year's solitary for the
+broken key discovered in the lock of his door. His
+record is of the worst. He is a young convict of extremely
+violent temper, who has repeatedly attacked
+fellow-prisoners with dangerous weapons. Since his
+murderous assault upon the inoffensive "Praying Andy,"
+Smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the
+escort of two guards. And now this irresponsible man
+is in charge of a range!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>At supper, Young Smithy steals up to my cell, bringing
+a slice of cornbread. I refuse the peace offering, and
+charge him with treachery. At first he stoutly protests
+his innocence, but gradually weakens and pleads his
+dire straits in mitigation. Torrance had persuaded him
+to testify, but he avoided incriminating me. That was
+done by the other two witnesses; he merely exonerated
+the Warden from the charges preferred by James Grant.
+He had been clubbed four times, but he denied to the
+committee that the guards practice violence; and he
+supported the Warden in his statement that the officers
+are not permitted to carry clubs or blackjacks. He
+feels that an injustice has been done me, and now that
+he occupies my former position, he will be able to repay
+the little favors I did him when he was in solitary.</p>
+
+<p>Indignantly I spurn his offer. He pleads his youth,
+the torture of the cell, and begs my forgiveness; but I am
+bitter at his treachery, and bid him go.</p>
+
+<p>Officer McIlvaine pauses at my door. "Oh, what
+a change, what an awful change!" he exclaims, pityingly.
+I don't know whether he refers to my appearance, or to
+the loss of range liberty; but I resent his tone of commiseration;
+it was he who had selected me as a victim, to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span>
+be reported for talking. Angrily I turn my back to him,
+refusing to talk.</p>
+
+<p>Somebody stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers
+between the bars. Whole columns detail the report of
+the "investigation," completely exonerating Warden Edward
+S. Wright. The base charges against the management
+of the penitentiary were the underhand work of
+Anarchist Berkman, Mr. Torrance assured the press.
+One of the papers contains a lengthy interview with
+Wright, accusing me of fostering discontent and insubordination
+among the men. The Captain expresses
+grave fear for the safety of the community, should the
+Pardon Board reduce my sentence, in view of the circumstance
+that my lawyers are preparing to renew the
+application at the next session.</p>
+
+<p>In great agitation I pace the cell. The statement of
+the Warden is fatal to the hope of a pardon. My life
+in the prison will now be made still more unbearable.
+I shall again be locked in solitary. With despair I think
+of my fate in the hands of the enemy, and the sense
+of my utter helplessness overpowers me.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2>
+
+<h3>FOR SAFETY</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear K.</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I know you must have been worried about me. Give no
+credence to the reports you hear. I did not try to suicide. I
+was very nervous and excited over the things that happened
+while I was in the dungeon. I saw the papers after I came up&mdash;you
+know what they said. I couldn't sleep; I kept pacing
+the floor. The screws were hanging about my cell, but I paid
+no attention to them. They spoke to me, but I wouldn't answer:
+I was in no mood for talking. They must have thought something
+wrong with me. The doctor came, and felt my pulse, and
+they took me to the hospital. The Warden rushed in and ordered
+me into a strait-jacket. "For safety," he said.</p>
+
+<p>You know Officer Erwin; he put the jacket on me. He's a
+pretty decent chap; I saw he hated to do it. But the evening
+screw is a rat. He called three times during the night, and
+every time he'd tighten the straps. I thought he'd cut my hands
+off; but I wouldn't cry for mercy, and that made him wild.
+They put me in the "full size" jacket that winds all around you,
+the arms folded. They laid me, tied in the canvas, on the bed,
+bound me to it feet and chest, with straps provided with padlocks.
+I was suffocating in the hot ward; could hardly breathe.
+In the morning they unbound me. My legs were paralyzed,
+and I could not stand up. The doctor ordered some
+medicine for me. The head nurse (he's in for murder, and
+he's rotten) taunted me with the "black bottle." Every time
+he passed my bed, he'd say: "You still alive? Wait till I fix
+something up for you." I refused the medicine, and then they
+took me down to the dispensary, lashed me to a chair, and used
+the pump on me. You can imagine how I felt. That went on
+for a week; every night in the strait-jacket, every morning
+the pump. Now I am back in the block, in 6 A. A peculiar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span>
+coincidence,&mdash;it's the same cell I occupied when I first came
+here.</p>
+
+<p>Don't trust Bill Say. The Warden told me he knew about
+the note I sent you just before I smashed up. If you got it,
+Bill must have read it and told Sandy. Only dear old Horsethief
+can be relied upon.</p>
+
+<p>How near the boundary of joy is misery! I shall never
+forget the first morning in the jacket. I passed a restless night,
+but just as it began to dawn I must have lost consciousness.
+Suddenly I awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears.
+It seemed to me as if the heavens had opened in a burst of
+ecstasy.... It was only a little sparrow, but never before in
+my life did I hear such sweet melody. I felt murder in my
+heart when the convict nurse drove the poor birdie from the
+window ledge.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXIX</h2>
+
+<h3>DREAMS OF FREEDOM</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>Like an endless <i>miserere</i> are the days in the solitary.
+No glimmer of light cheers the to-morrows. In the
+depths of suffering, existence becomes intolerable; and
+as of old, I seek refuge in the past. The stages of my
+life reappear as the acts of a drama which I cannot
+bring myself to cut short. The possibilities of the dark
+motive compel the imagination, and halt the thought
+of destruction. Misery magnifies the estimate of self;
+the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure. Despair
+engenders obstinate resistance; in its spirit hope is
+trembling. Slowly it assumes more definite shape:
+escape is the sole salvation. The world of the living
+is dim and unreal with distance; its voice reaches me
+like the pale echo of fantasy; the thought of its turbulent
+vitality is strange with apprehension. But the present
+is bitter with wretchedness, and gasps desperately for
+relief.</p>
+
+<p>The efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth
+into my life. The indefatigable Girl has succeeded in
+interesting various circles: she is gathering funds for my
+application for a rehearing before the Pardon Board in
+the spring of '98, when my first sentence of seven years
+will have expired. With a touch of old-time tenderness,
+I think of her loyalty, her indomitable perseverance in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span>
+my behalf. It is she, almost she alone, who has kept
+my memory green throughout the long years. Even
+Fedya, my constant chum, has been swirled into the
+vortex of narrow ambition and self-indulgence, the plaything
+of commonplace fate.</p>
+
+<p>Resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my
+thoughts of the erstwhile twin brother of our ideal-kissed
+youth. By contrast, the Girl is silhouetted on my
+horizon as the sole personification of revolutionary persistence,
+the earnest of its realization. Beyond, all is
+darkness&mdash;the mystic world of falsehood and sham, that
+will hate and persecute me even as its brutal high priests
+in the prison. Here and there the gloom is rent: an
+unknown sympathizer, or comrade, sends a greeting;
+I pore eagerly over the chirography, and from the clear,
+decisive signature, "Voltairine de Cleyre," strive to
+mold the character and shape the features of the writer.
+To the Girl I apply to verify my "reading," and rejoice
+in the warm interest of the convent-educated American,
+a friend of my much-admired Comrade Dyer D. Lum,
+who is aiding the Girl in my behalf.</p>
+
+<p>But the efforts for a rehearing wake no hope in my
+heart. My comrades, far from the prison world, do not
+comprehend the full significance of the situation resulting
+from the investigation. My underground connections are
+paralyzed; I cannot enlighten the Girl. But Nold and
+Bauer are on the threshold of liberty. Within two
+months Carl will carry my message to New York. I can
+fully rely on his discretion and devotion; we have grown
+very intimate through common suffering. He will inform
+the Girl that nothing is to be expected from legal
+procedure; instead, he will explain to her the plan I have
+evolved.</p>
+
+<p>My position as rangeman has served me to good
+advantage. I have thoroughly familiarized myself with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span>
+the institution; I have gathered information and explored
+every part of the cell-house offering the least
+likelihood of an escape. The prison is almost impregnable;
+Tom's attempt to scale the wall proved disastrous,
+in spite of his exceptional opportunities as kitchen employee,
+and the thick fog of the early morning. Several
+other attempts also were doomed to failure, the great
+number of guards and their vigilance precluding success.
+No escape has taken place since the days of Paddy
+McGraw, before the completion of the prison. Entirely
+new methods must be tried: the road to freedom leads
+underground! But digging <i>out</i> of the prison is impracticable
+in the modern structure of steel and rock.
+We must force a passage <i>into</i> the prison: the tunnel is
+to be dug from the outside! A house is to be rented in
+the neighborhood of the penitentiary, and the underground
+passage excavated beneath the eastern wall,
+toward the adjacent bath-house. No officers frequent
+the place save at certain hours, and I shall find an opportunity
+to disappear into the hidden opening on the
+regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are permitted
+to bathe.</p>
+
+<p>The project will require careful preparation and
+considerable expense. Skilled comrades will have to
+be entrusted with the secret work, the greater part of
+which must be carried on at night. Determination and
+courage will make the plan feasible, successful. Such
+things have been done before. Not in this country, it
+is true. But the act will receive added significance from
+the circumstance that the liberation of the first American
+political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar
+to those practised by our comrades in Russia. Who
+knows? It may prove the symbol and precursor of
+Russian idealism on American soil. And what tremendous
+impression the consummation of the bold plan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span>
+will make! What a stimulus to our propaganda, as
+a demonstration of Anarchist initiative and ability! I
+glow with the excitement of its great possibilities, and
+enthuse Carl with my hopes. If the preparatory work
+is hastened, the execution of the plan will be facilitated
+by the renewed agitation within the prison. Rumors
+of a legislative investigation are afloat, diverting
+the thoughts of the administration into different channels.
+I shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades
+greater safety in the work.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>During the long years of my penitentiary life I have
+formed many friendships. I have earned the reputation
+of a "square man" and a "good fellow," have received
+many proofs of confidence, and appreciation of my
+uncompromising attitude toward the generally execrated
+management. Most of my friends observe the unwritten
+ethics of informing me of their approaching release, and
+offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me with
+little comforts. I invariably request them to visit the
+newspapers and to relate their experiences in Riverside.
+Some express fear of the Warden's enmity, of the fatal
+consequences in case of their return to the penitentiary.
+But the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders, who
+confidently bid me a final good-bye, unafraid of return,
+call directly from the prison on the Pittsburgh editors.</p>
+
+<p>Presently the <i>Leader</i> and the <i>Dispatch</i> begin to voice
+their censure of the hurried whitewash by the State
+Board of Charities. The attitude of the press encourages
+the guards to manifest their discontent with the
+humiliating eccentricities of the senile Warden. They
+protest against the whim subjecting them to military
+drill to improve their appearance, and resent Captain
+Wright's insistence that they patronize his private tailor,
+high-priced and incompetent. Serious friction has also<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span>
+arisen between the management and Mr. Sawhill, Superintendent
+of local industries. The prisoners rejoice
+at the growing irascibility of the Warden, and the deeper
+lines on his face, interpreting them as signs of worry and
+fear. Expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch
+as Judge Gordon, of Philadelphia, severely censures the
+administration of the Eastern Penitentiary, charging inhuman
+treatment, abuse of the insane, and graft. The
+labor bodies of the State demand the abolition of convict
+competition, and the press becomes more assertive
+in urging an investigation of both penitentiaries. The
+air is charged with rumors of legislative action.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The breath of spring is in the cell-house. My two
+comrades are jubilant. The sweet odor of May wafts
+the resurrection! But the threshold of life is guarded by
+the throes of new birth. A tone of nervous excitement
+permeates their correspondence. Anxiety tortures the
+sleepless nights; the approaching return to the living is
+tinged with the disquietude of the unknown, the dread
+of the renewed struggle for existence. But the joy
+of coming emancipation, the wine of sunshine and liberty
+tingles in every fiber, and hope flutters its disused wings.</p>
+
+<p>Our plans are complete. Carl is to visit the Girl,
+explain my project, and serve as the medium of communication
+by means of our prearranged system, investing
+apparently innocent official letters with <i>sub rosa</i>
+meaning. The initial steps will require time. Meanwhile
+"K" and "G" are to make the necessary arrangements
+for the publication of our book. The security of
+our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction and
+much merriment at the expense of the administration.
+The repeated searches have failed to unearth them. With<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span>
+characteristic daring, the faithful Bob had secreted them
+in a hole in the floor of his shop, almost under the very
+seat of the guard. One by one they have been smuggled
+outside by a friendly officer, whom we have christened
+"Schraube."<a name="FNanchor_46_46" id="FNanchor_46_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_46_46" class="fnanchor">[46]</a> By degrees Nold has gained the confidence
+of the former mill-worker, with the result that sixty
+precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade in
+Allegheny. I am to supply the final chapters of the book
+through Mr. Schraube, whose friendship Carl is about
+to bequeath to me.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The month of May is on the wane. The last note
+is exchanged with my comrades. Dear Bob was not able
+to reach me in the morning, and now I read the lines
+quivering with the last pangs of release, while Nold and
+Bauer are already beyond the walls. How I yearned
+for a glance at Carl, to touch hands, even in silence!
+But the customary privilege was refused us. Only once
+in the long years of our common suffering have I looked
+into the eyes of my devoted friend, and stealthily pressed
+his hand, like a thief in the night. No last greeting
+was vouchsafed me to-day. The loneliness seems heavier,
+the void more painful.</p>
+
+<p>The routine is violently disturbed. Reading and
+study are burdensome: my thoughts will not be compelled.
+They revert obstinately to my comrades, and
+storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the distance,
+to commune with the absent. I seek diversion
+in the manufacture of prison "fancy work," ornamental
+little fruit baskets, diminutive articles of furniture,
+picture frames, and the like. The little momentos,
+constructed of tissue-paper rolls of various design, I
+send to the Girl, and am elated at her admiration
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span>of the beautiful workmanship and attractive color effects.
+But presently she laments the wrecked condition of the
+goods, and upon investigation I learn from the runner
+that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected
+for my product. The rotunda turnkey, in charge of the
+shipments, is hostile, and I appeal to the Chaplain.
+But his well-meant intercession results in an order from
+the Warden, interdicting the expressage of my work, on
+the ground of probable notes being secreted therein.
+I protest against the discrimination, suggesting the dismembering
+of every piece to disprove the charge. But
+the Captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to
+"take chances," and I am forced to resort to the subterfuge
+of having my articles transferred to a friendly
+prisoner and addressed by him to his mother in Beaver,
+Pa., thence to be forwarded to New York. At the
+same time the rotunda keeper detains a valuable piece
+of ivory sent to me by the Girl for the manufacture of
+ornamental toothpicks. The local ware, made of kitchen
+bones bleached in lime, turns yellow in a short time.
+My request for the ivory is refused on the plea of
+submitting the matter to the Warden's decision, who
+rules against me. I direct the return of it to my friend,
+but am informed that the ivory has been mislaid and
+cannot be found. Exasperated, I charge the guard with
+the theft, and serve notice that I shall demand the ivory
+at the expiration of my time. The turnkey jeers at the
+wild impossibility, and I am placed for a week on "Pennsylvania
+diet" for insulting an officer.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXX</h2>
+
+<h3>WHITEWASHED AGAIN</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Christmas, 1897.</span></p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Carl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I have been despairing of reaching you <i>sub rosa</i>, but the
+holidays brought the usual transfers, and at last friend Schraube
+is with me. Dear Carolus, I am worn out with the misery of the
+months since you left, and the many disappointments. Your
+official letters were not convincing. I fail to understand why
+the plan is not practicable. Of course, you can't write openly,
+but you have means of giving a hint as to the "impossibilities"
+you speak of. You say that I have become too estranged from
+the outside, and so forth&mdash;which may be true. Yet I think the
+matter chiefly concerns the inside, and of that I am the best
+judge. I do not see the force of your argument when you dwell
+upon the application at the next session of the Pardon Board.
+You mean that the other plan would jeopardize the success of
+the legal attempt. But there is not much hope of favorable
+action by the Board. You have talked all this over before, but
+you seem to have a different view now. Why?</p>
+
+<p>Only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my
+life the heart-to-heart talks we used to have here, though they
+were only on paper. But I am much interested in your activities.
+It seems strange that you, so long the companion of my silence,
+should now be in the very Niagara of life, of our movement.
+It gives me great satisfaction to know that your experience here
+has matured you, and helped to strengthen and deepen your
+convictions. It has had a similar effect upon me. You know
+what a voluminous reader I am. I have read&mdash;in fact, studied&mdash;every
+volume in the library here, and now the Chaplain supplies
+me with books from his. But whether it be philosophy,
+travel, or contemporary life that falls into my hands, it invariably
+distils into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas, and the beauty,
+the inevitability of Anarchism. But I do not want to enlarge
+upon this subject now; we can discuss it through official channels.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p>
+<p>You know that Tony and his nephew are here. We are just
+getting acquainted. He works in the shop; but as he is also
+coffee-boy, we have an opportunity to exchange notes. It is
+fortunate that his identity is not known; otherwise he would
+fall under special surveillance. I have my eyes on Tony,&mdash;he
+may prove valuable.</p>
+
+<p>I am still in solitary, with no prospect of relief. You know
+the policy of the Warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything
+that happens here. It has become a mania with him.
+Think of it, he blames me for Johnny Davis' cutting "Dutch."
+He laid everything at my door when the legislative investigation
+took place. It was a worse sham than the previous whitewash.
+Several members called to see me at the cell,&mdash;unofficially, they
+said. They got a hint of the evidence I was prepared to give,
+and one of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for
+one in my position to antagonize the Warden. I replied that
+I was no toady. He hinted that the authorities of the prison
+might help me to procure freedom, if I would act "discreetly."
+I insisted that I wanted to be heard by the committee. They
+departed, promising to call me as a witness. One Senator remarked,
+as he left: "You are too intelligent a man to be at
+large."</p>
+
+<p>When the hearing opened, several officers were the first to
+take the stand. The testimony was not entirely favorable to the
+Warden. Then Mr. Sawhill was called. You know him; he is
+an independent sort of man, with an eye upon the wardenship.
+His evidence came like a bomb; he charged the management
+with corruption and fraud, and so forth. The investigators took
+fright. They closed the sessions and departed for Harrisburg,
+announcing through the press that they would visit Moyamensing<a name="FNanchor_47_47" id="FNanchor_47_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_47_47" class="fnanchor">[47]</a>
+and then return to Riverside. But they did not return. The
+report they submitted to the Governor exonerated the Warden.</p>
+
+<p>The men were gloomy over the state of affairs. A hundred
+prisoners were prepared to testify, and much was expected from
+the committee. I had all my facts on hand: Bob had fished
+out for me the bundle of material from its hiding place. It
+was in good condition, in spite of the long soaking. (I am enclosing
+some new data in this letter, for use in our book.)</p>
+
+<p>Now that he is "cleared," the Warden has grown even more
+arrogant and despotic. Yet <i>some</i> good the agitation in the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span>press has accomplished: clubbings are less frequent, and the bull
+ring is temporarily abolished. But his hatred of me has grown
+venomous. He holds us responsible (together with Dempsey
+and Beatty) for organizing the opposition to convict labor,
+which has culminated in the Muehlbronner law. It is to take
+effect on the first of the year. The prison administration is
+very bitter, because the statute, which permits only thirty-five per
+cent. of the inmates to be employed in productive labor, will
+considerably minimize opportunities for graft. But the men
+are rejoicing: the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many
+to insanity and death. The law is one of the rare instances
+of rational legislation. Its benefit to labor in general is nullified,
+however, by limiting convict competition only within the State.
+The Inspectors are already seeking a market for the prison
+products in other States, while the convict manufactures of New
+York, Ohio, Illinois, etc., are disposed of in Pennsylvania. The
+irony of beneficent legislation! On the other hand, the inmates
+need not suffer for lack of employment. The new law allows
+the unlimited manufacture, within the prison, of products for
+local consumption. If the whine of the management regarding
+the "detrimental effect of idleness on the convict" is sincere,
+they could employ five times the population of the prison in the
+production of articles for our own needs.</p>
+
+<p>At present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied
+from the outside. The purchase of a farm, following the
+example set by the workhouse, would alone afford work for a
+considerable number of men. I have suggested, in a letter to
+the Inspectors, various methods by which every inmate of the
+institution could be employed,&mdash;among them the publication of
+a prison paper. Of course, they have ignored me. But what
+can you expect of a body of philanthropists who have the interest
+of the convict so much at heart that they delegated the President
+of the Board, George A. Kelly, to oppose the parole bill, a
+measure certainly along advanced lines of modern criminology.
+Owing to the influence of Inspector Kelly, the bill was shelved
+at the last session of the legislature, though the prisoners have
+been praying for it for years. It has robbed the moneyless lifetimers
+of their last hope: a clause in the parole bill held
+out to them the promise of release after 20 years of good behavior.</p>
+
+<p>Dark days are in store for the men. Apparently the cam<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span>paign
+of the Inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the
+Muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and
+sickness. They are actually causing both by keeping half the
+population locked up. You know how quickly the solitary drives
+certain classes of prisoners insane. Especially the more ignorant
+element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their personal
+troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. Think of men, who
+cannot even read, put <i>incommunicado</i> for months at a time,
+for years even! Most of the colored prisoners, and those accustomed
+to outdoor life, such as farmers and the like quickly
+develop the germs of consumption in close confinement. Now,
+this wilful murder&mdash;for it is nothing else&mdash;is absolutely unnecessary.
+The yard is big and well protected by the thirty-foot wall,
+with armed guards patrolling it. Why not give the unemployed
+men air and exercise, since the management is determined to
+keep them idle? I suggested the idea to the Warden, but he
+berated me for my "habitual interference" in matters that do
+not concern me. I often wonder at the enigma of human
+nature. There's the Captain, a man 72 years old. He should
+bethink himself of death, of "meeting his Maker," since he
+pretends to believe in religion. Instead, he is bending all his
+energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts, in
+order to force the repeal of the law that has lessened the flow
+of blood money. It is almost beyond belief; but you have
+yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere upon new
+officers. Wright has been Warden for thirty years; he has
+come to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion; and
+now he is furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute
+control.</p>
+
+<p>This letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the "good"
+old days when "KG" were here. I miss our correspondence.
+There are some intelligent men on the range, but they are not
+interested in the thoughts that seethe within me and call for
+expression. Just now the chief topic of local interest (after, of
+course, the usual discussion of the grub, women, kids, and their
+health and troubles) is the Spanish War and the new dining-room,
+in which the shop employees are to be fed <i>en masse</i>, out
+of chinaware, think of it! Some of the men are tremendously
+patriotic; others welcome the war as a sinecure affording easy
+money and plenty of excitement. You remember Young Butch
+and his partners, Murtha, Tommy, etc. They have recently been<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span>
+released, too wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual
+labor. All of them have signified their intention of joining the
+insurrection; some are enrolling in the regular army for the
+war. Butch is already in Cuba. I had a letter from him. There
+is a passage in it that is tragically characteristic. He refers to
+a skirmish he participated in. "We shot a lot of Spaniards,
+mostly from ambush," he writes; "it was great sport." It is
+the attitude of the military adventurer, to whom a sacred cause
+like the Cuban uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity
+to satisfy his lust for blood. Butch was a very gentle boy when
+he entered the prison. But he has witnessed much heartlessness
+and cruelty during his term of three years.</p>
+
+<p>Letter growing rather long. Good night.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXI</h2>
+
+<h3>"AND BY ALL FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT"</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>A year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left
+me feeble and languid. My expectations of relief from
+complete isolation have been disappointed. Existence is
+grim with despair, as day by day I feel my vitality
+ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my
+body is racked with constant pains. All my heart is
+dark.</p>
+
+<p>A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds,
+as the session of the Pardon Board approaches. I
+clutch desperately at the faint hope of a favorable decision.
+With feverish excitement I pore over the letters
+of the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My
+application is supported by numerous labor bodies, she
+writes. Comrade Harry Kelly has been tireless in my
+behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public sympathy
+augurs well for the application. The United
+Labor League of Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred
+thousand toilers, has passed a resolution favoring
+my release. Together with other similar expressions,
+individual and collective, it will be laid before the Pardon
+Board, and it is confidently expected that the authorities
+will not ignore the voice of organized labor.
+In a ferment of anxiety and hope I count the days and
+hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span>
+near the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before
+me, glorified by the meeting with the Girl and my former
+companions, and I thrill with the return to the
+world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of the
+night.</p>
+
+<p>The thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon
+my visions. With the tenderness born of common misery
+I think of their fate, resolving to brighten their
+lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much
+to every prisoner. My first act in liberty shall be
+in memory of the men grown close to me with the
+kinship of suffering, the unfortunates endeared by
+awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many
+years I have shared with them the sorrows and the few
+joys of penitentiary life, I feel almost guilty to leave
+them. But henceforth their cause shall be mine, a vital
+part of the larger, social cause. It will be my constant
+endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain
+every effort for my little friend Felipe; I must secure
+his release. How happy the boy will be to join me in
+liberty!... The flash of the dark lantern dispels my
+fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving
+and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict.</p>
+
+<p>At noon I am called to the Warden. He must have
+received word from the Board,&mdash;I reflect on the way.
+The Captain lounges in the armchair, his eyes glistening,
+his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I
+control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids
+the guard depart, and a wild hope trembles in me. He
+is not afraid,&mdash;perhaps good news!</p>
+
+<p>"Sit down, Berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability.
+"I have just received a message from Harrisburg.
+Your attorney requests me to inform you that the
+Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is probably
+under consideration at this moment."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>I remain silent. The Warden scans me closely.</p>
+
+<p>"You would return to New York, if released?" he
+inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"What are your plans?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I have not formed any yet."</p>
+
+<p>"You would go back to your Anarchist friends?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly."</p>
+
+<p>"You have not changed your views?"</p>
+
+<p>"By no means."</p>
+
+<p>A turnkey enters. "Captain, on official business," he
+reports.</p>
+
+<p>"Wait here a moment, Berkman," the Warden remarks,
+withdrawing. The officer remains.</p>
+
+<p>In a few minutes the Warden returns, motioning to
+the guard to leave.</p>
+
+<p>"I have just been informed that the Board has refused
+you a hearing."</p>
+
+<p>I feel the cold perspiration running down my back.
+The prison rumors of the Warden's interference flash
+through my mind. The Board promised a rehearing at
+the previous application,&mdash;why this refusal?</p>
+
+<p>"Warden," I exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!"</p>
+
+<p>"Such action lies with the Inspectors," he replies
+evasively. The peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions.</p>
+
+<p>A feeling of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the
+Warden's gaze fastened on me, and I strive to control
+my emotion.</p>
+
+<p>"How much time have you yet?" he asks.</p>
+
+<p>"Over eleven years."</p>
+
+<p>"How long have you been locked up this time?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sixteen months."</p>
+
+<p>"There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span>
+hallman is going home to-morrow. You would like the
+position?" he eyes me curiously.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"I'll consider it."</p>
+
+<p>I rise weakly, but he detains me: "By the way, Berkman,
+look at this."</p>
+
+<p>He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several
+casts of plaster of paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding.</p>
+
+<p>"You know what they are?" he inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"Plaster casts, I think."</p>
+
+<p>"Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well,
+now."</p>
+
+<p>I glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear
+impression of an eagle.</p>
+
+<p>"It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe."</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you
+would know. I examined your library record and found
+that you have drawn books on metallurgy."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, you suspect me of this?" I flare up.</p>
+
+<p>"No, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner.
+"You have drawn practically every book from the
+library. I had a talk with the Chaplain, and he is positive
+that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting,
+because it would be robbing poor people."</p>
+
+<p>"The reading of my letters must have familiarized
+the Chaplain with Anarchist ideas."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might
+antagonize the management, but he assures me you would
+not abet such a crime."</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad to hear it."</p>
+
+<p>"You would protect the Federal Government, then?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand you."</p>
+
+<p>"You would protect the people from being cheated
+by counterfeit money?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"The government and the people are not synonymous."</p>
+
+<p>Flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "But you
+would protect the poor?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, certainly."</p>
+
+<p>His face brightens. "Oh, quite so, quite so," he
+smiles reassuringly. "These molds were found hidden
+in the North Block. No; not in a cell, but in the hall.
+We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloane; he is located
+two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the management
+is very anxious to get to the bottom of this
+matter. It's a crime against the people. You may have
+heard Sloane speaking to his neighbors about this."</p>
+
+<p>"No. I am sure you suspect an innocent person."</p>
+
+<p>"How so?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sloane is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd
+think of."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him.
+If you should happen to hear anything, just rap on the
+door and inform the officers you are ill. They will be
+instructed to send for me at once."</p>
+
+<p>"I can't do it, Warden."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?" he demands.</p>
+
+<p>"I am not a spy."</p>
+
+<p>"Why, certainly not, Berkman. I should not ask
+you to be. But you have friends on the range, you may
+learn something. Well, think the matter over," he adds,
+dismissing me.</p>
+
+<p>Bitter disappointment at the action of the Board,
+indignation at the Warden's suggestion, struggle within
+me as I reach my cell. The guard is about to lock me
+in, when the Deputy Warden struts into the block.</p>
+
+<p>"Officer, unlock him," he commands. "Berkman, the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span>
+Captain says you are to be assistant rangeman. Report
+to Mr. McIlvaine for a broom."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty.
+Local methods are of no avail, but now my opportunities
+for escape are more favorable. Considerable
+changes have taken place during my solitary, and the
+first necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidants
+have been released; others were transferred during
+the investigation period to the South Wing, to disrupt
+my connections. New men are about the cell-house
+and I miss many of my chums. The lower half
+of the bottom ranges A and K is now exclusively
+occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented.
+Poor Wingie has disappeared. Grown violently insane,
+he was repeatedly lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent
+to an asylum. There my unfortunate friend had died
+after two months. His cell is now occupied by "Irish
+Mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary.
+He hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah,
+baah, see the goat. I'm the goat, baah, baah." I
+shudder at the fate I have escaped, as I look at the
+familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and
+youth, now staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed
+and corpse-like, their minds shattered, their bodies
+wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I realize that
+Sid and Nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total
+blank; and Patsy, the Pittsburgh bootblack, stands at
+the door, motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an
+inane smile.</p>
+
+<p>From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living
+dead, the silence broken only by intermittent savage
+yells and the piteous bleating of Mike. The whole<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span>
+day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and
+recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency."
+New "bughouse cases" are continually added
+from the ranks of the prisoners forced to remain idle
+and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible misery
+almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over
+Johnny Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul
+basket. He begged to be taken to the hospital; but his
+condition did not warrant it, the physician said. Moreover,
+he was "in punishment." Poor boy, how he must
+have suffered! They found him dead on the floor of
+his cell.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>My body renews its strength with the exercise and
+greater liberty of the range. The subtle hope of the
+Warden to corrupt me has turned to my advantage. I
+smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human
+nature, determined by a lifetime of corruption and
+hypocrisy. How saddening is the shallowness of popular
+opinion! Warden Wright is hailed as a progressive man,
+a deep student of criminology, who has introduced modern
+methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an expression
+of respect and appreciation, the National Prison
+Association has selected Captain Wright as its delegate
+to the International Congress at Brussels, which is to
+take place in 1900. And all the time the Warden is
+designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings
+of the idle men for exercise, and exerting his utmost
+efforts to increase sickness and insanity, in the attempt
+to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law. The
+puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public
+sentiment in regard to convict competition with outside
+labor has swept the State; the efforts of the Warden, disastrous
+though they be to the inmates, are doomed to
+failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span>
+experience of thirty years. The so confidently uttered
+suspicion of Ed Sloane in regard to the counterfeiting
+charge, has proved mere lip-wisdom. The real culprit
+is Bob Runyon, the trusty basking in the Warden's
+special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the
+witness and prot&eacute;g&eacute; of Torrane, has confided to me the
+whole story, in a final effort to "set himself straight."
+He even exhibited to me the coins made by Runyon,
+together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell.
+And poor Sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying
+of neglect, the doctor charging him with eating soap to
+produce symptoms of illness.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The year passes in a variety of interests. The Girl
+and several newly-won correspondents hold the thread
+of outside life. The Twin has gradually withdrawn
+from our New York circles, and is now entirely obscured
+on my horizon. But the Girl is staunch and devoted,
+and I keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me
+informed of events in the international labor movement,
+news of which is almost entirely lacking in the
+daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions
+of the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luccheni,
+whose acts of the previous winter had thrown Europe
+into a ferment of agitation. I hunger for news of the
+agitation against the tortures in Montjuich, the revival of
+the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution
+and deep compassion for my persecuted comrades in the
+Spanish bastille. Beneath the suppressed tone of her
+letters, I read the Girl's suffering and pain, and feel the
+heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows.</p>
+
+<p>Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons
+interested in my case are endeavoring to secure<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>
+Carnegie's signature for a renewed application to the
+Board of Pardons. The Girl conveys the information
+guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me
+the anguish of soul the step has caused her. What
+terrible despair had given birth to the suggestion, I
+wonder. If the project of the underground escape
+had been put in operation, we should not have had
+to suffer such humiliation. Why have my friends ignored
+the detailed plan I had submitted to them through
+Carl? I am confident of its feasibility and success,
+if we can muster the necessary skill and outlay. The
+animosity of the prison authorities precludes the thought
+of legal release. The underground route, very difficult
+and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. It must
+be realized.  My <i>sub rosa</i> communications suspended
+during the temporary absence of Mr. Schraube, I hint
+these thoughts in official mail to the Girl, but refrain
+from objecting to the Carnegie idea.</p>
+
+<p>Other matters of interest I learn from correspondence
+with friends in Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The
+frequent letters of Carl, still reminiscent of his sojourn
+at Riverside, thrill with the joy of active propaganda
+and of his success as public speaker. Voltairine de
+Cleyre and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by
+discursive epistles of great charm and rebellious thought.
+Often I pause to wonder at the miracle of my mail passing
+the censorial eyes. But the Chaplain is a busy man;
+careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a
+demand upon his time. The correspondence with Mattie
+I turn over to my neighbor Pasquale, a young Italian
+serving sixteen years, who has developed a violent passion
+for the pretty face on the photograph. The roguish
+eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon
+me. My thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in
+the convict grave. Deep snow is on the ground; it must<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span>
+be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is pressing,
+pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating
+night of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades
+of green will sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly
+burst and flower, all white, and perfume the air, and
+shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of Johnny.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+February 14, 1899.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Carolus</span>:</p>
+
+<p>The Greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. When
+things begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious.
+You'll be surprised,&mdash;Mr. Schraube has turned into an enemy.
+Mostly my own fault; that's the sting of it. It will explain to
+you the failure of the former <i>sub rosa</i> route. The present one
+is safe, but very temporary.</p>
+
+<p>It happened last fall. From assistant I was advanced to
+hallman, having charge of the "crank row," on Range A.
+A new order curtailed the rations of the insane,&mdash;no cornbread,
+cheese, or hash; only bread and coffee. As rangeman, I help
+to "feed," and generally have "extras" left on the wagon,&mdash;some
+one sick, or refusing food, etc. I used to distribute the extras,
+"on the q. t.," among the men deprived of them. One day, just
+before Christmas, an officer happened to notice Patsy chewing
+a piece of cheese. The poor fellow is quite an imbecile; he did
+not know enough to hide what I gave him. Well, you are
+aware that "Cornbread Tom" does not love me. He reported
+me. I admitted the charge to the Warden, and tried to tell him
+how hungry the men were. He wouldn't hear of it, saying that
+the insane should not "overload" their stomachs. I was ordered
+locked up. Within a month I was out again, but imagine my
+surprise when Schraube refused even to talk to me. At first
+I could not fathom the mystery; later I learned that he was
+reprimanded, losing ten days' pay for "allowing" me to feed
+the demented. He knew nothing about it, of course, but he
+was at the time in special charge of "crank row." The Schraube
+has been telling my friends that I got him in trouble wilfully.
+He seems to nurse his grievance with much bitterness; he
+apparently hates me now with the hatred we often feel toward<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span>
+those who know our secrets. But he realizes he has nothing
+to fear from me.</p>
+
+<p>Many changes have taken place since you left. You would
+hardly recognize the block if you returned (better stay out,
+though). No more talking through the waste pipes; the new
+privies have standing water. Electricity is gradually taking the
+place of candles. The garish light is almost driving me blind,
+and the innovation has created a new problem: how to light
+our pipes. We are given the same monthly allowance of
+matches, each package supposed to contain 30, but usually have
+27; and last month I received only 25. I made a kick, but it
+was in vain. The worst of it is, fully a third of the matches are
+damp and don't light. While we used candles we managed somehow,
+borrowing a few matches occasionally from non-smokers.
+But now that candles are abolished, the difficulty is very serious.
+I split each match into four; sometimes I succeed in making six.
+There is a man on the range who is an artist at it: he can make
+eight cuts out of a match; all serviceable, too. Even at that,
+there is a famine, and I have been forced to return to the
+stone age: with flint and tinder I draw the fire of Prometheus.</p>
+
+<p>The mess-room is in full blast. The sight of a thousand
+men, bent over their food in complete silence, officers flanking
+each table, is by no means appetizing. But during the Spanish
+war, the place resembled the cell-house on New Year's eve.
+The patriotic Warden daily read to the diners the latest news,
+and such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard.
+Especially did the Hobson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism.
+But the enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that
+they were wasting precious minutes hurrahing, and then leaving
+the table hungry when the bell terminated the meal. Some tried
+to pocket the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected
+them, and after that the Warden's war reports were accompanied
+only with loud munching and champing.</p>
+
+<p>Another innovation is exercise. Your interviews with the
+reporters, and those of other released prisoners, have at last
+forced the Warden to allow the idle men an hour's recreation.
+In inclement weather, they walk in the cell-house; on fine days,
+in the yard. The reform was instituted last autumn, and the
+improvement in health is remarkable. The doctor is enthusiastically
+in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has been so considerably
+reduced that he estimates his time-saving at two hours<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span>
+daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost entirely ceased
+masturbating. The shop employees envy the "idlers" now;
+many have purposely precipitated trouble in order to be put
+in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. But Sandy
+"got next," and now those locked up "for cause" are excluded
+from exercise.</p>
+
+<p>Here are some data for our book. The population at the
+end of last year was 956&mdash;the lowest point in over a decade.
+The Warden admits that the war has decreased crime; the
+Inspectors' report refers to the improved economic conditions,
+as compared with the panicky times of the opening years in
+the 90's. But the authorities do not appear very happy over
+the reduction in the Riverside population. You understand the
+reason: the smaller the total, the less men may be exploited in
+the industries. I am not prepared to say whether there is
+collusion between the judges and the administration of the
+prison, but it is very significant that the class of offenders
+formerly sent to the workhouse are being increasingly sentenced
+to the penitentiary, and an unusual number are transferred here
+from the Reformatory at Huntington and the Reform School
+of Morganza. The old-timers joke about the Warden telephoning
+to the Criminal Court, to notify the judges how many men
+are "wanted" for the stocking shop.</p>
+
+<p>The unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying
+the convict labor law. In every shop twice as many are
+employed as the statute allows; the "illegal" are carried on the
+books as men working on "State account"; that is, as cleaners
+and clerks, not as producers. Thus it happens that in the mat
+shop, for instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers
+than are employed on the looms! In the broom shop there are
+30 supposed clerks and 15 cleaners, to a total of 53 producers
+legally permitted. This is the way the legislation works on
+which the labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts.
+The broom shop is still contracted to Lang Bros., with their
+own foreman in charge, and his son a guard in the prison.</p>
+
+<p>Enough for to-day. When I hear of the safe arrival of this
+letter, I may have more intimate things to discuss.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2>
+
+<h3>THE TUNNEL</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates
+all hope of release by legal means. Had the
+Board refused to commute my sentence after hearing
+the argument, another attempt could be made later on.
+But the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem
+to circumvent even the presentation of my case,
+reveals the duplicity of the previous promise and the
+guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied
+sentences. The authorities are determined that I should
+remain in the prison, confident that it will prove my
+tomb. Realizing this fires my defiance, and all the stubborn
+resistance of my being. There is no hope of surviving
+my term. At best, even with the full benefit of
+the commutation time&mdash;which will hardly be granted
+me, in view of the attitude of the prison management&mdash;I
+still have over nine years to serve. But existence is
+becoming increasingly more unbearable; long confinement
+and the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure
+the nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I
+must therefore concentrate all my energy and efforts
+upon escape.</p>
+
+<p>My position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. I
+have access to every part of the cell-house, excepting the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span>
+"crank row." The incident of feeding the insane has
+put an embargo upon my communication with them, a
+special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged.
+But within my area on the range are the recent
+arrivals and the sane solitaries; the division of my duties
+with the new man merely facilitates my task, and
+affords me more leisure.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind,
+suggesting various projects. The idea of escape daily
+strengthens into the determination born of despair. It
+possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping every
+thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail
+correspondence with my prison chums, that I may devote
+the solitude of the evening to the development of
+my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind
+with the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities.
+But the execution! Why do my friends regard
+the matter so indifferently? Their tepidity irritates
+me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Carl
+for having failed to impress my comrades with the
+feasibility of the plan, to fire them with the enthusiasm
+of activity. My <i>sub rosa</i> route is sporadic and uncertain.
+Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the bitter
+surprise I feel at their provoking indifference; but
+my reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot
+believe that conditions in the movement preclude the
+realization of my suggestion. These things have been
+accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The
+attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic
+effect. True, the project will require considerable outlay,
+and the work of skilled and trustworthy men. Have
+we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum,
+this country has produced her Zheliabovs; is the genius<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span>
+of America not equal to a Hartman?<a name="FNanchor_48_48" id="FNanchor_48_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_48_48" class="fnanchor">[48]</a> The tacit skepticism
+of my correspondents pain me, and rouses my
+resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment
+of "one who has been so long separated" from their
+world, from the interests and struggles of the living.
+The consciousness of my helplessness without aid from
+the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness.
+But I will persevere: I will compel their attention and
+their activity; aye, their enthusiasm!</p>
+
+<p>With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of
+Tony. The months of frequent correspondence and occasional
+personal meetings have developed a spirit of
+congeniality and good will. I exert my ingenuity to
+create opportunities for stolen interviews and closer
+comradeship. Through the aid of a friendly officer, I
+procure for Tony the privilege of assisting his rangeman
+after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate
+with me to greater advantage. Gradually we become
+intimate, and I learn the story of his life, rich in
+adventure and experience. An Alsatian, small and wiry,
+Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash
+of the Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring&mdash;the
+very man to carry out my plan.</p>
+
+<p>For days I debate in my mind the momentous question:
+shall I confide the project to Tony? It would be
+placing myself in his power, jeopardizing the sole hope
+of my life. Yet it is the only way; I must rely on my
+intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless,
+excruciating with the agony of indecision. But my
+friend's sentence is nearing completion. We shall need
+time for discussion and preparation, for thorough
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span>consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the
+decisive step, and next day I reveal the secret to Tony.</p>
+
+<p>His manner allays apprehension. Serene and self-possessed,
+he listens gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent
+satisfaction, and briefly announces that it shall
+be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent comrade
+betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the
+adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting
+the careful elaboration of details, and the invention
+of a cipher to insure greater safety for our correspondence.
+The precaution is necessary; it will prove
+of inestimable value upon his release.</p>
+
+<p>With great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared,
+based on a discarded system of German shorthand,
+but somewhat altered, and further involved by the
+use of words of our own coinage. The cipher, thus
+perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert.</p>
+
+<p>But developments within the prison necessitate
+changes in the project. The building operations near
+the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of the latter
+for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but
+soon realize that lack of familiarity with the construction
+of the penitentiary gas and sewer systems may
+defeat our success. There are no means of procuring
+the necessary information: Tony is confined to the
+shop, while I am never permitted out of the cell-house.
+In vain I strive to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without
+bringing light.</p>
+
+<p>My Providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise
+of a fight in the yard. The combatants are locked
+up on my range. One of them proves to be "Mac,"
+an aged prisoner serving a third term. During his
+previous confinement, he had filled the position of
+fireman, one of his duties consisting in the weekly
+flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly familiar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span>
+with the underground piping of the yard, but his
+reputation among the inmates is tinged with the odor
+of sycophancy. He is, however, the only means of
+solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to
+gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous
+expressions of my sympathy, often secretly supplying
+him with little extras procured from my
+kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of
+an opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious
+moment to listening to his long-winded stories
+of the "great jobs" he had accomplished in "his"
+time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had associated,
+the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in
+with th' fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging
+the recital of his prison experiences, and leading
+him on to dwell upon his last "bit." He becomes
+reminiscent of his friends in Riverside, bewails the
+early graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices
+over his good chum Patty McGraw managing
+to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives "Mac"
+a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity
+of Patty, while I express surprise that he himself
+had never attempted to take French leave. "What!"
+he bristles up, "think I'm such a dummy?" and with
+great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 80's"
+to swim through the sewer. I scoff at his folly, "You
+must have been a chump, Mac, to think it could
+be done," I remark. "I was, was I? What do you
+know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you.
+Just wait," and, snatching up his library slate, he draws
+a complete diagram of the prison sewerage. In the
+extreme southwest corner of the yard he indicates a
+blind underground alley.</p>
+
+<p>"What's this?" I ask, in surprise.</p>
+
+<p>"Nev'r knew <i>that</i>, did yer? It's a little tunn'l, con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span>nectin'
+th' cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen
+men in th' dump know 't; not ev'n a good many screws.
+Passage ain't been used fer a long time."</p>
+
+<p>In amazement I scan the diagram. I had noticed
+a little trap door at the very point in the yard indicated
+in the drawing, and I had often wondered what purpose
+it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the
+happy solution of my difficulty. The "blind alley" will
+greatly facilitate our work. It is within fifteen feet,
+or twenty at most, of the southwestern wall. Its situation
+is very favorable: there are no shops in the vicinity;
+the place is never visited by guards or prisoners.</p>
+
+<p>The happy discovery quickly matures the details of
+my plan: a house is to be rented opposite the southern
+wall, on Sterling Street. Preferably it is to be
+situated very near to the point where the wall
+adjoins the cell-house building. Dug in a direct line
+across the street, and underneath the south wall, the
+tunnel will connect with the "blind alley." I shall manage
+the rest.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the
+Indian summer linger, as if unwilling to depart. But
+I am impatient with anxiety, and long for the winter.
+Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with
+tardy step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and
+with joyful heart we count the last hours.</p>
+
+<p>To-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He
+will at once communicate with my comrades, and urge
+the immediate realization of the great plan. His self-confidence
+and faith will carry conviction, and stir
+them with enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span>
+is to be bought or rented without loss of time, and
+the environs inspected. Perhaps operations could not
+begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected
+to further the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a splendid
+organizer, is absent from the country. But my
+friends will carefully follow the directions I have entrusted
+to Tony, and through him I shall keep in touch
+with the developments. I have little opportunity for
+<i>sub rosa</i> mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can
+correspond officially, without risk of the censor's understanding,
+or even suspecting, the innocent-looking flourishes
+scattered through the page.</p>
+
+<p>With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond
+the gates, and again and again I rehearse every step in
+the project, and study every detail. My mind dwells
+in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my
+duties on the range. More rarely I converse with
+the prisoners: I must take care to comply with the rules,
+and to retain my position. To lose it would be disastrous
+to all my hopes of escape.</p>
+
+<p>As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the
+last year of my solitary, the piteous chirping of a
+sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts. The little visitor,
+almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant
+swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers
+about the door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In
+surprise I pet the bird; it seems quite tame. "Why,
+it's Dick!" the assistant exclaims. "Think of him coming
+back!" my hands tremble as I examine the little
+bird. With great joy I discover the faint marks of blue
+ink I had smeared under its wings last summer, when
+the Warden had ordered my little companion thrown
+out of the window. How wonderful that it should return
+and recognize the old friend and the cell! Tenderly I
+warm and feed the bird. What strange sights my little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span>
+pet must have seen since he was driven out into the
+world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered!
+The bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute
+confidence and joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs
+of bread and sugar. Foolish birdie, to return to prison
+for shelter and food! Cold and cruel must be the world,
+my little Dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than
+even love of liberty?</p>
+
+<p>So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass
+through the gates and soon return again, driven back
+by the world&mdash;even like you, little Dick. Yet others
+there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom,
+than be warm and fed in prison&mdash;even like me,
+little Dick. And still others there be who would risk
+life and liberty for the sake of their friendship&mdash;even
+like you and, I hope, Tony, little Dick.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE DEATH OF DICK</h3>
+
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+<i>Sub Rosa</i>, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Jan. 15, 1900.</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I write in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It
+was all on account of my bird. You remember my feathered
+pet, Dick. Last summer the Warden ordered him put out,
+but when cold weather set in, Dick returned. Would you believe
+it? He came back to my old cell, and recognized me when I
+passed by. I kept him, and he grew as tame as before&mdash;he had
+become a bit wild in the life outside. On Christmas day, as Dick
+was playing near my cell, Bob Runyon&mdash;the stool, you know&mdash;came
+by and deliberately kicked the bird. When I saw Dick turn
+over on his side, his little eyes rolling in the throes of death, I
+rushed at Runyon and knocked him down. He was not hurt
+much, and everything could have passed off quietly, as no screw
+was about. But the stool reported me to the Deputy, and I was
+locked up.</p>
+
+<p>Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow
+was fond of Dick, and he promises to get me back on the range.
+He is keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man
+in my place who has only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm
+to take charge again.</p>
+
+<p>I am not disappointed at your information that "the work"
+will have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy
+that preparations have been started. How about those revolvers,
+though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. In one of
+your letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to.
+How can that be? Jim, the plumber&mdash;you know he can be
+trusted&mdash;has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me
+that nothing came, so far. Why do you delay? I hope you
+didn't throw the package through the cellar window when Jim
+wasn't at his post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the
+devil could have become of it? I see no sign here of the things
+being discovered: there would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look
+to it, and write at once.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2>
+
+<h3>AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in
+mystery. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the
+precarious situation; it defies comprehension and torments
+me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the
+weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar,
+momentarily allays my dread. But Tony's vehement
+insistence that he had delivered the package, throws
+me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two
+confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense.
+It is incredible that Tony should seek to deceive me.
+Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at the point of delivery;
+there is little probability of his having missed
+the package. But supposing he has, what has become
+of it? Perhaps it fell into some dark corner of the
+cellar. The place must be searched at once.</p>
+
+<p>Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless
+means to afford Jim an opportunity to visit the
+cellar. I ransack the cell-house for old papers and
+rags; with miserly hand I gather all odds and ends,
+broken tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust.
+Trembling with fear of discovery, I empty the treasure
+into the sewer at the end of the hall, and tightly jam
+the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement
+fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span>
+the hall. The stench is overpowering; steadily the
+water rises, threatening to flood the cell-house. The
+place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and rattle on
+the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. The
+Block Captain yells, "Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the
+plumber; get Jim. Quick!"</p>
+
+<p>But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to
+disclose the weapons. In constant dread of dire possibilities,
+I tremble at every step, fancying lurking
+suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the
+days pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed,
+giving no indication of untoward happening
+or agitation. By degrees my fears subside. The inexplicable
+disappearance of the revolvers is fraught
+with danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has
+fortunately brought no results, and must apparently
+remain unsolved.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to
+the desk by Officer Mitchell for the distribution of
+the monthly allowance of matches, I casually glance
+out of the yard door. At the extreme northwestern
+end, Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall,
+slowly walking on the grass. The unusual presence
+of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes my suspicion.
+The singular idling of the energetic guard,
+his furtive eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst
+apprehensions. Something must have happened. Are
+they suspecting the tunnel? But work has not been
+commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very
+opposite point of the yard, fully a thousand feet distant.
+In perplexity I wonder at the peculiar actions
+of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate
+would immediately be subjected to a search, and
+shops and cell-house ransacked.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night;
+morning dawns without bringing a solution. But after
+breakfast the cell-house becomes strangely quiet; the
+shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are
+ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and
+shops march into the block, and noisily ascend the
+galleries. The Deputy and Hopkins scurry about the
+hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang,
+and the sharp command of the Warden resounds
+through the cell-house, "General search!"</p>
+
+<p>I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises
+of suspected prisoners are frequent, and I am always
+prepared. But some contraband is on hand. Quickly
+I snatch my writing material from the womb of the
+bedtick. In the very act of destroying several sketches
+of the previous year, a bright thought flashes across
+my mind. There is nothing dangerous about them,
+save the theft of the paper. "Prison Types," "In the
+Streets of New York," "Parkhurst and the Prostitute,"
+"Libertas&mdash;a Study in Philology," "The Slavery
+of Tradition"&mdash;harmless products of evening leisure.
+Let them find the booklets! I'll be severely reprimanded
+for appropriating material from the shops, but
+my sketches will serve to divert suspicion: the Warden
+will secretly rejoice that my mind is not busy with
+more dangerous activities. But the sudden search
+signifies grave developments. General overhaulings,
+involving temporary suspension of the industries and
+consequent financial loss, are rare. The search of the
+entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy
+confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly
+been found! Jim's failure to get possession of
+them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is possible, of
+course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through
+the cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span>
+appropriated it without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the
+latter's confident assertion of his presence at the window
+at the appointed moment indicates another probability.
+The thought is painful, disquieting. But who
+knows? In an atmosphere of fear and distrust and
+almost universal espionage, the best friendships are
+tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid
+of consequences, surrendered the weapons to the
+Warden. He would have no difficulty in explaining
+the discovery, without further betrayal of my confidence.
+Yet Jim, a "pete man"<a name="FNanchor_49_49" id="FNanchor_49_49"></a><a href="#Footnote_49_49" class="fnanchor">[49]</a> of international renown,
+enjoys the reputation of a thoroughly "square
+man" and loyal friend. He has given me repeated
+proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to
+accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however,
+that his information is limited to the weapons. No
+doubt he suspects some sort of escape; but I have
+left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these
+Tony alone is entrusted.</p>
+
+<p>The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion
+on Tony's part is responsible for the accident, he has
+demonstrated his friendship. Realizing the danger of
+his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons
+between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously
+ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post.
+But the discovery of the revolvers vindicates the
+veracity of Tony, and strengthens my confidence in
+him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade,
+a friend who has already dared great peril for my
+sake.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The general search is over, bringing to light quantities
+of various contraband. The counterfeit outfit,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span>whose product has been circulating beyond the walls
+of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret investigation
+by Federal officials. In the general excitement,
+the sketches among my effects have been ignored,
+and left in my possession. But no clew has
+been found in connection with the weapons. The
+authorities are still further mystified by the discovery
+that the lock on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house
+building had been tampered with. With an
+effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment
+of the kindly old Mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he
+confides to me the information. I marvel at the official
+stupidity that failed to make the discovery the
+previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young
+friend Russell, I had climbed to the top of the
+cell-house, while the inmates were at church, and
+wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in its
+place an apparent counterpart, provided by Jim. With
+the key in our possession, we watched for an opportunity
+to reach the outside roof, when certain changes
+in the block created insurmountable obstacles, forcing
+the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy
+over the discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly
+refusing to be reconciled to the failure. His
+time, however, being short, I have been urging him to accept
+the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape
+makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of
+his remaining two years would be hastened by the
+determination to serve out his sentence.</p>
+
+<p>The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue
+eyes dancing with merriment, a sly smile on the delicate
+lips. "You are right, Aleck," he replies, gravely,
+"but say, last night I thought out a scheme; it's great,
+and we're sure to make our get-a-way." With minute
+detail he pictures the impossible plan of sawing through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span>
+the bars of the cell at night, "holding up" the guards,
+binding and gagging them, and "then the road would
+be clear." The innocent boy, for all his back-country
+reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then"
+is the very threshold of difficulties. I seek to explain
+to him that, the guards being disposed of, we should
+find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The solid
+steel double doors leading to the yard are securely
+locked, the key in the sole possession of the Captain
+of the night watch, who cannot be reached except
+through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not
+to be daunted. "We'll have to storm the rotunda,
+then," he remarks, calmly, and at once proceeds to
+map out a plan of campaign. He smiles incredulously
+at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "Oh,
+yes, you will, Aleck. I don't believe a word you say.
+I know you're keen to make a get-a-way." His confidence
+somewhat shaken by my resolution, he announces
+that he will "go it alone."</p>
+
+<p>The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless
+youth will throw away his life; his attempt may
+frustrate my own success. But it is in vain to dissuade
+him by direct means. I know the determination
+of the boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance
+of exuberant youth, combined with indomitable
+courage. The redundance of animal vitality and
+the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia
+of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of
+Dutch forbears. The taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has
+dripped bitter poison into the innocent pranks of Russell,
+stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured
+boy.</p>
+
+<p>I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of
+his project. He has secreted the saws I had procured
+from the Girl for the attempt of the previous year,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span>
+and his determination is impatient to make the dash
+for liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for
+my wishes still hold the impetuous boy in leash. But
+each day his restlessness increases; more insistently he
+urges my participation and a definite explanation of
+my attitude.</p>
+
+<p>At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair
+of dissuading Russell from his desperate purpose.
+From day to day I secure his solemn promise to await
+my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some
+development that would force the abandonment of his
+plan. But nothing disturbs the routine, and I grow
+nervous with dread lest the boy, reckless with impatience,
+thwart my great project.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The weather is moderating; the window sashes in
+the hall are being lowered: the signs of approaching
+spring multiply. I chafe at the lack of news from Tony,
+who had departed on his mission to New York. With
+greedy eyes I follow the Chaplain on his rounds of mail
+delivery. Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries,
+I hasten along the range to meet the postman.</p>
+
+<p>"Any letters for me, Mr. Milligan?" I ask, with an
+effort to steady my voice.</p>
+
+<p>"No, m' boy."</p>
+
+<p>My eyes devour the mail in his hand. "None to-day,
+Aleck," he adds; "this is for your neighbor Pasquale."</p>
+
+<p>I feel apprehensive at Tony's silence. Another
+twenty-four hours must elapse before the Chaplain returns.
+Perhaps there will be no mail for me to-morrow,
+either. What can be the matter with my friend?
+So many dangers menace his every step&mdash;he might be
+sick&mdash;some accident....  Anxious days pass without<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span>
+mail. Russell is becoming more insistent, threatening
+a "break." The solitaries murmur at my neglect. I am
+nervous and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard
+from Tony; something terrible must have happened.
+In a ferment of dread, I keep watch on the upper
+rotunda. The noon hour is approaching: the Chaplain
+fumbles with his keys; the door opens, and he trips
+along the ranges. Stealthily I follow him under the
+galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends to
+the hall.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, Chaplain," I seek to attract his
+attention, wistfully peering at the mail in his hand.</p>
+
+<p>"Good morning, m' boy. Feeling good to-day?"</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you; pretty fair." My voice trembles at
+his delay, but I fear betraying my anxiety by renewed
+questioning.</p>
+
+<p>He passes me, and I feel sick with disappointment.
+Now he pauses. "Aleck," he calls, "I mislaid a letter
+for you yesterday. Here it is."</p>
+
+<p>With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a
+fever of hope and fear, I pore over it in the solitude
+of the cell. My heart palpitates violently as I
+scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning,
+analyzing every flourish and dash, carefully distilling
+the minute lines, fusing the significant dots into the structure
+of meaning. Glorious! A house has been rented&mdash;28
+Sterling Street&mdash;almost opposite the gate of the
+south wall. Funds are on hand, work is to begin at
+once!</p>
+
+<p>With nimble step I walk the range. The river
+wafts sweet fragrance to my cell, the joy of spring is
+in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to liberty:
+the faithful comrades are steadily working underground.
+Perhaps within a month, or two at most, the
+tunnel will be completed. I count the days, crossing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span>
+off each morning the date on my calendar. The news
+from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing
+smoothly, the prospects of success are splendid.
+I grow merry at the efforts of uninitiated friends
+in New York to carry out the suggestions of the
+attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State
+for a writ, on the ground of the unconstitutionality
+of my sentence. I consult gravely with Mr. Milligan
+upon the advisability of the step, the amiable Chaplain
+affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance
+of letter paper. I thank my comrades for their efforts,
+and urge the necessity of collecting funds for the
+appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly I ask the advice
+of the Chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my
+apparent enthusiasm will reach the ears of the Warden:
+the artifice will mask my secret project and lull
+suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance of success,
+and with much show of confidence I impress
+upon the trusties my sanguine expectation of release.
+I discuss the subject with officers and stools, till presently
+the prison is agog with the prospective liberation
+of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me
+with messages to friends, and the Deputy Warden
+offers advice on behavior beyond the walls. The
+moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined
+to the cell-house, I shall be unable to reach the tunnel.
+The privilege of the yard is imperative.</p>
+
+<p>It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from
+their nests, and I induce the kindly runner, "Southside"
+Johnny, to procure for me a brace of sparlings. I
+christen the little orphans Dick and Sis, and the
+memory of my previous birds is revived among inmates
+and officers. Old Mitchell is in ecstasy over the
+intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered
+friends. But the birds languish and waste in the close<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span>
+air of the block; they need sunshine and gravel, and
+the dusty street to bathe in. Gradually I enlist the
+sympathies of the new doctor by the curious performances
+of my pets. One day the Warden strolls
+in, and joins in admiration of the wonderful birds.</p>
+
+<p>"Who trained them?" he inquires.</p>
+
+<p>"This man," the physician indicates me. A slight
+frown flits over the Warden's face. Old Mitchell winks
+at me, encouragingly.</p>
+
+<p>"Captain," I approach the Warden, "the birds are
+sickly for lack of air. Will you permit me to give
+them an airing in the yard?"</p>
+
+<p>"Why don't you let them go? You have no permission
+to keep them."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the
+doctor intercedes. "They are too tame to take care
+of themselves."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, then," the Warden decides, "let Jasper take
+them out every day."</p>
+
+<p>"They will not go with any one except myself," I
+inform him. "They follow me everywhere."</p>
+
+<p>The Warden hesitates.</p>
+
+<p>"Why not let Berkman go out with them for a
+few moments," the doctor suggests. "I hear you expect
+to be free soon," he remarks to me casually. "Your
+case is up for revision?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Berkman," the Warden motions to me, "I
+will permit you ten minutes in the yard, after your
+sweeping is done. What time are you through with it?"</p>
+
+<p>"At 9.30 <small>A. M.</small>"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Mitchell, every morning, at 9.30, you will
+pass Berkman through the doors. For ten minutes,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span>
+on the watch." Then turning to me, he adds: "You
+are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of
+sand there. If you cross the dead line of the sidewalk,
+or exceed your time a single minute, you will
+be punished."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE UNDERGROUND</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+
+<p class="author">May 10, 1900.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>Your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. No
+sooner have I sipped the rich aroma than I am athirst for
+more nectar. Write often, dear friend; it is the only solace
+of suspense.</p>
+
+<p>Do not worry about this end of the line. All is well.
+By stratagem I have at last procured the privilege of the
+yard. Only for a few minutes every morning, but I am
+judiciously extending my prescribed time and area. The
+prospects are bright here; every one talks of my application
+to the Superior Court, and peace reigns&mdash;you understand.</p>
+
+<p>A pity I cannot write directly to my dear, faithful comrades,
+your coworkers. You shall be the medium. Transmit
+to them my deepest appreciation. Tell "Yankee" and
+"Ibsen" and our Italian comrades what I feel&mdash;I know I
+need not explain it further to you. No one realizes better
+than myself the terrible risks they are taking, the fearful toil
+in silence and darkness, almost within hearing of the guards.
+The danger, the heroic self-sacrifice&mdash;what money could buy
+such devotion? I grow faint with the thought of their peril.
+I could almost cry at the beautiful demonstration of solidarity
+and friendship. Dear comrades, I feel proud of you,
+and proud of the great truth of Anarchism that can produce
+such disciples, such spirit. I embrace you, my noble
+comrades, and may you speed the day that will make me
+happy with the sight of your faces, the touch of your hands.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="author">June 5.</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>Your silence was unbearable. The suspense is terrible.
+Was it really necessary to halt operations so long? I
+am surprised you did not foresee the shortage of air and
+the lack of light. You would have saved so much time.
+It is a great relief to know that the work is progressing
+again, and very fortunate indeed that "Yankee" understands
+electricity. It must be hellish work to pump air into the
+shaft. Take precautions against the whir of the machinery.
+The piano idea is great. Keep her playing and singing as
+much as possible, and be sure you have all windows open.
+The beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and
+it will drown the noises underground. Have an electric button
+connected from the piano to the shaft; when the player
+sees anything suspicious on the street or the guards on the
+wall, she can at once notify the comrades to stop work.</p>
+
+<p>I am enclosing the wall and yard measurements you
+asked. But why do you need them? Don't bother with
+unnecessary things. From house beneath the street, directly
+toward the southwestern wall. For that you can procure
+measurements outside. On the inside you require none.
+Go under wall, about 20-30 feet, till you strike wall of
+blind alley. Cut into it, and all will be complete. Write
+of progress without delay. Greetings to all.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="author">June 20.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>Your letters bewilder me. Why has the route been
+changed? You were to go to southwest, yet you say now
+you are near the east wall. It's simply incredible, Tony.
+Your explanation is not convincing. If you found a gas
+main near the gate, you could have gone around it; besides,
+the gate is out of your way anyhow. Why did you take
+that direction at all? I wish, Tony, you would follow my
+instructions and the original plan. Your failure to report the
+change immediately, may prove fatal. I could have informed
+you&mdash;once you were near the southeastern gate&mdash;to go
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span>
+directly underneath; then you would have saved digging
+under the wall; there is no stone foundation, of course,
+beneath the gate. Now that you have turned the south-east
+corner, you will have to come under the wall there,
+and it is the worst possible place, because that particular
+part used to be a swamp, and I have learned that it was
+filled with extra masonry. Another point; an old abandoned
+natural-gas well is somewhere under the east wall,
+about 300 feet from the gate. Tell our friends to be on
+the lookout for fumes; it is a very dangerous place; special
+precautions must be taken.</p>
+
+<p>Do not mind my brusqueness, dear Tony. My nerves
+are on edge, the suspense is driving me mad. And I must
+mask my feelings, and smile and look indifferent. But I
+haven't a moment's peace. I imagine the most terrible
+things when you fail to write. Please be more punctual.
+I know you have your hands full; but I fear I'll go insane
+before this thing is over. Tell me especially how far you
+intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come out.
+This complicates the matter. You have already gone a
+longer distance than would have been necessary per original
+plan. It was a grave mistake, and if you were not such
+a devoted friend, I'd feel very cross with you. Write at
+once. I am arranging a new <i>sub rosa</i> route. They are
+building in the yard; many outside drivers, you understand.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p></div>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter" style="width: 800px;">
+<a name="Tunnel" id="Tunnel"></a>
+<img src="images/tunnel.jpg" width="800" height="438" alt="TUNNEL" title="TUNNEL" />
+<span class="caption">A&mdash;House on Sterling Street from which the Tunnel started. B&mdash;Point at which the Tunnel entered under the
+east wall. C&mdash;Mat Shop, near which the Author was permitted to take his birds for ten minutes every day, for
+exercise. D&mdash;North Block, where the Author was confined at the time of the Tunnel episode. E&mdash;South Block.</span>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I'm in great haste to send this. You know the shed
+opposite the east wall. It has only a wooden floor and is not
+frequented much by officers. A few cons are there, from
+the stone pile. I'll attend to them. Make directly for that
+shed. It's a short distance from wall. I enclose measurements.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Tony</span>:<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>You distract me beyond words. What has become of
+your caution, your judgment? A hole in the grass <i>will not</i>
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span>
+<i>do</i>. I am absolutely opposed to it. There are a score of
+men on the stone pile and several screws. It is sure to be
+discovered. And even if you leave the upper crust intact
+for a foot or two, how am I to dive into the hole in the presence
+of so many? You don't seem to have considered that.
+There is only <i>one</i> way, the one I explained in my last. Go
+to the shed; it's only a little more work, 30-40 feet, no more.
+Tell the comrades the grass idea is impossible. A little
+more effort, friends, and all will be well. Answer at once.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Dear Tony</span>:<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>Why do you insist on the hole in the ground? I tell
+you again it will not do. I won't consider it for a moment.
+I am on the inside&mdash;you must let me decide what can or
+cannot be done here. I am prepared to risk everything for
+liberty, would risk my life a thousand times. I am too
+desperate now for any one to block my escape; I'd break
+through a wall of guards, if necessary. But I still have a
+little judgment, though I am almost insane with the suspense
+and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the
+break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for success.
+I beg of you, Tony, the thing must be dug to the
+shed; it's only a little way. After such a tremendous effort,
+can we jeopardize it all so lightly? I assure you, the success
+of the hole plan is unthinkable. They'd all see me go
+down into it; I'd be followed at once&mdash;what's the use talking.</p>
+
+<p>Besides, you know I have no revolvers. Of course
+I'll have a weapon, but it will not help the escape. Another
+thing, your change of plans has forced me to get an assistant.
+The man is reliable, and I have only confided to him
+parts of the project. I need him to investigate around the
+shed, take measurements, etc. I am not permitted anywhere
+near the wall. But you need not trouble about this; I'll be
+responsible for my friend. But I tell you about it, so that
+you prepare two pair of overalls instead of one. Also
+leave two revolvers in the house, money, and cipher directions
+for us where to go. None of our comrades is to wait
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span>
+for us. Let them all leave as soon as everything is ready.
+But be sure you don't stop at the hole. Go to the shed,
+absolutely.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p>
+<span class="smcap">Tony</span>:<br />
+</p>
+
+<p>The hole will not do. The more I think of it, the more
+impossible I find it. I am sending an urgent call for money
+to the Editor. You know whom I mean. Get in communication
+with him at once. Use the money to continue work
+to shed.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+
+<p class="author">
+Direct to Box A 7, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Allegheny City, Pa., &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+June 25, 1900.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Comrade</span>:</p>
+
+<p>The Chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of
+paper, on urgent business. I write to you in a very great extremity.
+You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal
+my case. Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their attorneys.
+I have engaged my <i>own</i> "lawyers." Lawyers in quotation
+marks&mdash;a prison joke, you see. I have utmost confidence
+in <i>these</i> lawyers. They will, absolutely, procure my release,
+even if it is not a pardon, you understand. I mean, we'll go to
+the Superior Court, different from a Pardon Board&mdash;another
+prison joke.</p>
+
+<p>My friends are short of money. We need some <i>at once</i>.
+The work is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds.
+Mark well what I say: <i>I'll not be responsible for anything</i>&mdash;the
+worst may happen&mdash;unless money is procured <i>at once</i>. You
+have influence. I rely on you to understand and to act promptly.</p>
+
+<p class="regards">Your comrade,</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Alexander Berkman</span>.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Poor Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. To
+think that you, you the cautious Tony, should be so reckless&mdash;to
+send me a telegram. You could have ruined the
+whole thing. I had trouble explaining to the Chaplain, but
+it's all right now. Of course, if it must be the hole, it
+can't be helped. I understood the meaning of your wire:
+from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten feet to west.
+We'll be there on the minute&mdash;3 <small>P. M.</small> But July 4th won't
+do. It's a holiday: no work; my friend will be locked up.
+Can't leave him in the lurch. It will have to be next day,
+July 5th. It's only three days more. I wish it was over; I
+can't bear the worry and suspense any more. May it be my
+Independence Day!</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p class="author">July 6.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>It's terrible. It's all over. Couldn't make it. Went
+there on time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right
+on top of the spot. Impossible to do anything. I warned
+you they were building near there. I was seen at the wall&mdash;am
+now strictly forbidden to leave the cell-house. But my
+friend has been there a dozen times since&mdash;the hole can't
+be reached: a mountain of stone hides it. It won't be discovered
+for a little while. Telegraph at once to New York
+for more money. You must continue to the shed. I can
+force my way there, if need be. It's the only hope. Don't
+lose a minute.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p class="author">July 13.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Tony</span>:</p>
+
+<p>A hundred dollars was sent to the office for me from
+New York. I told Chaplain it is for my appeal. I am sending
+the money to you. Have work continued at once. There
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span>
+is still hope. Nothing suspected. But the wire that you
+pushed through the grass to indicate the spot, was not found
+by my friend. Too much stone over it. Go to shed at
+once.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p class="author">July 16.</p>
+
+<p>Tunnel discovered. Lose no time. Leave the city
+immediately. I am locked up on suspicion.</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXVII</h2>
+
+<h3>ANXIOUS DAYS</h3>
+
+
+<p>The discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with
+the violence of an avalanche. The plan of continuing
+the work, the trembling hope of escape, of liberty, life&mdash;all
+is suddenly terminated. My nerves, tense with
+the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly.
+With torpid brain I wonder, "Is it possible, is it really
+possible?"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>An air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills
+the prison. Vague rumors are afloat: a wholesale jail
+delivery had been planned, the walls were to be
+dynamited, the guards killed. An escape has actually
+taken place, it is whispered about. The Warden wears
+a look of bewilderment and fear; the officers are alert
+with suspicion. The inmates manifest disappointment
+and nervous impatience. The routine is violently disturbed:
+the shops are closed, the men locked in the cells.</p>
+
+<p>The discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and
+the city authorities. Some children, at play on the
+street, had accidentally wandered into the yard of the
+deserted house opposite the prison gates. The piles
+of freshly dug soil attracted their attention; a boy,
+stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the
+sight of the deep cavern; his mother notified the agent
+of the house, who, by a peculiar coincidence, proved
+to be an officer of the penitentiary. But in vain are
+the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any
+sign of the tunnel within the walls. Days pass in the
+fruitless investigation of the yard&mdash;the outlet of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span>
+tunnel within the prison cannot be found. Perhaps the
+underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary?
+The Warden voices his firm conviction that
+the walls have not been penetrated. Evidently it was
+not the prison, he argues, which was the objective
+point of the diggers. The authorities of the City of
+Allegheny decide to investigate the passage from the
+house on Sterling Street. But the men that essay to
+crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to abandon
+their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping
+gas. It is suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever
+their purpose, have been trapped in the abandoned
+gas well and perished before the arrival of aid.
+The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition
+of human bodies; the terrible accident has forced
+the inmates of 28 Sterling Street to suspend their
+efforts before completing the work. The condition
+of the house&mdash;the half-eaten meal on the table, the
+clothing scattered about the rooms, the general disorder&mdash;all
+seem to point to precipitate flight.</p>
+
+<p>The persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident
+disquiets me, in spite of my knowledge to the
+contrary. Yet, perhaps the reckless Tony, in his
+endeavor to force the wire signal through the upper
+crust, perished in the well. The thought unnerves me
+with horror, till it is announced that a negro, whom
+the police had induced to crawl the length of the
+tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was
+sacrificed in the underground work. Still the prison
+authorities are unable to find the objective point, and
+it is finally decided to tear up the streets beneath
+which the tunnel winds its mysterious way.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The undermined place inside the walls at last being
+discovered after a week of digging at various points in
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span>
+the yard, the Warden reluctantly admits the apparent
+purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing
+the press that the evident design was the liberation of
+the Anarchist prisoner. He corroborates his view by
+the circumstance that I had been reported for unpermitted
+presence at the east wall, pretending to collect
+gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hopkins
+further asserts having seen and talked with Carl
+Nold near the "criminal" house, a short time before the
+discovery of the tunnel. The developments, fraught
+with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. Fortunately,
+no clew can be found in the house, save a note
+in cipher which apparently defies the skill of experts.
+The Warden, on his Sunday rounds, passes my cell,
+then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. "Here,
+Berkman," he says blandly, producing a paper, "the
+press is offering a considerable reward to any one
+who will decipher the note found in the Sterling Street
+house. It's reproduced here. See if you can't make
+it out." I scan the paper carefully, quickly reading
+Tony's directions for my movements after the escape.
+Then, returning the paper, I remark indifferently,
+"I can read several languages, Captain, but this is beyond
+me."</p>
+
+<p>The police and detective bureaus of the twin cities
+make the announcement that a thorough investigation
+conclusively demonstrates that the tunnel was intended
+for William Boyd, a prisoner serving twelve years for
+a series of daring forgeries. His "pals" had succeeded
+in clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and
+it is they who did the wonderful feat underground,
+to secure the liberty of the valuable penman. The
+controversy between the authorities of Allegheny and
+the management of the prison is full of animosity
+and bitterness. Wardens of prisons, chiefs of police,
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span>
+and detective departments of various cities are consulted
+upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and
+the discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic.
+Presently the chief of police of Allegheny suffers
+a change of heart, and sides with the Warden, as
+against his personal enemy, the head of the Pittsburgh
+detective bureau. The confusion of published views, and
+my persistent denial of complicity in the tunnel, cause
+the much-worried Warden to fluctuate. A number of
+men are made the victims of his mental uncertainty.
+Following my exile into solitary, Pat McGraw is locked
+up as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. In
+1890 he had slipped through the roof of the prison,
+the Warden argues, and it is therefore reasonable to
+assume that the man is meditating another delivery.
+Jack Robinson, Cronin, "Nan," and a score of others,
+are in turn suspected by Captain Wright, and ordered
+locked up during the preliminary investigation. But
+because of absolute lack of clews the prisoners are
+presently returned to work, and the number of "suspects"
+is reduced to myself and Boyd, the Warden
+having discovered that the latter had recently made an
+attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola
+of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place
+useless for his purpose.</p>
+
+<p>A process of elimination and the espionage of the
+trusties gradually center exclusive suspicion upon myself.
+In surprise I learn that young Russell has been
+cited before the Captain. The fear of indiscretion
+on the part of the boy startles me from my torpor. I
+must employ every device to confound the authorities
+and save my friends. Fortunately none of the tunnelers
+have yet been arrested, the controversy between the
+city officials and the prison management having favored
+inaction. My comrades cannot be jeopardized by Russell.
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span>
+His information is limited to the mere knowledge
+of the specific person for whom the tunnel was intended;
+the names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar
+to him. My heart goes out to the young prisoner,
+as I reflect that never once had he manifested curiosity
+concerning the men at the secret work. Desperate
+with confinement, and passionately yearning for
+liberty though he was, he had yet offered to sacrifice his
+longings to aid my escape. How transported with
+joy was the generous youth when I resolved to share
+my opportunity with him! He had given faithful
+service in attempting to locate the tunnel entrance; the
+poor boy had been quite distracted at our failure to
+find the spot. I feel confident Russell will not betray
+the secret in his keeping. Yet the persistent questioning
+by the Warden and Inspectors is perceptibly working
+on the boy's mind. He is so young and inexperienced&mdash;barely
+nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an
+inadvertent remark, might convert suspicion into conviction.</p>
+
+<p>Every day Russell is called to the office, causing
+me torments of apprehension and dread, till a glance
+at the returning prisoner, smiling encouragingly as he
+passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past for
+the day. With a deep pang, I observe the increasing
+pallor of his face, the growing restlessness in his eyes,
+the languid step. The continuous inquisition is breaking
+him down. With quivering voice he whispers as
+he passes, "Aleck, I'm afraid of them." The Warden
+has threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in
+his pretended ignorance of the tunnel. His friendship
+for me is well known, the Warden reasons; we have
+often been seen together in the cell-house and yard;
+I must surely have confided to Russell my plans of
+escape. The big, strapping youth is dwindling to a
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span>
+shadow under the terrible strain. Dear, faithful friend!
+How guilty I feel toward you, how torn in my inmost
+heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that
+brief instant when, in a panic of fear, you had denied
+to the Warden all knowledge of the slip of paper
+found in your cell. It cast suspicion upon me as the
+writer of the strange Jewish scrawl. The Warden
+scorned my explanation that Russell's desire to learn
+Hebrew was the sole reason for my writing the alphabet
+for him. The mutual denial seemed to point to
+some secret; the scrawl was similar to the cipher note
+found in the Sterling Street house, the Warden insisted.
+How strange that I should have so successfully
+confounded the Inspectors with the contradictory
+testimony regarding the tunnel, that they returned me
+to my position on the range. And yet the insignificant
+incident of Russell's hieroglyphic imitation of the
+Hebrew alphabet should have given the Warden a pretext
+to order me into solitary! How distracted and
+bitter I must have felt to charge the boy with treachery!
+His very reticence strengthened my suspicion, and all
+the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the
+innocent lad beyond speech. How little I suspected
+the terrible wound my hasty imputation had caused
+my devoted friend! In silence he suffered for months,
+without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere
+accident, I learned the fatal mistake.</p>
+
+<p>In vain I strive to direct my thoughts into different
+channels. My misunderstanding of Russell plagues me
+with recurring persistence; the unjust accusation torments
+my sleepless nights. It was a moment of intense
+joy that I experienced as I humbly begged his pardon
+to-day, when I met him in the Captain's office. A deep
+sense of relief, almost of peace, filled me at his unhesitating,
+"Oh, never mind, Aleck, it's all right; we were
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span>
+both excited." I was overcome by thankfulness and admiration
+of the noble boy, and the next instant the sight
+of his wan face, his wasted form, pierced me as with
+a knife-thrust. With the earnest conviction of strong
+faith I sought to explain to the Board of Inspectors
+the unfortunate error regarding the Jewish writing.
+But they smiled doubtfully. It was too late: their
+opinion of a prearranged agreement with Russell was
+settled. But the testimony of Assistant Deputy Hopkins
+that he had seen and conversed with Nold a few
+weeks before the discovery of the tunnel, and that
+he saw him enter the "criminal" house, afforded me
+an opportunity to divide the views among the Inspectors.
+I experienced little difficulty in convincing two
+members of the Board that Nold could not possibly
+have been connected with the tunnel, because for almost
+a year previously, and since, he had been in the employ
+of a St. Louis firm. They accepted my offer to prove
+by the official time-tables of the company that Nold
+was in St. Louis on the very day that Hopkins claimed
+to have spoken with him. The fortunate and very
+natural error of Hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance
+of Tony for that of Carl, enabled me to discredit
+the chief link connecting my friends with the
+tunnel. The diverging views of the police officials of
+the twin cities still further confounded the Inspectors,
+and I was gravely informed by them that the charge
+of attempted escape against me had not been conclusively
+substantiated. They ordered my reinstatement
+as rangeman, but the Captain, on learning the verdict,
+at once charged me before the Board with conducting
+a secret correspondence with Russell. On the pretext
+of the alleged Hebrew note, the Inspectors confirmed
+the Warden's judgment, and I was sentenced to the
+solitary and immediately locked up in the South Wing.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2>
+
+<h3>"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM"</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The solitary is stifling with the August heat. The
+hall windows, high above the floor, cast a sickly light,
+shrouding the bottom range in darksome gloom. At
+every point, my gaze meets the irritating white of the
+walls, in spots yellow with damp. The long days are
+oppressive with silence; the stone cage echoes my
+languid footsteps mournfully.</p>
+
+<p>Once more I feel cast into the night, torn from
+the midst of the living. The failure of the tunnel forever
+excludes the hope of liberty. Terrified by the
+possibilities of the planned escape, the Warden's determination
+dooms my fate. I shall end my days in
+strictest seclusion, he has informed me. Severe punishment
+is visited upon any one daring to converse
+with me; even officers are forbidden to pause at my
+cell. Old Evans, the night guard, is afraid even to
+answer my greeting, since he was disciplined with the
+loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my door. It
+was not his fault, poor old man. The night was sultry;
+the sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were
+tightly closed. Almost suffocated with the foul air, I
+requested the passing Evans to raise the window. It
+had been ordered shut by the Warden, he informed me.
+As he turned to leave, three sharp raps on the bars of
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span>
+the upper rotunda almost rooted him to the spot with
+amazement. It was 2 <small>A. M.</small> No one was supposed to
+be there at night. "Come here, Evans!" I recognized
+the curt tones of the Warden. "What business have you
+at that man's door?" I could distinctly hear each word,
+cutting the stillness of the night. In vain the frightened
+officer sought to explain: he had merely answered a question,
+he had stopped but a moment. "I've been watching
+you there for half an hour," the irate Warden insisted.
+"Report to me in the morning."</p>
+
+<p>Since then the guards on their rounds merely
+glance between the bars, and pass on in silence. I have
+been removed within closer observation of the nightly
+prowling Captain, and am now located near the rotunda,
+in the second cell on the ground floor, Range Y.
+The stringent orders of exceptional surveillance have
+so terrorized my friends that they do not venture
+to look in my direction. A special officer has been
+assigned to the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to
+keep me under observation. I feel buried alive. Communication
+with my comrades has been interrupted,
+the Warden detaining my mail. I am deprived of books
+and papers, all my privileges curtailed. If only I had
+my birds! The company of my little pets would give
+me consolation. But they have been taken from me,
+and I fear the guards have killed them. Deprived of
+work and exercise I pass the days in the solitary,
+monotonous, interminable.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>By degrees anxiety over my friends is allayed.
