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diff --git a/34406.txt b/34406.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b69ad0 --- /dev/null +++ b/34406.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17453 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by Alexander Berkman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist + +Author: Alexander Berkman + +Release Date: November 22, 2010 [EBook #34406] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST *** + + + + +Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + [Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF DELAWARE LIBRARY] + + + + + PRISON MEMOIRS + OF AN + ANARCHIST + + BY + + ALEXANDER BERKMAN + + + NEW YORK + MOTHER EARTH PUBLISHING ASSOCIATION + 1912 + + + + + Published September, 1912 + Second Edition, 1920 + + + 241 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW YORK + + + + + To all those who in and out of prison + fight against their bondage + + + + + "But this I know, that every Law + That men have made for Man, + Since first Man took his brother's life, + And the sad world began, + But straws the wheat and saves the chaff + With a most evil fan." + + OSCAR WILDE + + + + + [Illustration: Alexander Berkman + Photo by Marcia Stein] + + + + +AS INTRODUCTORY + + +I wish that everybody in the world would read this book. And my reasons +are not due to any desire on my part that people should join any group +of social philosophers or revolutionists. I desire that the book be +widely read because the general and careful reading of it would +definitely add to true civilization. + +It is a contribution to the writings which promote civilization; for the +following reasons: + +It is a human document. It is a difficult thing to be sincere. More than +that, it is a valuable thing. To be so, means unusual qualities of the +heart and of the head; unusual qualities of character. The books that +possess this quality are unusual books. There are not many deliberately +autobiographical writings that are markedly sincere; there are not many +direct human documents. This is one of these few books. + +Not only has this book the interest of the human document, but it is +also a striking proof of the power of the human soul. Alexander Berkman +spent fourteen years in prison; under perhaps more than commonly harsh +and severe conditions. Prison life tends to destroy the body, weaken the +mind and pervert the character. Berkman consciously struggled with these +adverse, destructive conditions. He took care of his body. He took care +of his mind. He did so strenuously. It was a moral effort. He felt +insane ideas trying to take possession of him. Insanity is a natural +result of prison life. It always tends to come. This man felt it, +consciously struggled against it, and overcame it. That the prison +affected him is true. It always does. But he saved himself, essentially. +Society tried to destroy him, but failed. + +If people will read this book carefully it will tend to do away with +prisons. The public, once vividly conscious of what prison life is and +must be, would not be willing to maintain prisons. This is the only book +that I know which goes deeply into the corrupting, demoralizing +psychology of prison life. It shows, in picture after picture, sketch +after sketch, not only the obvious brutality, stupidity, ugliness +permeating the institution, but, very touching, it shows the good +qualities and instincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized, +helplessly struggling for life; beautiful tendencies basely expressing +themselves. And the personality of Berkman goes through it all; +idealistic, courageous, uncompromising, sincere, truthful; not +untouched, as I have said, by his surroundings, but remaining his +essential self. + +What lessons there are in this book! Like all truthful documents it +makes us love and hate our fellow men, doubt ourselves, doubt our +society, tends to make us take a strenuous, serious attitude towards +life, and not be too quick to judge, without going into a situation +painfully, carefully. It tends to complicate the present simplicity of +our moral attitudes. It tends to make us more mature. + +The above are the main reasons why I should like to have everybody read +this book. + +But there are other aspects of the book which are interesting and +valuable in a more special, more limited way; aspects in which only +comparatively few persons will be interested, and which will arouse the +opposition and hostility of many. The Russian Nihilistic origin of +Berkman, his Anarchistic experience in America, his attempt on the life +of Frick--an attempt made at a violent industrial crisis, an attempt +made as a result of a sincere if fanatical belief that he was called on +by his destiny to strike a psychological blow for the oppressed of the +community--this part of the book will arouse extreme disagreement and +disapproval of his ideas and his act. But I see no reason why this, with +the rest, should not rather be regarded as an integral part of a +human document, as part of the record of a life, with its social and +psychological suggestions and explanations. Why not try to understand +an honest man even if he feels called on to kill? There, too, it may be +deeply instructive. There, too, it has its lessons. Read it not in a +combative spirit. Read to understand. Do not read to agree, of course, +but read to see. + + HUTCHINS HAPGOOD. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + CHAPTER PAGE + Part I: The Awakening and Its Toll + I. THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 1 + II. THE SEAT OF WAR 23 + III. THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH 28 + IV. THE ATTENTAT 33 + V. THE THIRD DEGREE 36 + VI. THE JAIL 44 + VII. THE TRIAL 89 + + Part II: The Penitentiary + I. DESPERATE THOUGHTS 95 + II. THE WILL TO LIVE 113 + III. SPECTRAL SILENCE 120 + IV. A RAY OF LIGHT 124 + V. THE SHOP 128 + VI. MY FIRST LETTER 136 + VII. WINGIE 140 + VIII. TO THE GIRL 148 + IX. PERSECUTION 152 + X. THE YEGG 159 + XI. THE ROUTE SUB ROSA 174 + XII. "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" 176 + XIII. THE JUDAS 185 + XIV. THE DIP 195 + XV. THE URGE OF SEX 201 + XVI. THE WARDEN'S THREAT 209 + XVII. THE "BASKET" CELL 219 + XVIII. THE SOLITARY 221 + XIX. MEMORY-GUESTS 232 + XX. A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 240 + XXI. THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL 264 + XXII. THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 270 + XXIII. THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 287 + XXIV. THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON 297 + XXV. HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY? 300 + XXVI. HIDING THE EVIDENCE 307 + XXVII. LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 316 + XXVIII. FOR SAFETY 328 + XXIX. DREAMS OF FREEDOM 330 + XXX. WHITEWASHED AGAIN 337 + XXXI. "AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 342 + XXXII. THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED 352 + XXXIII. THE TUNNEL 355 + XXXIV. THE DEATH OF DICK 363 + XXXV. AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 364 + XXXVI. THE UNDERGROUND 375 + XXXVII. ANXIOUS DAYS 382 + XXXVIII. "HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM" 389 + XXXIX. A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE 395 + XL. DONE TO DEATH 401 + XLI. THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 409 + XLII. MARRED LIVES 418 + XLIII. "PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 430 + XLIV. LOVE'S DARING 441 + XLV. THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" 446 + XLVI. A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER 453 + XLVII. CHUM 458 + XLVIII. LAST DAYS 465 + + Part III: The Workhouse 473 + + Part IV: The Resurrection 483 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + + ALEXANDER BERKMAN (Frontispiece) + THE AUTHOR AT THE TIME OF THE HOMESTEAD STRIKE + WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA + FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER + "ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" + CELL RANGES + THE TUNNEL + + + + +PART I + +THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL + + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +CHAPTER I + +THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD + + +I + +Clearly every detail of that day is engraved on my mind. It is the +sixth of July, 1892. We are quietly sitting in the back of our little +flat--Fedya and I--when suddenly the Girl enters. Her naturally quick, +energetic step sounds more than usually resolute. As I turn to her, I +am struck by the peculiar gleam in her eyes and the heightened color. + +"Have you read it?" she cries, waving the half-open newspaper. + +"What is it?" + +"Homestead. Strikers shot. Pinkertons have killed women and children." + +She speaks in a quick, jerky manner. Her words ring like the cry of a +wounded animal, the melodious voice tinged with the harshness of +bitterness--the bitterness of helpless agony. + +I take the paper from her hands. In growing excitement I read the vivid +account of the tremendous struggle, the Homestead strike, or, more +correctly, the lockout. The report details the conspiracy on the part of +the Carnegie Company to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and +Steel Workers; the selection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick, +whose attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret military +preparations while designedly prolonging the peace negotiations with +the Amalgamated; the fortification of the Homestead steel-works; the +erection of a high board fence, capped by barbed wire and provided with +loopholes for sharpshooters; the hiring of an army of Pinkerton thugs; +the attempt to smuggle them, in the dead of night, into Homestead; and, +finally, the terrible carnage. + +I pass the paper to Fedya. The Girl glances at me. We sit in silence, +each busy with his own thoughts. Only now and then we exchange a word, a +searching, significant look. + + +II + +It is hot and stuffy in the train. The air is oppressive with tobacco +smoke; the boisterous talk of the men playing cards near by annoys me. I +turn to the window. The gust of perfumed air, laden with the rich aroma +of fresh-mown hay, is soothingly invigorating. Green woods and yellow +fields circle in the distance, whirl nearer, close, then rush by, giving +place to other circling fields and woods. The country looks young and +alluring in the early morning sunshine. But my thoughts are busy with +Homestead. + +The great battle has been fought. Never before, in all its history, has +American labor won such a signal victory. By force of arms the workers +of Homestead have compelled three hundred Pinkerton invaders to +surrender, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What humiliating +defeat for the powers that be! Does not the Pinkerton janizary represent +organized authority, forever crushing the toiler in the interest of the +exploiters? Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the +unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of America, have +joyously acclaimed the rebellious manhood of Homestead. The +steel-workers were not the aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and +suffered. Out of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry; on +their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Company. Yet patiently they +had waited for the promised greater share of the wealth they were +creating. Like a bolt from a clear sky came the blow: wages were to be +reduced! Peremptorily the steel magnates refused to continue the sliding +scale previously agreed upon as a guarantee of peace. The Carnegie firm +challenged the Amalgamated Association by the submission of conditions +which it knew the workers could not accept. Foreseeing refusal, it +flaunted warlike preparations to crush the union under the iron heel. +Perfidious Carnegie shrank from the task, having recently proclaimed the +gospel of good will and harmony. "I would lay it down as a maxim," he +had declared, "that there is no excuse for a strike or a lockout until +arbitration of differences has been offered by one party and refused by +the other. The right of the workingmen to combine and to form +trades-unions is no less sacred than the right of the manufacturer to +enter into association and conference with his fellows, and it must +sooner or later be conceded. Manufacturers should meet their men _more +than half-way_." + +With smooth words the great philanthropist had persuaded the workers to +indorse the high tariff. Every product of his mills protected, Andrew +Carnegie secured a reduction in the duty on steel billets, in return for +his generous contribution to the Republican campaign fund. In complete +control of the billet market, the Carnegie firm engineered a depression +of prices, as a seeming consequence of a lower duty. But _the market +price of billets was the sole standard of wages in the Homestead mills_. +The wages of the workers must be reduced! The offer of the Amalgamated +Association to arbitrate the new scale met with contemptuous refusal: +there was nothing to arbitrate; the men must submit unconditionally; the +union was to be exterminated. And Carnegie selected Henry C. Frick, the +bloody Frick of the coke regions, to carry the program into execution. + +Must the oppressed forever submit? The manhood of Homestead rebelled: +the millmen scorned the despotic ultimatum. Then Frick's hand fell. The +war was on! Indignation swept the country. Throughout the land the +tyrannical attitude of the Carnegie Company was bitterly denounced, the +ruthless brutality of Frick universally execrated. + + * * * * * + +I could no longer remain indifferent. The moment was urgent. The toilers +of Homestead had defied the oppressor. They were awakening. But as yet +the steel-workers were only blindly rebellious. The vision of Anarchism +alone could imbue discontent with conscious revolutionary purpose; it +alone could lend wings to the aspirations of labor. The dissemination of +our ideas among the proletariat of Homestead would illumine the great +struggle, help to clarify the issues, and point the way to complete +ultimate emancipation. + + * * * * * + +My days were feverish with anxiety. The stirring call, "Labor, Awaken!" +would fire the hearts of the disinherited, and inspire them to noble +deeds. It would carry to the oppressed the message of the New Day, and +prepare them for the approaching Social Revolution. Homestead might +prove the first blush of the glorious Dawn. How I chafed at the +obstacles my project encountered! Unexpected difficulties impeded every +step. The efforts to get the leaflet translated into popular English +proved unavailing. It would endanger me to distribute such a fiery +appeal, my friend remonstrated. Impatiently I waived aside his +objections. As if personal considerations could for an instant be +weighed in the scale of the great Cause! But in vain I argued and +pleaded. And all the while precious moments were being wasted, and new +obstacles barred the way. I rushed frantically from printer to +compositor, begging, imploring. None dared print the appeal. And time +was fleeting. Suddenly flashed the news of the Pinkerton carnage. The +world stood aghast. + +The time for speech was past. Throughout the land the toilers echoed the +defiance of the men of Homestead. The steel-workers had rallied bravely +to the defence; the murderous Pinkertons were driven from the city. But +loudly called the blood of Mammon's victims on the hanks of the +Monongahela. Loudly it calls. It is the People calling. Ah, the People! +The grand, mysterious, yet so near and real, People.... + + * * * * * + +In my mind I see myself back in the little Russian college town, amid +the circle of Petersburg students, home for their vacation, surrounded +by the halo of that vague and wonderful something we called "Nihilist." +The rushing train, Homestead, the five years passed in America, all turn +into a mist, hazy with the distance of unreality, of centuries; and +again I sit among superior beings, reverently listening to the +impassioned discussion of dimly understood high themes, with the +oft-recurring refrain of "Bazarov, Hegel, Liberty, Chernishevsky, _v +narod_." To the People! To the beautiful, simple People, so noble in +spite of centuries of brutalizing suffering! Like a clarion