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diff --git a/34406-h/34406-h.htm b/34406-h/34406-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8ce190 --- /dev/null +++ b/34406-h/34406-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,20857 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <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> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + margin-top: 2.5em; + margin-bottom: 1.5em; + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 1.2em; + margin-bottom: 1.2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{font-size: 0.9em;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:30%; margin-right:20%; text-align: left;} + + p.author {text-align: right; margin-right: 2em;} + .regards {text-align: right; margin-right: 20em;} + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<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—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.</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> </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> </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> </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—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.</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—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 naród</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—"</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—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 <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—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.</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—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."</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"—her voice +fell to a whisper, but my straining ear distinctly caught +the dread word, uttered with hatred and fear—"a +<i>palátch</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>palátch</i>—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>palátch</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>palátch</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>palátch'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—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 <i>palátch</i> +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....</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—told—you? You—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>palátch</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,—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—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"—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.</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,—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—"</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—"</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"—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!"<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—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—'"</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—"</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,—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 <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—," 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,—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.</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—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.<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,—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—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....</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—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!<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—"</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—23—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—"</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—er—we read in the papers +yesterday? You know—the newspaper artist who +killed—er—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—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<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—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—</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—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,—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 <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—the +Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed +out to me—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—</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>—</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—"</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—</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,—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—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?<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—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,<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> +he will know. "S—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,—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 <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—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—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 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 <i>bourgeois</i> +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<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,—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>Attentäter</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—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 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—</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—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.</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—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—"</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 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.</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 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.</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,—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!</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——"</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—— of b—— 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—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 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 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....</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,—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—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....</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,—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—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—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<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—Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch, +and many other heroic martyrs, tortured in the +casemates of Schlüsselburg, 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>étapes</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—er—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—"</p> + +<p>"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the +truth about—"</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—"</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,—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,—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,—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—</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—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?</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—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<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—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 <i>Kriegswissenschaft</i>—the +ideal revolutionist—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—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,—<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—can it +be?—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—she is +the only one I can trust—she'll tell me—</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,—perhaps they are inclined to blame me. +And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side +with Most—</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—</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,—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<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—</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,—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,—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—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,—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...</p> + +<p>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.</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,—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—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,<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—tyrant removed—Free Russia....</p> + + +<h4>XIII</h4> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> +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—"</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—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<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—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—</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—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—</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—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.</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—</p> + +<p>"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts.</p> + +<p>"Not guilty. I want to explain—"</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—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—us—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—"</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—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—— 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<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—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—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—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<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—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 <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—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span>—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—</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—not to this brute—</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—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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +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 <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,—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,—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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +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 <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—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—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—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>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—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 +<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—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—</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—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—</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—why, I should have new +opportunities—</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—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 <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,"—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,—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<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—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.</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.—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.</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—sh—</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.—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!</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—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—</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,—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—</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—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,—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,—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—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,—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,—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—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....</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—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,—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.</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—— of +a b——, 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 ——. 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,—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 —— 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—"</p> + +<p>"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. +"How dare you leave it without permission?"</p> + +<p>"I just—"</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"—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<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, <br /> +Allegheny City, Pa., <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—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.</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,—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<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—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—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—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 +<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—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 <i>Deckadresse</i> 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—</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,—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—</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—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—" he hesitates, +a faint flush stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, +Aleck, it's—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,"—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.</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—</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—"<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—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—"</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, <br /> +Allegheny City, Pa., <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,—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 <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,—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,—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!</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> </p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p class="author"> +<i>Sub rosa</i>, <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—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 +<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—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—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.</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—</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—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.<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—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—"</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>kátorga</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 +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.</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,—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—forgetfulness rather—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—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."</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,—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,—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—"</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—"</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,—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,—</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 rüstet 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—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,—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—"</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—" 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—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—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—er—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—"</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—"</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—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,—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,—<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—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.</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—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—"</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—"</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—"</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—"</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 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.<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>Zuchthausblüthen</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>Blüthen</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>Blüthen</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>Zuchthausblüthen</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. Blüthen.</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—or any number of +them—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 rôle of the +<i>Attentäter</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>Zuchthausblüthen</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,—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."</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—er—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,—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—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 +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +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."</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—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?"<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—"</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—oppressed humanity +and suffering people—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—"</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—"</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—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—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—"</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—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—"</p> + +<p>"You are ashamed."</p> + +<p>"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."</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—"</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,—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."