+The mystery of the tunnel remains unsolved. The
+Warden reiterates his moral certainty that the underground
+passage was intended for the liberation of the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span>
+Anarchist prisoner. The views of the police and
+detective officials of the twin cities are hopelessly
+divergent. Each side asserts thorough familiarity with
+the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty
+parties. But the alleged clews proving misleading, the
+matter is finally abandoned. The passage has been
+filled with cement, and the official investigation is
+terminated.</p>
+
+<p>The safety of my comrades sheds a ray of light
+into the darkness of my existence. It is consoling to
+reflect that, disastrous as the failure is to myself, my
+friends will not be made victims of my longing for
+liberty. At no time since the discovery of the tunnel
+has suspicion been directed to the right persons. The
+narrow official horizon does not extend beyond the
+familiar names of the Girl, Nold, and Bauer. These
+have been pointed at by the accusing finger repeatedly,
+but the men actually concerned in the secret attempt
+have not even been mentioned. No danger threatens
+them from the failure of my plans. In a communication
+to a local newspaper, Nold has incontrovertibly proved his
+continuous residence in St. Louis for a period covering a
+year previous to the tunnel and afterwards. Bauer
+has recently married; at no time have the police been
+in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware
+that my former fellow-prisoner is to be discounted as
+a participator in the attempted escape. Indeed, the prison
+officials must have learned from my mail that the big
+German is regarded by my friends as an ex-comrade
+merely. But the suspicion of the authorities directed
+toward the Girl&mdash;with a pang of bitterness, I think of
+her unfortunate absence from the country during the
+momentous period of the underground work. With
+resentment I reflect that but for that I might now be
+at liberty! Her skill as an organizer, her growing
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span>
+influence in the movement, her energy and devotion,
+would have assured the success of the undertaking. But
+Tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure
+without learning of my plans. It is to him, to his obstinacy
+and conceit, that the failure of the project is
+mostly due, staunch and faithful though he is.</p>
+
+<p>In turn I lay the responsibility at the door of this
+friend and that, lashing myself into furious rage at the
+renegade who had appropriated a considerable sum of the
+money intended for the continuation of the underground
+work. Yet the outbursts of passion spent, I strive
+to find consolation in the correctness of the intuitive
+judgment that prompted the selection of my "lawyers,"
+the devoted comrades who so heroically toiled for my
+sake in the bowels of the earth. Half-naked they had
+labored through the weary days and nights, stretched
+at full length in the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring
+and chilled in turn, their hands bleeding with
+the terrible toil. And through the weeks and months
+of nerve-racking work and confinement in the tunnel,
+of constant dread of detection and anxiety over the
+result, my comrades had uttered no word of doubt or
+fear, in full reliance upon their invisible friend. What
+self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had
+never even known! Dear, beloved comrades, had you
+succeeded, my life could never repay your almost superhuman
+efforts and love. Only the future years of active
+devotion to our great common Cause could in a measure
+express my thankfulness and pride in you, whoever,
+wherever you are. Nor were your heroism, your
+skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail.
+You have given an invaluable demonstration of the
+elemental reality of the Ideal, of the marvelous strength
+and courage born of solidaric purpose, of the heights
+devotion to a great Cause can ascend. And the lesson
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span>
+has not been lost. Almost unanimous is the voice
+of the press&mdash;only Anarchists could have achieved the
+wonderful feat!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind. How
+little thought I had given to my comrades, toiling underground,
+in the anxious days of my own apprehension
+and suspense! With increasing vividness I visualize
+their trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the
+herculean efforts in spite of ever-present danger. How
+terrible must have been <i>their</i> despair at the inability
+to continue the work to a successful termination!...</p>
+
+<p>My reflections fill me with renewed strength. I
+must live! I must live to meet those heroic men, to
+take them by the hand, and with silent lips pour my
+heart into their eyes. I shall be proud of their comradeship,
+and strive to be worthy of it.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The lines form in the hallway, and silently march
+to the shops. I peer through the bars, for the sight
+of a familiar face brings cheer, and the memory of
+the days on the range. Many friends, unseen for years,
+pass by my cell. How Big Jack has wasted! The
+deep chest is sunk in, the face drawn and yellow, with
+reddish spots about the cheekbones. Poor Jack, so
+strong and energetic, how languid and weak his step is
+now! And Jimmy is all broken up with rheumatism,
+and hops on crutches. With difficulty I recognize Harry
+Fisher. The two years have completely changed the
+young Morganza boy. He looks old at seventeen, the
+rosy cheeks a ghastly white, the delicate features immobile,
+hard, the large bright eyes dull and glassy. Vividly
+my friends stand before me in the youth and strength of
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span>
+their first arrival. How changed their appearance! My
+poor chums, readers of the <i>Prison Blossoms</i>, helpers in
+our investigation efforts, what wrecks the torture of hell
+has made of you! I recall with sadness the first years
+of my imprisonment, and my coldly impersonal valuation
+of social victims. There is Evans, the aged burglar,
+smiling furtively at me from the line. Far in the distance
+seems the day when I read his marginal note upon
+a magazine article I sent him, concerning the stupendous
+cost of crime. I had felt quite piqued at the flippancy of
+his comment, "We come high, but they must have us."
+With the severe intellectuality of revolutionary tradition,
+I thought of him and his kind as inevitable fungus
+growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying society. Unfortunate
+derelicts, indeed, yet parasites, almost devoid
+of humanity. But the threads of comradeship have
+slowly been woven by common misery. The touch of
+sympathy has discovered the man beneath the criminal;
+the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of
+kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart.
+Old Evans and Sammy and Bob,&mdash;what suffering and
+pain must have chilled their fiery souls with the winter
+of savage bitterness! And the resurrection trembles
+within! How terrible man's ignorance, that forever condemns
+itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! And
+these my friends, Davis and Russell, these innocently
+guilty,&mdash;what worse punishment could society inflict upon
+itself, than the loss of their latent nobility which it had
+killed?... Not entirely in vain are the years of suffering
+that have wakened my kinship with the humanity
+of <i>les mis&eacute;rables</i>, whom social stupidity has cast into the
+valley of death.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XXXIX</h2>
+
+<h3>A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>My new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different
+channel. It is "Fighting" Tom, returned after several
+years of absence. By means of a string attached to a
+wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and Tom
+startles me by the confession that he was the author of
+the mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival
+in the penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he
+informs me, and I was to be "let in," by his recommendation.
+But one of the conspirators getting "cold
+feet," the plot was betrayed to the Warden, whereupon
+Tom "sent the snitch to the hospital." As a result, however,
+he was kept in solitary till his release. In the
+prison he had become proficient as a broom-maker, and
+it was his intention to follow the trade. There was nothing
+in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to
+be honest. But on the day of his discharge he was
+arrested at the gate by officers from Illinois on an old
+charge. He swore vengeance against Assistant Deputy
+Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop
+the remark that he would never return to Illinois, because
+he was "wanted" there. He lived the five years in
+the Joliet prison in the sole hope of "getting square"
+with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon
+his release, he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span>
+kill Hopkins. On the night of his arrival he broke into
+the latter's residence, prepared to avenge his wrongs.
+But the Assistant Deputy had left the previous day on
+his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about
+to set fire to the house, when the light of his match fell
+upon a silver trinket on the bureau of the bedroom. It
+fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off it. Suddenly
+he was seized with the desire to examine the contents
+of the house. The old passion was upon him. He
+could not resist. Hardly conscious of his actions, he
+gathered the silverware into a tablecloth, and quietly
+stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day,
+as he was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender,
+he received a sentence of ten years. Since his arrival,
+eight months ago, he has been kept in solitary. His
+health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his sentence.
+But if he is to die&mdash;he swears&mdash;he is going to
+take "his man" along.</p>
+
+<p>Aware of the determination of "Fighting" Tom, I
+realize that the safety of the hated officer is conditioned
+by Tom's lack of opportunity to carry out his revenge. I
+feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose craftiness in
+worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on
+the pay-roll of the Pinkerton agency; but I exert myself
+to persuade Tom that it would be sheer insanity thus
+deliberately to put his head in the noose. He is still a
+young man; barely thirty. It is not worth while sacrificing
+his life for a sneak of a guard.</p>
+
+<p>However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments
+seem merely to rouse his resistance, and strengthen his
+resolution. But closer acquaintance reveals to me his
+exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a second-story
+expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the
+crudity of his plans of revenge. Would it not be more
+in conformity with his reputation as a skilled "gun," I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span>
+argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother" manner? Tom
+assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more
+interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he
+warms to the suggestion of "a break." Once outside,
+well&mdash;"I'll get 'im all right," he chuckles.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate
+nights we take turns in timing the rounds of the
+guards, the appearance of the Night Captain, the opening
+of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly insignificant,
+yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered.
+Many obstacles bar the way of success, but time and
+perseverance will surmount them. Tom is thoroughly
+engrossed with the project. I realize the desperation of
+the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in
+the solitary. It is the last resort.</p>
+
+<p>With utmost care we make our preparations. The
+summer is long past; the dense fogs of the season will
+aid our escape. We hasten to complete all details, in
+great nervous tension with the excitement of the work.
+The time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite
+date. But Tom's state of mind fills me with apprehension.
+He has become taciturn of late. Yesterday he
+seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my
+signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for
+a reply to my last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally
+a heavy groan issues from his cell, but my repeated
+signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay
+awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate
+the cause of the groaning. But my attempts
+to speak to the officers are ignored. The next morning
+I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his cell, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span>
+learn with horror that he had bled to death during the
+night.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>The peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind.
+Was it suicide or accident? Tom had been weakened by
+long confinement; in some manner he may have ruptured
+a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. It is hardly
+probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our
+attempt. Yet certain references in his notes of late,
+ignored at the time, assume new significance. He was
+apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was "after
+him." Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for
+his safety. He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had
+laughed the matter away, familiar with the sporadic delusions
+of men in solitary. Close confinement exerts a
+similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are
+especially predisposed to auto-suggestion; Young Sid
+used to manifest every symptom of the diseases he read
+about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was responsible for
+his death. Spencer, too, had committed suicide a month
+before his release, in the firm conviction that the Warden
+would not permit his discharge. It may be that in a
+sudden fit of despondency, Tom had ended his life. Perhaps
+I could have saved my friend: I did not realize how
+constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself
+threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible
+struggle that must have been going on in his tortured
+heart! Yet we were so intimate; I believed I understood
+his every feeling and emotion.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news
+from the Girl about Bresci's execution of the King of
+Italy rouses little interest in me. Bresci avenged the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span>
+peasants and the women and children shot before the
+palace for humbly begging bread. He did well, and the
+agitation resulting from his act may advance the Cause.
+But it will have no bearing on my fate. The last hope
+of escape has departed with my poor friend. I am
+doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in
+prison, but the comrades will eulogize him and his act,
+and continue their efforts to regenerate the world. Yet
+I feel that the individual, in certain cases, is of more
+direct and immediate consequence than humanity. What
+is the latter but the aggregate of individual existences&mdash;and
+shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed
+for the metaphysical collectivity? Here, all around me,
+a thousand unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary,
+forsaken by God and man. They bleed and
+struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a little
+sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How
+helped amid the injustice and brutality of a society whose
+chief monuments are prisons? And so we must suffer
+and suicide, and countless others after us, till the play of
+social forces shall transform human history into the
+history of true humanity,&mdash;and meanwhile our bones
+will bleach on the long, dreary road.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Bereft of the last hope of freedom, I grow indifferent
+to life. The monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes
+more loathsome. My whole being longs for rest.
+Rest, no more to awaken. The world will not miss me.
+An atom of matter, I shall return to endless space.
+Everything will pursue its wonted course, but I shall
+know no more of the bitter struggle and strife. My
+friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over,
+and continue on their way. And new Brescis will arise,
+and more kings will fall, and then all, friend and enemy,
+will go my way, and new generations will be born and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span>
+die, and humanity and the world be whirled into space
+and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and
+the same history and the same facts will come and go,
+the playthings of cosmic forces renewing and transforming
+forever.</p>
+
+<p>How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how
+small and puny life and all its pain and travail!...
+With eyes closed, I behold myself suspended by the
+neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings
+gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,&mdash;just
+like Pasquale, when he hanged himself in the
+cell next to mine, some months ago. A few twitches,
+and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid, my
+body rigid; slowly it cools. The night guard passes.
+"What's this, eh?" He rings the rotunda bell. Keys
+clang; the lever is drawn, and my door unlocked. An
+officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the
+bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against
+the iron bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side; I feel
+his hand over my heart. Now he rises.</p>
+
+<p>"Good job, Doc?" I recognize the Deputy's voice.</p>
+
+<p>The physician nods.</p>
+
+<p>"Damn glad of it," Hopkins sneers.</p>
+
+<p>The Warden enters, a grin on his parchment face.
+With an oath I spring to my feet. In terror the officers
+rush from the cell. "Ah, I fooled you, didn't I, you
+murderers!"</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers
+of life. It engenders defiance, and strengthens stubborn
+resistance.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XL</h2>
+
+<h3>DONE TO DEATH</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>In my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a
+faint memory, unreal and dim. The deprivation of
+newspapers has entirely severed me from the living.
+Letters from my comrades have become rare and irregular;
+they sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life
+of the prison is also receding; no communication reaches
+me from my friends. "Pious" John, the rangeman, is
+unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will from the days
+of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I
+tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough,
+apprising me of the "stiff" he unerringly shoots between
+the bars, while the double file of prisoners marches
+past my door. He looks pale and haggard, the old
+buoyant step now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension
+pervades his notes. He is constantly harassed
+by the officers, he writes; his task has been increased;
+he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining. In
+the broken sentences, I sense some vague misgiving, as
+of impending calamity.</p>
+
+<p>With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I
+live through the hopes and fears that drew us into closer
+friendship, the days of terrible anxiety incident to the
+tunnel project. My heart goes out to the faithful boy,
+whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span>
+safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship
+possesses me. In the gnawing loneliness, his
+face floats before me, casting the spell of a friendly
+presence, his strong features softened by sorrow, his
+eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of "Little
+Felipe." A peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts
+of the boy; I look forward eagerly to his notes. Impatiently
+I scan the faces in the passing line, wistful for
+the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at
+his fleeting smile.</p>
+
+<p>How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The
+hours are weary with silence and solitude. Listlessly I
+turn the pages of my library book. If only I had the
+birds! I should find solace in their thoughtful eyes:
+Dick and Sis would understand and feel with me. But
+my poor little friends have disappeared; only Russell remains.
+My only friend! I shall not see him when he
+returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite
+side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men
+are again unlocked for work, I shall look into his eyes
+for a happy moment, and perhaps the dear boy will
+have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted: his
+correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement,
+and he strives to cheer me with the good news: another
+day is gone, his sentence is nearing its end; he will at
+once secure a position, and save every penny to aid in
+my release. Tacitly I concur in his ardent hope,&mdash;it
+would break his heart to be disillusioned.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The passing weeks and months bring no break in the
+dreary monotony. The call of the robin on the river
+bank rouses no echo in my heart. No sign of awakening
+spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span>
+solitary. The dampness of the cell is piercing my bones;
+every movement racks my body with pain. My eyes
+are tortured with the eternal white of the walls. Sombre
+shadows brood around me.</p>
+
+<p>I long for a bit of sunshine. I wait patiently at the
+door: perhaps it is clear to-day. My cell faces west; may
+be the setting sun will steal a glance upon me. For
+hours I stand with naked breast close to the bars: I must
+not miss a friendly ray; it may suddenly peep into the
+cell and turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. Now
+a bright beam plays on my neck and shoulders, and I
+press closer to the door to welcome the dear stranger.
+He caresses me with soft touch,&mdash;perhaps it is the soul
+of little Dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song
+of light,&mdash;or may be the astral aura of my beloved Uncle
+Maxim, bringing warmth and hope. Sweet conceit of
+Oriental thought, barren of joy in life.... The sun
+is fading. It feels chilly in the twilight,&mdash;and now the
+solitary is once more bleak and cold.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence
+becomes more assertive in Russell's letter. The
+boy is jubilant and full of vitality: within three months
+he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of sadness at
+leaving me behind permeates his communications, but
+he is enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty.</p>
+
+<p>Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting, as
+he passes in the line. This morning I saw him hold up
+two fingers, the third crooked, in sign of the remaining
+"two and a stump." A joyous light is in his eyes, his
+step firmer, more elastic.</p>
+
+<p>But in the afternoon he is missing from the line.
+With sudden apprehension I wonder at his absence.
+Could I have overlooked him in the closely walking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span>
+ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained
+in the cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious;
+he will surely be in line to-morrow.</p>
+
+<p>For three days, every morning and afternoon, I
+anxiously scrutinize the faces of the passing men; but
+Russell is not among them. His absence torments me
+with a thousand fears. May be the Warden has renewed
+his inquisition of the boy&mdash;perhaps he got into a fight in
+the shop&mdash;in the dungeon now&mdash;he'll lose his commutation
+time.... Unable to bear the suspense, I am about
+to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner surreptitiously
+hands me a note.</p>
+
+<p>With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold handwriting
+in the uneven, nervous scrawl. Russell is in the
+hospital! At work in the shop, he writes, he had suffered
+a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward for
+observation, but the officers and the convict nurses
+accuse him of shamming to evade work. They threaten
+to have him returned to the shop, and he implores me
+to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak
+and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the
+cell in his present condition fills him with horror.</p>
+
+<p>I send an urgent request to see the Chaplain. But
+the guard informs me that Mr. Milligan is absent; he
+is not expected at the office till the following week. I
+prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred
+to the South Block, to deliver a note to the Warden, in
+which I appeal on behalf of Russell. But several days
+pass, and still no reply from Captain Wright. Finally
+I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford Frank,
+the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell.
+As the "medicine boy" pours the prescribed pint of
+"horse salts" through the funnel inserted between the
+bars, I hastily inquire:</p>
+
+<p>"Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"What Russell?" he asks indifferently.</p>
+
+<p>"Russell Schroyer, put four days ago under observation,"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, that poor kid! Why, he is paralyzed."</p>
+
+<p>For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it
+cannot be. Some mistake.</p>
+
+<p>"Frank, I mean young Schroyer, from the construction
+shop. He's Number 2608."</p>
+
+<p>"Your friend Russell; I know who you mean. I'm
+sorry for the boy. He is paralyzed, all right."</p>
+
+<p>"But.... No, it can't be! Why, Frank, it was just
+a chill and a little weakness."</p>
+
+<p>"Look here, Aleck. I know you're square, and you
+can keep a secret all right. I'll tell you something if you
+won't give me away."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes, Frank. What is it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sh&mdash;sh. You know Flem, the night nurse? Doing
+a five spot for murder. His father and the Warden are
+old cronies. That's how he got to be nurse; don't know
+a damn thing about it, an' careless as hell. Always
+makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for
+Russell. Now don't ever say I told you. Flem got the
+wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some acid in the injection.
+Paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>I pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at
+the faint hope that it cannot be&mdash;some mistake&mdash;perhaps
+Frank has exaggerated. But in the morning the "medicine
+boy" confirms my worst fears: the doctor has said
+the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation:
+there is something wrong with his legs, the poor boy
+writes; he is unable to move them, and suffers great
+pain. It can't be fever, he thinks; but the physician will
+not tell him what is the matter....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The kindly Frank is sympathetic; every day he passes
+notes between us, and I try to encourage Russell. He
+will improve, I assure him; his time is short, and fresh
+air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem
+to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when
+unexpectedly he learns the truth from the wrangling
+nurses. His notes grow piteous with misery. Tears
+fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry, "Oh, Aleck, I
+am so young. I don't want to die." He implores me to
+visit him; if I could only come to nurse him, he is sure
+he would improve. He distrusts the convict attendants
+who harry and banter the country lad; their heartless
+abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. Exasperated
+by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday
+threw a saucer at him. He was reported to the
+doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed youth to
+the dungeon. Plagued and tormented, in great suffering,
+Russell grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and
+officers are persecuting him, he writes; they will soon do
+him to death, if I will not come to his rescue. If he
+could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to recover.</p>
+
+<p>Every evening Frank brings sadder news: Russell
+is feeling worse; he is so nervous, the doctor has
+ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the doors in the
+ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of
+slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws
+Russell into convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports;
+decomposition has already set in. The boy is in
+terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain, and
+calling for me.</p>
+
+<p>Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick
+friend, I resolve upon a way to visit the hospital. In
+the morning, as the guard hands me the bread ration and
+shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and door.
+With an involuntary cry I withdraw my maimed and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span>
+bleeding fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary.
+By tacit permission of the friendly "medicine
+boy" I pass to the second floor, where the wards are
+located, and quickly steal to Russell's bedside. The look
+of mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating
+pain in my hand. "Oh, dear Aleck," he whispers,
+"I'm so glad they let you come. I'll get well if you'll
+nurse me." The shadow of death is in his eyes; the
+body exudes decomposition. Bereft of speech, I gently
+press his white, emaciated hand. The weary eyes close,
+and the boy falls into slumber. Silently I touch his dry
+lips, and steal away.</p>
+
+<p>In the afternoon I appeal to the Warden to permit
+me to nurse my friend. It is the boy's dying wish; it
+will ease his last hours. The Captain refers me to the
+Inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be
+subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon
+I ask permission to arrange a collection among the prisoners:
+Russell firmly believes that he would improve in
+an outside hospital, and the Pardon Board might grant
+the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to
+circulate subscription lists among the inmates, and two
+years previously I had collected a hundred and twenty-three
+dollars for the pardon of a lifetimer. But the
+Warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is
+dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I
+suggest the Chaplain for the mission, or some prisoner
+selected by the authorities. But this offer is also vetoed,
+the Warden berating me for having taken advantage of
+my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely,
+and threatening to punish me with the dungeon.
+I plead with him for permission to visit the sick boy who
+is hungry for a friendly presence, and constantly calling
+for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the
+Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span>
+informs me, on condition that a guard be present at the
+meeting. For a moment I hesitate. The desire to see
+my friend struggles against the fear of irritating him
+by the sight of the hated uniform; but I cannot expose
+the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by
+my refusal, perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning
+the secret of the tunnel from the visit, the Warden forbids
+me hereafter to enter the hospital.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks
+very grave, as he whispers:</p>
+
+<p>"Aleck, you must bear up."</p>
+
+<p>"Russell&mdash;?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Aleck."</p>
+
+<p>"Worse? Tell me, Frank."</p>
+
+<p>"He is dead. Bear up, Aleck. His last thought was
+of you. He was unconscious all afternoon, but just before
+the end&mdash;it was 9.33&mdash;he sat up in bed so suddenly,
+he frightened me. His arm shot out, and he cried,
+'Good bye, Aleck.'"</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLI</h2>
+
+<h3>THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+
+
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">July 10, 1901.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Girl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>This is from the hospital, <i>sub rosa</i>. Just out of the strait-jacket,
+after eight days.</p>
+
+<p>For over a year I was in the strictest solitary; for a long
+time mail and reading matter were denied me. I have no words
+to describe the horror of the last months.... I have passed
+through a great crisis. Two of my best friends died in a frightful
+manner. The death of Russell, especially, affected me. He
+was very young, and my dearest and most devoted friend, and he
+died a terrible death. The doctor charged the boy with shamming,
+but now he says it was spinal meningitis. I cannot tell
+you the awful truth,&mdash;it was nothing short of murder, and my
+poor friend rotted away by inches. When he died they found his
+back one mass of bedsores. If you could read the pitiful letters
+he wrote, begging to see me, and to be nursed by me! But the
+Warden wouldn't permit it. In some manner his agony seemed
+to affect me, and I began to experience the pains and symptoms
+that Russell described in his notes. I knew it was my sick
+fancy; I strove against it, but presently my legs showed signs
+of paralysis, and I suffered excruciating pain in the spinal
+column, just like Russell. I was afraid that I would be done
+to death like my poor friend. I grew suspicious of every guard,
+and would barely touch the food, for fear of its being poisoned.
+My "head was workin'," they said. And all the time I knew it
+was my diseased imagination, and I was in terror of going mad....
+I tried so hard to fight it, but it would always creep up, and
+get hold of me stronger and stronger. Another week of solitary
+would have killed me.</p>
+
+<p>I was on the verge of suicide. I demanded to be relieved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span>
+from the cell, and the Warden ordered me punished. I was put
+in the strait-jacket. They bound my body in canvas, strapped
+my arms to the bed, and chained my feet to the posts. I was
+kept that way eight days, unable to move, rotting in my own
+excrement. Released prisoners called the attention of our new
+Inspector to my case. He refused to believe that such things
+were being done in the penitentiary. Reports spread that I was
+going blind and insane. Then the Inspector visited the hospital
+and had me released from the jacket.</p>
+
+<p>I am in pretty bad shape, but they put me in the general
+ward now, and I am glad of the chance to send you this note.</p>
+
+<p class="author">Sasha.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+Direct to Box A 7, &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+Allegheny City, Pa., &nbsp; &nbsp;<br />
+July 25th, 1901.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Sonya</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I cannot tell you how happy I am to be allowed to write
+to you again. My privileges have been restored by our new
+Inspector, a very kindly man. He has relieved me from the
+cell, and now I am again on the range. The Inspector requested
+me to deny to my friends the reports which have recently
+appeared in the papers concerning my condition. I have not
+been well of late, but now I hope to improve. My eyes are very
+poor. The Inspector has given me permission to have a specialist
+examine them. Please arrange for it through our local comrades.</p>
+
+<p>There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A
+new commutation law has been passed, which reduces my
+sentence by 2&frac12; years. It still leaves me a long time, of course;
+almost 4 years here, and another year to the workhouse. However,
+it is a considerable gain, and if I should not get into solitary
+again, I may&mdash;I am almost afraid to utter the thought&mdash;I
+may live to come out. I feel as if I am being resurrected.</p>
+
+<p>The new law benefits the short-timers proportionately much
+more than the men with longer sentences. Only the poor lifers
+do not share in it. We were very anxious for a while, as there
+were many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional.
+Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span>
+ineffectual. Think of men who will see something unconstitutional
+in allowing the prisoners a little more good time than the
+commutation statute of 40 years ago. As if a little kindness to
+the unfortunates&mdash;really justice&mdash;is incompatible with the spirit
+of Jefferson! We were greatly worried over the fate of this
+statute, but at last the first batch has been released, and there
+is much rejoicing over it.</p>
+
+<p>There is a peculiar history about this new law, which may
+interest you; it sheds a significant side light. It was especially
+designed for the benefit of a high Federal officer who was recently
+convicted of aiding two wealthy Philadelphia tobacco manufacturers
+to defraud the government of a few millions, by using
+counterfeit tax stamps. Their influence secured the introduction
+of the commutation bill and its hasty passage. The law would
+have cut their sentences almost in two, but certain newspapers
+seem to have taken offence at having been kept in ignorance
+of the "deal," and protests began to be voiced. The matter
+finally came up before the Attorney General of the United
+States, who decided that the men in whose special interest the
+law was engineered, could not benefit by it, because a State
+law does not affect U. S. prisoners, the latter being subject to
+the Federal commutation act. Imagine the discomfiture of the
+politicians! An attempt was even made to suspend the operation
+of the statute. Fortunately it failed, and now the "common"
+State prisoners, who were not at all meant to profit, are being
+released. The legislature has unwittingly given some unfortunates
+here much happiness.</p>
+
+<p>I was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a
+visit. I could hardly credit it: the first comrade I have been
+allowed to see in nine years! It was Harry Gordon, and I
+was so overcome by the sight of the dear friend, I could barely
+speak. He must have prevailed upon the new Inspector to issue
+a permit. The latter is now Acting Warden, owing to the
+serious illness of Captain Wright. Perhaps he will allow me to
+see my sister. Will you kindly communicate with her at once?
+Meantime I shall try to secure a pass. With renewed hope, and
+always with green memory of you,</p>
+
+<p class="author">Alex.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author"><i>Sub Rosa</i>, &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />
+Dec. 20, 1901.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Girl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected
+you.... The sight of your face after all these years completely
+unnerved me. I could not think, I could not speak. It
+was as if all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the
+living, were concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was
+dangling from your watch chain.... I couldn't take my
+eyes off it, I couldn't keep my hand from playing with it. It
+absorbed my whole being.... And all the time I felt how
+nervous you were at my silence, and I couldn't utter a word.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen
+each other under the present conditions. It was lucky they did
+not recognize you: they took you for my "sister," though I
+believe your identity was suspected after you had left. You
+would surely not have been permitted the visit, had the old
+Warden been here. He was ill at the time. He never got
+over the shock of the tunnel, and finally he has been persuaded
+by the prison physician (who has secret aspirations
+to the Wardenship) that the anxieties of his position are a
+menace to his advanced age. Considerable dissatisfaction has
+also developed of late against the Warden among the Inspectors.
+Well, he has resigned at last, thank goodness! The prisoners
+have been praying for it for years, and some of the boys on
+the range celebrated the event by getting drunk on wood alcohol.
+The new Warden has just assumed charge, and we hope for
+improvement. He is a physician by profession, with the title
+of Major in the Pennsylvania militia.</p>
+
+<p>It was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious
+friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary
+worry over my health, and my renewed persecution. You
+remember that in July the new Inspector released me from the
+strait-jacket and assigned me to work on the range. But I
+was locked up again in October, after the McKinley incident.
+The President of the Board of Inspectors was at the time in
+New York. He inquired by wire what I was doing. Upon
+being informed that I was working on the range, he ordered
+me into solitary. The new Warden, on assuming office, sent
+for me. "They give you a bad reputation," he said; "but I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span>
+will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do what is right
+by me." He spoke brusquely, in the manner of a man closing
+a business deal, with the power of dictating terms. He reminded
+me of Bismarck at Versailles. Yet he did not seem unkind;
+the thought of escape was probably in his mind. But the new
+law has germinated the hope of survival; my weakened condition
+and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at last
+decided me to abandon the idea of escape. I therefore replied
+to the Warden: "I will do what is right by you, if you treat
+<i>me</i> right." Thereupon he assigned me to work on the range.
+It is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the cell-house
+after the close solitary.</p>
+
+<p>And you, dear friend? In your letters I feel how terribly
+torn you are by the events of the recent months. I lived in
+great fear for your safety, and I can barely credit the good
+news that you are at liberty. It seems almost a miracle.</p>
+
+<p>I followed the newspapers with great anxiety. The whole
+country seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. To a
+considerable extent the press fanned the fires of persecution.
+Here in the prison very little sincere grief was manifested. Out
+out of hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary
+remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner corresponds
+to the average citizen&mdash;their patriotism is very passive,
+except when stimulated by personal interest, or artificially
+excited. But if the press mirrored the sentiment of the people,
+the nation must have suddenly relapsed into cannibalism. There
+were moments when I was in mortal dread for your very life,
+and for the safety of the other arrested comrades. In previous
+letters you hinted that it was official rivalry and jealousy, and
+your absence from New York, to which you owe your release.
+You may be right; yet I believe that your attitude of proud
+self-respect
+and your admirable self-control contributed much to the
+result. You were splendid, dear; and I was especially moved by
+your remark that you would faithfully nurse the wounded man,
+if he required your services, but that the poor boy, condemned
+and deserted by all, needed and deserved your sympathy and aid
+more than the president. More strikingly than your letters, that
+remark discovered to me the great change wrought in us by the
+ripening years. Yes, in us, in both, for my heart echoed your
+beautiful sentiment. How impossible such a thought would
+have been to us in the days of a decade ago! We should have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span>
+considered it treason to the spirit of revolution; it would have
+outraged all our traditions even to admit the humanity of an
+official representative of capitalism. Is it not very significant
+that we two&mdash;you living in the very heart of Anarchist thought
+and activity, and I in the atmosphere of absolute suppression and
+solitude&mdash;should have arrived at the same evolutionary point
+after a decade of divergent paths?</p>
+
+<p>You have alluded in a recent letter to the ennobling and
+broadening influence of sorrow. Yet not upon every one does
+it exert a similar effect. Some natures grow embittered, and
+shrink with the poison of misery. I often wonder at my lack
+of bitterness and enmity, even against the old Warden&mdash;and
+surely I have good cause to hate him. Is it because of greater
+maturity? I rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. The
+love of the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days,
+vital as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than
+emotional. Fortunately so, I think. For those like Fedya and
+Lewis and Pauline, and numerous others, soon have their emotionally
+inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of the
+social protestant. Only aspirations that spontaneously leap from
+the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic forces.
+The revolutionist is born. Beneath our love and hatred of
+former days lay inherent rebellion, and the passionate desire for
+liberty and life.</p>
+
+<p>In the long years of isolation I have looked deeply into my
+heart. With open mind and sincere purpose, I have revised
+every emotion and every thought. Away from my former
+atmosphere and the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil,
+I have divested myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. I
+have studied the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life,
+and pondered over human destiny. For weeks and months I
+would be absorbed in the domain of "pure reason," or discuss
+with Leibnitz the question of free will, and seek to penetrate,
+beyond Spencer, into the Unknowable. Political science and
+economics, law and criminology&mdash;I studied them with unprejudiced
+mind, and sought to slacken my soul's thirst by delving
+deeply into religion and theology, seeking the "Key to Life"
+at the feet of Mrs. Eddy, expectantly listening for the voice of
+disembodied, studying Koreshanity and Theosophy, absorbing
+the <i>prana</i> of knowledge and power, and concentrating upon
+the wisdom of the Yogi. And after years of contemplation and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span>
+study, chastened by much sorrow and suffering, I arise from the
+broken fetters of the world's folly and delusions, to behold the
+threshold of a new life of liberty and equality. My youth's ideal
+of a free humanity in the vague future has become clarified
+and crystallized into the living truth of Anarchy, as the sustaining
+elemental force of my every-day existence.</p>
+
+<p>Often I have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom
+dear at the price of enthusiasm? At 30 one is not so reckless,
+not so fanatical and one-sided as at 20. With maturity we become
+more universal; but life is a Shylock that cannot be cheated
+of his due. For every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound
+or a scar to show. We grow broader; but too often the heart
+contracts as the mind expands, and the fires are burning down
+while we are learning. At such moments my mind would revert
+to the days when the momentarily expected approach of the
+Social Revolution absorbed our exclusive interest. The raging
+present and its conflicting currents passed us by, while our eyes
+were riveted upon the Dawn, in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise.
+Life and its manifold expressions were vexatious to the
+spirit of revolt; and poetry, literature, and art were scorned
+as hindrances to progress, unless they sounded the tocsin of
+immediate revolution. Humanity was sharply divided in two
+warring camps,&mdash;the noble People, the producers, who yearned
+for the light of the new gospel, and the hated oppressors, the
+exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that was
+to give back to man his heritage. If only "the good People"
+were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully
+they would embrace Anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised
+land!</p>
+
+<p>The splendid naivety of the days that resented as a personal
+reflection the least misgiving of the future; the enthusiasm that
+discounted the power of inherent prejudice and predilection!
+Magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the hatred of
+oppression and the love of liberty! Woe indeed to the man or
+the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of Prometheus,&mdash;for
+it is youth that has climbed the heights.... But
+maturity has clarified the way, and the stupendous task of
+human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified
+vision of hearts that grow not cold.</p>
+
+<p>And you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time,
+you have yet happily kept your heart young. I have rejoiced<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a></span>
+at it in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident
+from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening
+at Buffalo. I share your view entirely; for that very
+reason, it is the more distressing to disagree with you in one
+very important particular: the value of Leon's act. I know
+the terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish persecution
+to which you have been subjected. Worse than all must
+have been to you the general lack of understanding for such
+phenomena; and, sadder yet, the despicable attitude of some
+would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. But
+I am confident you will not mistake my expressed disagreement
+for condemnation.</p>
+
+<p>We need not discuss the phase of the <i>Attentat</i> which manifested
+the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest
+against social wrong. Such phenomena are the natural result
+of evil conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the river
+banks by the swelling mountain torrents. But I cannot agree
+with you regarding the social value of Leon's act.</p>
+
+<p>I have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of
+his inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the rebellion
+of his soul. It throws a significant light upon the causes
+of the <i>Attentat</i>. Indeed, it is at once the greatest tragedy of
+martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of society, that
+it forces the noblest men and women to shed human blood,
+though their souls shrink from it. But the more imperative
+it is that drastic methods of this character be resorted to only
+as a last extremity. To prove of value, they must be motived
+by social rather than individual necessity, and be directed against
+a real and immediate enemy of the people. The significance
+of such a deed is understood by the popular mind&mdash;and in that
+alone is the propagandistic, educational importance of an <i>Attentat</i>,
+except if it is exclusively an act of terrorism.</p>
+
+<p>Now, I do not believe that this deed was terroristic; and
+I doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity
+for its performance was not manifest. That you may not
+misunderstand, I repeat: as an expression of personal revolt
+it was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing conditions.
+But the background of social necessity was lacking,
+and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent
+nullified.</p>
+
+<p>In Russia, where political oppression is popularly felt,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a></span>
+such a deed would be of great value. But the scheme of
+political subjection is more subtle in America. And though
+McKinley was the chief representative of our modern slavery,
+he could not be considered in the light of a direct and immediate
+enemy of the people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat
+is visible and tangible. The real despotism of republican institutions
+is far deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the
+popular delusion of self-government and independence. That
+is the subtle source of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it cannot
+be reached with a bullet.</p>
+
+<p>In modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression
+is the real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its handmaid.
+Hence the battle is to be waged in the economic rather
+than the political field. It is therefore that I regard my own
+act as far more significant and educational than Leon's. It
+was directed against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as
+such by the people.</p>
+
+<p>As long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts
+and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of
+the race&mdash;our Czolgoszes&mdash;burst forth in "rockets of iron."
+But does this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or
+merely confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? The
+struggle of labor against capital is a class war, essentially and
+chiefly economic. In that arena the battles must be fought.</p>
+
+<p>It was not these considerations, of course, that inspired
+the nation-wide man-hunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals.
+Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness.
+The brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole proceeding,
+the thirst for the blood of the martyr,&mdash;these make one
+almost despair of humanity.</p>
+
+<p>I must close. The friend to smuggle out this letter will be
+uneasy about its bulk. Send me sign of receipt, and I hope
+that you may be permitted a little rest and peace, to recover
+from the nightmare of the last months.</p>
+
+<p class="author"><span class="smcap">Sasha.</span></p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLII</h2>
+
+<h3>MARRED LIVES</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The discussion with the Girl is a source of much
+mortification. Harassed on every side, persecuted by
+the authorities, and hounded even into the street, my
+friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative
+disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity
+and inertia. I realize the inadequacy of the written
+word, and despair at the hopelessness of human understanding,
+as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the
+Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued
+correspondence with the Girl accentuates the
+divergence of our views, painfully discovering the fundamental
+difference of attitude underlying even common
+conclusions.</p>
+
+<p>By degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my
+friend's correspondence. Our discussion lags, and soon
+ceases entirely. The world of the outside, temporarily
+brought closer, again recedes, and the urgency of the
+immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house.
+The new commutation law is bringing liberty appreciably
+nearer. In the shops and yard the men excitedly discuss<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span>
+the increased "good time," and prisoners flit about with
+paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out"
+their time of release. Even the solitaries, on the verge of
+despair, and the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless
+years, are instilled with new courage and hope.</p>
+
+<p>The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment
+of the new Warden the constant grumbling
+over the food has ceased. Pleasant surprise is manifest
+at the welcome change in "the grub." I wonder at the
+tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas
+dinner. The men impatiently frown down the occasional
+"kicker." The Warden is "green," they argue; he
+did not know that we are supposed to get currant bread
+for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a
+chanc't." The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged
+upon, and the men thrill with amazed expectancy
+at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's dinner!"
+With gratification we hear the Major's expression
+of disgust at the filthy condition of the prison, his
+condemnation of the basket cell and dungeon as barbarous,
+and the promise of radical reforms. As an
+earnest of his r&eacute;gime he has released from solitary the
+men whom Warden Wright had punished for having
+served as witnesses in the defence of Murphy and Mong.
+Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had
+accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed
+in Elk City several years previously. The criminal trial,
+involving the suicide of an officer<a name="FNanchor_50_50" id="FNanchor_50_50"></a><a href="#Footnote_50_50" class="fnanchor">[50]</a> whom the Warden
+had forced to testify against the defendants, resulted in
+the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon Captain Wright
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span>ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be punished.</p>
+
+<p>The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces
+hygienic rules, abolishes the "holy-stoning"<a name="FNanchor_51_51" id="FNanchor_51_51"></a><a href="#Footnote_51_51" class="fnanchor">[51]</a> of the cell-house
+floor because of the detrimental effect of the dust,
+and decides to separate the consumptive and syphilitic
+prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Upon
+examination, 40 per cent. of the population are discovered
+in various stages of tuberculosis, and 20 per cent.
+insane. The death rate from consumption is found to
+range between 25 and 60 per cent. At light tasks in the
+block and the yard the Major finds employment for the
+sickly inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the
+prison clean, the rest of the men at work in the shop.
+With the exception of a number of dangerously insane,
+who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner
+in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of
+idleness resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus
+solved.</p>
+
+<p>The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition
+of the dungeon, produce a noticeable improvement in
+the life of the prison. The gloom of the cell-house
+perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at
+music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with
+the strains of merry ragtime by the newly organized
+penitentiary band.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>New faces greet me on the range. But many old
+friends are missing. Billy Ryan is dead of consumption;
+"Frenchy" and Ben have become insane; Little Mat, the
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span>Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remembrance
+I think of them, grown close and dear in the
+years of mutual suffering. Some of the old-timers have
+survived, but broken in spirit and health. "Praying"
+Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips constantly
+moving in prayer. "Me innocent," the old man
+reiterates, "God him know." Last month the Board has
+again refused to pardon the lifetimer, and now he is
+bereft of hope. "Me have no more money. My children
+they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now
+no more money." Aleck Killain has also been refused
+by the Board at the same session. He is the oldest man
+in the prison, in point of service, and the most popular
+lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions
+of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party
+of picnickers, a woman was found dead. No clew could
+be discovered, and Aleck was sentenced to life, because
+he could not be forced to divulge the names of the
+men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the
+sad news: the authorities have opposed his pardon,
+demanding that he furnish the information desired by
+them. He looks sere with confinement, his eyes full
+of a mute sadness that can find no words. His face is
+deeply seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. In
+the long years of our friendship I have never seen Aleck
+laugh. Once or twice he smiled, and his whole being
+seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly,
+with a perceptible effort.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Aleck," he is saying, "it's true. They refused
+me."</p>
+
+<p>"But they pardoned Mac," I retort hotly. "He confessed
+to a cold-blooded murder, and he's only been in
+four years."</p>
+
+<p>"Good luck," he remarks.</p>
+
+<p>"How, good luck?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, what of it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son
+a pardon."</p>
+
+<p>"But on what ground did they dismiss your application?
+They know you are innocent."</p>
+
+<p>"District Attorney came to me. 'You're innocent, we
+know. Tell us who did the murder.' I had nothing to
+tell. Pardon refused."</p>
+
+<p>"Is there any hope later on, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"When the present administration are all dead, perhaps."</p>
+
+<p>Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He
+walks weakly, with halting step.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders
+bent lower. "I'm here again, friend Aleck," he
+smiles apologetically. "What could I do? The old
+woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. Th'
+farm was sold that I was borned in," his voice trembles
+with emotion. "I couldn't find th' boys, an' no one
+wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'Go to th'
+pogy',<a name="FNanchor_52_52" id="FNanchor_52_52"></a><a href="#Footnote_52_52" class="fnanchor">[52]</a> they told me. I couldn't, Aleck. I've worked all
+me life; I don't want no charity. I made a bluff," he
+smiles between tears,&mdash;"Broke into a store, and here I
+am."</p>
+
+<p>With surprise I recognize "Tough" Monk among
+the first-grade men. For years he had been kept in
+stripes, and constantly punished for bad work in the
+hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in
+the prison: not once in five years had he accomplished his
+task. But the new Warden transferred him to the construction
+shop, where Monk was employed at his trade
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span>of blacksmith. "I hated that damn sock makin'," he
+tells me. "I've struck it right now, an' the Major says
+I'm the best worker in th' shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh,
+would you? Major promised me a ten-spot for the fancy
+iron work I did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. Says
+it's artistic, see? That's me all right; it's work I like. I
+won't lose any time, either. Warden says Old Sandy
+was a fool for makin' me knit socks with them big paws
+of mine. Th' Major is aw' right, aw' right."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>With a glow of pleasure I meet "Smiling" Al, my
+colored friend from the jail. The good-natured boy
+looks old and infirm. His kindness has involved him in
+much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for shouldering
+the faults of others, and now the Inspectors have
+informed him that he is to lose the greater part of his
+commutation time. He has grown wan with worry over
+the uncertainty of release. Every morning is tense with
+expectation. "Might be Ah goes to-day, Aleck," he
+hopefully smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks
+pass. The suspense is torturing the young negro, and he
+is visibly failing day by day.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>A familiar voice greets me. "Hello, Berk, ain't you
+glad t' see an old pal?" Big Dave beams on me with his
+cheerful smile.</p>
+
+<p>"No, Davy. I hoped you wouldn't come back."</p>
+
+<p>He becomes very grave. "Yes, I swore I'd swing
+sooner than come back. Didn't get a chanc't. You see,"
+he explains, his tone full of bitterness, "I goes t' work
+and gets a job, good job, too; an' I keeps 'way from th'
+booze an' me pals. But th' damn bulls was after me.
+Got me sacked from me job three times, an' den I
+knocked one of 'em on th' head. Damn his soul to hell,
+wish I'd killed 'im. 'Old offender,' they says to the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span>
+jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker
+all right for tryin' t' be straight."</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>In the large cage at the centre of the block, the men
+employed about the cell-house congregate in their idle
+moments. The shadows steal silently in and out of the
+inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within
+sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men
+lounging about the sawdust barrel, absorbed in "Snakes"
+Wilson's recital of his protracted struggle with "Old
+Sandy." He relates vividly his persistent waking at
+night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "Murder! I
+see snakes!" With admiring glances the young prisoners
+hang upon the lips of the old criminal, whose perseverance
+in shamming finally forced the former Warden
+to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital,
+where his snake-seeing propensities would become dormant,
+to suffer again violent awakening the moment
+he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years the
+struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the
+dungeon, and the strait-jacket, till the Warden yielded,
+and "Snakes" was permanently established in the comparative
+freedom of the special room.</p>
+
+<p>Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with
+the wit of the "Four-eyed Yegg," who styles himself "Bill
+Nye," or excitedly discussing the intricacies of the commutation
+law, the chances of Pittsburgh winning the
+baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's
+dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation
+of the Deputy Warden is discussed. The Major is
+gradually weeding out the "old gang," it is gossiped. A
+colonel of the militia is to secure the position of assistant
+to the Warden. This source of conversation is inex<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span>haustible,
+every detail of local life serving for endless
+discussion and heated debate. But at the 'lookout's'
+whimpered warning of an approaching guard, the circle
+breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting
+and cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by; with short legs
+wide apart, he stands surveying the assembled idlers
+from beneath his fierce-looking eyebrows.</p>
+
+<p>"Quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? All
+of a sudden, too. And mighty busy, every damn one of
+you. You 'Snakes' there, what business you got here,
+eh?"</p>
+
+<p>"I've jest come in fer a broom."</p>
+
+<p>"You old reprobate, you, I saw you sneak in there
+an hour ago, and you've been chawin' the rag to beat
+the band. Think this a barroom, do you? Get to your
+cells, all of you."</p>
+
+<p>He trudges slowly away, mumbling: "You loafers,
+when I catch you here again, don't you dare talk so
+loud."</p>
+
+<p>One by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly
+teasing each other upon their happy escape. Presently
+several rangemen join the group. Conversation becomes
+animated; voices are raised in dispute. But anger subsides,
+and a hush falls upon the men, as Blind Charley
+gropes his way along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for
+his hand, and leads him to a seat on the barrel. "Feelin'
+better to-day, Charley?" he asks gently.</p>
+
+<p>"Ye-es. I&mdash;think a little&mdash;better," the blind man says
+in an uncertain, hesitating manner. His face wears a
+bewildered expression, as if he has not yet become resigned
+to his great misfortune. It happened only a few
+months ago. In company with two friends, considerably
+the worse for liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts
+of Allegheny. It was growing dark, and they
+wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A head<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span>
+appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one
+suddenly cried. There was a flash. With a cry of pain,
+Charley caught at his eyes. He staggered, then turned
+round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't see
+his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and
+all was utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath
+his feet, and Charley fell down upon his face
+moaning and calling to his friends. But they had fled
+in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,&mdash;alone and
+blind.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says
+kindly. "How are your eyes?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think&mdash;a bit&mdash;better."</p>
+
+<p>The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both
+eyes. His sight is destroyed forever; but with the incomplete
+realization of sudden calamity, Charley believes
+his eyesight only temporarily injured.</p>
+
+<p>"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning
+it&mdash;didn't seem so&mdash;dark. It was like&mdash;a film over
+my eyes. Perhaps&mdash;it may&mdash;get better yet," his voice
+quivers with the expectancy of having his hope confirmed.</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes.</p>
+
+<p>"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing
+"Snakes" by the throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got
+paralyzed in my left eye. It looked just like yours now,
+and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do you see things
+like in a fog, Charley?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, yes, just like that."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by
+little things got to be lighter, and now the eye is as good
+as ever."</p>
+
+<p>"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously.
+"What did you do?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker
+here is giving you some applications, ain't he?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes; but he says it's for the inflammation."</p>
+
+<p>"That's right. That's what the doctors told me. You
+just take it easy, Charley; don't worry. You'll come out
+all right, see if you don't."</p>
+
+<p>Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression,
+but quickly holds up a warning finger to silence the
+giggling "Snowball Kid." Then, with sudden vehemence,
+he exclaims: "By God, Charley, if I ever meet that Judge
+of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here
+hands, so help me! It's a damn shame to send you here
+in this condition. You should have gone to a hospital,
+that's what I say. But cheer up, old boy, you won't
+have to serve your three years; you can bet on that.
+We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon,
+won't we, boys?"</p>
+
+<p>With unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds
+of the cage, taking pledges of contributions. "Doctor
+George" appears around the corner, industriously polishing
+the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to corroborate
+his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A
+smile of timid joy suffuses the sightless face, as Bill
+Nye slaps him on the shoulder, crying jovially, "What
+did I tell you, eh? You'll be O. K. soon, and meantime
+keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done
+you," and with a violent wink in the direction of
+"Snakes," the yegg launches upon a reminiscence of his
+youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the spirit
+of vengeance was strong within him. He has always
+religiously revenged any wrong he was made to suffer,
+but the incident that afforded him the greatest joy was
+an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen then, and
+living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span>
+in a small country place. One evening, as the family
+gathered in the large sitting-room, his sister Mary said
+something which deeply offended him. In great rage
+he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street,
+he was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently
+a stranger in the town. The man guardedly inquired
+whether the boy could direct him to some address where
+one might pass the evening pleasantly. "Quick as a
+flash a brilliant idea struck me," Bill narrates, warming
+to his story. "Never short of them, anyhow," he remarks
+parenthetically, "but here was my revenge! 'you
+mean a whore-house, don't you?' I ask the fellow. Yes,
+that's what was wanted, my man says. 'Why,' says I
+to him, kind of suddenly, 'see the house there right
+across the street? That's the place you want,' and I
+point out to him the house where the old lady and my
+three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant
+like&mdash;waiting for me, you know. Well, the man gives
+me a quarter, and up he goes, knocks on the door and
+steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see what's
+coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door
+opens with a bang and something comes out with a
+rush, and falls on the veranda, and mother she's got a
+broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed one of
+them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they
+rain it upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split
+my sides laughing. By an' by I return to the house,
+and mother and sisters are kind of excited, and I says
+innocent-like, 'What's up, girls?' Well, you ought to
+hear 'em! Talk, did they? 'That beast of a man, the
+dirty thing that came to the house and insulted us
+with&mdash;' they couldn't even mention the awful things
+he said; and Mary&mdash;that's the sis I got mad at&mdash;she
+cries, 'Oh, Billie, you're so big and strong, I wish you
+was here when that nasty old thing came up.'"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>The boys are hilarious over the story, and "Doctor
+George" motions me aside to talk over "old times." With
+a hearty pressure I greet my friend, whom I had not
+seen since the days of the first investigation. Suspected
+of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and
+only recently returned to his former position in the
+block. His beautiful thick hair has grown thin and gray;
+he looks aged and worn. With sadness I notice his
+tone of bitterness. "They almost killed me, Aleck!" he
+says; "if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old
+Warden." Throughout his long confinement, his wife
+had faithfully stood by him, her unfailing courage and
+devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness and
+despair. "The dear girl," he muses, "I'd be dead if it
+wasn't for her." But his release is approaching. He
+has almost served the sentence of sixteen years for alleged
+complicity in the bank robbery at Leechburg, during
+which the cashier was killed. The other two men
+convicted of the crime have both died in prison. The
+Doctor alone has survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he
+repeats. But the six months at the workhouse fill him
+with apprehension. He has been informed that the
+place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary.
+However, his wife is faithfully at work, trying
+to have the workhouse sentence suspended, and full
+liberty may be at hand.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLIII</h2>
+
+<h3>"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"</h3>
+
+
+<p>The presence of my old friend is a source of much
+pleasure. George is an intelligent man; the long years
+of incarceration have not circumscribed his intellectual
+horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his interest
+in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle
+hours conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing
+social theories and problems of the day. He has
+a broad grasp of affairs, but his temperament and
+Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear to
+me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and
+narrow prejudice, and our talks are conducted along
+scientific and philosophical lines. The recent death of
+Liebknecht and the American lecture tour of Peter Kropotkin
+afford opportunity for the discussion of modern
+social questions. There are many subjects of mutual
+interest, and my friend, whose great-grandfather was
+among the signers of the Declaration, waxes eloquent in
+denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in
+the Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies
+of the Republic. A Democrat of the Jeffersonian type,
+he is virulent against the old Warden on account of his
+favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience,
+he informs me, has considerably altered the views of
+democracy he once entertained.</p>
+
+<p>"Why, Aleck, there <i>is</i> no justice," he says vehemently;
+"no, not even in the best democracy. Ten years ago<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[Pg 431]</a></span>
+I would have staked my life on the courts. To-day I
+know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is
+wrong. You see, I have been here nine years. I have
+met and made friends with hundreds of criminals. Some
+were pretty desperate, and many of them scoundrels.
+But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover
+some good quality, if he's scratched right. Look at that
+fellow there," he points to a young prisoner scrubbing an
+upper range, "that's 'Johnny the Hunk.' He's in for murder.
+Now what did the judge and jury know about him?
+Just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. One
+Saturday he attended a wedding, with a chum of his.
+They were both drunk when they went out into the
+street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to
+arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. The cop must
+have lost his head&mdash;he shot the fellow dead. It was
+right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and got a pistol,
+and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with
+drink. Well, they were going to hang him, but he was
+only a kid, hardly sixteen. They gave him fifteen years.
+Now he's all in&mdash;they've just ruined the boy's life. And
+what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess what
+he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told
+him that the widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she
+has three children, and takes in washing. Do you know
+what Johnny did? He went around among the cons,
+and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work
+he is making; he's an artist at it. He sent the woman
+the money, and begged her to forgive him."</p>
+
+<p>"Is that true, Doctor?"</p>
+
+<p>"Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some
+business, and the boy had just sent the money to the
+woman. The Chaplain was so much moved by it, he
+told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You
+know what that woman did?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[Pg 432]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"What?"</p>
+
+<p>"She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer,
+and that if he ever goes up for a pardon, she will oppose
+it. She didn't want anything to do with him, she wrote.
+But she kept the money."</p>
+
+<p>"How did Johnny take it?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy
+cried over the letter, and told the Chaplain that he
+wouldn't write to her again. But every minute he can
+spare he works on that fancy work, and every month he
+sends her money. That's the <i>criminal</i> the judge sentenced
+to fifteen years in this hell!"</p>
+
+<p>My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely
+impotent to deal with our social ills. "Why, look at the
+courts!" he exclaims, "they don't concern themselves
+with crime. They merely punish the criminal, absolutely
+indifferent to his antecedents and environment,
+and the predisposing causes."</p>
+
+<p>"But, George," I rejoin, "it is the economic system
+of exploitation, the dependence upon a master for your
+livelihood, want and the fear of want, which are responsible
+for most crimes."</p>
+
+<p>"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corruption
+in our public life, and the commercial scourge that
+holds everything for sale, and the spirit of materialism
+which has cheapened human life, there would not be so
+much violence and crime, even under what you call the
+capitalist system. At any rate, there is no doubt the
+law is an absolute failure in dealing with crime. The
+criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics. Give him
+to the doctor instead of the jailer."</p>
+
+<p>"You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered
+a product of anthropological and physical factors.
+But don't you see that you must also examine
+society, to determine to what extent social conditions are<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[Pg 433]</a></span>
+responsible for criminal actions? And if that were done,
+I believe most crimes would be found to be misdirected
+energy&mdash;misdirected because of false standards, wrong
+environment, and unenlightened self-interest."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase
+of the question. But aside of social conditions, see what
+a bitch the penal institutions are making of it. For one
+thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old, without
+regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting
+prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice.
+The blackjack and the dungeon are surely not the proper
+means of reclamation, no matter what the social causes
+of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform.
+The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True
+reformation can emanate only from voluntary impulse,
+inspired and cultivated by intelligent advice and kind
+treatment. But reformation which is the result of fear,
+lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish
+like smoke the moment fear abates. And you know,
+Aleck, the reformatories are even worse than the prisons.
+Look at the fellows here from the various reform
+schools. Why, it's a disgrace! The boys who come
+from the outside are decent fellows. But those kids
+from the reformatories&mdash;one-third of the cons here have
+graduated there&mdash;they are terrible. You can spot them
+by looking at them. They are worse than street prostitutes."</p>
+
+<p>My friend is very bitter against the prison element
+variously known as "the girls," "Sallies," and "punks,"
+who for gain traffic in sexual gratification. But he
+takes a broad view of the moral aspect of homosexuality;
+his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal
+desires. As a medical man, and a student, he is deeply
+interested in the manifestations of suppressed sex. He
+speaks with profound sympathy of the brilliant English<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[Pg 434]</a></span>
+man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and stupidity
+has driven to prison and to death because his sex life
+did not conform to the accepted standards. In detail, my
+friend traces the various phases of his psychic development
+since his imprisonment, and I warm toward him
+with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the intimate
+emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner,
+he had not come in personal contact with cases
+of homosexuality. He had heard of pederasty; but
+like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither understanding
+for nor sympathy with the sex practices he
+considered abnormal and vicious. In prison he was
+horrified at the perversion that frequently came under
+his observation. For two years the very thought of
+such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused
+to speak to the men and boys known to be homosexual,
+unconditionally condemning them&mdash;"with my prejudices
+rather than my reason," he remarks. But the forces of
+suppression were at work. "Now, this is in confidence,
+Aleck," he cautions me. "I know you will understand.
+Probably you yourself have experienced the same thing.
+I'm glad I can talk to some one about it; the other fellows
+here wouldn't understand it. It makes me sick to
+see how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is
+caught. And the officers, too, though you know as well
+as I that quite a number of them are addicted to these
+practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the same
+story with every one here, especially the long-timers.
+I was terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen
+years&mdash;I didn't believe for a moment I could live
+through it. I was abusing myself pretty badly. Still,
+after a while, when I got work and began to take an interest
+in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex
+instinct awakened. I was young: about twenty-five,
+strong and healthy. Sometimes I thought I'd get crazy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[Pg 435]</a></span>
+with passion. You remember when we were celling together
+on that upper range, on R; you were in the
+stocking shop then, weren't you? Don't you remember?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course I remember, George. You were in the
+cell next mine. We could see out on the river. It was
+in the summer: we could hear the excursion boats, and
+the girls singing and dancing."</p>
+
+<p>"That, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I
+really believe the whole blessed range used to 'indulge'
+then. Think of the precious material fed to the fishes,"
+he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty into the river."</p>
+
+<p>"Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in
+those orgies."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, orgies; that's just what they were. As a matter
+of fact, I don't believe there is a single man in the
+prison who doesn't abuse himself, at one time or
+another."</p>
+
+<p>"If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known
+some men to masturbate four and five times a day. Kept
+it up for months, too."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. As a
+medical man I think that self-abuse, if practised no more
+frequently than ordinary coition, would be no more injurious
+than the latter. But it can't be done. It grows
+on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous
+than the first."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you call the second?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, the first is the dejection stage. Hopeless and
+despondent, you seek forgetfulness in onanism. You don't
+care what happens. It's what I might call mechanical
+self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. This stage
+passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take
+an interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to
+do, before long. The second stage is the psychic and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[Pg 436]</a></span>
+mental. It is not the result of dejection. With the
+gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a comparatively
+normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. At
+this stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. It
+is the more dangerous phase, because the frequency of
+the practice grows with the recurring thought of home,
+your wife or sweetheart. While the first was mechanical,
+giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing
+lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms
+of some loved woman, or one desired, and affords intense
+joy. Therein is its allurement and danger; and that's
+why the habit gains in strength. The more miserable
+the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon
+your sole source of pleasure. Many become helpless
+victims. I have noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence
+are the worst in this respect."</p>
+
+<p>"I have had the same experience. The narrower your
+mental horizon, the more you dwell upon your personal
+troubles and wrongs. That is probably the reason why
+the more illiterate go insane with confinement."</p>
+
+<p>"No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities
+for observation of the solitaries and the new
+men. What did you notice, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner
+is like the life of a factory worker. As a rule, men used
+to outdoor life suffer most from solitary. They are less
+able to adapt themselves to the close quarters, and the
+foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who
+have no interests beyond their personal life, soon become
+victims of insanity. I've always advised new men to
+interest themselves in some study or fancy work,&mdash;it's
+their only salvation."</p>
+
+<p>"If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived
+in your theories and ideals; I'm sure of it. And I con<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[Pg 437]</a></span>tinued
+my medical studies, and sought to absorb myself
+in scientific subjects."</p>
+
+<p>For a moment George pauses. The veins of his forehead
+protrude, as if he is undergoing a severe mental
+struggle. Presently he says: "Aleck, I'm going to speak
+very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject.
+I'll give you my intimate experiences, and I want
+you to be just as frank with me. I think it's one of
+the most important things, and I want to learn all I can
+about it. Very little is known about it, and much less
+understood."</p>
+
+<p>"About what, George?"</p>
+
+<p>"About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second
+phase of onanism. With a strong effort I overcame it.
+Not entirely, of course. But I have succeeded in regulating
+the practice, indulging in it at certain intervals.
+But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested
+themselves. It was like a psychic awakening.
+The desire to love something was strong upon me. Once
+I caught a little mouse in my cell, and tamed it a bit.
+It would eat out of my hand, and come around at
+meal times, and by and by it would stay all evening to
+play with me. I learned to love it. Honestly, Aleck, I
+cried when it died. And then, for a long time, I felt
+as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted something
+to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for
+affection. Somehow the thought of woman gradually
+faded from my mind. When I saw my wife, it was
+just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel toward her
+sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I
+noticed a young boy. He had been in only a short time,
+and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth little face and
+sweet lips&mdash;he reminded me of a girl I used to court
+before I married. After that I frequently surprised
+myself thinking of the lad. I felt no desire toward<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[Pg 438]</a></span>
+him, except just to know him and get friendly. I became
+acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a medical
+man, he would often call to consult me about the
+stomach trouble he suffered. The doctor here persisted
+in giving the poor kid salts and physics all the time.
+Well, Aleck, I could hardly believe it myself, but I grew
+so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed
+without my seeing him. I would take big chances to
+get near him. I was rangeman then, and he was
+assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to
+talk. I got him interested in literature, and advised
+him what to read, for he didn't know what to do with
+his time. He had a fine character, that boy, and he was
+bright and intelligent. At first it was only a liking
+for him, but it increased all the time, till I couldn't
+think of any woman. But don't misunderstand me,
+Aleck; it wasn't that I wanted a 'kid.' I swear to you,
+the other youths had no attraction for me whatever;
+but this boy&mdash;his name was Floyd&mdash;he became so dear
+to me, why, I used to give him everything I could get.
+I had a friendly guard, and he'd bring me fruit and
+things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it, but I always
+gave it to Floyd. And, Aleck&mdash;you remember when I
+was down in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for
+the sake of that boy. He did something, and I took
+the blame on myself. And the last time&mdash;they kept
+me nine days chained up&mdash;I hit a fellow for abusing
+Floyd: he was small and couldn't defend himself. I
+did not realize it at the time, Aleck, but I know now
+that I was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly
+in love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved
+him without the least taint of sex desire. It was the
+purest affection I ever felt in my life. It was all-absorbing,
+and I would have sacrificed my life for him
+if he had asked it. But by degrees the psychic stage<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[Pg 439]</a></span>
+began to manifest all the expressions of love between
+the opposite sexes. I remember the first time he
+kissed me. It was early in the morning; only the rangemen
+were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a
+delicacy. He put both hands between the bars, and
+pressed his lips to mine. Aleck, I tell you, never in my
+life had I experienced such bliss as at that moment.
+It's five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think
+of it. It came suddenly; I didn't expect it. It was
+entirely spontaneous: our eyes met, and it seemed as if
+something drew us together. He told me he was very
+fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used
+to neglect my work, and risk great danger to get a
+chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew terribly jealous,
+too, though I had no cause. I passed through every
+phase of a passionate love. With this difference, though&mdash;I
+felt a touch of the old disgust at the thought of
+actual sex contact. That I didn't do. It seemed to me
+a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him. But
+after a while that feeling also wore off, and I desired
+sexual relation with him. He said he loved me enough
+to do even that for me, though he had never done it
+before. He hadn't been in any reformatory, you know.
+And yet, somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it; I
+loved the lad too much for it. Perhaps you will smile,
+Aleck, but it was real, true love. When Floyd was
+unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I felt that
+I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his
+hand again, or get one more kiss. You&mdash;you're laughing?"
+he asks abruptly, a touch of anxiety in his voice.</p>
+
+<p>"No, George. I am grateful for your confidence. I
+think it is a wonderful thing; and, George&mdash;I had felt
+the same horror and disgust at these things, as you
+did. But now I think quite differently about them."</p>
+
+<p>"Really, Aleck? I'm glad you say so. Often I was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[Pg 440]</a></span>
+troubled&mdash;is it viciousness or what, I wondered; but I
+could never talk to any one about it. They take everything
+here in such a filthy sense. Yet I knew in my
+heart that it was a true, honest emotion."</p>
+
+<p>"George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just
+as beautiful as love for a woman. I had a friend here;
+his name was Russell; perhaps you remember him. I
+felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved
+him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible
+shock to me. It almost drove me insane."</p>
+
+<p>Silently George holds out his hand.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[Pg 441]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLIV</h2>
+
+<h3>LOVE'S DARING</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">Castle on the Ohio, &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />
+Aug. 18, 1902.</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Carolus</span>:</p>
+
+<p>You know the saying, "Der eine hat den Beutel, der andere
+das Geld." I find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with
+my correspondents. I have the leisure, but theirs is the
+advantage of the paper supply. Thus runs the world. But
+you, a most faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long
+while. Therefore this unexpected <i>sub rosa</i> chance is for you.</p>
+
+<p>My dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me,
+don't fashion your philosophy in the image of disappointment.
+All life is a multiplied pain; its highest expressions, love and
+friendship, are sources of the most heart-breaking sorrow. That
+has been my experience; no doubt, yours also. And you are
+aware that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the
+grief and anguish, are so much more acute, more bitter and lasting.
+What then? Shall one seal his emotions, or barricade his
+heart? Ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some claim.
+But remember, dear Carl, mere wisdom is a barren life.</p>
+
+<p>I think it a natural reaction against your prison existence
+that you feel the need of self-indulgence. But it is a temporary
+phase, I hope. You want to live and enjoy, you say. But
+surely you are mistaken to believe that the time is past when
+we cheerfully sacrificed all to the needs of the cause. The first
+flush of emotional enthusiasm may have paled, but in its place
+there is the deeper and more lasting conviction that permeates
+one's whole being. There come moments when one asks himself
+the justification of his existence, the meaning of his life.
+No torment is more excruciating and overwhelming than the
+failure to find an answer. You will discover it neither in physical
+indulgence nor in coldly intellectual pleasure. Something
+more substantial is needed. In this regard, life outside does
+not differ so very much from prison existence. The narrower<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[Pg 442]</a></span>
+your horizon&mdash;the more absorbed you are in your immediate
+environment, and dependent upon it&mdash;the sooner you decay,
+morally and mentally. You can, in a measure, escape the
+sordidness of life only by living for something higher.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps that is the secret of my survival. Wider interests
+have given me strength. And other phases there are. From
+your own experience you know what sustaining satisfaction is
+found in prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human
+dignity, because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense
+of self-respect. I have seen prisoners offer most desperate resistance
+in defence of their manhood. On my part it has been
+a continuous struggle. Do you remember the last time I was
+in the dungeon? It was on the occasion of Comrade Kropotkin's
+presence in this country, during his last lecture tour. The
+old Warden was here then; he informed me that I would not
+be permitted to see our Grand Old Man. I had a tilt with him,
+but I did not succeed in procuring a visiting card. A few days
+later I received a letter from Peter. On the envelope, under my
+name, was marked, "Political prisoner." The Warden was
+furious. "We have no political prisoners in a free country,"
+he thundered, tearing up the envelope. "But you have political
+grafters," I retorted. We argued the matter heatedly, and I
+demanded the envelope. The Warden insisted that I apologize.
+Of course I refused, and I had to spend three days in the
+dungeon.</p>
+
+<p>There have been many changes since then. Your coming
+to Pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place
+(they knew you had the facts) helped to bring matters to a
+point. They assigned me to a range, and I am still holding the
+position. The new Warden is treating me more decently. He
+"wants no trouble with me," he told me. But he has proved
+a great disappointment. He started in with promising reforms,
+but gradually he has fallen into the old ways. In some respects
+his r&eacute;gime is even worse than the previous one. He has introduced
+a system of "economy" which barely affords us sufficient
+food. The dungeon and basket, which he had at first abolished,
+are in operation again, and the discipline is daily becoming
+more drastic. The result is more brutality and clubbings, more
+fights and cutting affairs, and general discontent. The new
+management cannot plead ignorance, for the last 4th of July
+the men gave a demonstration of the effects of humane treat<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[Pg 443]</a></span>ment.
+The Warden had assembled the inmates in the chapel,
+promising to let them pass the day in the yard, on condition of
+good behavior. The Inspectors and the old guards advised
+against it, arguing the "great risk" of such a proceeding. But
+the Major decided to try the experiment. He put the men on
+their honor, and turned them loose in the yard. He was not
+disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the least mishap;
+there was not even a single report. We began to breathe
+easier, when presently the whole system was reversed. It was
+partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the Warden;
+and the latter completely lost his head when a trusty made
+his escape from the hospital. It seems to have terrorized the
+Warden into abandoning all reforms. He has also been censured
+by the Inspectors because of the reduced profits from the industries.
+Now the tasks have been increased, and even the sick
+and consumptives are forced to work. The labor bodies of the
+State have been protesting in vain. How miserably weak is
+the Giant of Toil, because unconscious of his strength!</p>
+
+<p>The men are groaning, and wishing Old Sandy back. In
+short, things are just as they were during your time. Men and
+Wardens may come and go, but the system prevails. More and
+more I am persuaded of the great truth: given authority and
+the opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially
+the same, no matter what particular set of men, or of
+"principles," happens to be in the saddle.</p>
+
+<p>Fortunately I am on the "home run." I'm glad you felt
+that the failure of my application to the Superior Court would
+not depress me. I built no castles upon it. Yet I am glad it
+has been tried. It was well to demonstrate once more that
+neither lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals, are
+interested in doing justice. My lawyers had such a strong case,
+from the legal standpoint, that the State Pardon Board resorted
+to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. And
+now the Superior Court thought it the better part of wisdom
+to ignore the argument that I am being illegally detained. They
+simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases
+that entirely evade the question at issue.</p>
+
+<p>Well, to hell with them. I have "2 an' a stump" (stump,
+11 months) and I feel the courage of perseverance. But I
+hope that the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation
+law. There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[Pg 444]</a></span>
+are angry that their efforts in behalf of the wealthy U. S.
+grafters in the Eastern Penitentiary failed. They begrudge the
+"common" prisoner the increased allowance of good time. However,
+I shall "make" it. Of course, you understand that both
+French leave and Dutch act are out of the question now. I
+have decided to stay&mdash;till I can <i>walk</i> through the gates.</p>
+
+<p>In reference to French leave, have you read about the Biddle
+affair? I think it was the most remarkable attempt in the
+history of the country. Think of the wife of the Jail Warden
+helping prisoners to escape! The boys here were simply wild
+with joy. Every one hoped they would make good their escape,
+and old Sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught.
+But all the bloodhounds of the law were unchained; the Biddle
+boys got no chance at all.</p>
+
+<p>The story is this. The brothers Biddle, Jack and Ed, and
+Walter Dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a
+man. It was Dorman who fired the shot, but he turned State's
+evidence. The State rewards treachery. Dorman escaped the
+noose, but the two brothers were sentenced to die. As is
+customary, they were visited in the jail by the "gospel ladies,"
+among them the wife of the Warden. You probably remember
+him&mdash;Soffel; he was Deputy Warden when we were in the jail,
+and a rat he was, too. Well, Ed was a good-looking man,
+with soft manners, and so forth. Mrs. Soffel fell in love with
+him. It was mutual, I believe. Now witness the heroism a
+woman is capable of, when she loves. Mrs. Soffel determined
+to save the two brothers; I understand they promised her to
+quit their criminal life. Every day she would visit the condemned
+men, to console them. Pretending to read the gospel,
+she would stand close to the doors, to give them an opportunity
+to saw through the bars. She supplied them with revolvers, and
+they agreed to escape together. Of course, she could not go back
+to her husband, for she loved Ed, loved him well enough never
+even to see her children again. The night for the escape was
+set. The brothers intended to separate immediately after the
+break, subsequently to meet together with Mrs. Soffel. But the
+latter insisted on going with them. Ed begged her not to. He
+knew that it was sheer suicide for all of them. But she persisted,
+and Ed acquiesced, fully realizing that it would prove
+fatal. Don't you think it showed a noble trait in the boy?
+He did not want her to think that he was deserting her. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[Pg 445]</a></span>
+escape from the jail was made successfully; they even had
+several hours' start. But snow had fallen, and it was easy to
+trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. The brutality of the
+man-hunters is past belief. When the detectives came upon the
+boys, they fired their Winchesters into the two brothers. Even
+when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and
+helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into Ed, killing him.
+Jack died later, and Mrs. Soffel was placed in jail. You can
+imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. Mrs. Soffel
+was denounced by her husband, and all the good Christian
+women cried "Unclean!" and clamored for the punishment of
+their unfortunate sister. She is now here, serving two years
+for aiding in the escape. I caught a glimpse of her when she
+came in. She has a sympathetic face, that bears signs of deep
+suffering; she must have gone through a terrible ordeal. Think
+of the struggle before she decided upon the desperate step; then
+the days and weeks of anxiety, as the boys were sawing the bars
+and preparing for the last chance! I should appreciate the love
+of a woman whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters
+of convention. In some ways this woman reminds me of the
+Girl&mdash;the type that possesses the courage and strength to rise
+above all considerations for the sake of the man or the cause
+held dear. How little the world understands the vital forces
+of life!</p>
+
+<p class="author">A.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[Pg 446]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLV</h2>
+
+<h3>THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF"</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>It is September the nineteenth. The cell-house is
+silent and gray in the afternoon dusk. In the yard the
+rain walks with long strides, hastening in the dim
+twilight, hastening whither the shadows have gone. I
+stand at the door, in reverie. In the sombre light, I
+see myself led through the gate yonder,&mdash;it was ten
+years ago this day. The walls towered menacingly in
+the dark, the iron gripped my heart, and I was lost in
+despair. I should not have believed then that I could
+survive the long years of misery and pain. But the
+nimble feet of the rain patter hopefully; its tears dissipate
+the clouds, and bring light; and soon I shall step
+into the sunshine, and come forth grown and matured,
+as the world must have grown in the struggle of suffering&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Fresh fish!" a rangeman announces, pointing to the
+long line of striped men, trudging dejectedly across the
+yard, and stumbling against each other in the unaccustomed
+lockstep. The door opens, and Aleck Killain, the
+lifetimer, motions to me. He walks with measured,
+even step along the hall. Rangeman "Coz" and Harry,
+my young assistant, stealthily crowd with him into my
+cell. The air of mystery about them arouses my apprehension.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[Pg 447]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"What's the matter, boys?" I ask.</p>
+
+<p>They hesitate and glance at each other, smiling
+diffidently.</p>
+
+<p>"You speak, Killain," Harry whispers.</p>
+
+<p>The lifetimer carefully unwraps a little package, and
+I become aware of the sweet scent of flowers perfuming
+the cell. The old prisoner stammers in confusion, as
+he presents me with a rose, big and red. "We swiped it
+in the greenhouse," he says.</p>
+
+<p>"Fer you, Aleck," Harry adds.</p>
+
+<p>"For your tenth anniversary," corrects "Coz."
+"Good luck to you, Aleck."</p>
+
+<p>Mutely they grip my hand, and steal out of the cell.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In solitude I muse over the touching remembrance.
+These men&mdash;they are the shame Society hides within
+the gray walls. These, and others like them. Daily
+they come to be buried alive in this grave; all through
+the long years they have been coming, and the end is
+not yet. Robbed of joy and life, their being is discounted
+in the economy of existence. And all the while
+the world has been advancing, it is said; science and
+philosophy, art and letters, have made great strides.
+But wherein is the improvement that augments misery
+and crowds the prisons? The discovery of the X-ray
+will further scientific research, I am told. But where
+is the X-ray of social insight that will discover in human
+understanding and mutual aid the elements of true
+progress? Deceptive is the advance that involves the
+ruthless sacrifice of peace and health and life; superficial
+and unstable the civilization that rests upon the
+treacherous sands of strife and warfare. The progress
+of science and industry, far from promoting man's happiness
+and social harmony, merely accentuates discontent
+and sharpens the contrasts. The knowledge gained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[Pg 448]</a></span>
+at so much cost of suffering and sacrifice bears bitter
+fruit, for lack of wisdom to apply the lessons learned.
+There are no limits to the achievements of man, were
+not humanity divided against itself, exhausting its best
+energies in sanguinary conflict, suicidal and unnecessary.
+And these, the thousands stepmothered by cruel stupidity,
+are the victims castigated by Society for her own
+folly and sins. There is Young Harry. A child of
+the slums, he has never known the touch of a loving
+hand. Motherless, his father a drunkard, the heavy
+arm of the law was laid upon him at the age of ten.
+From reform school to reformatory the social orphan
+has been driven about.&mdash;"You know, Aleck," he says,
+"I nev'r had no real square meal, to feel full, you
+know; 'cept once, on Christmas, in de ref." At the age
+of nineteen, he has not seen a day of liberty since early
+childhood.</p>
+
+<p>Three years ago he was transferred to the penitentiary,
+under a sentence of sixteen years for an attempted
+escape from the Morganza reform school, which
+resulted in the death of a keeper. The latter was foreman
+in the tailor shop, in which Harry was employed
+together with a number of other youths. The officer
+had induced Harry to do overwork, above the regular
+task, for which he rewarded the boy with an occasional
+dainty of buttered bread or a piece of corn-cake. By
+degrees Harry's voluntary effort became part of his
+routine work, and the reward in delicacies came more
+rarely. But when they entirely ceased the boy rebelled,
+refusing to exert himself above the required task. He
+was reported, but the Superintendent censured the
+keeper for the unauthorized increase of work. Harry
+was elated; but presently began systematic persecution
+that made the boy's life daily more unbearable. In
+innumerable ways the hostile guard sought to revenge<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[Pg 449]</a></span>
+his defeat upon the lad, till at last, driven to desperation,
+Harry resolved upon escape. With several other inmates
+the fourteen-year-old boy planned to flee to the
+Rocky Mountains, there to hunt the "wild" Indians, and
+live the independent and care-free life of Jesse James.
+"You know, Aleck," Harry confides to me, reminiscently,
+"we could have made it easy; dere was eleven
+of us. But de kids was all sore on de foreman. He
+'bused and beat us, an' some of de boys wouldn' go
+'cept we knock de screw out first. It was me pal Nacky
+that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den I hit 'im,
+lightly. But dey all said in court that I hit 'im both
+times. Nacky's people had money, an' he beat de case,
+but I got soaked sixteen years." His eyes fill with tears
+and he says plaintively: "I haven't been outside since I
+was a little kid, an' now I'm sick, an' will die here
+mebbe."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>Conversing in low tones, we sweep the range. I
+shorten my strokes to enable Harry to keep pace.
+Weakly he drags the broom across the floor. His appearance
+is pitifully grotesque. The sickly features,
+pale with the color of the prison whitewash, resemble
+a little child's. But the eyes look oldish in their
+wrinkled sockets, the head painfully out of proportion
+with the puny, stunted body. Now and again he turns
+his gaze on me, and in his face there is melancholy
+wonder, as if he is seeking something that has passed
+him by. Often I ponder, Is there a crime more appalling
+and heinous than the one Society has committed
+upon him, who is neither man nor youth and never was
+child? Crushed by the heel of brutality, this plant had
+never budded. Yet there is the making of a true man in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[Pg 450]</a></span>
+him. His mentality is pathetically primitive, but he
+possesses character and courage, and latent virgin forces.
+His emotional frankness borders on the incredible; he
+is unmoral and unsocial, as a field daisy might be, surrounded
+by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious of its own
+being. It distresses me to witness the yearning that
+comes into his eyes at the mention of the "outside."
+Often he asks: "Tell me, Aleck, how does it feel to
+walk on de street, to know that you're free t' go where
+you damn please, wid no screw to foller you?" Ah,
+if he'd only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so careful
+not to get into trouble! He would like to keep company
+with a nice girl, he confides, blushingly; he had
+never had one. But he fears his days are numbered. His
+lungs are getting very bad, and now that his father has
+died, he has no one to help him get a pardon. Perhaps
+father wouldn't have helped him, either; he was always
+drunk, and never cared for his children. "He had no
+business t' have any children," Harry comments passionately.
+And he can't expect any assistance from his
+sister; the poor girl barely makes a living in the factory.
+"She's been workin' ev'r so long in the pickle works,"
+Harry explains. "That feller, the boss there, must be
+rich; it's a big factory," he adds, na&iuml;vely, "he oughter
+give 'er enough to marry on." But he fears he will die
+in the prison. There is no one to aid him, and he has
+no friends. "I never had no friend," he says, wistfully;
+"there ain't no real friends. De older boys in de ref
+always used me, an' dey use all de kids. But dey was
+no friends, an' every one was against me in de court, an'
+dey put all de blame on me. Everybody was always
+against me," he repeats bitterly.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Alone in the cell, I ponder over his words. "Everybody
+was always against me," I hear the boy say. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[Pg 451]</a></span>
+wake at night, with the quivering cry in the darkness,
+"Everybody against me!" Motherless in childhood,
+reared in the fumes of brutal inebriation, cast into the
+slums to be crushed under the wheels of the law's Juggernaut,
+was the fate of this social orphan. Is this
+the fruit of progress? this the spirit of our Christian
+civilization? In the hours of solitude, the scheme of existence
+unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. In variegated
+design and divergent angle it presents an endless
+panorama of stunted minds and tortured bodies, of
+universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental aspect
+of the boy's desolate life. And I behold all the
+suffering and agony resolve themselves in the dominance
+of the established, in tradition and custom that heavily
+encrust humanity, weighing down the already fettered
+soul till its wings break and it beats helplessly against
+the artificial barriers.... The blanched face of Misery
+is silhouetted against the night. The silence sobs with
+the piteous cry of the crushed boy. And I hear the
+cry, and it fills my whole being with the sense of terrible
+wrong and injustice, with the shame of my kind, that
+sheds crocodile tears while it swallows its helpless prey.
+The submerged moan in the dark. I will echo their
+agony to the ears of the world. I have suffered with
+them, I have looked into the heart of Pain, and with its
+voice and anguish I will speak to humanity, to wake it
+from sloth and apathy, and lend hope to despair.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The months speed in preparation for the great work.
+I must equip myself for the mission, for the combat
+with the world that struggles so desperately to defend
+its chains. The day of my resurrection is approaching,
+and I will devote my new life to the service of my
+fellow-sufferers. The world shall hear the tortured;
+it shall behold the shame it has buried within these<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[Pg 452]</a></span>
+walls, yet not eliminated. The ghost of its crimes shall
+rise and harrow its ears, till the social conscience is
+roused to the cry of its victims. And perhaps with eyes
+once opened, it will behold the misery and suffering in
+the world beyond, and Man will pause in his strife and
+mad race to ask himself, wherefore? whither?</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[Pg 453]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLVI</h2>
+
+<h3>A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>With deep gratification I observe the unfoldment
+of Harry's mind. My friendship has wakened in him
+hope and interest in life. Merely to please me, he
+smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading
+the mapped-out course. But as time passed he became
+absorbed in the studies, developing a thirst for knowledge
+that is transforming his primitive intelligence into
+a mentality of great power and character. Often I
+marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing
+from the depths of a prison friendship. "I did
+not believe in friendship, Aleck," Harry says, as we
+ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now I feel that
+I wouldn't be here, if I had had then a real friend. It
+isn't only that we suffer together, but you have made
+me feel that our minds can rise above these rules and
+bars. You know, the screws have warned me against
+you, and I was afraid of you. I don't know how to
+put it, Aleck, but the first time we had that long talk
+last year, I felt as if something walked right over from
+you to me. And since then I have had something to
+live for. You know, I have seen so much of the priests,
+I have no use for the church, and I don't believe in
+immortality. But the idea I got from you clung to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[Pg 454]</a></span>
+me, and it was so persistent, I really think there is
+such a thing as immortality of an idea."</p>
+
+<p>For an instant the old look of helpless wonder is
+in his face, as if he is at a loss to master the thought.