call the +note rings in my ears, amidst the din of contending views and obscure +phraseology. The People! My Greek mythology moods have often pictured +HIM to me as the mighty Atlas, supporting on his shoulders the weight +of the world, his back bent, his face the mirror of unutterable misery, +in his eye the look of hopeless anguish, the dumb, pitiful appeal for +help. Ah, to help this helplessly suffering giant, to lighten his +burden! The way is obscure, the means uncertain, but in the heated +student debate the note rings clear: To the People, become one of them, +share their joys and sorrows, and thus you will teach them. Yes, that is +the solution! But what is that red-headed Misha from Odessa saying? "It +is all good and well about going to the People, but the energetic men of +the deed, the Rakhmetovs, blaze the path of popular revolution by +individual acts of revolt against--" + + * * * * * + +"Ticket, please!" A heavy hand is on my shoulder. With an effort I +realize the situation. The card-players are exchanging angry words. With +a deft movement the conductor unhooks the board, and calmly walks away +with it under his arm. A roar of laughter greets the players. Twitted by +the other passengers, they soon subside, and presently the car grows +quiet. + +I have difficulty in keeping myself from falling back into reverie. I +must form a definite plan of action. My purpose is quite clear to me. A +tremendous struggle is taking place at Homestead: the People are +manifesting the right spirit in resisting tyranny and invasion. My heart +exults. This is, at last, what I have always hoped for from the American +workingman: once aroused, he will brook no interference; he will fight +all obstacles, and conquer even more than his original demands. It is +the spirit of the heroic past reincarnated in the steel-workers of +Homestead, Pennsylvania. What supreme joy to aid in this work! That is +my natural mission. I feel the strength of a great undertaking. No +shadow of doubt crosses my mind. The People--the toilers of the world, +the producers--comprise, to me, the universe. They alone count. The rest +are parasites, who have no right to exist. But to the People belongs the +earth--by right, if not in fact. To make it so in fact, all means are +justifiable; nay, advisable, even to the point of taking life. The +question of moral right in such matters often agitated the revolutionary +circles I used to frequent. I had always taken the extreme view. The +more radical the treatment, I held, the quicker the cure. Society is a +patient; sick constitutionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is +often imperative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifiable; it +is the highest duty of every true revolutionist. Human life is, indeed, +sacred and inviolate. But the killing of a tyrant, of an enemy of the +People, is in no way to be considered as the taking of a life. A +revolutionist would rather perish a thousand times than be guilty of +what is ordinarily called murder. In truth, murder and _Attentat_[1] are +to me opposite terms. To remove a tyrant is an act of liberation, the +giving of life and opportunity to an oppressed people. True, the Cause +often calls upon the revolutionist to commit an unpleasant act; but it +is the test of a true revolutionist--nay, more, his pride--to sacrifice +all merely human feeling at the call of the People's Cause. If the +latter demand his life, so much the better. + + [1] An act of political assassination. + +Could anything be nobler than to die for a grand, a sublime Cause? Why, +the very life of a true revolutionist has no other purpose, no +significance whatever, save to sacrifice it on the altar of the beloved +People. And what could be higher in life than to be a true +revolutionist? It is to be a _man_, a complete MAN. A being who has +neither personal interests nor desires above the necessities of the +Cause; one who has emancipated himself from being merely human, and has +risen above that, even to the height of conviction which excludes all +doubt, all regret; in short, one who in the very inmost of his soul +feels himself revolutionist first, human afterwards. + + * * * * * + +Such a revolutionist I feel myself to be. Indeed, far more so than even +the extreme radicals of my own circle. My mind reverts to a +characteristic incident in connection with the poet Edelstadt. It was in +New York, about the year 1890. Edelstadt, one of the tenderest of souls, +was beloved by every one in our circle, the _Pioneers of Liberty_, the +first Jewish Anarchist organization on American soil. One evening the +closer personal friends of Edelstadt met to consider plans for aiding +the sick poet. It was decided to send our comrade to Denver, some one +suggesting that money be drawn for the purpose from the revolutionary +treasury. I objected. Though a dear, personal friend of Edelstadt, and +his former roommate, I could not allow--I argued--that funds belonging +to the movement be devoted to private purposes, however good and even +necessary those might be. The strong disapproval of my sentiments I met +with this challenge: "Do you mean to help Edelstadt, the poet and man, +or Edelstadt the revolutionist? Do you consider him a true, active +revolutionist? His poetry is beautiful, indeed, and may indirectly even +prove of some propagandistic value. Aid our friend with your private +funds, if you will; but no money from the movement can be given, except +for direct revolutionary activity." + + * * * * * + +"Do you mean that the poet is less to you than the revolutionist?" I was +asked by Tikhon, a young medical student, whom we playfully dubbed +"Lingg," because of his rather successful affectation of the celebrated +revolutionist's physical appearance. + +"I am revolutionist first, man afterwards," I replied, with conviction. + +"You are either a knave or a hero," he retorted. + + * * * * * + +"Lingg" was quite right. He could not know me. To his _bourgeois_ mind, +for all his imitation of the Chicago martyr, my words must have sounded +knavish. Well, some day he may know which I am, knave or revolutionist. +I do not think in the term "hero," for though the type of revolutionist +I feel myself to be might popularly be so called, the word has no +significance for me. It merely means a revolutionist who does his duty. +There is no heroism in that: it is neither more nor less than a +revolutionist should do. Rakhmetov did more, too much. In spite of my +great admiration for Chernishevsky, who had so strongly influenced the +Russian youth of my time, I can not suppress the touch of resentment I +feel because the author of "What's To Be Done?" represented his +arch-revolutionist Rakhmetov as going through a system of unspeakable, +self-inflicted torture to prepare himself for future exigencies. It was +a sign of weakness. Does a real revolutionist need to prepare himself, +to steel his nerves and harden his body? I feel it almost a personal +insult, this suggestion of the revolutionist's mere human clay. + +No, the thorough revolutionist needs no such self-doubting preparations. +For I know _I_ do not need them. The feeling is quite impersonal, +strange as it may seem. My own individuality is entirely in the +background; aye, I am not conscious of any personality in matters +pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a revolutionist, a terrorist by +conviction, an instrument for furthering the cause of humanity; in +short, a Rakhmetov. Indeed, I shall assume that name upon my arrival in +Pittsburgh. + + * * * * * + +The piercing shrieks of the locomotive awake me with a start. My first +thought is of my wallet, containing important addresses of Allegheny +comrades, which I was trying to memorize when I must have fallen asleep. +The wallet is gone! For a moment I am overwhelmed with terror. What if +it is lost? Suddenly my foot touches something soft. I pick it up, +feeling tremendously relieved to find all the contents safe: the +precious addresses, a small newspaper lithograph of Frick, and a dollar +bill. My joy at recovering the wallet is not a whit dampened by the +meagerness of my funds. The dollar will do to get a room in a hotel for +the first night, and in the morning I'll