</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—"</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,—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; 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,—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—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.</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 +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 <i>décolleté</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—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—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—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,—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—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<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—</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—from the prison, mind you—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—it's about thirty feet +high—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—"</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—"</p> + +<p>"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy."</p> + +<p>"You searched me for money and secret letters—"</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—"</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>—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.</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—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—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.</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—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,—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—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—one, two, three—</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—"</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—"</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—"</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—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—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.</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—another day, then +another—</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—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, <br /> +Allegheny City, Pa., <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—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<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—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.</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—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,—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—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."</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 × 12 = 264. What is +this, I wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious +manner, to finish the calculation:</p> + +<div class="poem"><p> +264 × 30 = 7,920 days.<br /> +7,920 × 24 = 190,080 hours.<br /> +190,080 × 60 = 11,404,800 minutes.<br /> +11,404,800 × 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—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—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 café 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 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<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—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. & 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—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—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,—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.</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,—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—"</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—"</p> + +<p>"What's the trouble?"</p> + +<p>"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I—"</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,—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,—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!"<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,—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—let me see—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—ya—ordered—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—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 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.</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,—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—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—er—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,—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—— 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—"</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,—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—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<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,—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?—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—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—"</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—"</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—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,—</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—"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—"</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,—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—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?</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—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,—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—— 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 <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 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.</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. & 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 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 <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—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—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.</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—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.</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—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—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—No labor shall be hired out by contract.</p> + +<p>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.</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"—stomach +still sour from the Christmas dinner—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,—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—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,—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—"</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—"</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,—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—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,—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,—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—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—you know—stocking shop. I've just—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—</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—I killed the lying +cur, an' now—now I'll—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,—"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—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—how shall I tell<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> +you? I was thinking, Sashenka—if you were here with +me—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—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,—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—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—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—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.</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,—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,—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,—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—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.</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,—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!</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,—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 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.</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,—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,—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<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—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—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.</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—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—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.</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>, <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—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.</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—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.</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—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<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—he might be +sick—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—28 +Sterling Street—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—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—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.</p> + +<p class="author">A.</p> +<p> </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> </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—once you were near the southeastern gate—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—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.</span> +</div> + + + +<p> </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> </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> </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—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.</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> </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> </p> + + +<p class="author"> +Direct to Box A 7, <br /> +Allegheny City, Pa., <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—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—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>—the +worst may happen—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> </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—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 <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> </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—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.</p> + +<p class="author">A.</p> + +<p> </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> </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—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—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—the half-eaten meal on the table, the +clothing scattered about the rooms, the general disorder—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—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—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—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,—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 <i>les misérables</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—he swears—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—"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—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.</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,—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,—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,—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.</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—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.</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—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—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....<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—?"</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—it was 9.33—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,—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, <br /> +Allegheny City, Pa., <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 2½ 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.</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—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.</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>, <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—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—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?</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—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—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,—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,—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—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—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.</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,—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 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<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,—"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—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<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,—alone and +blind.</p> + +<p>"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says +kindly. "How are your eyes?"</p> + +<p>"I think—a bit—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—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.</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—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.'"<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—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."</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—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—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."</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—"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<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,—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—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—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<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—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.</p> + +<p>"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."</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—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, <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—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.</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 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 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—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—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—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,—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—</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—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.—"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, 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.</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—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?"</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—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."</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—and +not a prisoner, at that—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> </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—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> </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—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> </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—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.</p> + +<p>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.</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—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"—has +Socialism pierced the prison walls?</p> + +<p class="author">B.</p> +</div> + +<p> </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,—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, <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—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<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> </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> </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> </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,—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> </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> </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 /> + Und schliesst euch alle meine alten Wunden,<br /> +Denn dieses ist mein letzter Tag<br /> + 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—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—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—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,—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—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—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—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,—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.<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——. My friends must +be worried, and M—— 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—— 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.</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—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—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.</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"—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—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—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—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 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<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—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—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—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<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—eight years and two months—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—— 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—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—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—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—" 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—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—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—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—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 portières 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—you were—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—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—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—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—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—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—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—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—in which the Western Penitentiary is +located—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 + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST *** + +***** This file should be named 34406-h.htm or 34406-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/4/0/34406/ + +Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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