+He pauses in his work, his eyes fastened on mine. "I
+got it, Aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up his
+pallid features. "You remember the story you told
+me about them fellers&mdash;Oh,"&mdash;he quickly corrects himself&mdash;"when
+I get excited, I drop into my former bad
+English. Well, you know the story you told me of the
+prisoners in Siberia; how they escape sometimes, and
+the peasants, though forbidden to house them, put
+food outside of their huts, so that an escaped man
+may not starve to death. You remember, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, Harry. I'm glad you haven't forgotten it."</p>
+
+<p>"Forgotten? Why, Aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting
+at my door, I saw a sparrow hopping about in the
+hall. It looked cold and hungry. I threw a piece of
+bread to it, but the Warden came by and made me pick
+it up, and drive the bird away. Somehow I thought
+of the peasants in Siberia, and how they share their
+food with escaped men. Why should the bird starve as
+long as I have bread? Now every night I place a
+few pieces near the door, and in the morning, just
+when it begins to dawn, and every one is asleep, the
+bird steals up and gets her breakfast. It's the immortality
+of an idea, Aleck."</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon
+Harry. The foul hot air of the cell-house is aggravating
+his complaint, and now the physician has pronounced
+him in an advanced stage of consumption.
+The disease is ravaging the population. Hygienic rules<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[Pg 455]</a></span>
+are ignored, and no precautions are taken against contagion.
+Harry's health is fast failing. He walks with
+an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my
+gaze. "I feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't believe
+it's the con. It's just a bad cold."</p>
+
+<p>He clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now
+and then the cunning of suspicion tests my faith. Pretending
+to wash his hands, he asks: "Can I use your
+towel, Aleck? Sure you're not afraid?" My apparent
+confidence seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies
+with renewed hope. I strive to lighten his work on the
+range, and his friend "Coz," who attends the officers'
+table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of fruit and
+cake left after their meals. The kind-hearted Italian,
+serving a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure
+weaving hair chains in the dim light of the cell, and invests
+the proceeds in warm underwear for his consumptive
+friend. "I don't need it myself, I'm too hot-blooded,
+anyhow," he lightly waves aside Harry's objections. He
+shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame,
+and anxiously hovers over the boy, mothering him with
+unobtrusive tenderness.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>At the first sign of spring, "Coz" conspires with me
+to procure for Harry the privilege of the yard. The
+consumptives are deprived of air, immured in the shop
+or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. In
+view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining
+time, the Inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes'
+exercise in the yard. I have not touched the soil
+since the discovery of the tunnel, in July 1900, almost
+four years ago. But Harry is in greater need of fresh
+air, and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege
+for him, instead. His health would improve, and in the
+meantime we will bring his case before the Pardon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[Pg 456]</a></span>
+Board. It was an outrage to send him to the penitentiary,
+"Coz" asserts vehemently. "Harry was barely
+fourteen then, a mere child. Think of a judge who will
+give such a kid sixteen years! Why, it means death. But
+what can you expect! Remember the little boy who was
+sent here&mdash;it was somewhere around '97&mdash;he was just
+twelve years old, and he didn't look more than ten. They
+brought him here in knickerbockers, and the fellows had
+to bend over double to keep in lockstep with him. He
+looked just like a baby in the line. The first pair of
+long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so
+frightened, he'd stand at the door and cry all the time.
+Well, they got ashamed of themselves after a while,
+and sent him away to some reformatory, but he spent
+about six months here then. Oh, what's the use talking,"
+"Coz" concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all
+right. But may be we can get Harry a pardon. Honest,
+Aleck, I feel as if he's my own child. We've been
+friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy,
+only he never had a chance. Make a list, Aleck. I'll ask
+the Chaplain how much I've got in the office. I think
+it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three dollars. It's all
+for Harry."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The spring warms into summer before the dime and
+quarter donations total the amount required by the attorney
+to carry Harry's case to the Pardon Board. But
+the sick boy is missing from the range. For weeks his
+dry, hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the
+men awake, till at last the doctor ordered him transferred
+to the hospital. His place on the range has been taken
+by "Big Swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who shuffles
+along the hall, moaning in pain. The passing guards
+mimic him, and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "Hey,
+you! Get a move on, and quit your shammin'." He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[Pg 457]</a></span>
+starts in affright; pressing both hands against his side,
+he shrinks at the officer's touch. "You fakir, we're next
+to <i>you</i>, all right." An uncomprehending, sickly smile
+spreads over the sere face, as he murmurs plaintively,
+"Yis, sir, me seek, very seek."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[Pg 458]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLVII</h2>
+
+<h3>CHUM</h3>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>The able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the
+shops, and only the old and decrepit remain in the cell-house.
+But even the light duties of assistant prove too
+difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he is
+shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket,
+and gagged to stifle his groans. I protest against the
+mistreatment, and am cited to the office. The Deputy's
+desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of the hosiery
+department, now promoted to the position of Second
+Assistant Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin.
+"I knew you wouldn't behave," he chuckles; "know you
+too damn well from the stockin' shop."</p>
+
+<p>The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed
+and broad, strolls in with long, swinging step. He
+glances over the report against me. "Is that all?" he inquires
+of the guard, in cold, impassive voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"Go back to your work, Berkman."</p>
+
+<p>But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into
+the cell-house, in charge of the barber gang. As I take
+my turn in the first chair, the guard hastens toward me.
+"Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't your
+turn. You take <i>that</i> chair," pointing toward the second
+barber, a former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a
+"butcher."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[Pg 459]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"It <i>is</i> my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my
+seat.</p>
+
+<p>"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.</p>
+
+<p>"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of
+that chair?" He advances toward me threateningly.</p>
+
+<p>"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.</p>
+
+<p>Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line.
+The keeper turns purple, and strides toward the office
+to report me.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked
+up. You were in the right, too," "Coz" whispers at my
+cell. "But never min', old boy," he smiles reassuringly,
+"you can count on me, all right. And you've got other
+friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants
+an answer right away. I'll call for it."</p>
+
+<p>The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is
+unfamiliar; I cannot identify the signature, "Jim M."
+The contents are puzzling. His sympathies are with me,
+the writer says. He has learned all the details of the
+trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my
+rights. It is an outrage to lock me up for resenting
+undeserved humiliation at the hands of an unfriendly
+guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus persecuted.
+My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected,
+may cause the loss of my commutation. He will
+immediately appeal to the Warden to do me justice; but
+he should like to hear from me before taking action.</p>
+
+<p>I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not
+a prisoner; intercession with the Warden would be out
+of the question. Yet I cannot account for any officer
+who would take this attitude, or employ such means of
+communicating with me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[Pg 460]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your
+answer ready?" he whispers.</p>
+
+<p>"Who gave you the note, Coz?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know if I should tell you."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this
+note unless I know to whom I am writing."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may
+tell you."</p>
+
+<p>"Then better go and ask him first."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns.
+From the delay I judge that the man is in a distant
+part of the institution, or not easily accessible. At last
+the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell.</p>
+
+<p>"It's all right, Aleck," he says.</p>
+
+<p>"Who is he?" I ask impatiently.</p>
+
+<p>"I'll bet you'll never guess."</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me, then."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw."</p>
+
+<p>"Can't be a prisoner?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Who, then?"</p>
+
+<p>"He is a fine fellow, Aleck."</p>
+
+<p>"Come now, tell me."</p>
+
+<p>"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop."</p>
+
+<p>"The weaving department?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him.
+Answer at once."</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. J. M.</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I hardly know how to write to you. It is the most
+remarkable thing that has happened to me in all the years
+of my confinement. To think that you, a perfect stranger&mdash;and
+not a prisoner, at that&mdash;should offer to intercede in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[Pg 461]</a></span>
+my behalf because you feel that an injustice has been done!
+It is almost incredible, but "Coz" has informed me that
+you are determined to see the Warden in this matter. I
+assure you I appreciate your sense of justice more than I
+can express it. But I most urgently request you not to
+carry out your plan. With the best of intentions, your
+intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself as well as
+to me. A shop foreman, you are not supposed to know
+what is happening in the block. The Warden is a martinet,
+and extremely vain of his authority. He will resent your
+interference. I don't know who you are, but your indignation
+at what you believe an injustice characterizes you
+as a man of principle, and you are evidently inclined to be
+friendly toward me. I should be very unhappy to be the
+cause of your discharge. You need your job, or you would
+not be here. I am very, very thankful to you, but I urge
+you most earnestly to drop the matter. I must fight my
+own battles. Moreover, the situation is not very serious,
+and I shall come out all right.</p>
+
+<p class="regards">With much appreciation,</p>
+
+<p class="author">A. B.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear Mr. M.</span>:</p>
+
+<p>I feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my
+request. It is best so. You need not worry about me. I
+expect to receive a hearing before the Deputy, and he
+seems a decent chap. You will pardon me when I confess
+that I smiled at your question whether your correspondence
+is welcome. Your notes are a ray of sunshine in the darkness,
+and I am intensely interested in the personality of a
+man whose sense of justice transcends considerations of
+personal interest. You know, no great heroism is required
+to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of our
+own advantage. But where the other fellow is concerned,
+especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract"
+justice&mdash;and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize
+their reputation or comfort for that.</p>
+
+<p>Since our correspondence began, I have had occasion to
+speak to some of the men in your charge. I want to thank<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[Pg 462]</a></span>
+you in their name for your considerate and humane treatment
+of them.</p>
+
+<p>"Coz" is at the door, and I must hurry. Trust no one
+with notes, except him. We have been friends for years,
+and he can tell you all you wish to know about my life
+here.</p>
+
+<p class="regards">Cordially,</p>
+
+<p class="author">B.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">My Dear M.</span>:</p>
+
+<p>There is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding
+the effects of the solitary upon me. I do not think they
+will keep me in long; at any rate, remember that I do not
+wish you to intercede.</p>
+
+<p>You will be pleased to know that my friend Harry
+shows signs of improvement, thanks to your generosity.
+"Coz" has managed to deliver to him the tid-bits and wine
+you sent. You know the story of the boy. He has never
+known the love of a mother, nor the care of a father.
+A typical child of the disinherited, he was thrown, almost
+in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the world. At the
+age of ten the law declared him a criminal. He has never
+since seen a day of liberty. At twenty he is dying of prison
+consumption. Was the Spanish Inquisition ever guilty of
+such organized child murder? With desperate will-power
+he clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. He is firmly
+convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules
+confine him to the hospital. His friends here have collected
+a fund to bring his case before the Pardon Board; it is
+to be heard next month. That devoted soul, "Coz," has
+induced the doctor to issue a certificate of Harry's critical
+condition, and he may be released soon. I have grown very
+fond of the boy so much sinned against. I have watched his
+heart and mind blossom in the sunshine of a little kindness,
+and now&mdash;I hope that at least his last wish will be gratified:
+just once to walk on the street, and not hear the harsh
+command of the guard. He begs me to express to his
+unknown friend his deepest gratitude.</p>
+
+<p class="author">B.</p>
+</div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[Pg 463]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear M.</span>:</p>
+
+<p>The Deputy has just released me. I am happy with a
+double happiness, for I know how pleased you will be at
+the good turn of affairs. It is probably due to the fact
+that my neighbor, the Big Swede&mdash;you've heard about him&mdash;was
+found dead in the strait-jacket this morning. The doctor
+and officers all along pretended that he was shamming.
+It was a most cruel murder; by the Warden's order the sick
+Swede was kept gagged and bound every night. I understand
+that the Deputy opposed such brutal methods, and
+now it is rumored that he intends to resign. But I hope he
+will remain. There is something big and broad-minded about
+the gigantic Colonel. He tries to be fair, and he has saved
+many a prisoner from the cruelty of the Major. The latter
+is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is characteristic
+that his methods involve curtailment of rations,
+and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the
+books. He has recently cut the milk allowance of the
+hospital patients, notwithstanding the protests of the doctor.
+He has also introduced severe punishment for talking. You
+know, when you have not uttered a word for days and
+weeks, you are often seized with an uncontrollable desire to
+give vent to your feelings. These infractions of the rules
+are now punished by depriving you of tobacco and of your
+Sunday dinner. Every Sunday from 30 to 50 men are locked
+up on the top range, to remain without food all day. The
+system is called "Killicure" (kill or cure) and it involves
+considerable graft, for I know numbers of men who have
+not received tobacco or a Sunday dinner for months.</p>
+
+<p>Warden Wm. Johnston seems innately cruel. Recently he
+introduced the "blind" cell,&mdash;door covered with solid sheet
+iron. It is much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually
+admits no air, and men are kept in it from 30 to 60 days.
+Prisoner Varnell was locked up in such a cell 79 days, becoming
+paralyzed. But even worse than these punishments
+is the more refined brutality of torturing the boys with the
+uncertainty of release and the increasing deprivation of good
+time. This system is developing insanity to an alarming
+extent.</p>
+
+<p>Amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the Chaplain
+is a refreshing oasis of humanity. I noticed in one of your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[Pg 464]</a></span>
+letters the expression, "because of economic necessity," and&mdash;I
+wondered. To be sure, the effects of economic causes
+are not to be underestimated. But the extremists of the
+materialistic conception discount character, and thus help to
+vitiate it. The factor of personality is too often ignored
+by them. Take the Chaplain, for instance. In spite of the
+surrounding swamp of cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding
+all disappointment and ingratitude, he is to-day, after
+30 years of incumbency, as full of faith in human nature
+and as sympathetic and helpful, as years ago. He has had to
+contend against the various administrations, and he is a
+poor man; necessity has not stifled his innate kindness.</p>
+
+<p>And this is why I wondered. "Economic necessity"&mdash;has
+Socialism pierced the prison walls?</p>
+
+<p class="author">B.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear, Dear Comrade</span>:</p>
+
+<p>Can you realize how your words, "I am socialistically
+inclined," warmed my heart? I wish I could express to you
+all the intensity of what I feel, my dear <i>friend</i> and <i>comrade</i>.
+To have so unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably
+lightens this miserable existence. What matter that you
+do not entirely share my views,&mdash;we are comrades in the
+common cause of human emancipation. It was indeed well
+worth while getting in trouble to have found you, dear
+friend. Surely I have good cause to be content, even happy.
+Your friendship is a source of great strength, and I feel
+equal to struggling through the ten months, encouraged and
+inspired by your comradeship and devotion. Every evening
+I cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the thought
+that I am a day nearer to the precious moment when I shall
+turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the
+great work, and to meet you, dear Chum, face to face, to
+grip your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade!</p>
+
+<p class="regards">Most fraternally,</p>
+
+<p class="author">Alex.</p>
+</div>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 65%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[Pg 465]</a></span></p>
+<h2>CHAPTER XLVIII</h2>
+
+<h3>LAST DAYS</h3>
+
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="author">
+On the Homestretch, &nbsp; &nbsp; <br />
+<i>Sub Rosa</i>, April 15, 1905.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">My Dear Girl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;my dear
+Chum, as I affectionately call him&mdash;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,&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[Pg 466]</a></span>
+who strive to reconstruct the conditions that are bulwarked
+with prison bars.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[Pg 467]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="author">Sasha.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Chum</span>:</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 revolu<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[Pg 468]</a></span>tionary
+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.</p>
+
+<p>Long live the Revolution!</p>
+
+<p class="author">
+A.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Dear Chum</span>:</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>new</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>May success reward the efforts of our brothers in Russia.</p>
+
+<p class="author">
+A.<br />
+</p></div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Chum</span>:</p>
+
+<p>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,&mdash;I go out on the
+19th. Just one more week! This is the happiest day in thirteen
+years. Shake, Comrade.</p>
+
+<p class="author">
+A.<br />
+</p>
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Chum</span>:</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p class="regards">With my whole heart,</p>
+
+<p class="author">Your Comrade and Chum.</p>
+
+
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="author">
+July 19, 1905.<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Dearest Girl</span>:</p>
+
+<p>It's Wednesday morning, the 19th, at last!</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+Geh stiller meines Herzens Schlag<br />
+&nbsp; &nbsp; Und schliesst euch alle meine alten Wunden,<br />
+Denn dieses ist mein letzter Tag<br />
+&nbsp; &nbsp; Und dies sind seine letzten Stunden.<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>My last thoughts within these walls are of you, my dear,
+dear Sonya, the Immutable!</p>
+
+<p class="author">
+Sasha.<br />
+</p>
+
+</div>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="Part_III" id="Part_III"></a>PART III</h2>
+
+<h1>THE WORKHOUSE</h1>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span></p>
+<h2>THE WORKHOUSE</h2>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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!...</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span>
+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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;the Girl, the Twin, and I. In
+the dark, cage-like kitchen, amid the smoke of the asth<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span>matic
+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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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&mdash;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 <i>muzhik</i>
+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 <i>bourgeois</i>
+democracy. Freedom will present the unaccustomed
+problem of self-support, but it is premature to form<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>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 <i>sub rosa</i> campaign
+to achieve his object. The time drags in torturing
+uncertainty. With each day the solitary grows more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span>
+stifling, maddening, till my brain reels with terror of the
+graveyard silence. Like glad music sounds the stern
+command, "Exercise!"</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;these the
+living indictments of a leprous system, the excommunicated
+of God and man.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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,&mdash;the endless, endless hours. Feverishly I
+pace the cell. The day will pass, it <i>must</i> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span></p>
+<h2><a name="Part_IV" id="Part_IV"></a>PART IV</h2>
+
+<h1>THE RESURRECTION</h1>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span></p>
+
+
+<hr style="width: 100%;" />
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span></p>
+<h2>THE RESURRECTION</h2>
+
+
+<h4>I</h4>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span>
+them. None ever came, and I had to serve the full ten
+months.</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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&mdash;5 <small>A. M.</small>! 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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>II</h4>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm going out," I protest.</p>
+
+<p>"Not till you're called," he retorts, locking me in.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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: per<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span>haps
+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&mdash;not think....</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>III</h4>
+
+<p>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,&mdash;alone! How I have hungered for this
+hour, how often in the past years have I dreamed of this
+rapturous moment&mdash;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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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:</p>
+
+<p>"Berkman, you are to leave the city before night,
+by order of the Chief."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span>
+faster. A sudden impulse seizes me at the sight of a
+passing car, and I dash after it.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>"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!</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;&mdash;. My friends must
+be worried, and M&mdash;&mdash; is waiting to wire to the Girl
+about my release.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>It is long past noon when I enter the drugstore.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span>
+M&mdash;&mdash; 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&mdash;the people
+in the room look hazy, their voices sound distant and
+confused.</p>
+
+<p>"Why don't you sit down, Aleck?" the tones are
+musical and tender; a woman's, no doubt.</p>
+
+<p>"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....</p>
+
+<p>"Are you tired, Aleck?"</p>
+
+<p>"N&mdash;no."</p>
+
+<p>"You have just come out?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;there are three or four
+about me&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm going," I say, snatching up my hat.</p>
+
+
+<h4>IV</h4>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[Pg 489]</a></span>
+am rid of the detectives"&mdash;the thought persists in my
+mind, and I feel something relax within me, and leave
+me cold, without emotion or desire.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>V</h4>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[Pg 490]</a></span>
+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&mdash;there is a
+tumult of hand clapping, loud cheers and bravos.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>VI</h4>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[Pg 491]</a></span>
+them is upon me. I clutch the iron post, to keep from
+falling.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"I ran all the way," her voice is soft and low; "I
+was afraid I might miss you."</p>
+
+<p>The Girl smiles. "Let us go in somewhere to rest
+up, Alice." Turning to me, she adds, "She ran to see&mdash;you."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"You are sad," the Girl remarks. "Alice is very
+much taken with you. Aren't you glad?"</p>
+
+<p>"You are mistaken," I reply.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure of it," the Girl persists. "Shall I ask her?"</p>
+
+<p>She turns to Alice.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>VII</h4>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[Pg 492]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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 caf&eacute; "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&mdash;all are gone with the days
+of my youth. I sense the spirit of cold deliberation in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[Pg 493]</a></span>
+the new set, and a tone of disillusioned wisdom that chills
+and estranges me.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>In a Bowery resort I come across Dan, my assistant
+on the range during my last year in the penitentiary.</p>
+
+<p>"Hello, Aleck," he says, taking me aside, "awful glad
+to see you out of hell. Doing all right?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[Pg 494]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"So, so, Dan. And you?"</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>"How do you happen here, Dan? Could you get no
+work at home, in Oil City?"</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[Pg 495]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+
+<h4>VIII</h4>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;I am a useless cog, an idler, while others toil; and I
+keep mute, while others suffer.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[Pg 496]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+
+<h4>IX</h4>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[Pg 497]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[Pg 498]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;eight years and two months&mdash;if convicted of
+a felony before the expiration of my full sentence of
+twenty-two years.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>An unfortunate delay on the road brings me into
+Pittsburgh two hours late for the lecture. Comrade
+M&mdash;&mdash; 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.</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[Pg 499]</a></span></p>
+
+<h4>X</h4>
+
+<p>The meeting is over, the danger past. I feel worn
+and tired with the effort of the evening.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[Pg 500]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[Pg 501]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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?</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[Pg 502]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>We sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour outdoors.
+The girl is toying with a glass of whiskey.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>The girl rushes to the side of the woman, and assists
+her into a chair. "Are you hurt, Madge?" she asks sympathetically.</p>
+
+<p>The woman looks up at her with bleary eyes. She
+raises her hand, passes it slowly across her mouth, and
+spits violently.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>The girl is tenderly wiping her friend's bleeding face.
+"Sh-sh, Madge, sh&mdash;sh!" she warns her, with a glance at
+the approaching waiter.</p>
+
+<p>"Drunk again, you old bitch," the man growls.
+"You'd better vamoose now."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, let her be, Charley, won't you?" the girl coaxes.
+"And, say, bring me a bitters."</p>
+
+<p>"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?"</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>I motion to her. "Will you have a drink with me?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[Pg 503]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>"With pleasure," she smiles. "Poor thing," she nods
+toward the sleeper, "her fellow beats her and takes all
+she makes."</p>
+
+<p>"You have a kind heart, Frenchy."</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;" she hesitates.</p>
+
+<p>"And what?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well, some have seen better days. I wasn't always
+like this," she adds, gulping down her drink.</p>
+
+<p>Her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy.
+She asks abruptly:</p>
+
+<p>"You like poetry?"</p>
+
+<p>"Ye&mdash;es. Why?"</p>
+
+<p>"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:</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><p>
+Mother dear, the days were young<br />
+When posies in our garden hung.<br />
+Upon your lap my golden head I laid,<br />
+With pure and happy heart I prayed.<br />
+</p></div>
+
+<p>"I remember those days," she adds wistfully.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Will you come with me?" I ask the girl, pointing to
+the advertisement.</p>
+
+<p>"To Buffalo?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"You're kidding."</p>
+
+<p>"No. Will you come?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[Pg 504]</a></span></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">[Pg 505]</a></span>
+falls to the ground. The wistful face, the dreamy eyes&mdash;why,
+it is Czolgosz!</p>
+
+<p>Accursed spot! I cannot die here. I must to New
+York, to be near my friends in death!</p>
+
+
+<h4>XI</h4>
+
+<p>Loud knocking wakes me.</p>
+
+<p>"Say, Mister," a voice calls behind the door, "are you
+all right?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>"Will you have a bite, or something?"</p>
+
+<p>"No."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, as you please. But you haven't left your
+room going on two days now."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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. <i>This</i> 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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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 dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">[Pg 506]</a></span>traught
+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.</p>
+
+<p>The Girl, too, will be in despair over my disappearance.
+I cannot notify her now&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">[Pg 507]</a></span>
+"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!</p>
+
+<p>I hasten to a telegraph office, and quickly pen a message
+to the Girl: "Come. I am waiting here."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Aleck," she falters, "Sonya wasn't home when
+your message came. I'll run to find her."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Her appearance startles me. The fear of death is in
+her face, mute horror in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Sasha!" Her hand grips my arm, and she steadies
+my faltering step.</p>
+
+
+<h4>XII</h4>
+
+<p>I open my eyes. The room is light and airy; a soothing
+quiet pervades the place. The porti&egrave;res part noiselessly,
+and the Girl looks in.</p>
+
+<p>"Awake, Sasha?" She brightens with a happy smile.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. When did I come here?"</p>
+
+<p>"Several days ago. You've been very sick, but you
+feel better now, don't you, dear?"</p>
+
+<p>Several days? I try to recollect my trip to Buffalo,
+the room on the Bowery. Was it all a dream?</p>
+
+<p>"Where was I before I came here?" I ask.</p>
+
+<p>"You&mdash;you were&mdash;absent," she stammers, and in her
+face is visioned the experience of my disappearance.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>With tender care the Girl ministers to me. I feel like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">[Pg 508]</a></span>
+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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;have I forgotten
+them? I have the opportunity; why am I idle?</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The Girl calls cheerfully: "Sasha, our friend Philo is
+here. Would you like to see him?"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509">[Pg 509]</a></span>
+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."</p>
+
+<p>"No, no, Philo. Continue; I want to hear more."</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">[Pg 510]</a></span>
+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?"</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;it is not what I thought it would be."</p>
+
+<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">[Pg 511]</a></span>
+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."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>The Girl enters. "Are you crooning Sasha to sleep, Philo?" she laughs.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no!" I protest, "I'm wide awake and much interested in Philo's
+conversation."</p>
+
+<p>"It is getting late," he rejoins. "I must be off to the meeting."</p>
+
+<p>"What meeting?" I inquire,</p>
+
+<p>"The Czolgosz anniversary commemoration."</p>
+
+<p>"I think&mdash;I'd like to come along."</p>
+
+<p>"Better not, Sasha," my friend advises. "You need some light
+distraction."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre," the Girl suggests.
+"Stella has tickets. She'd be happy to have you come, Sasha."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>Returning home in the evening, I find the "Den" in
+great excitement. The assembled comrades look wor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">[Pg 512]</a></span>ried,
+talk in whispers, and seem to avoid my glance. I
+miss several familiar faces.</p>
+
+<p>"Where are the others?" I ask.</p>
+
+<p>The comrades exchange troubled looks, and are silent.</p>
+
+<p>"Has anything happened? Where are they?" I insist.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it serious, Philo?"</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr style='width: 25%;' />
+
+<p>A deep peace pervades me, and I feel a great joy in my heart.</p>
+
+<p>"Sasha, what is it?" Philo cries in alarm.</p>
+
+<p>"My resurrection, dear friend. I have found work to do."</p>
+
+
+
+<hr style='width: 100%;' />
+<div class="footnotes">
+<h3>FOOTNOTES</h3>
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> An act of political assassination.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Hangman.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to
+inexperienced youth.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Russian for "bridge."</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company
+were located.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the correspondent.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria,
+was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into the
+hands of the police. Neve was sentenced to ten years' prison.
+Peukert always insisted that the accusation against him originated
+with some of his political enemies among the Socialists. It is
+certain that the arrest of Neve was not due to calculated
+treachery on the part of Peukert, but rather to indiscretion.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> Clever, brave lad.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> Young lady.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Mister.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Lady.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> Cell-house.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> Fly or fly-cop, a detective.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_17_17" id="Footnote_17_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_17_17"><span class="label">[17]</span></a> Guard.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_18_18" id="Footnote_18_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_18_18"><span class="label">[18]</span></a> Sentence.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_19_19" id="Footnote_19_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_19_19"><span class="label">[19]</span></a> The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_20_20" id="Footnote_20_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_20_20"><span class="label">[20]</span></a> John Most.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_21_21" id="Footnote_21_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_21_21"><span class="label">[21]</span></a> 54 Orchard Street&mdash;the hall in which the first Jewish Anarchist
+gatherings were held in New York. An allusion to the
+aid of the Jewish comrades.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_22_22" id="Footnote_22_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_22_22"><span class="label">[22]</span></a> Tolstogub&mdash;the author's Russian nickname. The expression
+signifies the continued survival of the writer.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_23_23" id="Footnote_23_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_23_23"><span class="label">[23]</span></a> Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending
+Protestant service, and <i>vice versa</i>.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_24_24" id="Footnote_24_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_24_24"><span class="label">[24]</span></a> Yeast.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_25_25" id="Footnote_25_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_25_25"><span class="label">[25]</span></a> Note.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_26_26" id="Footnote_26_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_26_26"><span class="label">[26]</span></a> Brave knight&mdash;affectionately applied to the great river.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_27_27" id="Footnote_27_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_27_27"><span class="label">[27]</span></a> Folk-song.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_28_28" id="Footnote_28_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_28_28"><span class="label">[28]</span></a> Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed
+suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him by a
+friend.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_29_29" id="Footnote_29_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_29_29"><span class="label">[29]</span></a> Hard labor in the mines.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_30_30" id="Footnote_30_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_30_30"><span class="label">[30]</span></a> Professional thief.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_31_31" id="Footnote_31_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_31_31"><span class="label">[31]</span></a> The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_32_32" id="Footnote_32_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_32_32"><span class="label">[32]</span></a> Gallery.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_33_33" id="Footnote_33_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_33_33"><span class="label">[33]</span></a> A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_34_34" id="Footnote_34_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_34_34"><span class="label">[34]</span></a> Reading backward, <i>pobeg</i>; Russian for "escape."</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_35_35" id="Footnote_35_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_35_35"><span class="label">[35]</span></a> <i>Sub rosa</i> route.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_36_36" id="Footnote_36_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_36_36"><span class="label">[36]</span></a> Russian for "guard."</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_37_37" id="Footnote_37_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_37_37"><span class="label">[37]</span></a> Look out.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_38_38" id="Footnote_38_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_38_38"><span class="label">[38]</span></a> Prison Blossoms.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_39_39" id="Footnote_39_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_39_39"><span class="label">[39]</span></a> Initial of the German <i>klein</i>, small.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_40_40" id="Footnote_40_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_40_40"><span class="label">[40]</span></a> Pickpocket.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_41_41" id="Footnote_41_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_41_41"><span class="label">[41]</span></a> Thief.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_42_42" id="Footnote_42_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_42_42"><span class="label">[42]</span></a> Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_43_43" id="Footnote_43_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_43_43"><span class="label">[43]</span></a> Search.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_44_44" id="Footnote_44_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_44_44"><span class="label">[44]</span></a> Women thieves.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_45_45" id="Footnote_45_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_45_45"><span class="label">[45]</span></a> Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the
+County of Allegheny&mdash;in which the Western Penitentiary is
+located&mdash;receive only five dollars.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_46_46" id="Footnote_46_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_46_46"><span class="label">[46]</span></a> German for "screw."</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_47_47" id="Footnote_47_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_47_47"><span class="label">[47]</span></a> The Eastern Penitentiary at Philadelphia, Pa.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_48_48" id="Footnote_48_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_48_48"><span class="label">[48]</span></a> Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow railway,
+undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander
+II., in 1880.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_49_49" id="Footnote_49_49"></a><a href="#FNanchor_49_49"><span class="label">[49]</span></a> Safe blower.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_50_50" id="Footnote_50_50"></a><a href="#FNanchor_50_50"><span class="label">[50]</span></a> Officer Robert G. Hunter, who committed suicide August
+30, 1901, in Clarion, Pa. (where the trial took place). He left
+a written confession, in which he accused Warden E. S. Wright
+of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew to be
+innocent.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_51_51" id="Footnote_51_51"></a><a href="#FNanchor_51_51"><span class="label">[51]</span></a> The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand
+into their surfaces.</p></div>
+
+<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_52_52" id="Footnote_52_52"></a><a href="#FNanchor_52_52"><span class="label">[52]</span></a> Poorhouse.</p></div>
+</div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by 
+Alexander Berkman
+
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+</pre>
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+</body>
+</html>
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+Project Gutenberg's Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Berkman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist
+
+Author: Alexander Berkman
+
+Release Date: November 22, 2010 [EBook #34406]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+            [Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY]
+
+
+
+
+                            PRISON MEMOIRS
+                                OF AN
+                              ANARCHIST
+
+                                  BY
+
+                          ALEXANDER BERKMAN
+
+
+                               NEW YORK
+                 MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION
+                                 1912
+
+
+
+
+                      Published September, 1912
+                         Second Edition, 1920
+
+
+                     241 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+                To all those who in and out of prison
+                     fight against their bondage
+
+
+
+
+                "But this I know, that every Law
+                  That men have made for Man,
+                Since first Man took his brother's life,
+                  And the sad world began,
+                But straws the wheat and saves the chaff
+                  With a most evil fan."
+
+                                                     OSCAR WILDE
+
+
+
+
+                   [Illustration: Alexander Berkman
+                        Photo by Marcia Stein]
+
+
+
+
+AS INTRODUCTORY
+
+
+I wish that everybody in the world would read this book. And my reasons
+are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group
+of social philosophers or revolutionists. I desire that the book be
+widely read because the general and careful reading of it would
+definitely add to true civilization.
+
+It is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization; for the
+following reasons:
+
+It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be sincere. More than
+that, it is a valuable thing. To be so, means unusual qualities of the
+heart and of the head; unusual qualities of character. The books that
+possess this quality are unusual books. There are not many deliberately
+autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere; there are not many
+direct human documents. This is one of these few books.
+
+Not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is
+also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. Alexander Berkman
+spent fourteen years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly harsh
+and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the
+mind and pervert the character. Berkman consciously struggled with these
+adverse, destructive conditions. He took care of his body. He took care
+of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was a moral effort. He felt
+insane ideas trying to take possession of him. Insanity is a natural
+result of prison life. It always tends to come. This man felt it,
+consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That the prison
+affected him is true. It always does. But he saved himself, essentially.
+Society tried to destroy him, but failed.
+
+If people will read this book carefully it will tend to do away with
+prisons. The public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and
+must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book
+that I know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing
+psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture after picture, sketch
+after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness
+permeating the institution, but, very touching, it shows the good
+qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized,
+helplessly struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing
+themselves. And the personality of Berkman goes through it all;
+idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful; not
+untouched, as I have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his
+essential self.
+
+What lessons there are in this book! Like all truthful documents it
+makes us love and hate our fellow men, doubt ourselves, doubt our
+society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards
+life, and not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation
+painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present simplicity of
+our moral attitudes. It tends to make us more mature.
+
+The above are the main reasons why I should like to have everybody read
+this book.
+
+But there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and
+valuable in a more special, more limited way; aspects in which only
+comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the
+opposition and hostility of many. The Russian Nihilistic origin of
+Berkman, his Anarchistic experience in America, his attempt on the life
+of Frick--an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt
+made as a result of a sincere if fanatical belief that he was called on
+by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the
+community--this part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and
+disapproval of his ideas and his act. But I see no reason why this, with
+the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a
+human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and
+psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not try to understand
+an honest man even if he feels called on to kill? There, too, it may be
+deeply instructive. There, too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a
+combative spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of course,
+but read to see.
+
+                                                   HUTCHINS HAPGOOD.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+
+  CHAPTER                                               PAGE
+  Part I: The Awakening and Its Toll
+        I. THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD                           1
+       II. THE SEAT OF WAR                                23
+      III. THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH                       28
+       IV. THE ATTENTAT                                   33
+        V. THE THIRD DEGREE                               36
+       VI. THE JAIL                                       44
+      VII. THE TRIAL                                      89
+
+  Part II: The Penitentiary
+        I. DESPERATE THOUGHTS                             95
+       II. THE WILL TO LIVE                              113
+      III. SPECTRAL SILENCE                              120
+       IV. A RAY OF LIGHT                                124
+        V. THE SHOP                                      128
+       VI. MY FIRST LETTER                               136
+      VII. WINGIE                                        140
+     VIII. TO THE GIRL                                   148
+       IX. PERSECUTION                                   152
+        X. THE YEGG                                      159
+       XI. THE ROUTE SUB ROSA                            174
+      XII. "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"                           176
+     XIII. THE JUDAS                                     185
+      XIV. THE DIP                                       195
+       XV. THE URGE OF SEX                               201
+      XVI. THE WARDEN'S THREAT                           209
+     XVII. THE "BASKET" CELL                             219
+    XVIII. THE SOLITARY                                  221
+      XIX. MEMORY-GUESTS                                 232
+       XX. A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE                       240
+      XXI. THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL             264
+     XXII. THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL                  270
+    XXIII. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE                         287
+     XXIV. THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON             297
+      XXV. HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?                     300
+     XXVI. HIDING THE EVIDENCE                           307
+    XXVII. LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER                         316
+   XXVIII. FOR SAFETY                                    328
+     XXIX. DREAMS OF FREEDOM                             330
+      XXX. WHITEWASHED AGAIN                             337
+     XXXI. "AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT"           342
+    XXXII. THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED         352
+   XXXIII. THE TUNNEL                                    355
+    XXXIV. THE DEATH OF DICK                             363
+     XXXV. AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS                    364
+    XXXVI. THE UNDERGROUND                               375
+   XXXVII. ANXIOUS DAYS                                  382
+  XXXVIII. "HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM"                 389
+    XXXIX. A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE                          395
+       XL. DONE TO DEATH                                 401
+      XLI. THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO                          409
+     XLII. MARRED LIVES                                  418
+    XLIII. "PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"                   430
+     XLIV. LOVE'S DARING                                 441
+      XLV. THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF"               446
+     XLVI. A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER                        453
+    XLVII. CHUM                                          458
+   XLVIII. LAST DAYS                                     465
+
+  Part III: The Workhouse                                473
+
+  Part IV: The Resurrection                              483
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS
+
+
+  ALEXANDER BERKMAN (Frontispiece)
+  THE AUTHOR AT THE TIME OF THE HOMESTEAD STRIKE
+  WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA
+  FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER
+  "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"
+  CELL RANGES
+  THE TUNNEL
+
+
+
+
+PART I
+
+THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD
+
+
+I
+
+Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the
+sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little
+flat--Fedya and I--when suddenly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick,
+energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I turn to her, I
+am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color.
+
+"Have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open newspaper.
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children."
+
+She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a
+wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of
+bitterness--the bitterness of helpless agony.
+
+I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement I read the vivid
+account of the tremendous struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more
+correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of
+the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and
+Steel Workers; the selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick,
+whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military
+preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with
+the Amalgamated; the fortification of the Homestead steel-works; the
+erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with
+loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs;
+the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into Homestead; and,
+finally, the terrible carnage.
+
+I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me. We sit in silence,
+each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a
+searching, significant look.
+
+
+II
+
+It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive with tobacco
+smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. I
+turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma
+of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating. Green woods and yellow
+fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving
+place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and
+alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts are busy with
+Homestead.
+
+The great battle has been fought. Never before, in all its history, has
+American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms the workers
+of Homestead have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to
+surrender, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What humiliating
+defeat for the powers that be! Does not the Pinkerton janizary represent
+organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the
+exploiters? Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the
+unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of America, have
+joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of Homestead. The
+steel-workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and
+suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on
+their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company. Yet patiently they
+had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were
+creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be
+reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding
+scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm
+challenged the Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions
+which it knew the workers could not accept. Foreseeing refusal, it
+flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel.
+Perfidious Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the
+gospel of good will and harmony. "I would lay it down as a maxim," he
+had declared, "that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until
+arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by
+the other. The right of the workingmen to combine and to form
+trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to
+enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must
+sooner or later be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men _more
+than half-way_."
+
+With smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to
+indorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected, Andrew
+Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for
+his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete
+control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression
+of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But _the market
+price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the Homestead mills_.
+The wages of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the Amalgamated
+Association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal:
+there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the
+union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the
+bloody Frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution.
+
+Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of Homestead rebelled:
+the millmen scorned the despotic ultimatum. Then Frick's hand fell. The
+war was on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land the
+tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company was bitterly denounced, the
+ruthless brutality of Frick universally execrated.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilers
+of Homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet
+the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of Anarchism
+alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it
+alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. The dissemination of
+our ideas among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the great
+struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete
+ultimate emancipation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, "Labor, Awaken!"
+would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble
+deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and
+prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution. Homestead might
+prove the first blush of the glorious Dawn. How I chafed at the
+obstacles my project encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every
+step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English
+proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery
+appeal, my friend remonstrated. Impatiently I waived aside his
+objections. As if personal considerations could for an instant be
+weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain I argued and
+pleaded. And all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new
+obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to
+compositor, begging, imploring. None dared print the appeal. And time
+was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton carnage. The
+world stood aghast.
+
+The time for speech was past. Throughout the land the toilers echoed the
+defiance of the men of Homestead. The steel-workers had rallied bravely
+to the defence; the murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But
+loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the hanks of the
+Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the People calling. Ah, the People!
+The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In my mind I see myself back in the little Russian college town, amid
+the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded
+by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called "Nihilist."
+The rushing train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all turn
+into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and
+again I sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the
+impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the
+oft-recurring refrain of "Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chernishevsky, _v
+narod_." To the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble in
+spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a clarion call the
+note rings in my ears, amidst the din of contending views and obscure
+phraseology. The People! My Greek mythology moods have often pictured
+HIM to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight
+of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery,
+in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for
+help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his
+burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated
+student debate the note rings clear: To the People, become one of them,
+share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is
+the solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? "It
+is all good and well about going to the People, but the energetic men of
+the deed, the Rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by
+individual acts of revolt against--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Ticket, please!" A heavy hand is on my shoulder. With an effort I
+realize the situation. The card-players are exchanging angry words. With
+a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away
+with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by
+the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows
+quiet.
+
+I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I
+must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A
+tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead: the People are
+manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart
+exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American
+workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight
+all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is
+the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of
+Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is
+my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No
+shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People--the toilers of the world,
+the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest
+are parasites, who have no right to exist. But to the People belongs the
+earth--by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means are
+justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The
+question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary
+circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The
+more radical the treatment, I held, the quicker the cure. Society is a
+patient; sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is
+often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it
+is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is, indeed,
+sacred and inviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the
+People, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A
+revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of
+what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and _Attentat_[1] are
+to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the
+giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the Cause
+often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it
+is the test of a true revolutionist--nay, more, his pride--to sacrifice
+all merely human feeling at the call of the People's Cause. If the
+latter demand his life, so much the better.
+
+  [1] An act of political assassination.
+
+Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime Cause? Why,
+the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no
+significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved
+People. And what could be higher in life than to be a true
+revolutionist? It is to be a _man_, a complete MAN. A being who has
+neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the
+Cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has
+risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all
+doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul
+feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even
+the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a
+characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in
+New York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls,
+was beloved by every one in our circle, the _Pioneers of Liberty_, the
+first Jewish Anarchist organization on American soil. One evening the
+closer personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding
+the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, some one
+suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary
+treasury. I objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt, and
+his former roommate, I could not allow--I argued--that funds belonging
+to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even
+necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met
+with this challenge: "Do you mean to help Edelstadt, the poet and man,
+or Edelstadt the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active
+revolutionist? His poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even
+prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private
+funds, if you will; but no money from the movement can be given, except
+for direct revolutionary activity."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?" I was
+asked by Tikhon, a young medical student, whom we playfully dubbed
+"Lingg," because of his rather successful affectation of the celebrated
+revolutionist's physical appearance.
+
+"I am revolutionist first, man afterwards," I replied, with conviction.
+
+"You are either a knave or a hero," he retorted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Lingg" was quite right. He could not know me. To his _bourgeois_ mind,
+for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded
+knavish. Well, some day he may know which I am, knave or revolutionist.
+I do not think in the term "hero," for though the type of revolutionist
+I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no
+significance for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does his duty.
+There is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a
+revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov did more, too much. In spite of my
+great admiration for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the
+Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress the touch of resentment I
+feel because the author of "What's To Be Done?" represented his
+arch-revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable,
+self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was
+a sign of weakness. Does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself,
+to steel his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal
+insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere human clay.
+
+No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations.
+For I know _I_ do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal,
+strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the
+background; aye, I am not conscious of any personality in matters
+pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by
+conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in
+short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my arrival in
+Pittsburgh.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first
+thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny
+comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep.
+The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed with terror. What if
+it is lost? Suddenly my foot touches something soft. I pick it up,
+feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the
+precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar
+bill. My joy at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the
+meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for
+the first night, and in the morning I'll look up Nold or Bauer. They
+will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "I won't remain there
+long," I think, with an inward smile.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+We are nearing Washington, D. C. The train is to make a six-hour stop
+there. I curse the stupidity of the delay: something may be happening in
+Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a
+telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the
+Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick.
+
+Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that
+greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball
+of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears
+its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a
+living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the
+uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading
+in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The
+amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to
+right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees,
+dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the
+broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter.
+And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with
+new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and
+nestles closer to the golden giver of life.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the
+surpassing gladness, of being. But in a trice the picture changes.
+Before my eyes rises the Monongahela river, carrying barges filled with
+armed men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank. The blood
+gushes from the centre of his forehead. The hole ploughed by the bullet
+yawns black on the crimson face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I
+see men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the
+dead.
+
+The horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident, lived through
+in imagination before. It was the sight of an executed Nihilist. The
+Nihilists! How much of their precious blood has been shed, how many
+thousands of them line the road of Russia's suffering! Inexpressibly
+near and soul-kin I feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious
+ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to "go to
+the People," to become one with them, though despised by all whom they
+held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of
+their great sacrifice.
+
+Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of Nihilist
+Russia. I had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations.
+Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell
+mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her! Next week will be my
+twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for
+her, instead. "Mamma, mamma!" I called, when suddenly I caught her
+voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought; mother never
+speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door
+leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room closed, contrary to
+custom. In perturbation I hesitated at the door. "Shame on you, Nathan,"
+I heard my mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because he is a
+Nihilist. You are no better than"--her voice fell to a whisper, but my
+straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and
+fear--"a _palatch_."[2]
+
+  [2] Hangman.
+
+I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich uncle Nathan's unwonted
+presence at our house, the fearful word _palatch_--something awful must
+have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room.
+Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the _palatch_
+done? I moaned. "_Your_ brother," she had said to uncle. Her own
+youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened to him?
+My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the
+powerful figure of the giant _palatch_, all in black, his right arm bare
+to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the glimmer of
+the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly,
+while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched,
+the glowing black coals in the _palatch's_ head. Suddenly the two fiery
+eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the fearful
+one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and
+everywhere was the giant--on all sides of me was he--then a sudden flash
+of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the
+neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from
+mouth and ears and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about that
+head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and
+sad. "Oh, Maxim, Maxim!" I cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a
+flood of passionate hatred of the _palatch_ seized me, and I rushed,
+head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I
+came,--another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck
+him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me,
+and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head....
+
+"Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, _golubchik_?" I recognize the
+sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then
+coming closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes. Mother is
+kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears.
+Passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating:
+"_Golubchik_, what is it?"
+
+"Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?" I ask, breathlessly watching her
+face.
+
+Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns
+ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and
+her eyes grow large and round with terror. "Mamma!" I cry, throwing my
+arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel her warm breath on my cheek;
+but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping.
+
+"Who--told--you? You--know?" she whispers between sobs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is
+oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is
+kept locked. Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the
+dinner-table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse
+informs us; no one is to see her.
+
+The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim.
+Was my vision of the _palatch_ a presentiment, or the echo of an
+accomplished tragedy? Vaguely I feel guilty of mother's illness. The
+shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet there
+must be more to it, I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon,
+finding my eldest brother Maxim, named after mother's favorite brother,
+in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed
+confidential manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?"
+
+"Go to the devil, _molokossoss_[3] you!" he cries, angrily. With a show
+of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the
+floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair, and leaves the room.
+
+  [3] Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to
+      inexperienced youth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of Nihilism
+unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies. Yet a deep interest, curiosity
+about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when
+quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident.
+I am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno.
+By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious
+instruction is being introduced in the State schools. Special classes
+have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of
+Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost
+every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in
+_cheidar_.[4] But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of
+Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.
+
+  [4] Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.
+
+The roll-call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the
+Director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I
+have a private Jewish tutor at home, and,--anyway, I do not believe in
+religion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.
+
+"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects
+on solemn occasions. "Young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach
+so profound a conclusion?"
+
+His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the
+offensive tone rouse my resentment. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover
+my cherished secret. "Since I wrote the essay, 'There Is No God,'" I
+reply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I realize the
+recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming
+trouble, at school and at home. Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a
+_man_. Uncle Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I know
+his reputation for uncompromising candor, and love him for his bold,
+frank ways.
+
+"Oh, that is interesting," I hear, as in a dream, the unpleasant
+guttural voice of the Director. "When did you write it?"
+
+"Three years ago."
+
+"How old were you then?"
+
+"Twelve."
+
+"Have you the essay?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"At home."
+
+"Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, remember."
+
+His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears with the harsh
+metallic sound of my sister's piano that memorable evening of our
+musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the
+instrument tuned for the occasion.
+
+"To-morrow, then. You are dismissed."
+
+The Educational Board, in conclave assembled, reads the essay. My
+disquisition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be
+visited upon me for "precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and
+insubordination." I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to the third
+class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to
+associate with the "children" my senior class looks down upon with
+undisguised contempt. I feel disgraced, humiliated.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the
+interminable hours creep towards the afternoon, and the station clock
+drones like an endless old woman.
+
+
+III
+
+Over at last. "All aboard!"
+
+On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my
+destination. The conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going
+and coming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing
+and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless
+oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if
+reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic
+connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my
+thoughts of the past. But how different is the present! I am speeding
+toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America.
+America! I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And
+again unfold pictures of old scenes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a
+fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends
+the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated
+physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me.
+
+"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your
+mother is very ill. Are you alone with her?"
+
+"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," I reply.
+
+"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners
+of his delicately chiseled lips. "I mean of the family."
+
+"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother."
+
+"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipovitch. Could you
+sit up with her to-night?"
+
+"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar
+request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My
+presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our relations have
+been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose,
+our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict
+physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and
+haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with
+indignation.
+
+"You forget you are speaking to your mother, Al-ex-an-der"; she
+pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when
+angry with me.
+
+"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort, defiantly.
+
+"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of
+yours."
+
+I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "The low
+servant girl is as good as you."
+
+I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next
+instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. Our eyes meet. Her arm
+remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on
+the white table-cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She closes her
+eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair.
+
+Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her
+assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up the heavy saltcellar, and
+fling it violently against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass
+my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick-room. I fear she may resent
+my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands between us. But she is lying
+quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. I sit
+down at the bedside. A long time passes in silence. Mother seems to be
+asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the
+night in the chair. Suddenly I hear "Sasha!" called in a weak, faint
+voice. I bend over her. "Drink of water." As I hold the glass to her
+lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, "Ice water,
+please." I start to leave the room. "Sasha!" I hear behind me, and,
+quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to
+hers, to catch the faint words: "Help me turn to the wall." Tenderly I
+wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering
+longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg her
+forgiveness. I feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing with
+compassion and love. But I dare not kiss her--we have become estranged.
+Affectionately I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second,
+dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me.
+Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as I slowly withdraw, I feel as
+if some mysterious, yet definite, something has at the very instant left
+her body.
+
+In a few minutes I return with a glass of ice water. I hold it to her
+lips, but she seems oblivious of my presence. "She cannot have gone to
+sleep so quickly," I wonder. "Mother!" I call, softly. No reply. "Little
+mother! Mamotchka!" She does not appear to hear me. "Dearest,
+_golubchick_!" I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips
+upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and
+hear the measured voice of the doctor: "My boy, you must bear up. She is
+at rest."
+
+
+IV
+
+"Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin' for?" Bewildered I turn around
+to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the
+seat back of me.
+
+"Oh, nothing; just dreaming," I reply. Not wishing to encourage
+conversation, I pretend to become absorbed in my book.
+
+How strange is the sudden sound of English! Almost as suddenly had I
+been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother's
+death. Threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's
+passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"--which would close
+every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very
+satisfactory standing--the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel
+with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There,
+beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free
+country, where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,--the
+very realization of my youthful dreams.
+
+And now I am in America, the blessed land. The disillusionment, the
+disappointments, the vain struggles!... The kaleidoscope of my brain
+unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union
+Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night
+wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel
+hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My
+heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. "Nothing," each had
+morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp.
+Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick
+up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his
+legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper
+away, and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down
+on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have
+changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor fellow, no one wants his
+labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared
+boy passes the nights in the.... What is that pain I feel? Some one is
+bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half-dazed I
+see an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes,
+and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. Oh, it's in
+my soles! Bewildered I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the
+throat, and I face a policeman.
+
+"Are you thieves?" he bellows.
+
+Mikhail replies, sleepily: "We Russians. Want work."
+
+"Git out o' here! Off with you!"
+
+Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping
+behind us. The dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying
+figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the
+corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by
+the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to
+be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a
+tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "The bakery on Second Street,"
+Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads
+bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily
+falling behind. "Dammit, I feel bad," he says, catching up with us, as
+we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets
+reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to
+bed, we decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the
+remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the
+"fourth" in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!"
+
+The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock.
+Impatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I have
+reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the
+dread of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things, but,
+noticing that the other passengers keep their places, I precipitately
+resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my
+confusion, I turn to the open window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the
+sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot
+and cinders; the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces
+vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame
+structures, dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the workers
+who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its
+millionaires, its Carnegies and Fricks.
+
+The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns
+the needs of mankind into an Inferno of brutalizing toil. It robs man of
+his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the
+beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture
+grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into
+gold, gold, countless gold.
+
+The great, noble People! But is it really great and noble to be slaves
+and remain content? No, no! They are awakening, awakening!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE SEAT OF WAR
+
+
+Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters
+lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of
+the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of
+sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fence,
+topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike
+watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a
+thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies
+the name of "Fort Frick." Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces
+between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of
+many voices. Men carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces
+grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths
+of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is
+strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace
+stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a
+sanguinary conflict,--the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless
+struggle in which the _stronger_, the sturdy man of labor, is always the
+victim, because he acts _weakly_. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton
+barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear
+mute witness that for once the battle went to the _really strong, to the
+victim who dared_.
+
+A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of
+conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a
+weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice
+the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver.
+
+"Who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly asks me.
+
+"A friend, a visitor."
+
+"Can you show credentials or a union card?"
+
+Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed.
+
+In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of
+various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American
+fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and
+talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are
+surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man.
+
+I press forward. "Listen, gentlemen, listen!" I hear the speaker's
+voice. "Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don't you?"
+
+"Yes, yes, Sheriff!" several men cry. "Go on!"
+
+"Yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the
+Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania."
+
+"Go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently.
+
+"If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead."
+
+"S-s-sh! Order!"
+
+The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. "Men of Homestead! It
+is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peace. Your city is in a
+state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia and
+I hope--"
+
+"No! No!" many voices protest. "To hell with you!" The tumult drowns the
+words of the Sheriff. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the
+platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the
+general uproar.
+
+"O'Donnell! O'Donnell!" comes from several sides, the cry swelling into
+a tremendous chorus, "O'Donnell!"
+
+I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The
+assembly becomes hushed.
+
+"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, "we have
+won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the
+Pinkerton invaders out of our city--"
+
+"Damn the murderers!"
+
+"Silence! Order!"
+
+"You have won a big victory," O'Donnell continues, "a great, significant
+victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor's
+struggle for better conditions."
+
+Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "But," he continues, "you
+must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along
+with your rights. The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our homes
+and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You
+respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will
+uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!"
+He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, "Now is the time! Welcome the
+soldiers. They are not sent by that man Frick. They are the people's
+militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!"
+
+Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the
+exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back
+and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark
+man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the
+assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides.
+
+"Don't you believe it, men!" The speaker shakes his finger at the
+audience, as if to emphasize his warning. "Don't you believe that the
+soldiers are coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell. They'll
+cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers are no friends
+of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because
+that damned murderer Frick wants them."
+
+"Hear! Hear!"
+
+"Yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, "I can
+tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the
+Governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I
+say!"
+
+"No! Yes! No!" the clamor is renewed, but I can hear the speaker's voice
+rising above the din: "Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly
+Sheriff. Don't you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First _they_'ll
+come; then the blacklegs. You want 'em?"
+
+"No! No!" roars the crowd.
+
+"Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you
+understand? If you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have
+paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children they'll drive
+out, and out you will go from these"--the speaker points in the
+direction of the mills--"that's what they'll do, if you don't look out.
+We have sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers have been killed
+and maimed there, we have made the damned Company rich, and now they
+send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have
+tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out,
+I tell you!"
+
+Amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform.
+
+"McLuckie! 'Honest' McLuckie!" a voice is heard on the fringe of the
+crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, "'Honest'
+McLuckie!"
+
+I am eager to see the popular Burgess of Homestead, himself a
+poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A large-boned,
+good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the
+men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles.
+
+"I haven't prepared any speech," the Burgess begins haltingly, "but I
+want to say, I don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. There
+is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you
+stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. The
+_how_? How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That's what
+I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad to let them in. The blacklegs
+_might_ be hiding in the rear. But then again, it's bad _not_ to let the
+soldiers in. You can't stand up against 'em: they are not Pinkertons.
+And we can't fight the Government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the Governor
+won't send the militia. But if he does, I reckon the best way for us
+will be to make friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do.
+That's all I have to say."
+
+The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH
+
+
+I
+
+Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the Ohio,
+heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the
+atmosphere with the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human
+ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing,
+leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure,
+peaked and domed. Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of
+gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the
+shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms
+toward the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of
+the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog,
+oppressive and dispiriting--the symbol of our existence, with all its
+darkness and cold.
+
+This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit
+moulds the life of the great Nation. The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron
+City! Cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote
+of the great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony
+to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace fire,
+consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the
+bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health
+and blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and
+converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to Mammon by his high
+priests, the Carnegies, the Fricks.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations carried on
+between the Carnegie Company and the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in
+absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is
+the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workers
+after their victory over the Pinkertons has been refused. The ultimatum
+issued by Frick is the last word of Caesar: the union of the
+steel-workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the
+cost of shedding the blood of the last man in Homestead; the Company
+will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms
+offered, without question or discussion; he, Frick, will operate the
+mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined
+military power of the State and the Union to carry the plan into
+execution. Millmen disobeying the order to return to work under the new
+schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and evicted
+from the Company houses.
+
+
+II
+
+In an obscure alley, in the town of Homestead, there stands a one-story
+frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow
+Johnson and her four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a
+crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. When the body
+was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize in
+the mangled remains her big, strong "Jack." For weeks the neighborhood
+resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband! Where's my husband?" But
+the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the
+poor woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little orphans, she
+recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees she implored him
+not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she
+pleaded; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young
+to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she
+thought; he had promised to see what could be done. She would not listen
+to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for damages. "The crane
+was rotten," her husband's friends informed her; "the government
+inspector had condemned it." But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely he knew
+best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband's own
+carelessness?
+
+She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage.
+She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear
+John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her
+children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord's
+blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors
+the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how
+simply he talked with her. "Just like us folks," the widow says.
+
+She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback,
+who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth
+time. It reflects such importance to know some one that had come in
+intimate contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence! and
+even talked to the great magnate!
+
+"'Dear Mr. Frick,' says I," the widow is narrating, "'dear Mr. Frick,'
+I says, 'look at my poor little angels--'"
+
+A knock on the door interrupts her. "Must be one-eyed Kate," the widow
+observes. "Come in! Come in!" she calls out, cheerfully. "Poor Kate!"
+she remarks with a sigh. "Her man's got the consumption. Won't last
+long, I fear."
+
+A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two
+others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children
+begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother.
+
+"Beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "Have no fear. We are Deputy
+Sheriffs. Read this." He produces an official-looking paper. "Ordered to
+dispossess you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen
+more of--"
+
+There is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff catches the limp body of
+the widow in his arms.
+
+
+III
+
+East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh, lies basking
+in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the
+stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently
+nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of equipages
+fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies
+lending color and life to the scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The
+laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness
+irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind I see the sombre
+fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow
+rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the
+anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain....
+
+And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies
+are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The
+common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them,
+build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust.
+"Take what I give you," Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A
+luxurious place, with large garden, barns, and stable. That stable
+there,--it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. Ah,
+life could be made livable, beautiful! Why should it not be? Why so much
+misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around
+me. That is life! Joy and peace.... No! There can be no peace with such
+as Frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and
+sucking the blood of the workers. Fricks, vampires, all of them--I
+almost shout aloud--they are all one class. All in a cabal against _my_
+class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy, perhaps;
+but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile
+and laugh. What is the misery of the People to _them?_ Probably they are
+laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am of the People, but
+you belong to the Fricks. Well, it may soon be our turn to laugh....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that the conferences
+between the Carnegie Company and the Advisory Committee of the strikers
+have terminated in the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of
+the millmen. The last hope is gone! The master is determined to crush
+his rebellious slaves.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+THE ATTENTAT
+
+
+The door of Frick's private office, to the left of the reception-room,
+swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a flitting
+glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of
+the room.
+
+"Mistah Frick is engaged. He can't see you now, sah," the negro says,
+handing back my card.
+
+I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the
+reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate
+separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded
+attendant aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself
+facing Frick.
+
+For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me.
+I discern two men at the further end of the long table.
+
+"Fr--," I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless.
+It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. "He understands," it
+flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I
+raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the
+chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. "Perhaps he wears armor,"
+I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull
+the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates
+as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see
+Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm
+and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head
+and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. "Dead?"
+I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take a
+few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had
+quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks
+slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him.
+Suddenly I hear the cry, "Murder! Help!" My heart stands still as I
+realize that it is Frick shouting. "Alive?" I wonder. I hurl the
+stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck
+my hand,--I have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the
+room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and
+body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering
+behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click--but no
+explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me,
+when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp
+pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of
+the weapon slipping from my hands.
+
+"Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!" Confused voices ring in my
+ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing
+on me. Now--it's Frick's voice! Not dead?... I crawl in the direction of
+the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger
+from my pocket--I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of
+the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain--there is much
+shouting and stamping--my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted
+bodily from the floor.
+
+Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my
+head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of
+me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is
+streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a
+strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am
+filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With
+defiant hatred I look him full in the face.
+
+"Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?"
+
+Frick nods weakly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian
+dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly:
+
+"Are you hurt? You're bleeding."
+
+I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar
+sensation about my eyes.
+
+"I've lost my glasses," I remark, involuntarily.
+
+"You'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head," an officer retorts.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE THIRD DEGREE
+
+
+I
+
+The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of
+footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone.
+Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and
+threats,--how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete
+indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench,
+running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep.
+
+I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it
+night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy
+touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and
+musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor,
+drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars.
+The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in
+the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring.
+My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. "Water! I want water!"
+The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it
+rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the
+roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and
+abruptly ceases.
+
+"Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?"
+
+The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the
+sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to
+breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite
+mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts
+restlessly pacing their cages.
+
+"Whatcher in for?" It comes from somewhere alongside. "Can't talk, eh?
+'Sorderly, guess."
+
+What am I in for? Oh, yes! It's Frick. Well, I shall not stay _here_
+long, anyhow. They will soon take me out--they will lean me against a
+wall--a slimy wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and
+the soldiers there.... No: they are going to hang me. Well, I shall be
+glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry. I'm suffocating....
+
+... The upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a
+single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side
+sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into
+the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a
+spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter! He
+hit me on the head. From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what
+he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to them, enlighten
+them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't know his real friends. He looks
+like a Russian peasant, with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If
+he would only look up.... Now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is
+stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he
+didn't look! He has his eyes always on the ground. Just like the
+_muzhik_. Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining
+his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the cross-piece looks. The
+horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. I hope it won't
+break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the
+picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was
+inscribed, _The Execution of Stenka Razin_. "Didn't the branch break?" I
+asked. "No, Sasha," mother replied, "Stenka--well, he weighed nothing";
+and I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxim. But mother
+smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my brother:
+"Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka such pictures. He is too young."
+"Not too young, mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man." "What!
+You young fool," father bristled with anger, "he was a murderer, a
+common rioter." But mother and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was
+deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion.
+"Not another word, now! I won't hear any more of that peasant criminal."
+The peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the
+difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn't they agree?
+He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry
+over a hanged murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked
+at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a noble man. I cried
+myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could
+ever forgive "them" the killing of the good Stenka, and why the
+weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn't it
+break?... The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my
+weight. They'll hang me like Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some
+day see the picture--and they will call me murderer--and only a few will
+know the truth--and the picture will show me hanging from.... No, they
+shall not hang me!
+
+My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of
+gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitro-glycerine cartridge
+secure in the lining. I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless
+preparations! I have, myself, prepared for the event. No, they won't
+hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead! Make your
+gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he
+is turning around. He is looking straight at me. Why, it's Frick!
+Alive?...
+
+My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars, and groan
+heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed?...
+
+
+II
+
+Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more
+distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall
+not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I
+must seem indifferent.
+
+Would I "take lunch with the Chief"? I decline, requesting a glass of
+water. Certainly; but the Chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each
+side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally
+ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is busy with thoughts
+of escape, as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large,
+well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high
+above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at
+which a middle-aged man, of distinct Irish type, is engaged with some
+papers.
+
+"Good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "Have a seat," pointing to a
+chair inside the railing. "I understand you asked for some water?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Just a few questions first. Nothing important. Your pedigree, you know.
+Mere matter of form. Answer frankly, and you shall have everything you
+want."
+
+His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating.
+
+"Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name? Your real name, I mean."
+
+"That's my real name."
+
+"You don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to Mr.
+Frick?"
+
+"I gave my real name."
+
+"And you are an agent of a New York employment firm?"
+
+"No."
+
+"That was on your card."
+
+"I wrote it to gain access to Frick."
+
+"And you gave the name 'Alexander Berkman' to gain access?"
+
+"No. I gave my real name. Whatever might happen, I did not want anyone
+else to be blamed."
+
+"Are you a Homestead striker?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Why did you attack Mr. Frick?"
+
+"He is an enemy of the People."
+
+"You got a personal grievance against him?"
+
+"No. I consider him an enemy of the People."
+
+"Where do you come from?"
+
+"From the station cell."
+
+"Come, now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman. I am your friend. I am
+going to give you a nice, comfortable cell. The other--"
+
+"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily.
+
+"How long did you serve there?"
+
+"Where?"
+
+"In the prison in Russia."
+
+"I was never before inside a cell."
+
+"Come, now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth."
+
+He motions to the officer behind my chair. The window curtains are drawn
+aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to
+the clock on the wall. The hour-hand points to V. The calendar on the
+desk reads, July--23--Saturday. Only three hours since my arrest? It
+seemed so long in the cell....
+
+"You can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is saying. "I know a
+good deal more about you than you think. We've got your friend
+Rak-metov."
+
+With difficulty I suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended
+trap. In the register of the hotel where I passed the first night in
+Pittsburgh, I signed "Rakhmetov," the name of the hero in
+Chernishevsky's famous novel.
+
+"Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you."
+
+"Then why do you ask me?"
+
+"Don't you try to be smart now. Answer my questions, d'ye hear?"
+
+His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is threatening.
+
+"Now answer me. Where do you live?"
+
+"Give me some water. I am too dry to talk."
+
+"Certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "You shall have a drink.
+Do you prefer whiskey or beer?"
+
+"I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water."
+
+"Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't let us waste time,
+then. Who are your friends?"
+
+"Give me a drink."
+
+"The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. I am having
+a nice cell fixed up for you, too. I want to be your friend, Mr.
+Berkman. Treat me right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where
+did you stop in Pittsburgh?"
+
+"I have nothing to tell you."
+
+"Answer me, or I'll--"
+
+His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist he leaps from his seat;
+but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile:
+
+"Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why
+don't you talk sensibly?"
+
+"What do you want to know?"
+
+"Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office?"
+
+Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words:
+
+"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, opposite
+the B. and O. depot. I signed the name Rakhmetov in the register there.
+It's a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to
+Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's all I have to tell you."
+
+"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We're not in any
+hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here as in the cell; it's
+pleasanter. But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just
+tell me, where do you stay in New York?"
+
+"I have told you all there is to tell."
+
+"Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends?"
+
+"I won't say another word."
+
+"Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take him back. Same
+cell."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by
+new inquisitors. They coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I
+remain indifferent. But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the
+salty food they have given me. It consumes me, it tortures and burns my
+vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The
+foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me;
+my soul is in an agony of uncertainty.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+THE JAIL
+
+
+I
+
+The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The
+clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates
+through the corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above
+hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In my ears is the yelling
+and shouting of coarse voices.
+
+"Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right a-way!"
+
+A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous, in his look
+expectant fear.
+
+"Hurry, there! To court!"
+
+"Good luck, Jimmie."
+
+The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors
+clustered about an overseer.
+
+"Who is that, Officer?" One of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand,
+and stares boldly at the prisoner. Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is
+being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his
+head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell.
+He falls heavily against the bed. "Oh, don't! For Jesus' sake, don't!"
+The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries.
+
+The visitors crowd about the cell.
+
+"What did he do? He can't come out now, Officer?"
+
+"No, ma'am. He's safe."
+
+The lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. She steps closer to the bars,
+eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays
+about her mouth.
+
+"What has he done, Officer?"
+
+"Stole some clothes, ma'am."
+
+Disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face. "Where is that man
+who--er--we read in the papers yesterday? You know--the newspaper artist
+who killed--er--that girl in such a brutal manner."
+
+"Oh, Jack Tarlin. Murderers' Row, this way, ladies."
+
+
+II
+
+The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in
+the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the
+cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and I
+feel something melt within me. Closer I press to the door. I long for
+the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft
+balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something
+out of my heart is departing with them.... But the lengthening shadows
+on the gray flagstones spread quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the
+sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click
+of a lock, and all is hushed and dark.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me with mysterious awe.
+It lives. It pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster.
+It rises and falls; approaches, recedes. It is Misery asleep. Now it
+presses heavily against my door. I hear its quickened breathing. Oh, it
+is the guard! Is it the death watch? His outline is lost in the
+semi-darkness, but I see the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they
+watch and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I nervously pace the
+floor. Unconsciously my step quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of
+steel. It grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is here and
+there, all around me. Now it flits up and down; it doubles, trebles. The
+fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On
+every side they surround me, and bar my way.
+
+I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless and broken. Ever the
+terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning
+with my every movement.
+
+
+III
+
+The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk in twos, conversing in
+subdued tones. It is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. The
+native of the western part of the State, the "Pennsylvania Dutchman," of
+stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. The son of southern Italy,
+stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick,
+nervous step. The tall, slender Spaniard, swarthy and of classic
+feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in passing,
+casts a furtive glance into my cell. The last in the line is a young
+negro, walking alone. He nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth
+of dazzling whiteness. The guard brings up the rear. He pauses at my
+door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically.
+
+"You may fall in."
+
+The cell is unlocked, and I join the line. The negro is at my side. He
+loses no time in engaging me in conversation. He is very glad, he
+assures me, that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." It was a
+shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. Now they will "call de
+night-dog off. Must been afeared o' soocide," he explains.
+
+His flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a whit disconcerted by my
+evident disinclination to talk. Would I have a cigarette? May smoke in
+the cell. One can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough"; buy anything
+'cept booze. He is full of the prison gossip. That tall man there is
+Jack Tinford, of Homestead--sure to swing--threw dynamite at the
+Pinkertons. That little "dago" will keep Jack company--cut his wife's
+throat. The "Dutchy" there is "bugs"--choked his son in sleep. Presently
+my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is
+waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree murder, though.
+Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. "His" man didn't "croak" till after
+the ninth day. He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth-day
+superstition. He is convinced they won't hang him. "Can't do't," he
+reiterates, with a happy grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Wat am
+yo doin' heah? Only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry. Yuh man didn' croak!"
+Evidently he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that I am "all
+right." "Guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. But can't hang yo,
+can't hang yo." He grows excited over the recital of his case. Minutely
+he describes the details. "Dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot I's afeared of
+'m. He know bettah now," he chuckles. "Dis ah chile am afeared of none
+ov'm. Ah ain't. 'Gwan 'way, niggah,' Ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah
+gahl be.' An' dat big black niggah grab de cleaveh,--we's in d'otel
+kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat,' Ah hollos, an' he come at me. Den
+dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle brodeh," he taps his pocket
+significantly, "an' Ah lets de ornery niggah hab it. Plum' in de belly,
+yassah, Ah does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' Ah pulls mah knife out, two
+inches, 'bout, an' den Ah gives it half twist like, an' shoves it in
+'gen." He illustrates the ghastly motion. "Dat bad niggah neveh botheh
+_me_ 'gen, noh nobody else, Ah guess. But dey can't hang me, no sah, dey
+can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later. Ah's lucky, yassah, Ah is."
+His face is wreathed in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly
+he grows serious. "Yo am strikeh? No-o-o? Not a steel-woikeh?" with
+utter amazement. "What yo wan' teh shoot Frick foah?" He does not
+attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity, as I essay an
+explanation. "Afeared t' tell. Yo am deep all right, Ahlick--dat am yuh
+name? But yo am right, yassah, yo am right. Doan' tell nobody. Dey's
+mos'ly crooks, dat dey am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. Yo jes' membuh
+dat."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+There is a peculiar movement in the marching line. I notice a prisoner
+leave his place. He casts an anxious glance around, and disappears in
+the niche of the cell door. The line continues on its march, and, as I
+near the man's hiding place, I hear him whisper, "Fall back, Aleck."
+Surprised at being addressed in such familiar manner, I slow down my
+pace. The man is at my side.
+
+"Say, Berk, you don't want to be seen walking with that 'dinge.'"
+
+The sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. I feel the
+impulse to resent the mutilation. The man's manner suggests a lack of
+respect, offensive to my dignity as a revolutionist.
+
+"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him.
+
+He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed chin of the elongated
+face suggest the fox. He meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his
+smoked-glass spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly
+confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with a "nigger," he
+informs me. It will make feeling against me. He himself is a Pittsburgh
+man for the last twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the
+South, in Atlanta. They have no use for "niggers" down there, he assures
+me. They must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good,
+anyway. I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward
+me. I must be very careful of appearances before the trial. My
+inexperience is quite evident, but he "knows the ropes." I must not give
+"them" an opportunity to say anything against me. My behavior in jail
+will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. He himself expects
+to "get off easy." He knows some of the judges. Mostly good men. He
+ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted three times for him at
+the last election. He closes the left eye, and playfully pokes me with
+his elbow. He hopes he'll "get before that judge." He will, if he is
+lucky, he assures me. He had always had pretty good luck. Last time he
+got off with three years, though he nearly killed "his" man. But it was
+in self-defence. Have I got a chew of tobacco about me? Don't use the
+weed? Well, it'll be easier in the "pen." What's the pen? Why, don't I
+know? The penitentiary, of course. I should have no fear. Frick ain't
+going to die. But what did I want to kill the man for? I ain't no
+Pittsburgh man, that he could see plain. What did I want to "nose in"
+for? Help the strikers? I must be crazy to talk that way. Why, it was
+none of my "cheese." Didn't I come from New York? Yes? Well, then, how
+could the strike concern me? I must have some personal grudge against
+Frick. Ever had dealings with him? No? Sure? Then it's plain "bughouse,"
+no use talking. But it's different with his case. It was his partner in
+business. He knew the skunk meant to cheat him out of money, and they
+quarreled. Did I notice the dark glasses he wears? Well, his eyes are
+bad. He only meant to scare the man. But, damn him, he croaked. Curse
+such luck. His third offence, too. Do I think the judge will have pity
+on him? Why, he is almost blind. How did he manage to "get his man"?
+Why, just an accidental shot. He didn't mean to--
+
+The gong intones its deep, full bass.
+
+"All in!"
+
+The line breaks. There is a simultaneous clatter of many doors, and I am
+in the cell again.
+
+
+IV
+
+Within, on the narrow stool, I find a tin pan filled with a dark-brown
+mixture. It is the noon meal, but the "dinner" does not look inviting:
+the pan is old and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion. The
+greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks of vegetable,
+resembles a pool of stagnant water covered with green slime. The first
+taste nauseates me, and I decide to "dine" on the remnants of my
+breakfast--a piece of bread.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pace the floor in agitation over the conversation with my
+fellow-prisoners. Why can't they understand the motives that prompted
+my act? Their manner of pitying condescension is aggravating. My
+attempted explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort.
+Not a striker myself, I could and should have had no interest in
+the struggle,--the opinion seemed final with both the negro and
+the white man. In the purpose of the act they refused to see any
+significance,--nothing beyond the mere physical effect. It would have
+been a good thing if Frick had died, because "he was bad." But it is
+"lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought, for now "they" can't
+hang me. My remark that the probable consequences to myself are not to
+be weighed in the scale against the welfare of the People, they had met
+with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as to my sanity. It is, of
+course, consoling to reflect that neither of those men can properly be
+said to represent the People. The negro is a very inferior type of
+laborer; and the other--he is a _bourgeois_, "in business." He is not
+worth while. Besides, he confessed that it is his third offence. He is a
+common criminal, not an honest producer. But that tall man--the
+Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed out to me--oh, _he_ will
+understand: he is of the real People. My heart wells up in admiration of
+the man, as I think of his participation in the memorable struggle of
+Homestead. He fought the Pinkertons, the myrmidons of Capital. Perhaps
+he helped to dynamite the barges and drive those Hessians out of town.
+He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong and determined, his
+body manly and powerful. He is of the true spirit; the embodiment of the
+great, noble People: the giant of labor grown to his full stature,
+conscious of his strength. Fearless, strong, and proud, he will conquer
+all obstacles; he will break his chains and liberate mankind.
+
+
+V
+
+Next morning, during exercise hour, I watch with beating heart for an
+opportunity to converse with the Homestead steel-worker. I shall explain
+to him the motives and purpose of my attempt on Frick. He will
+understand me; he will himself enlighten his fellow-strikers. It is very
+important _they_ should comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the
+very man to do this great service to humanity. He is the rebel-worker;
+his heroism during the struggle bears witness. I hope the People will
+not allow the enemy to hang him. He defended the rights of the Homestead
+workers, the cause of the whole working class. No, the People will never
+allow such a sacrifice. How well he carries himself! Erect, head high,
+the look of conscious dignity and strength--
+
+"Cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!"
+
+The prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the line, and advances in
+response to the guard's call. Quickly I pass along the gallery, and fall
+into the vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker.
+
+"A happy chance," I address him. "I should like to speak to you about
+something important. You are one of the Homestead strikers, are you
+not?"
+
+"Jack Tinford," he introduces himself. "What's your name?"
+
+He is visibly startled by my answer. "The man who shot Frick?" he asks.
+
+An expression of deep anxiety crosses his face. His eye wanders to the
+gate. Through the wire network I observe visitors approaching from the
+Warden's office.
+
+"They'd better not see us together," he says, impatiently. "Fall in back
+of me. Then we'll talk."
+
+Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its significance, I slowly
+fall back. His tall, broad figure completely hides me from view. He
+speaks to me in monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Homestead
+he grows more communicative, talking in an undertone, as if conversing
+with his neighbor, the Sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of
+English. I strain my ear to catch his words. The steel-workers merely
+defended themselves against armed invaders, I hear him say. They are not
+on strike: they've been locked out by Frick, because he wants to
+non-unionize the works. That's why he broke the contract with the
+Amalgamated, and hired the damned Pinkertons two months before, when all
+was peace. They shot many workers from the barges before the millmen
+"got after them." They deserved roasting alive for their unprovoked
+murders. Well, the men "fixed them all right." Some were killed, others
+committed suicide on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to
+surrender like whipped curs. A grand victory all right, if that coward
+of a sheriff hadn't got the Governor to send the militia to Homestead.
+But it was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best of three
+hundred armed Pinkertons. He himself, though, had nothing to do with the
+fight. He was sick at the time. They're trying to get the Pinkertons to
+swear his life away. One of the hounds has already made an affidavit
+that he saw him, Jack Tinford, throw dynamite at the barges, before the
+Pinkertons landed. But never mind, he is not afraid. No Pittsburgh jury
+will believe those lying murderers. He was in his sweetheart's house,
+sick abed. The girl and her mother will prove an alibi for him. And the
+Advisory Committee of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't on the
+shore. They'll swear to it in court, anyhow--
+
+Abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. For a moment he is lost
+in thought. Then he gives me a searching look, and smiles at me. As we
+turn the corner of the walk, he whispers: "Too bad you didn't kill him.
+Some business misunderstanding, eh?" he adds, aloud.
+
+Could he be serious, I wonder. Does he only pretend? He faces straight
+ahead, and I am unable to see his expression. I begin the careful
+explanation I had prepared:
+
+"Jack, it was for you, for your people that I--"
+
+Impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. I'd better be careful not to talk
+that way in court, he warns me. If Frick should die, I'd hang myself
+with such "gab." And it would only harm the steel-workers. They don't
+believe in killing; they respect the law. Of course, they had a right to
+defend their homes and families against unlawful invaders. But they
+welcomed the militia to Homestead. They showed their respect for
+authority. To be sure, Frick deserves to die. He is a murderer. But the
+mill-workers will have nothing to do with Anarchists. What did I want to
+kill him for, anyhow? I did not belong to the Homestead men. It was none
+of my business. I had better not say anything about it in court, or--
+
+The gong tolls.
+
+"All in!"
+
+
+VI
+
+I pass a sleepless night. The events of the day have stirred me to the
+very depths. Bitterness and anger against the Homestead striker fill my
+heart. My hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle of the
+People,--how contemptible he has proved himself, how cravenly small! No
+consciousness of the great mission of his class, no proud realization
+of the part he himself had acted in the noble struggle. A cowardly,
+overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for the prank he has
+played! Meanly concerned only with his own safety, and willing to resort
+to lying, in order to escape responsibility.
+
+The very thought is appalling. It is a sacrilege, an insult to the holy
+Cause, to the People. To myself, too. Not that lying is to be condemned,
+provided it is in the interest of the Cause. All means are justified in
+the war of humanity against its enemies. Indeed, the more repugnant the
+means, the stronger the test of one's nobility and devotion. All great
+revolutionists have proved that. There is no more striking example in
+the annals of the Russian movement than that peerless Nihilist--what was
+his name? Why, how peculiar that it should escape me just now! I knew it
+so well. He undermined the Winter Palace, beneath the very dining-room
+of the Tsar. What debasement, what terrible indignities he had to endure
+in the role of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. How his
+proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and months,--all for the sake
+of his great purpose. Wonderful man! To be worthy of your
+comradeship.... But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison.
+He is absorbed in the single thought of saving himself, the traitor. A
+veritable Judas, preparing to forswear his people and their cause,
+willing to lie and deny his participation. How proud I should be in his
+place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did! And then to die for
+it,--ah, could there be a more glorious fate for a man, a real man? To
+serve even as the least stone in the foundation of a free society, or as
+a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant People shall finally
+pass into the land of promise?
+
+A plank in the bridge.... In the _most_.[5] What a significant name! How
+it impressed me the first time I heard it! No, I saw it in print, I
+remember quite clearly. Mother had just died. I was dreaming of the New
+World, the Land of Freedom. Eagerly I read every line of "American
+news." One day, in the little Kovno library--how distinctly it all comes
+back to me--I can see myself sitting there, perusing the papers. Must
+get acquainted with the country. What is this? "Anarchists hanged in
+Chicago." There are many names--one is "Most." "What is an Anarchist?" I
+whisper to the student near by. He is from Peter,[6] he will know.
+"S--sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free America?" I wondered.
+
+  [5] Russian for "bridge."
+
+  [6] Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.
+
+How little I knew of America then! A free country, indeed, that hangs
+its noblest men. And the misery, the exploitation,--it's terrible. I
+must mention all this in court, in my defence. No, not defence--some
+fitter word. Explanation! Yes, my explanation. I need no defence: I
+don't consider myself guilty. What did the Warden mean? Fool for a
+client, he said, when I told him that I would refuse legal aid. He
+thinks I am a fool. Well, he's a _bourgeois_, he can't understand. I'll
+tell him to leave me alone. He belongs to the enemy. The lawyers, too.
+They are all in the capitalist camp. I need no lawyers. They couldn't
+explain my case. I shall not talk to the reporters, either. They are a
+lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism. They always
+misrepresent us. And they know better, too. They wrote columns of
+interviews with Most when he went to prison. All lies. I saw him off
+myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are our worst enemies. The
+Warden said that they'll come to see me to-morrow. I'll have nothing to
+say to them. They're sure to twist my words, and thus impair the effect
+of my act. It is not complete without my explanation. I shall prepare it
+very carefully. Of course, the jury won't understand. They, too, belong
+to the capitalist class. But I must use the trial to talk to the People.
+To be sure, an _Attentat_ on a Frick is in itself splendid propaganda.
+It combines the value of example with terroristic effect. But very much
+depends upon my explanation. It offers me a rare opportunity for a
+broader agitation of our ideas. The comrades outside will also use my
+act for propaganda. The People misunderstand us: they have been
+prejudiced by the capitalist press. They must be enlightened; that is
+our glorious task. Very difficult and slow work, it is true; but they
+will learn. Their patience will break, and then--the good People, they
+have always been too kind to their enemies. And brave, even in their
+suffering. Yes, very brave. Not like that fellow, the steel-worker. He
+is a disgrace to Homestead, the traitor....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pace the cell in agitation. The Judas-striker is not fit to live.
+Perhaps it would be best they should hang him. His death would help to
+open the eyes of the People to the real character of legal justice.
+Legal justice--what a travesty! They are mutually exclusive terms. Yes,
+indeed, it would be best he should be hanged. The Pinkerton will testify
+against him. He saw Jack throw dynamite. Very good. Perhaps others will
+also swear to it. The judge will believe the Pinkertons. Yes, they will
+hang him.
+
+The thought somewhat soothes my perturbation. At least the cause of the
+People will benefit to some extent. The man himself is not to be
+considered. He has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively
+personal; he can be of no further benefit to the People. Only his death
+can aid the Cause. It is best for him to end his career in the service
+of humanity. I hope he will act like a man on the scaffold. The enemy
+should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror. They'll see in him
+the spirit of the People. Of course, he is not worthy of it. But he must
+die like a rebel-worker, bravely, defiantly. I must speak to him about
+it.