look up Nold or Bauer. They +will find a place for me to stay a day or two. "I won't remain there +long," I think, with an inward smile. + + * * * * * + +We are nearing Washington, D. C. The train is to make a six-hour stop +there. I curse the stupidity of the delay: something may be happening in +Pittsburgh or Homestead. Besides, no time is to be lost in striking a +telling blow, while public sentiment is aroused at the atrocities of the +Carnegie Company, the brutality of Frick. + +Yet my irritation is strangely dispelled by the beautiful picture that +greets my eye as I step from the train. The sun has risen, a large ball +of deep red, pouring a flood of gold upon the Capitol. The cupola rears +its proud head majestically above the pile of stone and marble. Like a +living thing the light palpitates, trembling with passion to kiss the +uppermost peak, striking it with blinding brilliancy, and then spreading +in a broadening embrace down the shoulders of the towering giant. The +amber waves entwine its flanks with soft caresses, and then rush on, to +right and left, wider and lower, flashing upon the stately trees, +dallying amid leaves and branches, finally unfolding themselves over the +broad avenue, and ever growing more golden and generous as they scatter. +And cupola-headed giant, stately trees, and broad avenue quiver with +new-born ecstasy, all nature heaves the contented sigh of bliss, and +nestles closer to the golden giver of life. + + * * * * * + +At this moment I realize, as perhaps never before, the great joy, the +surpassing gladness, of being. But in a trice the picture changes. +Before my eyes rises the Monongahela river, carrying barges filled with +armed men. And I hear a shot. A boy falls to the gangplank. The blood +gushes from the centre of his forehead. The hole ploughed by the bullet +yawns black on the crimson face. Cries and wailing ring in my ears. I +see men running toward the river, and women kneeling by the side of the +dead. + +The horrible vision revives in my mind a similar incident, lived through +in imagination before. It was the sight of an executed Nihilist. The +Nihilists! How much of their precious blood has been shed, how many +thousands of them line the road of Russia's suffering! Inexpressibly +near and soul-kin I feel to those men and women, the adored, mysterious +ones of my youth, who had left wealthy homes and high station to "go to +the People," to become one with them, though despised by all whom they +held dear, persecuted and ridiculed even by the benighted objects of +their great sacrifice. + +Clearly there flashes out upon my memory my first impression of Nihilist +Russia. I had just passed my second year's gymnasium examinations. +Overflowing with blissful excitement, I rushed into the house to tell +mother the joyful news. How happy it will make her! Next week will be my +twelfth birthday, but mother need give me no present. I have one for +her, instead. "Mamma, mamma!" I called, when suddenly I caught her +voice, raised in anger. Something has happened, I thought; mother never +speaks so loudly. Something very peculiar, I felt, noticing the door +leading from the broad hallway to the dining-room closed, contrary to +custom. In perturbation I hesitated at the door. "Shame on you, Nathan," +I heard my mother's voice, "to condemn your own brother because he is a +Nihilist. You are no better than"--her voice fell to a whisper, but my +straining ear distinctly caught the dread word, uttered with hatred and +fear--"a _palatch_."[2] + + [2] Hangman. + +I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich uncle Nathan's unwonted +presence at our house, the fearful word _palatch_--something awful must +have happened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my room. +Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the bed. What has the _palatch_ +done? I moaned. "_Your_ brother," she had said to uncle. Her own +youngest brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has happened to him? +My excited imagination conjured up horrible visions. There stood the +powerful figure of the giant _palatch_, all in black, his right arm bare +to the shoulder, in his hand the uplifted ax. I could see the glimmer of +the sharp steel as it began to descend, slowly, so torturingly slowly, +while my heart ceased beating and my feverish eyes followed, bewitched, +the glowing black coals in the _palatch's_ head. Suddenly the two fiery +eyes fused into a large ball of flaming red; the figure of the fearful +one-eyed cyclop grew taller and stretched higher and higher, and +everywhere was the giant--on all sides of me was he--then a sudden flash +of steel, and in his monster hand I saw raised a head, cut close to the +neck, its eyes incessantly blinking, the dark-red blood gushing from +mouth and ears and throat. Something looked ghastly familiar about that +head with the broad white forehead and expressive mouth, so sweet and +sad. "Oh, Maxim, Maxim!" I cried, terror-stricken: the next moment a +flood of passionate hatred of the _palatch_ seized me, and I rushed, +head bent, toward the one-eyed monster. Nearer and nearer I +came,--another quick rush, and then the violent impact of my body struck +him in the very centre, and he fell, forward and heavy, right upon me, +and I felt his fearful weight crushing my arms, my chest, my head.... + +"Sasha! Sashenka! What is the matter, _golubchik_?" I recognize the +sweet, tender voice of my mother, sounding far away and strange, then +coming closer and growing more soothing. I open my eyes. Mother is +kneeling by the bed, her beautiful black eyes bathed in tears. +Passionately she showers kisses upon my face and hands, entreating: +"_Golubchik_, what is it?" + +"Mamma, what happened to Uncle Maxim?" I ask, breathlessly watching her +face. + +Her sudden change of expression chills my heart with fear. She turns +ghostly white, large drops of perspiration stand on her forehead, and +her eyes grow large and round with terror. "Mamma!" I cry, throwing my +arms around her. Her lips move, and I feel her warm breath on my cheek; +but, without uttering a word, she bursts into vehement weeping. + +"Who--told--you? You--know?" she whispers between sobs. + + * * * * * + +The pall of death seems to have descended upon our home. The house is +oppressively silent. Everybody walks about in slippers, and the piano is +kept locked. Only monosyllables, in undertone, are exchanged at the +dinner-table. Mother's seat remains vacant. She is very ill, the nurse +informs us; no one is to see her. + +The situation bewilders me. I keep wondering what has happened to Maxim. +Was my vision of the _palatch_ a presentiment, or the echo of an +accomplished tragedy? Vaguely I feel guilty of mother's illness. The +shock of my question may be responsible for her condition. Yet there +must be more to it, I try to persuade my troubled spirit. One afternoon, +finding my eldest brother Maxim, named after mother's favorite brother, +in a very cheerful mood, I call him aside and ask, in a boldly assumed +confidential manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Nihilist?" + +"Go to the devil, _molokossoss_[3] you!" he cries, angrily. With a show +of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim throws his paper on the +floor, jumps from his seat, upsetting the chair, and leaves the room. + + [3] Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to + inexperienced youth. + + * * * * * + +The fate of Uncle Maxim remains a mystery, the question of Nihilism +unsolved. I am absorbed in my studies. Yet a deep interest, curiosity +about the mysterious and forbidden, slumbers in my consciousness, when +quite unexpectedly it is roused into keen activity by a school incident. +I am fifteen now, in the fourth grade of the classic gymnasium at Kovno. +By direction of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious +instruction is being introduced in the State schools. Special classes +have been opened at the gymnasium for the religious instruction of +Jewish pupils. The parents of the latter resent the innovation; almost +every Jewish child receives religious training at home or in +_cheidar_.