+
+The deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie.
+
+
+VII
+
+There is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude of the night. The
+day's atmosphere is surcharged with noisome anxiety, the hours laden
+with impending terrors. But the night is soothing. For the first time I
+feel alone, unobserved. The "night-dog has been called off." How
+refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the hangman be robbed of his
+prey! A simple precaution against suicide, the Warden told me. I felt
+the naive stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger. What
+a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes! His mind cannot grasp the
+impossibility of suicide before I have explained to the People the
+motive and purpose of my act. Suicide? As if the mere death of Frick was
+my object! The very thought is impossible, insulting. It outrages me
+that even a _bourgeois_ should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an
+active revolutionist. The insignificant reptile, Frick,--as if the mere
+man were worth a terroristic effort! I aimed at the many-headed hydra
+whose visible representative was Frick. The Homestead developments had
+given him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head into
+bold relief, so to speak. That alone made him worthy of the
+revolutionist's attention. Primarily, as an object lesson; it would
+strike terror into the soul of his class. They are craven-hearted, their
+conscience weighted with guilt,--and life is dear to them. Their
+strangling hold on labor might be loosened. Only for a while, no doubt.
+But that much would be gained, due to the act of the _Attentaeter_. The
+People could not fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its
+own life for their cause. To give a young life, full of health and
+vitality, to give all, without a thought of self; to give all,
+voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically--could any one fail to
+understand such a love?
+
+But this is the first terrorist act in America. The People may fail to
+comprehend it thoroughly. Yet they will know that an Anarchist committed
+the deed. I will talk to them from the courtroom. And my comrades at
+liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed light on the
+questions involved. Such a deed must draw the attention of the world.
+This first act of voluntary Anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen
+think deeply. Perhaps even more so than the Chicago martyrdom. The
+latter was preeminently a lesson in capitalist justice. The culmination
+of a plutocratic conspiracy, the tragedy of 1887 lacked the element of
+voluntary Anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the People. In
+that distinctive quality my act is initial. Perhaps it will prove the
+entering wedge. The leaven of growing oppression is at work. It is for
+us, the Anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. Let the world
+learn of the misery of Homestead. The sudden thunderclap gives warning
+that beyond the calm horizon the storm is gathering. The lightning of
+social protest--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Quick, Ahlick! Plant it." Something white flutters between the bars.
+Hastily I read the newspaper clipping. Glorious! Who would have
+expected it? A soldier in one of the regiments stationed at Homestead
+called upon the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot Frick."
+My soul overflows with beautiful hopes. Such a wonderful spirit among
+the militia; perhaps the soldiers will fraternize with the strikers. It
+is by no means an impossibility: such things have happened before. After
+all, they are of the People, mostly workingmen. Their interests are
+identical with those of the strikers, and surely they hate Frick, who is
+universally condemned for his brutality, his arrogance. This
+soldier--what is his name? Iams, W. L. Iams--he typifies the best
+feeling of the regiment. The others probably lack his courage. They
+feared to respond to his cheers, especially because of the Colonel's
+presence. But undoubtedly most of them feel as Iams does. It would be
+dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the Tenth Pennsylvania. And in the
+other Homestead regiments, there must also be such noble Iamses. They
+will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the Colonel
+threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man. He is a citizen, a native.
+He has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. If he had
+condemned it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice a
+favorable sentiment? No, they can't punish him. And he is surely very
+popular among the soldiers. How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged
+before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for "the assassin
+of Mr. Frick," as the imbecile put it. Iams stepped out of the ranks,
+and boldly avowed his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it.
+But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. He even refused
+the Colonel's offer to apologize.
+
+Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist. Such a man has
+no business to belong to the militia. He should know for what purpose
+it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. After
+all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. It will enlighten him. I
+must follow the case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. It
+was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. The Warden has
+expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other
+prisoners are permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me in
+every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce
+"Anarchist." Yesterday he said to me: "The Anachrists are no good. What
+do they want, anyhow?" I replied, angrily: "First you say they are no
+good, then you ask what they want." He flushed. "Got no use for them,
+anyway." Such an imbecile! Not the least sense of justice--he condemns
+without knowing. I believe he is aiding the detectives. Why does he
+insist I should plead guilty? I have repeatedly told him that, though I
+do not deny the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright. "Better
+plead guilty, you'll get off easier. You did it, so better plead
+guilty." In vain I strove to explain to him: "I don't believe in your
+laws, I don't acknowledge the authority of your courts. I am innocent,
+morally." The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing
+about his lips. "Plead guilty. Take my advice, plead guilty."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The small, cunning eyes
+of the Warden peer intently through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well,
+he may have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture shall draw
+from me an admission incriminating the negro. The name Rakhmetov flits
+through my mind. I shall be true to that memory.
+
+"A gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the Warden informs me.
+
+"Who is he?"
+
+"A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh."
+
+"I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don't care to see the man."
+
+The Warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions. Why should he be so
+much interested in my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have
+been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden insists. I refuse.
+Finally he orders me out of the cell. Two guards lead me into the
+hallway. They halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are
+counted off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice that I am
+the only one in the line wearing glasses. The Warden enters from an
+inner office, accompanied by three visitors. They pass down the row,
+scrutinizing each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the men. One of
+the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of
+the man on my left. The Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They
+converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till
+they are alongside of me. The tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on
+my shoulder, exclaiming:
+
+"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you on Fifth Avenue, right
+in front of the Telegraph building."[7]
+
+  [7] The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company
+      were located.
+
+"I never saw you before in my life."
+
+"Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you--"
+
+"No, you did not," I interrupt, impatiently.
+
+"Take him back," the Warden commands.
+
+I protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A positive
+identification," the Warden asserts. The detective had seen me "in the
+company of two friends, inspecting the office of Mr. Frick." Indignantly
+I deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to
+involve my comrades. He grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of
+exercise that afternoon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The Warden's role in the police plot is now apparent to me. I realize
+him in his true colors. Ignorant though he is, familiarity with police
+methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of
+the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks a depth of
+malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his
+wardenship over unfortunate human beings.
+
+This new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents
+heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is being detained at the office, I am
+sure. It is impossible that my New York comrades should have neglected
+me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a matter of due
+precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. But two or three
+days would be sufficient to perfect a _Deckadresse_.[8] Yet not a line
+has reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is being detained.
+
+  [8] A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the
+      correspondent.
+
+My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden. His infamy fills me
+with rage. The negro's warning against the occupant of the next cell
+assumes a new aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the
+Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add
+strong proof to justify the suspicion. It grows to conviction as I
+review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. The questions I
+deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the light of
+the Warden's role as volunteer detective. The young negro was sent to
+the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. But the
+latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and
+talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the Warden, too, is
+hand-in-glove with the police. I am convinced he himself caused the
+writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked
+Homestead, from a pretended striker. They want to blow up the mills, the
+letter said; good bombs are needed. I should send them the addresses of
+my friends who know how to make effective explosives. What a stupid
+trap! One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders
+in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned. Well, I am not to be
+caught with such chaff. But I must be on my guard. It is best I should
+decline to accept mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow.
+Yes, I'll refuse all mail.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. Not a single being
+here I may call friend; except the negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I
+hope he will give me more clippings,--perhaps there will be news of my
+comrades. I'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise to-morrow.... Oh!
+they are handing out tracts. To-morrow is Sunday,--no exercise!
+
+
+VIII
+
+The Lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. A scanty
+allowance of bread, with a tincupful of black, unsweetened coffee,
+constitutes breakfast. Supper is a repetition of the morning meal,
+except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force
+myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It tastes like greasy
+dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread.
+
+Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The atmosphere is pervaded
+with the gloom of unbroken silence. In the afternoon, I hear the
+creaking of the inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the good
+ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors on Murderers' Row are
+opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. The prisoners remain in their
+cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances.
+
+All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive
+quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on
+the bars. I hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the
+turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow
+athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver protruding from
+his pocket.
+
+Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. Female
+voices swell the melody, "Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." Slowly
+the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the
+gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "Nearer to Thee, to Thee."
+
+The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters, "Let us pray." Its
+metallic hardness rings like a command. The guards stand with lowered
+heads. Their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "Our Father who
+art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.... Forgive us our
+trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us----"
+
+"Like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is
+suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the
+stairs. The uproar increases. "Order!" Yells and catcalls drown the
+Warden's voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of
+rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have
+reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard.
+
+The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The
+prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee.
+
+"Give the s---- of b---- no supper! No supper!" roars the Warden.
+
+Sabbath benediction!
+
+The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night.
+
+
+IX
+
+In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn't die! He has almost recovered.
+I have positive information: the "blind" prisoner gave me the clipping
+during exercise. "You're a poor shot," he teased me.
+
+The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the
+intensity of a catastrophe. My imprisonment, the vexations of jail life,
+the future--all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization
+of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms
+me. I failed! Failed!... It might have been different, had I gone to
+Frick's residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in
+the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very
+morning the papers had announced Frick's intended visit to New York. I
+was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It
+was mainly his cowardice that saved him--he hid under the chair! Played
+dead! And now he lives, the vampire.... And Homestead? How will it
+affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have
+hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of
+Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be
+held accountable. The author of "Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to
+adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for
+Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his role as
+the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle.
+Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist
+propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be
+blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick's
+death. But his recovery....
+
+Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the
+strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia
+to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity
+to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,--our
+propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a
+very small part of the American working class. Important as this great
+struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true
+cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will
+solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The
+suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under
+capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly
+increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere
+sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know
+the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the
+core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the
+abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can
+save the world.
+
+These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the
+desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated.
+But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical
+result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is,
+always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my _Attentat_
+was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital
+interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to
+stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and
+thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead
+situation offered the psychologic social moment. What matter the
+personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my
+_Attentat_? The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act
+is accomplished.
+
+As to myself--my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for
+the Cause. But now they will send me to prison--they will bury me
+alive....
+
+Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I
+remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the
+police station, on the third day after my arrest.... Rough hands seize
+my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently
+backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat.
+
+"Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!"
+
+Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the
+bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung
+high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling....
+
+"Now, Doc, quick!"
+
+There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise,
+and my mouth is torn open.
+
+"What d'ye think of _that_, eh?"
+
+The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge.
+
+"What's this?" he demands, with an oath.
+
+"Candy," I reply, defiantly.
+
+
+X
+
+How full of anxiety these two weeks have been! Still no news of my
+comrades. The Warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently
+regards my last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase
+papers; they may contain something about my friends. If I could only
+learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the Girl and
+Fedya are doing! I long to know what is happening with them. But my
+interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so far away,--I
+do not count among the living. On the outside, everything seems to
+continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frick is quite well now;
+at his desk again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance. The
+police seem to have given up their hunt. How ridiculous the Chief has
+made himself by kidnaping my friend Mollock, the New York baker! The
+impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across
+the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! I suppose he is
+the only Anarchist the stupid Chief could find. My negro friend informed
+me of the kidnaping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the "silent
+baker" would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word, could they draw from him.
+Mollock's discharge by the magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous
+position. Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim
+nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades preserve silence, all
+will be well, for I was careful to leave no clew. I had told them that
+my destination was Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can
+depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom I found living in the
+same house with Nold, impressed me as rather unreliable. I thought there
+was something of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not
+trust him, and I'm afraid he might compromise the others. Why are they
+friendly, I wonder. He is probably not even a comrade. The Allegheny
+Anarchists should have nothing in common with him. It is not well for us
+to associate with the _bourgeois_-minded.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am
+"wanted at the office." There is a letter for me, but some postage is
+due on it. Would I pay?
+
+"A trap," it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall
+persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail.
+
+"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the Warden.
+
+He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y."
+
+I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman's, but the
+chirography is smaller than the Girl's. I yearn for news of her. The
+letter is from Brooklyn--perhaps a _Deckadresse_!
+
+"I'll take the letter, Warden."
+
+"All right. You will open it here."
+
+"Then I don't want it."
+
+I start from the office; when the Warden detains me:
+
+"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me.
+You may go now."
+
+I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I
+shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no obligations. As with trembling
+hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I
+glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan
+the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of
+humanity. "I am not an Anarchist," I read, "but I wish you well. My
+sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify
+your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None has the
+right to take what he cannot give."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with the problem presented so
+unexpectedly. Can any one understanding my motives, doubt the
+justification of the _Attentat_? The legal aspect aside, can the
+morality of the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound law with
+right; they are opposites. The law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of
+rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. To
+be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that
+conspiracy. A revolutionist is the truly moral man: to him the interests
+of humanity are supreme; to advance them, his sole aim in life.
+Government, with its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons are
+justifiable in the noble struggle of the People against this terrible
+curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the centuries. The path of Man
+is soaked with the blood it has shed. Can this great criminal determine
+Right? Is a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? It would mean the
+perpetuation of human slavery.
+
+No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. He is the
+soldier of humanity. He has consecrated his life to the People in their
+great struggle. It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from
+the service it imposes upon him. Aye, even the duty of death. Cheerfully
+and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of
+liberty. His life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or
+enjoy while others suffer.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+How often we had discussed this, Fedya and I. He was somewhat inclined
+to sybaritism; not quite emancipated from the tendencies of his
+_bourgeois_ youth. Once in New York--I shall never forget--at the time
+when our circle had just begun the publication of the first Jewish
+Anarchist paper in America, we came to blows. We, the most intimate
+friends; yes, actually came to blows. Nobody would have believed it.
+They used to call us the Twins. If I happened to appear anywhere alone,
+they would inquire, anxiously, "What is the matter? Is your chum sick?"
+It was so unusual; we were each other's shadow. But one day I struck
+him. He had outraged my most sacred feelings: to spend twenty cents for
+a meal! It was not mere extravagance; it was positively a crime,
+incredible in a revolutionist. I could not forgive him for months. Even
+now,--two years have passed,--yet a certain feeling of resentment still
+remains with me. What right had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence?
+The movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. To spend twenty cents
+for a single meal! He was a traitor to the Cause. True, it was his first
+meal in two days, and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the
+parks. He had worked hard, too, to earn the money. But he should have
+known that he had no right to his earnings while the movement stood in
+such need of funds. His defence was unspeakably aggravating: he had
+earned ten dollars that week--he had given seven into the paper's
+treasury--he needed three dollars for his week's expenses--his shoes
+were torn, too. I had no patience with such arguments. They merely
+proved his _bourgeois_ predilections. Personal comforts could not be of
+any consideration to a true revolutionist. It was a question of the
+movement; _its_ needs, the first issue. Every penny spent for ourselves
+was so much taken from the Cause. True, the revolutionist must live. But
+luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. One could exist on five cents a
+day. Twenty cents for a single meal! Incredible. It was robbery.
+
+Poor Twin! He was deeply grieved, but he knew that I was merely just.
+The revolutionist has no personal right to anything. Everything he has
+or earns belongs to the Cause. Everything, even his affections. Indeed,
+these especially. He must not become too much attached to anything. He
+should guard against strong love or passion. The People should be his
+only great love, his supreme passion. Mere human sentiment is unworthy
+of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity, and he must ever be
+ready to respond to its call. The soldier of Revolution must not be
+lured from the field of battle by the siren song of love. Great danger
+lurks in such weakness. The Russian tyrant has frequently attempted to
+bait his prey with a beautiful woman. Our comrades there are careful not
+to associate with any woman, except of proved revolutionary character.
+Aye, her mere passive interest in the Cause is not sufficient. Love may
+transform her into a Delilah to shear one's strength. Only with a woman
+consecrated to active participation may the revolutionist associate.
+Their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration, a source of
+increased strength. Equals, thoroughly solidaric, they would the more
+successfully serve the Cause of the People. Countless Russian women bear
+witness--Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch, and many other
+heroic martyrs, tortured in the casemates of Schluesselburg, buried alive
+in the Petropavlovka. What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect comrades
+they were, often stronger than the men. Brave, noble women that fill the
+prisons and _etapes_, tramp the toilsome road....
+
+The Siberian steppe rises before me. Its broad expanse shimmers in the
+sun's rays, and blinds the eye with white brilliancy. The endless
+monotony agonizes the sight, and stupefies the brain. It breathes the
+chill of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the terror of
+madness. In vain the eye seeks relief from the white Monster that slowly
+tightens his embrace, and threatens to swallow you in his frozen
+depth.... There, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a
+heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. It winds along the virgin bosom,
+grows redder and deeper, and ascends the mountain in a dark ribbon,
+twining and wreathing its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing
+in the hollow, and again rising on the height. Behold a man and a woman,
+hand in hand, their heads bent, on their shoulders a heavy cross, slowly
+toiling the upward way, and behind them others, men and women, young and
+old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the dismal desert,
+amid death and silence, save for the mournful clank, clank of the
+chains....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Get out now. Exercise!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As in a dream I walk along the gallery. The voice of my exercise mate
+sounds dully in my ears. I do not understand what he is saying. Does he
+know about the Nihilists, I wonder?
+
+"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?"
+
+"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a
+book. A corker, too, it was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?"
+
+"Nihilists."
+
+"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff."
+
+"What was the name?"
+
+"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff."
+
+"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?"
+
+"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A fellow needs a cast-iron
+jaw to say it every day. But the story was a corker all right. About a
+Rooshan patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you. Overheard a
+plot to kill th' king by them fellows--er--what's you call 'em?"
+
+"Nihilists?"
+
+"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to kill his Nibs and all
+the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you
+bet. But Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets in all
+kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. But he's game. I
+don't remember how it all ends, but--"
+
+"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the truth about--"
+
+"Oh, t'hell with it! Say, Berk, d'ye think they'll hang me? Won't the
+judge sympathize with a blind man? Look at me eyes. Pretty near blind,
+swear to God, I am. Won't hang a blind man, will they?"
+
+The pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and I assure him they will not hang
+a blind man. His eyes brighten, his face grows radiant with hope.
+
+Why does he love life so, I wonder. Of what value is it without a high
+purpose, uninspired by revolutionary ideals? He is small and cowardly:
+he lies to save his neck. There is nothing at all wrong with his eyes.
+But why should _I_ lie for his sake?
+
+My conscience smites me for the moment of weakness. I should not allow
+inane sentimentality to influence me: it is beneath the revolutionist.
+
+"Billy," I say with some asperity, "many innocent people have been
+hanged. The Nihilists, for instance--"
+
+"Oh, damn 'em! What do _I_ care about 'em! Will they hang _me_, that's
+what I want to know."
+
+"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. A
+look of terror spreads over his face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his
+lips parted. "Yes," I continue, "perhaps they will hang you. Many
+innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don't think you are innocent,
+either; nor blind. You don't need those glasses; there is nothing the
+matter with your eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don't want them to hang
+you. I don't believe in hanging. But I must tell you the truth, and
+you'd better be ready for the worst."
+
+Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage suffuses his cheeks
+with spots of dark red.
+
+"You're crazy! What's the use talkin' to you, anyhow? You are a damn
+Anarchist. I'm a good Catholic, I want you to know that! I haven't
+always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. I'm no
+damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I'm pretty near blind,
+and this is a Christian country, thank God! They won't hang a blind man.
+Don't you ever talk to _me_ again!"
+
+
+XI
+
+The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety
+about the approaching trial. It is part of the designed cruelty to keep
+me ignorant of the precise date. "Hold yourself ready. You may be called
+any time," the Warden had said. But the shadows are lengthening, the
+days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court
+calendar. Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My mission is
+almost accomplished,--the explanation in court, and then my life is
+done. I shall never again have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I
+may therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for the partial
+failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my
+heart. Yet why? The physical results of my act cannot affect its
+propagandistic value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above
+them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. "Bad shot, ain't
+you?" They do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and
+try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the
+revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness. They are so far
+beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests;
+they cannot understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the
+eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The "trusty" passes along the gallery. He walks slowly, dusting the iron
+railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the
+cat-o'-many-tails. Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low,
+pretending to wipe the doorsill,--there is a quick movement of his hand,
+and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my
+feet. "A stiff," he whispers.
+
+Indifferently I pick up the note. I know no one in the jail; it is
+probably some poor fellow asking for cigarettes. Placing the roll
+between the pages of a newspaper, I am surprised to find it in German.
+From whom can it be? I turn to the signature. Carl Nold? It's
+impossible; it's a trap! No, but that handwriting,--I could not mistake
+it: the small, clear chirography is undoubtedly Nold's. But how did he
+smuggle in this note? I feel the blood rush to my head as my eye flits
+over the penciled lines: Bauer and he are arrested; they are in the jail
+now, charged with conspiracy to kill Frick; detectives swore they met
+them in my company, in front of the Frick office building. They have
+engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. Would I accept his services? I
+probably have no money, and I shouldn't expect any from New York,
+because Most--what's this?--because Most has repudiated the act--
+
+The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty I walk to the gallery.
+I feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and I stumble against the
+railing.
+
+"Is yo sick, Ahlick?" It must be the negro's voice. My throat is dry; my
+lips refuse to move. Hazily I see the guard approach. He walks me to the
+cell, and lowers the berth. "You may lie down." The lock clicks, and I'm
+alone.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The line marches past, up and down, up and down. The regular footfall
+beats against my brain like hammer strokes. When will they stop? My head
+aches dreadfully--I am glad I don't have to walk--it was good of the
+negro to call the guard--I felt so sick. What was it? Oh, the note!
+Where is it?
+
+The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick the newspaper up from
+the floor. With trembling hands I turn the leaves. Ah, it's here! If I
+had not found it, I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy?
+
+The sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread. Nold and Bauer
+here! Perhaps--if they act discreetly--all will be well. They are
+innocent; they can prove it. But Most! How can it be possible? Of
+course, he was displeased when I began to associate with the
+autonomists. But how can that make any difference? At such a time! What
+matter personal likes and dislikes to a revolutionist, to a Most--the
+hero of my first years in America, the name that stirred my soul in that
+little library in Kovno--Most, the Bridge of Liberty! My teacher--the
+author of the _Kriegswissenschaft_--the ideal revolutionist--he to
+denounce me, to repudiate propaganda by deed?
+
+It's incredible! I cannot believe it. The Girl will not fail to write to
+me about it. I'll wait till I hear from her. But, then, Nold is himself
+a great admirer of Most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless
+fully convinced that it is true. Yet--it is barely conceivable. How
+explain such a change in Most? To forswear his whole past, his glorious
+past! He was always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism.
+Some tremendous motive must be back of such apostasy. It has no parallel
+in Anarchist annals. But what can it be? How boldly he acted during the
+Haymarket tragedy--publicly advised the use of violence to avenge the
+capitalist conspiracy. He must have realized the danger of the speech
+for which he was later doomed to Blackwell's Island. I remember his
+defiant manner on the way to prison. How I admired his strong spirit, as
+I accompanied him on the last ride! That was only a little over a year
+ago, and he is just out a few months. Perhaps--is it possible? A coward?
+Has that prison experience influenced his present attitude? Why, it is
+terrible to think of Most--a coward? He who has devoted his entire life
+to the Cause, sacrificed his seat in the Reichstag because of
+uncompromising honesty, stood in the forefront all his life, faced peril
+and danger,--_he_ a coward? Yet, it is impossible that he should have
+suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. What could have prompted his
+denunciation of my act? Personal dislike? No, that was a matter of
+petty jealousy. His confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded.
+Did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans concerning
+Russia? That was proof of absolute faith. One could not change his
+opinion so suddenly. Moreover, it can have no bearing on his repudiation
+of a terrorist act. I can find no explanation, unless--can it be?--fear
+of personal consequences. Afraid _he_ might be held responsible,
+perhaps. Such a possibility is not excluded, surely. The enemy hates him
+bitterly, and would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to hang
+him. But that is the price one pays for his love of humanity. Every
+revolutionist is exposed to this danger. Most especially; his whole
+career has been a duel with tyranny. But he was never before influenced
+by such considerations. Is he not prepared to take the responsibility
+for his terrorist propaganda, the work of his whole life? Why has he
+suddenly been stricken with fear? Can it be? Can it be?...
+
+My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair grips my heart, as
+I hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. But it cannot be;
+Nold has made a mistake. May be the letter is a trap; it was not written
+by Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps I'll have
+a letter in the morning. The Girl--she is the only one I can
+trust--she'll tell me--
+
+My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed. Perhaps to-morrow ... a
+letter....
+
+
+XII
+
+"Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?" the Warden asks.
+
+"What 'pards'?"
+
+"Your partners, Bauer and Nold."
+
+"My comrades, you mean. I have no partners."
+
+"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers are here."
+
+"Yes, I'll see them."
+
+Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct my own case, and
+explain my act. But I shall be glad to meet my comrades. I wonder how
+they feel about their arrest,--perhaps they are inclined to blame me.
+And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side with Most--
+
+My senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies me into the hall.
+Near the wall, seated at a small table, I behold Nold and Bauer. Two
+other men are with them; their attorneys, I suppose. All eyes scrutinize
+me curiously, searchingly. Nold advances toward me. His manner is
+somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness in his heavy-browed
+eyes. He grasps my hand. The pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns
+to pour boundless confidence into my heart. For a moment a wave of
+thankfulness overwhelms me: I long to embrace him. But curious eyes bore
+into me. I glance at Bauer. There is a cheerful smile on the
+good-natured, ruddy face. The guard pushes a chair toward the table, and
+leans against the railing. His presence constrains me: he will report to
+the Warden everything said.
+
+I am introduced to the lawyers. The contrast in their appearance
+suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling. The younger man, evidently a
+recent graduate, is quick, alert, and talkative. There is an air of
+anxious expectancy about him, with a look of Semitic shrewdness in the
+long, narrow face. He enlarges upon the kind consent of his
+distinguished colleague to take charge of my case. His demeanor toward
+the elder lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. The latter
+looks bored, and is silent.
+
+"Do you wish to say something, Colonel?" the young lawyer suggests.
+
+"Nothing."
+
+He ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. His colleague looks
+abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a naughty act.
+
+"You, Mr. Berkman?" he asks.
+
+I thank them for their interest in my case. But I need no defence, I
+explain, since I do not consider myself guilty. I am exclusively
+concerned in making a public statement in the courtroom. If I am
+represented by an attorney, I should be deprived of the opportunity. Yet
+it is most vital to clarify to the People the purpose of my act, the
+circumstances--
+
+The heavy breathing opposite distracts me. I glance at the Colonel. His
+eyes are closed, and from the parted lips there issues the regular
+respiration of sound sleep. A look of mild dismay crosses the young
+lawyer's face. He rises with an apologetic smile.
+
+"You are tired, Colonel. It's awfully close here."
+
+"Let us go," the Colonel replies.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Depressed I return to the cell. The old lawyer,--how little my
+explanation interested him! He fell asleep! Why, it is a matter of life
+and death, an issue that involves the welfare of the world! I was so
+happy at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent
+Americans,--and he was sleeping! The young lawyer, too, is disgusting,
+with his air of condescending pity toward one who "will have a fool for
+a client," as he characterized my decision to conduct my own case. He
+may think such a course suicidal. Perhaps it is, in regard to
+consequences. But the length of the sentence is a matter of
+indifference to me: I'll die soon, anyway. The only thing of importance
+now is my explanation. And that man fell asleep! Perhaps he considers me
+a criminal. But what can I expect of a lawyer, when even the
+steel-worker could not understand my act? Most himself--
+
+With the name, I recollect the letters the guard had given me during the
+interview. There are three of them; one from the Girl! At last! Why did
+she not write before? They must have kept the letter in the office. Yes,
+the postmark is a week old. She'll tell me about Most,--but what is the
+use? I'm sure of it now; I read it plainly in Nold's eyes. It's all
+true. But I must see what she writes.
+
+How every line breathes her devotion to the Cause! She is the real
+Russian woman revolutionist. Her letter is full of bitterness against
+the attitude of Most and his lieutenants in the German and Jewish
+Anarchist circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement in my
+imprisonment. She refers to the financial difficulties of the little
+commune consisting of Fedya, herself, and one or two other comrades, and
+closes with the remark that, fortunately, I need no money for legal
+defence or attorneys.
+
+The staunch Girl! She and Fedya are, after all, the only true
+revolutionists I know in our ranks. The others all possess some
+weakness. I could not rely on them. The German comrades,--they are
+heavy, phlegmatic; they lack the enthusiasm of Russia. I wonder how they
+ever produced a Reinsdorf. Well, he is the exception. There is nothing
+to be expected from the German movement, excepting perhaps the
+autonomists. But they are a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept
+alive mainly by the Most and Peukert feud. Peukert, too, the life of
+their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation.
+Quite natural, of course. A terrible injustice has been done him.[9] It
+is remarkable that the false accusations have not driven him into
+obscurity. There is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean
+order, in his survival in the movement. It was that which first awakened
+my interest in him. Most's explanation, full of bitter invective,
+suggested hostile personal feeling. What a tremendous sensation I
+created at the first Jewish Anarchist Conference by demanding that the
+charges against Peukert be investigated! The result entirely failed to
+substantiate the accusations. But the Mostianer were not convinced,
+blinded by the vituperative eloquence of Most. And now ... now, again,
+they will follow, as blindly. To be sure, they will not dare take open
+stand against my act; not the Jewish comrades, at least. After all, the
+fire of Russia still smolders in their hearts. But Most's attitude
+toward me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm, and thus
+react on the propaganda. The burden of making agitation through my act
+will fall on the Girl's shoulders. She will stand a lone soldier in the
+field. She will exert her utmost efforts, I am convinced. But she will
+stand alone. Fedya will also remain loyal. But what can he do? He is not
+a speaker. Nor the rest of the commune circle. And Most? We had all been
+so intimate.... It's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice, too. Yes,
+mostly cowardice--he can't be jealous of me now! He recently left
+prison,--it must have terrorized him. The weakling! He will minimize the
+effect of my act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence
+altogether.... Now I stand alone--except for the Girl--quite alone. It
+is always so. Was not "he" alone, my beloved, "unknown" Grinevitzky,
+isolated, scorned by his comrades? But his bomb ... how it thundered...
+
+  [9] Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria,
+      was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into
+      the hands of the police. Neve was sentenced to ten years'
+      prison. Peukert always insisted that the accusation against
+      him originated with some of his political enemies among the
+      Socialists. It is certain that the arrest of Neve was not
+      due to calculated treachery on the part of Peukert, but
+      rather to indiscretion.
+
+I was just a boy then. Let me see,--it was in 1881. I was about eleven
+years old. The class was assembling after the noon recess. I had barely
+settled in my seat, when the teacher called me forward. His long pointer
+was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of Russia.
+
+"What province is that?" he demanded.
+
+"Astrakhan."
+
+"Mention its chief products."
+
+Products? The name Chernishevsky flitted through my mind. He was in
+Astrakhan,--I heard Maxim tell mother so at dinner.
+
+"Nihilists," I burst out.
+
+The boys tittered; some laughed aloud. The teacher grew purple. He
+struck the pointer violently on the floor, shivering the tapering end.
+Suddenly there broke a roll of thunder. One--two-- With a terrific
+crash, the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook beneath our
+feet. The room was hushed. Deathly pale, the teacher took a step toward
+the window, but hastily turned, and dashed from the room. The pupils
+rushed after him. I wondered at the air of fear and suspicion on the
+streets. At home every one spoke in subdued tunes. Father looked at
+mother severely, reproachfully, and Maxim was unusually silent, but his
+face seemed radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. At night, alone
+with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed, knelt at my side, and
+threw his arms around me and kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. His
+wildness frightened me. "What is it, Maximotchka?" I breathed softly. He
+ran up and down the room, kissing me and murmuring, "Glorious, glorious!
+Victory!"
+
+Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious,
+awe-inspiring words: Will of the People--tyrant removed--Free Russia....
+
+
+XIII
+
+The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. Life is so remote,
+so appallingly far away--it has abandoned me in this desert of silence.
+The distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens,
+accentuate my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life, huge,
+palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. How unmindful
+of myself, flung into the darkness,--like a furnace spark belched forth
+amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night.
+
+The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life.
+Every approach they guard, lest I enter back--I and the others here.
+Poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their
+trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces
+are haggard and anxious. They walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long
+days of waiting. Only "Blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. But
+I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am sure his eyes were
+moist when the three Italians returned from court this morning. They had
+been sentenced to death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with
+a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both hands over his
+face, weeping silently. But the old man, their father--as he was
+crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed,
+then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body
+falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards dragged him up the
+stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson
+spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he
+stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried
+hoarsely, anguished, "O Santa Maria! Sio innocente inno--"
+
+The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and fell.
+
+"Ready! Death-watch!" shouted the Warden.
+
+"In-no-cente! Death-watch!" mocked the echo under the roof.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized cry; its black despair
+chills my marrow. Exercise hour has become insupportable. The prisoners
+irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening monotony of
+the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant cruelty and brutality is
+harrowing. I wish it were all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a
+ceaseless torture. I have been waiting now almost two months. My court
+speech is prepared. I could die now, but they would suppress my
+explanation, and the People thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose.
+I owe it to the Cause--and to the true comrades--to stay on the scene
+till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind me to life. With the
+speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. Death,
+suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that
+is self-evident. If I only knew the date of my trial,--that day will be
+my last. The poor old Italian,--he and his sons, they at least know when
+they are to die. They count each day; every hour brings them closer to
+the end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps they killed
+under great provocation, in the heat of passion. But the sheriff will
+murder them in cold blood. The law of peace and order!
+
+I shall not be hanged--yet I feel as if I were dead. My life is done;
+only the last rite remains to be performed. After that--well, I'll find
+a way. When the trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. The spoon
+is of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it--on the stone floor--very
+quietly, at night--
+
+"Number six, to court! Num-ber six!"
+
+Did the turnkey call "six"? Who is in cell six? Why, it's _my_ cell! I
+feel the cold perspiration running down my back. My heart beats
+violently, my hands tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper.
+Nervously I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my name didn't
+appear yet in the court calendar column. The list is published every
+Monday--why, this is Saturday's paper--yesterday we had service--it must
+be Monday to-day. Oh, shame! They didn't give me the paper to-day, and
+it's Monday--yes, it's Monday--
+
+The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks.
+
+"Hurry, To court!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+THE TRIAL
+
+
+The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows
+cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the sombre light the faces
+look funereal, spectral.
+
+Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the Girl, have come to
+greet me.... Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police and court
+attendants on every side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is
+humiliating that through them I must speak to the People.
+
+"Prisoner at the bar, stand up!"
+
+The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania--the clerk vociferates--charges me with
+felonious assault on H. C. Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault
+on John G. A. Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie
+Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and
+with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons.
+
+"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
+
+I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the
+attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not
+true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only--
+
+"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts.
+
+"Not guilty. I want to explain--"
+
+"Your attorneys will do that."
+
+"I have no attorney."
+
+"The Court will appoint one to defend you."
+
+"I need no defence. I want to make a statement."
+
+"You will be given an opportunity at the proper time."
+
+Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use are all these
+preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the
+jury box there, they are to decide my fate. As if they could understand!
+They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the talesmen
+not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered.
+
+"When was the jury picked?" I demand.
+
+"You have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts.
+
+The names of the talesmen sound strange. But what matter who are the men
+to judge me? They, too, belong to the enemy. They will do the master's
+bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the
+Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and
+the new jurors file into the box.
+
+The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro employees of Frick in
+turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick
+office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the
+hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective
+who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a
+physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal.
+John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies.
+"It's a lie!" I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat.
+Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him.
+
+The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the
+State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall
+not participate in the mockery.
+
+"Call the witnesses for the defence," the judge commands.
+
+I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The
+prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my
+prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of
+the court interpreter.
+
+"I address myself to the People," I begin. "Some may wonder why I have
+declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I
+am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave
+and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an
+_Attentat_ cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It
+requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A
+lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of
+the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but
+rather the _explanation_ of the deed. It is mistaken to believe _me_ on
+trial. The actual defendant is Society--the system of injustice, of the
+organized exploitation of the People."
+
+The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he
+translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his
+inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart
+bleeds at his meaningless declamation.
+
+"Translate sentences, not single words," I remonstrate.
+
+With an impatient gesture he leaves me.
+
+"Oh, please, go on!" I cry in dismay.
+
+He returns hesitatingly.
+
+"Look at my paper," I adjure him, "and translate each sentence as I read
+it."
+
+The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is
+blind!
+
+"Let--us--continue," he stammers.
+
+"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts.
+
+"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in consternation.
+
+"It will do."
+
+"I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to--"
+
+"We allow you five more minutes."
+
+"But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the right to be
+heard."
+
+"We'll teach you differently."
+
+I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats,
+but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They
+remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.
+
+"Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?"
+
+"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your justice is a farce."
+
+"Silence!"
+
+In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards
+lead me from the courtroom.
+
+"The judge was easy on you," the Warden jeers. "Twenty-two years! Pretty
+stiff, eh?"
+
+
+
+
+PART II
+
+THE PENITENTIARY
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA--MAIN BUILDING]
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+DESPERATE THOUGHTS
+
+
+I
+
+"Make yourself at home, now. You'll stay here a while, huh, huh!"
+
+As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I
+wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone.
+
+Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I
+am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a
+void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my
+heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my
+eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a
+raging fire. Oh!
+
+I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face.
+Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces
+my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture.
+
+"Get up and undress. What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
+
+The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare.
+Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.
+
+"Now lay down and go to sleep."
+
+Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A
+terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed,
+the wall ... I can't see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A
+faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my
+face. Oh, I can see! I can see!
+
+"What t' hell's the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?"
+
+Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.... What
+a terrible place this must be! This agony---- I cannot support it.
+Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I'll die
+to-night.... With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead
+creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The
+guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with
+closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about
+the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating.... I cannot
+live here. I must die. This very night.... Something white glimmers in
+the corner. Cautiously I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold
+it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep
+back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart.
+It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over
+here--like this--I will force it in--a little lower--a steady
+pressure--just between the ribs.... The metal feels cold. How hot my
+body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek
+the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I
+only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That's
+why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court!
+There was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. He turned his head away, he
+could not face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't
+crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed....
+
+"Keep quiet there, or I'll put you in the hole."
+
+The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I'll draw the
+blanket over my head, so. What was I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He
+is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it
+does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as the
+result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I meant to kill him,
+and he lives. My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept the
+date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was
+maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept
+interrupting me. I did not read even a third of my statement. And the
+whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor old man! He
+was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he
+was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his
+screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue.
+That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern
+him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years!
+As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place!
+Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. The old villain!
+He has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims,
+the victims of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of
+it--had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed? Yet he
+wouldn't permit me to continue my statement. "The court has been very
+patient!" I am glad I told him that I didn't expect justice, and did not
+get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang
+to my lips. No, it was best that I controlled my anger. Else they would
+have rejoiced to proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things
+help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals? We, who are ever
+ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? And they, our accusers?
+They break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the
+charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act, as if the
+minor "offences" were not included in the major, made necessary by the
+deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me
+more than seven years. But I am an Anarchist. I had attempted the life
+of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I
+knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented.
+Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge.
+Well, I expected no less, and it makes no difference now. I am going to
+die, anyway.
+
+I clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. Its narrow end against my heart,
+I test the resistance of the flesh. A violent blow will drive it between
+the ribs....
+
+One, two, three--the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence,
+resonant, compelling. Instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides,
+everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are
+noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the distance
+sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows nearer and louder. I hear
+the officers' sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening
+and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan
+the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His
+eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a
+small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the
+door is closed and locked.
+
+"Want coffee? Hold your cup."
+
+Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin
+can. In the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows,
+scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the
+dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood.
+
+"What do you mean by that?" the guard shouts at me.
+
+"I couldn't help it."
+
+"Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it out of you. Hey,
+there, Sam," the officer motions to the trusty, "no dinner for A 7, you
+hear!"
+
+"Yes, sir. Yes, sir!"
+
+"No more coffee, either."
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in
+his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my
+naked feet.
+
+"Ain't you got no shoes?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Put 'em on, damn you."
+
+His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the
+either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "Damn
+you, put 'em on."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is
+still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent,
+ghostlike.
+
+
+II
+
+"Forward, march!"
+
+The lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an
+undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body
+moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand
+feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and
+falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and
+passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or
+malicious leer. Here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or
+sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped
+line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the
+ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the
+shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and
+gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the
+shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the
+last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison
+yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly
+alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron.
+The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried
+within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head,
+my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can't, I
+can't live here! I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two years! It is a
+lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die. I will! Now!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the
+cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls,
+yellow with damp--the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the
+bed--the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall--the small table
+and the rickety chair--the filthy floor, black and gray in spots....
+Why, it's stone! I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the
+corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly,
+till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and
+scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping sound. The metal is
+growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of
+blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade is
+keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand gropes for my heart. I
+touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs--here--I'll be dead when
+they find me.... If Frick had only died. So much propaganda could be
+made--that damned Most, if he hadn't turned against me! He will ruin the
+whole effect of the act. It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he
+afraid of? They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for over a
+year. He could easily prove it. The traitor! Preached propaganda by deed
+all his life--now he repudiates the first _Attentat_ in this country.
+What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he
+doesn't know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too,
+when together we set up the secret circular in the _Freiheit_ office. It
+was in William Street. We waited for the other compositors to leave;
+then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to
+Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something
+important there. Why didn't I go? What was it? Well, I can't think of it
+now. It's peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of
+revolutionists in Russia. And now.... Oh, I'll never do anything more.
+I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold--a pool of blood under me--the
+mattress will be red--no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak
+through the straw.... I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from
+my heart--I must strike right here--strong and quick--it will not pain
+much. But the edge is ragged--it may catch--or tear the flesh. They say
+the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against
+the blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close--like this--then a
+quick drive--right into the heart--it's the surest way. I must not wound
+myself--I would bleed slowly--they might discover me still alive. No,
+no! I must die at once. They'll find me dead--my heart--they'll feel
+it--not beating--the blade still in it--they'll call the doctor--"He's
+dead." And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it--she'll be
+sad--but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad--they couldn't
+torture me here--she'll know I cheated them--yes, she.... Where is she
+now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I've failed?
+And Fedya, also? If I'd only hear from her--just once. It would be
+easier to die. But she'll understand, she--
+
+"Git off that bed! Don't you know the rules, eh? Get out o' there!"
+
+Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my
+relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly,
+damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something
+repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive
+smile. Oh, it's the officer of the morning!
+
+"Foxy, ain't you? Gimme that spoon."
+
+The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the
+tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the
+spoon. I cannot afford to lose it--not to this brute--
+
+"Cap'n, here!"
+
+I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the
+spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.
+
+"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate, eh?"
+
+"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."
+
+
+III
+
+In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy
+stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped
+shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow
+parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely
+eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.
+
+"Who is this?"
+
+The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like
+face and figure. The contrast is startling.
+
+"A 7."
+
+"What is the charge, Officer?"
+
+"Two charges, Mr. McPane. Layin' in bed and tryin' soocide."
+
+A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy's wizened
+face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if
+drumming stiffly on an imaginary board.
+
+"Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm,
+to commit suicide?"
+
+"With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor."
+
+"Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as
+trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave
+offence. I'll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by
+lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer.
+He will, hm, hm, cool off."
+
+I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me.
+Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors,
+dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally
+thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger
+and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending
+over me.
+
+"A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell."
+
+"Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment."
+
+"Not safe, Mr. McPane."
+
+"We'll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers."
+
+"Git up."
+
+My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up
+the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a
+bed.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no
+weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell
+that I could use. These iron bars--I could beat my head against them.
+But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the
+brains ooze out.... But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with
+one blow? I'm afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to
+strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and
+quickest. I've always thought I'd prefer such a death--to be shot. The
+barrel close to the temple--one couldn't miss. Some people have done it
+in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver,
+either.... Through the mouth it is also fatal.... That Moscow
+student--Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov--he shot himself through
+the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I
+admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even
+left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady,
+because--he wrote--after passing through his brain, the bullet might
+damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the
+bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and
+peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my
+brother's study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I
+liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: "Sasha, Ivan
+Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time." My
+hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I
+was glad I didn't cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very
+strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her
+about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little.
+"Rather energetic," she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the
+favorable impression made by his college chum. "What did I tell you?" he
+cried, in glee; "Ivan Nikolaievitch _molodetz_![10] Think of it, he's
+only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the
+foundation of the university. _Molodetz_!" But how red were Maxim's eyes
+when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as
+he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan
+Nikolaievitch's room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the
+cotton, an I showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma
+called Max a brute. "For a woman, an unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I
+thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a
+little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly.
+They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno.
+She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she
+seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to
+talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that
+I was in love with Nadya, my sister's chum. And I had kissed our
+chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa,--I remember she threatened to tell
+mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn't come to dinner. Mamma sent the
+maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell....
+The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the
+little imp couldn't keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our
+neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me
+about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor
+would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.
+
+  [10] Clever, brave lad.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+... How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become
+of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had
+almost forgotten,--I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was
+standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I boarded. I had then
+been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She
+looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. "Don't you know me,
+Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me?" Some mistake, I thought. I
+had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited
+me into the hallway. "Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don't you
+remember? Why, you know, I was your mother's--your mother's maid." She
+blushed violently. Those red cheeks--why, certainly, it's Rosa! I
+thought of the stolen kiss. "Would I dare it now?" I wondered, suddenly
+conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. How our
+positions were changed! She looked the very _barishnya_,[11] like my
+sister. "Is your mother here?" she asked. "Mother? She died, just before
+I left." I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible
+scene when mother struck her? "I didn't know about your mother." Her
+voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always
+generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. We
+looked at each other in embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand.
+Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. "Good-bye, _Gospodin_[12]
+Berkman," she said. "I'll see you again soon. Please don't tell these
+people who I am." I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. _Gospodin_
+Berkman--somehow it echoed the servile _barinya_[13] with which the
+domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not
+gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor girl. She has not become
+emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no
+doubt. She was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she has
+learned in this country. Now she will read about me, and she'll know how
+I died.... Oh, I haven't the spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I
+can't live. I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years,
+I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't, anyhow. I might live
+here a year, or two. But twenty-two, twenty-two years! What is the use?
+No man could survive it. It's terrible, twenty-two years! Their cursed
+justice--they always talk of law. Yet legally I shouldn't have gotten
+more than seven years. Legally! As if _they_ care about "legality."
+They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand;
+but if I had seven years--perhaps I might live through it; I would try.
+But twenty-two--it's a lifetime, a whole lifetime. Seventeen is no
+better. That man Jamestown got seventeen years. He celled next to me in
+the jail. He didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small and
+puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he could live here seventeen
+years. In this hell--what an imbecile he is! He should have committed
+suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial; it's about three
+weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn't he done something? He will soon die
+here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. A strong man might live
+five years; I doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. _I_
+couldn't; no, I know I couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at most. We
+had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a
+peculiar idea of prison: I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a
+gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and
+the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes,
+and I so helpless, chained to the wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar
+idea. She said she might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a
+year, I thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms
+off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my
+flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.... And the vermin
+here, those big, brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so
+vicious and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There must be in
+the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot. I don't know how it happened.
+I was unconscious in that dark hole--it was just like my old idea of
+prison. I couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. Here it is a
+little better; but it's never light in this cell,--always in
+semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no windows; it's damp, and smells
+so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with
+blood, too. Bedbugs--augh! it's nauseating. Not much better than that
+black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle
+better,--my hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few
+years: no more than three, or may be five. But these brutal officers!
+No, no, I couldn't stand it. I want to die! I'd die here soon, anyway;
+they will kill me. But I won't give the enemy the satisfaction; they
+shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that
+they killed me. No! I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall
+have to do it--with my head against the bars--no, not now! At night,
+when it's all dark,--they couldn't save me then. It will be a terrible
+death, but it must be done.... If I only knew about "them" in New
+York--the Girl and Fedya--it would be easier to die then.... What are
+they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda out of it? They must
+be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can't live here long.
+Perhaps they wonder why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I
+could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in
+jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself
+that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me
+directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now--
+
+  [11] Young lady.
+
+  [12] Mister.
+
+  [13] Lady.
+
+"Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!" the trusty shouts into the door.
+Suddenly he whispers, "Grab it, quick!" A long, dark object is shot
+between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man
+is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can
+it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a
+white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard
+inside--it's a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my
+heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there
+is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's some one
+I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they
+permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard
+straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here--the language, the
+guards.... I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I
+ought to wash up--my head feels so heavy--I haven't washed since I got
+here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don't know, I can't
+think. But my trial--it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They
+brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard--he
+frightened me so with the bull's-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it
+must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday?
+Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I'll
+ask the trusty the next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this
+towel too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there
+is some here--
+
+My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I
+discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old
+chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy;
+near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot
+over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it
+feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The
+stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle.
+Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There's a pin in
+the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A
+note!
+
+With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing:
+
+    Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from a
+    friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we
+    know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at
+    night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls.
+    Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. So long,
+    will see you tomorrow. A true friend.
+
+I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me.
+Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My
+heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could
+escape.... Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven't I thought of it
+before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack
+the country for me. I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I'd
+be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It would make great
+propaganda: people would become much interested, and I--why, I should
+have new opportunities--
+
+The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me
+with despair. Perhaps a trap! I don't know who wrote the note. A fine
+conspirator I'd prove, to be duped so easily. But why should they want
+to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they
+are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer--the Deputy called him
+Fellings--he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his
+work, to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage?
+These things happen--they have been done in Russia. And he looks like a
+_provocateur_, the scoundrel. No, he won't get me that way. I must read
+the note again. It contains so many expressions I don't understand. I
+should "keep my lamps lit." What lamps? There are none in the cell;
+where am I to get them? And what "screws" must I watch? And the
+"stools,"--I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's
+to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says
+he will call to-morrow. I'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can
+be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I'll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I
+wish it were here!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+THE WILL TO LIVE
+
+
+I
+
+The days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. The gong
+regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my
+thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent.
+In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,--yet the suggestion of
+escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert
+itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind
+dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. The
+thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of
+escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience.
+Surely I have no fear of death--when the proper time arrives. But haste
+would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my
+duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda:
+escape would afford me many occasions to serve the Cause. It was
+thoughtless on my part to condemn that man Jamestown. I even resented
+his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the
+impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was unjust: Jamestown
+is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an
+undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new
+surroundings, get one's bearings in the prison. So far I have had but
+little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities
+to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the
+intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. At
+liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find,
+unaided, my way out. Oh, if I possessed the magic ring I dreamed of last
+night! It was a wonderful talisman, secreted--I fancied in the dream--by
+the goddess of the Social Revolution. I saw her quite distinctly: tall
+and commanding, the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes. She
+stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the
+queenly countenance, her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half
+pointing toward the dark wall. Eagerly I looked in the direction of the
+arched hand--there, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the
+brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. It was a heart-shaped ring
+cleft in the centre. Its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner
+with the aureole of a great hope. Impulsively I reached out, and pressed
+the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole, when, lo! the rays
+burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel,
+and dissolved the prison walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green
+fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of
+freedom. And then ... something dispelled the vision.
+
+Oh, if I had that magic heart now! To escape, to be free! May be my
+unknown friend will yet keep his word. He is probably perfecting plans,
+or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades could aid
+me, escape would be feasible. But the Girl and Fedya will never consider
+the possibility. No doubt they refrain from writing because they
+momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor Girl
+must be! Yet she should have written: it is now four days since my
+removal to the penitentiary. Every day I anxiously await the coming of
+the Chaplain, who distributes the mail.--There he is! The quick, nervous
+step has become familiar to my ear. Expectantly I follow his movements;
+I recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring
+lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda
+with the cell-house, and pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall
+amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a
+graveyard at night. Now the Chaplain pauses: he is comparing the number
+of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter.
+Some one has remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and grow
+faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner. He passes the cell-row
+on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier, and finally reaches the
+ground floor containing my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound
+approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. He is nearing the
+cell--he pauses. I can't see him yet, but I know he is comparing
+numbers. Perhaps the letter is for me. I hope the Chaplain will make no
+mistake: Range K, Cell 6, Number A 7. Something light flaps on the floor
+of the next cell, and the quick, short step has passed me by. No mail
+for me! Another twenty-four hours must elapse before I may receive a
+letter, and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my
+door.
+
+
+II
+
+The thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is driving me desperate. I
+would make use of any means, however terrible, to escape from this hell,
+to regain liberty. Liberty! What would it not offer me after this
+experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary
+activity. I would choose Russia. The Mostianer have forsaken me. I will
+keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of
+accomplishing. If there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush
+for their despicable attitude toward my act, their shameful treatment of
+me. How eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated
+devotion, to salve their guilty conscience! I should not have to
+complain of a lack of financial aid, were I to inform our intimate
+circles of my plans regarding future activity in Russia. It would be
+glorious, glorious! S--sh--
+
+It's the Chaplain. Perhaps he has mail for me to-day.... May be he is
+suppressing letters from my friends; or probably it is the Warden's
+fault: the mailbag is first examined in his office.--Now the Chaplain is
+descending to the ground floor. He pauses. It must be Cell 2 getting a
+letter. Now he is coming. The shadow is opposite my door,--gone!
+
+"Chaplain, one moment, please."
+
+"Who's calling?"
+
+"Here, Chaplain. Cell 6 K."
+
+"What is it, my boy?"
+
+"Chaplain, I should like something to read."
+
+"Read? Why, we have a splendid library, m' boy; very fine library. I
+will send you a catalogue, and you can draw one book every week."
+
+"I missed library day on this range. I'll have to wait another week. But
+I'd like to have something in the meantime, Chaplain."
+
+"You are not working, m' boy?"
+
+"No."
+
+"You have not refused to work, have you?"
+
+"No, I have not been offered any work yet."
+
+"Oh, well, you will be assigned soon. Be patient, m' boy."
+
+"But can't I have something to read now?"
+
+"Isn't there a Bible in your cell?"
+
+"A Bible? I don't believe in it, Chaplain."
+
+"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may do you good. Read it,
+m' boy."
+
+For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses my mind.
+
+"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't care for the
+modern English version. Perhaps you have one with Greek or Latin
+annotations?"
+
+"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or Greek?"
+
+"Yes, I have studied the classics."
+
+The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to the door, leaning
+against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. We
+talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools,
+social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man, this prison
+Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to Russia had impressed him
+with the great possibilities of that country. Finally he motions to a
+guard:
+
+"Let A 7 come with me."
+
+With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "Shall I
+come along, Chaplain?" he asks.
+
+"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy."
+
+Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper
+rotunda, on the left side of which is the Chaplain's office. Excited and
+alert, I absorb every detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear
+indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the Chaplain,
+as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and
+opens the door. Passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan
+of escape is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the keys--he
+lives in the Warden's house, connected with the prison--he is so
+fragile--I could easily overpower him--there is no one in the
+rotunda--I'd stifle his cries--take the keys--
+
+"Have a seat, my boy. Sit down. Here are some books. Look them over. I
+have a duplicate of my personal Bible, with annotations. It is somewhere
+here."
+
+With feverish eyes I watch him lay the keys on the desk. A quick motion,
+and they would be mine. That large and heavy one, it must belong to the
+gate. It is so big,--one blow would kill him. Ah, there is a safe! The
+Chaplain is taking some books from it. His back is turned to me. A
+thrust--and I'd lock him in.... Stealthily, imperceptibly, I draw nearer
+to the desk, my eyes fastened on the keys. Now I bend over them,
+pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand glides forward,
+slowly, cautiously. Quickly I lean over; the open book in my hands
+entirely hides the keys. My hand touches them. Desperately I clutch the
+large, heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises--
+
+"My boy, I cannot find that Bible just now, but I'll give you some other
+book. Sit down, my boy. I am so sorry about you. I am an officer of the
+State, but I think you were dealt with unjustly. Your sentence is quite
+excessive. I can well understand the state of mind that actuated you, a
+young enthusiast, in these exciting times. It was in connection with
+Homestead, is it not so, m' boy?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. That deep note of
+sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling voice--no, no, I cannot touch
+him....
+
+
+III
+
+At last, mail from New York! Letters from the Girl and Fedya. With a
+feeling of mixed anxiety and resentment, I gaze at the familiar
+handwriting. Why didn't they write before? The edge of expectancy has
+been dulled by the long suspense. The Girl and the Twin, my closest,
+most intimate friends of yesterday,--but the yesterday seems so distant
+in the past, its very reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking
+events.
+
+There is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness, in the Girl's
+letter. The failure of my act will lessen the moral effect, and diminish
+its propagandistic value. The situation is aggravated by Most. Owing to
+his disparaging attitude, the Germans remain indifferent. To a
+considerable extent, even the Jewish revolutionary element has been
+influenced by him. The Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at
+the attempted completion of my work, planned, yet impossible of
+realization.
+
+I smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed even of an attempt.
+The damningly false viewpoint of the Girl exasperates me, and I angrily
+resent the disapproving surprise I sense in both letters at my continued
+existence.
+
+I read the lines repeatedly. Every word drips bitterness into my soul.
+Have I grown morbid, or do they actually presume to reproach me with my
+failure to suicide? By what right? Impatiently I smother the accusing
+whisper of my conscience, "By the right of revolutionary ethics." The
+will to live leaps into being peremptorily, more compelling and
+imperative at the implied challenge.
+
+No, I will struggle and fight! Friend or enemy, they shall learn that I
+am not so easily done for. I will live, to escape, to conquer!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+SPECTRAL SILENCE
+
+
+The silence grows more oppressive, the solitude unbearable. My natural
+buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. With dismay I realize the
+failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. I
+feel worn in body and soul.
+
+The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, accentuates
+the enervating routine. It sounds ominously amid the stillness, like the
+portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. Unshaped fears, the more
+terrifying because vague, fill my heart. In vain I seek to drown my
+riotous thoughts by reading and exercise. The walls stand, immovable
+sentinels, hemming me in on every side, till movement grows into
+torture. In the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters dance
+before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into
+corpses and images of death. The morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The
+hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes half
+shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing rays form a
+kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my
+youth, now converging upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque
+illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is swept by a gust of
+wind. It darts hither and thither, angrily contending with the
+surrounding darkness. It whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who
+falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with
+frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look! The shadow grows and
+grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the
+officers lead me through the passage. "You're home now," the guard mocks
+me. I look back. The gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and
+on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. The walls
+frown upon me. They seem human in their cruel immobility. Their huge
+arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. I feel so
+small, unutterably weak and defenceless amid all the loneliness,--the
+breath of the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds me, and
+shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror I pause.... The chain grows
+taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. I lurch forward, and wake on
+the floor of the cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights. I listen eagerly for
+the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. But the breaking day
+brings neither hope nor gladness. Gloomy as yesterday, devoid of
+interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden: the
+rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked bread; the tasteless
+brown liquid; the passing lines of striped misery; the coarse commands;
+the heavy tread; and then--the silence of the tomb.
+
+Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage could accrue to the
+Cause from prolonging this agony. All avenues of escape are closed; the
+institution is impregnable. The good people have generously fortified
+this modern bastille; the world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed
+by the anguish of Calvary. No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these
+walls of stone, much less the heart of man. Why, then, prolong the
+agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades,--and they are
+far away and helpless.
+
+Helpless, quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy
+would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless
+vengeance would retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our
+weakness. To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago has not yet
+been avenged. _Vae victis!_ They shall forever be the victims. Only
+might is respected; it alone can influence tyrants. Had we
+strength,--but if the judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more
+than passive indignation, can I expect radical developments in
+consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It is unreasonable. Five
+years, indeed, have passed since the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the
+People have since been taught in the bitter school of oppression and
+defeat. Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the
+worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to
+strong protest, perhaps to active demand. Ah, yes! But when, when will
+the dullard realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind to his own
+slavery and degradation, can I expect him to perceive the wrong suffered
+by others? And who is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as
+deeply and clearly as we Anarchists. Even the Socialists dare not
+advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They have clothed the Goddess of
+Liberty with a fig-leaf; religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and
+injustice, has officially been declared _Privatsache_. Henceforth these
+timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of
+prejudice and superstition. Soon they will grow to _bourgeois_
+respectability, a party of "practical" politics and "sound" morality.
+What a miserable descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed
+defiance of all established institutions, _because_ they were
+established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single institution in
+our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. But only the Anarchists
+dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in
+number, lacking in power. The internal divisions, too, aggravate our
+weakness; and now, even Most has turned apostate. The Jewish comrades
+will be influenced by his attitude. Only the Girl remains. But she is
+young in the movement, and almost unknown. Undoubtedly she has talent as
+a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor health. In all the
+movement, I know of no one capable of propaganda by deed, or of an
+avenging act, except the Twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to
+undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The Twin is a true
+revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with
+slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of
+revolutionary import. But he would not harbor the thought. We held such
+queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform, an arrest,
+suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in
+Russia. How can I broach the subject to the Twin? All mail passes
+through the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially--a
+long-timer and an Anarchist--will be minutely scrutinized. There seems
+no possibility. I am buried alive in this stone grave. Escape is
+hopeless. And this agony of living death--I cannot support it....
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+A RAY OF LIGHT
+
+
+I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a
+relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I eagerly listen for the
+familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old
+rangeman[14] "sweeping up." The sensitive mouth puckered up in an
+inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his
+left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit.
+
+  [14] Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells.
+
+"Hello, Aleck! How're you feeling to-day?"
+
+He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom
+suspended in mid-stroke. I catch an occasional glance of the kind blue
+eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left,
+alert for the approach of a guard.
+
+"How're you, Aleck?"
+
+"Oh, nothing extra."
+
+"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the mill. Keep up your
+nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet."
+
+"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly.
+
+"S--sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears."
+
+"The screw?"
+
+A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"! The puzzling expression
+in the mysterious note,--perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious
+expectancy, I watch the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent,
+he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the
+one-armed sweeper. "S--sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses
+the line of my cell.
+
+I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the
+broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. A
+long shadow falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes
+stands at my door.
+
+"What you pryin' out for?" he demands.
+
+"I am not prying."
+
+"Don't you contradict me. Stand back in your hole there. Don't you be
+leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?"
+
+Down the hall the guard shouts: "Hey you, cripple! Talkin' there, wasn't
+you?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Don't you dare lie to me. You was."
+
+"Swear to God I wasn't."
+
+"W-a-all, if I ever catch you talkin' to that s---- of a b----, I'll fix
+you."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The scratching of the broom has ceased. The rangeman is dusting the
+doors. The even strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. Again the
+man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he
+diligently plies the duster.
+
+"Aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw. He's a ----. See him
+jump on me?"
+
+"What would he do to you if he saw you talking to me?"
+
+"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. I'd lose my job, too."
+
+"Then better don't talk to me."
+
+"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch _me_, not he. He didn't see
+me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff _me_, though."
+
+"But be careful."
+
+"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the
+block,[15] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. He's jest lookin' for trouble.
+Mean skunk he is, that Cornbread Tom."
+
+  [15] Cell-house.
+
+"Who?"
+
+"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread Tom, b'cause he swipes our
+corn dodger."
+
+"What's corn dodger?"
+
+"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for
+breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n stale punk. Know what punk is?
+Not long on lingo, are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk."
+
+He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful _bon mot_. Suddenly he
+pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away
+from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering:
+
+"All O. K. Road's clear. Tom's been called to the shop. Won't be back
+till dinner, thank th' Lord. Only the Cap is in the block, old man
+Mitchell, in charge of this wing. North Block it's called."
+
+"The women are in the South Block?"
+
+"Nope. Th' girls got a speshal building. South Block's th' new
+cell-house, just finished. Crowded already, an' fresh fish comin' every
+day. Court's busy in Pittsburgh all right. Know any one here?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Well, get acquainted, Aleck. It'll give you an interest. Guess that's
+what you need. I know how you feel, boy. Thought I'd die when I landed
+here. Awful dump. A guy advised me to take an interest an' make friends.
+I thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on the level, all right. Get
+acquainted, Aleck; you'll go bugs if you don't. Must vamoose now. See
+you later. My name's Wingie."
+
+"Wingie?"
+
+"That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier; was at Bull Run. Run
+so damn fast I lost my right wing, hah, hah, hah! S'long."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Eagerly I look forward to the stolen talks with Wingie. They are the
+sole break in the monotony of my life. But days pass without the
+exchange of a word. Silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently
+oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I peer between the
+bars for a cheering sign of recognition. Only the quick wink of his eye
+reassures me of his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard.
+
+By degrees the ingenuity of Wingie affords us more frequent snatches of
+conversation, and I gather valuable information about the prison. The
+inmates sympathize with me, Wingie says. They know I'm "on th' level."
+I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful of the "stool pigeons,"
+who report everything to the officers. Wingie is familiar with the
+history of every keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he assures me.
+Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[16]
+Only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a
+hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to
+be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby."
+
+  [16] Fly or fly-cop, a detective.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+THE SHOP
+
+
+I
+
+I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the Deputy's
+office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in
+the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a
+beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid:
+he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow the idea is associated in my
+mind with a wild tigress,--and I, too, must now look like that.
+
+The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of
+the Deputy Warden.
+
+"Hands up!"
+
+The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and
+there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in
+which I am included, he says in his feminine accents:
+
+"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them
+over to Mr. Hoods."
+
+"Fall in! Forward, march!"
+
+My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager
+expectation. At last I am assigned to work! I speculate on the character
+of "Number Seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there.
+Flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The
+sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm,
+face the striped line winding snakelike through the open space. The yard
+is spacious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath
+of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty.
+Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought
+quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone
+wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing
+the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's
+quarters.
+
+"Break ranks!"
+
+We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the
+objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows.
+The air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An
+atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place.
+
+The officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky
+prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show him what to do."
+
+Considerable time passes, without Jim taking the least notice of me.
+Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands
+deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he
+whispers, hoarsely:
+
+"Fresh fish?"
+
+"What did you say?"
+
+"You bloke, long here?"
+
+"Two weeks."
+
+"Wotcher doin'?"
+
+"Twenty-one years."
+
+"Quitcher kiddin'."
+
+"It's true."
+
+"Honest? Holy gee!"
+
+The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he
+demands, abruptly:
+
+"Wat dey put you here for?"
+
+"I don't know."
+
+"Been kickin'?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Den you'se bugs."
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or
+else dey got it in for you."
+
+"How do _you_ happen to be here?"
+
+"Me? De God damn ---- got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep
+gash over his temple. "Had a scrap wid de screws. Almost knocked me
+glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid
+_him_, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God, I will.
+I'll croak 'ere, anyhow."
+
+  [17] Guard.
+
+"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.
+
+"It ain't, eh? Wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin'
+blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, damn quick."
+
+As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing,
+prolonged and hollow.
+
+The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the
+matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and
+with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the
+gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task.
+
+"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm behind wid me work."
+
+Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in
+turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the
+completion of the day's task.
+
+The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with
+a nod of the head.
+
+"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. He's
+got a twenty-one spot."[18]
+
+  [18] Sentence.
+
+"Shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily. The consumptive
+bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick.
+
+As the officer turns away, Jim pleads:
+
+"Mr. Hoods, I lose time teachin'. Won't you please take off a bit? De
+task is more'n I can do, an' I'm sick."
+
+"Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you, Jim. You're just lazy,
+that's what you are. Don't be shamming, now. It don't go with _me_."
+
+At noon the overseer calls me aside. "You are green here," he warns me,
+"pay no attention to Jim. He wanted to be bad, but we showed him
+different. He's all right now. You have a long time; see that you behave
+yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand?"
+
+As I am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to
+the cells for dinner, he recalls me:
+
+"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow Jim. He is a little
+off, you know."
+
+He points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion.
+
+
+II
+
+The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my
+throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer
+in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress
+in the work. "I'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday,
+"and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you
+go." He severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As
+the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing.
+The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to
+recover, and continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the frame,
+a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and
+then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the
+floor.
+
+The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring
+machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over
+his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I
+rushed to the officer.
+
+"Mr. Hoods, Jim has--"
+
+"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "How dare you leave it
+without permission?"
+
+"I just--"
+
+"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick.
+
+I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face
+ashen.
+
+Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached.
+
+"What's the matter here?"
+
+I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly
+touched the bleeding face with his foot.
+
+"Get up, Jim, get up!"
+
+The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom.
+
+"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. Then he shook his
+finger at me, menacingly: "Don't you ever leave your place without
+orders. Remember, you!"
+
+After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the
+doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short,
+stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye.
+He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "Did any one see the
+man fall?" he inquired.
+
+"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me.
+
+While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked
+my name. "Oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite
+well. Not such a bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr.
+Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is
+the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed. Always that way?"
+
+"Only since I am working in this shop."
+
+"Oh, he is all right, Doctor," the officer interposed. "He's only been
+here a week."
+
+Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard.
+
+"You want him here?"
+
+"Y-e-s: we're short of men."
+
+"Well, _I_ am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning to me, he added:
+"Report in the morning on sick list."
+
+
+III
+
+The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery
+department. The change has filled me with renewed hope. A disciplinary
+shop, to which are generally assigned the "hard cases"--inmates in the
+first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly
+prisoners--the mat shop is the point of special supervision and severest
+discipline. It is the best-guarded shop, from which escape is
+impossible. But in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the
+local industries. I may find the right opportunity. It will require
+time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the great object. The
+working conditions, also, are more favorable: the room is light and
+airy, the discipline not so stringent. My near-sightedness has secured
+for me immunity from machine work. The Deputy at first insisted that my
+eyes were "good enough" to see the numerous needles of the hosiery
+machine. It is true, I could see them; but not with sufficient
+distinctness to insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To
+admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being ordered to produce
+the task; and failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished.
+Necessity drove me to subterfuge: I pretended total inability to
+distinguish the needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to
+change my determination, I have been assigned the comparatively easy
+work of "turning" the stockings. The occupation, though tedious, is not
+exacting. It consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the
+knitting machines, whence the product issues without soles. I carry the
+pile to the table provided with an iron post, about eighteen inches
+high, topped with a small inverted disk. On this instrument the
+stockings are turned "inside out" by slipping the article over the post,
+then quickly "undressing" it. The hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to
+the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to
+me, once more to be "turned," preparatory to sorting and shipment.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice lends me great
+dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I
+seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I
+count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each operation, and
+the amount accomplished within a given time. But in spite of these
+efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects: my
+friends and the propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive
+sentence; suicide and escape.
+
+My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented
+by dread, I awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience
+the momentary relief of danger past. But the next instant I am
+overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and plunged into
+rage and despair, powerless, hopeless.
+
+Thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless
+struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the
+externally placid tenor of my Pennsylvania nightmare.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+MY FIRST LETTER
+
+
+I
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                 October 19th, 1892.
+
+    Dear Sister:[19]
+
+    It is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here. I keep
+    wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed
+    into one short month?... How I have longed for this opportunity!
+    You will understand: a month's stay is required before we are
+    permitted to write. But many, many long letters I have written
+    to you--in my mind, dear Sonya. Where shall I begin now? My
+    space is very limited, and I have so much to say to you and to
+    the Twin.--I received your letters. You need not wait till you
+    hear from me: keep on writing. I am allowed to receive all mail
+    sent, "of moral contents," in the phraseology of the rules. And
+    I shall write whenever I may.
+
+    Dear Sonya, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your
+    letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and
+    Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere
+    accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me
+    beyond words. Not because you should write thus; but that you,
+    even you, should _think_ thus. Need I enlarge? True morality
+    deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe that we
+    differ on this point.
+
+    I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of
+    Wurst[20] must have been to you. But however it may minimize
+    the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its
+    character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of
+    Wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know
+    whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this
+    point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know,
+    Sonya,--of this one thing, at least, I am sure--you will do all
+    that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much--but the Twin and
+    part of Orchard Street[21] will be with you.
+
+    Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to
+    Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?[22] You must
+    consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of
+    scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such
+    presumption.
+
+    I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who knows?...
+    Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself and friends.
+    It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which
+    daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the
+    thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in
+    my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. My hold is
+    slackening. But the Sonya thread, I know, will remain taut and
+    strong. I have always called you the Immutable.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+  [19] The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor.
+
+  [20] John Most.
+
+  [21] 54 Orchard Street--the hall in which the first Jewish
+       Anarchist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion
+       to the aid of the Jewish comrades.
+
+  [22] Tolstogub--the author's Russian nickname. The expression
+       signifies the continued survival of the writer.
+
+[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD]
+
+
+II
+
+I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for
+work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was
+seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me
+into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that green box--with
+bated breath I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the
+Chaplain to collect the mail....
+
+My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. I am
+oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread.
+Automatically I turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three,
+four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man--there
+is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and
+gathers the stockings. Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three,
+four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And the men
+all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. I just heard
+him say, "Aleck, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there,
+you're falling behind." He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution!
+And all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box,
+peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. S-sh! I hear
+a footstep. Perhaps it is the Chaplain: he will open the box with his
+quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into
+the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are so many letters
+here--I'll slip among them into the large pocket--the Chaplain will not
+notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize
+every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But
+I am safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take
+that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair;
+twenty-one, twenty-two.... What was that? Twenty-two--oh, yes,
+twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to
+serve it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank
+goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But
+what has become of the Chaplain? If he'd only come--why is he so long?
+They might miss me in the shop. No, no! that man is there--he is turning
+the stockings--they don't know I am here in the box. The Chaplain won't
+know it, either: I am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts
+me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--I
+must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to
+Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she
+is, either--the _Deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. Keep it
+up? Why? It will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to
+write any more--it is well, too--I have so much to tell Sonya--and it
+wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all right now--they'll throw the
+letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is
+general letter day. I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through
+the post-office, on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have been away
+so long. Only a month? Well, I must be patient--and not breathe so loud.
+When I get to New York, I shall not go at once into the house--Sonya
+might get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window--I wonder
+what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? Yes, Fedya will be there,
+and perhaps Claus and Sep. How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will
+embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft
+and warm--
+
+"Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!"
+
+Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard before me. The
+striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron
+feels cold. Chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from
+my hand.
+
+"Fall in line, I tell you!"
+
+"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin' after whistle. 'Fraid you
+won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? You sucker, you!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+WINGIE
+
+
+The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my
+environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the
+introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task,
+necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application.
+
+The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for
+thinking or brooding. My physical condition alarms me: the morning hours
+completely exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line
+returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude
+possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in
+mastering my sleepiness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. I
+am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the
+proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned
+me against my disrespectful and surly manner. But I am indifferent to
+consequences: what matter what happens? My waning strength is a source
+of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought
+pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering,
+no anguish. The world at large is non-existent; it is centered in Me;
+and yet I myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and
+quiet, into extinction.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the evening meal of bread
+and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the
+gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep
+bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the
+blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons
+invitingly; I yearn for sleep, for oblivion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening
+is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general
+in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. The
+world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the
+darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the
+violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to
+break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction
+in the wild play of fancy.... Existence grows more and more unbearable
+with the contrast of dream and reality. Weary of the day's routine, I
+welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the
+passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men,
+the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the
+tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of _my_ world.
+I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice.
+But I cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the People, to
+whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed; yet
+parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than
+the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their
+deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord
+in my heart.
+
+Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner
+that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence,
+yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during
+church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day.
+He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries,
+counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range
+now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the
+sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in
+his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7.
+
+  [23] Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending
+       Protestant service, and _vice versa_.
+
+"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me.
+
+"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?"
+
+"I am an atheist."
+
+"A what?"
+
+"An atheist, a non-believer."
+
+"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough."
+
+The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the
+corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon.
+Perhaps somebody is watching--
+
+"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!"
+
+"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?"
+
+"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner-basket, you know.
+The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?"
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. It's _our_
+pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see;
+they steals the east[24] to make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How
+d' you like the grub, anyhow?"
+
+  [24] Yeast.
+
+"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee tastes like tepid
+water."
+
+"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee;
+'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg, Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's
+made?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect all the old punk
+that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crust's used,
+see. Like as not some syph coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't,
+you know. Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn
+'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it an' dump
+it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty
+chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It
+rooins your stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink th'
+swill."
+
+"I don't care if it kills me."
+
+"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but
+don' take it so hard. Don' think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you
+can; you jest take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who you wan'
+to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's what you wan' to do, Aleck.
+It'll keep you hustlin'. Best thing for the blues, kiddie."
+
+For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of
+sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the
+door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly
+slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a
+tender pat.
+
+Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's
+caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingie must have
+noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently
+picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence:
+
+"You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest wanted t' try you,
+see?"
+
+"How 'try me,' Wingie?"
+
+"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush
+stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, Aleck, it's--oh, wait till I
+pipe th' screw."
+
+Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I
+can distinctly follow the step of the Block Captain on the upper
+galleries. He is the sole officer in the cell-house during church
+service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance
+of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my cell.
+
+I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie leave me? His flushed
+face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the
+subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize
+his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant
+by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory
+explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back.
+
+"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the chapel for a good while
+yet."
+
+"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?"
+
+"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You are a good boy, all
+right. You don't belong here, that's what _I_ say."
+
+"Well, I _am_ here; and the chances are I'll die here."
+
+"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked down at the mouth.
+Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here,
+hell! You ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin',
+now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? You're so
+young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't you? An' talkin' about
+dyin'! Shame on you, shame!"
+
+His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth
+to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp
+assures me of returned appreciation.
+
+"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be
+black as night. Nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old
+Henry? No? Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in
+fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy
+as th' day's long. An' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. I know
+you have."
+
+"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?"
+
+"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You got rich friends, I know.
+You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't
+they?"
+
+"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?"
+
+"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? You must make a good
+record here."
+
+"Oh, I don't care for a pardon."
+
+"Wha-a-t? You're kiddin'."
+
+"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle."
+
+"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle fiddlesticks. Want
+to get out o' here?"
+
+"Of course I do."
+
+"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got t' do with
+'t? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?"
+
+"No, but against being pardoned."
+
+"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me."
+
+"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it
+would be asking favors from the government, and I am against it, you
+understand? It would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie."
+
+"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, Aleck.
+That's what you mean?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist? Hot stuff, by
+gosh! Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I
+was you, I'd take anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell.
+That's what _I_ would do, my boy."
+
+He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's
+step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance
+to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between
+the bars, he whispers very low:
+
+"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?"
+
+The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my
+revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being,
+rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being
+with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to
+trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic--
+
+"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts.
+"I'm your friend."
+
+"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape.
+I have been thinking about it, but so far--"
+
+"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears."
+
+"Any chance here, Wingie?"
+
+"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in
+heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way
+here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six,
+seven years ago, 'bout."
+
+"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly.
+
+"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was
+helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work
+and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a
+rope together, see. They never got 'im, either."
+
+"Was he in stripes, Wingie?"
+
+"Sure he was. Only been in a few months."
+
+"How did he manage to get away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as
+an escaped prisoner?"
+
+"_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then
+hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. Or you push in th'
+back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny."
+
+"Is there any chance now through the roof?"
+
+"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' _there_. But a feller's got to be alive.
+Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff[25] you got in
+them things, tow'l an' soap?"
+
+  [25] Note.
+
+"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.
+
+"Do I? He, he, you little--"
+
+The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+TO THE GIRL
+
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                  November 18, 1892.
+
+    My dear Sonya:
+
+    It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month.
+    But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the
+    only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear,
+    affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the
+    cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager
+    expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the
+    morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand
+    shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the
+    little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will
+    flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the
+    little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is
+    long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the
+    warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly
+    to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into
+    your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air
+    grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again
+    with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The touch of
+    the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga,
+    our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the
+    _dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float
+    about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream over your
+    letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the
+    end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch
+    and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for
+    my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare
+    of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams.
+
+    And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in
+    anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real
+    world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I
+    think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is
+    in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes
+    ... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing
+    along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows
+    meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does
+    not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But
+    the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a
+    letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error
+    might happen.... No, it is impossible--my name and prison
+    number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the
+    envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery.
+    Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell.
+    There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the
+    table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment.
+    Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner.
+    No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me
+    to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the
+    blankets.... No, there is no letter!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you
+    and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get
+    used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the
+    moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We
+    are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands,
+    though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end.
+    In that consciousness we must find our solace.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+  [26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river.
+
+  [27] Folk-song.
+
+
+                                               _Sub rosa_,
+                                         Last Day of November, 1892.
+
+    Beloved Girl:
+
+    I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but
+    human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts,
+    all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to
+    look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that
+    has filled my days with strength and hope.... An embrace, a
+    lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine.
+    To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant
+    into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the
+    warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful
+    eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day
+    dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of
+    the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so
+    strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street
+    hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments!
+    But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with
+    exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face,
+    and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look
+    of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been
+    searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that
+    feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring
+    upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath
+    that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming
+    fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me
+    of the beast, hungry for prey.... The halo was dissipated. The
+    words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid
+    smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer,
+    and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about
+    us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death),
+    and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to
+    bury the dead.... But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my
+    agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips
+    upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and
+    then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld
+    seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The
+    drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of
+    torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned
+    suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all
+    misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and
+    place in the afflatus of martyrdom?
+
+    Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the
+    prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment.
+    Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... What though the
+    cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and
+    forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth
+    could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain.
+
+    The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on
+    my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom
+    reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were
+    suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was
+    locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of
+    the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly
+    dawned on me. The quick had left the dead.... Terror of the
+    reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish--
+
+    I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed
+    _sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has
+    befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of
+    which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually
+    mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.
+    Remember to sign "Sister."
+
+                              With a passionate embrace,
+
+                                                         YOUR SASHA.
+
+  [28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed
+       suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him
+       by a friend.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+PERSECUTION
+
+
+I
+
+Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. In the three
+months of penitentiary life I have learned many things. I doubt whether
+the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than
+the actuality of prison existence.
+
+In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and
+constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of
+them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure,
+nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial
+barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one
+could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the
+prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit,
+sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world.
+The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. The
+ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling
+and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The
+dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears
+of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract
+or Bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the
+angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to
+witness these scenes.
+
+The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to
+protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I
+witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between Johnny
+Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a
+manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my
+table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory
+has "put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months' stay has taught
+me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips.
+In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his
+product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task.
+Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer,
+though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and
+continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon.
+Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked
+boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting
+step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the
+officer:
+
+"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else."
+
+"Why so?" the guard asked.
+
+"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please,
+Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Why can't you make it here?"
+
+"I'm missing socks."
+
+"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again,
+eh?"
+
+"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't.
+But my socks's missing here."
+
+"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such
+bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work
+now, and you'd better make the task, understand?"
+
+Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen
+pairs short. Bradford was "over."
+
+I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.
+
+"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh?
+Put your coat and cap on."
+
+Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the
+inevitable sentence to the dungeon.
+
+"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God,
+it isn't."
+
+"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?"
+
+Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward
+Bradford, who studiously avoided the look.
+
+"I can't squeal," he said, quietly.
+
+"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap."
+
+Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his
+cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he
+worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the
+growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who,
+confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly
+winking of the left eye.
+
+Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my
+direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's
+hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's
+stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into
+commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the
+prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial,
+with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness.
+
+Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the
+overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his
+mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by.
+
+"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a
+question?"
+
+"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!"
+
+"What have they done with the boys?"
+
+"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started
+the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to _him_ all
+right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk?"
+
+"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started?"
+
+"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you
+know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy,
+see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest
+lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there,
+Burk?"
+
+"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's
+fault."
+
+"How so?" the guard demanded.
+
+"He has been stealing Johnny's socks."
+
+"You didn't see him do 't."
+
+"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this--"
+
+"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too
+fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the
+Deputy."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the
+fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. His third time, too, and yet
+absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable
+treatment and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist
+to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so. But how proceed
+in the matter? Complaint against Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood
+prove futile. And the officer, informed of my action, will make life
+miserable for me: his authority in the shop is absolute.
+
+The several plans I revolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer
+examination, feasible. Considerations of personal interest struggle
+against my sense of duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his
+vacant machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing
+conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable. I determine to speak
+to the Deputy Warden at the first opportunity.
+
+Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts: is it advisable to
+mention the matter to the Deputy? It cannot benefit Johnny; it will
+involve me in trouble. But the next moment I feel ashamed of my
+weakness. I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the
+celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, I
+review the brave deeds of Hippolyte Nikitich. What a man! Single-handed
+he essayed to liberate Chernishevsky from prison. Ah, the curse of
+poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have succeeded, and the great
+inspirer of the youth of Russia would have been given back to the world.
+I dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's fight
+with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in
+court. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor in the Siberian mines, he
+defied the Russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of
+Dmokhovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of
+_katorga_.[29] Minutely I follow his repeated attempts to escape, the
+transfer of the redoubtable prisoner to the Petropavloskaia fortress,
+and thence to the terrible Schluesselburg prison, where Mishkin braved
+death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government
+official. Ah! thus acts the revolutionist; and I--yes, I am decided. No
+danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice.
+
+  [29] Hard labor in the mines.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At last an opportunity is at hand. The Deputy enters the shop. Tall and
+gray, slightly stooping, with head carried forward, he resembles a wolf
+following the trail.
+
+"Mr. McPane, one moment, please."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently."
+
+"You think, hm, hm. And who is this innocent Johnny, hm, Davis?"
+
+His fingers drum impatiently on the table; he measures me with mocking,
+suspicious eyes.
+
+"Machine thirty, Deputy."
+
+"Ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, Reddy Davis. Hm, he had a fight."
+
+"The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr. McPane."
+
+"So, so. And why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good man? You confess,
+then, hm, hm, you were not, hm, attending to your own work. That is bad,
+hm, very bad. Mr. Cosson!"
+
+The guard hastens to him.
+
+"Mr. Cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge against you.
+Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hm, what is your number?"
+
+"A 7."
+
+"Mr. Cosson, A 7 makes a, hm, complaint against the officer, hm, in
+charge of this shop. Please, hm, hm, note it down."
+
+Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The words "kicker," "his kid,"
+reach my ears. The Deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened
+on me in hatred.
+
+
+II
+
+I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of Wingie's cheerful spirit
+is missing. My poor friend is in trouble. From snatches of conversation
+in the shop I have pieced together the story. "Dutch" Adams, a
+third-timer and the Deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's
+allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. He demanded that Wingie, who
+was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal,
+"Dutch" reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected search of
+Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the
+charge. Wingie was sent to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five
+days my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon learned that
+he had been ordered into solitary confinement for refusing to betray the
+men who had trusted him.
+
+The fate of Wingie preys on my mind. My poor kind friend is breaking
+down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. This morning, chancing
+to pass his cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting.
+Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently I waited for the noon
+return to the block. "Hello, Wingie!" I called. He stood at the door,
+intently peering between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank,
+expressionless eyes. "Who are you?" he whimpered, brokenly. Then he
+began to babble. Suddenly the terrible truth dawned on me. My poor, poor
+friend, the first to speak a kind word to me,--he's gone mad!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+THE YEGG
+
+
+I
+
+Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. Every step,
+every movement, is so closely guarded, I seem to be hoping against hope.
+I am restive and nervous, in a constant state of excitement.
+
+Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. The task of
+the machine men has been increased; in consequence, I am falling behind
+in my work. My repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the
+overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. His
+feet wide apart, arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures
+me with narrow, fat eyes. "Oh, what's the matter with you," he drawls,
+"get a move on, won't you, Burk?" Then, changing his tone, he
+vociferates, "Don't stand there like a fool, d'ye hear? Nex' time I
+report you, to th' hole you go. That's _me_ talkin', understand?"
+
+Often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me. But for the hope of
+escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. As it
+is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low
+cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. The
+ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a
+constant torture. I seek relief--forgetfulness rather--in absorbing
+myself in the work: I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the
+previous day; I compete with myself, and find melancholy pleasure in
+establishing and breaking high records for "turning." Again, I tax my
+ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young
+neighbor. Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent
+conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips.
+To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco
+chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging
+impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer, who
+introduced himself as "Boston Red." I owe this development to the return
+of the Warden from his vacation. Yesterday he visited the shop. A
+military-looking man, with benevolent white beard and stately carriage,
+he approached me, in company with the Superintendent of Prison
+Manufactures.
+
+"Is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint smile about the
+rather coarse mouth.
+
+"Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot Frick."
+
+"I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in the English papers
+there, Berkman. How is his conduct, Superintendent?"
+
+"Good."
+
+"Well, he should have behaved outside."
+
+But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the Warden ordered the
+overseer to give me help, and thus "Boston Red" joined me at work the
+next day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of
+lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek,
+mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost
+stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me
+into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest
+and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. An interesting character,
+indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the
+sublime heights of applied cynicism."
+
+"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish him. "Why do you use
+so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you."
+
+"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.'
+That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone
+through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies,
+with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a
+quick, watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low,
+guttural tones:
+
+"Don't care for your classic language. I can use it all right, all
+right. But give me the lingo, every time. You see, pard, I'm no gun;[30]
+don't need it in me biz. I'm a yegg."
+
+  [30] Professional thief.
+
+"What's a yegg, Red?"
+
+"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term
+'tramp.'"
+
+"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you should care for the
+life of a bum."
+
+A flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant. "You are stoopid as
+the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his
+lips move as in ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained
+composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes.
+
+"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not
+discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee
+here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly
+neglected. Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive.
+It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without
+fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. Yes,
+sir, that's _me_. I ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the
+disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing
+yours truly. I am a yagg, y--a--double g, sir, of the honorable clan of
+yaggmen. Some spell it y--e--double g, but I insist on the a, sir, as
+grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic
+consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar
+misspelling."
+
+"What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?"
+
+"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose
+intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny
+hand-out as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his
+native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman.
+That's the yagg, me bye. He dares to be and do, all bulls
+notwithstanding. He lives, aye, he lives,--on the world of suckers,
+thank you, sir. Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall
+increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,' or words to that
+significant effect. A yagg's the salt of the earth, pard. A real,
+true-blood yagg will not deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with
+a city bum or gaycat. No, sirree."
+
+I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick,
+short coughs of "Red" warn me of danger. The guard is approaching with
+heavy, measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,--a sure
+indication of profound self-satisfaction.
+
+"How are you, Reddie?" he greets the assistant.
+
+"So, so."
+
+"Ain't been out long, have you?"
+
+"Two an' some."
+
+"That's pretty long for you."
+
+"Oh, I dunno. I've been out four years oncet."
+
+"Yes, you have! Been in Columbus[31] then, I s'pose."
+
+  [31] The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.
+
+"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It was Sing Sing."
+
+"Ha, ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better hustle up, fellers. I'm
+putting in ten more machines, so look lively."
+
+"When's the machines comin', Mr. Cosson?"
+
+"Pretty soon, Red."
+
+The officer passing on, "Red" whispers to me:
+
+"Aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time I'll quit. Damn his work and the
+new machines. I ain't no gaycat to work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No,
+sir, the world owes me a living, and I generally manage to get it, you
+bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free man; I can live on my
+wits, see? I don't never work outside; damme if I'll work here. I ain't
+no office-seeker. What d' I want to work for, eh? Can you tell me
+_that_?"
+
+"Are you going to refuse work?"
+
+"Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that. No, sir, I never refuse.
+They'll knock your damn block off, if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir,
+discriminately end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, me bye.
+One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion. It's a regular
+pest. _You_ never worked, did you?"
+
+The unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which I quickly suppress,
+however, observing the angry frown on "Red's" face.
+
+"You bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll pipe you. You'll
+get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag. Whatcher hehawin' about?" he
+demands, repeating the manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "D'ye mean
+t' tell me you work?"
+
+"I am a printer, a compositor," I inform him.
+
+"Get off! You're an Anarchist. I read the papers, sir. You people don't
+believe in work. You want to divvy up. Well, it is all right, I'm with
+you. Rockefeller has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied
+with that, either; he wants a fence around it."
+
+"The Anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' Red. You got your
+misinformation--"
+
+"Oh, never min', pard. I don' take stock in reforming the world. It's
+good enough for suckers, and as Holy Writ says, sir, 'Blessed be they
+that neither sow nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' Them's
+wise words, me bye. Moreover, sir, neither you nor me will live to see a
+change, so why should I worry me nut about 't? It takes all my wits to
+dodge work. It's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously
+busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. Why, you know, pard, or
+perhaps you don't, greenie, Columbus is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye
+think I worked the four-spot there? Not me; no, sirree!"
+
+"Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not in Columbus?"
+
+"'Corse I did. What of it? Think I'd open my guts to my Lord Bighead?
+I've never been within thirty miles of the York pen. It was Hail
+Columbia all right, but that's between you an' I, savvy. Don' want th'
+screws to get next."
+
+"Well, Red, how did you manage to keep away from work in Columbus?"
+
+"Manage? That's right, sir. 'Tis a word of profound significance, quite
+adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I
+managed, with a capital M. To good purpose, too, me bye. Not a stroke
+of work in a four-spot. How? I had Billie with me, that's me kid, you
+know, an' a fine boy he was, too. I had him put a jigger on me; kept it
+up for four years. There's perseverance and industry for you, sir."
+
+"What's 'putting a jigger on'?"
+
+"A jigger? Well, a jigger is--"
+
+The noon whistle interrupts the explanation. With a friendly wink in my
+direction, the assistant takes his place in the line. In silence we
+march to the cell-house, the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat
+in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard.
+
+
+II
+
+Conversation with "Boston Red," Young Davis, and occasional other
+prisoners helps to while away the tedious hours at work. But in the
+solitude of the cell, through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells
+in the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms,
+the bitter controversies between the _Mostianer_ and the defenders of my
+act, fill my thoughts and dreams. By means of fictitious, but
+significant, names, Russian and German words written backward, and
+similar devices, the Girl keeps me informed of the activities in our
+circles. I think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous
+militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak
+on my part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider her
+devotion deserving of particular commendation. She is a revolutionist;
+it is her duty to our common Cause. Courage, whole-souled zeal, is very
+rare, it is true. The Girl. Fedya, and a few others,--hence the sad lack
+of general opposition in the movement to Most's attitude.... But
+communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the
+hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation.
+With great joy I trace the ascending revolutionary tendency in _Der Arme
+Teufel_. I have persuaded the Chaplain to procure the admission of the
+ingenious Robert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals
+addressed to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket, by orders of
+the Deputy. The latter refused to make an exception even in regard to
+the _Knights of Labor Journal_. "It is an incendiary Anarchist sheet,"
+he persisted.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The arrival of the _Teufel_ is a great event. What joy to catch sight of
+the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table! Tenderly I
+pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an
+animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. What
+cheering message does Reitzel bring me now? What beauties of his rich
+mind are hidden to-day in the quaint German type? Reverently I unfold
+the roll. The uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring
+paean of Hope's prophecy greets my eye,--
+
+  Gruss an Alexander Berkman!
+
+For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears. Again and again recurs
+the refrain of faith and proud courage,
+
+  Schon ruestet sich der freiheit Schaar
+  Zur heiligen Entscheidungschlacht;
+  Es enden "zweiundzwanzig" Jahr'
+  Vielleicht in e i n e r Sturmesnacht!
+
+But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality lays its heavy
+hand upon my heart. The flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom,
+and I sit brooding over the interminable succession of miserable days
+and evenings and nights.... The darkness gathers around the candle, as
+I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. Its dying agony,
+ineffectual and vain, presages my own doom, approaching, inevitable.
+Weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler--a last spasm, and
+all is utter blackness.
+
+Three bells. "Lights out!"
+
+Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The sun streaming into the many-windowed shop routs the night, and
+dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. Perhaps my little candle
+with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness,--who knows?
+Perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers,
+and hastened the coming of Day. The fancy lures me with its warming
+embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me:
+
+"Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad."
+
+Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me:
+
+"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me! Permit me to
+introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats
+of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between
+York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir,
+merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?"
+
+"What are you driving at, Red?"
+
+"They'se goin' to move me down on your row,[32] now that I'm in this
+'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this
+magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next
+yours, an' I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye? I'm
+goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume
+benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir,
+for you're my kid now, see?"
+
+  [32] Gallery.
+
+"How, your kid?"
+
+"How? My kid, of course. That's just what I mean. Any objections, sir,
+as the learned gentlemen of the law say in the honorable courts of the
+blind goddess. You betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl on a sunny
+midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky city, though; sun's ashamed here.
+But 'way down in my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River,
+Sua-a-nee-ee Riv--"
+
+"Hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started to tell me about being
+your 'kid'. Now explain, what do you mean by it?"
+
+"Really, you--" He holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post,
+gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles
+with wonder. In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution,
+and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye.
+
+"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something of this 'ere round
+globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to
+surprise me, lemme tell you. But _you_ do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do.
+Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met Cigarette Jimmie in
+Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never
+heard a ghost story; was fourteen, too. Well, I got 'im all right, ah
+right. Now he's doin' a five-bit down in Kansas, poor kiddie. Well, he
+certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous billows of life, sir,
+have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time, yes, sir, they have,
+but I never got such a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a
+body-blow, a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world, sir, to my
+settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. Well,
+damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex?"
+
+"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this to do with the question
+I asked you?"
+
+"Everythin', me bye, everythin'. You're twenty-two and don't know what a
+kid is! Well, if it don't beat raw eggs, I don't know what does. Green?
+Well, sir, it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your
+inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, I may well say, of soul,
+except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the
+early summer moon. You know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks,
+abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile.
+
+I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer.
+Yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face
+expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of
+humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with
+"classic" English, all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter
+helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps I may also glean
+from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my
+plans of escape.
+
+"Well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "Red" inquires, chaffingly.
+
+"I suppose I do."
+
+"I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can see by the tip of
+your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slough of densest
+ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not
+contradict me. I brook no sceptical attitude regarding my undoubted and
+proven perspicacity of human nature. How's that for classic style, eh?
+That'll hold you down a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you
+interrupted--eh, what? You didn't? Oh, what's the matter with you?
+Don't yer go now an' rooin the elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus
+with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now,
+boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology before your
+wondering gaze. To begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively
+aristocratic science. Not for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth
+Avenue. Nixie. But for the only genuine aristocracy of de road, sir, for
+the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad, for yours truly and his
+clan. Yes, sirree!"
+
+"I don't know what you are talking about."
+
+"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. In plain
+English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious
+comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by
+divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity.
+Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent, is the truly Christian science of
+loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice little boy. Understand now?"
+
+"How can you love a boy?"
+
+"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref boy, I can see that."
+
+"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd
+understand better."
+
+"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't long on lingo neither. How
+can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try.
+You love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy
+Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor woman; he's punk.'
+Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll...."
+
+"What!"
+
+"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se talkin' plain. Savvy now,
+Innocent Abroad?"
+
+"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red."
+
+"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil--damn me soul t' hell, what d' you
+mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee, look out!"
+
+The look of bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he
+had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the
+guard, who is now hastening toward us.
+
+"Who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters.
+"You, Davis?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Who was, then?"
+
+"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'."
+
+"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "I hit my
+elbow against the machine."
+
+"Let me see 't."
+
+The guard scrutinizes the bared arm.
+
+"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore."
+
+"It hurt, and I hollered."
+
+The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been talkin', Reddie?"
+
+"I don't think he was, Cap'n."
+
+Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at "Red," and passes on, with a
+final warning to the boy: "Don't you let me catch you at it again, you
+hear!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+During the rest of the day the overseers exercise particular vigilance
+over our end of the shop. But emboldened by the increased din of the new
+knitting machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again.
+
+"Screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept they's close to us. But
+watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. An' don' scare me
+again like that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb forget
+myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? What's his name,
+Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid all right. Just like me own Billie I tole
+you 'bout. He was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. True as
+steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th' bark to a tree.
+Say, what's that you said, you don't believe what I endeavored so
+conscientiously, sir, to drive into your noodle? You was only kiddin'
+me, wasn't you?"
+
+"No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning ghost stories, or
+whatever you call it. I don't believe in this kid love."
+
+"An' why don't you believe it?"
+
+"Why--er--well, I don't think it possible."
+
+"_What_ isn't possible?"
+
+"You know what I mean. I don't think there can be such intimacy between
+those of the same sex."
+
+"Ho, ho! _That's_ your point? Why, Alex, you're more of a damfool than
+the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. You don't believe
+it possible, you don't, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, an I'll
+show you."
+
+"Red, don't you talk to me like that," I burst out, angrily. "If you--"
+
+"Aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly. "Don't get on your
+high horse. No harm meant, Alex. You're a good boy, but you jest rattle
+me with your crazy talk. Why, you're bugs to say it's impossible. Man
+alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. It's done in every prison, an' on
+th' road, everywhere. Lord, if I had a plunk for every time I got th'
+best of a kid, I'd rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me bye."
+
+"You actually confess to such terrible practices? You're disgusting. But
+I don't really believe it, Red."
+
+"Confess hell! I confess nothin'. Terrible, disgusting! You talk like a
+man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot."
+
+"Are there no women on the road?"
+
+"Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? Women are no
+good. I wouldn't look at 'em when I can have my prushun.[33] Oh, it is
+quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of
+moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of--"
+
+  [33] A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp.
+
+"Oh, quit!"
+
+"Well, you'll know better before _your_ time's up, me virtuous sonny."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of
+illness. He has been "excused" by the doctor, the guard informs me.
+I miss his help at work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "Red's"
+companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His cynical attitude
+toward woman and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism.
+The panegyrics of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The
+very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. But
+I find solace in the reflection that "Red's" insinuations are pure
+fabrication; no credence is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being,
+could not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such
+unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast must not be
+credited with such perversion, such depravity. I should really take the
+matter more calmly. The assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely
+teasing me. These things are not credible; indeed, I don't believe they
+are possible. And even if they were, no human being would be capable of
+such iniquity. I must not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+THE ROUTE SUB ROSA
+
+
+                                                      March 4, 1893.
+
+    GIRL AND TWIN:
+
+    I am writing with despair in my heart. I was taken to Pittsburgh
+    as a witness in the trial of Nold and Bauer. I had hoped for an
+    opportunity--you understand, friends. It was a slender thread,
+    but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on
+    it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back, and I may never
+    leave this place alive.
+
+    I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. I
+    yearned for the sight of your faces. But you were not there, nor
+    any one else of our New York comrades. I knew what it meant: you
+    are having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise perhaps something
+    could be done to establish friendly relations between Rakhmetov
+    and Mr. Gebop.[34] It would require an outlay beyond the
+    resources of our own circle; others cannot be approached in this
+    matter. Nothing remains but the "inside" developments,--a
+    terribly slow process.
+
+    This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends. You
+    will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has
+    again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness.... I
+    did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it is five
+    months now) till my return from court. I suppose the excitement
+    of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce.... My head
+    was awhirl; I could not collect my thoughts. The wild hope
+    possessed me,--_pobeg_! The click of the steel, as I was
+    handcuffed to the Deputy, struck my death-knell.... The
+    unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in
+    the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the
+    moment. It seemed to me as if I were a spectator, interested,
+    but personally unconcerned, in the surroundings; and these,
+    too, were far away, of a strange world in which I had no part.
+    Only when I found myself alone in the cell, the full
+    significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with
+    crushing force.
+
+    But why sadden you? There is perhaps a cheerier side, now that
+    Nold and Bauer are here. I have not seen them yet, but their
+    very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these
+    walls there are _comrades_, men who, like myself, suffer for an
+    ideal--the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. It brings
+    me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political
+    prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture of their
+    daily existence, the politicals--even in Siberia--breathe the
+    atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage and
+    strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated by a
+    common cause! Conditions here are entirely different. Both
+    inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. They have never
+    known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice or risk his
+    life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond their
+    comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert of
+    sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would
+    gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia.
+
+    The former _podpoilnaya_[35] was suspended, because of the great
+    misfortune that befell my friend Wingie, of whom I wrote to you
+    before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tiuremshchick,[36] an old
+    soldier who really sympathizes with Wingie. I believe they
+    served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who hates his
+    despicable work. But there is a family at home, a sick wife--you
+    know the old, weak-kneed tale. I had a hint from him the other
+    day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous for him to be seen
+    at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true; but what he
+    means is, that a little money would be welcome. You know how to
+    manage the matter. Leave no traces.
+
+    I hear the felt-soled step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie a
+    hasty good-bye.
+
+                                                              SASHA.
+
+  [34] Reading backward, _pobeg_; Russian for "escape."
+
+  [35] _Sub rosa_ route.
+
+  [36] Russian for "guard."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN"
+
+
+I
+
+A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio. It ensnares the
+river banks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with sombre
+mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. Within the House of Death is
+felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages.
+
+Only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs the stillness. I
+listen intently. Nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and
+apparently intentional I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of
+communication practiced by Russian politicals, and I strive to detect
+some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer as I approach the back
+wall of the cell, and instantly I am aware of a faint murmur in the
+privy. Is it fancy, or did I hear my name?
+
+"Halloa!" I call into the pipe.
+
+The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed, hollow voice: "That
+you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes. Who is it?"
+
+"Never min'. You must be deaf not to hear me callin' you all this time.
+Take that cott'n out o' your ears."
+
+"I didn't know you could talk this way."
+
+"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty pipes, no standin' water,
+see? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit to--"
+
+The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. Presently the flow
+subsides, and the knocking is resumed. I bend over the privy.
+
+"Hello, hello! That you, Aleck?"
+
+"Git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts into the pipe.
+
+"Lay down, there!"
+
+"Take that trap out o' the hole."
+
+"Quit your foolin', Horsethief."
+
+"Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellers. It's Bob, Horsethief Bob.
+I'm talkin' business. Keep quiet now, will you? Are you there, Aleck?
+Yes? Well, pay no 'tention to them dubs. 'Twas that crazy Southside Slim
+that turned th' water on--"
+
+"Who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts.
+
+"Oh, lay down, Slim, will you? Who said you was crazy? Nay, nay, you're
+bugs. Hey, Aleck, you there?"
+
+"Yes, Bob."
+
+"Oh, got me name, have you? Yes, I'm Bob, Horsethief Bob. Make no
+mistake when you see me; I'm Big Bob, the Horsethief. Can you hear me?
+It's you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes, yes."
+
+"Sure it's you? Got t' tell you somethin'. What's your number?"
+
+"A 7."
+
+"Right you are. What cell?"
+
+"6 K."
+
+"An' this is me, Big Bob, in--"
+
+"Windbag Bob," a heavy bass comments from above.
+
+"Shut up, Curley, I'm on th' line. I'm in 6 F, Aleck, top tier. Call me
+up any time I'm in, ha, ha! You see, pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you
+can talk to any range you want, but always to th' same cell as you're
+in, Cell 6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, to Shorty,
+you know--"
+
+"I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him, Bob."
+
+"Yes, you do. You list'n what I tell you, Aleck, an' you'll be all
+right. That's me talkin', Big Bob, see? Now, I say if you'd like t' chew
+th' rag with Shorty, you jest tell me. Tell Brother Bob, an' he'll
+connect you all right. Are you on? Know who's Shorty?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Yo oughter. That's Carl, Carl Nold. Know _him_, don't you?"
+
+"What!" I cry in astonishment. "Is it true, Bob? Is Nold up there on
+your gallery?"
+
+"Sure thing. Cell 14."
+
+"Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking ten minutes now. Did
+you see him?"
+
+"What's your hurry, Aleck? _You_ can't see 'im; not jest now, anyway.
+P'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. There's no hurry, Aleck. _You_ got plenty o'
+time. A few years, _rather_, ha, ha, ha!"
+
+"Hey, there, Horsethief, quit that!" I recognize "Curley's" deep bass.
+"What do you want to make the kid feel bad for?"
+
+"No harm meant, Curley," Bob returns, "I was jest joshin' him a bit."
+
+"Well, quit it."
+
+"You don' min' it, Aleck, do you?" I hear Bob again, his tones softened,
+"I didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's. I'm your friend, Aleck, you can bet
+your corn dodger on that. Say, I've got somethin' for you from Shorty, I
+mean Carl, you savvy?"
+
+"What have you, Bob?"
+
+"Nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy on this 'ere range.
+I'll sneak around to you in the mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of
+bootleg. Now, jiggaroo,[37] screw's comin'."
+
+  [37] Look out.
+
+
+II
+
+The presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and
+meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former
+environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into
+renewed life and hope.
+
+The secret exchange of notes lends color to the routine. It is like a
+fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. At
+work in the shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence.
+Again and again I review the arguments elucidating to my comrades the
+significance of my _Attentat_: they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the
+importance of the purely physical result. The exchange of views
+gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into
+closer intimacy. There is something in Carl Nold that especially
+attracts me: I sense in him a congenial spirit. His spontaneous
+frankness appeals to me; my heart echoes his grief at the realization of
+Most's unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antagonism of Bauer
+is irritating. It reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol.
+Presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself.
+The big, jovial German has earned my respect; he braved the anger of the
+judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in the
+distribution of the Anarchist leaflet among the Homestead workers. On
+the other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts on the
+witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity in my act. Their
+condemnation, as acknowledged Anarchists, was, of course, a foregone
+conclusion, and I am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had
+entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. Indeed,
+both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not
+visited upon them. Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect
+upon me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years
+will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless
+factory toil. He is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be
+handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he
+good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion
+in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily
+cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and
+discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of the movement in the twin
+cities, the personnel of Anarchist circles, and collect a fund of
+anecdotes about Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive
+shop in Allegheny is the center of the radical _inteligenzia_. With deep
+contrition Bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the role of my
+executioner. My unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of
+the Homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the Allegheny
+comrades. They sent an inquiry to Most, whose reply proved a warning
+against me. Unknown to me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Nold's
+house. Through the long hours of the night he lay awake, with revolver
+cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had
+determined to kill me.
+
+The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into
+the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and
+applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our
+interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection; the
+difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect.
+Every available scrap of paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers
+and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and
+the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. Even an occasional
+fly-leaf from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its
+covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously
+removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills
+us with dismay. But the genius our faithful postman, of proud
+horsethieving proclivities, proves equal to the occasion: Bob
+constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom shop, in which
+he is employed, as the base of our future supplies.
+
+The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big rolls requisitioned
+by "Horsethief" exclude the fear of famine; the smooth yellow wrapping
+paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible chirography. The
+pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. We speculate on
+the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazinelet, and
+wax warm over the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue
+of the _Zuchthausbluethen_[38] is greeted with the encouraging approval
+of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a
+rather creditable poem on the blank last page of the publication. Elated
+at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him _Meistersinger_, with
+dominion over the department of poetry. Soon we plan more pretentious
+issues: the outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three
+by five inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each issue to
+have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity; the readers
+to serve as contributing editors. The appearance of the _Bluethen_ is to
+be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers,
+whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to protect them
+against discovery. Henceforth Bauer, physically a giant, is to be known
+as "G"; because of my medium stature, I shall be designated with the
+letter "M"; and Nold, as the smallest, by "K."[39] The poet, his history
+somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened "D" for _Dichter_. "M," "K,"
+"G," are to act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to
+start the _Bluethen_ on its way, each reader contributing to the issue
+till it is returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and
+comment upon his fellow contributors. The publication, its contents
+growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom
+will devolve the editorial management of the following issue.
+
+  [38] Prison Blossoms.
+
+  [39] Initial of the German _klein_, small.
+
+The unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation.
+The little magazine is rich in contents and varied in style. The
+diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates
+speculation on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors.
+In the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of
+contending social philosophies; here a political essay rubs elbows with
+a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is
+interspersed with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence. Flashes
+of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend
+peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of
+Josh Billings into the manuscript pages.
+
+[Illustration: Special Spring Edition of the Z. Bluethen.]
+
+But the success of the _Zuchthausbluethen_ soon discovers itself a
+veritable Frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims
+of the magazinelet. The popularity of joint editorship is growing at the
+cost of unity and tendency; the Bard's astonishing facility at
+versification, coupled with his Jules Vernian imagination, causes us
+grave anxiety lest his untamable Pegasus traverse the limits of our
+paper supply. The appalling warning of the commissary that the
+improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike,
+imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies of retrenchment
+and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two Homestead men suggests
+an auspicious solution.
+
+
+III
+
+The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. Beatty, prominent in the
+Knights of Labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among
+workers representing the more radical element of American labor. Accused
+of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills,
+Dempsey and Beatty appear to me men of unusual type. Be they innocent or
+guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary
+tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands: is it not the creator
+of all the wealth in the world? Every weapon may be employed to return
+the despoiled People into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing
+of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters, an effective
+means of aiding the struggle? Therefore Dempsey and Beatty deserve
+acclaim. Morally certain of their guilt, I respect them the more for it,
+though I am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of
+wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg is also human, it is
+true, and desires to live. But one should starve rather than turn
+traitor to the cause of his class. Moreover, the individual--or any
+number of them--cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the
+imprisoned labor leaders. In the ceaseless duel of vital need against
+stupidity and malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least
+indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery, disaster.
+But perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer: by the aid of the
+faithful "Horsethief," communication with Dempsey and Beatty is
+established. With the aggressiveness of strong conviction I present to
+them my views, dwelling on the historic role of the _Attentaeter_ and the
+social significance of conscious individual protest. The discussion
+ramifies, the interest aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper
+supply. Presently I am involved in a correspondence with several men,
+whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act I attempt to
+answer and correct with individual notes. But the method proves an
+impossible tax on our opportunities, and "KGM" finally decide to publish
+an English edition of the _Zuchthausbluethen_. The German magazinelet is
+suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the _Prison
+Blossoms_.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+THE JUDAS
+
+
+"Ah, there, Sporty!" my assistant greets me in the shop. "Stand treat on
+this festive occasion?"
+
+"Yes, Red. Have a chew," I reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug
+of tobacco.
+
+His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed
+suit of dark gray. The larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek,
+he flings to me the remnant across the table, remarking:
+
+"Don't care for't. Take back your choo, I'll keep me honor,--your plug,
+I mean, sonny. A gentleman of my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator
+on the high seas of social life,--are you on, me bye?--a gentleman, I
+repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is human have chucked
+on this here dry, thrice damned dry latitude, sir, this nocuous
+plague-spot of civilization,--say, kid, what t' hell am I talkin' about?
+Damn if I ain't clean forgot."
+
+"I'm sure I don't know, Red."
+
+"Like hell you don't! It's your glad duds, kid. Offerin' _me_ a ch-aw
+tob-b-bac-co! Christ, I'm dyin' for a drop of booze. This magnificent
+occasion deserves a wetting, sir. And, say, Aleck, it won't hurt your
+beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You look like a
+scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't old Sandy the king of
+skinners, though!"
+
+"Whom do you mean, Red?"
+
+"Who I mean, you idjot! Who but that skunk of a Warden, the Honorable
+Captain Edward S. Wright, if you please, sir. Captain of rotten old
+punks, that's what he is. You ask th' screws. He's never smelt powder;
+why, he's been _here_ most o' his life. But some o' th' screws been here
+longer, borned here, damn 'em; couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a
+steam engine, you couldn't. They can tell you all 'bout the Cap, though.
+Old Sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his name when he come 'ere, an'
+now the damn stomach-robber is rich. Reg'lar gold mine this dump's for
+'im. Only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. Got big fam'ly an' keeps
+carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t' go to Europe every year,
+an' got a big pile in th' bank to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a
+year. Good manager, ain't he? A reg'lar church member, too, damn his
+rotten soul to hell!"
+
+"Is he as bad as all that, Red?"
+
+"Is he? A hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he is. Plays the
+humanitarian racket. He had a great deal t' say t' the papers why he
+didn't believe in the brutal way Iams was punished by that Homestead
+colonel--er--what's 'is name?"
+
+"Colonel Streator, of the Tenth Pennsylvania."
+
+"That's the cur. He hung up Private Iams by the thumbs till th' poor boy
+was almost dead. For nothin', too. Suppose you remember, don't you? Iams
+had called for 'three cheers for the man who shot Frick,' an' they
+pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im out of th' regiment
+with 'is head half shaved."
+
+"It was a most barbarous thing."
+
+"An' that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't believe in such
+things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer is doin' it himself. Not a
+day but some poor con is 'cuffed up' in th' hole. That's th' kind of
+humanitarian _he_ is! It makes me wild t' think on 't. Why, kid, I even
+get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the
+dulcet symphonies of classic English. But whenever that skunk of a
+Warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually
+imperturbable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to
+'Patience on a monument smiling at grief.' Watch me, sonny, that's yours
+truly spielin'. Why, look at them dingy rags of yours. I liked you
+better in th' striped duds. They give you the hand-me-downs of that
+nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on th' books with a bran'
+new suit. See where Sandy gets his slice, eh? An' say, kid, how long are
+you here?"
+
+"About eight months, Red."
+
+"They beat you out o' two months all right. Suppose they obey their own
+rules? Nit, sir. You are aware, my precious lamb, that you are entitled
+to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of
+six months in this benevolent dump. I bet you that fresh fish at the
+loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days ago, _he_ won't be kept
+waitin' more'n six months for 'is black clothes."
+
+I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is a slender man,
+with swarthy complexion and quick, shifting eye. The expression of
+guilty cunning is repelling.
+
+"Who is that man?" I whisper to the assistant.
+
+"Like 'im, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce to you the handiwork
+of his Maker, a mealy-mouthed, oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur,
+a snivelling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass
+whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member
+of my clan,--Mr. Patrick Gallagher, of the honorable Pinkerton family,
+sir."
+
+"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The informer, who denounced
+Dempsey and Beatty?"
+
+"The very same. The dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here
+for seven years. Dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such vermin as
+Gallagher and Davidson. He was Master Workman of some district of the
+Knights of Labor. Why in hell didn't he get his own men to do th' job?
+Goes to work an' hires a brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills,
+you savvy, to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on the
+goings on, see? S'pose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the
+developments in the culinary experiment?"
+
+"Yes. Croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scabs sick
+with diarrhoea."
+
+"Make 'em sick? Why, me bye, scores of 'em croaked. I am surprised, sir,
+at your use of such a vulgar term as diarrhoea. You offend my
+aestheticism. The learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels of
+earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of
+unmentionable human obligations to nature, the mysterious and
+extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic
+obedience to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o'
+lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities of the liquid
+supply, or to--pardon my frankness, sir--to intestinal effeminacy,
+which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation
+unseemly in well-mannered Christians. Some future day, sir, there may
+arise a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days of the
+modern Bull Run--an' I kin tell you, laddie, they run and kept runnin',
+top and bottom--or some lyric bard may put to Hudibrastic verse--watch
+me climbin' th' Parnassus, kid--the poetic feet, the numbers, the
+assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when Croton Oil was King.
+Yes, sirree; but for yours truly, me hand ain't in such pies; and
+moreover, sir, I make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t'
+keep me snout out o' other people's biz."
+
+"Dempsey may be innocent, Red."
+
+"Well, th' joory didn't think so. But there's no tellin'. Honest t' God,
+Aleck, that rotten scab of a Gallagher has cast the pale hue of
+resolution, if I may borrow old Billy Shake's slang, sir, over me
+gener'ly settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plenitude of my
+heterogeneous experience with all sorts and conditions of rats and
+gaycats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order, of 1859
+vintage, damme if I ever run across such an acute form of confessionitis
+as manifested by the lout on th' loopin' machine there. You know what he
+done yesterday?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"Sent for th' distric' attorney and made another confesh."
+
+"Really? How do you know?"
+
+"Night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. I shtands in, see? The
+mick's a reg'lar Yahoo, can't hardly spell 'is own name. He daily
+requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out
+his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a hand-out with more
+dignified probity, sir. It's a cinch. Last night he gimme a great slice
+of corn dodger. It was A 1, I tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and
+half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it, though! Makes
+your mouth water, eh, kid? Well, you be good t' me, an' you kin have
+what I got. I'll divvy up with you. We-ll! Don' stand there an' gape at
+me like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation of my magnanimous
+generosity deprived you of articulate utterance, sir?"
+
+The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his suddenly
+serious manner, affect me unpleasantly. With pretended indifference, I
+decline to share his delicacies.
+
+"You need those little extras for yourself, Red," I explain. "You told
+me you suffer from indigestion. A change of diet now and then will do
+you good. But you haven't finished telling me about the new confession
+of Gallagher."
+
+"Oh, you're a sly one, Aleck; no flies on you. But it's all right, me
+bye, mebbe I can do somethin' for you some day. I'm your friend, Aleck;
+count on me. But that mutt of a Gallagher, yes, sirree, made another
+confession; damme if it ain't his third one. Ever hear such a thing? I
+got it straight from th' screw all right. I can't make the damn snitch
+out. Unreservedly I avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of
+the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb
+the repose of a right-thinking yagg in the silken lap of Morpheus.
+What's 'is game, anyhow? Shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental
+menstruation as, er--er--what's your learned opinion, my illustrious
+colleague, eh? What you grinnin' for, Four Eyes? It's a serious matter,
+sir; a highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity,
+impregnated with the pernicious virus of Pinkertonism, sir, and
+transmuted in the alembic of Carnegie alchemy. A judicious injection of
+persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of the House of Dempsey,
+and lo! three brand-new confessions, mutually contradictory and
+exclusive. Does that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?"
+
+"In the second confession he retracted his accusations against Dempsey.
+What is the third about, Red?"
+
+"Retracts his retraction, me bye. Guess why, Aleck."
+
+"I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges."
+
+"You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas cleared the man, Sandy
+notified Reed and Knox. Them's smart guys, all right; the attorneys of
+the Carnegie Company to interpret Madame Justicia, sir, in a manner--"
+
+"I know, Red," I interrupt him, "they are the lawyers who prosecuted me.
+Even in court they were giving directions to the district attorney, and
+openly whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses. He was
+just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when
+he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or
+corporation, but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth,
+charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my
+prosecution. And all the time he was the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers."
+
+"Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when
+you start jawin'. Think you're on th' platform haranguing the
+long-haired crowd? You can't convert _me_, so save your breath, man."
+
+"I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are intelligent, but a
+hopeless case. You are not the kind that could be useful to the Cause."
+
+"Glad you're next. Got me sized up all right, eh? Well, me saintly bye,
+I'm Johnny-on-the-spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the
+cause is Me, with a big M, see? A fellow's a fool not t' look out for
+number one. I give it t' you straight, Aleck. What's them high-flown
+notions of yours--oppressed humanity and suffering people--fiddlesticks!
+There you go and shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers,
+but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell me that! They
+won't do a darned thing fer you. Catch _me_ swinging for the peo-pul!
+The cattle don't deserve any better than they get, that's what _I_ say."
+
+"I don't want to discuss these questions with you, Red. You'll never
+understand, anyhow."
+
+"Git off, now. You voice a sentiment, sir, that my adequate appreciation
+of myself would prompt me to resent on the field of honor, sir. But the
+unworthy spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir, and I
+shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming the true Christian, and
+shall follow the bidding of the Master by humbly offering the other
+cheek for that chaw of th' weed I gave you. Dig down into your poke,
+kid."
+
+I hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking:
+
+"You've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual, Red. You said the
+Warden sent for the Carnegie lawyers after Gallagher had recanted his
+original confession. Well, what did they do?"
+
+"Don't know what _they_ done, but I tole you that the muttonhead sent
+for th' district attorney the same day, an' signed a third confesh. Why,
+Dempsey was tickled to death, 'cause--"
+
+He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn me of danger.
+Accompanied by the Deputy and the shop officer, the Warden is making the
+rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and
+listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes
+present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features
+framed in grayish-white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a
+benign smile:
+
+"Good morning, boys."
+
+Casting a glance at my assistant, the Warden inquires: "Your time must
+be up soon, Red?"
+
+"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs.
+
+"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine accents of the Deputy
+sound sarcastic.
+
+"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers.
+
+A flush darkens the face of the assistant. "There's more skunks out than
+in," he retorts.
+
+The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning finger, but the Warden
+laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds.
+
+We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily
+following the departing officials. Presently he whispers:
+
+"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on to 'im, all right. Didn't
+he look mad, though? Thought he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is
+lamps, kid?"
+
+"Yes. Very bright eyes."
+
+"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's th' matter. Think I'd
+get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? I knowed it the
+minute I laid me eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and
+that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all
+right. Always feelin' fine when he's hit th' pipe. That's th' time you
+kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im,
+hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in
+them socks, first thing you know."
+
+"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't _you_ ask him?"
+
+"Me? Me ask a favor o' the damn swine? Not on your tintype! You don'
+catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--"
+
+"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either."
+
+"I don't give a damn. For all I care, Aleck, and--well, confidentially
+speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the
+infundibular dehiscence of his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble
+opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to
+disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. Do you
+follow the argument, me bye?"
+
+"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What are you really
+talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer."
+
+"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to train you right; gradual,
+so to speak. It's me dooty to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here.
+I ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. I'll quit first. D'
+you think--s-s-ss!"
+
+The shop officer is returning. "Damn your impudence, Red," he shouts at
+the assistant. "Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?"
+
+"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?"
+
+"You know damn well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean
+through. You ought t' know better'n that. He was nice as pie till you
+opened that big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He gave me
+th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. Why don't you
+take it over to th' loopers, Burk?"
+
+"They have not been turned yet," I reply.
+
+"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What in hell are you
+fellows doin', I'd like t' know."
+
+"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts, defiantly.
+
+"Shut up now, an' get a move on you."
+
+"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant persists.
+
+"You better shut up, Red."
+
+"Then give us some help."
+
+"I will like hell!"
+
+The whistle sounds the dinner hour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+THE DIP
+
+
+For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work. My best efforts seem
+ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery,
+and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of
+clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me
+assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the
+vacant place.
+
+"He's a dip,"[40] Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A top-notcher," he adds,
+admiringly.
+
+  [40] Pickpocket.
+
+I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced
+association. I have never before come in personal contact with a
+professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his
+class. But they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey
+upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can be nothing in common
+between me and this man.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. His distant manner
+piques my curiosity. How unlike his scornful mien and proudly
+independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I
+remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a
+fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya
+confessed the theft. We ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head
+and looked frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his
+face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of
+him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his
+forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful
+word _vor_.[41]
+
+  [41] Thief.
+
+"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks
+in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "You needn't be
+afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly.
+
+"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation. "Why should I
+be afraid of you?"
+
+"Not of me; of the officer, I meant."
+
+"I am not afraid of him, either."
+
+"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the
+time, you know."
+
+His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct
+English, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former
+assistant, surprises me.
+
+"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, Mr.
+Berkman, but--"
+
+"How do you know my name?" I interrupt. "You have just arrived."
+
+"They call me 'Lightning Al'," he replies, with a tinge of pride. "I'm
+here only three days, but a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in
+that time. I had you pointed out to me."
+
+"What do you call your line? What are you here for?"
+
+For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch his face blush darkly.
+
+
+"You're a dead give-away. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Berkman," he corrects
+himself, "I sometimes lapse into lingo, under provocation, you know. I
+meant to say, it's easy to see that you are not next to the way--not
+familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never ask a man what he
+is in for."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Well, er--"
+
+"You are ashamed."
+
+"Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps,--I mean, to be caught at
+it--it's no credit to a gun's rep, his reputation, you understand. But
+I'm proud of the jobs I've done. I'm pretty slick, you know."
+
+"But you don't like to be asked why you were sent here."
+
+"Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions."
+
+"Against the ethics of the trade, I suppose?"
+
+"How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Berkman. But it's true, it's not the
+ethics. And it isn't a trade, either; it's a profession. Oh, you may
+smile, but I'd rather be a gun, a professional, I mean, than one of your
+stupid factory hands."
+
+"They are honest, though. Honest producers, while you are a thief."
+
+"Oh, there's no sting in that word for _me_. I take pride in being a
+thief, and what's more, I _am_ an A number one gun, you see the point?
+The best dip in the States."
+
+"A pickpocket? Stealing nickels off passengers on the street cars,
+and--"
+
+"Me? A hell of a lot _you_ know about it. Take me for such small fry, do
+you? I work only on race tracks."
+
+"You call it work?"
+
+"Sure. Damned hard work, too. Takes more brains than a whole shopful of
+your honest producers can show."
+
+"And you prefer that to being honest?"
+
+"Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. Think
+I'm so dumb I have to slave all week for a few dollars?"
+
+"But you spend most of your life in prison."
+
+"Not by a long shot. A real good gun's always got his fall money
+planted,--I mean some ready coin in case of trouble,--and a smart lawyer
+will spring you most every time; beat the case, you know. I've never
+seen the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough; and most
+judges, too. Of course, now and then, the best of us may fall; but it
+don't happen very often, and it's all in the game. This whole life is a
+game, Mr. Berkman, and every one's got his graft."
+
+"Do you mean there are no honest men?" I ask, angrily.
+
+"Pshaw! I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or Carnegie, only they got the
+law with them. And I work harder than they, I'll bet you on that. I've
+got to eat, haven't I? Of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if I could be
+sure of my bread and butter, perhaps--"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket, inquiring
+pleasantly:
+
+"How're you doin', Al?"
+
+"Tip-top, Mr. Cosson. Hope you are feeling good to-day."
+
+"Never better, Al."
+
+"A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr. Cosson."
+
+"Who was that?"
+
+"Barney. Jack Barney."
+
+"Jack Barney! Why, he worked for me in the broom shop."
+
+"Yes, he did a three-spot. He often said to me, 'Al, it you ever land in
+Riverside,' he says, 'be sure you don't forget to give my best to Mr.
+Cosson, Mr. Ed. Cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'"
+
+The officer looks pleased. "Yes, I treated him white, all right," he
+remarks, continuing on his rounds.
+
+"I knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after him. "Always good
+to get on the right side of them," he adds, with a wink. "Barney told me
+about him all right. Said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a
+swell-head yap. You see, Mr. Berkman,--may I call you Aleck? It's
+shorter. Well, you see, Aleck, I make it a point to find things out.
+It's wise to know the ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That
+Jimmy McPane, the Deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his man, all
+right. Barney told me all about it; he was doing his bit, then,--I mean
+serving his sentence. You see, Aleck," he lowers his voice,
+confidentially, "I don't like to use slang; it grows on one, and every
+fly-cop can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business to
+present a fine front and use good English, so I must not get the lingo
+habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney telling me about the Deputy. He
+killed a con in cold blood. The fellow was bughouse, D. T., you know;
+saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and
+hollering 'Murder! Kill 'em!' The Deputy was just passing along, and he
+out with his gat--I mean his revolver, you know--and bangs away. He
+pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he did, the murderer. Killed
+him dead. Never was tried, either. Warden told the newspapers it was
+done in self-defence. A damn lie. Sandy knew better; everybody in the
+dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder, with no provocation at all. It's
+a regular ring, you see, and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of
+them all; and that sky-pilot, too, is an A 1 fakir. Did you hear about
+the kid born here? Before your time. A big scandal. Since then the holy
+man's got to have a screw with him at Sunday service for the females,
+and I tell you he needs watching all right."
+
+The whistle terminates the conversation.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+THE URGE OF SEX
+
+
+Sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy; I
+cannot sleep. Through the bars, I gaze upon the Ohio. The full moon
+hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains
+of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks are merry
+with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell, and voices
+call in the distance. Life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly
+near,--but all is silent and dead around me.
+
+For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. It sounded so
+youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt.
+What joy to feast my eye on her! I have not beheld a woman for many
+months: I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. My mind
+persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strains in the
+woods; and fancy wreathes sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints
+vision and image, as I pace the floor in agitation. They live, they
+breathe! I see the slender figure with the swelling bosom, the delicate
+white throat, the babyish face with large, wistful eyes. Why, it is
+Luba! My blood tingles violently, passionately, as I live over again the
+rapturous wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How temptingly
+innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips, how
+exquisite the suddenness of it all! We were in New Haven then. One by
+one we had gathered, till the little New York commune was complete. The
+Girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange city, drudging as
+compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the
+midst of a conservative household. But the Girl brought light and
+sunshine, and then came the Twin and Manya. Luba remained in New York;
+but Manya, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister, and presently
+the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. All seemed
+happy in the free atmosphere, and Luba was blooming into beautiful
+womanhood. There was a vague something about her that now and then
+roused in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. Once--it was in New
+York, a year before--I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. It
+seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called to try a game of chess
+with her father, when he informed me that Luba had been ill. She was
+recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside,
+conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows slipping from under
+the girl's head. Bending over, I involuntarily touched her hair, loosely
+hanging down the side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next
+instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips.
+The momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for
+the girl with the beautiful hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and
+a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray,
+full of grace and beauty. And all the while we talked, my eyes feasted
+on her ravishing form, and I felt envious of her future lover, and hated
+the desecration. But when I left her bedside, all trace of desire
+disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision
+affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague inquietude remained, as
+of something unattainable.
+
+Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. We had just
+returned from the performance of _Tosca_, with Sarah Bernhardt in her
+inimitable role. I had to pass through Luba's room on my way to the
+attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. She had already
+retired, but was still awake. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and we
+talked of the play. She glowed with the inspiration of the great
+tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the _decollete_ of the
+actresses.
+
+"I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," I remarked. "But I had
+a powerful opera glass: their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was
+disgusting."
+
+"Do you think--mine nice?" she asked, suddenly.
+
+For a second I was bewildered. But the question sounded so enchantingly
+unpremeditated, so innocently eager.
+
+"I never--Let me see them," I said, impulsively.
+
+"No, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "I can't, I can't!"
+
+"I wont look, Luba. See, I close my eyes. Just a touch."
+
+"Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed! Only over the blanket, please, Sasha," she
+pleaded, as my hand softly stole under the covers. She gripped the sheet
+tightly, and my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm, round
+breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In fear of arousing her
+maidenly resistance, I strove to hide my exultation, while cautiously
+and tenderly I released the coverlet.
+
+"They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling the tremor of my
+voice.
+
+"You--like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes looked lustrous and
+happy.
+
+"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last covering aside, I kissed
+her between the breasts.
+
+"I'm so glad I came here," she spoke dreamily.
+
+"Were you very lonesome in New York?"
+
+"It was terrible, Sasha."
+
+"You like the change?"
+
+"Oh, you silly boy! Don't you know?"
+
+"What, Luba?"
+
+"I wanted _you_, dear." Her arms twined softly about me.
+
+I felt appalled. The Girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my
+mind, chilling me with self-reproach. The pale hue of the attained cast
+its shadow across the spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Luba's breast.
+The coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my hand
+inadvertently touched her knee.
+
+"Sasha, how _can_ you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified
+eyes.
+
+"I didn't mean to, Luba. How could you _think_ that of me?" I was deeply
+mortified.
+
+My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent embarrassment.
+
+"It is getting late, Sasha." She tenderly drew my head to her bosom.
+
+"A little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment of the virgin
+breasts was upon me, and I showered wild kisses on them, and pressed
+them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain.
+
+"You must go now, dear."
+
+"Good night, Luba."
+
+"Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me, Sashenka."
+
+I felt her detaining lips, as I left.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex grows more and more
+insistent. Scenes from the past live in my thoughts; the cell is
+peopled with familiar faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated
+before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul, and move
+with intense reality, like the portraits of my sires come to life in the
+dark, fearful nights of my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her
+window across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely, with
+modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily, in thinly disguised
+voices. Again I am with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their
+way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and
+confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to the peep-holes we had cut
+in the booth. Inwardly I resent Nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in
+revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of
+the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. But I grow indignant at
+Vainka who badgers the girls with "Tsiba,[42] tsiba, ba-aa!" and I
+soundly thrash Kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the school yard
+at little Nunya, whom I secretly adore.
+
+  [42] Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+But the note of later days returns again and again, and the scenes of
+youth recede into their dim frames. Clearer and more frequently appear
+Sonya and Luba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in America.
+What a goose she was! She would not embrace me, because it's a great
+sin, unless one is married. But how slyly she managed to arrange kissing
+games at the Sunday gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! She
+must be quite a woman now, with a husband, children ... Quickly she
+flits by, the recollection even of her name lost in the glow of
+Anarchist emotionalism and the fervent enthusiasm of my Orchard Street
+days. There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my
+Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating
+idealism. It sheds the halo of illuminating justification upon my
+blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit
+mountains. The sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes a new
+aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those first years in America!... And
+still Time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World,
+its joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewildered by the
+flurry of Castle Garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my
+fate in freedom. The Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated
+Cossacks is past. How inspiring is liberty! The very air breathes
+enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace the new
+life. I join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full
+manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my
+adopted country on the part of my family abroad,--resent it hotly. I
+feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected
+name by turning "a low, dirty workingman." I combat their snobbishness
+vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison
+between the Old and the New World. Behold the glory of liberty and
+prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor!... The loom of
+Time keeps weaving. Lone and friendless, I struggle in the new land.
+Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. There is
+no "dignity of labor." Sweatshop bread is bitter. Oppression guards the
+golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success.
+Then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of the Ideal.
+Strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of Revolution. Like a flash in
+the night, it illumines my groping. My life becomes full of new meaning
+and interest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipation.
+Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new
+humanity.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+It is all far, far--yet every detail is sharply etched upon my memory.
+Swiftly pass before me the years of complete consecration to the
+movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of
+agitation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited
+debate, the nights of diligent study. And over all loom the Fridays in
+the little dingy hall in the Ghetto, where the handful of Russian
+refugees gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against the
+tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged words prophesy the
+near approach of a glorious Dawn. Beshawled women, and men, long-coated
+and piously bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and
+listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange Jewish,
+so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. How
+our hearts rejoice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage
+the diffident questioner, "Do you really mean--may the good Lord forgive
+me--there is no one in heaven above?"... Late in the evening the meeting
+resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's
+utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to "the corner." The
+obscure little tea room resounds with the joust of learning and wit.
+Fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul, as the
+passage-at-arms grows more heated with the advance of the night. The
+alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions,
+"Gentlemen, gentlemen, s-sh! The police station is just across the
+street." There is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at
+each other, and in the interim the Austrian Student in his mellow voice
+begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, apropos of
+nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. With sparkling
+eyes he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us
+through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the Caucasus, to engage
+in the blood-feuds of the Tcherkessi; or, enmeshed in a perilous
+flirtation with an Albanian beauty in a Moslem harem, he descants on the
+philosophy of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the Nile to
+hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures
+by introducing an acquaintance of the evening, "My excellent friend, the
+coming great Italian virtuoso, from Odessa, gentlemen. He will entertain
+us with an aria from _Trovatore_." But the circle is not in a musical
+mood: some one challenges the Student's familiarity with the Moslem
+philosophy, and the Twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the Austrian
+with Christian missionaries. There are protestations, and loud clamor
+for an explanation. The Student smilingly assents, and presently he is
+launched upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan,
+trading tea at Yachta, and aiding a political to escape to
+Vladivostok.... The night pales before the waking sun, the Twin yawns,
+and I am drowsy with--
+
+"Cof-fee! Want coffee? Hey, git up there! Didn't you hear th' bell?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+THE WARDEN'S THREAT
+
+
+I
+
+The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line
+undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the
+gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate
+ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house.
+
+"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it.
+The screw's goin' t' frisk[43] me."
+
+  [43] Search.
+
+Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in
+front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men.
+
+"Break ranks!"
+
+The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk."
+
+The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in.
+
+"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly.
+
+"I don't understand you."
+
+"Yes, you do. Have you money on you?"
+
+"I have not."
+
+"Who sends clandestine mail for you?"
+
+"What mail?"
+
+"The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in New York."
+
+I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed through official
+channels.
+
+"It went through the Chaplain's hands," I reply, boldly.
+
+"It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass Mr. Milligan. Mr.
+Cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch the newspaper from my desk."
+
+The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "Here it is!
+You talk of revolution, and comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never
+saw _that_, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say that you
+are editing--from the prison, mind you--editing an Anarchist sheet in
+New York."
+
+"You can't believe everything the papers say." I protest.
+
+"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the Deputy interposes.
+"They surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth."
+
+"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that I tried to jump over
+the wall--it's about thirty feet high--and that the guard shot me in the
+leg?"
+
+A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out:
+
+"Was the story inspired, perhaps?"
+
+"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to speak, unless addressed,
+remember. Mr. McPane, please search him."
+
+The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my
+arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every
+spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The loathsome
+touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security: I have
+nothing incriminating about me.
+
+Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket.
+
+"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round object. "A knife, Captain."
+
+"Let me see!" I cry in amazement.
+
+"Stand back!" the Warden commands. "This knife has been stolen from the
+shoe shop. On whom did you mean to use it?"
+
+"Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow dropped it into my pocket
+as we--"
+
+"That'll do. You're not so clever as you think."
+
+"It's a conspiracy!" I cry.
+
+He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes.
+
+"Well, what have you got to say?"
+
+"It's a put-up job."
+
+"Explain yourself."
+
+"Some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming--"
+
+"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy."
+
+"You searched me for money and secret letters--"
+
+"That will do now. Mr. McPane, what is the sentence for the possession
+of a dangerous weapon?"
+
+"Warden," I interrupt, "it's no weapon. The blade is only half an inch,
+and--"
+
+"Silence! I spoke to Mr. McPane."
+
+"Hm, three days, Captain."
+
+"Take him down."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the storeroom I am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad
+in the hateful stripes. Coatless and shoeless, I am led through hallways
+and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the
+dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable,--I feel its hand
+upon my head, my face. I dare not move, lest a misstep thrust me into
+the abyss. I hold my hand close to my eyes--I feel the touch of my
+lashes upon it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one
+spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is sinister; it
+seems to me I can hear it. Only now and then the hasty scrambling of
+nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible
+river rats haunts the fearful solitude.
+
+Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts; out of the sombre gray, a
+wall looms above; the silhouette of a door rises dimly before me,
+sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable.
+
+The hours drag in unbroken sameness. Not a sound reaches me from the
+cell-house. In the maddening quiet and darkness I am bereft of all
+consciousness of time, save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys
+apprises me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the silent
+guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. The double doors
+fall heavily to, the steps grow fainter and die in the distance, and all
+is dark again in the dungeon.
+
+The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The floor is cold and clammy,
+the gnawing grows louder and nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the
+starving rats attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments
+leaning against the door; and then again I pace the cell, striving to
+keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound
+of a human voice.
+
+Utterly forsaken! Cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the
+world of man receding, leaving no trace behind.... Eagerly I strain my
+ear--only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. I clutch the bars in
+desperation--a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands tear
+violently at the door--"Ho, there! Any one here?" All is silent.
+Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread
+and despair. Fear shapes convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest,
+then calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid succession
+of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my slumbering consciousness.
+
+Exhausted and weary I droop against the wall. A slimy creeping on my
+face startles me in horror, and again I pace the cell. I feel cold and
+hungry. Am I forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more. Have they
+forgotten me?...
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. My tomb will
+open--oh, to see the light, and breathe the air again....
+
+"Officer, isn't my time up yet?"
+
+"What's your hurry? You've only been here one day."
+
+The doors fall to. Ravenously I devour the bread, so small and thin,
+just a bite. Only _one_ day! Despair enfolds me like a pall. Faint with
+anguish, I sink to the floor.
+
+
+II
+
+The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable
+transformation. The sight of the human form fills me with delight, the
+sound of voices is sweet music. I feel as if I had been torn from the
+grip of death when all hope had fled me,--caught on the very brink, as
+it were, and restored to the world of the living. How bright the sun,
+how balmy the air! In keen sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The
+tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to
+rest, secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin. It is
+almost liberty, freedom!
+
+But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes throb with pain;
+every joint of my body is on the rack. The blankets had been removed
+from the dungeon; three days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was
+unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended anxiety
+lest I commit suicide with them. It is very touching, this solicitude
+for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden
+motive must be actuating the Warden. But what can it be? Probably they
+will not keep me long in the cell. When I am returned to work, I shall
+learn the truth.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous confinement is
+becoming distressing. I miss the little comforts I have lost by the
+removal to the "single" cell, considerably smaller than my previous
+quarters. My library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so
+patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The cell is bare
+and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed rules affording no relief
+from the irritating whitewash. The narrow space makes exercise
+difficult: the necessity of turning at every second and third step
+transforms walking into a series of contortions. But some means must be
+devised to while away the time. I pace the floor, counting the seconds
+required to make ten turns. I recollect having heard that five miles
+constitutes a healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771
+turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide the exercise
+into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles.
+Carefully I count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal
+of the gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again.
+
+The change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades.
+I am apprehensive of the fate of the _Prison Blossoms_: strict
+surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am
+assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from
+the officers' desk at the yard door. Watchful eyes are constantly upon
+me; it is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. The rangeman
+alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been warned
+against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his position as trusty by
+spying upon the inmates. I can expect no help from him; but perhaps the
+coffee-boy may prove of service.
+
+I am planning to approach the man, when I am informed that prisoners
+from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. By means
+of the waste pipe, I learn of the developments during my stay in the
+dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient
+rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagon-load of bad meat. The
+stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing
+uncomplimentary remarks about the food. The situation was aggravated by
+an additional increase of the task. The knitters and loopers were on the
+verge of rebellion. Twice within the month had the task been enlarged.
+They sent to the Warden a request for a reduction; in reply came the
+appalling order for a further increase. Then a score of men struck. They
+remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand
+for better food and less work was complied with. With the aid of
+informers, the Warden conducted a quiet investigation. One by one the
+refractory prisoners were forced to submit. By a process of elimination
+the authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that
+a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique
+episode of a strike in the prison.
+
+An air of mystery hangs about the guards. Repeatedly I attempt to engage
+them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their
+lips. I wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when
+unexpectedly the cause is revealed.
+
+
+III
+
+It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tier.
+I stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. The overseer glances at
+me, then motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell.
+
+"Officer," I call out, "you missed me."
+
+"Smell the pot-pie, do you?"
+
+"Where's my dinner?"
+
+"You get none."
+
+The odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked forward to every
+second Sunday, reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten
+sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now--I am humiliated
+and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner.
+Angrily I rap the cup across the door; again and again I strike the tin
+against it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a sharp,
+piercing clatter.
+
+A guard hastens along. "Stop that damn racket," he commands. "What's the
+matter with you?"
+
+"I didn't get dinner."
+
+"Yes, you did."
+
+"I did not."
+
+"Well, I s'pose you don't deserve it."
+
+As he turns to leave, my can crashes against the door--one, two, three--
+
+"What t'hell do you want, eh?"
+
+"I want to see the Warden."
+
+"You can't see 'im. You better keep quiet now."
+
+"I demand to see the Warden. He is supposed to visit us every day. He
+hasn't been around for weeks. I must see him now."
+
+"If you don't shut up, I'll--"
+
+The Captain of the Block approaches.
+
+"What do you want, Berkman?"
+
+"I want to see the Warden."
+
+"Can't see him. It's Sunday."
+
+"Captain," I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell,
+"there is an excerpt here from the statutes of Pennsylvania, directing
+the Warden to visit each prisoner every day--"
+
+"Never mind, now," he interrupts. "What do you want to see the Warden
+about?"
+
+"I want to know why I got no dinner."
+
+"Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays."
+
+"What for?"
+
+"That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you want to see him."
+
+Presently the overseer returns, informing me in a confidential manner
+that he has induced "his Nibs" to grant me an audience. Admitted to the
+inner office, I find the Warden at the desk, his face flushed with
+anger.
+
+"You are reported for disturbing the peace," he shouts at me.
+
+"There is also, hm, hm, another charge against him," the Deputy
+interposes.
+
+"Two charges," the Warden continues. "Disturbing the peace and making
+demands. How dare you demand?" he roars. "Do you know where you are?"
+
+"I wanted to see you."
+
+"It is not a question of what you want or don't want. Understand that
+clearly. You are to obey the rules implicitly."
+
+"The rules direct you to visit--"
+
+"Silence! What is your request?"
+
+"I want to know why I am deprived of dinner."
+
+"It is not, hm, for _you_ to know. It is enough, hm, hm, that _we_
+know," the Deputy retorts.
+
+"Mr. McPane," the Warden interposes, "I am going to speak plainly to
+him. From this day on," he turns to me, "you are on 'Pennsylvania diet'
+for four weeks. During that time no papers or books are permitted you.
+It will give you leisure to think over your behavior. I have
+investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am satisfied it was you who
+instigated the trouble there. You shall not have another chance to
+incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. But," he
+pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you may as well
+understand it now as later--your life is not worth the trouble you give
+us. Mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at _your_ expense. For
+the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your
+pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the 'basket.'"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+THE "BASKET" CELL
+
+
+Four weeks of "Pennsylvania diet" have reduced me almost to a skeleton.
+A slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole
+meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace
+of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I am conducted to the office,
+to be examined by the physician and weighed. The whole week I look
+forward to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. The sight
+of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly smile on a
+stealthily raised face as I pass through the hall, the strange blue of
+the sky, the sweet-scented aroma of the April morning--how quickly it is
+all over! But the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the
+office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood aglow with renewed
+life. For an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite
+intoxication, and then--I am in the tomb again.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant dusk is driving
+me blind. Almost no light or air reaches me through the close wire
+netting covering the barred door. The foul odor is stifling; it grips my
+throat with deathly hold. The walls hem me in; daily they press closer
+upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and I feel crushed in the
+coffin of stone. From every point the whitewashed sides glare at me,
+unyielding, inexorable, in confident assurance of their prey.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The darkness of despondency gathers day by day; the hand of despair
+weighs heavier. At night the screeching of a crow across the river
+ominously voices the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. The windows
+in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. Bleak and desolate
+wakes the day--another day, then another--
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Weak and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further recedes the world of
+the living. Still day follows night, and life is in the making, but I
+have no part in the pain and travail. Like a spark from the glowing
+furnace, flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness, I
+have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. No sound reaches me
+from the island prison where beats the fervent heart of the Girl, no ray
+of hope falls across the bars of desolation. But on the threshold of
+Nirvana life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out _to be_!
+Persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and nerves my resolution. Were
+I an ordinary prisoner, I should not care to suffer all these agonies.
+To what purpose, with my impossible sentence? But my Anarchist ideals
+and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire gloating over its
+prey. No, I shall not disgrace the Cause, I shall not grieve my comrades
+by weak surrender! I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by
+threat or torture.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With difficulty I walk to the office for the weekly weighing. My step
+falters as I approach the scales, and I sway dizzily. As through a mist
+I see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body.
+Somehow I reach the "basket," mildly wondering why I did not feel the
+cold air. Perhaps they did not take me through the yard--Is it the Block
+Captain's voice? "What did you say?"
+
+"Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+THE SOLITARY
+
+
+I
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                     March 25, 1894.
+
+    DEAR FEDYA:
+
+    This letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons I missed
+    mail-day last month. Prison life, too, has its ups and downs,
+    and just now I am on the down side. We are cautioned to refrain
+    from referring to local affairs; therefore I can tell you only
+    that I am in solitary, without work. I don't know how long I am
+    to be kept "locked up." It may be a month, or a year, I hope it
+    will not be the latter.
+
+    I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you
+    sent.... We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can
+    easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to the
+    last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the
+    living.... Blessed be the shades of Guttenberg! Hugo and Zola,
+    even Gogol and Turgenev, are in the library. It is like meeting
+    an old friend in a strange land to find our own Bazarov
+    discoursing--in English.... Page after page unfolds the
+    past--the solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again
+    I roam with Leather Stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow
+    with poor Oliver Twist. But the "Captain's Daughter" irritates
+    me, and Pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature
+    in the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Tarass
+    Bulba--is it our own Tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge
+    of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old hetman
+    storming maledictions against the hated Moslems--in long-winded
+    German periods! Exasperated and offended, I turn my back upon
+    the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of the
+    requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth. Posies
+    bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but the pains
+    of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul.... Science and
+    romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy--all come
+    trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the allowance
+    of only one book at a time limits my choice. The variety of
+    reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to
+    perfect my English. But some passage in the "Starry Heavens"
+    suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with
+    the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question
+    surges through my mind, What is the use of all this study and
+    learning? And then--but why harrow you with this tenor.
+
+    I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be
+    undone: the sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will be
+    mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you also are not bedded
+    on roses. And the poor Sailor?
+
+    My space is all.
+
+                                                               ALEX.
+
+
+II
+
+The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links
+through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer
+heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my
+face. On the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard has closed the
+hall windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The
+leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor of the
+perspiration and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless, I toss on
+the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the weight of many
+inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bedtick. But the
+Block Captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing
+me to "shake it up a bit." I am fearful of repeating the experiment: the
+clouds of dust almost strangled me; for days the cell remained hazy with
+the powdered filth. Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will
+open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my
+cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give
+me life this day.
+
+And when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence
+mounts its vigil, I may improve a favorable moment to exchange a
+greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the
+tier above me. Thrice his request for a "high gear" machine has been
+refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table.
+Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has
+repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a
+hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate
+with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The
+Warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original
+high machine. But the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go
+back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison
+discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday
+the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the Deputy, and
+assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by
+the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited
+again before the Warden the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness
+to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of
+yielding enrages him. "I'll die before I give in," he told me.
+
+From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn the sad story of his
+young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him.
+His father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for
+damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow
+destitute. Since the age of fourteen young Johnny had to support the
+whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon,
+associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling.
+One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's
+accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily
+clad in stripes.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In vain I strive to absorb myself in the library book. The shoddy heroes
+of Laura Jean wake no response in my heart; the superior beings of
+Corelli, communing with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange
+and unhuman. Here, in the cell above me, cries and moans the terrible
+tragedy of Reality. What a monstrous thing it is that the whole power of
+the commonwealth, all the machinery of government, is concentrated to
+crush this unfortunate atom! Innocently guilty, too, the poor boy is.
+Ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of
+vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by a moment of weakness. Yet
+his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint
+reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy
+of organized Society! The very foundation of its existence rests upon
+the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and
+justice. Every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the
+semblance of truth; the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very
+name. Political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry
+gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant on the ruins of
+manhood--such is the morality of civilization. And over the edifice of
+this stupendous perversion the Law sits enthroned, and Religion weaves
+the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong, and bids the
+cowering helot intone, "Thy will be done!"
+
+Devoutly Johnny goes to Church, and prays forgiveness for his "sins."
+The prosecutor was "very hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole
+perceives only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons
+directly responsible for his long imprisonment. But greater minds have
+failed fully to grasp the iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns,
+even, seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep
+sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. But "man's inhumanity to man" is
+not the last word. The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the
+savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted mankind into wolves and
+sheep. In liberty and communism, none would have the will or the power
+"to make countless thousands mourn." Verily, it is the system, rather
+than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. My
+prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the Midas-hand,
+whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of Mammon.
+Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement; with savage joy the shop
+foreman cracks his whip, for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The
+famished bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon
+night, the men buried in "basket" and solitary,--what human hand would
+turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like
+fate, and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but an
+intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with
+the levers of Greed, guarded by the spawn of Hunger.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It is a Herculean task
+to rouse Apathy to the sordidness of its misery. Yet if the People would
+but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means
+of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace Anarchy! Quick and
+decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of
+their despoilers. An hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and
+superstition, and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world, and
+the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a
+regenerated humanity. Ah, if the world would but pause for one short
+while, and understand, and become free!
+
+Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical lore: only one instant
+of righteousness, and Messiah would come upon earth. The beautiful
+promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The
+merciful God requires so little of us, I had often pondered. Why will we
+not abstain from sin and evil, for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"?
+For weeks I went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent Israel
+refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening
+the deliverance. Like a divine inspiration came the solution: at the
+stroke of the noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and women of
+the Jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer. For a single stroke
+of time, all at once--behold the Messiah come! In agonizing perplexity I
+gazed at my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly smile quivered
+dismay into my thrilling heart! The children of Israel could not be
+saved thus,--he spoke sadly. Nay, not even in the most circumspect
+manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time
+to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah will come, the good tutor
+kindly consoled me. It had been promised. "But the hour hath not
+arrived," he quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the
+Deliverer."
+
+With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new hope, the
+revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken: it
+hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery. Out of the
+People's need, from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour
+of redemption. Necessity, Necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur
+numb Misery to effort, and waken the living dead. The process is
+tortuously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried
+by impatience. We must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers
+for the great upheaval. The errors of the past are to be guarded
+against: always has apparent victory been divested of its fruits, and
+paralyzed into defeat, because the People were fettered by their respect
+for property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by reliance
+upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason
+lighted in the darkness of men's minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the
+midway clouds of defeat, and sight the glory of the Social Revolution,
+and the beyond.
+
+
+III
+
+A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused sounds ring in my ears,
+and beat upon my head. I wake in nameless dread. The cell-house is
+raging with uproar: crash after crash booms through the hall; it
+thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous
+drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases.
+
+In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still. Timidly I look
+around. The cell is in darkness, and only a faint gas light flickers
+unsteadily in the corridor. Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and
+unearthly, bursting into wild laughter. And again the fearful thunder,
+now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the
+distance, then dying with a growl. And all is hushed again, and only the
+unearthly laughter rings through the hall.
+
+"Johnny, Johnny!" I call in alarm. "Johnny!"
+
+"Th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the privy. "This is
+Horsethief. Is that you, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes. What _is_ it, Bob?"
+
+"Some one breakin' up housekeepin'."
+
+"Who?"
+
+"Can't tell. May be Smithy."
+
+"What Smithy, Bob?"
+
+"Crazy Smith, on crank row. Look out now, they're comin'."
+
+The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. Shadowlike, giant
+figures glide past my cell. They walk inaudibly, felt-soled and
+portentous, the long riot clubs rigid at their sides. Behind them
+others, and then the Warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With
+bated breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the
+doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierce the night: there is the
+rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling
+body, and all is quiet. Noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge
+shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun glints a ray upon the
+bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. A squad
+of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the
+floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not dead. He will
+recover, the rangeman assures me. The doctor bandaged the man's wounds,
+and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon.
+Little by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith has been
+insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four
+years ago. His "partner," Burns, has also become deranged through worry
+over his sentence of twenty-five years. His madness assumed such
+revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the
+insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank row," the Warden insisting
+that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape.
+
+
+IV
+
+The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in
+the monotony of the solitary. Owing to the illness of Bob, communication
+with my friends is almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the
+hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying sameness. By
+violent efforts of will I strangle the recurring thought of my long
+sentence, and seek forgetfulness in reading. Volume after volume passes
+through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the printed word. Page
+by page I recite the history of the Holy Church, the lives of the
+Fathers and the Saints, or read aloud, to hear a human voice, the
+mythology of Greece and India, mingling with it, for the sake of
+variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But in the midst of an
+intricate passage in the "Unknowable," or in the heart of a difficult
+mathematical problem, I suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing
+familiar figures on the library slate: 22 x 12 = 264. What is this, I
+wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious manner, to finish
+the calculation:
+
+         264 x 30 =       7,920 days.
+       7,920 x 24 =     190,080 hours.
+     190,080 x 60 =  11,404,800 minutes.
+  11,404,800 x 60 = 684,288,000 seconds.
+
+But the next moment I am aghast at the realization that my computation
+allows only 30 days per month, whereas the year consists of 365,
+sometimes even of 366 days. And again I repeat the process, multiplying
+22 by 365, and am startled to find that I have almost 700,000,000
+seconds to pass in the solitary. From the official calendar alongside of
+the rules the cheering promise faces me, Good conduct shortens time. But
+I have been repeatedly reported and punished--they will surely deprive
+me of the commutation. With great care I figure out my allowance: one
+month on the first year, one on the second; two on the third and fourth;
+three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months'
+"good time" on each succeeding year. I shall therefore have to serve
+fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in
+the workhouse. I have been here now two years. It still leaves me 14
+years and 2 months, or more than 5,170 days. Appalled by the figures, I
+pace the cell in agitation. It is hopeless! It is folly to expect to
+survive such a sentence, especially in view of the Warden's persecution,
+and the petty tyranny of the keepers.
+
+Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of unforeseen developments
+in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all
+struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute
+isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of illness and
+suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp pang I observe the thinning
+of my hair. The evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental
+collapse, insanity.... I shudder at the terrible suggestion, and lash
+myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangeman, and every
+passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the Warden, the
+guards, the judge, and that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and
+merciless, thing--the world. In the moments of reacting calm I apply
+myself to philosophy and science, determinedly, with the desperation
+born of horror. But the dread ghost is ever before me; it follows me up
+and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of "Crazy Smith" in
+the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my
+neighbor suddenly gone mad.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+MEMORY-GUESTS
+
+
+Often the Chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks words of encouragement.
+I feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions
+forbid the expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of
+oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the
+fawning convict. But I hope he feels my appreciation in the simple
+"thank you." It is kind of him to lend me books from his private
+library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing
+paper. Correspondence with the Girl and the Twin, and the unfrequent
+exchange of notes with my comrades, are the only links that still bind
+me to the living. I feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial
+incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the
+other inmates. "Old Sammy," the rangeman, grown nervous with the
+approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his
+heart. All day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the
+doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the
+solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated recital of the "news,"
+elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness.
+He interrupts his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the "thieving
+murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will
+enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember
+with towels and handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of
+the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken heart, the boys have
+not written a line in three years. He fears they have sold the little
+farmhouse, and flown to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives
+away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "I'll see, I'll see,"
+and rejoices in being "alive and still good for a while," and then
+abruptly changes the conversation, and relates minutely how "that poor,
+crazy Dick" was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to
+discover him, and to help the guards cut him down. And last week he was
+present when the physician tried to revive "the little dago," and if the
+doctor had only returned quicker from the theatre, poor Joe might have
+been saved. He "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay; 'waitin'
+for the doc,' they says. Hope they don't kill _me_ yet," he comments,
+hobbling away.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction. Ever
+stronger asserts itself the love of life; the will to be roots deeper.
+But the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The
+constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the _Blossoms_. The
+eccentric Warden seems to have conceived a great fear of an Anarchist
+conspiracy: special orders have been issued, placing the trio under
+extraordinary surveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence,
+yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us in a
+manner excluding all possibility of communication. Apparently I am to be
+continued in the solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the
+South Wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery
+in the North Block. The precious magazine is suspended, and only the
+daring of the faithful "Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional
+note.
+
+Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle light, I pass the long
+winter evenings. The prison day between 7 A. M. and 9 P. M. I divide
+into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and
+reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals and "cleaning up."
+Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, borrowed from the Chaplain, I
+absorb myself in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word,
+studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. I find
+moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through
+all the vicissitudes of its existence, to its Latin or Greek source. In
+the history of the corresponding epoch, I seek the people's joys and
+tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word. Philology, with
+the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and
+comparative religion, through the mazes of metaphysics and warring
+philosophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science.
+
+Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the disciples of Socrates, flee
+Athens with the persecuted Diagoras, "the Atheist," and listen in
+ecstasy to the sweet-voiced lute of Arion; or with Suetonius I pass in
+review the Twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the
+triumph of the Eternal City. But on the very threshold of Cleopatra's
+boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three
+giant slaves with the command:
+
+"A 7, hands up! Step out to be searched!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. With difficulty I
+force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the
+past. The placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the
+quagmire seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the
+bitterness of death.
+
+The release of "Old Sammy" stirs me to the very depths. Many prisoners
+have come and gone during my stay; with some I merely touched hands as
+they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my
+existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid
+optimism, has grown dear to me. He shared with me his hopes and fears,
+divided his extra slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own
+homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something has gone out of my
+life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow
+my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the
+alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the promise of life
+and joy and liberty. Like a horrible nightmare the sombre walls fade
+away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden
+menace, faint, yet ever-present and terrible. The sun glows brilliant in
+the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odors
+are everywhere about me. All the longing of my soul wells up with
+violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself upon
+the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss....
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the dark. Silently lifts
+the veil of time. The little New York flat rises before me. The Girl is
+returning home, the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of
+death. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her
+saddened face. As on an open page, I read the suffering of her prison
+experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... The joys and
+sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again I live in the old
+surroundings. The memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little
+cafe at Sachs', projects clearly. The room is chilly in the November
+dusk, as I return from work and secure my accustomed place. One by one
+the old habitues drop in, and presently I am in a heated discussion with
+two Russian refugees at the table opposite. The door opens, and a young
+woman enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an
+atmosphere of strength and vitality. I wonder who the newcomer may be.
+Two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the
+revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl is evidently a
+stranger; I am quite sure I have never met her at our gatherings. I
+motion to the passing proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question.
+"You want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers. "I'll see, I'll
+see."--Somehow I find myself at her table. Without constraint, we soon
+converse like old acquaintances, and I learn that she left her home in
+Rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is a
+dressmaker, and hopes to find work in New York. I like her simple, frank
+confidence; the "comrade" on her lips thrills me. She is one of us,
+then. With a sense of pride in the movement, I enlarge upon the
+activities of our circle. There are important meetings she ought to
+attend, many people to meet; Hasselmann is conducting a course in
+sociology; Schultze is giving splendid lectures. "Have you heard Most?"
+I ask suddenly. "No? You must hear our Grand Old Man. He speaks
+to-morrow; will you come with me?"--Eagerly I look forward to the next
+evening, and hasten to the cafe. It is frosty outdoors as I walk the
+narrow, dark streets in animated discussion with "Comrade Rochester."
+The ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots crusted with
+filth. As we cross Delancey Street, the girl slips and almost falls,
+when I catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking
+the curbstone. "You have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes
+dancing vivaciously.... With great pride I introduce my new friend to
+the _inteligentzia_ of the Ghetto, among the exiles of the colony. Ah,
+the exaltation, the joy of being!... The whole history of revolutionary
+Russia is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental Nihilism
+and political view is harbored there. I see Hartman, surrounded by the
+halo of conspirative mystery; at his side is the _velikorussian_, with
+flowing beard and powerful frame, of the older generation of the
+_narodovoiltzy_; and there is Schewitsch, big and broad of feature, the
+typical _dvoryanin_ who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. The
+line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony: Cahan is
+among us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality;
+Solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous; Miller,
+poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named brother Brandes, looking
+consumptive from his experience in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and
+Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein--all are united in enthusiasm for the
+common cause. Types from Turgenev and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski
+and Nekrassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality,
+individualized with varying shade and light. And other elements are in
+the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of Tsardom.
+Shapes in the making, still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition
+and new environment. Who knows what shall be the amalgam, some day to be
+recast by the master hand of a new Turgenev?...
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past. With
+infinite detail I live again through the years of the inspiring
+friendship that held the Girl, the Twin, and myself in the closest bonds
+of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest
+and rich promise was life in those days, so far away, when after the
+hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory I would hasten to the
+little room in Suffolk Street! Small and narrow, with its diminutive
+table and solitary chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured
+into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's
+weal. Only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety
+chair. And if somebody else called, we would stand around the room,
+filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm
+consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing
+the glorious Dawn.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The memory of the life "outside" intensifies the misery of the solitary.
+I brood over the uselessness of my suffering. My mission in life
+terminated with the _Attentat_. What good can my continued survival do?
+My propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and
+political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me
+the duty of existence. And even if it were, the almost three years of my
+imprisonment have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration, so
+long as I remain constantly under lock and key, the subject of special
+surveillance. Communication with Nold and Bauer, too, is daily growing
+more difficult. My health is fast failing; I am barely able to walk.
+What is the use of all this misery and torture? What is the use?...
+
+In such moments, I stand on the brink of eternity. Is it sheer apathy
+and languor that hold the weak thread of life, or nature's law and the
+inherent spirit of resistance? Were I not in the enemy's power, I should
+unhesitatingly cross the barrier. But as a pioneer of the Cause, I must
+live and struggle. Yet life without activity or interest is
+terrifying.... I long for sympathy and affection. With an aching heart I
+remember my comrades and friends, and the Girl. More and more my mind
+dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night with a passionate desire
+for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning
+fills me for the women I have known, as they pass in my mind's eye from
+the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. With a
+thrill I recall each bright look and tender accent. My heart beats
+tumultuously as I meet little Nadya, on the way to school, pretending I
+do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the
+breeze, when I surprise her stealthily watching me. I adore her
+secretly, but proudly decline my chum's offer to introduce me. How
+foolish of me! But I know no timid shrinking as I wait, on a cold winter
+evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross the yard; and how
+unceremoniously I embrace her! She is not a _barishnya_; I need not mask
+my feelings. And she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things
+"not fit for a boy" of my age. But she kisses me again, and passion
+wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand.... My Eldridge Street
+platonic sweetheart stands before me, and I tingle with every sensual
+emotion of my first years in New York.... Out of the New Haven days
+rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with unutterable longing for the
+unattained. And again I live through the experiences of the past,
+passionately visualizing every detail with images that flatter my erotic
+palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE
+
+
+I
+
+    To K. & G.
+
+    Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The
+    coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put in his
+    place.
+
+    It's lucky the old Deputy died--he was determined to keep me in
+    solitary. In the absence of the Warden, Benny Greaves, the new
+    Deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. But he has
+    issued strict orders I should not be permitted to step into the
+    yard. I'll therefore still be under special surveillance, and I
+    shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with our
+    "Faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence.
+
+    Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out of
+    the cell!
+
+                                                                  M.
+
+
+II
+
+My position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact
+with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of
+sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it
+are, successively, I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of the
+cell-house. On the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are
+labelled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries form parallelograms about each
+double cell-row; bridged at the centre, they permit easy access to the
+several ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty
+cells, are contained within the outer stone building, and comprise the
+North Block of the penitentiary. It connects with the South Wing by
+means of the rotunda.
+
+[Illustration: CELL RANGES--SOUTH BLOCK]
+
+The bottom tiers A and K serve as "receiving" ranges. Here every new
+arrival is temporarily "celled," before he is assigned to work and
+transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges
+are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and
+solitary. The lower end of the two ranges is designated "bughouse row."
+It contains the "cranks," among whom are classed inmates in different
+stages of mental aberration.
+
+My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and
+assisting at feeding, enable me to become acquainted and to form
+friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of "the
+criminal." I resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to evolve
+the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a
+digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it "criminal type." Daily
+association dispels the myth of the "species," and reveals the
+individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers
+coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear.
+There is "Reddie" Butch, a rosy-cheeked young fellow of twenty-one, as
+frank-spoken a boy as ever honored a striped suit. A jolly criminal is
+Butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song. He was "just dying to
+take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. But he couldn't afford it;
+he earned only seven dollars per week, as butcher's boy. He always gave
+his mother every penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because
+he couldn't spend anything on her. "And I goes to work and swipes a rig,
+and say, Aleck, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house, big-like.
+In I goes. 'Put on your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you
+the drive of your life.' And I did; you bet your sweet life, I did, ha,
+ha, ha!" But when he returned the rig to its owner, Butch was arrested.