[4] But the school authorities have ordered the gymnasiasts of +Jewish faith to attend classes in religion. + + [4] Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws. + +The roll-call at the first session finds me missing. Summoned before the +Director for an explanation, I state that I failed to attend because I +have a private Jewish tutor at home, and,--anyway, I do not believe in +religion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked. + +"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial guttural voice he affects +on solemn occasions. "Young man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach +so profound a conclusion?" + +His manner disconcerts me; but the sarcasm of his words and the +offensive tone rouse my resentment. Impulsively, defiantly, I discover +my cherished secret. "Since I wrote the essay, 'There Is No God,'" I +reply, with secret exultation. But the next instant I realize the +recklessness of my confession. I have a fleeting sense of coming +trouble, at school and at home. Yet somehow I feel I have acted like a +_man_. Uncle Maxim, the Nihilist, would act so in my position. I know +his reputation for uncompromising candor, and love him for his bold, +frank ways. + +"Oh, that is interesting," I hear, as in a dream, the unpleasant +guttural voice of the Director. "When did you write it?" + +"Three years ago." + +"How old were you then?" + +"Twelve." + +"Have you the essay?" + +"Yes." + +"Where?" + +"At home." + +"Bring it to me to-morrow. Without fail, remember." + +His voice grows stern. The words fall upon my ears with the harsh +metallic sound of my sister's piano that memorable evening of our +musicale when, in a spirit of mischief, I hid a piece of gas pipe in the +instrument tuned for the occasion. + +"To-morrow, then. You are dismissed." + +The Educational Board, in conclave assembled, reads the essay. My +disquisition is unanimously condemned. Exemplary punishment is to be +visited upon me for "precocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and +insubordination." I am publicly reprimanded, and reduced to the third +class. The peculiar sentence robs me of a year, and forces me to +associate with the "children" my senior class looks down upon with +undisguised contempt. I feel disgraced, humiliated. + + * * * * * + +Thus vision chases vision, memory succeeds memory, while the +interminable hours creep towards the afternoon, and the station clock +drones like an endless old woman. + + +III + +Over at last. "All aboard!" + +On and on rushes the engine, every moment bringing me nearer to my +destination. The conductor drawling out the stations, the noisy going +and coming produce almost no conscious impression on my senses. Seeing +and hearing every detail of my surroundings, I am nevertheless +oblivious to them. Faster than the train rushes my fancy, as if +reviewing a panorama of vivid scenes, apparently without organic +connection with each other, yet somehow intimately associated in my +thoughts of the past. But how different is the present! I am speeding +toward Pittsburgh, the very heart of the industrial struggle of America. +America! I dwell wonderingly on the unuttered sound. Why in America? And +again unfold pictures of old scenes. + + * * * * * + +I am walking in the garden of our well-appointed country place, in a +fashionable suburb of St. Petersburg, where the family generally spends +the summer months. As I pass the veranda, Dr. Semeonov, the celebrated +physician of the resort, steps out of the house and beckons to me. + +"Alexander Ossipovitch," he addresses me in his courtly manner, "your +mother is very ill. Are you alone with her?" + +"We have servants, and two nurses are in attendance," I reply. + +"To be sure, to be sure," the shadow of a smile hovers about the corners +of his delicately chiseled lips. "I mean of the family." + +"Oh, yes! I am alone here with my mother." + +"Your mother is rather restless to-day, Alexander Ossipovitch. Could you +sit up with her to-night?" + +"Certainly, certainly," I quickly assent, wondering at the peculiar +request. Mother has been improving, the nurses have assured me. My +presence at her bedside may prove irksome to her. Our relations have +been strained since the day when, in a fit of anger, she slapped Rose, +our new chambermaid, whereupon I resented mother's right to inflict +physical punishment on the servants. I can see her now, erect and +haughty, facing me across the dinner-table, her eyes ablaze with +indignation. + +"You forget you are speaking to your mother, Al-ex-an-der"; she +pronounces the name in four distinct syllables, as is her habit when +angry with me. + +"You have no right to strike the girl," I retort, defiantly. + +"You forget yourself. My treatment of the menial is no concern of +yours." + +I cannot suppress the sharp reply that springs to my lips: "The low +servant girl is as good as you." + +I see mother's long, slender fingers grasp the heavy ladle, and the next +instant a sharp pain pierces my left hand. Our eyes meet. Her arm +remains motionless, her gaze directed to the spreading blood stain on +the white table-cloth. The ladle falls from her hand. She closes her +eyes, and her body sinks limply to the chair. + +Anger and humiliation extinguish my momentary impulse to rush to her +assistance. Without uttering a word, I pick up the heavy saltcellar, and +fling it violently against the French mirror. At the crash of the glass +my mother opens her eyes in amazement. I rise and leave the house. + + * * * * * + +My heart beats fast as I enter mother's sick-room. I fear she may resent +my intrusion: the shadow of the past stands between us. But she is lying +quietly on the bed, and has apparently not noticed my entrance. I sit +down at the bedside. A long time passes in silence. Mother seems to be +asleep. It is growing dark in the room, and I settle down to pass the +night in the chair. Suddenly I hear "Sasha!" called in a weak, faint +voice. I bend over her. "Drink of water." As I hold the glass to her +lips, she slightly turns away her head, saying very low, "Ice water, +please." I start to leave the room. "Sasha!" I hear behind me, and, +quickly tiptoeing to the bed, I bring my face closely, very closely to +hers, to catch the faint words: "Help me turn to the wall." Tenderly I +wrap my arms around the weak, emaciated body, and an overpowering +longing seizes me to touch her hand with my lips and on my knees beg her +forgiveness. I feel so near to her, my heart is overflowing with +compassion and love. But I dare not kiss her--we have become estranged. +Affectionately I hold her in my arms for just the shadow of a second, +dreading lest she suspect the storm of emotion raging within me. +Caressingly I turn her to the wall, and, as I slowly withdraw, I feel as +if some mysterious, yet definite, something has at the very instant left +her body. + +In a few minutes I return with a glass of ice water. I hold it to her +lips, but she seems oblivious of my presence. "She cannot have gone to +sleep so quickly," I wonder. "Mother!" I call, softly. No reply. "Little +mother! Mamotchka!" She does not appear to hear me. "Dearest, +_golubchick_!" I cry, in a paroxysm of sudden fear, pressing my hot lips +upon her face. Then I become conscious of an arm upon my shoulder, and +hear the measured voice of the doctor: "My boy, you must bear up. She is +at rest." + + +IV + +"Wake up, young feller! Whatcher sighin' for?" Bewildered I turn around +to meet the coarse, yet not unkindly, face of a swarthy laborer in the +seat back of me. + +"Oh, nothing; just dreaming," I reply. Not wishing to encourage +conversation, I pretend to become absorbed in my book. + +How strange is the sudden sound of English! Almost as suddenly had I +been transplanted to American soil. Six months passed after my mother's +death. Threatened by the educational authorities with a "wolf's +passport" on account of my "dangerous tendencies"--which would close +every professional avenue to me, in spite of my otherwise very +satisfactory standing--the situation aggravated by a violent quarrel +with my guardian, Uncle Nathan, I decided to go to America. There, +beyond the ocean, was the land of noble achievement, a glorious free +country, where men walked erect in the full stature of manhood,--the +very realization of my