+"'Just a prank, Your Honor,' I says to the Judge. And what d' you think,
+Aleck? Thought I'd die when he said three years. I was foolish, of
+course; but there's no use crying over spilt milk, ha, ha, ha! But you
+know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar
+you, eh? Well, I'll try hard to forget th' minx. She's a sweet girl,
+though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+And there is Young Rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the
+great American physician. The delicate features, radiant with
+spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to Shelley; the limping gait
+recalls the tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder! He sits at the door,
+an open book in his hands,--the page is moist with the tears silently
+trickling down his face. He smiles at my approach, and his expressive
+eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking
+through the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a Summer night: the skiff
+suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"--he points to the
+river,--"near McKees Rocks." He was dragged out, unconscious. They told
+him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer! He reaches for the
+photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell with
+deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange
+a greeting, with the prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie. How he
+cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he was! In gentler
+tones I speak to the unfortunates, and encourage the new arrivals, or
+indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of
+the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my
+wake. Taking advantage of the old Block Captain's "cold in the head," I
+cautiously hint at the danger of germs lurking in the dust-laden
+atmosphere. "A little wet sawdust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you
+wouldn't catch colds so often." A capital idea, he thinks, and
+thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell.
+
+In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary. Every trifle means so
+much. "Long Joe," the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their
+needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. The poor fellow is serving
+twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "Wild Bill" and "Bighead"
+Wilson. They are constantly demanding to see the Warden. It is
+remarkable that they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in fear
+of them. "Wild Bill" is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar
+rumors concerning his intimacy with the Warden. Recently Bill complained
+of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him.
+"From the Warden's table," he remarked, with a sly wink. And Wilson is
+jocularly referred to as "the Deputy," even by the officers. He is still
+in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new
+Deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards, and issues
+orders. He is the Warden's "runner," clad with the authority of his
+master. The prisoners regard Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially
+hate them; but none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed by
+"Deputy" Wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity between the two on
+account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried
+by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is
+indifferent to the unfortunates in the cells. Butch is devoured by
+bedbugs, and "Praying" Andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. The
+simple-minded life-timer is being neglected: he has not yet recovered
+from the assault by Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer.
+I urge the rangeman to report to the Captain the need of "bedbugging"
+Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with a new mattress, and of notifying
+the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries.
+
+
+III
+
+Breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and march to the shops.
+Broom in hand, rangemen and assistants step upon the galleries, and
+commence to sweep the floors. Officers pass along the tiers, closely
+scrutinizing each cell. Now and then they pause, facing a "delinquent."
+They note his number, unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the "sick
+line" on the ground floor.
+
+One by one the men augment the row; they walk slowly, bent and coughing,
+painfully limping down the steep flights. From every range they come;
+the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a
+tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. All look withered and
+dejected,--a ghastly line, palsied and blear-eyed, blanched in the
+valley of death.
+
+The rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by
+Deputy Warden Greaves and Assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a
+prisoner, dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. Dr. Boyce
+glances at the long line, and knits his brow. He looks at his watch, and
+the frown deepens. He has much to do. Since the death of the senior
+doctor, the young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison. He
+must make the rounds of the shops before noon, and visit the patients
+in the hospital before the Warden or the Deputy drops in.
+
+Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. The
+Assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick
+line. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the
+Deputy. The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances.
+
+"Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out.
+
+A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is
+tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. He
+speaks in a hoarse voice:
+
+"Doctor, there is something the matter with my side. I have pains, and I
+cough bad at night, and in the morning--"
+
+"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his
+notebook. "Give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant.
+
+"Next!" the Deputy calls.
+
+"Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick
+prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice.
+
+The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy. The latter cries,
+impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick
+succession, with the knuckles of his hand.
+
+"Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner.
+
+"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the
+direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the
+foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered
+with bulging tumors.
+
+"Number?" the doctor inquires.
+
+"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head
+thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco.
+
+"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says
+hoarsely.
+
+"Salts. Return to work. Next!"
+
+"A one-twenty-six!"
+
+A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully
+from the line.
+
+"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid--"
+
+"What's the trouble?"
+
+"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I--"
+
+"Give him a plaster. Next!"
+
+"Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing
+livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a quick motion he pulls his shirt
+up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous
+plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "Damn yer plasters," he cries
+with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters. I'm putty near
+dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me."
+
+The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+One by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor. He stands, head bent,
+penciling, rarely glancing up. The elongated ascetic face wears a
+preoccupied look; he drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "Next!
+Numb'r? Salts! Plaster! Salts! Next!" Occasionally he glances at his
+watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere
+face grows more severe and rigid. Now and then he turns his eyes upon
+the Deputy Warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a
+thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking
+the gray beard. Cheeks protruding, mouth full of juice, the Deputy
+mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "Next!"
+and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician to
+order the man to work. Only the withered and the lame are temporarily
+excused, the Deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to
+the doctor.
+
+Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing,
+wheezing, and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning.
+Quite often, breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task, the
+men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to receive a respite
+from the killing toil,--a short intermission, or a happier, eternal
+reprieve.
+
+The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are
+sent back to their quarters, and locked up for the day. Only these, the
+permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the
+sweepers, remain within the inner walls during working hours. The pall
+of silence descends upon the House of Death.
+
+
+IV
+
+The guards creep stealthily along the tiers. Officer George Dean, lank
+and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance,
+his evil-looking eyes peering through the bars, scrutinizing every
+inmate. Suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "Hey, you, Eleven-thirty-nine! On
+the bed again! Wha-at? Sick, hell! No dinner!" Noisily he pretends to
+return to the desk "in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell
+door, and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed murmur
+proceeds from the upper galleries. Cautiously the guard advances,
+hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps
+into the center of the hall, shouting: "Cells forty-seven K, I, H!
+Talking through the pipe! Got you this time, all right." He grins
+broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to the Block Captain. The
+guards ascend the galleries. Levers are pulled, doors opened with a
+bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. For days their
+cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Gaunt and cadaverous, Guard Hughes makes the rounds of the tiers, on a
+tour of inspection. With bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes
+intently through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely he walks
+along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a picture off the wall,
+there gathering a few scraps of paper. As I pass along the hall, he
+slams a door on the range above, and appears upon the gallery. His
+pockets bulge with confiscated goods. He glances around, as the Deputy
+enters from the yard. "Hey, Jasper!" the guard calls. The colored trusty
+scampers up the stairs. "Take this to the front." The officer hands him
+a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of
+cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by
+sitting in the dark for weeks. "Show 't to the Deputy," the officer
+says, in an undertone. "I'm doing business, all right!" The trusty
+laughs boisterously, "Yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am."
+
+The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front.
+The Deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. The officer casts
+his eye about the cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers.
+A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. On the bed
+are some bananas and a bunch of grapes,--forbidden fruit. The guard
+steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches
+for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. It bears the
+legend, painted in black, A 480. On the reverse side the officer reads,
+"Collins Hamilton, dated----." His watery eyes strain to decipher the
+penciled marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "Jasper!" he calls,
+"come up here." The trusty hastens to him.
+
+"You know who this man is, Jasper? A four-eighty."
+
+"Ah sure knows. Dat am Hamilton, de bank 'bezleh."
+
+"Where's he working?"
+
+"Wat _he_ wan' teh work foh? He am de Cap'n's clerk. In de awfice, _he_
+am."
+
+"All right, Jasper." The guard carefully closes the clerk's door, and
+enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean and orderly. The stone floor
+is bare, the bedding smooth; the library book, tin can, and plate, are
+neatly arranged on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the
+blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of
+secreted contraband. He reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and
+takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco,--the weekly allowance of the
+prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up, and
+thrusts it into his mouth. He produces a prison "plug" from his pocket,
+bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks
+at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the
+corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. He surveys the field,
+leans over the railing, and squints at the front. The chairs at the
+officers' desk are vacant. The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and
+stretches, and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock. He
+picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the
+book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew, and
+sprawls down on the bed.
+
+
+V
+
+At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and Assistant Deputy
+Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb physique and glowing vitality, Mr.
+Woods wears his new honors as Captain of the Block with aggressive
+self-importance. He has recently been promoted from the shop to the
+charge of the North Wing, on the morning shift, from 5 A. M. to 1 P. M.
+Every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the
+hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the opposite
+cell-row.
+
+With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the
+Assistant Deputy, in measured, low tones. The latter listens gravely,
+his head slightly bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the
+heavy-rimmed spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered,
+rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he espies the shining face of
+Jasper on an upper gallery. The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a
+large apple from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks:
+
+"How does this strike you, Jasper?"
+
+"Looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, Cunnel."
+
+Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins laughs, and motions to the
+negro. The trusty joins them at the desk.
+
+"I'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in two bites," the
+Assistant Deputy says to Woods.
+
+"Hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully.
+
+"You don't know this darky, Scot," Hopkins rejoins. "I know him for the
+last--let me see--fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. That's when you first
+came here, eh, Jasper?"
+
+"Yassah, 'bout dat."
+
+"In the old prison, then?" Woods inquires.
+
+"Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when 'Shoe-box' Miller got out,
+wasn't you?"
+
+"Yo 'member good, Cunnel. Dat Ah was, sure 'nuf. En mighty slick it
+was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed in dat shoebox, en mek his
+get-away."
+
+"Yes, yes. And this is your fourth time since then, I believe."
+
+"No, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, Cunnel. Youh remnishent am bad. Dis
+jus' free times, jus' free."
+
+"Come off, it's four."
+
+"Free, Cunnel, no moah."
+
+"Do you think, Mr. Hopkins, Jasper could eat the apple in two bites?"
+Woods reminds him.
+
+"I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line this coon couldn't
+do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple if you make it in two bites. Don't
+disgrace me, now."
+
+The negro grins, "Putty big, Cunnel, but Ah'm a gwine teh try powful
+hard."
+
+With a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his face looks like a
+veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear, and edged by large,
+shimmering tusks. With both hands he inserts the big apple, and his
+sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. He chews quickly, swallows,
+repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands. The apple has
+disappeared.
+
+The Assistant Deputy roars with laughter. "What did I tell you, eh,
+Scot? What did I tell you, ho, ho, ho!" The tears glisten in his eye.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. He relates his
+experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. Now
+and then Deputy Warden Greaves drops in. Woods rises.
+
+"Have a seat, Mr. Greaves."
+
+"That's all right, that's all right, Scot," the Deputy mumbles, his eye
+searching for the cuspidor. "Sit down, Scot: I'm as young as any of
+you."
+
+With mincing step he walks into the first cell, reserved for the
+guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps,
+wabbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into Woods's seat.
+
+"Jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty.
+
+"Yassah. Scrap, Dep'ty?"
+
+"Yah. A nip of plug, too."
+
+"Yassah, yassah, immejitly."
+
+"What are you men doing here?" the Deputy blusters at the two
+subordinates.
+
+Woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the Deputy, and then
+relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant Hopkins looks sternly at the
+Deputy Warden from above his glasses. "That's all right, Greaves," he
+says, familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Say, you should have
+seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great, big apple in two bites; as big
+as your head, I'll swear."
+
+"That sho?" the Deputy nods sleepily.
+
+The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in
+the other. The Deputy slowly opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the
+cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling
+at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his
+mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands, hoarsely:
+
+"Where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?"
+
+"Just being cleaned, Mr. Greaves," Woods replies.
+
+"Cleaned, always th' shame shtory. I ordered--ya--ordered--hey, bring
+shpittoon, Jasper." He wags his head drowsily.
+
+"He means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload," Hopkins says, with a
+wink at Woods. "It was the very first order he gave when he became
+Deputy after Jimmie McPane died. I tell you, Scot, we won't see soon
+another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all right, every inch of
+him. Wouldn't stand for the old man, the Warden, interfering with him,
+either. Not like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring
+Greaves. "Here, Benny," he raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the
+knee, "here's Jasper with your spittoon."
+
+Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about; presently,
+noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor, and spurts a long jet at
+it.
+
+"Say, Jasper," Hopkins calls to the retiring negro, "the deputy wants to
+hear that story you told us a while ago, about you got the left hind
+foot of a she-rabbit, on a moonlit night in a graveyard."
+
+"Who shaid I want to hear 't?" the Deputy bristles, suddenly wide awake.
+
+"Yes, you do, Greaves," Hopkins asserts. "The rabbit foot brings good
+luck, you know. This coon here wears it on his neck. Show it to the
+Deputy, Jasper."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Prisoner Wilson, the Warden's favorite messenger, enters from the yard.
+With quick, energetic step he passes the officers at the desk, entirely
+ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his
+unnaturally large head set close upon the heavy, almost neckless
+shoulders.
+
+"Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after?" the Deputy shouts after him.
+
+Without replying, Wilson continues on his way.
+
+"Dep'ty Wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy.
+
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. "Wilson," he calls with
+quiet sternness, "Mr. Greaves is speaking to you. Come back at once."
+
+His face purple with anger, Wilson retraces his steps. "What do you
+want, Deputy?" he demands, savagely.
+
+The Deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the
+severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently: "What do you want in the
+block?"
+
+"On Captain Edward S. Wright's business," Wilson replies with a sneer.
+
+"Well, go ahead. But next time I call you, you better come back."
+
+"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detained me
+with an idle question," Wilson snarls back.
+
+"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him.
+
+"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he departs.
+
+"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off," the Assistant mutters.
+
+"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," Woods comments.
+
+"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the Deputy says meekly.
+
+Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping
+the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly
+to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to
+the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side, and
+scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall, in
+melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the
+centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods
+resumes his seat.
+
+"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction.
+
+"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles. "Doing well."
+
+A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The officers prick up
+their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty
+tiptoes up the tiers.
+
+"It's somebody with his spoon on the door," the Assistant Deputy
+remarks, indifferently.
+
+The Block Captain motions to me. "See who's rapping there, will you?"
+
+I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to the wall, I can see
+up to the doors of the third gallery. Here and there a nose protrudes in
+the air, the bleached face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. The
+rapping grows louder as I advance.
+
+"Who is it?" I call.
+
+"Up here, 18 C."
+
+"Is that you, Ed?"
+
+"Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell th' screw I must see the doctor."
+
+I run to the desk. "Mr. Woods," I report, "18 C got a hemorrhage. Can't
+stop it. He needs the doctor."
+
+"Let him wait," the Deputy growls.
+
+"Doctor hour is over. He should have reported in the morning," the
+Assistant Deputy flares up.
+
+"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask.
+
+"Nothing! Get back to your cell."
+
+"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot," the Deputy suggests.
+
+Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18 C, and
+returns.
+
+"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in
+the morning."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner,
+enters from the yard. It is the "French Count," one of the clerks in the
+"front office."
+
+"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. He leans familiarly
+over the Deputy's chair, remarking: "I've been hunting half an hour for
+you. The Captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you."
+
+The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he asks anxiously.
+
+"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about?"
+
+"What? Quick, now."
+
+"They caught Wild Bill right in the act. Out in the yard there, back of
+the shed."
+
+The Deputy stumps heavily out into the yard.
+
+"Who's the kid?" the Assistant Deputy inquires, an amused twinkle in his
+eye.
+
+"Bobby."
+
+"Who? That boy on the whitewash gang?"
+
+"Yes, Fatty Bobby."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. The sick man is
+striking his tin can on the bars, and shaking the door. Woods hastens to
+C 18.
+
+"You stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily.
+
+"I'm sick. I want th' doctor."
+
+"This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning."
+
+"I may be dead in the morning. I want him now."
+
+"You won't see him, that's all. You keep quiet there."
+
+Furiously the prisoner raps on the door. The hall reverberates with
+hollow booming.
+
+The Block Captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. He whispers to
+the Assistant Deputy. The latter nods his head. Woods claps his hands,
+deliberately, slowly--one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend from the
+galleries, and advance to the desk. The rangemen appear at their doors.
+
+"Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock 'em in!" Woods commands.
+
+"You can stay here, Jasper," the Assistant Deputy remarks to the trusty.
+
+The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are pulled, the doors
+locked. I hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. Now they
+cease, and all is quiet.
+
+"C 18, step out here!"
+
+The door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull,
+heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud cry and a moan. They drag the
+prisoner along the range, and down the stairway. The rotunda door
+creaks, and the clamor dies away.
+
+A few minutes elapse in silence. Now some one whispers through the
+pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow. Loud coughing drowns the noises,
+and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech.
+
+The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open door of my cell. The
+negro trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arms
+covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall.
+
+Their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll in the chairs, and
+sit on the desk. They look somewhat ruffled and flustered. Jasper
+enlarges upon the piquant gossip. "Wild Bill," notorious invert and
+protege of the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from
+the stocking shop; he has been after "Fatty Bobby" for quite a while,
+and he's forever pestering "Lady Sally," and Young Davis, too. The
+guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions. He
+responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. There is
+merriment and laughter at the officers' desk.
+
+
+VI
+
+Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen
+squad, enters the cell-house. Behind him, a score of prisoners carry
+large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. The negro trusty, his
+nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces
+with a grin: "Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!"
+
+The scene becomes animated at the front. Tables are noisily moved about,
+the tinplate rattles, and men talk and shout. With a large ladle the
+soup is dished out from the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked
+up in long rows. The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters some orders
+that remain ignored, and looks critically at the dinner pans. He
+produces a pocket knife, and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato
+here, a bit of floating vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of
+the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. He
+hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to leave. The latter stands, hands
+dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time
+with the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the kitchen men, and
+slinks into an open cell. The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move
+the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup,
+and passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by
+Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer walks to the open cell
+and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering
+his face. Woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Chief Jim," the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloonkeeper serving twelve
+years for murder, promenades down the range. Large-bellied and
+whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. With
+swelling chest, stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty
+apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging
+greetings. He pauses at a door: it's Cell 9 A,--the "Fat Kid." Jim leans
+against the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand
+steals between the bars. Now and then he glances toward the front, and
+steps closer to the door. He draws a large bundle from his bosom,
+hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw
+onions, some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the young
+prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. He
+lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork;
+then he smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars with
+both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche.
+
+As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then
+pauses at another cell. Standing away from the door, he speaks loudly
+and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he
+leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the rangeman,
+lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks. The man nods affirmatively,
+and retreats into his cell. The Chief dives into the bosom of his shirt,
+and flings a bundle through the open door. He holds out his hand,
+whispering: "Two bits. Broke now? Be sure you pay me to-morrow. That
+steak there's worth a plunk."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The gong tolls the dinner hour. The negro trusty snatches two pans, and
+hastens away. The guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in
+solitary who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms in
+single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the
+men circle the block to the centre, ascend the galleries, and are locked
+in their cells.
+
+The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step, sounds from the yard.
+The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells.
+Some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. There is
+much suppressed murmuring and whispering.
+
+Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour. Every prisoner is
+counted and locked in. Only the trusties are about.
+
+
+VII
+
+The afternoon brings a breath of relief. "Old Jimmie" Mitchell,
+rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers, on duty from
+1 till 9 P. M. The venerable Captain of the Block trudges past the
+cells, stroking his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the
+men. But the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing, and
+discourages trouble-seeking guards.
+
+Head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall, on his first round of
+the bottom ranges. Presently a voice hails him: "Oh, Mr. Mitchell! Come
+here, please."
+
+"Damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't you know better than
+to bother me when I'm counting, eh? Shut up now, God damn you. You've
+mixed me all up."
+
+He returns to the front, and begins to count again, pointing his finger
+at each occupied cell. This duty over, and his report filed, he returns
+to the offending prisoner.
+
+"What t' hell do you want, Butch?"
+
+"Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. I am walking on my socks."
+
+"Where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow? To a ball?"
+
+"Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth coaxes.
+
+"Go an' take a--thump to yourself, will you?"
+
+The officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short
+distance from the cell, to hear Butch mumbling discontentedly. The Block
+Captain retraces his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him:
+
+"What did you say? 'Damn the old skunk!' that's what you said, eh? You
+come on out of there!"
+
+With much show of violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the
+door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard:
+
+"Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im--er--give 'im a
+pair of shoes."
+
+He starts down the range, when some one calls from an upper tier:
+
+"Jimmy, Jimmy! Come on up here!"
+
+"I'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man bellows, angrily,
+"Where th' hell are you?"
+
+"Here, on B, 20 B. Right over you."
+
+The officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward the second
+gallery.
+
+"What in th' name of Jesus Christ do you want, Slim?"
+
+"Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp mixture, Jim."
+
+"Cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you big bum you. Where the
+hell did you get your cramp mixture, when you was spilling around in a
+freight car, eh?"
+
+"I got booze then," the prisoner retorts.
+
+"Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get a louzy hand-out at the
+back door, you ornery pimple on God's good earth."
+
+"Th' hell you say! The hand-out was a damn sight better'n th' rotten
+slush I get here. I wouldn't have a belly-ache, if it wasn't for th'
+hogwash they gave us to-day."
+
+"Lay down now! You talk like a horse's rosette."
+
+It's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich vocabulary of
+picturesque metaphor and simile. But there is no sting in the brusque
+speech, no rancor in the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses
+to whisper to the block trusty:
+
+"John, you better run down to the dispensary, an' get that big stiff
+some cramp mixture."
+
+Happening to glance into a cell, Mitchell notices a new arrival, a
+bald-headed man, his back against the door, reading.
+
+"Hey you!" the Block Captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner
+off his chair, "take that bald thing out of there, or I'll run you in
+for indecent exposure."
+
+He chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased with a naughty
+prank, and ascends the upper tiers.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Duster in hand, I walk along the range. The guards are engaged on the
+galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded
+inmates to the South Wing, or chatting with the trusties. The chairs at
+the officers' desk are vacant. Keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors,
+I walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in
+conversation. Johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and
+then glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by sharply
+snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger. I ply the duster diligently,
+while the Deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the
+trusties imparting information gathered during the day. Gradually they
+disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress, or nosing
+about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. The "coast is clear,"
+and I return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation.
+
+But the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted. The oft-repeated
+tirade against the "rotten grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash";
+vehement cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of a
+Warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the exchange of gossip,
+and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. Within the
+narrow circle runs the interminable tale, colored by individual
+temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is
+dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment,
+often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider
+responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor,
+the informer, the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge.
+But as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty
+rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and
+irrepressible sex desire.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL
+
+
+The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in
+their eyes. The long-timers among them seem dazed, as if with some
+terrible shock, and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys
+from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and
+moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only the "repeaters" and
+old-timers preserve their composure, scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at
+old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But
+all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, leaning
+against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious
+expectancy on their faces. They yearn for companionship, and are
+pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom
+their heavy hearts.
+
+I am minutely familiar with every detail of their "case," their
+life-history, their hopes and fears. Through the endless weeks and
+months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of
+conversation. A glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against
+the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me,--the cell-house
+grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more depressing.
+
+There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as I
+pause at his door. "Hello, Alick," he greets me in his sweet, sad voice.
+He knows me from the jail. His father and elder brother have been
+executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. He is barely
+eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He has been acting queerly of
+late: at night I often hear him muttering and walking, walking
+incessantly and muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes,
+restless, roving.
+
+"Alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you sometink. You no tell
+nobody, yes?"
+
+Assured I'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk quickly, excitedly:
+
+"Nobody dere, Alick? No scroo? S-sh! Lassa night me see ma broder. Yes,
+see Gianni. Jesu Cristo, me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den
+me fader he come. Broder and fader day stay der, on da floor, an so
+quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa in ma bed. Oh, Jesu
+Christo, me so fraida, me cry an' pray. You not know wat it mean?
+No-o-o? Me tell you. It mean me die, me die soon."
+
+His eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on his face. He knits
+his brows, as I essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly:
+
+"S-sh! Waita till me tell you all. You know watta for ma fader an'
+Gianni come outa da grave? Me tell you. Dey calla for ravange, 'cause
+dey innocente. Me tell you trut. See, we all worka in da mine, da coal
+mine, me an' my fader an' Gianni. All worka hard an' mek one dollar,
+maybe dollar quater da day. An' bigga American man, him come an' boder
+ma fader. Ma fader him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody.
+An' da American man him maka two dollars an mebbe two fifty da day an'
+him boder my fader, all da time, boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an'
+steal ma broder's shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma
+countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' An' one day him an' two Arish
+dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an' American man an Arish holler,
+'Dago s---- b---- fraida fight,' an' da American man him take a bigga
+pickax an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me an' ma
+broder an' friend we fight, an' American man him fall, an' we all go way
+home. Den p'lice come an' arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we
+killa American man. Me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma friend do.
+Me no know; him no arresta; him go home in Italia. Ma fader an' broder
+dey save nineda-sev'n dollar, an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer.
+Him no good, an' no talk much in court. We poor men, no can take case in
+oder court, an' fader him hang, an' Gianni hang, an' me get life. Ma
+fader an' broder dey come lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente
+an' wanna ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta--"
+
+The sharp snapping of Johnny, the runner, warns me of danger, and I
+hastily leave.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up and down the hall.
+The blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or lean dejectedly
+against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the
+stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture I
+witness in the prison house. Like ghastly nightmares, the shadows pass
+before me. There is "Silent Nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never
+ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he has not
+left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid features are cut and
+bleeding. Last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him,
+and left him unconscious on the floor.
+
+There is "Crazy Hunkie," the Austrian. Every morning, as the officer
+unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for
+the yard, shouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes toward the
+front and desperately grabs the door handle. The double iron gate is
+securely locked. A look of blank amazement on his face, he slowly
+returns to the cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly
+they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me wife, me seen her!" the
+Austrian cries. The blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him
+into the cell. "Me wife waiting in de yard," he moans.
+
+In the next cell is Tommy Wellman; adjoining him, Jim Grant. They are
+boys recently transferred from the reformatory. They cower in the
+corner, in terror of the scene. With tearful eyes, they relate their
+story. Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they had been sent to the
+reform school at Morganza, for snatching fruit off a corner stand.
+Maltreated and beaten, they sought to escape. Childishly they set fire
+to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. "I says to me chum,
+says I," Tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'Kid,' says I, 'let's fire de
+louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our get-away in de'
+'citement.'" They were taken to court and the good judge sentenced them
+to five years to the penitentiary. "Glad to get out of dat dump," Tommy
+comments; "it was jest fierce. Dey paddled an' starved us someting'
+turrible."
+
+In the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on the floor. It is
+Lancaster, Number 8523. He was serving seven years, and working every
+day in the mat shop. Slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for
+hour of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged. He was kept
+at his task, the Warden informing him that he had lost six months of his
+"good time" for defective work. The light hearted negro grew sullen and
+morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished
+cry in the night, "My time's up, time's up. I want to go home." The
+guards would take him from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One
+morning, in a fit of frenzy, he attacked Captain McVey, the officer of
+the shop. The Captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and
+Lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. He
+returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed
+him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, "Going home, going
+home." The Warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the
+way coaching the poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "Do you
+plead guilty?" He received seven years, the extreme penalty of the law,
+for the "attempted murder of a keeper." They brought him back to the
+prison, and locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered with
+a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. He receives
+no medical attention, and is fed on a bread-and-water diet.
+
+The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching
+with his nails fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly,
+"Going, Jesus going to Jerusalem. See, he rides the holy ass; he's going
+to his father's home. Going home, going home." As I pass he looks up,
+perplexed wonder on his face; his brows meet in a painful attempt to
+collect his wandering thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song,
+"Going home, going home; Jesus going to father's home." The guards raise
+their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell: the poor
+imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair, and the floor. Twice a month
+he is taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the hose is
+turned on the crazy negro.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The cell of "Little Sammy" is vacant. He was Number 9521, a young man
+from Altoona. I knew him quite well. He was a kind boy and a diligent
+worker; but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. He
+would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face,
+neglecting food and work. These spells generally lasted two or three
+days, Sammy refusing to leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPane, the dead
+Deputy, on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop, while
+Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPane would order the "stubborn kid" to
+the dungeon, and every time Sammy got his "head workin'," he was
+dragged, silent and motionless, to the cellar. The new Deputy has
+followed the established practice, and last evening, at "music hour,"
+while the men were scraping their instruments, "Little Sammy" was found
+on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear.
+
+At the Coroner's inquest the Warden testified that the boy was
+considered mentally defective; that he was therefore excused from work,
+and never punished.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on
+the wall:
+
+"The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge
+with humanity and kindness. * * * The aim of all prison discipline is,
+by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil and to protect the innocent
+from further harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce a
+cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of
+his nature."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL
+
+
+I
+
+The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings
+of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities.
+The personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. I find their
+average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates.
+Especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective
+service lack sympathy with the unfortunates in their charge. They are
+mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual
+drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their attitude toward
+the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. They look upon
+the men as will-less objects of iron-handed discipline, exact
+unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory whims,
+and harbor personal animosity toward the less pliant. The more
+intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties, and crave
+advancement. The authority and remuneration of a Deputy Wardenship is
+alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the
+vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded to the guard most feared by
+the inmates, and most subservient to the Warden,--a direct incitement to
+brutality, on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other.
+
+A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil War; several among
+them had suffered incarceration in Libby Prison. These often manifest a
+more sympathetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however,
+have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five
+years; some even for a longer period, like Officer Stewart, who has been
+a guard for forty years. This element is unspeakably callous and cruel.
+The prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards, and
+speculate on the days allotted them. The death of one of them is hailed
+with joy: seldom they are discharged; still more seldom do they resign.
+
+The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. New
+guards--unless drafted from the police bureau--are almost without
+exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates
+vie with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate." It is a
+point of honor in their unwritten ethics to "treat him white." They
+frown upon the fellow-convict who seeks to take advantage of the "green
+screw," by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the
+prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new
+blood. They strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the
+dangers of the position, and depreciating its financial desirability for
+an ambitious young man; they impress upon him the Warden's unfairness to
+the guards, and the lack of opportunity for advancement. Often they
+dissuade the new man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if
+he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him, in
+pretended friendliness, upon his leniency, chide him for a "soft-hearted
+tenderfoot," and improve every opportunity to initiate him into the
+practices of brutality. The system is known in the prison as "breaking
+in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing squad," the
+older officers setting the example of cruelty. Refusal to participate
+signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine
+duty, and results in immediate discharge. But such instances are
+extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer, Mr. Stewart, it
+happened only once, and the man was sickly.
+
+Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. Within a short time
+the prisoners notice the first signs of change: he grows less tolerant
+and chummy, more irritated and distant. Presently he feels himself the
+object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers. In
+some mysterious manner, the Warden is aware of his every step, berating
+him for speaking unduly long to this prisoner, or for giving another
+half a banana,--the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of commiseration
+and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful pleadings of misery to
+carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. The latter
+confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy
+with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the Warden "on charges," and
+is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated misplacement of confidence,
+occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the Warden,
+and the new officer grows embittered against the species "convict." The
+instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side,
+becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of
+the "system."
+
+
+II
+
+Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing,
+brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. Far removed from the
+strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature
+replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected
+model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull
+passivity. But beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being,
+now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth
+with the ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline rages
+the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are
+woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression.
+
+Intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption, are rampant in
+cell-house and shop. The prisoners spy upon each other, and in turn upon
+the officers. The latter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret
+doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other
+in supplying information to the keepers. Often they deliberately
+inveigle the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and
+encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce
+him to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished, usually
+remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. The _provocateur_ is
+rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. Frequently his
+treachery proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the Warden's
+official recommendation of the "model prisoner" to the State Board of
+Pardons.
+
+The stools and the trusties are an essential element in the government
+of the prison. With rare exception, every officer has one or more on his
+staff. They assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make
+out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally they are even
+called upon to help the "clubbing squad." The more intelligent stools
+enjoy the confidence of the Deputy and his assistants, and thence
+advance to the favor of the Warden. The latter places more reliance upon
+his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "I have about a hundred paid
+officers to keep watch over the prisoners," the Warden informs new
+applicant, "and two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volunteers"
+are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the
+inferior officers. They invariably secure the sinecures of the prison,
+involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. They are
+"runners," "messengers," yard and office men.
+
+Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to
+influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers, and boodlers. These
+are known in the institution as holding "political jobs." Together with
+the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the pets."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The professional craftiness of the "con man" stands him in good stead in
+the prison. A shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and
+self-confident, he applies the practiced cunning of his vocation to
+secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His
+evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the guards; his
+well-affected deference to authority flatters them. They are awed by his
+wonderful facility of expression, and great attainments in the
+mysterious world of baccarat and confidence games. At heart they envy
+the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend him in his
+need. The officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for
+him, and surreptitiously favor him with delicacies and even money. His
+game is won. The "con" has now secured the friendship and confidence of
+his keepers, and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm
+interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their
+whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the Warden's
+discrimination.
+
+The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles. But
+even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the
+confidence man. His "business" has perfected his sense of orientation;
+he quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents. He
+frets at his imprisonment, and hints at high social connections. His
+real identity is a great secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives
+from public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays his college
+education. With a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a
+State Senator; he is the only black sheep in his family; yet they are
+"good" to him, and will not disown him. But he must not bring notoriety
+upon them.
+
+Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trusties, or fearful
+of punishment, the "con man" matures his campaign. He writes a note to a
+fellow-prisoner. With much detail and thorough knowledge of prison
+conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of the institution. In
+elegant English he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance
+and brutality of the guards, and charges the Warden and the Board of
+Prison Inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. He
+denounces the Warden as a stomach-robber of poor unfortunates: the
+counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate;
+the Federal Government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person.
+Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate
+food? he demands. Does not the State appropriate thousands of dollars
+for the support of the penitentiary, besides the money received from the
+counties?--With keen scalpel the "con man" dissects the anatomy of the
+institution. One by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most
+intimate knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and so many
+dozen of stockings per day. They are not stamped "convict-made," as the
+law requires. The labels attached are misleading, and calculated to
+decoy the innocent buyer. The character of the product in the several
+mat shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great State
+of Pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. The broom shop is
+leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang Brothers:
+the law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. The stamp
+"convict-made" on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the
+source of manufacture.
+
+Thus the "con man" runs on in his note. With much show of secrecy he
+entrusts it to a notorious stool, for delivery to a friend. Soon the
+writer is called before the Warden. In the latter's hands is the note.
+The offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities are
+terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the
+secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent,
+possibly well-connected man. He must be propitiated at all cost. The
+"con man" joins the "politicians."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all
+leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. The
+"old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated experience, easily avoids hard
+labor. He has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers,
+and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. The officers are
+glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. It brings
+interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as
+the prisoner's.
+
+The seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on principle opposed to
+toil, rarely works. Generally suffering a comparatively short sentence,
+he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the
+wear and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he scorns work
+in general, prison labor in particular. He avoids it with unstinted
+expense of energy and effort. As a last resort, he plays the "jigger"
+card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every
+appearance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened by
+the infection, and prevails upon the physician to examine him. The
+doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease.
+"Ever had syphilis?" he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly.
+"Perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests. The patient looks
+diffident, blushes, cries, "No, never!" and assumes a guilty look. The
+doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is
+"excused" from work, indefinitely.
+
+The wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the yard, and adapts
+prison conditions to his habits of life. He sedulously courts the
+friendship of some young inmate, and wins his admiration by "ghost
+stories" of great daring and cunning. He puts the boy "next to de
+ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the
+guards and the advances of other prisoners. He guides the youth's steps
+through the maze of conflicting rules, and finally initiates him into
+the "higher wisdom" of "de road."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. Even
+before his arrival, the _esprit de corps_ of the "profession" is at
+work, securing a soft berth for the expected friend. If noted for
+success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the
+admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience
+and reputation. With conscious superiority he instructs them in the
+finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble-fingered "touches," and
+imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the
+good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an "honest living."
+His sentence nearing completion, the "gun" grows thoughtful, carefully
+scans the papers, forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with
+his "partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."[44] He is
+gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands,
+and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers,
+generally successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit,"
+"jollies" the officers and cajoles the Warden for new shoes, made to
+measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten-dollar allowance to
+prisoners received from counties outside of Allegheny[45]. He argues the
+need of money "to leave the State." Often he does leave. More frequently
+a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police,
+and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously
+notified by the prison authorities.
+
+  [44] Women thieves.
+
+  [45] Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the
+       County of Allegheny--in which the Western Penitentiary is
+       located--receive only five dollars.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders
+direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in
+sullen misery and dread. Day in, day out, year after year, they drudge
+at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties idling
+about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. From cell
+to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their
+days drag in deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive
+contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the
+officials. They are surprised at the new rule making attendance at
+religious service obligatory; and again at the succeeding order (the
+desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured) making
+church-going optional. They are astonished at the sudden disappearance
+of the considerate and gentle guard, Byers, and anxiously hope for his
+return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand
+methods of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal.
+
+
+III
+
+Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality.
+Released from punishment, he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain
+to the Warden of his unjust treatment. Weeks pass. At last the Captain
+visits the shop. A propitious moment! The carefully trimmed beard frames
+the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and
+lending dignity to his appearance. His eyes brighten with peculiar
+brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost
+imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he passes through the
+shop, the prisoner raises his hand. "What is it?" the Warden inquires, a
+pleasant smile on his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous
+eagerness. "Oh, well," the Captain claps him on the shoulder, "perhaps a
+mistake; an unfortunate mistake. But, then, you might have done
+something at another time, and not been punished." He laughs merrily at
+his witticism. "It's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget it," and he
+passes on.
+
+But if the Captain is in a different mood, his features harden, the
+stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear, sharp tones: "State your
+grievance in writing, on the printed slip which the officer will give
+you." The written complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches
+the Chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the Warden's office. There the
+Deputy and the Assistant Deputy read and classify the slips, placing
+some on the Captain's file and throwing others into the waste basket,
+according as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an
+unfriendly brother officer. Months pass before the prisoner is called
+for "a hearing." By that time he very likely has a more serious charge
+against the guard, who now persecutes the "kicker." But the new
+complaint has not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is
+postponed. Not infrequently men are called for a hearing, who have been
+discharged, or died since making the complaint.
+
+The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from
+the Warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest
+authority in the penitentiary--the Board of Inspectors. These are
+supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution,
+visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. The complainant
+waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience
+with the Inspectors. But the latter remain invisible, some not visiting
+the penitentiary within a year. Only the Secretary of the Board, Mr.
+Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an
+appearance. Tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere
+of sanctimoniousness. He walks leisurely through the block, passes a
+cell with a lithograph of Christ on the wall, and pauses. His hands
+folded, eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he
+inquires of the rangeman:
+
+"Whose cell is this?"
+
+"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him.
+
+It is the cell of Jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool of the prison.
+
+"He is a good man, a good man, God bless him," the Inspector says, a
+quaver in his voice.
+
+He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the
+little looking-glass and the rules, hanging awry on the wall. "It
+offends my eye," he smiles at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang
+straight."
+
+Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "Mr. Officer, please."
+
+The Inspector steps forward. "This is Inspector Reed," he corrects the
+boy. "What is it you wish?"
+
+"Oh. Mr. Inspector, I've been askin' t' see you a long time. I wanted--"
+
+"You should have sent me a slip. Have you a copy of the rules in the
+cell, my man?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Can you read?"
+
+"No, sir."
+
+"Poor boy, did you never go to school?"
+
+"No, sir. Me moder died when I was a kid. Dey put me in de orphan an'
+den in de ref."
+
+"And your father?"
+
+"I had no fader. Moder always said he ran away before I was born'd."
+
+"They have schools in the orphan asylum. Also in the reformatory, I
+believe."
+
+"Yep. But dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment. I didn' care fer
+de school, nohow."
+
+"You were a bad boy. How old are you now?"
+
+"Sev'nteen."
+
+"What is your name?"
+
+"Tommy Wellman."
+
+"From Pittsburgh?"
+
+"Allegheny. Me moder use'ter live on de hill, near dis 'ere dump."
+
+"What did you wish to see me about?"
+
+"I can't stand de cell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me have some work."
+
+"Are you locked up 'for cause'?"
+
+"I smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names."
+
+"Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?"
+
+"He said me moder was a bitch, God damn his--"
+
+"Don't! Don't swear! Never take the holy name in vain. It's a great sin.
+You should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting."
+
+"I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of de cell, Mr. Inspector?"
+
+"You are in the hands of the Warden. He is very kind, and he will do
+what is best for you."
+
+"Oh, hell! I'm locked up five months now. Dat's de best _he's_ doin' fer
+me."
+
+"Don't talk like that to me," the Inspector upbraids him, severely. "You
+are a bad boy. You must pray; the good Lord will take care of you."
+
+"You get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and
+swearing.
+
+Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily paling, turns red
+with shame and anger. He motions to the Captain of the Block.
+
+"Mr. Woods, report this man for impudence to an Inspector," he orders,
+stalking out into the yard.
+
+The boy is removed to the dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, I welcome the
+relief of solitude, as I am locked in the cell for the night.
+
+
+IV
+
+Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. I spend considerable
+time corresponding with Nold and Bauer: our letters are bulky--ten,
+fifteen, and twenty pages long. There is much to say! We discuss events
+in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of
+the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food.
+I share with my comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn,
+keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their paths run smoother,
+less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness
+of spirit. They, too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. The
+officer of the shop where Nold is employed has been severely reprimanded
+for "neglect of duty": the Warden had noticed Carl, in the company of
+several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of
+mattings. He ordered the guard never to allow Nold out of his sight.
+Bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has been deprived of
+his dark clothes, and reduced to the stripes for "disrespectful
+behavior." Now he is removed to the North Wing, where my cell also is
+located, while Nold is in the South Wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying
+the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our friend, the
+"Horsethief," is still coffee-boy on Bauer's range, thus enabling me to
+reach the big German. The latter, after reading my notes, returns them
+to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl. Our mail
+connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising utmost care
+not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells
+and persons.
+
+Again the _Prison Blossoms_ is revived. Most of the readers of the
+previous year, however, are missing. Dempsey and Beatty, the Knights of
+Labor men, have been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting
+confessions of the informer, Gallagher, who still remains in prison.
+"D," our poet laureate, has also been released, his short term having
+expired. His identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he
+was a "scientist of the old school, an alchemist," from which we
+inferred that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our reading
+public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element: the Duquesne
+strikers renew their "subscriptions" by contributing paper material;
+with them join Frank Shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; George,
+the prison librarian; "Billy" Ryan, professional gambler and confidence
+man; "Yale," a specialist in the art of safe blowing, and former
+university student; the "Attorney-General," a sharp lawyer; "Magazine
+Alvin," writer and novelist; "Jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is
+secure, and others. "M" and "K" act as alternate editors; the rest as
+contributors. The several departments of the little magazinelet are
+ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing Dante visiting the
+Inferno, another sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern, in
+the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription:
+
+  I sometimes hold it half a sin
+    To put in words the grief I feel,--
+    For words, like nature, half reveal
+  And half conceal the soul within.
+
+The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed
+with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of
+the _Blossoms_ consists of articles and essays of a more serious
+character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with
+now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story man," or some
+sex experience by "Magazine Alvin." One of the associate editors
+lampoons "Billygoat Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the "Shop
+Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G" relates the story of the
+recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead
+of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike
+by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon. In the next issue
+the incident is paralleled with the Pullman Car Strike, and the punished
+prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an
+ultra-original poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs."
+
+But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several
+readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarrange the
+route. During the winter, "K" produces a little booklet of German poems,
+while I elaborate the short "Story of Luba," written the previous year,
+into a novelette, dealing with life in New York and revolutionary
+circles. Presently "G" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of
+interest to a larger public, and should be preserved. We discuss the
+unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled
+into the light of day. In our perplexity we finally take counsel with
+Bob, the faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with astonishing
+levity: "Youse fellows jest go ahead an' write, an' don't bother about
+nothin'. Think I can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't
+got brains enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? Jest leave
+that to th' Horsethief, an' write till you bust th' paper works, see?"
+Thus encouraged, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we
+give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious
+project of publishing a book by "MKG"!
+
+In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. The little
+magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as
+every available scrap of writing material, to the larger purpose. We
+decide to honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary
+inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor on the eastern
+skies, the _First of May, 1895_, he steals a blushing beam upon the
+heading of the first chapter--"The Homestead Strike."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+THE SCALES OF JUSTICE
+
+
+I
+
+The summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog thickens on the Ohio;
+the prison house is dim and damp. The river sirens sound sharp and
+shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing. The sick line
+stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected. The
+prisoner in charge of tier "K" suffers a hemorrhage, and is carried to
+the hospital. From assistant, I am advanced to his position on the
+range.
+
+But one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked, and the men
+fed, while I remain under key. I wonder at the peculiar oversight, and
+rap on the bars for the officers. The Block Captain orders me to desist.
+1 request to see the Warden, but am gruffly told that he cannot be
+disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the cause of
+my punishment. I review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over
+each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I have
+unwittingly offended some trusty, or I may be the object of the secret
+enmity of a spy.
+
+The Chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the Girl, and
+glances in surprise at the closed door.
+
+"Not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks.
+
+"I'm locked up, Chaplain."
+
+"What have you done?"
+
+"Nothing that I know of."
+
+"Oh, well, you'll be out soon. Don't fret, m' boy."
+
+But the days pass, and I remain in the cell. The guards look worried,
+and vent their ill-humor in profuse vulgarity. The Deputy tries to
+appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at
+me: "Nothin'. Shtay where you are." Jasper, the colored trusty, flits up
+and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than
+ever. Numerous stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in
+confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper
+excitedly at the front desk. Assistant Deputy Hopkins goes in and out of
+the block, repeatedly calls Jasper to the office, and hovers in the
+neighborhood of my cell. The rangemen talk in suppressed tones. An air
+of mystery pervades the cell-house.
+
+Finally I am called to the Warden. With unconcealed annoyance, he
+demands:
+
+"What did you want?"
+
+"The officers locked me up--"
+
+"Who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily. "You're merely
+locked _in_."
+
+"Where's the difference?" I ask.
+
+"One is locked up 'for cause.' You're just kept in for the present."
+
+"On what charge?"
+
+"No charge. None whatever. Take him back, Officers."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. By
+contrast with the spacious hall, the cell grows smaller and narrower,
+oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains
+unexplained. Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to intercede in my
+behalf, I remain locked "in," and again return the days of solitary,
+with all their gloom and anguish of heart.
+
+
+II
+
+A ray of light is shed from New York. The Girl writes in a hopeful vein
+about the progress of the movement, and the intense interest in my case
+among radical circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a tour of
+agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable labor sentiment
+toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. Finally she informs
+me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and the
+promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. From
+Merlino I receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose,
+together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding:
+"Good cheer, dear Comrade; the last word has not yet been spoken."
+
+My mind dwells among my friends. The breath from the world of the living
+fans the smoldering fires of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates
+in my heart with trembling hope. But the revision of my sentence
+involves recourse to the courts! The sudden realization fills me with
+dismay. I cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom;
+the mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary
+traditions. In bitterness of soul, I resent my friends' ill-advised
+waking of the shades. I shall never leave the house of death....
+
+And yet mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence,
+arrives more frequently. Prominent lawyers have been consulted; their
+unanimous opinion augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was
+illegal; according to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the maximum penalty
+should not have exceeded seven years; the Supreme Court would
+undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the
+conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the
+State. And so forth.
+
+I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to decline liberty,
+apparently within reach? John Most appealed his case to the Supreme
+Court, and the Girl also took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable
+propaganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity which would
+offer such a splendid field for agitation? Would it not be folly to
+afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would without
+hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions; but it
+involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. We must,
+if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods,
+scourge the law in its own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme
+Court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence of
+impartial right. It decided against Most, sustaining the prejudiced
+verdict of the trial jury. They may do the same in my case. But that
+very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class
+justice. I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends.
+
+But before long I am informed that an application to the higher court is
+not permitted. The attorneys, upon examination of the records of the
+trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being
+legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to rulings of the
+court prejudicial to the accused. Because of the technical omission,
+there exists no basis for an appeal. They therefore advise an
+application to the Board of Pardons, on the ground that the punishment
+in my case is excessive. They are confident that the Board will act
+favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded
+sentences,--the five minor indictments being indispensible parts of the
+major charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences.
+
+The unexpected development disquiets me: the sound of "pardon" is
+detestable. What bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most
+unselfish motives, need seek pardon! Aye, of the very source that
+misinterprets and perverts them! For days the implied humiliation keeps
+agitating me; I recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name
+to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to
+refuse.
+
+An accidental conversation with the "Attorney General" disturbs my
+resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania the applicant's signature is
+not required by the Pardon Board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me.
+Yet--I reflect--the pardon of the Chicago Anarchists had contributed
+much to the dissemination of our ideas. The impartial analysis of the
+trial-evidence by Governor Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades
+from responsibility for the Haymarket tragedy, and exposed the heinous
+conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the
+labor movement. May not a similar purpose be served by my application
+for a pardon?
+
+I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We arrange for a personal
+interview, to discuss the details of the work. Unfortunately, the Girl,
+a _persona non grata_, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss
+Garrison, is to call on me within two months. At my request, the
+Chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and I impatiently
+await the first friendly face in two years.
+
+
+III
+
+As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary, comes the relief at
+the expiration of three weeks. The "K" hall-boy is still in the
+hospital, and I resume the duties of rangeman. The guards eye me with
+suspicion and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled skein,
+and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary
+retirement.
+
+The lock of my neighbor, Johnny Smith, had been tampered with. The
+youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it
+being impossible to reach the keyhole from the inside of the cell. The
+suspicion of the Warden centered upon me, but investigation by the
+stools discovered the men actually concerned, and "Dutch" Adams,
+Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now
+locked up "for cause," on my range.
+
+By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan.
+"Dutch," a repeater serving his fifth "bit," and favorite of Hopkins,
+procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the
+machine shop, where he was employed. He entrusted the rude instrument to
+Grant, a young reformatory boy, for a preliminary trial. The guileless
+youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in
+the lock--with disastrous results.
+
+The tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the _provocateur_, but "Dutch"
+is missing from the range. He has been removed to an upper gallery, and
+is assigned to a coveted position in the shops.
+
+The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape
+from Riverside, and compliment Captain Wright and the officers for so
+successfully protecting the community. The Warden is deeply affected,
+and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a
+bread-and-water diet. The Deputy walks with inflated chest; Hopkins
+issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting
+greater hardships. The tone of the guards sounds haughtier, more
+peremptory; Jasper's face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look
+pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison.
+
+
+IV
+
+I am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and
+the Warden approaches me.
+
+"A lady just called; Miss Garrison, from New York. Do you know her?"
+
+"She is one of my friends."
+
+"I dismissed her. You can't see her."
+
+"Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three months. I have had
+none in two years. I want to see her."
+
+"You can't. She needs a permit."
+
+"The Chaplain sent her one at my request."
+
+"A member of the Board of Inspectors rescinded it by telegraph."
+
+"What Inspector?"
+
+"You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused admittance."
+
+"Will you tell me the reason, Warden?"
+
+"No reason, no reason whatever."
+
+He turns on his heel, when I detain him: "Warden, it's two years since
+I've been in the dungeon. I am in the first grade now," I point to the
+recently earned dark suit. "I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am
+I deprived of visits?"
+
+"Not another word."
+
+He disappears through the yard door. From the galleries I hear the
+jeering of a trusty. A guard near by brings his thumb to his nose, and
+wriggles his fingers in my direction. Humiliated and angry, I return to
+the cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. I pour out all
+the bitterness of my heart to the Girl, dwell on the Warden's
+discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal
+to admit my visitor. In conclusion, I direct her to have a Pittsburgh
+lawyer apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to restore
+to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. I drop
+the letter in the mail-box, hoping that my outburst and the threat of
+the law will induce the Warden to retreat from his position. The Girl
+will, of course, understand the significance of the epistle, aware that
+my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect,
+and not meant to be acted upon.
+
+But the next day the Chaplain returns the letter to me. "Not so rash, my
+boy," he warns me, not unkindly. "Be patient; I'll see what I can do for
+you."
+
+"But the letter, Chaplain?"
+
+"You've wasted your paper, Aleck. I can't pass this letter. But just
+keep quiet, and I'll look into the matter."
+
+Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the Chaplain advises a personal
+interview with the Warden. The latter refers me to the Inspectors. To
+each member of the Board I address a request for a few minutes'
+conversation, but a month goes by without word from the high officials.
+The friendly runner, "Southside" Johnny, offers to give me an
+opportunity to speak to an Inspector, on the payment of ten plugs of
+tobacco. Unfortunately, I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender
+him a dollar bill of the money the Girl had sent me artfully concealed
+in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The runner is highly elated, and
+assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard
+door.
+
+Several days later, passing along the range engaged in my duties, I
+notice "Southside" entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with
+a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize
+the situation, but the next instant I am aware of Johnny's violent
+efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to show the man some fancy
+work made by the inmates, all the while drawing him closer to my door,
+with surreptitious nods at me. I approach my cell.
+
+"This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot Frick," Johnny remarks.
+
+The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest.
+
+"Good morning, Berkman," he says pleasantly. "How long are you doing?"
+
+"Twenty-two years."
+
+"I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence. You know who I
+am?"
+
+"Inspector Nevin, I believe."
+
+"Yes. You have never seen me before?"
+
+"No. I sent a request to see you recently."
+
+"When was that?"
+
+"A month ago."
+
+"Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There was no note from
+you on my file. Are you sure you sent one?"
+
+"Quite sure. I sent a request to each Inspector."
+
+"What's the trouble?"
+
+I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of visiting privileges.
+Somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes, and remarks:
+
+"You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. When did
+you have your last visitor?"
+
+"Two years ago."
+
+"Two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "Did the lady from New York
+have a permit?"
+
+The Warden hurriedly enters from the yard.
+
+"Mr. Nevin," he calls out anxiously, "I've been looking for you."
+
+"Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away,
+Captain," the Inspector remarks.
+
+"Yes, yes," the Warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'"
+
+"Oh!" the face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look. "Berkman," he turns to
+me, "you'll have to apply to the Secretary of the Board, Mr. Reed. I am
+not familiar with the internal affairs."
+
+The Warden links his arm with the Inspector, and they walk toward the
+yard door. At the entrance they are met by "Dutch" Adams, the shop
+messenger.
+
+"Good morning, Mr. Nevin," the trusty greets him. "Won't you issue me a
+special visit? My mother is sick; she wants to see me."
+
+The Warden grins at the ready fiction.
+
+"When did you have your last visit?" the Inspector inquires.
+
+"Two weeks ago."
+
+"You are entitled to one only every three months."
+
+"That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector," "Dutch" retorts
+boldly. "I know you are a kind man."
+
+Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the Warden.
+
+"Dutch is all right," the Captain nods.
+
+The Inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to
+the prisoner.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON
+
+
+                                                     April 12, 1896.
+
+    MY DEAR GIRL:
+
+    I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with
+    you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover
+    of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it
+    will reach you safely.
+
+    In my local correspondence you have been christened the
+    "Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up
+    letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual
+    interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the
+    existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to
+    expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes very
+    seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful.
+    But you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents
+    that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a
+    strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment,
+    disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of a
+    letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart
+    to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate
+    interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. And
+    then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of
+    our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications
+    from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our
+    European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself,
+    they bring me nearer to you and to life.
+
+    The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various
+    occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical
+    publications permitted. I especially regret to miss
+    _Solidarity_. I have not seen a single copy since its
+    resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of
+    Chas. W. Mowbray and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as
+    the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more
+    about our English comrades.
+
+    I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know from
+    my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The action
+    of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less
+    to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a
+    favorable decision. But that they should so cynically evade the
+    issue,--I was hardly prepared for _that_. I had hoped they would
+    at least consider the case. But evidently they were averse to
+    going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me
+    that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their
+    arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not
+    actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want
+    remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the
+    first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission
+    of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still
+    have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt
+    whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be
+    expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another
+    proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. It is
+    this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the
+    Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor, is indebted to
+    the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The
+    attorney's name is K---- D---- of Pittsburgh. He has intimated
+    to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000.00,
+    the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in
+    case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a large fee.
+    And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still,
+    you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I
+    leave the matter in your hands.
+
+    The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure
+    no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the
+    Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist plot against
+    the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance and
+    constantly discriminated against, though "K" and "G" are
+    permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile
+    terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain
+    Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was
+    Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat
+    against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited
+    Inspector Reed at his business place, and requested to see me.
+    The Inspector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty
+    walls down." I could not determine whether there is any
+    foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the
+    prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits.
+
+    That is a characteristic instance of local conditions.
+    Involuntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the
+    brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian
+    prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true
+    conditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the
+    rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the
+    purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in
+    the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be
+    permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the
+    prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he
+    succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to
+    revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in
+    regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness
+    the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the
+    abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the
+    keynote of stupidity in power.
+
+    Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible
+    tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and lamenting, in
+    the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no Nemesis
+    in Spain?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?
+
+
+I
+
+The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. A cheerier
+atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. The
+block is airier and lighter; the guards relax their stern look, in
+anticipation of their vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till
+their approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release some one
+going back to the world.
+
+But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. The windows are closed
+and nailed; the vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with
+dryness. Smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk.
+Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The officers look
+sullen; the men are morose and discontented. The ravings of the insane
+become wilder, suicides more frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress
+every heart.
+
+The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and
+repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. The severity of the
+authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic; the
+prisoners fret, wax more querulous, and turn desperate with blind,
+spasmodic defiance.
+
+But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifest more
+coherent expression. The Lexow investigation in New York has awakened an
+echo in the prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the
+solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside.
+
+I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. Great
+care must be exercised to guard against treachery: only men of proved
+reliability may be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that
+no officer or stool scent our design. The details of the campaign are
+planned on "K" range, with Billy Ryan, Butch, Sloane, and Jimmie Grant,
+as the most trustworthy, in command. It is decided that the attack upon
+the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the
+"outside." A released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses,
+graft, and immorality rampant in Riverside. The public will demand an
+investigation. The "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators
+with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community, and
+cause the dismissal of the Warden and the introduction of reforms.
+
+A prisoner, about to be discharged, is selected for the important
+mission of enlightening the press. In great anxiety and expectation we
+await the newspapers, the day following his liberation; we scan the
+pages closely. Not a word of the penitentiary! Probably the released man
+has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors. In the joy of
+freedom, he may have looked too deeply into the cup that cheers. He will
+surely interview the papers the next day.
+
+But the days pass into weeks, without any reference in the press to the
+prison. The trusted man has failed us! The revelation of the life at
+Riverside is of a nature not to be ignored by the press. The discharged
+inmate has proved false to his promise. Bitterly the solitaries denounce
+him, and resolve to select a more reliable man among the first
+candidates for liberty.
+
+One after another, a score of men are entrusted with the mission to the
+press. But the papers remain silent. Anxiously, though every day less
+hopefully, we search their columns. Ryan cynically derides the
+faithlessness of convict promises; Butch rages and at the traitors. But
+Sloane is sternly confident in his own probity, and cheers me as I pause
+at his cell:
+
+"Never min' them rats, Aleck. You just wait till I go out. Here's the
+boy that'll keep his promise all right. What I won't do to old Sandy
+ain't worth mentionin'."
+
+"Why, you still have two years, Ed," I remind him.
+
+"Not on your tintype, Aleck. Only one and a stump."
+
+"How big is the stump?"
+
+"Wa-a-ll," he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident, "it's one year,
+elev'n months, an' twenty-sev'n days. It ain't no two years, though,
+see?"
+
+Jimmy Grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently disinclined to talk. He
+seeks to avoid me. The treachery of the released men fills him with
+resentment and suspicion of every one. He is impatient of my suggestion
+that the fault may lie with a servile press. At the mention of our
+plans, he bursts out savagely:
+
+"Forget it! You're no good, none of you. Let me be!" He turns his back
+to me, and angrily paces the cell.
+
+His actions fill me with concern. The youth seems strangely changed.
+Fortunately, his time is almost served.
+
+
+II
+
+Like wildfire the news circles the prison. "The papers are giving Sandy
+hell!" The air in the block trembles with suppressed excitement. Jimmy
+Grant, recently released, had sent a communication to the State Board of
+Charities, bringing serious charges against the management of Riverside.
+The press publishes startlingly significant excerpts from Grant's
+letter. Editorially, however, the indictment is ignored by the majority
+of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments ambiguously, in guarded
+language, suggesting the improbability of the horrible practices alleged
+by Grant. Another eulogizes Warden Wright as an intelligent and humane
+man, who has the interest of the prisoners at heart. The detailed
+accusations are briefly dismissed as unworthy of notice, because coming
+from a disgruntled criminal who had not found prison life to his liking.
+Only the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ consider the matter seriously,
+refer to the numerous complaints from discharged prisoners, and suggest
+the advisability of an investigation; they urge upon the Warden the
+necessity of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements
+regarding his management.
+
+Within a few days the President of the Board of Charities announces his
+decision to "look over" the penitentiary. December is on the wane, and
+the Board is expected to visit Riverside after the holidays.
+
+
+III
+
+    K. & G.:
+
+    Of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged
+    investigations than myself. The Lexow investigation, which
+    shocked the whole country with its expose of police corruption,
+    has resulted in practically nothing. One or two subordinates
+    have been "scapegoated"; those "higher up" went unscathed, as
+    usual; the "system" itself remains in _statu quo_. The one who
+    has mostly profited by the spasm of morality is Goff, to whom
+    the vice crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity
+    into the national limelight. Parkhurst also has subsided,
+    probably content with the enlarged size of his flock
+    and--salary. To give the devil his due, however, I admired his
+    perseverance and courage in face of the storm of ridicule and
+    scorn that met his initial accusations against the glorious
+    police department of the metropolis. But though every charge has
+    been proved in the most absolute manner, the situation, as a
+    whole, remains unchanged.
+
+    It is the history of all investigations. As the Germans say, you
+    can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law. It
+    has again been demonstrated by the Congressional "inquiry" into
+    the Carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revelations
+    regarding Superintendent Brockway, of the Elmira Reformatory--a
+    veritable den for maiming and killing; and in numerous other
+    instances. Warden Wright also was investigated, about ten years
+    ago; a double set of books was then found, disclosing peculation
+    of appropriations and theft of the prison product; brutality and
+    murder were uncovered--yet Sandy has remained in his position.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    We can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed
+    investigation by the Board of Charities. I have no doubt it will
+    be a whitewash. But I think that we--the Anarchist trio--should
+    show our solidarity, and aid the inmates with our best efforts;
+    we must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far
+    as evidence against the management is concerned. We should leave
+    the Board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses or
+    proofs to support Grant's charges. I am confident you will agree
+    with me in this. I am collecting data for presentation to the
+    investigators; I am also preparing a list of volunteer
+    witnesses. I have seventeen numbers on my range and others from
+    various parts of this block and from the shops. They all seem
+    anxious to testify, though I am sure some will weaken when the
+    critical moment arrives. Several have already notified me to
+    erase their names. But we shall have a sufficient number of
+    witnesses; we want preferably such men as have personally
+    suffered a clubbing, the bull ring, hanging by the wrists, or
+    other punishment forbidden by the law.
+
+    I have already notified the Warden that I wish to testify before
+    the Investigation Committee. My purpose was to anticipate his
+    objection that there are already enough witnesses. I am the
+    first on the list now. The completeness of the case against the
+    authorities will surprise you. Fortunately, my position as
+    rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information I needed.
+    I will send you to-morrow duplicates of the evidence (to insure
+    greater safety for our material). For the present I append a
+    partial list of our "exhibits":
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+    (1) Cigarettes and outside tobacco; bottle of whiskey and
+    "dope"; dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two
+    razors, postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband.
+    (These are for the purpose of proving the Warden a liar in
+    denying to the press the existence of gambling in the prison,
+    the selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the
+    possession of weapons, and the possibility of underground
+    communication.)
+
+    (2) Prison-made beer. A demonstration of the staleness of our
+    bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. (The beer is made
+    from fermented yeast stolen by the trusties from the bakery;
+    also from potatoes.)
+
+    (3) Favoritism; special privileges of trusties; political jobs;
+    the system of stool espionage.
+
+    (4) Pennsylvania diet; basket; dungeon; cuffing and chaining up;
+    neglect of the sick; punishment of the insane.
+
+    (5) Names and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed.
+
+    (6) Data of assaults and cutting affrays in connection with
+    "kid-business," the existence of which the Warden absolutely
+    denies.
+
+    (7) Special case of A-444, who attacked the Warden in church,
+    because of jealousy of "Lady Goldie."
+
+    (8) Graft:
+
+      (_a_) Hosiery department: fake labels, fictitious names of
+      manufacture, false book entries.
+
+      (_b_) Broom-Shop: convict labor hired out, contrary to law,
+      to Lang Bros., broom manufacturers, of Allegheny, Pa. Goods
+      sold to the United States Government, through sham middleman.
+      Labels bear legend, "Union Broom." Sample enclosed.
+
+      [Illustration]
+
+      (_c_) Mats, mattings, mops--product not stamped.
+
+      (_d_) Shoe and tailor shops: prison materials used for
+      the private needs of the Warden, the officers, and their
+      families.
+
+      (_e_) $75,000, appropriated by the State (1893) for a new
+      chapel. The bricks of the old building used for the new,
+      except one outside layer. All the work done by prisoners.
+      Architect, Mr. A. Wright, the Warden's son. Actual cost of
+      chapel, $7,000. The inmates _forced_ to attend services to
+      overcrowd the old church; after the desired appropriation
+      was secured, attendance became optional.
+
+      (_f_) Library: the 25c. tax, exacted from every unofficial
+      visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. About 50
+      visitors per day, the year round. No new books added to the
+      library in 10 years. Old duplicates donated by the public
+      libraries of Pittsburgh are catalogued as purchased new
+      books.
+
+      (_g_) Robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their labor.
+      See copy of Act of 1883, P. L. 112.
+
+
+    LAW ON PRISON LABOR AND WAGES OF CONVICTS
+
+    (Act of 1883, June 13th, P. L. 112)
+
+    Section 1--At the expiration of existing contracts Wardens are
+    directed to employ the convicts under their control for and in
+    behalf of the State.
+
+    Section 2--No labor shall be hired out by contract.
+
+    Section 4--All convicts under the control of the State and
+    county officers, and all inmates of reformatory institutions
+    engaged in the manufacture of articles for general consumption,
+    shall receive quarterly wages equal to the amount of their
+    earnings, to be fixed from time to time by the authorities of
+    the institution, from which board, lodging, clothing, and costs
+    of trial shall be deducted, and the balance paid to their
+    families or dependents; in case none such appear, the amount
+    shall be paid to the convict at the expiration of his term of
+    imprisonment.
+
+    The prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for overtime
+    work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper.
+
+    K. G., plant this and other material I'll send you, in a safe
+    place.
+
+                                                                  M.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+HIDING THE EVIDENCE
+
+
+I
+
+It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison;
+to-morrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation. Roast beef
+will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two
+cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the kitchen; they
+flit from block to yard, looking busy and important, yet halting every
+passer-by to whisper with secretive mien, "Don't say I told you. Sweet
+potatoes to-morrow!" The younger inmates seem skeptical, and strive to
+appear indifferent, the while they hover about the yard door, nostrils
+expanded, sniffing the appetizing wafts from the kitchen. Here and there
+an old-timer grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for
+Christmas. "'Too high-priced,' Sandy said," they sneer in ill humor. The
+new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps they are still too expensive? Some
+study the market quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in
+to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes
+are a "sure thing," just arrived and counted. The happy news is
+whispered about, with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety.
+There is great rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is
+querulous: he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"--stomach still
+sour from the Christmas dinner--and, anyhow, it only makes the
+week-a-day "grub" more disgusting.
+
+The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen converse freely; the yard
+gangs lounge about and cluster in little groups, that separate at the
+approach of a superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run in
+and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. "What are you
+after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "Oh, just to my cell; forgot my
+handkerchief." The guard answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile.
+"All right; go ahead, but don't be long." If "Papa" Mitchell is about,
+he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages: "Wotch
+'er got there, eh? Big family of kids _you_ have, Jim. First thing you
+know, you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." The envied bakery
+and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits,
+and the solitaries dance in glee at the sight of the savory dainty, the
+fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the
+prelude of the promised culinary symphony.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. The prisoners at first
+converse in whispers, then become bolder, and talk louder through the
+bars. As night approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity
+and animation,--light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll
+humor. A wag on the upper tier banters the passing guards, his quips and
+sallies setting the adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to
+retire. Some one shouts to a distant friend, "Hey, Bill, are you there?
+Ye-es? Stay there!" It grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the
+left sing-songs, "Fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to greet New
+Year's." A dozen voices yell their acceptance. "Little Frenchy," the
+spirited grayhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, "Me, too, boys.
+I'm viz you all right."
+
+All is still in the cell-house, save for a wild Indian whoop now and
+then by the vigil-keeping boys. The block breathes in heavy sleep; loud
+snoring sounds from the gallery above. Only the irregular tread of the
+felt-soled guards falls muffled in the silence.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight hour. A siren on the
+Ohio intones its deep-chested bass. Another joins it, then another.
+Shrill factory whistles pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a
+nearby church ring in joyful melody between. Instantly the prison is
+astir. Tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shake in fury, beds and
+chairs squeak and screech, pans slam on the floor, shoes crash against
+the walls with a dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. Unearthly
+yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive prisoner
+beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table--a veritable Bedlam of
+frenzy has broken loose in both wings. The prisoners are celebrating the
+advent of the New Year.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The voices grow hoarse and feeble. The tin clanks languidly against the
+iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker. The men are exhausted with
+the unwonted effort. The guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms
+swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight. In maudlin
+tones they command silence, and bid the men retire to bed. The younger,
+more daring, challenge the order with husky howls and catcalls,--a
+defiant shout, a groan, and all is quiet.
+
+Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twenty-four hours the
+long-repressed animal spirits are rampant. No music or recreation honors
+the New Year; the day is passed in the cell. The prisoners, securely
+barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their
+yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of tumult.
+
+
+II
+
+The month of January brings sedulous activity. Shops and block are
+overhauled, every nook and corner is scoured, and a special squad
+detailed to whitewash the cells. The yearly clean-up not being due till
+spring, I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit
+of the Board of Charities is approaching.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation. The solitaries and
+prospective witnesses are on the _qui vive_, anxious lines on their
+faces. Some manifest fear of the ill will of the Warden, as the probable
+result of their testimony. I seek to encourage them by promising to
+assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous
+consent. The safety of my data causes me grave concern, in view of the
+increasing frequency of searches. Deliberation finally resolves itself
+into the bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the cell
+set aside for the use of the officers. It is the first cell on the
+range; it is never locked, and is ignored at searches because it is not
+occupied by prisoners. The little bundle, protected with a piece of
+oilskin procured from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the
+waste pipe. A stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush
+of water, when the privy is in use. I call Officer Mitchell's attention
+to the dusty condition of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning
+and afternoon. He accedes in an offhand manner, and twice daily I
+surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked cord, renewing
+the string repeatedly.
+
+Other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited with several
+trustworthy friends on the range. Everything is ready for the
+investigation, and we confidently await the coming of the Board of
+Charities.
+
+
+III
+
+The cell-house rejoices at the absence of Scot Woods. The Block Captain
+of the morning has been "reduced to the ranks." The disgrace is
+signalized by his appearance on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the
+chilly winter blasts. The guards look upon the assignment as "punishment
+duty" for incurring the displeasure of the Warden. The keepers smile at
+the indiscreet Scot interfering with the self-granted privileges of
+"Southside" Johnny, one of the Warden's favorites. The runner who
+afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came out victorious
+in the struggle with Woods. The latter was upbraided by Captain Wright
+in the presence of Johnny, who is now officially authorized in his
+perquisites. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment,
+whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the block.
+
+I regret his absence. A severe disciplinarian, Woods was yet very
+exceptional among the guards, in that he sought to discourage the spying
+of prisoners on each other. He frowned upon the trusties, and strove to
+treat the men impartially.
+
+Mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to fill the vacancy made
+by the transfer of Woods. The charge of the block in the afternoon
+devolves upon Officer McIlvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp,
+steely eyes. He is considerably above the average warder in
+intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts as his
+assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat at the front desk.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the two cell-houses are
+frequent; the new guards are alert and active. Almost daily the Warden
+visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. Rarely
+do I find a chance to pause at the cells; I keep in touch with the men
+through the medium of notes. But one day, several fights breaking out in
+the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the
+combatants in the punishment cells. The front is deserted, and I improve
+the opportunity to talk to the solitaries. Jasper, "Southside," and Bob
+Runyon, the "politicians," also converse at the doors, Bob standing
+suspiciously close to the bars. Suddenly Officer McIlvaine appears in
+the yard door. His face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they
+fasten on the men at the cells.
+
+"Hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts. "Confound you all,
+the 'Old Man' just gave me the deuce; too much talking in the block. I
+won't stand for it, that's all," he adds petulantly.
+
+Within half an hour I am haled before the Warden. He looks worried, deep
+lines of anxiety about his mouth.
+
+"You are reported for standing at the doors," he snarls at me. "What are
+you always telling the men?"
+
+"It's the first time the officer--"
+
+"Nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always talking to the
+prisoners. They are in punishment, and you have no business with them."
+
+"Why was _I_ picked out? Others talk, too."
+
+"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to the keeper, he
+says: "How is that, Officer? The man is charging you with neglect of
+duty."
+
+"I am not charging--"
+
+"Silence! What have you to say, Mr. McIlvaine?"
+
+The guard reddens with suppressed rage. "It isn't true, Captain," he
+replies; "there was no one except Berkman."
+
+"You hear what the officer says? You are always breaking the rules.
+You're plotting; I know you,--pulling a dozen wires. You are inimical to
+the management of the institution. But I will break your connections.
+Officers, take him directly to the South Wing, you understand? He is not
+to return to his cell. Have it searched at once, thoroughly. Lock him
+up."
+
+"Warden, what for?" I demand. "I have not done anything to lose my
+position. Talking is not such a serious charge."
+
+"Very serious, very serious. You're too dangerous on the range. I'll
+spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the North Block. You've
+been there too long."
+
+"I want to remain there."
+
+"The more reason to take you away. That will do now."
+
+"No, it won't," I burst out. "I'll stay where I am."
+
+"Remove him, Mr. McIlvaine."
+
+I am taken to the South Wing and locked up in a vacant cell, neglected
+and ill-smelling. It is Number 2, Range M--the first gallery, facing the
+yard; a "double" cell, somewhat larger than those of the North Block,
+and containing a small window. The walls are damp and bare, save for the
+cardboard of printed rules and the prison calendar. It is the 27th of
+February, 1896, but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the
+cell has not been occupied since the previous November. It contains the
+usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw mattress, a small table and
+a chair. It feels cold and dreary.
+
+In thought I picture the guards ransacking my former cell. They will not
+discover anything: my material is well hidden. The Warden evidently
+suspects my plans: he fears my testimony before the investigation
+committee. My removal is to sever my connections, and now it is
+impossible for me to reach my data. I must return to the North Block;
+otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail. I can't leave my friends on
+the range in the lurch: some of them have already signified to the
+Chaplain their desire to testify; their statements will remain
+unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must rejoin them. I have told
+the Warden that I shall remain where I was, but he probably ignored it
+as an empty boast.
+
+I consider the situation, and resolve to "break up housekeeping." It is
+the sole means of being transferred to the other cell-house. It will
+involve the loss of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a
+fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken furniture will be
+used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks. But my
+return to the North Wing will be assured,--no man in stripes can remain
+in the South Wing.
+
+Alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes, producing a scrap of
+paper, a pencil, and a knife. I write a hurried note to "K," briefly
+informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are
+safe. Guardedly I attract the attention of the runner on the floor
+beneath; it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally communicates
+with "G." The note rolled into a little ball, I shoot between the bars
+to the waiting prisoner. Now everything is prepared.
+
+It is near supper time; the men are coming back from work. It would be
+advisable to wait till everybody is locked in, and the shop officers
+depart home. There will then be only three guards on duty in the block.
+But I am in a fever of indignation and anger. Furiously snatching up the
+chair, I start "breaking up."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII
+
+LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER
+
+
+The dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness is almost visible, the
+silence oppressive; but the terror of my former experience has abated. I
+shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on
+the previous occasion,--my offence is considered very grave. Three
+charges have been entered against me: destroying State property, having
+possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the Warden. When I
+saw the officers gathering at my back, while I was facing the Captain, I
+realized its significance. They were preparing to assault me. Quickly
+advancing to the Warden, I shook my fist in his face, crying:
+
+"If they touch me, I'll hold you personally responsible."
+
+He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he demanded:
+
+"What do you mean? How dare you?"
+
+"I mean just what I say. I won't be clubbed. My friends will avenge me,
+too."
+
+He glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous silence. One by one
+they retired, only two remaining, and I was taken quietly to the
+dungeon.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The stillness is broken by a low, muffled sound. I listen intently. It
+is some one pacing the cell at the further end of the passage.
+
+"Halloo! Who's there?" I shout.
+
+No reply. The pacing continues. It must be "Silent Nick"; he never
+talks.
+
+I prepare to pass the night on the floor. It is bare; there is no bed or
+blanket, and I have been deprived of my coat and shoes. It is freezing
+in the cell; my feet grow numb, hands cold, as I huddle in the corner,
+my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. I
+try to think, but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. Guards are descending into
+the dungeon. I wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it
+is not yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I recognize the
+mumbling speech of Deputy Greaves, as he calls out to the silent
+prisoner:
+
+"Want a drink?"
+
+The double doors open noisily.
+
+"Here!"
+
+"Give me the cup," the hoarse bass resembles that of "Crazy Smithy." His
+stentorian voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by Officer
+Dean.
+
+"You can't have th' cup," the Deputy fumes.
+
+"I won't drink out of your hand, God damn you. Think I'm a cur, do you?"
+Smithy swears and curses savagely.
+
+The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow faint, and all is
+silent, save the quickened footfall of Smith, who will not talk to any
+prisoner.
+
+I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my
+ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is
+breaking. The minutes drag in dismal darkness....
+
+The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. It is
+morning! The guards hand me the day's allowance--two ounces of white
+bread and a quart of water. The wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me I've
+never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid, and
+nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow the slice, so small and thin.
+It whets my appetite, and I feel ravenously hungry.
+
+At Smith's door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. The
+Deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. The
+prisoner refuses, with a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a
+splash, followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell bucket on
+the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the
+officers. In confusion they rush out of the dungeon.
+
+Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. There is a
+hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize the rasping whisper of Hopkins,
+the tones of Woods, McIlvaine, and others. I catch the words, "Both
+sides at once." Several cells in the dungeon are provided with double
+entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous
+prisoners. Smith is always assigned to one of these cells. I shudder as
+I realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. He
+has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement, and his
+throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. Almost half his
+time he has been kept in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from
+the range twelve days. It is.... Involuntarily I shut my eyes at the
+fearful thud of the riot clubs.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the keepers bringing
+another prisoner to the dungeon. I hear his violent sobbing from the
+depth of the cavern.
+
+"Who is there?" I hail him. I call repeatedly, without receiving an
+answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards.
+
+"Ho, man!" I sing out, "the screws have gone. Who are you? This is
+Aleck, Aleck Berkman."
+
+"Is that you, Aleck? This is Johnny." There is a familiar ring about the
+young voice, broken by piteous moans. But I fail to identify it.
+
+"What Johnny?"
+
+"Johnny Davis--you know--stocking shop. I've just--killed a man."
+
+In bewilderment I listen to the story, told with bursts of weeping.
+Johnny had returned to the shop; he thought he would try again: he
+wanted to earn his "good" time. Things went well for a while, till
+"Dutch" Adams became shop runner. He is the stool who got Grant and
+Johnny Smith in trouble with the fake key, and Davis would have nothing
+to do with him. But "Dutch" persisted, pestering him all the time; and
+then--
+
+"Well, you know, Aleck," the boy seems diffident, "he lied about me like
+hell: he told the fellows he _used_ me. Christ, my mother might hear
+about it! I couldn't stand it, Aleck; honest to God, I couldn't. I--I
+killed the lying cur, an' now--now I'll--I'll swing for it," he sobs as
+if his heart would break.
+
+A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice, as I strive to
+condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad, after
+all. Perhaps Adams will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong;
+he may survive.
+
+Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more cheerful, and we
+talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. Perhaps the Board
+will even clear him, he suggests. But suddenly seized with fear, he
+weeps and moans again.
+
+More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring news from the world
+above. An epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of
+recent orders. The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more
+serious offences. "Kid Tommy" is enlarging upon his trouble. "You see,
+fellers," he cries in a treble, "dat skunk of a Pete he pushes me in de
+line, and I turns round t' give 'im hell, but de screw pipes me. Got no
+chance t' choo, so I turns an' biffs him on de jaw, see?" But he is
+sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning, at most. "Them
+fellers that was scrappin' yesterday in de yard didn't go to de hole.
+Dey jest put 'em in de cell. Sandy knows de committee's comin' all
+right."
+
+Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about "Dutch"
+Adams, and I share his joy at hearing that the man's wound is not
+serious. He was cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted
+to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness; the others dance
+and sing. I recite a poem from Nekrassov; the boys don't understand a
+word, but the sorrow-laden tones appeal to them, and they request more
+Russian "pieces." But Tommy is more interested in politics, and is
+bristling with the latest news from the Magee camp. He is a great
+admirer of Quay,--"dere's a smart guy fer you, fellers; owns de whole
+Keystone shebang all right, all right. He's Boss Quay, you bet you." He
+dives into national issues, rails at Bryan, "16 to 1 Bill, you jest
+list'n to 'm, he'll give sixteen dollars to every one; he will, nit!"
+and the boys are soon involved in a heated discussion of the respective
+merits of the two political parties, Tommy staunchly siding with the
+Republican. "Me gran'fader and me fader was Republicans," he
+vociferates, "an' all me broders vote de ticket. Me fer de Gran' Ole
+Party, ev'ry time." Some one twits him on his political wisdom,
+challenging the boy to explain the difference in the money standards.
+Tommy boldly appeals to me to corroborate him; but before I have an
+opportunity to speak, he launches upon other issues, berating Spain for
+her atrocities in Cuba, and insisting that this free country cannot
+tolerate slavery at its doors. Every topic is discussed, with Tommy
+orating at top speed, and continually broaching new subjects.
+Unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs, waxes reminiscent over former
+days, and loudly smacks his lips at the "great feeds" he enjoyed on the
+rare occasions when he was free to roam the back streets of Smoky City.
+"Say, Aleck, my boy," he calls to me familiarly, "many a penny I made on
+_you_, all right. How? Why, peddlin' extras, of course! Say, dem was
+fine days, all right; easy money; papers went like hot cakes off the
+griddle. Wish you'd do it again, Aleck."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories and anecdotes, the
+boys talking incessantly, as if fearful of silence. But every now and
+then there is a lull; we become quiet, each absorbed in his own
+thoughts. The pauses lengthen--lengthen into silence. Only the faint
+steps of "Crazy Smith" disturb the deep stillness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved. But Johnny
+remains, and his apprehensions reawaken. Repeatedly during the night he
+rouses me from my drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger
+of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his assault. I allay
+his fears by dwelling on the Warden's aversion to giving publicity to
+the sex practices in the prison, and remind the boy of the Captain's
+official denial of their existence. These things happen almost every
+week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from Riverside on such
+charges.
+
+Johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about his family history,
+talking in a frank, confidential manner. With a glow of pleasure, I
+become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he
+surprises me by asking:
+
+"Friend Aleck, what do they call you in Russian?"
+
+He prefers the fond "Sashenka," enunciating the strange word with quaint
+endearment, then diffidently confesses dislike for his own name, and
+relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth;
+Felipe was his name, and he was just like himself.
+
+"Shall I call you Felipe?" I offer.
+
+"Yes, please do, Aleck, dear; no, Sashenka."
+
+The springs of affection well up within me, as I lie huddled on the
+stone floor, cold and hungry. With closed eyes, I picture the boy before
+me, with his delicate face, and sensitive, girlish lips.
+
+"Good night, dear Sashenka," he calls.
+
+"Good night, little Felipe."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the morning we are served with a slice of bread and water. I am
+tormented with thirst and hunger, and the small ration fails to assuage
+my sharp pangs. Smithy still refuses to drink out of the Deputy's hand;
+his doors remain unopened. With tremulous anxiety Johnny begs the Deputy
+Warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon, but
+Greaves curtly commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy.
+
+"Deputy," I call, boiling over with indignation, "he asked you a
+respectful question. I'd give him a decent answer."
+
+"You mind your own business, you hear?" he retorts.
+
+But I persist in defending my young friend, and berate the Deputy for
+his language. He hastens away in a towering passion, menacing me with
+"what Smithy got."
+
+Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble. The
+threat of the Deputy disquiets him, and he warns me to prepare. My cell
+is provided with a double entrance, and I am apprehensive of a sudden
+attack. But the hours pass without the Deputy returning, and our fears
+are allayed. The boy rejoices on my account, and brims over with
+appreciation of my intercession.
+
+The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence disappears, and
+we become openly tender and affectionate. The conversation lags: we feel
+weak and worn. But every little while we hail each other with words of
+encouragement. Smithy incessantly paces the cell; the gnawing of the
+river rats reaches our ears; the silence is frequently pierced by the
+wild yells of the insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. The
+quiet grows unbearable, and Johnny calls again:
+
+"What are you doing, Sashenka?"
+
+"Oh, nothing. Just thinking, Felipe."
+
+"Am I in your thoughts, dear?"
+
+"Yes, kiddie, you are."
+
+"Sasha, dear, I've been thinking, too."
+
+"What, Felipe?"
+
+"You are the only one I care for. I haven't a friend in the whole
+place."
+
+"Do you care much for me, Felipe?"
+
+"Will you promise not to laugh at me, Sashenka?"
+
+"I wouldn't laugh at you."
+
+"Cross your hand over your heart. Got it, Sasha?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, I'll tell you. I was thinking--how shall I tell you? I was
+thinking, Sashenka--if you were here with me--I would like to kiss you."
+
+An unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart, and I muse in silence.
+
+"What's the matter, Sashenka? Why don't you say something? Are you angry
+with me?"
+
+"No, Felipe, you foolish little boy."
+
+"You are laughing at me."
+
+"No, dear; I feel just as you do."
+
+"Really?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Oh, I am so glad, Sashenka."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the evening the guards descend to relieve Johnny; he is to be
+transferred to the basket, they inform him. On the way past my cell, he
+whispers: "Hope I'll see you soon, Sashenka." A friendly officer knocks
+on the outer blind door of my cell. "That you thar, Berkman? You want to
+b'have to th' Dep'ty. He's put you down for two more days for sassin'
+him."
+
+I feel more lonesome at the boy's departure. The silence grows more
+oppressive, the hours of darkness heavier.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Seven days I remain in the dungeon. At the expiration of the week,
+feeling stiff and feeble, I totter behind the guards, on the way to the
+bathroom. My body looks strangely emaciated, reduced almost to a
+skeleton. The pangs of hunger revive sharply with the shock of the cold
+shower, and the craving for tobacco is overpowering at the sight of the
+chewing officers. I look forward to being placed in a cell, quietly
+exulting at my victory as I am led to the North Wing. But, in the
+cell-house, the Deputy Warden assigns me to the lower end of Range A,
+insane department. Exasperated by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on
+edge with the dungeon experience, I storm in furious protest, demanding
+to be returned to "the hole." The Deputy, startled by my violence,
+attempts to soothe me, and finally yields. I am placed in Number 35, the
+"crank row" beginning several cells further.
+
+Upon the heels of the departing officers, the rangeman is at my door,
+bursting with the latest news. The investigation is over, the Warden
+whitewashed! For an instant I am aghast, failing to grasp the astounding
+situation. Slowly its full significance dawns on me, as Bill excitedly
+relates the story. It's the talk of the prison. The Board of Charities
+had chosen its Secretary, J. Francis Torrance, an intimate friend of the
+Warden, to conduct the investigation. As a precautionary measure, I was
+kept several additional days in the dungeon. Mr. Torrance has privately
+interviewed "Dutch" Adams, Young Smithy, and Bob Runyon, promising them
+their full commutation time, notwithstanding their bad records, and
+irrespective of their future behavior. They were instructed by the
+Secretary to corroborate the management, placing all blame upon me! No
+other witnesses were heard. The "investigation" was over within an hour,
+the committee of one retiring for dinner to the adjoining residence of
+the Warden.
+
+Several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during the afternoon,
+corroborating the story of the rangeman, and completing the details. The
+cell-house itself bears out the situation; the change in the personnel
+of the men is amazing. "Dutch" Adams has been promoted to messenger for
+the "front office," the most privileged "political" job in the prison.
+Bob Runyon, a third-timer and notorious "kid man," has been appointed a
+trusty in the shops. But the most significant cue is the advancement of
+Young Smithy to the position of rangeman. He has but recently been
+sentenced to a year's solitary for the broken key discovered in the lock
+of his door. His record is of the worst. He is a young convict of
+extremely violent temper, who has repeatedly attacked fellow-prisoners
+with dangerous weapons. Since his murderous assault upon the inoffensive
+"Praying Andy," Smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the
+escort of two guards. And now this irresponsible man is in charge of a
+range!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At supper, Young Smithy steals up to my cell, bringing a slice of
+cornbread. I refuse the peace offering, and charge him with treachery.
+At first he stoutly protests his innocence, but gradually weakens and
+pleads his dire straits in mitigation. Torrance had persuaded him to
+testify, but he avoided incriminating me. That was done by the other two
+witnesses; he merely exonerated the Warden from the charges preferred by
+James Grant. He had been clubbed four times, but he denied to the
+committee that the guards practice violence; and he supported the Warden
+in his statement that the officers are not permitted to carry clubs or
+blackjacks. He feels that an injustice has been done me, and now that he
+occupies my former position, he will be able to repay the little favors
+I did him when he was in solitary.
+
+Indignantly I spurn his offer. He pleads his youth, the torture of the
+cell, and begs my forgiveness; but I am bitter at his treachery, and bid
+him go.
+
+Officer McIlvaine pauses at my door. "Oh, what a change, what an awful
+change!" he exclaims, pityingly. I don't know whether he refers to my
+appearance, or to the loss of range liberty; but I resent his tone of
+commiseration; it was he who had selected me as a victim, to be
+reported for talking. Angrily I turn my back to him, refusing to talk.
+
+Somebody stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers between the bars.
+Whole columns detail the report of the "investigation," completely
+exonerating Warden Edward S. Wright. The base charges against the
+management of the penitentiary were the underhand work of Anarchist
+Berkman, Mr. Torrance assured the press. One of the papers contains a
+lengthy interview with Wright, accusing me of fostering discontent and
+insubordination among the men. The Captain expresses grave fear for the
+safety of the community, should the Pardon Board reduce my sentence, in
+view of the circumstance that my lawyers are preparing to renew the
+application at the next session.
+
+In great agitation I pace the cell. The statement of the Warden is fatal
+to the hope of a pardon. My life in the prison will now be made still
+more unbearable. I shall again be locked in solitary. With despair I
+think of my fate in the hands of the enemy, and the sense of my utter
+helplessness overpowers me.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII
+
+FOR SAFETY
+
+
+    DEAR K.:
+
+    I know you must have been worried about me. Give no credence to
+    the reports you hear. I did not try to suicide. I was very
+    nervous and excited over the things that happened while I was in
+    the dungeon. I saw the papers after I came up--you know what
+    they said. I couldn't sleep; I kept pacing the floor. The screws
+    were hanging about my cell, but I paid no attention to them.
+    They spoke to me, but I wouldn't answer: I was in no mood for
+    talking. They must have thought something wrong with me. The
+    doctor came, and felt my pulse, and they took me to the
+    hospital. The Warden rushed in and ordered me into a
+    strait-jacket. "For safety," he said.
+
+    You know Officer Erwin; he put the jacket on me. He's a pretty
+    decent chap; I saw he hated to do it. But the evening screw is a
+    rat. He called three times during the night, and every time he'd
+    tighten the straps. I thought he'd cut my hands off; but I
+    wouldn't cry for mercy, and that made him wild. They put me in
+    the "full size" jacket that winds all around you, the arms
+    folded. They laid me, tied in the canvas, on the bed, bound me
+    to it feet and chest, with straps provided with padlocks. I was
+    suffocating in the hot ward; could hardly breathe. In the
+    morning they unbound me. My legs were paralyzed, and I could not
+    stand up. The doctor ordered some medicine for me. The head
+    nurse (he's in for murder, and he's rotten) taunted me with the
+    "black bottle." Every time he passed my bed, he'd say: "You
+    still alive? Wait till I fix something up for you." I refused
+    the medicine, and then they took me down to the dispensary,
+    lashed me to a chair, and used the pump on me. You can imagine
+    how I felt. That went on for a week; every night in the
+    strait-jacket, every morning the pump. Now I am back in the
+    block, in 6 A. A peculiar coincidence,--it's the same cell I
+    occupied when I first came here.
+
+    Don't trust Bill Say. The Warden told me he knew about the note
+    I sent you just before I smashed up. If you got it, Bill must
+    have read it and told Sandy. Only dear old Horsethief can be
+    relied upon.
+
+    How near the boundary of joy is misery! I shall never forget the
+    first morning in the jacket. I passed a restless night, but just
+    as it began to dawn I must have lost consciousness. Suddenly I
+    awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears. It seemed to me
+    as if the heavens had opened in a burst of ecstasy.... It was
+    only a little sparrow, but never before in my life did I hear
+    such sweet melody. I felt murder in my heart when the convict
+    nurse drove the poor birdie from the window ledge.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX
+
+DREAMS OF FREEDOM
+
+
+I
+
+Like an endless _miserere_ are the days in the solitary. No glimmer of
+light cheers the to-morrows. In the depths of suffering, existence
+becomes intolerable; and as of old, I seek refuge in the past. The
+stages of my life reappear as the acts of a drama which I cannot bring
+myself to cut short. The possibilities of the dark motive compel the
+imagination, and halt the thought of destruction. Misery magnifies the
+estimate of self; the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure. Despair
+engenders obstinate resistance; in its spirit hope is trembling. Slowly
+it assumes more definite shape: escape is the sole salvation. The world
+of the living is dim and unreal with distance; its voice reaches me like
+the pale echo of fantasy; the thought of its turbulent vitality is
+strange with apprehension. But the present is bitter with wretchedness,
+and gasps desperately for relief.
+
+The efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth into my life. The
+indefatigable Girl has succeeded in interesting various circles: she is
+gathering funds for my application for a rehearing before the Pardon
+Board in the spring of '98, when my first sentence of seven years will
+have expired. With a touch of old-time tenderness, I think of her
+loyalty, her indomitable perseverance in my behalf. It is she, almost
+she alone, who has kept my memory green throughout the long years. Even
+Fedya, my constant chum, has been swirled into the vortex of narrow
+ambition and self-indulgence, the plaything of commonplace fate.
+
+Resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my thoughts of the
+erstwhile twin brother of our ideal-kissed youth. By contrast, the Girl
+is silhouetted on my horizon as the sole personification of
+revolutionary persistence, the earnest of its realization. Beyond, all
+is darkness--the mystic world of falsehood and sham, that will hate and
+persecute me even as its brutal high priests in the prison. Here and
+there the gloom is rent: an unknown sympathizer, or comrade, sends a
+greeting; I pore eagerly over the chirography, and from the clear,
+decisive signature, "Voltairine de Cleyre," strive to mold the character
+and shape the features of the writer. To the Girl I apply to verify my
+"reading," and rejoice in the warm interest of the convent-educated
+American, a friend of my much-admired Comrade Dyer D. Lum, who is aiding
+the Girl in my behalf.
+
+But the efforts for a rehearing wake no hope in my heart. My comrades,
+far from the prison world, do not comprehend the full significance of
+the situation resulting from the investigation. My underground
+connections are paralyzed; I cannot enlighten the Girl. But Nold and
+Bauer are on the threshold of liberty. Within two months Carl will carry
+my message to New York. I can fully rely on his discretion and devotion;
+we have grown very intimate through common suffering. He will inform the
+Girl that nothing is to be expected from legal procedure; instead, he
+will explain to her the plan I have evolved.
+
+My position as rangeman has served me to good advantage. I have
+thoroughly familiarized myself with the institution; I have gathered
+information and explored every part of the cell-house offering the least
+likelihood of an escape. The prison is almost impregnable; Tom's attempt
+to scale the wall proved disastrous, in spite of his exceptional
+opportunities as kitchen employee, and the thick fog of the early
+morning. Several other attempts also were doomed to failure, the great
+number of guards and their vigilance precluding success. No escape has
+taken place since the days of Paddy McGraw, before the completion of the
+prison. Entirely new methods must be tried: the road to freedom leads
+underground! But digging _out_ of the prison is impracticable in the
+modern structure of steel and rock. We must force a passage _into_ the
+prison: the tunnel is to be dug from the outside! A house is to be
+rented in the neighborhood of the penitentiary, and the underground
+passage excavated beneath the eastern wall, toward the adjacent
+bath-house. No officers frequent the place save at certain hours, and I
+shall find an opportunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the
+regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are permitted to bathe.
+
+The project will require careful preparation and considerable expense.
+Skilled comrades will have to be entrusted with the secret work, the
+greater part of which must be carried on at night. Determination and
+courage will make the plan feasible, successful. Such things have been
+done before. Not in this country, it is true. But the act will receive
+added significance from the circumstance that the liberation of the
+first American political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar
+to those practised by our comrades in Russia. Who knows? It may prove
+the symbol and precursor of Russian idealism on American soil. And what
+tremendous impression the consummation of the bold plan will make! What
+a stimulus to our propaganda, as a demonstration of Anarchist initiative
+and ability! I glow with the excitement of its great possibilities, and
+enthuse Carl with my hopes. If the preparatory work is hastened, the
+execution of the plan will be facilitated by the renewed agitation
+within the prison. Rumors of a legislative investigation are afloat,
+diverting the thoughts of the administration into different channels. I
+shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades greater safety in the
+work.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+During the long years of my penitentiary life I have formed many
+friendships. I have earned the reputation of a "square man" and a "good
+fellow," have received many proofs of confidence, and appreciation of my
+uncompromising attitude toward the generally execrated management. Most
+of my friends observe the unwritten ethics of informing me of their
+approaching release, and offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me
+with little comforts. I invariably request them to visit the newspapers
+and to relate their experiences in Riverside. Some express fear of the
+Warden's enmity, of the fatal consequences in case of their return to
+the penitentiary. But the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders,
+who confidently bid me a final good-bye, unafraid of return, call
+directly from the prison on the Pittsburgh editors.
+
+Presently the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ begin to voice their censure
+of the hurried whitewash by the State Board of Charities. The attitude
+of the press encourages the guards to manifest their discontent with the
+humiliating eccentricities of the senile Warden. They protest against
+the whim subjecting them to military drill to improve their appearance,
+and resent Captain Wright's insistence that they patronize his private
+tailor, high-priced and incompetent. Serious friction has also arisen
+between the management and Mr. Sawhill, Superintendent of local
+industries. The prisoners rejoice at the growing irascibility of the
+Warden, and the deeper lines on his face, interpreting them as signs of
+worry and fear. Expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch as
+Judge Gordon, of Philadelphia, severely censures the administration of
+the Eastern Penitentiary, charging inhuman treatment, abuse of the
+insane, and graft. The labor bodies of the State demand the abolition of
+convict competition, and the press becomes more assertive in urging an
+investigation of both penitentiaries. The air is charged with rumors of
+legislative action.
+
+
+II
+
+The breath of spring is in the cell-house. My two comrades are jubilant.
+The sweet odor of May wafts the resurrection! But the threshold of life
+is guarded by the throes of new birth. A tone of nervous excitement
+permeates their correspondence. Anxiety tortures the sleepless nights;
+the approaching return to the living is tinged with the disquietude of
+the unknown, the dread of the renewed struggle for existence. But the
+joy of coming emancipation, the wine of sunshine and liberty tingles in
+every fiber, and hope flutters its disused wings.
+
+Our plans are complete. Carl is to visit the Girl, explain my project,
+and serve as the medium of communication by means of our prearranged
+system, investing apparently innocent official letters with _sub rosa_
+meaning. The initial steps will require time. Meanwhile "K" and "G" are
+to make the necessary arrangements for the publication of our book. The
+security of our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction and much
+merriment at the expense of the administration. The repeated searches
+have failed to unearth them. With characteristic daring, the faithful
+Bob had secreted them in a hole in the floor of his shop, almost under
+the very seat of the guard. One by one they have been smuggled outside
+by a friendly officer, whom we have christened "Schraube."[46] By
+degrees Nold has gained the confidence of the former mill-worker, with
+the result that sixty precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade
+in Allegheny. I am to supply the final chapters of the book through Mr.
+Schraube, whose friendship Carl is about to bequeath to me.
+
+  [46] German for "screw."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The month of May is on the wane. The last note is exchanged with my
+comrades. Dear Bob was not able to reach me in the morning, and now I
+read the lines quivering with the last pangs of release, while Nold and
+Bauer are already beyond the walls. How I yearned for a glance at Carl,
+to touch hands, even in silence! But the customary privilege was refused
+us. Only once in the long years of our common suffering have I looked
+into the eyes of my devoted friend, and stealthily pressed his hand,
+like a thief in the night. No last greeting was vouchsafed me to-day.
+The loneliness seems heavier, the void more painful.
+
+The routine is violently disturbed. Reading and study are burdensome: my
+thoughts will not be compelled. They revert obstinately to my comrades,
+and storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the distance, to
+commune with the absent. I seek diversion in the manufacture of prison
+"fancy work," ornamental little fruit baskets, diminutive articles of
+furniture, picture frames, and the like. The little momentos,
+constructed of tissue-paper rolls of various design, I send to the Girl,
+and am elated at her admiration of the beautiful workmanship and
+attractive color effects. But presently she laments the wrecked
+condition of the goods, and upon investigation I learn from the runner
+that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected for my product.
+The rotunda turnkey, in charge of the shipments, is hostile, and I
+appeal to the Chaplain. But his well-meant intercession results in an
+order from the Warden, interdicting the expressage of my work, on the
+ground of probable notes being secreted therein. I protest against the
+discrimination, suggesting the dismembering of every piece to disprove
+the charge. But the Captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to
+"take chances," and I am forced to resort to the subterfuge of having my
+articles transferred to a friendly prisoner and addressed by him to his
+mother in Beaver, Pa., thence to be forwarded to New York. At the same
+time the rotunda keeper detains a valuable piece of ivory sent to me by
+the Girl for the manufacture of ornamental toothpicks. The local ware,
+made of kitchen bones bleached in lime, turns yellow in a short time. My
+request for the ivory is refused on the plea of submitting the matter to
+the Warden's decision, who rules against me. I direct the return of it
+to my friend, but am informed that the ivory has been mislaid and cannot
+be found. Exasperated, I charge the guard with the theft, and serve
+notice that I shall demand the ivory at the expiration of my time. The
+turnkey jeers at the wild impossibility, and I am placed for a week on
+"Pennsylvania diet" for insulting an officer.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX
+
+WHITEWASHED AGAIN
+
+
+                                                    CHRISTMAS, 1897.
+
+    MY DEAR CARL:
+
+    I have been despairing of reaching you _sub rosa_, but the
+    holidays brought the usual transfers, and at last friend
+    Schraube is with me. Dear Carolus, I am worn out with the misery
+    of the months since you left, and the many disappointments. Your
+    official letters were not convincing. I fail to understand why
+    the plan is not practicable. Of course, you can't write openly,
+    but you have means of giving a hint as to the "impossibilities"
+    you speak of. You say that I have become too estranged from the
+    outside, and so forth--which may be true. Yet I think the matter
+    chiefly concerns the inside, and of that I am the best judge. I
+    do not see the force of your argument when you dwell upon the
+    application at the next session of the Pardon Board. You mean
+    that the other plan would jeopardize the success of the legal
+    attempt. But there is not much hope of favorable action by the
+    Board. You have talked all this over before, but you seem to
+    have a different view now. Why?
+
+    Only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my life
+    the heart-to-heart talks we used to have here, though they were
+    only on paper. But I am much interested in your activities. It
+    seems strange that you, so long the companion of my silence,
+    should now be in the very Niagara of life, of our movement. It
+    gives me great satisfaction to know that your experience here
+    has matured you, and helped to strengthen and deepen your
+    convictions. It has had a similar effect upon me. You know what
+    a voluminous reader I am. I have read--in fact, studied--every
+    volume in the library here, and now the Chaplain supplies me
+    with books from his. But whether it be philosophy, travel, or
+    contemporary life that falls into my hands, it invariably
+    distils into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas, and the
+    beauty, the inevitability of Anarchism. But I do not want to
+    enlarge upon this subject now; we can discuss it through
+    official channels.
+
+    You know that Tony and his nephew are here. We are just getting
+    acquainted. He works in the shop; but as he is also coffee-boy,
+    we have an opportunity to exchange notes. It is fortunate that
+    his identity is not known; otherwise he would fall under special
+    surveillance. I have my eyes on Tony,--he may prove valuable.
+
+    I am still in solitary, with no prospect of relief. You know the
+    policy of the Warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything
+    that happens here. It has become a mania with him. Think of it,
+    he blames me for Johnny Davis' cutting "Dutch." He laid
+    everything at my door when the legislative investigation took
+    place. It was a worse sham than the previous whitewash. Several
+    members called to see me at the cell,--unofficially, they said.
+    They got a hint of the evidence I was prepared to give, and one
+    of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for one in my
+    position to antagonize the Warden. I replied that I was no
+    toady. He hinted that the authorities of the prison might help
+    me to procure freedom, if I would act "discreetly." I insisted
+    that I wanted to be heard by the committee. They departed,
+    promising to call me as a witness. One Senator remarked, as he
+    left: "You are too intelligent a man to be at large."
+
+    When the hearing opened, several officers were the first to take
+    the stand. The testimony was not entirely favorable to the
+    Warden. Then Mr. Sawhill was called. You know him; he is an
+    independent sort of man, with an eye upon the wardenship. His
+    evidence came like a bomb; he charged the management with
+    corruption and fraud, and so forth. The investigators took
+    fright. They closed the sessions and departed for Harrisburg,
+    announcing through the press that they would visit
+    Moyamensing[47] and then return to Riverside. But they did not
+    return. The report they submitted to the Governor exonerated the
+    Warden.
+
+    The men were gloomy over the state of affairs. A hundred
+    prisoners were prepared to testify, and much was expected from
+    the committee. I had all my facts on hand: Bob had fished out
+    for me the bundle of material from its hiding place. It was in
+    good condition, in spite of the long soaking. (I am enclosing
+    some new data in this letter, for use in our book.)
+
+    Now that he is "cleared," the Warden has grown even more
+    arrogant and despotic. Yet _some_ good the agitation in the
+    press has accomplished: clubbings are less frequent, and the
+    bull ring is temporarily abolished. But his hatred of me has
+    grown venomous. He holds us responsible (together with Dempsey
+    and Beatty) for organizing the opposition to convict labor,
+    which has culminated in the Muehlbronner law. It is to take
+    effect on the first of the year. The prison administration is
+    very bitter, because the statute, which permits only thirty-five
+    per cent. of the inmates to be employed in productive labor,
+    will considerably minimize opportunities for graft. But the men
+    are rejoicing: the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many
+    to insanity and death. The law is one of the rare instances of
+    rational legislation. Its benefit to labor in general is
+    nullified, however, by limiting convict competition only within
+    the State. The Inspectors are already seeking a market for the
+    prison products in other States, while the convict manufactures
+    of New York, Ohio, Illinois, etc., are disposed of in
+    Pennsylvania. The irony of beneficent legislation! On the other
+    hand, the inmates need not suffer for lack of employment. The
+    new law allows the unlimited manufacture, within the prison, of
+    products for local consumption. If the whine of the management
+    regarding the "detrimental effect of idleness on the convict" is
+    sincere, they could employ five times the population of the
+    prison in the production of articles for our own needs.
+
+    At present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied
+    from the outside. The purchase of a farm, following the example
+    set by the workhouse, would alone afford work for a considerable
+    number of men. I have suggested, in a letter to the Inspectors,
+    various methods by which every inmate of the institution could
+    be employed,--among them the publication of a prison paper. Of
+    course, they have ignored me. But what can you expect of a body
+    of philanthropists who have the interest of the convict so much
+    at heart that they delegated the President of the Board, George
+    A. Kelly, to oppose the parole bill, a measure certainly along
+    advanced lines of modern criminology. Owing to the influence of
+    Inspector Kelly, the bill was shelved at the last session of the
+    legislature, though the prisoners have been praying for it for
+    years. It has robbed the moneyless lifetimers of their last
+    hope: a clause in the parole bill held out to them the promise
+    of release after 20 years of good behavior.
+
+    Dark days are in store for the men. Apparently the campaign of
+    the Inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the
+    Muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and
+    sickness. They are actually causing both by keeping half the
+    population locked up. You know how quickly the solitary drives
+    certain classes of prisoners insane. Especially the more
+    ignorant element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their
+    personal troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. Think of men,
+    who cannot even read, put _incommunicado_ for months at a time,
+    for years even! Most of the colored prisoners, and those
+    accustomed to outdoor life, such as farmers and the like quickly
+    develop the germs of consumption in close confinement. Now, this
+    wilful murder--for it is nothing else--is absolutely
+    unnecessary. The yard is big and well protected by the
+    thirty-foot wall, with armed guards patrolling it. Why not give
+    the unemployed men air and exercise, since the management is
+    determined to keep them idle? I suggested the idea to the
+    Warden, but he berated me for my "habitual interference" in
+    matters that do not concern me. I often wonder at the enigma of
+    human nature. There's the Captain, a man 72 years old. He should
+    bethink himself of death, of "meeting his Maker," since he
+    pretends to believe in religion. Instead, he is bending all his
+    energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts, in
+    order to force the repeal of the law that has lessened the flow
+    of blood money. It is almost beyond belief; but you have
+    yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere upon new
+    officers. Wright has been Warden for thirty years; he has come
+    to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion; and now he is
+    furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute control.
+
+    This letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the "good" old
+    days when "KG" were here. I miss our correspondence. There are
+    some intelligent men on the range, but they are not interested
+    in the thoughts that seethe within me and call for expression.
+    Just now the chief topic of local interest (after, of course,
+    the usual discussion of the grub, women, kids, and their health
+    and troubles) is the Spanish War and the new dining-room, in
+    which the shop employees are to be fed _en masse_, out of
+    chinaware, think of it! Some of the men are tremendously
+    patriotic; others welcome the war as a sinecure affording easy
+    money and plenty of excitement. You remember Young Butch and his
+    partners, Murtha, Tommy, etc. They have recently been released,
+    too wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual labor. All
+    of them have signified their intention of joining the
+    insurrection; some are enrolling in the regular army for the
+    war. Butch is already in Cuba. I had a letter from him. There is
+    a passage in it that is tragically characteristic. He refers to
+    a skirmish he participated in. "We shot a lot of Spaniards,
+    mostly from ambush," he writes; "it was great sport." It is the
+    attitude of the military adventurer, to whom a sacred cause like
+    the Cuban uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity to
+    satisfy his lust for blood. Butch was a very gentle boy when he
+    entered the prison. But he has witnessed much heartlessness and
+    cruelty during his term of three years.
+
+    Letter growing rather long. Good night.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+  [47] The Eastern Penitentiary at Philadelphia, Pa.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI
+
+"AND BY ALL FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT"
+
+
+I
+
+A year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left me feeble and
+languid. My expectations of relief from complete isolation have been
+disappointed. Existence is grim with despair, as day by day I feel my
+vitality ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my body is
+racked with constant pains. All my heart is dark.
+
+A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds, as the session of the
+Pardon Board approaches. I clutch desperately at the faint hope of a
+favorable decision. With feverish excitement I pore over the letters of
+the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My application is
+supported by numerous labor bodies, she writes. Comrade Harry Kelly has
+been tireless in my behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public
+sympathy augurs well for the application. The United Labor League of
+Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a
+resolution favoring my release. Together with other similar expressions,
+individual and collective, it will be laid before the Pardon Board, and
+it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the
+voice of organized labor. In a ferment of anxiety and hope I count the
+days and hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as I near
+the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by
+the meeting with the Girl and my former companions, and I thrill with
+the return to the world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of
+the night.
+
+The thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon my visions. With the
+tenderness born of common misery I think of their fate, resolving to
+brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much
+to every prisoner. My first act in liberty shall be in memory of the men
+grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates
+endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many years I
+have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life,
+I feel almost guilty to leave them. But henceforth their cause shall be
+mine, a vital part of the larger, social cause. It will be my constant
+endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain every effort
+for my little friend Felipe; I must secure his release. How happy the
+boy will be to join me in liberty!... The flash of the dark lantern
+dispels my fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving
+and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict.
+
+At noon I am called to the Warden. He must have received word from the
+Board,--I reflect on the way. The Captain lounges in the armchair, his
+eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I
+control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids the guard depart,
+and a wild hope trembles in me. He is not afraid,--perhaps good news!
+
+"Sit down, Berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability. "I have just
+received a message from Harrisburg. Your attorney requests me to inform
+you that the Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is probably
+under consideration at this moment."
+
+I remain silent. The Warden scans me closely.
+
+"You would return to New York, if released?" he inquires.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"What are your plans?"
+
+"Well, I have not formed any yet."
+
+"You would go back to your Anarchist friends?"
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"You have not changed your views?"
+
+"By no means."
+
+A turnkey enters. "Captain, on official business," he reports.
+
+"Wait here a moment, Berkman," the Warden remarks, withdrawing. The
+officer remains.
+
+In a few minutes the Warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave.
+
+"I have just been informed that the Board has refused you a hearing."
+
+I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. The prison rumors of
+the Warden's interference flash through my mind. The Board promised a
+rehearing at the previous application,--why this refusal?
+
+"Warden," I exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!"
+
+"Such action lies with the Inspectors," he replies evasively. The
+peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions.
+
+A feeling of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the Warden's gaze
+fastened on me, and I strive to control my emotion.
+
+"How much time have you yet?" he asks.
+
+"Over eleven years."
+
+"How long have you been locked up this time?"
+
+"Sixteen months."
+
+"There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant hallman is going home
+to-morrow. You would like the position?" he eyes me curiously.
+
+"Yes."
+
+"I'll consider it."
+
+I rise weakly, but he detains me: "By the way, Berkman, look at this."
+
+He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of
+paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding.
+
+"You know what they are?" he inquires.
+
+"Plaster casts, I think."
+
+"Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well, now."
+
+I glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear impression of an
+eagle.
+
+"It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe."
+
+"I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you would know. I
+examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on
+metallurgy."
+
+"Oh, you suspect me of this?" I flare up.
+
+"No, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner. "You have drawn
+practically every book from the library. I had a talk with the Chaplain,
+and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting,
+because it would be robbing poor people."
+
+"The reading of my letters must have familiarized the Chaplain with
+Anarchist ideas."
+
+"Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might antagonize the
+management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime."
+
+"I am glad to hear it."
+
+"You would protect the Federal Government, then?"
+
+"I don't understand you."
+
+"You would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money?"
+
+"The government and the people are not synonymous."
+
+Flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "But you would protect the
+poor?"
+
+"Yes, certainly."
+
+His face brightens. "Oh, quite so, quite so," he smiles reassuringly.
+"These molds were found hidden in the North Block. No; not in a cell,
+but in the hall. We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloane; he is located
+two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the management is very anxious to get
+to the bottom of this matter. It's a crime against the people. You may
+have heard Sloane speaking to his neighbors about this."
+
+"No. I am sure you suspect an innocent person."
+
+"How so?"
+
+"Sloane is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd think of."
+
+"Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. If you should happen
+to hear anything, just rap on the door and inform the officers you are
+ill. They will be instructed to send for me at once."
+
+"I can't do it, Warden."
+
+"Why not?" he demands.
+
+"I am not a spy."
+
+"Why, certainly not, Berkman. I should not ask you to be. But you have
+friends on the range, you may learn something. Well, think the matter
+over," he adds, dismissing me.
+
+Bitter disappointment at the action of the Board, indignation at the
+Warden's suggestion, struggle within me as I reach my cell. The guard is
+about to lock me in, when the Deputy Warden struts into the block.
+
+"Officer, unlock him," he commands. "Berkman, the Captain says you are
+to be assistant rangeman. Report to Mr. McIlvaine for a broom."
+
+
+II
+
+The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. Local methods are
+of no avail, but now my opportunities for escape are more favorable.
+Considerable changes have taken place during my solitary, and the first
+necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidants have been released;
+others were transferred during the investigation period to the South
+Wing, to disrupt my connections. New men are about the cell-house and I
+miss many of my chums. The lower half of the bottom ranges A and K is
+now exclusively occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented.
+Poor Wingie has disappeared. Grown violently insane, he was repeatedly
+lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent to an asylum. There my
+unfortunate friend had died after two months. His cell is now occupied
+by "Irish Mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary. He
+hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah, baah, see the goat. I'm the
+goat, baah, baah." I shudder at the fate I have escaped, as I look at
+the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth, now
+staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed and corpse-like, their
+minds shattered, their bodies wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I
+realize that Sid and Nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total
+blank; and Patsy, the Pittsburgh bootblack, stands at the door,
+motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an inane smile.
+
+From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living dead, the silence
+broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleating of
+Mike. The whole day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and
+recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency." New
+"bughouse cases" are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners
+forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible
+misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over Johnny
+Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. He begged to be
+taken to the hospital; but his condition did not warrant it, the
+physician said. Moreover, he was "in punishment." Poor boy, how he must
+have suffered! They found him dead on the floor of his cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+My body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the
+range. The subtle hope of the Warden to corrupt me has turned to my
+advantage. I smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature,
+determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. How saddening is
+the shallowness of popular opinion! Warden Wright is hailed as a
+progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced
+modern methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an expression of
+respect and appreciation, the National Prison Association has selected
+Captain Wright as its delegate to the International Congress at
+Brussels, which is to take place in 1900. And all the time the Warden is
+designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men
+for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and
+insanity, in the attempt to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law.
+The puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public sentiment
+in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the State;
+the efforts of the Warden, disastrous though they be to the inmates, are
+doomed to failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted
+experience of thirty years. The so confidently uttered suspicion of Ed
+Sloane in regard to the counterfeiting charge, has proved mere
+lip-wisdom. The real culprit is Bob Runyon, the trusty basking in the
+Warden's special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the witness
+and protege of Torrane, has confided to me the whole story, in a final
+effort to "set himself straight." He even exhibited to me the coins made
+by Runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell.
+And poor Sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect,
+the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness.
+
+
+III
+
+The year passes in a variety of interests. The Girl and several
+newly-won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. The Twin has
+gradually withdrawn from our New York circles, and is now entirely
+obscured on my horizon. But the Girl is staunch and devoted, and I
+keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me informed of events in
+the international labor movement, news of which is almost entirely
+lacking in the daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions of
+the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luccheni, whose acts of the
+previous winter had thrown Europe into a ferment of agitation. I hunger
+for news of the agitation against the tortures in Montjuich, the revival
+of the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep
+compassion for my persecuted comrades in the Spanish bastille. Beneath
+the suppressed tone of her letters, I read the Girl's suffering and
+pain, and feel the heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows.
+
+Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons interested in my
+case are endeavoring to secure Carnegie's signature for a renewed
+application to the Board of Pardons. The Girl conveys the information
+guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul
+the step has caused her. What terrible despair had given birth to the
+suggestion, I wonder. If the project of the underground escape had been
+put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. Why
+have my friends ignored the detailed plan I had submitted to them
+through Carl? I am confident of its feasibility and success, if we can
+muster the necessary skill and outlay. The animosity of the prison
+authorities precludes the thought of legal release. The underground
+route, very difficult and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. It
+must be realized. My _sub rosa_ communications suspended during the
+temporary absence of Mr. Schraube, I hint these thoughts in official
+mail to the Girl, but refrain from objecting to the Carnegie idea.
+
+Other matters of interest I learn from correspondence with friends in
+Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The frequent letters of Carl, still
+reminiscent of his sojourn at Riverside, thrill with the joy of active
+propaganda and of his success as public speaker. Voltairine de Cleyre
+and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by discursive epistles of
+great charm and rebellious thought. Often I pause to wonder at the
+miracle of my mail passing the censorial eyes. But the Chaplain is a
+busy man; careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a
+demand upon his time. The correspondence with Mattie I turn over to my
+neighbor Pasquale, a young Italian serving sixteen years, who has
+developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. The
+roguish eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon me. My
+thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. Deep snow
+is on the ground; it must be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is
+pressing, pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night
+of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades of green will
+sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white,
+and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of
+Johnny.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII
+
+THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED
+
+
+                                                  February 14, 1899.
+
+    DEAR CAROLUS:
+
+    The Greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. When things
+    begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious. You'll be
+    surprised,--Mr. Schraube has turned into an enemy. Mostly my own
+    fault; that's the sting of it. It will explain to you the
+    failure of the former _sub rosa_ route. The present one is safe,
+    but very temporary.
+
+    It happened last fall. From assistant I was advanced to hallman,
+    having charge of the "crank row," on Range A. A new order
+    curtailed the rations of the insane,--no cornbread, cheese, or
+    hash; only bread and coffee. As rangeman, I help to "feed," and
+    generally have "extras" left on the wagon,--some one sick, or
+    refusing food, etc. I used to distribute the extras, "on the q.
+    t.," among the men deprived of them. One day, just before
+    Christmas, an officer happened to notice Patsy chewing a piece
+    of cheese. The poor fellow is quite an imbecile; he did not know
+    enough to hide what I gave him. Well, you are aware that
+    "Cornbread Tom" does not love me. He reported me. I admitted the
+    charge to the Warden, and tried to tell him how hungry the men
+    were. He wouldn't hear of it, saying that the insane should not
+    "overload" their stomachs. I was ordered locked up. Within a
+    month I was out again, but imagine my surprise when Schraube
+    refused even to talk to me. At first I could not fathom the
+    mystery; later I learned that he was reprimanded, losing ten
+    days' pay for "allowing" me to feed the demented. He knew
+    nothing about it, of course, but he was at the time in special
+    charge of "crank row." The Schraube has been telling my friends
+    that I got him in trouble wilfully. He seems to nurse his
+    grievance with much bitterness; he apparently hates me now with
+    the hatred we often feel toward those who know our secrets. But
+    he realizes he has nothing to fear from me.
+
+    Many changes have taken place since you left. You would hardly
+    recognize the block if you returned (better stay out, though).
+    No more talking through the waste pipes; the new privies have
+    standing water. Electricity is gradually taking the place of
+    candles. The garish light is almost driving me blind, and the
+    innovation has created a new problem: how to light our pipes. We
+    are given the same monthly allowance of matches, each package
+    supposed to contain 30, but usually have 27; and last month I
+    received only 25. I made a kick, but it was in vain. The worst
+    of it is, fully a third of the matches are damp and don't light.
+    While we used candles we managed somehow, borrowing a few
+    matches occasionally from non-smokers. But now that candles are
+    abolished, the difficulty is very serious. I split each match
+    into four; sometimes I succeed in making six. There is a man on
+    the range who is an artist at it: he can make eight cuts out of
+    a match; all serviceable, too. Even at that, there is a famine,
+    and I have been forced to return to the stone age: with flint
+    and tinder I draw the fire of Prometheus.
+
+    The mess-room is in full blast. The sight of a thousand men,
+    bent over their food in complete silence, officers flanking each
+    table, is by no means appetizing. But during the Spanish war,
+    the place resembled the cell-house on New Year's eve. The
+    patriotic Warden daily read to the diners the latest news, and
+    such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard. Especially
+    did the Hobson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism. But the
+    enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that they were
+    wasting precious minutes hurrahing, and then leaving the table
+    hungry when the bell terminated the meal. Some tried to pocket
+    the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected them, and
+    after that the Warden's war reports were accompanied only with
+    loud munching and champing.
+
+    Another innovation is exercise. Your interviews with the
+    reporters, and those of other released prisoners, have at last
+    forced the Warden to allow the idle men an hour's recreation. In
+    inclement weather, they walk in the cell-house; on fine days, in
+    the yard. The reform was instituted last autumn, and the
+    improvement in health is remarkable. The doctor is
+    enthusiastically in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has
+    been so considerably reduced that he estimates his time-saving
+    at two hours daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost
+    entirely ceased masturbating. The shop employees envy the
+    "idlers" now; many have purposely precipitated trouble in order
+    to be put in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. But
+    Sandy "got next," and now those locked up "for cause" are
+    excluded from exercise.
+
+    Here are some data for our book. The population at the end of
+    last year was 956--the lowest point in over a decade. The Warden
+    admits that the war has decreased crime; the Inspectors' report
+    refers to the improved economic conditions, as compared with the
+    panicky times of the opening years in the 90's. But the
+    authorities do not appear very happy over the reduction in the
+    Riverside population. You understand the reason: the smaller the
+    total, the less men may be exploited in the industries. I am not
+    prepared to say whether there is collusion between the judges
+    and the administration of the prison, but it is very significant
+    that the class of offenders formerly sent to the workhouse are
+    being increasingly sentenced to the penitentiary, and an unusual
+    number are transferred here from the Reformatory at Huntington
+    and the Reform School of Morganza. The old-timers joke about the
+    Warden telephoning to the Criminal Court, to notify the judges
+    how many men are "wanted" for the stocking shop.
+
+    The unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying the
+    convict labor law. In every shop twice as many are employed as
+    the statute allows; the "illegal" are carried on the books as
+    men working on "State account"; that is, as cleaners and clerks,
+    not as producers. Thus it happens that in the mat shop, for
+    instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers than are
+    employed on the looms! In the broom shop there are 30 supposed
+    clerks and 15 cleaners, to a total of 53 producers legally
+    permitted. This is the way the legislation works on which the
+    labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts. The broom
+    shop is still contracted to Lang Bros., with their own foreman
+    in charge, and his son a guard in the prison.
+
+    Enough for to-day. When I hear of the safe arrival of this
+    letter, I may have more intimate things to discuss.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+THE TUNNEL
+
+
+I
+
+The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates all hope of
+release by legal means. Had the Board refused to commute my sentence
+after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. But
+the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent
+even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous
+promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied
+sentences. The authorities are determined that I should remain in the
+prison, confident that it will prove my tomb. Realizing this fires my
+defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. There is no hope
+of surviving my term. At best, even with the full benefit of the
+commutation time--which will hardly be granted me, in view of the
+attitude of the prison management--I still have over nine years to
+serve. But existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable; long
+confinement and the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure the
+nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I must therefore
+concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape.
+
+My position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. I have access to every
+part of the cell-house, excepting the "crank row." The incident of
+feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a
+special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged. But
+within my area on the range are the recent arrivals and the sane
+solitaries; the division of my duties with the new man merely
+facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various
+projects. The idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination
+born of despair. It possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping
+every thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail correspondence
+with my prison chums, that I may devote the solitude of the evening to
+the development of my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind with
+the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities. But the
+execution! Why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? Their
+tepidity irritates me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Carl for
+having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan,
+to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. My _sub rosa_ route is
+sporadic and uncertain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the
+bitter surprise I feel at their provoking indifference; but my
+reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot believe that
+conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion.
+These things have been accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The
+attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic effect. True, the
+project will require considerable outlay, and the work of skilled and
+trustworthy men. Have we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum, this
+country has produced her Zheliabovs; is the genius of America not equal
+to a Hartman?[48] The tacit skepticism of my correspondents pain me, and
+rouses my resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment of "one
+who has been so long separated" from their world, from the interests and
+struggles of the living. The consciousness of my helplessness without
+aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness. But I
+will persevere: I will compel their attention and their activity; aye,
+their enthusiasm!
+
+  [48] Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow railway,
+       undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander
+       II., in 1880.
+
+With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of Tony. The months of
+frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed
+a spirit of congeniality and good will. I exert my ingenuity to create
+opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. Through the
+aid of a friendly officer, I procure for Tony the privilege of assisting
+his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me
+to greater advantage. Gradually we become intimate, and I learn the
+story of his life, rich in adventure and experience. An Alsatian, small
+and wiry, Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the
+Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring--the very man to carry
+out my plan.
+
+For days I debate in my mind the momentous question: shall I confide the
+project to Tony? It would be placing myself in his power, jeopardizing
+the sole hope of my life. Yet it is the only way; I must rely on my
+intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless, excruciating with
+the agony of indecision. But my friend's sentence is nearing completion.
+We shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough
+consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the decisive
+step, and next day I reveal the secret to Tony.
+
+His manner allays apprehension. Serene and self-possessed, he listens
+gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly
+announces that it shall be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent
+comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the
+adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the
+careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to insure
+greater safety for our correspondence. The precaution is necessary; it
+will prove of inestimable value upon his release.
+
+With great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared, based on a
+discarded system of German shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further
+involved by the use of words of our own coinage. The cipher, thus
+perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert.
+
+But developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project.
+The building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of
+the latter for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but soon
+realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the
+penitentiary gas and sewer systems may defeat our success. There are no
+means of procuring the necessary information: Tony is confined to the
+shop, while I am never permitted out of the cell-house. In vain I strive
+to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without bringing light.
+
+My Providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard.
+The combatants are locked up on my range. One of them proves to be
+"Mac," an aged prisoner serving a third term. During his previous
+confinement, he had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties
+consisting in the weekly flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly
+familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation
+among the inmates is tinged with the odor of sycophancy. He is, however,
+the only means of solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to
+gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of
+my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured
+from my kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of an
+opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious moment to
+listening to his long-winded stories of the "great jobs" he had
+accomplished in "his" time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had
+associated, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in with th'
+fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his
+prison experiences, and leading him on to dwell upon his last "bit." He
+becomes reminiscent of his friends in Riverside, bewails the early
+graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices over his good chum
+Patty McGraw managing to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives
+"Mac" a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of
+Patty, while I express surprise that he himself had never attempted to
+take French leave. "What!" he bristles up, "think I'm such a dummy?" and
+with great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 80's" to swim
+through the sewer. I scoff at his folly, "You must have been a chump,
+Mac, to think it could be done," I remark. "I was, was I? What do you
+know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you. Just wait," and,
+snatching up his library slate, he draws a complete diagram of the
+prison sewerage. In the extreme southwest corner of the yard he
+indicates a blind underground alley.
+
+"What's this?" I ask, in surprise.
+
+"Nev'r knew _that_, did yer? It's a little tunn'l, connectin' th'
+cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen men in th' dump know 't; not
+ev'n a good many screws. Passage ain't been used fer a long time."
+
+In amazement I scan the diagram. I had noticed a little trap door at the
+very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and I had often
+wondered what purpose it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the
+happy solution of my difficulty. The "blind alley" will greatly
+facilitate our work. It is within fifteen feet, or twenty at most, of
+the southwestern wall. Its situation is very favorable: there are no
+shops in the vicinity; the place is never visited by guards or
+prisoners.
+
+The happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan: a house is
+to be rented opposite the southern wall, on Sterling Street. Preferably
+it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the
+cell-house building. Dug in a direct line across the street, and
+underneath the south wall, the tunnel will connect with the "blind
+alley." I shall manage the rest.
+
+
+II
+
+Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the Indian summer linger, as
+if unwilling to depart. But I am impatient with anxiety, and long for
+the winter. Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with tardy
+step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and with joyful heart we
+count the last hours.
+
+To-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He will at once communicate
+with my comrades, and urge the immediate realization of the great plan.
+His self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with
+enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house is to be bought or rented
+without loss of time, and the environs inspected. Perhaps operations
+could not begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected to
+further the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a splendid organizer, is
+absent from the country. But my friends will carefully follow the
+directions I have entrusted to Tony, and through him I shall keep in
+touch with the developments. I have little opportunity for _sub rosa_
+mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can correspond officially,
+without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the
+innocent-looking flourishes scattered through the page.
+
+With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and
+again I rehearse every step in the project, and study every detail. My
+mind dwells in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my duties
+on the range. More rarely I converse with the prisoners: I must take
+care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. To lose it
+would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape.
+
+As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the last year of my
+solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts.
+The little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant
+swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the
+door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In surprise I pet the bird;
+it seems quite tame. "Why, it's Dick!" the assistant exclaims. "Think of
+him coming back!" my hands tremble as I examine the little bird. With
+great joy I discover the faint marks of blue ink I had smeared under its
+wings last summer, when the Warden had ordered my little companion
+thrown out of the window. How wonderful that it should return and
+recognize the old friend and the cell! Tenderly I warm and feed the
+bird. What strange sights my little pet must have seen since he was
+driven out into the world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered!
+The bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute confidence and
+joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar. Foolish
+birdie, to return to prison for shelter and food! Cold and cruel must be
+the world, my little Dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than
+even love of liberty?
+
+So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass through the gates and soon
+return again, driven back by the world--even like you, little Dick. Yet
+others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom, than be
+warm and fed in prison--even like me, little Dick. And still others
+there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their
+friendship--even like you and, I hope, Tony, little Dick.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV
+
+THE DEATH OF DICK
+
+
+                                                       _Sub Rosa_,
+                                                      Jan. 15, 1900.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    I write in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It was all
+    on account of my bird. You remember my feathered pet, Dick. Last
+    summer the Warden ordered him put out, but when cold weather set
+    in, Dick returned. Would you believe it? He came back to my old
+    cell, and recognized me when I passed by. I kept him, and he
+    grew as tame as before--he had become a bit wild in the life
+    outside. On Christmas day, as Dick was playing near my cell, Bob
+    Runyon--the stool, you know--came by and deliberately kicked the
+    bird. When I saw Dick turn over on his side, his little eyes
+    rolling in the throes of death, I rushed at Runyon and knocked
+    him down. He was not hurt much, and everything could have passed
+    off quietly, as no screw was about. But the stool reported me to
+    the Deputy, and I was locked up.
+
+    Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow was
+    fond of Dick, and he promises to get me back on the range. He is
+    keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man in my
+    place who has only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm to take
+    charge again.
+
+    I am not disappointed at your information that "the work" will
+    have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy that
+    preparations have been started. How about those revolvers,
+    though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. In one of your
+    letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to.
+    How can that be? Jim, the plumber--you know he can be
+    trusted--has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me that
+    nothing came, so far. Why do you delay? I hope you didn't throw
+    the package through the cellar window when Jim wasn't at his
+    post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the devil could have
+    become of it? I see no sign here of the things being discovered:
+    there would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look to it, and write
+    at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV
+
+AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS
+
+
+I
+
+The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. In vain I
+rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation; it defies
+comprehension and torments me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the
+weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar, momentarily allays
+my dread. But Tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the
+package, throws me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two
+confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. It is incredible
+that Tony should seek to deceive me. Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at
+the point of delivery; there is little probability of his having missed
+the package. But supposing he has, what has become of it? Perhaps it
+fell into some dark corner of the cellar. The place must be searched at
+once.
+
+Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless means to afford
+Jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. I ransack the cell-house for old
+papers and rags; with miserly hand I gather all odds and ends, broken
+tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust. Trembling with fear of
+discovery, I empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall,
+and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement
+fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate the hall. The
+stench is overpowering; steadily the water rises, threatening to flood
+the cell-house. The place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and
+rattle on the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. The Block
+Captain yells, "Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the plumber; get Jim. Quick!"
+
+But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons.
+In constant dread of dire possibilities, I tremble at every step,
+fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the days
+pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no
+indication of untoward happening or agitation. By degrees my fears
+subside. The inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with
+danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has fortunately brought no
+results, and must apparently remain unsolved.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to the desk by Officer
+Mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, I
+casually glance out of the yard door. At the extreme northwestern end,
+Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the
+grass. The unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes
+my suspicion. The singular idling of the energetic guard, his furtive
+eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. Something must
+have happened. Are they suspecting the tunnel? But work has not been
+commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the
+yard, fully a thousand feet distant. In perplexity I wonder at the
+peculiar actions of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate
+would immediately be subjected to a search, and shops and cell-house
+ransacked.
+
+In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night; morning dawns without
+bringing a solution. But after breakfast the cell-house becomes
+strangely quiet; the shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are
+ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into
+the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. The Deputy and Hopkins
+scurry about the hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and
+the sharp command of the Warden resounds through the cell-house,
+"General search!"
+
+I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises of suspected
+prisoners are frequent, and I am always prepared. But some contraband is
+on hand. Quickly I snatch my writing material from the womb of the
+bedtick. In the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous
+year, a bright thought flashes across my mind. There is nothing
+dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. "Prison Types," "In
+the Streets of New York," "Parkhurst and the Prostitute," "Libertas--a
+Study in Philology," "The Slavery of Tradition"--harmless products of
+evening leisure. Let them find the booklets! I'll be severely
+reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches
+will serve to divert suspicion: the Warden will secretly rejoice that my
+mind is not busy with more dangerous activities. But the sudden search
+signifies grave developments. General overhaulings, involving temporary
+suspension of the industries and consequent financial loss, are rare.
+The search of the entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy
+confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly been found! Jim's
+failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is
+possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the
+cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it
+without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the latter's confident assertion of
+his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another
+probability. The thought is painful, disquieting. But who knows? In an
+atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best
+friendships are tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid of
+consequences, surrendered the weapons to the Warden. He would have no
+difficulty in explaining the discovery, without further betrayal of my
+confidence. Yet Jim, a "pete man"[49] of international renown, enjoys
+the reputation of a thoroughly "square man" and loyal friend. He has
+given me repeated proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to
+accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however, that his
+information is limited to the weapons. No doubt he suspects some sort of
+escape; but I have left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these
+Tony alone is entrusted.
+
+  [49] Safe blower.
+
+The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion on Tony's part is
+responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship.
+Realizing the danger of his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons
+between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously
+ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post. But the discovery of the
+revolvers vindicates the veracity of Tony, and strengthens my confidence
+in him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has
+already dared great peril for my sake.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various
+contraband. The counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating
+beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret
+investigation by Federal officials. In the general excitement, the
+sketches among my effects have been ignored, and left in my possession.
+But no clew has been found in connection with the weapons. The
+authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock
+on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered
+with. With an effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of
+the kindly old Mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he confides to me the
+information. I marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the
+discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young friend
+Russell, I had climbed to the top of the cell-house, while the inmates
+were at church, and wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in
+its place an apparent counterpart, provided by Jim. With the key in our
+possession, we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof,
+when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles,
+forcing the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy over the
+discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be
+reconciled to the failure. His time, however, being short, I have been
+urging him to accept the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape
+makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of his remaining two
+years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence.
+
+The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with
+merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. "You are right, Aleck," he
+replies, gravely, "but say, last night I thought out a scheme; it's
+great, and we're sure to make our get-a-way." With minute detail he
+pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at
+night, "holding up" the guards, binding and gagging them, and "then the
+road would be clear." The innocent boy, for all his back-country
+reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then" is the very threshold
+of difficulties. I seek to explain to him that, the guards being
+disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The
+solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, the
+key in the sole possession of the Captain of the night watch, who cannot
+be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not
+to be daunted. "We'll have to storm the rotunda, then," he remarks,
+calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. He smiles
+incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "Oh, yes,
+you will, Aleck. I don't believe a word you say. I know you're keen to
+make a get-a-way." His confidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he
+announces that he will "go it alone."
+
+The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless youth will throw
+away his life; his attempt may frustrate my own success. But it is in
+vain to dissuade him by direct means. I know the determination of the
+boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant
+youth, combined with indomitable courage. The redundance of animal
+vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia
+of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of Dutch forbears.
+The taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has dripped bitter poison into the innocent
+pranks of Russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured
+boy.
+
+I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. He has
+secreted the saws I had procured from the Girl for the attempt of the
+previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for
+liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold
+the impetuous boy in leash. But each day his restlessness increases;
+more insistently he urges my participation and a definite explanation of
+my attitude.
+
+At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair of dissuading
+Russell from his desperate purpose. From day to day I secure his solemn
+promise to await my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some
+development that would force the abandonment of his plan. But nothing
+disturbs the routine, and I grow nervous with dread lest the boy,
+reckless with impatience, thwart my great project.
+
+
+II
+
+The weather is moderating; the window sashes in the hall are being
+lowered: the signs of approaching spring multiply. I chafe at the lack
+of news from Tony, who had departed on his mission to New York. With
+greedy eyes I follow the Chaplain on his rounds of mail delivery.
+Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, I hasten along the
+range to meet the postman.
+
+"Any letters for me, Mr. Milligan?" I ask, with an effort to steady my
+voice.
+
+"No, m' boy."
+
+My eyes devour the mail in his hand. "None to-day, Aleck," he adds;
+"this is for your neighbor Pasquale."
+
+I feel apprehensive at Tony's silence. Another twenty-four hours must
+elapse before the Chaplain returns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me
+to-morrow, either. What can be the matter with my friend? So many
+dangers menace his every step--he might be sick--some accident....
+Anxious days pass without mail. Russell is becoming more insistent,
+threatening a "break." The solitaries murmur at my neglect. I am nervous
+and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard from Tony; something
+terrible must have happened. In a ferment of dread, I keep watch on the
+upper rotunda. The noon hour is approaching: the Chaplain fumbles with
+his keys; the door opens, and he trips along the ranges. Stealthily I
+follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends
+to the hall.
+
+"Good morning, Chaplain," I seek to attract his attention, wistfully
+peering at the mail in his hand.
+
+"Good morning, m' boy. Feeling good to-day?"
+
+"Thank you; pretty fair." My voice trembles at his delay, but I fear
+betraying my anxiety by renewed questioning.
+
+He passes me, and I feel sick with disappointment. Now he pauses.
+"Aleck," he calls, "I mislaid a letter for you yesterday. Here it is."
+
+With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a fever of hope and fear, I
+pore over it in the solitude of the cell. My heart palpitates violently
+as I scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning, analyzing every
+flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the
+significant dots into the structure of meaning. Glorious! A house has
+been rented--28 Sterling Street--almost opposite the gate of the south
+wall. Funds are on hand, work is to begin at once!
+
+With nimble step I walk the range. The river wafts sweet fragrance to my
+cell, the joy of spring is in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to
+liberty: the faithful comrades are steadily working underground. Perhaps
+within a month, or two at most, the tunnel will be completed. I count
+the days, crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. The news
+from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing smoothly,
+the prospects of success are splendid. I grow merry at the efforts of
+uninitiated friends in New York to carry out the suggestions of the
+attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State for a writ, on the
+ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. I consult gravely with
+Mr. Milligan upon the advisability of the step, the amiable Chaplain
+affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. I
+thank my comrades for their efforts, and urge the necessity of
+collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly I ask the
+advice of the Chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent
+enthusiasm will reach the ears of the Warden: the artifice will mask my
+secret project and lull suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance
+of success, and with much show of confidence I impress upon the trusties
+my sanguine expectation of release. I discuss the subject with officers
+and stools, till presently the prison is agog with the prospective
+liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me with
+messages to friends, and the Deputy Warden offers advice on behavior
+beyond the walls. The moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined
+to the cell-house, I shall be unable to reach the tunnel. The privilege
+of the yard is imperative.
+
+It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and I
+induce the kindly runner, "Southside" Johnny, to procure for me a brace
+of sparlings. I christen the little orphans Dick and Sis, and the memory
+of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. Old Mitchell
+is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered
+friends. But the birds languish and waste in the close air of the
+block; they need sunshine and gravel, and the dusty street to bathe in.
+Gradually I enlist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious
+performances of my pets. One day the Warden strolls in, and joins in
+admiration of the wonderful birds.
+
+"Who trained them?" he inquires.
+
+"This man," the physician indicates me. A slight frown flits over the
+Warden's face. Old Mitchell winks at me, encouragingly.
+
+"Captain," I approach the Warden, "the birds are sickly for lack of air.
+Will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard?"
+
+"Why don't you let them go? You have no permission to keep them."
+
+"Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the doctor intercedes. "They
+are too tame to take care of themselves."
+
+"Well, then," the Warden decides, "let Jasper take them out every day."
+
+"They will not go with any one except myself," I inform him. "They
+follow me everywhere."
+
+The Warden hesitates.
+
+"Why not let Berkman go out with them for a few moments," the doctor
+suggests. "I hear you expect to be free soon," he remarks to me
+casually. "Your case is up for revision?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Well, Berkman," the Warden motions to me, "I will permit you ten
+minutes in the yard, after your sweeping is done. What time are you
+through with it?"
+
+"At 9.30 A. M."
+
+"Mr. Mitchell, every morning, at 9.30, you will pass Berkman through the
+doors. For ten minutes, on the watch." Then turning to me, he adds:
+"You are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of sand there. If
+you cross the dead line of the sidewalk, or exceed your time a single
+minute, you will be punished."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI
+
+THE UNDERGROUND
+
+
+                                                       May 10, 1900.
+
+    MY DEAR TONY:
+
+    Your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. No sooner have I
+    sipped the rich aroma than I am athirst for more nectar. Write
+    often, dear friend; it is the only solace of suspense.
+
+    Do not worry about this end of the line. All is well. By
+    stratagem I have at last procured the privilege of the yard.
+    Only for a few minutes every morning, but I am judiciously
+    extending my prescribed time and area. The prospects are bright
+    here; every one talks of my application to the Superior Court,
+    and peace reigns--you understand.
+
+    A pity I cannot write directly to my dear, faithful comrades,
+    your coworkers. You shall be the medium. Transmit to them my
+    deepest appreciation. Tell "Yankee" and "Ibsen" and our Italian
+    comrades what I feel--I know I need not explain it further to
+    you. No one realizes better than myself the terrible risks they
+    are taking, the fearful toil in silence and darkness, almost
+    within hearing of the guards. The danger, the heroic
+    self-sacrifice--what money could buy such devotion? I grow faint
+    with the thought of their peril. I could almost cry at the
+    beautiful demonstration of solidarity and friendship. Dear
+    comrades, I feel proud of you, and proud of the great truth of
+    Anarchism that can produce such disciples, such spirit. I
+    embrace you, my noble comrades, and may you speed the day that
+    will make me happy with the sight of your faces, the touch of
+    your hands.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                             June 5.
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    Your silence was unbearable. The suspense is terrible. Was it
+    really necessary to halt operations so long? I am surprised you
+    did not foresee the shortage of air and the lack of light. You
+    would have saved so much time. It is a great relief to know that
+    the work is progressing again, and very fortunate indeed that
+    "Yankee" understands electricity. It must be hellish work to
+    pump air into the shaft. Take precautions against the whir of
+    the machinery. The piano idea is great. Keep her playing and
+    singing as much as possible, and be sure you have all windows
+    open. The beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and
+    it will drown the noises underground. Have an electric button
+    connected from the piano to the shaft; when the player sees
+    anything suspicious on the street or the guards on the wall, she
+    can at once notify the comrades to stop work.
+
+    I am enclosing the wall and yard measurements you asked. But why
+    do you need them? Don't bother with unnecessary things. From
+    house beneath the street, directly toward the southwestern wall.
+    For that you can procure measurements outside. On the inside you
+    require none. Go under wall, about 20-30 feet, till you strike
+    wall of blind alley. Cut into it, and all will be complete.
+    Write of progress without delay. Greetings to all.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            June 20.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    Your letters bewilder me. Why has the route been changed? You
+    were to go to southwest, yet you say now you are near the east
+    wall. It's simply incredible, Tony. Your explanation is not
+    convincing. If you found a gas main near the gate, you could
+    have gone around it; besides, the gate is out of your way
+    anyhow. Why did you take that direction at all? I wish, Tony,
+    you would follow my instructions and the original plan. Your
+    failure to report the change immediately, may prove fatal. I
+    could have informed you--once you were near the southeastern
+    gate--to go directly underneath; then you would have saved
+    digging under the wall; there is no stone foundation, of course,
+    beneath the gate. Now that you have turned the south-east
+    corner, you will have to come under the wall there, and it is
+    the worst possible place, because that particular part used to
+    be a swamp, and I have learned that it was filled with extra
+    masonry. Another point; an old abandoned natural-gas well is
+    somewhere under the east wall, about 300 feet from the gate.
+    Tell our friends to be on the lookout for fumes; it is a very
+    dangerous place; special precautions must be taken.
+
+    [Illustration: A--House on Sterling Street from which the Tunnel
+    started. B--Point at which the Tunnel entered under the east
+    wall. C--Mat Shop, near which the Author was permitted to take
+    his birds for ten minutes every day, for exercise. D--North
+    Block, where the Author was confined at the time of the Tunnel
+    episode. E--South Block.]
+
+    Do not mind my brusqueness, dear Tony. My nerves are on edge,
+    the suspense is driving me mad. And I must mask my feelings, and
+    smile and look indifferent. But I haven't a moment's peace. I
+    imagine the most terrible things when you fail to write. Please
+    be more punctual. I know you have your hands full; but I fear
+    I'll go insane before this thing is over. Tell me especially how
+    far you intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come
+    out. This complicates the matter. You have already gone a longer
+    distance than would have been necessary per original plan. It
+    was a grave mistake, and if you were not such a devoted friend,
+    I'd feel very cross with you. Write at once. I am arranging a
+    new _sub rosa_ route. They are building in the yard; many
+    outside drivers, you understand.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    I'm in great haste to send this. You know the shed opposite the
+    east wall. It has only a wooden floor and is not frequented much
+    by officers. A few cons are there, from the stone pile. I'll
+    attend to them. Make directly for that shed. It's a short
+    distance from wall. I enclose measurements.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    TONY:
+
+    You distract me beyond words. What has become of your caution,
+    your judgment? A hole in the grass _will not do_. I am
+    absolutely opposed to it. There are a score of men on the stone
+    pile and several screws. It is sure to be discovered. And even
+    if you leave the upper crust intact for a foot or two, how am I
+    to dive into the hole in the presence of so many? You don't seem
+    to have considered that. There is only _one_ way, the one I
+    explained in my last. Go to the shed; it's only a little more
+    work, 30-40 feet, no more. Tell the comrades the grass idea is
+    impossible. A little more effort, friends, and all will be well.
+    Answer at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    DEAR TONY:
+
+    Why do you insist on the hole in the ground? I tell you again it
+    will not do. I won't consider it for a moment. I am on the
+    inside--you must let me decide what can or cannot be done here.
+    I am prepared to risk everything for liberty, would risk my life
+    a thousand times. I am too desperate now for any one to block my
+    escape; I'd break through a wall of guards, if necessary. But I
+    still have a little judgment, though I am almost insane with the
+    suspense and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the
+    break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for success.
+    I beg of you, Tony, the thing must be dug to the shed; it's only
+    a little way. After such a tremendous effort, can we jeopardize
+    it all so lightly? I assure you, the success of the hole plan is
+    unthinkable. They'd all see me go down into it; I'd be followed
+    at once--what's the use talking.
+
+    Besides, you know I have no revolvers. Of course I'll have a
+    weapon, but it will not help the escape. Another thing, your
+    change of plans has forced me to get an assistant. The man is
+    reliable, and I have only confided to him parts of the project.
+    I need him to investigate around the shed, take measurements,
+    etc. I am not permitted anywhere near the wall. But you need not
+    trouble about this; I'll be responsible for my friend. But I
+    tell you about it, so that you prepare two pair of overalls
+    instead of one. Also leave two revolvers in the house, money,
+    and cipher directions for us where to go. None of our comrades
+    is to wait for us. Let them all leave as soon as everything is
+    ready. But be sure you don't stop at the hole. Go to the shed,
+    absolutely.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+    TONY:
+
+    The hole will not do. The more I think of it, the more
+    impossible I find it. I am sending an urgent call for money to
+    the Editor. You know whom I mean. Get in communication with him
+    at once. Use the money to continue work to shed.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                      June 25, 1900.
+
+    DEAR COMRADE:
+
+    The Chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of paper,
+    on urgent business. I write to you in a very great extremity.
+    You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal my case.
+    Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their attorneys. I
+    have engaged my _own_ "lawyers." Lawyers in quotation marks--a
+    prison joke, you see. I have utmost confidence in _these_
+    lawyers. They will, absolutely, procure my release, even if it
+    is not a pardon, you understand. I mean, we'll go to the
+    Superior Court, different from a Pardon Board--another prison
+    joke.
+
+    My friends are short of money. We need some _at once_. The work
+    is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds. Mark well
+    what I say: _I'll not be responsible for anything_--the worst
+    may happen--unless money is procured _at once_. You have
+    influence. I rely on you to understand and to act promptly.
+
+                              Your comrade,
+
+                                                  ALEXANDER BERKMAN.
+
+
+    MY POOR TONY:
+
+    I can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. To think that
+    you, you the cautious Tony, should be so reckless--to send me a
+    telegram. You could have ruined the whole thing. I had trouble
+    explaining to the Chaplain, but it's all right now. Of course,
+    if it must be the hole, it can't be helped. I understood the
+    meaning of your wire: from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten
+    feet to west. We'll be there on the minute--3 P. M. But July 4th
+    won't do. It's a holiday: no work; my friend will be locked up.
+    Can't leave him in the lurch. It will have to be next day, July
+    5th. It's only three days more. I wish it was over; I can't bear
+    the worry and suspense any more. May it be my Independence Day!
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                             July 6.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    It's terrible. It's all over. Couldn't make it. Went there on
+    time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right on top of
+    the spot. Impossible to do anything. I warned you they were
+    building near there. I was seen at the wall--am now strictly
+    forbidden to leave the cell-house. But my friend has been there
+    a dozen times since--the hole can't be reached: a mountain of
+    stone hides it. It won't be discovered for a little while.
+    Telegraph at once to New York for more money. You must continue
+    to the shed. I can force my way there, if need be. It's the only
+    hope. Don't lose a minute.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            July 13.
+
+    TONY:
+
+    A hundred dollars was sent to the office for me from New York. I
+    told Chaplain it is for my appeal. I am sending the money to
+    you. Have work continued at once. There is still hope. Nothing
+    suspected. But the wire that you pushed through the grass to
+    indicate the spot, was not found by my friend. Too much stone
+    over it. Go to shed at once.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+                                                            July 16.
+
+    Tunnel discovered. Lose no time. Leave the city immediately. I
+    am locked up on suspicion.
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII
+
+ANXIOUS DAYS
+
+
+The discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with the violence of an
+avalanche. The plan of continuing the work, the trembling hope of
+escape, of liberty, life--all is suddenly terminated. My nerves, tense
+with the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly. With torpid
+brain I wonder, "Is it possible, is it really possible?"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+An air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills the prison. Vague
+rumors are afloat: a wholesale jail delivery had been planned, the walls
+were to be dynamited, the guards killed. An escape has actually taken
+place, it is whispered about. The Warden wears a look of bewilderment
+and fear; the officers are alert with suspicion. The inmates manifest
+disappointment and nervous impatience. The routine is violently
+disturbed: the shops are closed, the men locked in the cells.
+
+The discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and the city
+authorities. Some children, at play on the street, had accidentally
+wandered into the yard of the deserted house opposite the prison gates.
+The piles of freshly dug soil attracted their attention; a boy,
+stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the sight of the deep
+cavern; his mother notified the agent of the house, who, by a peculiar
+coincidence, proved to be an officer of the penitentiary. But in vain
+are the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any sign of the
+tunnel within the walls. Days pass in the fruitless investigation of the
+yard--the outlet of the tunnel within the prison cannot be found.
+Perhaps the underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary? The
+Warden voices his firm conviction that the walls have not been
+penetrated. Evidently it was not the prison, he argues, which was the
+objective point of the diggers. The authorities of the City of Allegheny
+decide to investigate the passage from the house on Sterling Street. But
+the men that essay to crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to
+abandon their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping gas. It is
+suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever their purpose, have been
+trapped in the abandoned gas well and perished before the arrival of
+aid. The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition of human
+bodies; the terrible accident has forced the inmates of 28 Sterling
+Street to suspend their efforts before completing the work. The
+condition of the house--the half-eaten meal on the table, the clothing
+scattered about the rooms, the general disorder--all seem to point to
+precipitate flight.
+
+The persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident disquiets me, in
+spite of my knowledge to the contrary. Yet, perhaps the reckless Tony,
+in his endeavor to force the wire signal through the upper crust,
+perished in the well. The thought unnerves me with horror, till it is
+announced that a negro, whom the police had induced to crawl the length
+of the tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was sacrificed in
+the underground work. Still the prison authorities are unable to find
+the objective point, and it is finally decided to tear up the streets
+beneath which the tunnel winds its mysterious way.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The undermined place inside the walls at last being discovered after a
+week of digging at various points in the yard, the Warden reluctantly
+admits the apparent purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing
+the press that the evident design was the liberation of the Anarchist
+prisoner. He corroborates his view by the circumstance that I had been
+reported for unpermitted presence at the east wall, pretending to
+collect gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hopkins further
+asserts having seen and talked with Carl Nold near the "criminal" house,
+a short time before the discovery of the tunnel. The developments,
+fraught with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. Fortunately, no
+clew can be found in the house, save a note in cipher which apparently
+defies the skill of experts. The Warden, on his Sunday rounds, passes my
+cell, then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. "Here, Berkman,"
+he says blandly, producing a paper, "the press is offering a
+considerable reward to any one who will decipher the note found in the
+Sterling Street house. It's reproduced here. See if you can't make it
+out." I scan the paper carefully, quickly reading Tony's directions for
+my movements after the escape. Then, returning the paper, I remark
+indifferently, "I can read several languages, Captain, but this is
+beyond me."
+
+The police and detective bureaus of the twin cities make the
+announcement that a thorough investigation conclusively demonstrates
+that the tunnel was intended for William Boyd, a prisoner serving twelve
+years for a series of daring forgeries. His "pals" had succeeded in
+clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and it is they who did
+the wonderful feat underground, to secure the liberty of the valuable
+penman. The controversy between the authorities of Allegheny and the
+management of the prison is full of animosity and bitterness. Wardens of
+prisons, chiefs of police, and detective departments of various cities
+are consulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and the
+discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic. Presently the chief
+of police of Allegheny suffers a change of heart, and sides with the
+Warden, as against his personal enemy, the head of the Pittsburgh
+detective bureau. The confusion of published views, and my persistent
+denial of complicity in the tunnel, cause the much-worried Warden to
+fluctuate. A number of men are made the victims of his mental
+uncertainty. Following my exile into solitary, Pat McGraw is locked up
+as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. In 1890 he had slipped
+through the roof of the prison, the Warden argues, and it is therefore
+reasonable to assume that the man is meditating another delivery. Jack
+Robinson, Cronin, "Nan," and a score of others, are in turn suspected by
+Captain Wright, and ordered locked up during the preliminary
+investigation. But because of absolute lack of clews the prisoners are
+presently returned to work, and the number of "suspects" is reduced to
+myself and Boyd, the Warden having discovered that the latter had
+recently made an attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola
+of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place useless for his
+purpose.
+
+A process of elimination and the espionage of the trusties gradually
+center exclusive suspicion upon myself. In surprise I learn that young
+Russell has been cited before the Captain. The fear of indiscretion on
+the part of the boy startles me from my torpor. I must employ every
+device to confound the authorities and save my friends. Fortunately none
+of the tunnelers have yet been arrested, the controversy between the
+city officials and the prison management having favored inaction. My
+comrades cannot be jeopardized by Russell. His information is limited
+to the mere knowledge of the specific person for whom the tunnel was
+intended; the names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar to him. My
+heart goes out to the young prisoner, as I reflect that never once had
+he manifested curiosity concerning the men at the secret work. Desperate
+with confinement, and passionately yearning for liberty though he was,
+he had yet offered to sacrifice his longings to aid my escape. How
+transported with joy was the generous youth when I resolved to share my
+opportunity with him! He had given faithful service in attempting to
+locate the tunnel entrance; the poor boy had been quite distracted at
+our failure to find the spot. I feel confident Russell will not betray
+the secret in his keeping. Yet the persistent questioning by the Warden
+and Inspectors is perceptibly working on the boy's mind. He is so young
+and inexperienced--barely nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent
+remark, might convert suspicion into conviction.
+
+Every day Russell is called to the office, causing me torments of
+apprehension and dread, till a glance at the returning prisoner, smiling
+encouragingly as he passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past
+for the day. With a deep pang, I observe the increasing pallor of his
+face, the growing restlessness in his eyes, the languid step. The
+continuous inquisition is breaking him down. With quivering voice he
+whispers as he passes, "Aleck, I'm afraid of them." The Warden has
+threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in his pretended ignorance
+of the tunnel. His friendship for me is well known, the Warden reasons;
+we have often been seen together in the cell-house and yard; I must
+surely have confided to Russell my plans of escape. The big, strapping
+youth is dwindling to a shadow under the terrible strain. Dear,
+faithful friend! How guilty I feel toward you, how torn in my inmost
+heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that brief instant when,
+in a panic of fear, you had denied to the Warden all knowledge of the
+slip of paper found in your cell. It cast suspicion upon me as the
+writer of the strange Jewish scrawl. The Warden scorned my explanation
+that Russell's desire to learn Hebrew was the sole reason for my writing
+the alphabet for him. The mutual denial seemed to point to some secret;
+the scrawl was similar to the cipher note found in the Sterling Street
+house, the Warden insisted. How strange that I should have so
+successfully confounded the Inspectors with the contradictory testimony
+regarding the tunnel, that they returned me to my position on the range.
+And yet the insignificant incident of Russell's hieroglyphic imitation
+of the Hebrew alphabet should have given the Warden a pretext to order
+me into solitary! How distracted and bitter I must have felt to charge
+the boy with treachery! His very reticence strengthened my suspicion,
+and all the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the innocent
+lad beyond speech. How little I suspected the terrible wound my hasty
+imputation had caused my devoted friend! In silence he suffered for
+months, without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere accident,
+I learned the fatal mistake.
+
+In vain I strive to direct my thoughts into different channels. My
+misunderstanding of Russell plagues me with recurring persistence; the
+unjust accusation torments my sleepless nights. It was a moment of
+intense joy that I experienced as I humbly begged his pardon to-day,
+when I met him in the Captain's office. A deep sense of relief, almost
+of peace, filled me at his unhesitating, "Oh, never mind, Aleck, it's
+all right; we were both excited." I was overcome by thankfulness and
+admiration of the noble boy, and the next instant the sight of his wan
+face, his wasted form, pierced me as with a knife-thrust. With the
+earnest conviction of strong faith I sought to explain to the Board of
+Inspectors the unfortunate error regarding the Jewish writing. But they
+smiled doubtfully. It was too late: their opinion of a prearranged
+agreement with Russell was settled. But the testimony of Assistant
+Deputy Hopkins that he had seen and conversed with Nold a few weeks
+before the discovery of the tunnel, and that he saw him enter the
+"criminal" house, afforded me an opportunity to divide the views among
+the Inspectors. I experienced little difficulty in convincing two
+members of the Board that Nold could not possibly have been connected
+with the tunnel, because for almost a year previously, and since, he had
+been in the employ of a St. Louis firm. They accepted my offer to prove
+by the official time-tables of the company that Nold was in St. Louis on
+the very day that Hopkins claimed to have spoken with him. The fortunate
+and very natural error of Hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance of
+Tony for that of Carl, enabled me to discredit the chief link connecting
+my friends with the tunnel. The diverging views of the police officials
+of the twin cities still further confounded the Inspectors, and I was
+gravely informed by them that the charge of attempted escape against me
+had not been conclusively substantiated. They ordered my reinstatement
+as rangeman, but the Captain, on learning the verdict, at once charged
+me before the Board with conducting a secret correspondence with
+Russell. On the pretext of the alleged Hebrew note, the Inspectors
+confirmed the Warden's judgment, and I was sentenced to the solitary and
+immediately locked up in the South Wing.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII
+
+"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM"
+
+
+I
+
+The solitary is stifling with the August heat. The hall windows, high
+above the floor, cast a sickly light, shrouding the bottom range in
+darksome gloom. At every point, my gaze meets the irritating white of
+the walls, in spots yellow with damp. The long days are oppressive with
+silence; the stone cage echoes my languid footsteps mournfully.
+
+Once more I feel cast into the night, torn from the midst of the living.
+The failure of the tunnel forever excludes the hope of liberty.
+Terrified by the possibilities of the planned escape, the Warden's
+determination dooms my fate. I shall end my days in strictest seclusion,
+he has informed me. Severe punishment is visited upon any one daring to
+converse with me; even officers are forbidden to pause at my cell. Old
+Evans, the night guard, is afraid even to answer my greeting, since he
+was disciplined with the loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my
+door. It was not his fault, poor old man. The night was sultry; the
+sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were tightly closed. Almost
+suffocated with the foul air, I requested the passing Evans to raise the
+window. It had been ordered shut by the Warden, he informed me. As he
+turned to leave, three sharp raps on the bars of the upper rotunda
+almost rooted him to the spot with amazement. It was 2 A. M. No one was
+supposed to be there at night. "Come here, Evans!" I recognized the curt
+tones of the Warden. "What business have you at that man's door?" I
+could distinctly hear each word, cutting the stillness of the night. In
+vain the frightened officer sought to explain: he had merely answered a
+question, he had stopped but a moment. "I've been watching you there for
+half an hour," the irate Warden insisted. "Report to me in the morning."
+
+Since then the guards on their rounds merely glance between the bars,
+and pass on in silence. I have been removed within closer observation of
+the nightly prowling Captain, and am now located near the rotunda, in
+the second cell on the ground floor, Range Y. The stringent orders of
+exceptional surveillance have so terrorized my friends that they do not
+venture to look in my direction. A special officer has been assigned to
+the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to keep me under observation. I
+feel buried alive. Communication with my comrades has been interrupted,
+the Warden detaining my mail. I am deprived of books and papers, all my
+privileges curtailed. If only I had my birds! The company of my little
+pets would give me consolation. But they have been taken from me, and I
+fear the guards have killed them. Deprived of work and exercise I pass
+the days in the solitary, monotonous, interminable.
+
+
+II
+
+By degrees anxiety over my friends is allayed. The mystery of the tunnel
+remains unsolved. The Warden reiterates his moral certainty that the
+underground passage was intended for the liberation of the Anarchist
+prisoner. The views of the police and detective officials of the twin
+cities are hopelessly divergent. Each side asserts thorough familiarity
+with the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty parties. But
+the alleged clews proving misleading, the matter is finally abandoned.
+The passage has been filled with cement, and the official investigation
+is terminated.
+
+The safety of my comrades sheds a ray of light into the darkness of my
+existence. It is consoling to reflect that, disastrous as the failure is
+to myself, my friends will not be made victims of my longing for
+liberty. At no time since the discovery of the tunnel has suspicion been
+directed to the right persons. The narrow official horizon does not
+extend beyond the familiar names of the Girl, Nold, and Bauer. These
+have been pointed at by the accusing finger repeatedly, but the men
+actually concerned in the secret attempt have not even been mentioned.
+No danger threatens them from the failure of my plans. In a
+communication to a local newspaper, Nold has incontrovertibly proved his
+continuous residence in St. Louis for a period covering a year previous
+to the tunnel and afterwards. Bauer has recently married; at no time
+have the police been in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware
+that my former fellow-prisoner is to be discounted as a participator in
+the attempted escape. Indeed, the prison officials must have learned
+from my mail that the big German is regarded by my friends as an
+ex-comrade merely. But the suspicion of the authorities directed toward
+the Girl--with a pang of bitterness, I think of her unfortunate absence
+from the country during the momentous period of the underground work.
+With resentment I reflect that but for that I might now be at liberty!
+Her skill as an organizer, her growing influence in the movement, her
+energy and devotion, would have assured the success of the undertaking.
+But Tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure without
+learning of my plans. It is to him, to his obstinacy and conceit, that
+the failure of the project is mostly due, staunch and faithful though he
+is.
+
+In turn I lay the responsibility at the door of this friend and that,
+lashing myself into furious rage at the renegade who had appropriated a
+considerable sum of the money intended for the continuation of the
+underground work. Yet the outbursts of passion spent, I strive to find
+consolation in the correctness of the intuitive judgment that prompted
+the selection of my "lawyers," the devoted comrades who so heroically
+toiled for my sake in the bowels of the earth. Half-naked they had
+labored through the weary days and nights, stretched at full length in
+the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring and chilled in turn, their
+hands bleeding with the terrible toil. And through the weeks and months
+of nerve-racking work and confinement in the tunnel, of constant dread
+of detection and anxiety over the result, my comrades had uttered no
+word of doubt or fear, in full reliance upon their invisible friend.
+What self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had never even
+known! Dear, beloved comrades, had you succeeded, my life could never
+repay your almost superhuman efforts and love. Only the future years of
+active devotion to our great common Cause could in a measure express my
+thankfulness and pride in you, whoever, wherever you are. Nor were your
+heroism, your skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail. You
+have given an invaluable demonstration of the elemental reality of the
+Ideal, of the marvelous strength and courage born of solidaric purpose,
+of the heights devotion to a great Cause can ascend. And the lesson has
+not been lost. Almost unanimous is the voice of the press--only
+Anarchists could have achieved the wonderful feat!
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind. How little thought I had
+given to my comrades, toiling underground, in the anxious days of my own
+apprehension and suspense! With increasing vividness I visualize their
+trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the herculean efforts in
+spite of ever-present danger. How terrible must have been _their_
+despair at the inability to continue the work to a successful
+termination!...
+
+My reflections fill me with renewed strength. I must live! I must live
+to meet those heroic men, to take them by the hand, and with silent lips
+pour my heart into their eyes. I shall be proud of their comradeship,
+and strive to be worthy of it.
+
+
+III
+
+The lines form in the hallway, and silently march to the shops. I peer
+through the bars, for the sight of a familiar face brings cheer, and the
+memory of the days on the range. Many friends, unseen for years, pass by
+my cell. How Big Jack has wasted! The deep chest is sunk in, the face
+drawn and yellow, with reddish spots about the cheekbones. Poor Jack, so
+strong and energetic, how languid and weak his step is now! And Jimmy is
+all broken up with rheumatism, and hops on crutches. With difficulty I
+recognize Harry Fisher. The two years have completely changed the young
+Morganza boy. He looks old at seventeen, the rosy cheeks a ghastly
+white, the delicate features immobile, hard, the large bright eyes dull
+and glassy. Vividly my friends stand before me in the youth and strength
+of their first arrival. How changed their appearance! My poor chums,
+readers of the _Prison Blossoms_, helpers in our investigation efforts,
+what wrecks the torture of hell has made of you! I recall with sadness
+the first years of my imprisonment, and my coldly impersonal valuation
+of social victims. There is Evans, the aged burglar, smiling furtively
+at me from the line. Far in the distance seems the day when I read his
+marginal note upon a magazine article I sent him, concerning the
+stupendous cost of crime. I had felt quite piqued at the flippancy of
+his comment, "We come high, but they must have us." With the severe
+intellectuality of revolutionary tradition, I thought of him and his
+kind as inevitable fungus growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying
+society. Unfortunate derelicts, indeed, yet parasites, almost devoid of
+humanity. But the threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by
+common misery. The touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the
+criminal; the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of
+kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart. Old Evans and
+Sammy and Bob,--what suffering and pain must have chilled their fiery
+souls with the winter of savage bitterness! And the resurrection
+trembles within! How terrible man's ignorance, that forever condemns
+itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! And these my friends, Davis
+and Russell, these innocently guilty,--what worse punishment could
+society inflict upon itself, than the loss of their latent nobility
+which it had killed?... Not entirely in vain are the years of suffering
+that have wakened my kinship with the humanity of _les miserables_, whom
+social stupidity has cast into the valley of death.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX
+
+A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE
+
+
+I
+
+My new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different channel. It is
+"Fighting" Tom, returned after several years of absence. By means of a
+string attached to a wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and
+Tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the
+mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival in the
+penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he informs me, and I was to
+be "let in," by his recommendation. But one of the conspirators getting
+"cold feet," the plot was betrayed to the Warden, whereupon Tom "sent
+the snitch to the hospital." As a result, however, he was kept in
+solitary till his release. In the prison he had become proficient as a
+broom-maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. There was
+nothing in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to be honest.