youthful dreams. + +And now I am in America, the blessed land. The disillusionment, the +disappointments, the vain struggles!... The kaleidoscope of my brain +unfolds them all before my view. Now I see myself on a bench in Union +Square Park, huddled close to Fedya and Mikhail, my roommates. The night +wind sweeps across the cheerless park, chilling us to the bone. I feel +hungry and tired, fagged out by the day's fruitless search for work. My +heart sinks within me as I glance at my friends. "Nothing," each had +morosely reported at our nightly meeting, after the day's weary tramp. +Fedya groans in uneasy sleep, his hand groping about his knees. I pick +up the newspaper that had fallen under the seat, spread it over his +legs, and tuck the ends underneath. But a sudden blast tears the paper +away, and whirls it off into the darkness. As I press Fedya's hat down +on his head, I am struck by his ghastly look. How these few weeks have +changed the plump, rosy-cheeked youth! Poor fellow, no one wants his +labor. How his mother would suffer if she knew that her carefully reared +boy passes the nights in the.... What is that pain I feel? Some one is +bending over me, looming unnaturally large in the darkness. Half-dazed I +see an arm swing to and fro, with short, semicircular backward strokes, +and with every movement I feel a sharp sting, as of a lash. Oh, it's in +my soles! Bewildered I spring to my feet. A rough hand grabs me by the +throat, and I face a policeman. + +"Are you thieves?" he bellows. + +Mikhail replies, sleepily: "We Russians. Want work." + +"Git out o' here! Off with you!" + +Quickly, silently, we walk away, Fedya and I in front, Mikhail limping +behind us. The dimly lighted streets are deserted, save for a hurrying +figure here and there, closely wrapped, flitting mysteriously around the +corner. Columns of dust rise from the gray pavements, are caught up by +the wind, rushed to some distance, then carried in a spiral upwards, to +be followed by another wave of choking dust. From somewhere a +tantalizing odor reaches my nostrils. "The bakery on Second Street," +Fedya remarks. Unconsciously our steps quicken. Shoulders raised, heads +bent, and shivering, we keep on to the lower Bowery. Mikhail is steadily +falling behind. "Dammit, I feel bad," he says, catching up with us, as +we step into an open hallway. A thorough inspection of our pockets +reveals the possession of twelve cents, all around. Mikhail is to go to +bed, we decide, handing him a dime. The cigarettes purchased for the +remaining two cents are divided equally, each taking a few puffs of the +"fourth" in the box. Fedya and I sleep on the steps of the city hall. + + * * * * * + +"Pitt-s-burgh! Pitt-s-burgh!" + +The harsh cry of the conductor startles me with the violence of a shock. +Impatient as I am of the long journey, the realization that I have +reached my destination comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the +dread of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things, but, +noticing that the other passengers keep their places, I precipitately +resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation be noticed. To hide my +confusion, I turn to the open window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the +sky, shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is heavy with soot +and cinders; the smell is nauseating. In the distance, giant furnaces +vomit pillars of fire, the lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame +structures, dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the workers +who have created the industrial glory of Pittsburgh, reared its +millionaires, its Carnegies and Fricks. + +The sight fills me with hatred of the perverse social justice that turns +the needs of mankind into an Inferno of brutalizing toil. It robs man of +his soul, drives the sunshine from his life, degrades him lower than the +beasts, and between the millstones of divine bliss and hellish torture +grinds flesh and blood into iron and steel, transmutes human lives into +gold, gold, countless gold. + +The great, noble People! But is it really great and noble to be slaves +and remain content? No, no! They are awakening, awakening! + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE SEAT OF WAR + + +Contentedly peaceful the Monongahela stretches before me, its waters +lazily rippling in the sunlight, and softly crooning to the murmur of +the woods on the hazy shore. But the opposite bank presents a picture of +sharp contrast. Near the edge of the river rises a high board fence, +topped with barbed wire, the menacing aspect heightened by warlike +watch-towers and ramparts. The sinister wall looks down on me with a +thousand hollow eyes, whose evident murderous purpose fully justifies +the name of "Fort Frick." Groups of excited people crowd the open spaces +between the river and the fort, filling the air with the confusion of +many voices. Men carrying Winchesters are hurrying by, their faces +grimy, eyes bold yet anxious. From the mill-yard gape the black mouths +of cannon, dismantled breastworks bar the passages, and the ground is +strewn with burning cinders, empty shells, oil barrels, broken furnace +stacks, and piles of steel and iron. The place looks the aftermath of a +sanguinary conflict,--the symbol of our industrial life, of the ruthless +struggle in which the _stronger_, the sturdy man of labor, is always the +victim, because he acts _weakly_. But the charred hulks of the Pinkerton +barges at the landing-place, and the blood-bespattered gangplank, bear +mute witness that for once the battle went to the _really strong, to the +victim who dared_. + +A group of workingmen approaches me. Big, stalwart men, the power of +conscious strength in their step and bearing. Each of them carries a +weapon: some Winchesters, others shotguns. In the hand of one I notice +the gleaming barrel of a navy revolver. + +"Who are you?" the man with the revolver sternly asks me. + +"A friend, a visitor." + +"Can you show credentials or a union card?" + +Presently, satisfied as to my trustworthiness, they allow me to proceed. + +In one of the mill-yards I come upon a dense crowd of men and women of +various types: the short, broad-faced Slav, elbowing his tall American +fellow-striker; the swarthy Italian, heavy-mustached, gesticulating and +talking rapidly to a cluster of excited countrymen. The people are +surging about a raised platform, on which stands a large, heavy man. + +I press forward. "Listen, gentlemen, listen!" I hear the speaker's +voice. "Just a few words, gentlemen! You all know who I am, don't you?" + +"Yes, yes, Sheriff!" several men cry. "Go on!" + +"Yes," continues the speaker, "you all know who I am. Your Sheriff, the +Sheriff of Allegheny County, of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania." + +"Go ahead!" some one yells, impatiently. + +"If you don't interrupt me, gentlemen, I'll go ahead." + +"S-s-sh! Order!" + +The speaker advances to the edge of the platform. "Men of Homestead! It +is my sworn duty, as Sheriff, to preserve the peace. Your city is in a +state of lawlessness. I have asked the Governor to send the militia and +I hope--" + +"No! No!" many voices protest. "To hell with you!" The tumult drowns the +words of the Sheriff. Shaking his clenched fist, his foot stamping the +platform, he shouts at the crowd, but his voice is lost amid the +general uproar. + +"O'Donnell! O'Donnell!" comes from several sides, the cry swelling into +a tremendous chorus, "O'Donnell!" + +I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend the platform. The +assembly becomes hushed. + +"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingratiating manner, "we have +won a great, noble victory over the Company. We have driven the +Pinkerton invaders out of our city--" + +"Damn the murderers!" + +"Silence! Order!" + +"You have won a big victory," O'Donnell continues, "a great, significant +victory, such as was never before known in the history of labor's +struggle for better conditions." + +Vociferous cheering interrupts the speaker. "But," he continues, "you +must show the world that you desire to maintain peace and order along +with your rights. The Pinkertons were invaders. We defended our homes +and drove them out; rightly so. But you are law-abiding citizens. You +respect the law and the authority of the State. Public opinion will +uphold you in your struggle if you act right. Now is the time, friends!" +He raises his voice in waxing enthusiasm, "Now is the time! Welcome the +soldiers. They are not sent by that man Frick. They are the people's +militia. They are our friends. Let us welcome them as friends!" + +Applause, mixed with cries of impatient disapproval, greets the +exhortation. Arms are raised in angry argument, and the crowd sways back +and forth, breaking into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark +man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice gradually draws the +assembly closer to the front. Slowly the tumult subsides. + +"Don't you believe it, men!" The speaker shakes his finger at the +audience, as if to emphasize his warning. "Don't you believe that the +soldiers are coming as friends. Soft words these, Mr. O'Donnell. They'll +cost us dear. Remember what I say, brothers. The soldiers are no friends +of ours. I know what I am talking about. They are coming here because +that damned murderer Frick wants them." + +"Hear! Hear!" + +"Yes!" the tall man continues, his voice quivering with emotion, "I can +tell you just how it is. The scoundrel of a Sheriff there asked the +Governor for troops, and that damned Frick paid the Sheriff to do it, I +say!" + +"No! Yes! No!" the clamor is renewed, but I can hear the speaker's voice +rising above the din: "Yes, bribed him. You all know this cowardly +Sheriff. Don't you let the soldiers come, I tell you. First _they_'ll +come; then the blacklegs. You want 'em?" + +"No! No!" roars the crowd. + +"Well, if you don't want the damned scabs, keep out the soldiers, you +understand? If you don't, they'll drive you out from the homes you have +paid for with your blood. You and your wives and children they'll drive +out, and out you will go from these"--the speaker points in the +direction of the mills--"that's what they'll do, if you don't look out. +We have sweated and bled in these mills, our brothers have been killed +and maimed there, we have made the damned Company rich, and now they +send the soldiers here to shoot us down like the Pinkerton thugs have +tried to. And you want to welcome the murderers, do you? Keep them out, +I tell you!" + +Amid shouts and yells the speaker leaves the platform. + +"McLuckie! 'Honest' McLuckie!" a voice is heard on the fringe of the +crowd, and as one man the assembly takes up the cry, "'Honest' +McLuckie!" + +I am eager to see the popular Burgess of Homestead, himself a +poorly paid employee of the Carnegie Company. A large-boned, +good-natured-looking workingman elbows his way to the front, the +men readily making way for him with nods and pleasant smiles. + +"I haven't prepared any speech," the Burgess begins haltingly, "but I +want to say, I don't see how you are going to fight the soldiers. There +is a good deal of truth in what the brother before me said; but if you +stop to think on it, he forgot to tell you just one little thing. The +_how_? How is he going to do it, to keep the soldiers out? That's what +I'd like to know. I'm afraid it's bad to let them in. The blacklegs +_might_ be hiding in the rear. But then again, it's bad _not_ to let the +soldiers in. You can't stand up against 'em: they are not Pinkertons. +And we can't fight the Government of Pennsylvania. Perhaps the Governor +won't send the militia. But if he does, I reckon the best way for us +will be to make friends with them. Guess it's the only thing we can do. +That's all I have to say." + +The assembly breaks up, dejected, dispirited. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH + + +I + +Like a gigantic hive the twin cities jut out on the banks of the Ohio, +heavily breathing the spirit of feverish activity, and permeating the +atmosphere with the rage of life. Ceaselessly flow the streams of human +ants, meeting and diverging, their paths crossing and recrossing, +leaving in their trail a thousand winding passages, mounds of structure, +peaked and domed. Their huge shadows overcast the yellow thread of +gleaming river that curves and twists its painful way, now hugging the +shore, now hiding in affright, and again timidly stretching its arms +toward the wrathful monsters that belch fire and smoke into the midst of +the giant hive. And over the whole is spread the gloom of thick fog, +oppressive and dispiriting--the symbol of our existence, with all its +darkness and cold. + +This is Pittsburgh, the heart of American industrialism, whose spirit +moulds the life of the great Nation. The spirit of Pittsburgh, the Iron +City! Cold as steel, hard as iron, its products. These are the keynote +of the great Republic, dominating all other chords, sacrificing harmony +to noise, beauty to bulk. Its torch of liberty is a furnace fire, +consuming, destroying, devastating: a country-wide furnace, in which the +bones and marrow of the producers, their limbs and bodies, their health +and blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor plate, and +converted into engines of murder to be consecrated to Mammon by his high +priests, the Carnegies, the Fricks. + + * * * * * + +The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the negotiations carried on +between the Carnegie Company and the Homestead men. Henry Clay Frick, in +absolute control of the firm, incarnates the spirit of the furnace, is +the living emblem of his trade. The olive branch held out by the workers +after their victory over the Pinkertons has been refused. The ultimatum +issued by Frick is the last word of Caesar: the union of the +steel-workers is to be crushed, completely and absolutely, even at the +cost of shedding the blood of the last man in Homestead; the Company +will deal only with individual workers, who must accept the terms +offered, without question or discussion; he, Frick, will operate the +mills with non-union labor, even if it should require the combined +military power of the State and the Union to carry the plan into +execution. Millmen disobeying the order to return to work under the new +schedule of reduced wages are to be discharged forthwith, and evicted +from the Company houses. + + +II + +In an obscure alley, in the town of Homestead, there stands a one-story +frame house, looking old and forlorn. It is occupied by the widow +Johnson and her four small children. Six months ago, the breaking of a +crane buried her husband under two hundred tons of metal. When the body +was carried into the house, the distracted woman refused to recognize in +the mangled remains her big, strong "Jack." For weeks the neighborhood +resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband! Where's my husband?" But +the loving care of kind-hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the +poor woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little orphans, she +recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick. On her knees she implored him +not to drive her out of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she +pleaded; she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were too young +to work; she herself was hardly able to walk. Frick was very kind, she +thought; he had promised to see what could be done. She would not listen +to the neighbors urging her to sue the Company for damages. "The crane +was rotten," her husband's friends informed her; "the government +inspector had condemned it." But Mr. Frick was kind, and surely he knew +best about the crane. Did he not say it was her poor husband's own +carelessness? + +She feels very thankful to good Mr. Frick for extending the mortgage. +She had lived in such mortal dread lest her own little home, where dear +John had been such a kind husband to her, be taken away, and her +children driven into the street. She must never forget to ask the Lord's +blessing upon the good Mr. Frick. Every day she repeats to her neighbors +the story of her visit to the great man; how kindly he received her, how +simply he talked with her. "Just like us folks," the widow says. + +She is now telling the wonderful story to neighbor Mary, the hunchback, +who, with undiminished interest, hears