+But on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers
+from Illinois on an old charge. He swore vengeance against Assistant
+Deputy Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark
+that he would never return to Illinois, because he was "wanted" there.
+He lived the five years in the Joliet prison in the sole hope of
+"getting square" with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon his
+release, he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to kill Hopkins. On the
+night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to
+avenge his wrongs. But the Assistant Deputy had left the previous day on
+his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about to set fire to the
+house, when the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the
+bureau of the bedroom. It fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off
+it. Suddenly he was seized with the desire to examine the contents of
+the house. The old passion was upon him. He could not resist. Hardly
+conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth,
+and quietly stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day, as he
+was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender, he received a sentence of
+ten years. Since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in
+solitary. His health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his
+sentence. But if he is to die--he swears--he is going to take "his man"
+along.
+
+Aware of the determination of "Fighting" Tom, I realize that the safety
+of the hated officer is conditioned by Tom's lack of opportunity to
+carry out his revenge. I feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose
+craftiness in worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the
+pay-roll of the Pinkerton agency; but I exert myself to persuade Tom
+that it would be sheer insanity thus deliberately to put his head in the
+noose. He is still a young man; barely thirty. It is not worth while
+sacrificing his life for a sneak of a guard.
+
+However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments seem merely to rouse his
+resistance, and strengthen his resolution. But closer acquaintance
+reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a
+second-story expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of
+his plans of revenge. Would it not be more in conformity with his
+reputation as a skilled "gun," I argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother"
+manner? Tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more
+interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the
+suggestion of "a break." Once outside, well--"I'll get 'im all right,"
+he chuckles.
+
+
+II
+
+The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate nights we take
+turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the Night
+Captain, the opening of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly
+insignificant, yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. Many obstacles
+bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them.
+Tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. I realize the desperation
+of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in the
+solitary. It is the last resort.
+
+With utmost care we make our preparations. The summer is long past; the
+dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. We hasten to complete all
+details, in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. The
+time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date. But Tom's state
+of mind fills me with apprehension. He has become taciturn of late.
+Yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my
+signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my
+last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally a heavy groan issues from
+his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay
+awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the
+cause of the groaning. But my attempts to speak to the officers are
+ignored. The next morning I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his
+cell, and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night.
+
+
+III
+
+The peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind. Was it suicide or
+accident? Tom had been weakened by long confinement; in some manner he
+may have ruptured a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. It is
+hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt.
+Yet certain references in his notes of late, ignored at the time, assume
+new significance. He was apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was
+"after him." Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety.
+He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had laughed the matter away, familiar
+with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. Close confinement exerts
+a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are especially
+predisposed to auto-suggestion; Young Sid used to manifest every symptom
+of the diseases he read about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was
+responsible for his death. Spencer, too, had committed suicide a month
+before his release, in the firm conviction that the Warden would not
+permit his discharge. It may be that in a sudden fit of despondency, Tom
+had ended his life. Perhaps I could have saved my friend: I did not
+realize how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself
+threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible struggle that must
+have been going on in his tortured heart! Yet we were so intimate; I
+believed I understood his every feeling and emotion.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news from the Girl about
+Bresci's execution of the King of Italy rouses little interest in me.
+Bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shot before the
+palace for humbly begging bread. He did well, and the agitation
+resulting from his act may advance the Cause. But it will have no
+bearing on my fate. The last hope of escape has departed with my poor
+friend. I am doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in prison,
+but the comrades will eulogize him and his act, and continue their
+efforts to regenerate the world. Yet I feel that the individual, in
+certain cases, is of more direct and immediate consequence than
+humanity. What is the latter but the aggregate of individual
+existences--and shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed for
+the metaphysical collectivity? Here, all around me, a thousand
+unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary, forsaken by God and
+man. They bleed and struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a
+little sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How helped amid the
+injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons?
+And so we must suffer and suicide, and countless others after us, till
+the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history
+of true humanity,--and meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long,
+dreary road.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Bereft of the last hope of freedom, I grow indifferent to life. The
+monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. My whole being
+longs for rest. Rest, no more to awaken. The world will not miss me. An
+atom of matter, I shall return to endless space. Everything will pursue
+its wonted course, but I shall know no more of the bitter struggle and
+strife. My friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over, and
+continue on their way. And new Brescis will arise, and more kings will
+fall, and then all, friend and enemy, will go my way, and new
+generations will be born and die, and humanity and the world be whirled
+into space and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and
+the same history and the same facts will come and go, the playthings of
+cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever.
+
+How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how small and puny
+life and all its pain and travail!... With eyes closed, I behold myself
+suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings
+gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,--just like
+Pasquale, when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine, some months
+ago. A few twitches, and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid,
+my body rigid; slowly it cools. The night guard passes. "What's this,
+eh?" He rings the rotunda bell. Keys clang; the lever is drawn, and my
+door unlocked. An officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the
+bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against the iron
+bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side; I feel his hand over my heart.
+Now he rises.
+
+"Good job, Doc?" I recognize the Deputy's voice.
+
+The physician nods.
+
+"Damn glad of it," Hopkins sneers.
+
+The Warden enters, a grin on his parchment face. With an oath I spring
+to my feet. In terror the officers rush from the cell. "Ah, I fooled
+you, didn't I, you murderers!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers of life. It engenders
+defiance, and strengthens stubborn resistance.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL
+
+DONE TO DEATH
+
+
+I
+
+In my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a faint memory,
+unreal and dim. The deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me
+from the living. Letters from my comrades have become rare and
+irregular; they sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life of the
+prison is also receding; no communication reaches me from my friends.
+"Pious" John, the rangeman, is unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will
+from the days of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I
+tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough, apprising me of
+the "stiff" he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file
+of prisoners marches past my door. He looks pale and haggard, the old
+buoyant step now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension pervades his
+notes. He is constantly harassed by the officers, he writes; his task
+has been increased; he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining.
+In the broken sentences, I sense some vague misgiving, as of impending
+calamity.
+
+With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I live through the
+hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship, the days of
+terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project. My heart goes out to
+the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the
+safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship possesses
+me. In the gnawing loneliness, his face floats before me, casting the
+spell of a friendly presence, his strong features softened by sorrow,
+his eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of "Little Felipe." A
+peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy; I look forward
+eagerly to his notes. Impatiently I scan the faces in the passing line,
+wistful for the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his
+fleeting smile.
+
+How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The hours are weary with silence
+and solitude. Listlessly I turn the pages of my library book. If only I
+had the birds! I should find solace in their thoughtful eyes: Dick and
+Sis would understand and feel with me. But my poor little friends have
+disappeared; only Russell remains. My only friend! I shall not see him
+when he returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite
+side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked
+for work, I shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the
+dear boy will have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted: his
+correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to
+cheer me with the good news: another day is gone, his sentence is
+nearing its end; he will at once secure a position, and save every penny
+to aid in my release. Tacitly I concur in his ardent hope,--it would
+break his heart to be disillusioned.
+
+
+II
+
+The passing weeks and months bring no break in the dreary monotony. The
+call of the robin on the river bank rouses no echo in my heart. No sign
+of awakening spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the
+solitary. The dampness of the cell is piercing my bones; every movement
+racks my body with pain. My eyes are tortured with the eternal white of
+the walls. Sombre shadows brood around me.
+
+I long for a bit of sunshine. I wait patiently at the door: perhaps it
+is clear to-day. My cell faces west; may be the setting sun will steal a
+glance upon me. For hours I stand with naked breast close to the bars: I
+must not miss a friendly ray; it may suddenly peep into the cell and
+turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. Now a bright beam plays on my
+neck and shoulders, and I press closer to the door to welcome the dear
+stranger. He caresses me with soft touch,--perhaps it is the soul of
+little Dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song of light,--or
+may be the astral aura of my beloved Uncle Maxim, bringing warmth and
+hope. Sweet conceit of Oriental thought, barren of joy in life.... The
+sun is fading. It feels chilly in the twilight,--and now the solitary is
+once more bleak and cold.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more
+assertive in Russell's letter. The boy is jubilant and full of vitality:
+within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of
+sadness at leaving me behind permeates his communications, but he is
+enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty.
+
+Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting, as he passes in the
+line. This morning I saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in
+sign of the remaining "two and a stump." A joyous light is in his eyes,
+his step firmer, more elastic.
+
+But in the afternoon he is missing from the line. With sudden
+apprehension I wonder at his absence. Could I have overlooked him in the
+closely walking ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained
+in the cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious; he will surely
+be in line to-morrow.
+
+For three days, every morning and afternoon, I anxiously scrutinize the
+faces of the passing men; but Russell is not among them. His absence
+torments me with a thousand fears. May be the Warden has renewed his
+inquisition of the boy--perhaps he got into a fight in the shop--in the
+dungeon now--he'll lose his commutation time.... Unable to bear the
+suspense, I am about to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner
+surreptitiously hands me a note.
+
+With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold handwriting in the uneven,
+nervous scrawl. Russell is in the hospital! At work in the shop, he
+writes, he had suffered a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward
+for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of
+shamming to evade work. They threaten to have him returned to the shop,
+and he implores me to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak
+and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the cell in his
+present condition fills him with horror.
+
+I send an urgent request to see the Chaplain. But the guard informs me
+that Mr. Milligan is absent; he is not expected at the office till the
+following week. I prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred
+to the South Block, to deliver a note to the Warden, in which I appeal
+on behalf of Russell. But several days pass, and still no reply from
+Captain Wright. Finally I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford
+Frank, the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. As
+the "medicine boy" pours the prescribed pint of "horse salts" through
+the funnel inserted between the bars, I hastily inquire:
+
+"Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he?"
+
+"What Russell?" he asks indifferently.
+
+"Russell Schroyer, put four days ago under observation,"
+
+"Oh, that poor kid! Why, he is paralyzed."
+
+For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it cannot be. Some
+mistake.
+
+"Frank, I mean young Schroyer, from the construction shop. He's Number
+2608."
+
+"Your friend Russell; I know who you mean. I'm sorry for the boy. He is
+paralyzed, all right."
+
+"But.... No, it can't be! Why, Frank, it was just a chill and a little
+weakness."
+
+"Look here, Aleck. I know you're square, and you can keep a secret all
+right. I'll tell you something if you won't give me away."
+
+"Yes, yes, Frank. What is it?"
+
+"Sh--sh. You know Flem, the night nurse? Doing a five spot for murder.
+His father and the Warden are old cronies. That's how he got to be
+nurse; don't know a damn thing about it, an' careless as hell. Always
+makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for Russell. Now don't
+ever say I told you. Flem got the wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some
+acid in the injection. Paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+I pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at the faint hope
+that it cannot be--some mistake--perhaps Frank has exaggerated. But in
+the morning the "medicine boy" confirms my worst fears: the doctor has
+said the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation: there is
+something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes; he is unable to move
+them, and suffers great pain. It can't be fever, he thinks; but the
+physician will not tell him what is the matter....
+
+The kindly Frank is sympathetic; every day he passes notes between us,
+and I try to encourage Russell. He will improve, I assure him; his time
+is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem
+to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he
+learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. His notes grow piteous with
+misery. Tears fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry, "Oh, Aleck, I
+am so young. I don't want to die." He implores me to visit him; if I
+could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. He distrusts
+the convict attendants who harry and banter the country lad; their
+heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. Exasperated
+by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday threw a saucer at
+him. He was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed
+youth to the dungeon. Plagued and tormented, in great suffering, Russell
+grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and officers are persecuting
+him, he writes; they will soon do him to death, if I will not come to
+his rescue. If he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to
+recover.
+
+Every evening Frank brings sadder news: Russell is feeling worse; he is
+so nervous, the doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the
+doors in the ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of
+slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws Russell into
+convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports; decomposition has already
+set in. The boy is in terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain,
+and calling for me.
+
+Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, I resolve
+upon a way to visit the hospital. In the morning, as the guard hands me
+the bread ration and shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and
+door. With an involuntary cry I withdraw my maimed and bleeding
+fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary. By tacit permission
+of the friendly "medicine boy" I pass to the second floor, where the
+wards are located, and quickly steal to Russell's bedside. The look of
+mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand.
+"Oh, dear Aleck," he whispers, "I'm so glad they let you come. I'll get
+well if you'll nurse me." The shadow of death is in his eyes; the body
+exudes decomposition. Bereft of speech, I gently press his white,
+emaciated hand. The weary eyes close, and the boy falls into slumber.
+Silently I touch his dry lips, and steal away.
+
+In the afternoon I appeal to the Warden to permit me to nurse my friend.
+It is the boy's dying wish; it will ease his last hours. The Captain
+refers me to the Inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be
+subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon I ask permission
+to arrange a collection among the prisoners: Russell firmly believes
+that he would improve in an outside hospital, and the Pardon Board might
+grant the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate
+subscription lists among the inmates, and two years previously I had
+collected a hundred and twenty-three dollars for the pardon of a
+lifetimer. But the Warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is
+dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I suggest the Chaplain
+for the mission, or some prisoner selected by the authorities. But this
+offer is also vetoed, the Warden berating me for having taken advantage
+of my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely, and
+threatening to punish me with the dungeon. I plead with him for
+permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence,
+and constantly calling for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the
+Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he informs me, on
+condition that a guard be present at the meeting. For a moment I
+hesitate. The desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of
+irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform; but I cannot expose
+the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by my refusal,
+perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel
+from the visit, the Warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks very grave, as he
+whispers:
+
+"Aleck, you must bear up."
+
+"Russell--?"
+
+"Yes, Aleck."
+
+"Worse? Tell me, Frank."
+
+"He is dead. Bear up, Aleck. His last thought was of you. He was
+unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end--it was 9.33--he sat
+up in bed so suddenly, he frightened me. His arm shot out, and he cried,
+'Good bye, Aleck.'"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI
+
+THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO
+
+
+I
+
+                                                      July 10, 1901.
+
+    DEAR GIRL:
+
+    This is from the hospital, _sub rosa_. Just out of the
+    strait-jacket, after eight days.
+
+    For over a year I was in the strictest solitary; for a long time
+    mail and reading matter were denied me. I have no words to
+    describe the horror of the last months.... I have passed through
+    a great crisis. Two of my best friends died in a frightful
+    manner. The death of Russell, especially, affected me. He was
+    very young, and my dearest and most devoted friend, and he died
+    a terrible death. The doctor charged the boy with shamming, but
+    now he says it was spinal meningitis. I cannot tell you the
+    awful truth,--it was nothing short of murder, and my poor friend
+    rotted away by inches. When he died they found his back one mass
+    of bedsores. If you could read the pitiful letters he wrote,
+    begging to see me, and to be nursed by me! But the Warden
+    wouldn't permit it. In some manner his agony seemed to affect
+    me, and I began to experience the pains and symptoms that
+    Russell described in his notes. I knew it was my sick fancy; I
+    strove against it, but presently my legs showed signs of
+    paralysis, and I suffered excruciating pain in the spinal
+    column, just like Russell. I was afraid that I would be done to
+    death like my poor friend. I grew suspicious of every guard, and
+    would barely touch the food, for fear of its being poisoned. My
+    "head was workin'," they said. And all the time I knew it was my
+    diseased imagination, and I was in terror of going mad.... I
+    tried so hard to fight it, but it would always creep up, and get
+    hold of me stronger and stronger. Another week of solitary would
+    have killed me.
+
+    I was on the verge of suicide. I demanded to be relieved from
+    the cell, and the Warden ordered me punished. I was put in the
+    strait-jacket. They bound my body in canvas, strapped my arms to
+    the bed, and chained my feet to the posts. I was kept that way
+    eight days, unable to move, rotting in my own excrement.
+    Released prisoners called the attention of our new Inspector to
+    my case. He refused to believe that such things were being done
+    in the penitentiary. Reports spread that I was going blind and
+    insane. Then the Inspector visited the hospital and had me
+    released from the jacket.
+
+    I am in pretty bad shape, but they put me in the general ward
+    now, and I am glad of the chance to send you this note.
+
+                                                              Sasha.
+
+
+II
+
+                                            Direct to Box A 7,
+                                              Allegheny City, Pa.,
+                                                    July 25th, 1901.
+
+    DEAR SONYA:
+
+    I cannot tell you how happy I am to be allowed to write to you
+    again. My privileges have been restored by our new Inspector, a
+    very kindly man. He has relieved me from the cell, and now I am
+    again on the range. The Inspector requested me to deny to my
+    friends the reports which have recently appeared in the papers
+    concerning my condition. I have not been well of late, but now I
+    hope to improve. My eyes are very poor. The Inspector has given
+    me permission to have a specialist examine them. Please arrange
+    for it through our local comrades.
+
+    There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A new
+    commutation law has been passed, which reduces my sentence by
+    2-1/2 years. It still leaves me a long time, of course; almost 4
+    years here, and another year to the workhouse. However, it is a
+    considerable gain, and if I should not get into solitary again,
+    I may--I am almost afraid to utter the thought--I may live to
+    come out. I feel as if I am being resurrected.
+
+    The new law benefits the short-timers proportionately much more
+    than the men with longer sentences. Only the poor lifers do not
+    share in it. We were very anxious for a while, as there were
+    many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional.
+    Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved
+    ineffectual. Think of men who will see something
+    unconstitutional in allowing the prisoners a little more good
+    time than the commutation statute of 40 years ago. As if a
+    little kindness to the unfortunates--really justice--is
+    incompatible with the spirit of Jefferson! We were greatly
+    worried over the fate of this statute, but at last the first
+    batch has been released, and there is much rejoicing over it.
+
+    There is a peculiar history about this new law, which may
+    interest you; it sheds a significant side light. It was
+    especially designed for the benefit of a high Federal officer
+    who was recently convicted of aiding two wealthy Philadelphia
+    tobacco manufacturers to defraud the government of a few
+    millions, by using counterfeit tax stamps. Their influence
+    secured the introduction of the commutation bill and its hasty
+    passage. The law would have cut their sentences almost in two,
+    but certain newspapers seem to have taken offence at having been
+    kept in ignorance of the "deal," and protests began to be
+    voiced. The matter finally came up before the Attorney General
+    of the United States, who decided that the men in whose special
+    interest the law was engineered, could not benefit by it,
+    because a State law does not affect U. S. prisoners, the latter
+    being subject to the Federal commutation act. Imagine the
+    discomfiture of the politicians! An attempt was even made to
+    suspend the operation of the statute. Fortunately it failed, and
+    now the "common" State prisoners, who were not at all meant to
+    profit, are being released. The legislature has unwittingly
+    given some unfortunates here much happiness.
+
+    I was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a
+    visit. I could hardly credit it: the first comrade I have been
+    allowed to see in nine years! It was Harry Gordon, and I was so
+    overcome by the sight of the dear friend, I could barely speak.
+    He must have prevailed upon the new Inspector to issue a permit.
+    The latter is now Acting Warden, owing to the serious illness of
+    Captain Wright. Perhaps he will allow me to see my sister. Will
+    you kindly communicate with her at once? Meantime I shall try to
+    secure a pass. With renewed hope, and always with green memory
+    of you,
+
+                                                               Alex.
+
+
+III
+
+                                                       _Sub Rosa_,
+                                                      Dec. 20, 1901.
+
+    DEAREST GIRL:
+
+    I know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected
+    you.... The sight of your face after all these years completely
+    unnerved me. I could not think, I could not speak. It was as if
+    all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the living, were
+    concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was dangling from
+    your watch chain.... I couldn't take my eyes off it, I couldn't
+    keep my hand from playing with it. It absorbed my whole
+    being.... And all the time I felt how nervous you were at my
+    silence, and I couldn't utter a word.
+
+    Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen each
+    other under the present conditions. It was lucky they did not
+    recognize you: they took you for my "sister," though I believe
+    your identity was suspected after you had left. You would surely
+    not have been permitted the visit, had the old Warden been here.
+    He was ill at the time. He never got over the shock of the
+    tunnel, and finally he has been persuaded by the prison
+    physician (who has secret aspirations to the Wardenship) that
+    the anxieties of his position are a menace to his advanced age.
+    Considerable dissatisfaction has also developed of late against
+    the Warden among the Inspectors. Well, he has resigned at last,
+    thank goodness! The prisoners have been praying for it for
+    years, and some of the boys on the range celebrated the event by
+    getting drunk on wood alcohol. The new Warden has just assumed
+    charge, and we hope for improvement. He is a physician by
+    profession, with the title of Major in the Pennsylvania militia.
+
+    It was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious
+    friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary worry
+    over my health, and my renewed persecution. You remember that in
+    July the new Inspector released me from the strait-jacket and
+    assigned me to work on the range. But I was locked up again in
+    October, after the McKinley incident. The President of the Board
+    of Inspectors was at the time in New York. He inquired by wire
+    what I was doing. Upon being informed that I was working on the
+    range, he ordered me into solitary. The new Warden, on assuming
+    office, sent for me. "They give you a bad reputation," he said;
+    "but I will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do
+    what is right by me." He spoke brusquely, in the manner of a man
+    closing a business deal, with the power of dictating terms. He
+    reminded me of Bismarck at Versailles. Yet he did not seem
+    unkind; the thought of escape was probably in his mind. But the
+    new law has germinated the hope of survival; my weakened
+    condition and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at
+    last decided me to abandon the idea of escape. I therefore
+    replied to the Warden: "I will do what is right by you, if you
+    treat _me_ right." Thereupon he assigned me to work on the
+    range. It is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the
+    cell-house after the close solitary.
+
+    And you, dear friend? In your letters I feel how terribly torn
+    you are by the events of the recent months. I lived in great
+    fear for your safety, and I can barely credit the good news that
+    you are at liberty. It seems almost a miracle.
+
+    I followed the newspapers with great anxiety. The whole country
+    seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. To a considerable
+    extent the press fanned the fires of persecution. Here in the
+    prison very little sincere grief was manifested. Out out of
+    hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary
+    remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner
+    corresponds to the average citizen--their patriotism is very
+    passive, except when stimulated by personal interest, or
+    artificially excited. But if the press mirrored the sentiment of
+    the people, the nation must have suddenly relapsed into
+    cannibalism. There were moments when I was in mortal dread for
+    your very life, and for the safety of the other arrested
+    comrades. In previous letters you hinted that it was official
+    rivalry and jealousy, and your absence from New York, to which
+    you owe your release. You may be right; yet I believe that your
+    attitude of proud self-respect and your admirable self-control
+    contributed much to the result. You were splendid, dear; and I
+    was especially moved by your remark that you would faithfully
+    nurse the wounded man, if he required your services, but that
+    the poor boy, condemned and deserted by all, needed and deserved
+    your sympathy and aid more than the president. More strikingly
+    than your letters, that remark discovered to me the great change
+    wrought in us by the ripening years. Yes, in us, in both, for my
+    heart echoed your beautiful sentiment. How impossible such a
+    thought would have been to us in the days of a decade ago! We
+    should have considered it treason to the spirit of revolution;
+    it would have outraged all our traditions even to admit the
+    humanity of an official representative of capitalism. Is it not
+    very significant that we two--you living in the very heart of
+    Anarchist thought and activity, and I in the atmosphere of
+    absolute suppression and solitude--should have arrived at the
+    same evolutionary point after a decade of divergent paths?
+
+    You have alluded in a recent letter to the ennobling and
+    broadening influence of sorrow. Yet not upon every one does it
+    exert a similar effect. Some natures grow embittered, and shrink
+    with the poison of misery. I often wonder at my lack of
+    bitterness and enmity, even against the old Warden--and surely I
+    have good cause to hate him. Is it because of greater maturity?
+    I rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. The love of
+    the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days, vital
+    as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than
+    emotional. Fortunately so, I think. For those like Fedya and
+    Lewis and Pauline, and numerous others, soon have their
+    emotionally inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of
+    the social protestant. Only aspirations that spontaneously leap
+    from the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic
+    forces. The revolutionist is born. Beneath our love and hatred
+    of former days lay inherent rebellion, and the passionate desire
+    for liberty and life.
+
+    In the long years of isolation I have looked deeply into my
+    heart. With open mind and sincere purpose, I have revised every
+    emotion and every thought. Away from my former atmosphere and
+    the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil, I have divested
+    myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. I have studied
+    the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life, and pondered
+    over human destiny. For weeks and months I would be absorbed in
+    the domain of "pure reason," or discuss with Leibnitz the
+    question of free will, and seek to penetrate, beyond Spencer,
+    into the Unknowable. Political science and economics, law and
+    criminology--I studied them with unprejudiced mind, and sought
+    to slacken my soul's thirst by delving deeply into religion and
+    theology, seeking the "Key to Life" at the feet of Mrs. Eddy,
+    expectantly listening for the voice of disembodied, studying
+    Koreshanity and Theosophy, absorbing the _prana_ of knowledge
+    and power, and concentrating upon the wisdom of the Yogi. And
+    after years of contemplation and study, chastened by much
+    sorrow and suffering, I arise from the broken fetters of the
+    world's folly and delusions, to behold the threshold of a new
+    life of liberty and equality. My youth's ideal of a free
+    humanity in the vague future has become clarified and
+    crystallized into the living truth of Anarchy, as the sustaining
+    elemental force of my every-day existence.
+
+    Often I have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom dear
+    at the price of enthusiasm? At 30 one is not so reckless, not so
+    fanatical and one-sided as at 20. With maturity we become more
+    universal; but life is a Shylock that cannot be cheated of his
+    due. For every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound or a scar
+    to show. We grow broader; but too often the heart contracts as
+    the mind expands, and the fires are burning down while we are
+    learning. At such moments my mind would revert to the days when
+    the momentarily expected approach of the Social Revolution
+    absorbed our exclusive interest. The raging present and its
+    conflicting currents passed us by, while our eyes were riveted
+    upon the Dawn, in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise. Life and
+    its manifold expressions were vexatious to the spirit of revolt;
+    and poetry, literature, and art were scorned as hindrances to
+    progress, unless they sounded the tocsin of immediate
+    revolution. Humanity was sharply divided in two warring
+    camps,--the noble People, the producers, who yearned for the
+    light of the new gospel, and the hated oppressors, the
+    exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that
+    was to give back to man his heritage. If only "the good People"
+    were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully
+    they would embrace Anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised
+    land!
+
+    The splendid naivety of the days that resented as a personal
+    reflection the least misgiving of the future; the enthusiasm
+    that discounted the power of inherent prejudice and
+    predilection! Magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the
+    hatred of oppression and the love of liberty! Woe indeed to the
+    man or the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of
+    Prometheus,--for it is youth that has climbed the heights....
+    But maturity has clarified the way, and the stupendous task of
+    human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified
+    vision of hearts that grow not cold.
+
+    And you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time, you
+    have yet happily kept your heart young. I have rejoiced at it
+    in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident
+    from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening
+    at Buffalo. I share your view entirely; for that very reason, it
+    is the more distressing to disagree with you in one very
+    important particular: the value of Leon's act. I know the
+    terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish
+    persecution to which you have been subjected. Worse than all
+    must have been to you the general lack of understanding for such
+    phenomena; and, sadder yet, the despicable attitude of some
+    would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. But I am
+    confident you will not mistake my expressed disagreement for
+    condemnation.
+
+    We need not discuss the phase of the _Attentat_ which manifested
+    the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest against
+    social wrong. Such phenomena are the natural result of evil
+    conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the river banks by
+    the swelling mountain torrents. But I cannot agree with you
+    regarding the social value of Leon's act.
+
+    I have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of his
+    inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the
+    rebellion of his soul. It throws a significant light upon the
+    causes of the _Attentat_. Indeed, it is at once the greatest
+    tragedy of martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of
+    society, that it forces the noblest men and women to shed human
+    blood, though their souls shrink from it. But the more
+    imperative it is that drastic methods of this character be
+    resorted to only as a last extremity. To prove of value, they
+    must be motived by social rather than individual necessity, and
+    be directed against a real and immediate enemy of the people.
+    The significance of such a deed is understood by the popular
+    mind--and in that alone is the propagandistic, educational
+    importance of an _Attentat_, except if it is exclusively an act
+    of terrorism.
+
+    Now, I do not believe that this deed was terroristic; and I
+    doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity
+    for its performance was not manifest. That you may not
+    misunderstand, I repeat: as an expression of personal revolt it
+    was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing
+    conditions. But the background of social necessity was lacking,
+    and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent
+    nullified.
+
+    In Russia, where political oppression is popularly felt, such a
+    deed would be of great value. But the scheme of political
+    subjection is more subtle in America. And though McKinley was
+    the chief representative of our modern slavery, he could not be
+    considered in the light of a direct and immediate enemy of the
+    people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat is visible and
+    tangible. The real despotism of republican institutions is far
+    deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the popular delusion
+    of self-government and independence. That is the subtle source
+    of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it cannot be reached with a
+    bullet.
+
+    In modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression is the
+    real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its handmaid. Hence
+    the battle is to be waged in the economic rather than the
+    political field. It is therefore that I regard my own act as far
+    more significant and educational than Leon's. It was directed
+    against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as such by the
+    people.
+
+    As long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts
+    and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of the
+    race--our Czolgoszes--burst forth in "rockets of iron." But does
+    this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or merely
+    confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? The struggle of
+    labor against capital is a class war, essentially and chiefly
+    economic. In that arena the battles must be fought.
+
+    It was not these considerations, of course, that inspired the
+    nation-wide man-hunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals.
+    Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness. The
+    brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole
+    proceeding, the thirst for the blood of the martyr,--these make
+    one almost despair of humanity.
+
+    I must close. The friend to smuggle out this letter will be
+    uneasy about its bulk. Send me sign of receipt, and I hope that
+    you may be permitted a little rest and peace, to recover from
+    the nightmare of the last months.
+
+                                                              SASHA.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII
+
+MARRED LIVES
+
+
+I
+
+The discussion with the Girl is a source of much mortification. Harassed
+on every side, persecuted by the authorities, and hounded even into the
+street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative
+disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. I realize
+the inadequacy of the written word, and despair at the hopelessness of
+human understanding, as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the
+Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued
+correspondence with the Girl accentuates the divergence of our views,
+painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying
+even common conclusions.
+
+By degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's
+correspondence. Our discussion lags, and soon ceases entirely. The world
+of the outside, temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the
+urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison.
+
+
+II
+
+A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house. The new commutation
+law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. In the shops and yard the
+men excitedly discuss the increased "good time," and prisoners flit
+about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out"
+their time of release. Even the solitaries, on the verge of despair, and
+the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless years, are instilled with
+new courage and hope.
+
+The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment of the new
+Warden the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. Pleasant
+surprise is manifest at the welcome change in "the grub." I wonder at
+the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas dinner. The
+men impatiently frown down the occasional "kicker." The Warden is
+"green," they argue; he did not know that we are supposed to get currant
+bread for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a chanc't."
+The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon, and the men thrill
+with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's
+dinner!" With gratification we hear the Major's expression of disgust at
+the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell
+and dungeon as barbarous, and the promise of radical reforms. As an
+earnest of his regime he has released from solitary the men whom Warden
+Wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defence of
+Murphy and Mong. Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had
+accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in Elk City several
+years previously. The criminal trial, involving the suicide of an
+officer[50] whom the Warden had forced to testify against the
+defendants, resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon
+Captain Wright ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be
+punished.
+
+  [50] Officer Robert G. Hunter, who committed suicide August 30,
+       1901, in Clarion, Pa. (where the trial took place). He left
+       a written confession, in which he accused Warden E. S.
+       Wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew
+       to be innocent.
+
+The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules,
+abolishes the "holy-stoning"[51] of the cell-house floor because of the
+detrimental effect of the dust, and decides to separate the consumptive
+and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Upon
+examination, 40 per cent. of the population are discovered in various
+stages of tuberculosis, and 20 per cent. insane. The death rate from
+consumption is found to range between 25 and 60 per cent. At light tasks
+in the block and the yard the Major finds employment for the sickly
+inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the
+rest of the men at work in the shop. With the exception of a number of
+dangerously insane, who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner
+in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of idleness
+resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved.
+
+  [51] The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand
+       into their surfaces.
+
+The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon,
+produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. The gloom of
+the cell-house perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at
+music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with the strains of
+merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band.
+
+
+III
+
+New faces greet me on the range. But many old friends are missing. Billy
+Ryan is dead of consumption; "Frenchy" and Ben have become insane;
+Little Mat, the Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remembrance
+I think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering.
+Some of the old-timers have survived, but broken in spirit and health.
+"Praying" Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips
+constantly moving in prayer. "Me innocent," the old man reiterates, "God
+him know." Last month the Board has again refused to pardon the
+lifetimer, and now he is bereft of hope. "Me have no more money. My
+children they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now no more
+money." Aleck Killain has also been refused by the Board at the same
+session. He is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service, and
+the most popular lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions
+of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers, a
+woman was found dead. No clew could be discovered, and Aleck was
+sentenced to life, because he could not be forced to divulge the names
+of the men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the sad news:
+the authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the
+information desired by them. He looks sere with confinement, his eyes
+full of a mute sadness that can find no words. His face is deeply
+seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. In the long years of our
+friendship I have never seen Aleck laugh. Once or twice he smiled, and
+his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly,
+with a perceptible effort.
+
+"Yes, Aleck," he is saying, "it's true. They refused me."
+
+"But they pardoned Mac," I retort hotly. "He confessed to a cold-blooded
+murder, and he's only been in four years."
+
+"Good luck," he remarks.
+
+"How, good luck?"
+
+"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm."
+
+"Well, what of it?"
+
+"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son a pardon."
+
+"But on what ground did they dismiss your application? They know you are
+innocent."
+
+"District Attorney came to me. 'You're innocent, we know. Tell us who
+did the murder.' I had nothing to tell. Pardon refused."
+
+"Is there any hope later on, Aleck?"
+
+"When the present administration are all dead, perhaps."
+
+Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He walks weakly, with
+halting step.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. "I'm
+here again, friend Aleck," he smiles apologetically. "What could I do?
+The old woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. Th' farm was sold
+that I was borned in," his voice trembles with emotion. "I couldn't find
+th' boys, an' no one wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'Go to
+th' pogy',[52] they told me. I couldn't, Aleck. I've worked all me
+life; I don't want no charity. I made a bluff," he smiles between
+tears,--"Broke into a store, and here I am."
+
+  [52] Poorhouse.
+
+With surprise I recognize "Tough" Monk among the first-grade men. For
+years he had been kept in stripes, and constantly punished for bad work
+in the hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in the prison:
+not once in five years had he accomplished his task. But the new Warden
+transferred him to the construction shop, where Monk was employed at his
+trade of blacksmith. "I hated that damn sock makin'," he tells me.
+"I've struck it right now, an' the Major says I'm the best worker in th'
+shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh, would you? Major promised me a ten-spot
+for the fancy iron work I did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. Says
+it's artistic, see? That's me all right; it's work I like. I won't lose
+any time, either. Warden says Old Sandy was a fool for makin' me knit
+socks with them big paws of mine. Th' Major is aw' right, aw' right."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+With a glow of pleasure I meet "Smiling" Al, my colored friend from the
+jail. The good-natured boy looks old and infirm. His kindness has
+involved him in much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for
+shouldering the faults of others, and now the Inspectors have informed
+him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. He has
+grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. Every morning is
+tense with expectation. "Might be Ah goes to-day, Aleck," he hopefully
+smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks pass. The suspense is
+torturing the young negro, and he is visibly failing day by day.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+A familiar voice greets me. "Hello, Berk, ain't you glad t' see an old
+pal?" Big Dave beams on me with his cheerful smile.
+
+"No, Davy. I hoped you wouldn't come back."
+
+He becomes very grave. "Yes, I swore I'd swing sooner than come back.
+Didn't get a chanc't. You see," he explains, his tone full of
+bitterness, "I goes t' work and gets a job, good job, too; an' I keeps
+'way from th' booze an' me pals. But th' damn bulls was after me. Got me
+sacked from me job three times, an' den I knocked one of 'em on th'
+head. Damn his soul to hell, wish I'd killed 'im. 'Old offender,' they
+says to the jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker all
+right for tryin' t' be straight."
+
+
+IV
+
+In the large cage at the centre of the block, the men employed about the
+cell-house congregate in their idle moments. The shadows steal silently
+in and out of the inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within
+sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men lounging about the
+sawdust barrel, absorbed in "Snakes" Wilson's recital of his protracted
+struggle with "Old Sandy." He relates vividly his persistent waking at
+night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "Murder! I see snakes!"
+With admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old
+criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former
+Warden to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital, where his
+snake-seeing propensities would become dormant, to suffer again violent
+awakening the moment he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years
+the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and
+the strait-jacket, till the Warden yielded, and "Snakes" was permanently
+established in the comparative freedom of the special room.
+
+Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the
+"Four-eyed Yegg," who styles himself "Bill Nye," or excitedly discussing
+the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of Pittsburgh
+winning the baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's
+dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation of the Deputy
+Warden is discussed. The Major is gradually weeding out the "old gang,"
+it is gossiped. A colonel of the militia is to secure the position of
+assistant to the Warden. This source of conversation is inexhaustible,
+every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated
+debate. But at the 'lookout's' whimpered warning of an approaching
+guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and
+cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by; with short legs wide apart, he
+stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking
+eyebrows.
+
+"Quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? All of a sudden, too. And
+mighty busy, every damn one of you. You 'Snakes' there, what business
+you got here, eh?"
+
+"I've jest come in fer a broom."
+
+"You old reprobate, you, I saw you sneak in there an hour ago, and
+you've been chawin' the rag to beat the band. Think this a barroom, do
+you? Get to your cells, all of you."
+
+He trudges slowly away, mumbling: "You loafers, when I catch you here
+again, don't you dare talk so loud."
+
+One by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other
+upon their happy escape. Presently several rangemen join the group.
+Conversation becomes animated; voices are raised in dispute. But anger
+subsides, and a hush falls upon the men, as Blind Charley gropes his way
+along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for his hand, and leads him to a seat
+on the barrel. "Feelin' better to-day, Charley?" he asks gently.
+
+"Ye-es. I--think a little--better," the blind man says in an uncertain,
+hesitating manner. His face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has
+not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. It happened only a few
+months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for
+liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was
+growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A
+head appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one suddenly cried.
+There was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charley caught at his eyes. He
+staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't
+see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was
+utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charley
+fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. But they had
+fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,--alone and blind.
+
+"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says kindly. "How are your
+eyes?"
+
+"I think--a bit--better."
+
+The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is
+destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden
+calamity, Charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured.
+
+"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning it--didn't seem
+so--dark. It was like--a film over my eyes. Perhaps--it may--get better
+yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope
+confirmed.
+
+"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes.
+
+"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing "Snakes" by the
+throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It
+looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do
+you see things like in a fog, Charley?"
+
+"Yes, yes, just like that."
+
+"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little things got to
+be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever."
+
+"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously. "What did you do?"
+
+"Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker here is giving you some
+applications, ain't he?"
+
+"Yes; but he says it's for the inflammation."
+
+"That's right. That's what the doctors told me. You just take it easy,
+Charley; don't worry. You'll come out all right, see if you don't."
+
+Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up
+a warning finger to silence the giggling "Snowball Kid." Then, with
+sudden vehemence, he exclaims: "By God, Charley, if I ever meet that
+Judge of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here hands, so
+help me! It's a damn shame to send you here in this condition. You
+should have gone to a hospital, that's what I say. But cheer up, old
+boy, you won't have to serve your three years; you can bet on that.
+We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we,
+boys?"
+
+With unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking
+pledges of contributions. "Doctor George" appears around the corner,
+industriously polishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to
+corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A smile of timid
+joy suffuses the sightless face, as Bill Nye slaps him on the shoulder,
+crying jovially, "What did I tell you, eh? You'll be O. K. soon, and
+meantime keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done you," and
+with a violent wink in the direction of "Snakes," the yegg launches upon
+a reminiscence of his youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the
+spirit of vengeance was strong within him. He has always religiously
+revenged any wrong he was made to suffer, but the incident that afforded
+him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen
+then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a
+small country place. One evening, as the family gathered in the large
+sitting-room, his sister Mary said something which deeply offended him.
+In great rage he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street, he
+was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the
+town. The man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to
+some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. "Quick as a
+flash a brilliant idea struck me," Bill narrates, warming to his story.
+"Never short of them, anyhow," he remarks parenthetically, "but here was
+my revenge! 'you mean a whore-house, don't you?' I ask the fellow. Yes,
+that's what was wanted, my man says. 'Why,' says I to him, kind of
+suddenly, 'see the house there right across the street? That's the place
+you want,' and I point out to him the house where the old lady and my
+three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant like--waiting
+for me, you know. Well, the man gives me a quarter, and up he goes,
+knocks on the door and steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see
+what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with
+a bang and something comes out with a rush, and falls on the veranda,
+and mother she's got a broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed
+one of them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they rain it
+upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split my sides laughing. By
+an' by I return to the house, and mother and sisters are kind of
+excited, and I says innocent-like, 'What's up, girls?' Well, you ought
+to hear 'em! Talk, did they? 'That beast of a man, the dirty thing that
+came to the house and insulted us with--' they couldn't even mention the
+awful things he said; and Mary--that's the sis I got mad at--she cries,
+'Oh, Billie, you're so big and strong, I wish you was here when that
+nasty old thing came up.'"
+
+The boys are hilarious over the story, and "Doctor George" motions me
+aside to talk over "old times." With a hearty pressure I greet my
+friend, whom I had not seen since the days of the first investigation.
+Suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and only
+recently returned to his former position in the block. His beautiful
+thick hair has grown thin and gray; he looks aged and worn. With sadness
+I notice his tone of bitterness. "They almost killed me, Aleck!" he
+says; "if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old Warden." Throughout
+his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her
+unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness
+and despair. "The dear girl," he muses, "I'd be dead if it wasn't for
+her." But his release is approaching. He has almost served the sentence
+of sixteen years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at
+Leechburg, during which the cashier was killed. The other two men
+convicted of the crime have both died in prison. The Doctor alone has
+survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he repeats. But the six months at
+the workhouse fill him with apprehension. He has been informed that the
+place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. However,
+his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence
+suspended, and full liberty may be at hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII
+
+"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN"
+
+
+The presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. George is an
+intelligent man; the long years of incarceration have not circumscribed
+his intellectual horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his
+interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours
+conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories
+and problems of the day. He has a broad grasp of affairs, but his
+temperament and Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear
+to me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice,
+and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines.
+The recent death of Liebknecht and the American lecture tour of Peter
+Kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social
+questions. There are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend,
+whose great-grandfather was among the signers of the Declaration, waxes
+eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the
+Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the Republic. A
+Democrat of the Jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old Warden
+on account of his favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience,
+he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once
+entertained.
+
+"Why, Aleck, there _is_ no justice," he says vehemently; "no, not even
+in the best democracy. Ten years ago I would have staked my life on the
+courts. To-day I know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is
+wrong. You see, I have been here nine years. I have met and made friends
+with hundreds of criminals. Some were pretty desperate, and many of them
+scoundrels. But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover some
+good quality, if he's scratched right. Look at that fellow there," he
+points to a young prisoner scrubbing an upper range, "that's 'Johnny the
+Hunk.' He's in for murder. Now what did the judge and jury know about
+him? Just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. One Saturday he
+attended a wedding, with a chum of his. They were both drunk when they
+went out into the street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to
+arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. The cop must have lost his head--he
+shot the fellow dead. It was right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and
+got a pistol, and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with drink.
+Well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly
+sixteen. They gave him fifteen years. Now he's all in--they've just
+ruined the boy's life. And what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess
+what he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told him that the
+widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she has three children, and takes
+in washing. Do you know what Johnny did? He went around among the cons,
+and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work he is making;
+he's an artist at it. He sent the woman the money, and begged her to
+forgive him."
+
+"Is that true, Doctor?"
+
+"Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some business, and the boy
+had just sent the money to the woman. The Chaplain was so much moved by
+it, he told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You know what
+that woman did?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever
+goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. She didn't want anything to do
+with him, she wrote. But she kept the money."
+
+"How did Johnny take it?"
+
+"It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy cried over the
+letter, and told the Chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. But
+every minute he can spare he works on that fancy work, and every month
+he sends her money. That's the _criminal_ the judge sentenced to fifteen
+years in this hell!"
+
+My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal
+with our social ills. "Why, look at the courts!" he exclaims, "they
+don't concern themselves with crime. They merely punish the criminal,
+absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the
+predisposing causes."
+
+"But, George," I rejoin, "it is the economic system of exploitation, the
+dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want,
+which are responsible for most crimes."
+
+"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corruption in our public
+life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the
+spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be
+so much violence and crime, even under what you call the capitalist
+system. At any rate, there is no doubt the law is an absolute failure in
+dealing with crime. The criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics.
+Give him to the doctor instead of the jailer."
+
+"You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered a product of
+anthropological and physical factors. But don't you see that you must
+also examine society, to determine to what extent social conditions are
+responsible for criminal actions? And if that were done, I believe most
+crimes would be found to be misdirected energy--misdirected because of
+false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest."
+
+"Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase of the question. But
+aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are
+making of it. For one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old,
+without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting
+prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. The blackjack and the
+dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what
+the social causes of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform.
+The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True reformation can
+emanate only from voluntary impulse, inspired and cultivated by
+intelligent advice and kind treatment. But reformation which is the
+result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish
+like smoke the moment fear abates. And you know, Aleck, the
+reformatories are even worse than the prisons. Look at the fellows here
+from the various reform schools. Why, it's a disgrace! The boys who come
+from the outside are decent fellows. But those kids from the
+reformatories--one-third of the cons here have graduated there--they are
+terrible. You can spot them by looking at them. They are worse than
+street prostitutes."
+
+My friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as
+"the girls," "Sallies," and "punks," who for gain traffic in sexual
+gratification. But he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of
+homosexuality; his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal
+desires. As a medical man, and a student, he is deeply interested in the
+manifestations of suppressed sex. He speaks with profound sympathy of
+the brilliant English man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and
+stupidity has driven to prison and to death because his sex life did not
+conform to the accepted standards. In detail, my friend traces the
+various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and I
+warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the
+intimate emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner, he had
+not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. He had heard
+of pederasty; but like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither
+understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered
+abnormal and vicious. In prison he was horrified at the perversion that
+frequently came under his observation. For two years the very thought of
+such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused to speak to the
+men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning
+them--"with my prejudices rather than my reason," he remarks. But the
+forces of suppression were at work. "Now, this is in confidence, Aleck,"
+he cautions me. "I know you will understand. Probably you yourself have
+experienced the same thing. I'm glad I can talk to some one about it;
+the other fellows here wouldn't understand it. It makes me sick to see
+how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is caught. And the
+officers, too, though you know as well as I that quite a number of them
+are addicted to these practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the
+same story with every one here, especially the long-timers. I was
+terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen years--I didn't
+believe for a moment I could live through it. I was abusing myself
+pretty badly. Still, after a while, when I got work and began to take an
+interest in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex instinct
+awakened. I was young: about twenty-five, strong and healthy. Sometimes
+I thought I'd get crazy with passion. You remember when we were celling
+together on that upper range, on R; you were in the stocking shop then,
+weren't you? Don't you remember?"
+
+"Of course I remember, George. You were in the cell next mine. We could
+see out on the river. It was in the summer: we could hear the excursion
+boats, and the girls singing and dancing."
+
+"That, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I really believe the
+whole blessed range used to 'indulge' then. Think of the precious
+material fed to the fishes," he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty
+into the river."
+
+"Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies."
+
+"Yes, orgies; that's just what they were. As a matter of fact, I don't
+believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself,
+at one time or another."
+
+"If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known some men to
+masturbate four and five times a day. Kept it up for months, too."
+
+"Yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. As a medical man I think
+that self-abuse, if practised no more frequently than ordinary coition,
+would be no more injurious than the latter. But it can't be done. It
+grows on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous than the
+first."
+
+"What do you call the second?"
+
+"Well, the first is the dejection stage. Hopeless and despondent, you
+seek forgetfulness in onanism. You don't care what happens. It's what I
+might call mechanical self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. This
+stage passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take an
+interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to do, before long.
+The second stage is the psychic and mental. It is not the result of
+dejection. With the gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a
+comparatively normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. At this
+stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. It is the more
+dangerous phase, because the frequency of the practice grows with the
+recurring thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. While the first was
+mechanical, giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing
+lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved
+woman, or one desired, and affords intense joy. Therein is its
+allurement and danger; and that's why the habit gains in strength. The
+more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon
+your sole source of pleasure. Many become helpless victims. I have
+noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this
+respect."
+
+"I have had the same experience. The narrower your mental horizon, the
+more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. That is probably
+the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement."
+
+"No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities for observation
+of the solitaries and the new men. What did you notice, Aleck?"
+
+"Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of
+a factory worker. As a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from
+solitary. They are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters,
+and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who have no
+interests beyond their personal life, soon become victims of insanity.
+I've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or
+fancy work,--it's their only salvation."
+
+"If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories
+and ideals; I'm sure of it. And I continued my medical studies, and
+sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects."
+
+For a moment George pauses. The veins of his forehead protrude, as if he
+is undergoing a severe mental struggle. Presently he says: "Aleck, I'm
+going to speak very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject.
+I'll give you my intimate experiences, and I want you to be just as
+frank with me. I think it's one of the most important things, and I want
+to learn all I can about it. Very little is known about it, and much
+less understood."
+
+"About what, George?"
+
+"About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second phase of onanism. With
+a strong effort I overcame it. Not entirely, of course. But I have
+succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain
+intervals. But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested
+themselves. It was like a psychic awakening. The desire to love
+something was strong upon me. Once I caught a little mouse in my cell,
+and tamed it a bit. It would eat out of my hand, and come around at meal
+times, and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. I
+learned to love it. Honestly, Aleck, I cried when it died. And then, for
+a long time, I felt as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted
+something to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for affection.
+Somehow the thought of woman gradually faded from my mind. When I saw my
+wife, it was just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel toward her
+sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I noticed a young boy.
+He had been in only a short time, and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth
+little face and sweet lips--he reminded me of a girl I used to court
+before I married. After that I frequently surprised myself thinking of
+the lad. I felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get
+friendly. I became acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a
+medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble
+he suffered. The doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and
+physics all the time. Well, Aleck, I could hardly believe it myself, but
+I grew so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed without my
+seeing him. I would take big chances to get near him. I was rangeman
+then, and he was assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to
+talk. I got him interested in literature, and advised him what to read,
+for he didn't know what to do with his time. He had a fine character,
+that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. At first it was only a
+liking for him, but it increased all the time, till I couldn't think of
+any woman. But don't misunderstand me, Aleck; it wasn't that I wanted a
+'kid.' I swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me
+whatever; but this boy--his name was Floyd--he became so dear to me,
+why, I used to give him everything I could get. I had a friendly guard,
+and he'd bring me fruit and things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it,
+but I always gave it to Floyd. And, Aleck--you remember when I was down
+in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for the sake of that boy. He did
+something, and I took the blame on myself. And the last time--they kept
+me nine days chained up--I hit a fellow for abusing Floyd: he was small
+and couldn't defend himself. I did not realize it at the time, Aleck,
+but I know now that I was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly in
+love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved him without the
+least taint of sex desire. It was the purest affection I ever felt in my
+life. It was all-absorbing, and I would have sacrificed my life for him
+if he had asked it. But by degrees the psychic stage began to manifest
+all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. I remember the
+first time he kissed me. It was early in the morning; only the rangemen
+were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. He put both
+hands between the bars, and pressed his lips to mine. Aleck, I tell you,
+never in my life had I experienced such bliss as at that moment. It's
+five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think of it. It came
+suddenly; I didn't expect it. It was entirely spontaneous: our eyes met,
+and it seemed as if something drew us together. He told me he was very
+fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used to neglect my work,
+and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew
+terribly jealous, too, though I had no cause. I passed through every
+phase of a passionate love. With this difference, though--I felt a touch
+of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. That I didn't
+do. It seemed to me a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him.
+But after a while that feeling also wore off, and I desired sexual
+relation with him. He said he loved me enough to do even that for me,
+though he had never done it before. He hadn't been in any reformatory,
+you know. And yet, somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it; I loved the
+lad too much for it. Perhaps you will smile, Aleck, but it was real,
+true love. When Floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I
+felt that I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his hand
+again, or get one more kiss. You--you're laughing?" he asks abruptly, a
+touch of anxiety in his voice.
+
+"No, George. I am grateful for your confidence. I think it is a
+wonderful thing; and, George--I had felt the same horror and disgust at
+these things, as you did. But now I think quite differently about them."
+
+"Really, Aleck? I'm glad you say so. Often I was troubled--is it
+viciousness or what, I wondered; but I could never talk to any one about
+it. They take everything here in such a filthy sense. Yet I knew in my
+heart that it was a true, honest emotion."
+
+"George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just as beautiful as love
+for a woman. I had a friend here; his name was Russell; perhaps you
+remember him. I felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved
+him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible shock to me. It
+almost drove me insane."
+
+Silently George holds out his hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV
+
+LOVE'S DARING
+
+
+                                               Castle on the Ohio,
+                                                      Aug. 18, 1902.
+
+    MY DEAR CAROLUS:
+
+    You know the saying, "Der eine hat den Beutel, der andere das
+    Geld." I find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with my
+    correspondents. I have the leisure, but theirs is the advantage
+    of the paper supply. Thus runs the world. But you, a most
+    faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long while.
+    Therefore this unexpected _sub rosa_ chance is for you.
+
+    My dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me, don't
+    fashion your philosophy in the image of disappointment. All life
+    is a multiplied pain; its highest expressions, love and
+    friendship, are sources of the most heart-breaking sorrow. That
+    has been my experience; no doubt, yours also. And you are aware
+    that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the
+    grief and anguish, are so much more acute, more bitter and
+    lasting. What then? Shall one seal his emotions, or barricade
+    his heart? Ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some
+    claim. But remember, dear Carl, mere wisdom is a barren life.
+
+    I think it a natural reaction against your prison existence that
+    you feel the need of self-indulgence. But it is a temporary
+    phase, I hope. You want to live and enjoy, you say. But surely
+    you are mistaken to believe that the time is past when we
+    cheerfully sacrificed all to the needs of the cause. The first
+    flush of emotional enthusiasm may have paled, but in its place
+    there is the deeper and more lasting conviction that permeates
+    one's whole being. There come moments when one asks himself the
+    justification of his existence, the meaning of his life. No
+    torment is more excruciating and overwhelming than the failure
+    to find an answer. You will discover it neither in physical
+    indulgence nor in coldly intellectual pleasure. Something more
+    substantial is needed. In this regard, life outside does not
+    differ so very much from prison existence. The narrower your
+    horizon--the more absorbed you are in your immediate
+    environment, and dependent upon it--the sooner you decay,
+    morally and mentally. You can, in a measure, escape the
+    sordidness of life only by living for something higher.
+
+    Perhaps that is the secret of my survival. Wider interests have
+    given me strength. And other phases there are. From your own
+    experience you know what sustaining satisfaction is found in
+    prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human dignity,
+    because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense of
+    self-respect. I have seen prisoners offer most desperate
+    resistance in defence of their manhood. On my part it has been a
+    continuous struggle. Do you remember the last time I was in the
+    dungeon? It was on the occasion of Comrade Kropotkin's presence
+    in this country, during his last lecture tour. The old Warden
+    was here then; he informed me that I would not be permitted to
+    see our Grand Old Man. I had a tilt with him, but I did not
+    succeed in procuring a visiting card. A few days later I
+    received a letter from Peter. On the envelope, under my name,
+    was marked, "Political prisoner." The Warden was furious. "We
+    have no political prisoners in a free country," he thundered,
+    tearing up the envelope. "But you have political grafters," I
+    retorted. We argued the matter heatedly, and I demanded the
+    envelope. The Warden insisted that I apologize. Of course I
+    refused, and I had to spend three days in the dungeon.
+
+    There have been many changes since then. Your coming to
+    Pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place (they
+    knew you had the facts) helped to bring matters to a point. They
+    assigned me to a range, and I am still holding the position. The
+    new Warden is treating me more decently. He "wants no trouble
+    with me," he told me. But he has proved a great disappointment.
+    He started in with promising reforms, but gradually he has
+    fallen into the old ways. In some respects his regime is even
+    worse than the previous one. He has introduced a system of
+    "economy" which barely affords us sufficient food. The dungeon
+    and basket, which he had at first abolished, are in operation
+    again, and the discipline is daily becoming more drastic. The
+    result is more brutality and clubbings, more fights and cutting
+    affairs, and general discontent. The new management cannot plead
+    ignorance, for the last 4th of July the men gave a demonstration
+    of the effects of humane treatment. The Warden had assembled
+    the inmates in the chapel, promising to let them pass the day in
+    the yard, on condition of good behavior. The Inspectors and the
+    old guards advised against it, arguing the "great risk" of such
+    a proceeding. But the Major decided to try the experiment. He
+    put the men on their honor, and turned them loose in the yard.
+    He was not disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the
+    least mishap; there was not even a single report. We began to
+    breathe easier, when presently the whole system was reversed. It
+    was partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the
+    Warden; and the latter completely lost his head when a trusty
+    made his escape from the hospital. It seems to have terrorized
+    the Warden into abandoning all reforms. He has also been
+    censured by the Inspectors because of the reduced profits from
+    the industries. Now the tasks have been increased, and even the
+    sick and consumptives are forced to work. The labor bodies of
+    the State have been protesting in vain. How miserably weak is
+    the Giant of Toil, because unconscious of his strength!
+
+    The men are groaning, and wishing Old Sandy back. In short,
+    things are just as they were during your time. Men and Wardens
+    may come and go, but the system prevails. More and more I am
+    persuaded of the great truth: given authority and the
+    opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially
+    the same, no matter what particular set of men, or of
+    "principles," happens to be in the saddle.
+
+    Fortunately I am on the "home run." I'm glad you felt that the
+    failure of my application to the Superior Court would not
+    depress me. I built no castles upon it. Yet I am glad it has
+    been tried. It was well to demonstrate once more that neither
+    lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals, are
+    interested in doing justice. My lawyers had such a strong case,
+    from the legal standpoint, that the State Pardon Board resorted
+    to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. And now
+    the Superior Court thought it the better part of wisdom to
+    ignore the argument that I am being illegally detained. They
+    simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases
+    that entirely evade the question at issue.
+
+    Well, to hell with them. I have "2 an' a stump" (stump, 11
+    months) and I feel the courage of perseverance. But I hope that
+    the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation law.
+    There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians are angry
+    that their efforts in behalf of the wealthy U. S. grafters in
+    the Eastern Penitentiary failed. They begrudge the "common"
+    prisoner the increased allowance of good time. However, I shall
+    "make" it. Of course, you understand that both French leave and
+    Dutch act are out of the question now. I have decided to
+    stay--till I can _walk_ through the gates.
+
+    In reference to French leave, have you read about the Biddle
+    affair? I think it was the most remarkable attempt in the
+    history of the country. Think of the wife of the Jail Warden
+    helping prisoners to escape! The boys here were simply wild with
+    joy. Every one hoped they would make good their escape, and old
+    Sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught. But all the
+    bloodhounds of the law were unchained; the Biddle boys got no
+    chance at all.
+
+    The story is this. The brothers Biddle, Jack and Ed, and Walter
+    Dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a man. It
+    was Dorman who fired the shot, but he turned State's evidence.
+    The State rewards treachery. Dorman escaped the noose, but the
+    two brothers were sentenced to die. As is customary, they were
+    visited in the jail by the "gospel ladies," among them the wife
+    of the Warden. You probably remember him--Soffel; he was Deputy
+    Warden when we were in the jail, and a rat he was, too. Well, Ed
+    was a good-looking man, with soft manners, and so forth. Mrs.
+    Soffel fell in love with him. It was mutual, I believe. Now
+    witness the heroism a woman is capable of, when she loves. Mrs.
+    Soffel determined to save the two brothers; I understand they
+    promised her to quit their criminal life. Every day she would
+    visit the condemned men, to console them. Pretending to read the
+    gospel, she would stand close to the doors, to give them an
+    opportunity to saw through the bars. She supplied them with
+    revolvers, and they agreed to escape together. Of course, she
+    could not go back to her husband, for she loved Ed, loved him
+    well enough never even to see her children again. The night for
+    the escape was set. The brothers intended to separate
+    immediately after the break, subsequently to meet together with
+    Mrs. Soffel. But the latter insisted on going with them. Ed
+    begged her not to. He knew that it was sheer suicide for all of
+    them. But she persisted, and Ed acquiesced, fully realizing that
+    it would prove fatal. Don't you think it showed a noble trait in
+    the boy? He did not want her to think that he was deserting her.
+    The escape from the jail was made successfully; they even had
+    several hours' start. But snow had fallen, and it was easy to
+    trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. The brutality of the
+    man-hunters is past belief. When the detectives came upon the
+    boys, they fired their Winchesters into the two brothers. Even
+    when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and
+    helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into Ed, killing him.
+    Jack died later, and Mrs. Soffel was placed in jail. You can
+    imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. Mrs. Soffel was
+    denounced by her husband, and all the good Christian women cried
+    "Unclean!" and clamored for the punishment of their unfortunate
+    sister. She is now here, serving two years for aiding in the
+    escape. I caught a glimpse of her when she came in. She has a
+    sympathetic face, that bears signs of deep suffering; she must
+    have gone through a terrible ordeal. Think of the struggle
+    before she decided upon the desperate step; then the days and
+    weeks of anxiety, as the boys were sawing the bars and preparing
+    for the last chance! I should appreciate the love of a woman
+    whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters of convention.
+    In some ways this woman reminds me of the Girl--the type that
+    possesses the courage and strength to rise above all
+    considerations for the sake of the man or the cause held dear.
+    How little the world understands the vital forces of life!
+
+                                                                  A.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV
+
+THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF"
+
+
+I
+
+It is September the nineteenth. The cell-house is silent and gray in the
+afternoon dusk. In the yard the rain walks with long strides, hastening
+in the dim twilight, hastening whither the shadows have gone. I stand at
+the door, in reverie. In the sombre light, I see myself led through the
+gate yonder,--it was ten years ago this day. The walls towered
+menacingly in the dark, the iron gripped my heart, and I was lost in
+despair. I should not have believed then that I could survive the long
+years of misery and pain. But the nimble feet of the rain patter
+hopefully; its tears dissipate the clouds, and bring light; and soon I
+shall step into the sunshine, and come forth grown and matured, as the
+world must have grown in the struggle of suffering--
+
+"Fresh fish!" a rangeman announces, pointing to the long line of striped
+men, trudging dejectedly across the yard, and stumbling against each
+other in the unaccustomed lockstep. The door opens, and Aleck Killain,
+the lifetimer, motions to me. He walks with measured, even step along
+the hall. Rangeman "Coz" and Harry, my young assistant, stealthily crowd
+with him into my cell. The air of mystery about them arouses my
+apprehension.
+
+"What's the matter, boys?" I ask.
+
+They hesitate and glance at each other, smiling diffidently.
+
+"You speak, Killain," Harry whispers.
+
+The lifetimer carefully unwraps a little package, and I become aware of
+the sweet scent of flowers perfuming the cell. The old prisoner stammers
+in confusion, as he presents me with a rose, big and red. "We swiped it
+in the greenhouse," he says.
+
+"Fer you, Aleck," Harry adds.
+
+"For your tenth anniversary," corrects "Coz." "Good luck to you, Aleck."
+
+Mutely they grip my hand, and steal out of the cell.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+In solitude I muse over the touching remembrance. These men--they are
+the shame Society hides within the gray walls. These, and others like
+them. Daily they come to be buried alive in this grave; all through the
+long years they have been coming, and the end is not yet. Robbed of joy
+and life, their being is discounted in the economy of existence. And all
+the while the world has been advancing, it is said; science and
+philosophy, art and letters, have made great strides. But wherein is the
+improvement that augments misery and crowds the prisons? The discovery
+of the X-ray will further scientific research, I am told. But where is
+the X-ray of social insight that will discover in human understanding
+and mutual aid the elements of true progress? Deceptive is the advance
+that involves the ruthless sacrifice of peace and health and life;
+superficial and unstable the civilization that rests upon the
+treacherous sands of strife and warfare. The progress of science and
+industry, far from promoting man's happiness and social harmony, merely
+accentuates discontent and sharpens the contrasts. The knowledge gained
+at so much cost of suffering and sacrifice bears bitter fruit, for lack
+of wisdom to apply the lessons learned. There are no limits to the
+achievements of man, were not humanity divided against itself,
+exhausting its best energies in sanguinary conflict, suicidal and
+unnecessary. And these, the thousands stepmothered by cruel stupidity,
+are the victims castigated by Society for her own folly and sins. There
+is Young Harry. A child of the slums, he has never known the touch of a
+loving hand. Motherless, his father a drunkard, the heavy arm of the law
+was laid upon him at the age of ten. From reform school to reformatory
+the social orphan has been driven about.--"You know, Aleck," he says, "I
+nev'r had no real square meal, to feel full, you know; 'cept once, on
+Christmas, in de ref." At the age of nineteen, he has not seen a day of
+liberty since early childhood.
+
+Three years ago he was transferred to the penitentiary, under a sentence
+of sixteen years for an attempted escape from the Morganza reform
+school, which resulted in the death of a keeper. The latter was foreman
+in the tailor shop, in which Harry was employed together with a number
+of other youths. The officer had induced Harry to do overwork, above the
+regular task, for which he rewarded the boy with an occasional dainty of
+buttered bread or a piece of corn-cake. By degrees Harry's voluntary
+effort became part of his routine work, and the reward in delicacies
+came more rarely. But when they entirely ceased the boy rebelled,
+refusing to exert himself above the required task. He was reported, but
+the Superintendent censured the keeper for the unauthorized increase of
+work. Harry was elated; but presently began systematic persecution that
+made the boy's life daily more unbearable. In innumerable ways the
+hostile guard sought to revenge his defeat upon the lad, till at last,
+driven to desperation, Harry resolved upon escape. With several other
+inmates the fourteen-year-old boy planned to flee to the Rocky
+Mountains, there to hunt the "wild" Indians, and live the independent
+and care-free life of Jesse James. "You know, Aleck," Harry confides to
+me, reminiscently, "we could have made it easy; dere was eleven of us.
+But de kids was all sore on de foreman. He 'bused and beat us, an' some
+of de boys wouldn' go 'cept we knock de screw out first. It was me pal
+Nacky that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den I hit 'im, lightly. But
+dey all said in court that I hit 'im both times. Nacky's people had
+money, an' he beat de case, but I got soaked sixteen years." His eyes
+fill with tears and he says plaintively: "I haven't been outside since I
+was a little kid, an' now I'm sick, an' will die here mebbe."
+
+
+II
+
+Conversing in low tones, we sweep the range. I shorten my strokes to
+enable Harry to keep pace. Weakly he drags the broom across the floor.
+His appearance is pitifully grotesque. The sickly features, pale with
+the color of the prison whitewash, resemble a little child's. But the
+eyes look oldish in their wrinkled sockets, the head painfully out of
+proportion with the puny, stunted body. Now and again he turns his gaze
+on me, and in his face there is melancholy wonder, as if he is seeking
+something that has passed him by. Often I ponder, Is there a crime more
+appalling and heinous than the one Society has committed upon him, who
+is neither man nor youth and never was child? Crushed by the heel of
+brutality, this plant had never budded. Yet there is the making of a
+true man in him. His mentality is pathetically primitive, but he
+possesses character and courage, and latent virgin forces. His emotional
+frankness borders on the incredible; he is unmoral and unsocial, as a
+field daisy might be, surrounded by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious
+of its own being. It distresses me to witness the yearning that comes
+into his eyes at the mention of the "outside." Often he asks: "Tell me,
+Aleck, how does it feel to walk on de street, to know that you're free
+t' go where you damn please, wid no screw to foller you?" Ah, if he'd
+only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so careful not to get into
+trouble! He would like to keep company with a nice girl, he confides,
+blushingly; he had never had one. But he fears his days are numbered.
+His lungs are getting very bad, and now that his father has died, he has
+no one to help him get a pardon. Perhaps father wouldn't have helped
+him, either; he was always drunk, and never cared for his children. "He
+had no business t' have any children," Harry comments passionately. And
+he can't expect any assistance from his sister; the poor girl barely
+makes a living in the factory. "She's been workin' ev'r so long in the
+pickle works," Harry explains. "That feller, the boss there, must be
+rich; it's a big factory," he adds, naively, "he oughter give 'er enough
+to marry on." But he fears he will die in the prison. There is no one to
+aid him, and he has no friends. "I never had no friend," he says,
+wistfully; "there ain't no real friends. De older boys in de ref always
+used me, an' dey use all de kids. But dey was no friends, an' every one
+was against me in de court, an' dey put all de blame on me. Everybody
+was always against me," he repeats bitterly.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Alone in the cell, I ponder over his words. "Everybody was always
+against me," I hear the boy say. I wake at night, with the quivering
+cry in the darkness, "Everybody against me!" Motherless in childhood,
+reared in the fumes of brutal inebriation, cast into the slums to be
+crushed under the wheels of the law's Juggernaut, was the fate of this
+social orphan. Is this the fruit of progress? this the spirit of our
+Christian civilization? In the hours of solitude, the scheme of
+existence unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. In variegated design and
+divergent angle it presents an endless panorama of stunted minds and
+tortured bodies, of universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental
+aspect of the boy's desolate life. And I behold all the suffering and
+agony resolve themselves in the dominance of the established, in
+tradition and custom that heavily encrust humanity, weighing down the
+already fettered soul till its wings break and it beats helplessly
+against the artificial barriers.... The blanched face of Misery is
+silhouetted against the night. The silence sobs with the piteous cry of
+the crushed boy. And I hear the cry, and it fills my whole being with
+the sense of terrible wrong and injustice, with the shame of my kind,
+that sheds crocodile tears while it swallows its helpless prey. The
+submerged moan in the dark. I will echo their agony to the ears of the
+world. I have suffered with them, I have looked into the heart of Pain,
+and with its voice and anguish I will speak to humanity, to wake it from
+sloth and apathy, and lend hope to despair.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The months speed in preparation for the great work. I must equip myself
+for the mission, for the combat with the world that struggles so
+desperately to defend its chains. The day of my resurrection is
+approaching, and I will devote my new life to the service of my
+fellow-sufferers. The world shall hear the tortured; it shall behold the
+shame it has buried within these walls, yet not eliminated. The ghost
+of its crimes shall rise and harrow its ears, till the social conscience
+is roused to the cry of its victims. And perhaps with eyes once opened,
+it will behold the misery and suffering in the world beyond, and Man
+will pause in his strife and mad race to ask himself, wherefore?
+whither?
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI
+
+A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER
+
+
+I
+
+With deep gratification I observe the unfoldment of Harry's mind. My
+friendship has wakened in him hope and interest in life. Merely to
+please me, he smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading
+the mapped-out course. But as time passed he became absorbed in the
+studies, developing a thirst for knowledge that is transforming his
+primitive intelligence into a mentality of great power and character.
+Often I marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing from
+the depths of a prison friendship. "I did not believe in friendship,
+Aleck," Harry says, as we ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now I
+feel that I wouldn't be here, if I had had then a real friend. It isn't
+only that we suffer together, but you have made me feel that our minds
+can rise above these rules and bars. You know, the screws have warned me
+against you, and I was afraid of you. I don't know how to put it, Aleck,
+but the first time we had that long talk last year, I felt as if
+something walked right over from you to me. And since then I have had
+something to live for. You know, I have seen so much of the priests, I
+have no use for the church, and I don't believe in immortality. But the
+idea I got from you clung to me, and it was so persistent, I really
+think there is such a thing as immortality of an idea."
+
+For an instant the old look of helpless wonder is in his face, as if he
+is at a loss to master the thought. He pauses in his work, his eyes
+fastened on mine. "I got it, Aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up
+his pallid features. "You remember the story you told me about them
+fellers--Oh,"--he quickly corrects himself--"when I get excited, I drop
+into my former bad English. Well, you know the story you told me of the
+prisoners in Siberia; how they escape sometimes, and the peasants,
+though forbidden to house them, put food outside of their huts, so that
+an escaped man may not starve to death. You remember, Aleck?"
+
+"Yes, Harry. I'm glad you haven't forgotten it."
+
+"Forgotten? Why, Aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting at my door, I saw a
+sparrow hopping about in the hall. It looked cold and hungry. I threw a
+piece of bread to it, but the Warden came by and made me pick it up, and
+drive the bird away. Somehow I thought of the peasants in Siberia, and
+how they share their food with escaped men. Why should the bird starve
+as long as I have bread? Now every night I place a few pieces near the
+door, and in the morning, just when it begins to dawn, and every one is
+asleep, the bird steals up and gets her breakfast. It's the immortality
+of an idea, Aleck."
+
+
+II
+
+The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon Harry. The foul hot air
+of the cell-house is aggravating his complaint, and now the physician
+has pronounced him in an advanced stage of consumption. The disease is
+ravaging the population. Hygienic rules are ignored, and no precautions
+are taken against contagion. Harry's health is fast failing. He walks
+with an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my gaze. "I
+feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't believe it's the con. It's
+just a bad cold."
+
+He clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now and then the cunning
+of suspicion tests my faith. Pretending to wash his hands, he asks: "Can
+I use your towel, Aleck? Sure you're not afraid?" My apparent confidence
+seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies with renewed hope. I
+strive to lighten his work on the range, and his friend "Coz," who
+attends the officers' table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of
+fruit and cake left after their meals. The kind-hearted Italian, serving
+a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure weaving hair chains in
+the dim light of the cell, and invests the proceeds in warm underwear
+for his consumptive friend. "I don't need it myself, I'm too
+hot-blooded, anyhow," he lightly waves aside Harry's objections. He
+shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame, and anxiously
+hovers over the boy, mothering him with unobtrusive tenderness.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+At the first sign of spring, "Coz" conspires with me to procure for
+Harry the privilege of the yard. The consumptives are deprived of air,
+immured in the shop or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. In
+view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining time, the
+Inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard. I
+have not touched the soil since the discovery of the tunnel, in July
+1900, almost four years ago. But Harry is in greater need of fresh air,
+and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege for him, instead.
+His health would improve, and in the meantime we will bring his case
+before the Pardon Board. It was an outrage to send him to the
+penitentiary, "Coz" asserts vehemently. "Harry was barely fourteen then,
+a mere child. Think of a judge who will give such a kid sixteen years!
+Why, it means death. But what can you expect! Remember the little boy
+who was sent here--it was somewhere around '97--he was just twelve years
+old, and he didn't look more than ten. They brought him here in
+knickerbockers, and the fellows had to bend over double to keep in
+lockstep with him. He looked just like a baby in the line. The first
+pair of long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so frightened,
+he'd stand at the door and cry all the time. Well, they got ashamed of
+themselves after a while, and sent him away to some reformatory, but he
+spent about six months here then. Oh, what's the use talking," "Coz"
+concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all right. But may be we can
+get Harry a pardon. Honest, Aleck, I feel as if he's my own child. We've
+been friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy, only he
+never had a chance. Make a list, Aleck. I'll ask the Chaplain how much
+I've got in the office. I think it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three
+dollars. It's all for Harry."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+The spring warms into summer before the dime and quarter donations total
+the amount required by the attorney to carry Harry's case to the Pardon
+Board. But the sick boy is missing from the range. For weeks his dry,
+hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the men awake, till at
+last the doctor ordered him transferred to the hospital. His place on
+the range has been taken by "Big Swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who
+shuffles along the hall, moaning in pain. The passing guards mimic him,
+and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "Hey, you! Get a move on, and quit
+your shammin'." He starts in affright; pressing both hands against his
+side, he shrinks at the officer's touch. "You fakir, we're next to
+_you_, all right." An uncomprehending, sickly smile spreads over the
+sere face, as he murmurs plaintively, "Yis, sir, me seek, very seek."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII
+
+CHUM
+
+
+I
+
+The able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old
+and decrepit remain in the cell-house. But even the light duties of
+assistant prove too difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he
+is shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to
+stifle his groans. I protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to
+the office. The Deputy's desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of
+the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of Second Assistant
+Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin. "I knew you wouldn't
+behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop."
+
+The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls
+in with long, swinging step. He glances over the report against me. "Is
+that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice.
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"Go back to your work, Berkman."
+
+But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into the cell-house, in
+charge of the barber gang. As I take my turn in the first chair, the
+guard hastens toward me. "Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't
+your turn. You take _that_ chair," pointing toward the second barber, a
+former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher."
+
+"It _is_ my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my seat.
+
+"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in.
+
+"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He
+advances toward me threateningly.
+
+"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye.
+
+Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns
+purple, and strides toward the office to report me.
+
+
+II
+
+"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the
+right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell. "But never min', old boy," he
+smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got
+other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer
+right away. I'll call for it."
+
+The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot
+identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His
+sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details
+of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my rights. It
+is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the
+hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus
+persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected,
+may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the
+Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before
+taking action.
+
+I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner;
+intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot
+account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such
+means of communicating with me.
+
+Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he
+whispers.
+
+"Who gave you the note, Coz?"
+
+"I don't know if I should tell you."
+
+"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this note unless I know to
+whom I am writing."
+
+"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may tell you."
+
+"Then better go and ask him first."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns. From the delay I judge
+that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily
+accessible. At last the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell.
+
+"It's all right, Aleck," he says.
+
+"Who is he?" I ask impatiently.
+
+"I'll bet you'll never guess."
+
+"Tell me, then."
+
+"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw."
+
+"Can't be a prisoner?"
+
+"No."
+
+"Who, then?"
+
+"He is a fine fellow, Aleck."
+
+"Come now, tell me."
+
+"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop."
+
+"The weaving department?"
+
+"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him. Answer at once."
+
+
+III
+
+    DEAR MR. J. M.:
+
+    I hardly know how to write to you. It is the most remarkable
+    thing that has happened to me in all the years of my
+    confinement. To think that you, a perfect stranger--and not a
+    prisoner, at that--should offer to intercede in my behalf
+    because you feel that an injustice has been done! It is almost
+    incredible, but "Coz" has informed me that you are determined to
+    see the Warden in this matter. I assure you I appreciate your
+    sense of justice more than I can express it. But I most urgently
+    request you not to carry out your plan. With the best of
+    intentions, your intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself
+    as well as to me. A shop foreman, you are not supposed to know
+    what is happening in the block. The Warden is a martinet, and
+    extremely vain of his authority. He will resent your
+    interference. I don't know who you are, but your indignation at
+    what you believe an injustice characterizes you as a man of
+    principle, and you are evidently inclined to be friendly toward
+    me. I should be very unhappy to be the cause of your discharge.
+    You need your job, or you would not be here. I am very, very
+    thankful to you, but I urge you most earnestly to drop the
+    matter. I must fight my own battles. Moreover, the situation is
+    not very serious, and I shall come out all right.
+
+                              With much appreciation,
+
+                                                               A. B.
+
+
+    DEAR MR. M.:
+
+    I feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my request. It
+    is best so. You need not worry about me. I expect to receive a
+    hearing before the Deputy, and he seems a decent chap. You will
+    pardon me when I confess that I smiled at your question whether
+    your correspondence is welcome. Your notes are a ray of sunshine
+    in the darkness, and I am intensely interested in the
+    personality of a man whose sense of justice transcends
+    considerations of personal interest. You know, no great heroism
+    is required to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of
+    our own advantage. But where the other fellow is concerned,
+    especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract"
+    justice--and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize
+    their reputation or comfort for that.
+
+    Since our correspondence began, I have had occasion to speak to
+    some of the men in your charge. I want to thank you in their
+    name for your considerate and humane treatment of them.
+
+    "Coz" is at the door, and I must hurry. Trust no one with notes,
+    except him. We have been friends for years, and he can tell you
+    all you wish to know about my life here.
+
+                                        Cordially,
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    MY DEAR M.:
+
+    There is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding the effects
+    of the solitary upon me. I do not think they will keep me in
+    long; at any rate, remember that I do not wish you to intercede.
+
+    You will be pleased to know that my friend Harry shows signs of
+    improvement, thanks to your generosity. "Coz" has managed to
+    deliver to him the tid-bits and wine you sent. You know the
+    story of the boy. He has never known the love of a mother, nor
+    the care of a father. A typical child of the disinherited, he
+    was thrown, almost in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the
+    world. At the age of ten the law declared him a criminal. He has
+    never since seen a day of liberty. At twenty he is dying of
+    prison consumption. Was the Spanish Inquisition ever guilty of
+    such organized child murder? With desperate will-power he
+    clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. He is firmly
+    convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules
+    confine him to the hospital. His friends here have collected a
+    fund to bring his case before the Pardon Board; it is to be
+    heard next month. That devoted soul, "Coz," has induced the
+    doctor to issue a certificate of Harry's critical condition, and
+    he may be released soon. I have grown very fond of the boy so
+    much sinned against. I have watched his heart and mind blossom
+    in the sunshine of a little kindness, and now--I hope that at
+    least his last wish will be gratified: just once to walk on the
+    street, and not hear the harsh command of the guard. He begs me
+    to express to his unknown friend his deepest gratitude.
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    DEAR M.:
+
+    The Deputy has just released me. I am happy with a double
+    happiness, for I know how pleased you will be at the good turn
+    of affairs. It is probably due to the fact that my neighbor, the
+    Big Swede--you've heard about him--was found dead in the
+    strait-jacket this morning. The doctor and officers all along
+    pretended that he was shamming. It was a most cruel murder; by
+    the Warden's order the sick Swede was kept gagged and bound
+    every night. I understand that the Deputy opposed such brutal
+    methods, and now it is rumored that he intends to resign. But I
+    hope he will remain. There is something big and broad-minded
+    about the gigantic Colonel. He tries to be fair, and he has
+    saved many a prisoner from the cruelty of the Major. The latter
+    is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is
+    characteristic that his methods involve curtailment of rations,
+    and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the books.
+    He has recently cut the milk allowance of the hospital patients,
+    notwithstanding the protests of the doctor. He has also
+    introduced severe punishment for talking. You know, when you
+    have not uttered a word for days and weeks, you are often seized
+    with an uncontrollable desire to give vent to your feelings.
+    These infractions of the rules are now punished by depriving you
+    of tobacco and of your Sunday dinner. Every Sunday from 30 to 50
+    men are locked up on the top range, to remain without food all
+    day. The system is called "Killicure" (kill or cure) and it
+    involves considerable graft, for I know numbers of men who have
+    not received tobacco or a Sunday dinner for months.
+
+    Warden Wm. Johnston seems innately cruel. Recently he introduced
+    the "blind" cell,--door covered with solid sheet iron. It is
+    much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually admits no air,
+    and men are kept in it from 30 to 60 days. Prisoner Varnell was
+    locked up in such a cell 79 days, becoming paralyzed. But even
+    worse than these punishments is the more refined brutality of
+    torturing the boys with the uncertainty of release and the
+    increasing deprivation of good time. This system is developing
+    insanity to an alarming extent.
+
+    Amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the Chaplain is a
+    refreshing oasis of humanity. I noticed in one of your letters
+    the expression, "because of economic necessity," and--I
+    wondered. To be sure, the effects of economic causes are not to
+    be underestimated. But the extremists of the materialistic
+    conception discount character, and thus help to vitiate it. The
+    factor of personality is too often ignored by them. Take the
+    Chaplain, for instance. In spite of the surrounding swamp of
+    cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding all disappointment and
+    ingratitude, he is to-day, after 30 years of incumbency, as full
+    of faith in human nature and as sympathetic and helpful, as
+    years ago. He has had to contend against the various
+    administrations, and he is a poor man; necessity has not stifled
+    his innate kindness.
+
+    And this is why I wondered. "Economic necessity"--has Socialism
+    pierced the prison walls?
+
+                                                                  B.
+
+
+    DEAR, DEAR COMRADE:
+
+    Can you realize how your words, "I am socialistically inclined,"
+    warmed my heart? I wish I could express to you all the intensity
+    of what I feel, my dear _friend_ and _comrade_. To have so
+    unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably lightens this
+    miserable existence. What matter that you do not entirely share
+    my views,--we are comrades in the common cause of human
+    emancipation. It was indeed well worth while getting in trouble
+    to have found you, dear friend. Surely I have good cause to be
+    content, even happy. Your friendship is a source of great
+    strength, and I feel equal to struggling through the ten months,
+    encouraged and inspired by your comradeship and devotion. Every
+    evening I cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the
+    thought that I am a day nearer to the precious moment when I
+    shall turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the
+    great work, and to meet you, dear Chum, face to face, to grip
+    your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade!
+
+                                        Most fraternally,
+
+                                                               Alex.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII
+
+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."
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by
+Alexander Berkman
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