the recital for the twentieth +time. It reflects such importance to know some one that had come in +intimate contact with the Iron King; why, into his very presence! and +even talked to the great magnate! + +"'Dear Mr. Frick,' says I," the widow is narrating, "'dear Mr. Frick,' +I says, 'look at my poor little angels--'" + +A knock on the door interrupts her. "Must be one-eyed Kate," the widow +observes. "Come in! Come in!" she calls out, cheerfully. "Poor Kate!" +she remarks with a sigh. "Her man's got the consumption. Won't last +long, I fear." + +A tall, rough-looking man stands in the doorway. Behind him appear two +others. Frightened, the widow rises from the chair. One of the children +begins to cry, and runs to hide behind his mother. + +"Beg pard'n, ma'am," the tall man says. "Have no fear. We are Deputy +Sheriffs. Read this." He produces an official-looking paper. "Ordered to +dispossess you. Very sorry, ma'am, but get ready. Quick, got a dozen +more of--" + +There is a piercing scream. The Deputy Sheriff catches the limp body of +the widow in his arms. + + +III + +East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pittsburgh, lies basking +in the afternoon sun. The broad avenue looks cool and inviting: the +stately trees touch their shadows across the carriage road, gently +nodding their heads in mutual approval. A steady procession of equipages +fills the avenue, the richly caparisoned horses and uniformed flunkies +lending color and life to the scene. A cavalcade is passing me. The +laughter of the ladies sounds joyous and care-free. Their happiness +irritates me. I am thinking of Homestead. In mind I see the sombre +fence, the fortifications and cannon; the piteous figure of the widow +rises before me, the little children weeping, and again I hear the +anguished cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain.... + +And here all is joy and laughter. The gentlemen seem pleased; the ladies +are happy. Why should they concern themselves with misery and want? The +common folk are fit only to be their slaves, to feed and clothe them, +build these beautiful palaces, and be content with the charitable crust. +"Take what I give you," Frick commands. Why, here is his house! A +luxurious place, with large garden, barns, and stable. That stable +there,--it is more cheerful and habitable than the widow's home. Ah, +life could be made livable, beautiful! Why should it not be? Why so much +misery and strife? Sunshine, flowers, beautiful things are all around +me. That is life! Joy and peace.... No! There can be no peace with such +as Frick and these parasites in carriages riding on our backs, and +sucking the blood of the workers. Fricks, vampires, all of them--I +almost shout aloud--they are all one class. All in a cabal against _my_ +class, the toilers, the producers. An impersonal conspiracy, perhaps; +but a conspiracy nevertheless. And the fine ladies on horseback smile +and laugh. What is the misery of the People to _them?_ Probably they are +laughing at me. Laugh! Laugh! You despise me. I am of the People, but +you belong to the Fricks. Well, it may soon be our turn to laugh.... + + * * * * * + +Returning to Pittsburgh in the evening, I learn that the conferences +between the Carnegie Company and the Advisory Committee of the strikers +have terminated in the final refusal of Frick to consider the demands of +the millmen. The last hope is gone! The master is determined to crush +his rebellious slaves. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE ATTENTAT + + +The door of Frick's private office, to the left of the reception-room, +swings open as the colored attendant emerges, and I catch a flitting +glimpse of a black-bearded, well-knit figure at a table in the back of +the room. + +"Mistah Frick is engaged. He can't see you now, sah," the negro says, +handing back my card. + +I take the pasteboard, return it to my case, and walk slowly out of the +reception-room. But quickly retracing my steps, I pass through the gate +separating the clerks from the visitors, and, brushing the astounded +attendant aside, I step into the office on the left, and find myself +facing Frick. + +For an instant the sunlight, streaming through the windows, dazzles me. +I discern two men at the further end of the long table. + +"Fr--," I begin. The look of terror on his face strikes me speechless. +It is the dread of the conscious presence of death. "He understands," it +flashes through my mind. With a quick motion I draw the revolver. As I +raise the weapon, I see Frick clutch with both hands the arm of the +chair, and attempt to rise. I aim at his head. "Perhaps he wears armor," +I reflect. With a look of horror he quickly averts his face, as I pull +the trigger. There is a flash, and the high-ceilinged room reverberates +as with the booming of cannon. I hear a sharp, piercing cry, and see +Frick on his knees, his head against the arm of the chair. I feel calm +and possessed, intent upon every movement of the man. He is lying head +and shoulders under the large armchair, without sound or motion. "Dead?" +I wonder. I must make sure. About twenty-five feet separate us. I take a +few steps toward him, when suddenly the other man, whose presence I had +quite forgotten, leaps upon me. I struggle to loosen his hold. He looks +slender and small. I would not hurt him: I have no business with him. +Suddenly I hear the cry, "Murder! Help!" My heart stands still as I +realize that it is Frick shouting. "Alive?" I wonder. I hurl the +stranger aside and fire at the crawling figure of Frick. The man struck +my hand,--I have missed! He grapples with me, and we wrestle across the +room. I try to throw him, but spying an opening between his arm and +body, I thrust the revolver against his side and aim at Frick, cowering +behind the chair. I pull the trigger. There is a click--but no +explosion! By the throat I catch the stranger, still clinging to me, +when suddenly something heavy strikes me on the back of the head. Sharp +pains shoot through my eyes. I sink to the floor, vaguely conscious of +the weapon slipping from my hands. + +"Where is the hammer? Hit him, carpenter!" Confused voices ring in my +ears. Painfully I strive to rise. The weight of many bodies is pressing +on me. Now--it's Frick's voice! Not dead?... I crawl in the direction of +the sound, dragging the struggling men with me. I must get the dagger +from my pocket--I have it! Repeatedly I strike with it at the legs of +the man near the window. I hear Frick cry out in pain--there is much +shouting and stamping--my arms are pulled and twisted, and I am lifted +bodily from the floor. + +Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me. An officer pulls my +head back by the hair, and my eyes meet Frick's. He stands in front of +me, supported by several men. His face is ashen gray; the black beard is +streaked with red, and blood is oozing from his neck. For an instant a +strange feeling, as of shame, comes over me; but the next moment I am +filled with anger at the sentiment, so unworthy of a revolutionist. With +defiant hatred I look him full in the face. + +"Mr. Frick, do you identify this man as your assailant?" + +Frick nods weakly. + + * * * * * + +The street is lined with a dense, excited crowd. A young man in civilian +dress, who is accompanying the police, inquires, not unkindly: + +"Are you hurt? You're bleeding." + +I pass my hand over my face. I feel no pain, but there is a peculiar +sensation about my eyes. + +"I've lost my glasses," I remark, involuntarily. + +"You'll be damn lucky if you don't lose your head," an officer retorts. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE THIRD DEGREE + + +I + +The clanking of the keys grows fainter and fainter; the sound of +footsteps dies away. The officers are gone. It is a relief to be alone. +Their insolent looks and stupid questions, insinuations and +threats,--how disgusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete +indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the wooden bench, +running along the wall of the cell, and at once fall asleep. + +I awake feeling tired and chilly. All is quiet and dark around me. Is it +night? My hand gropes blindly, hesitantly. Something wet and clammy +touches my cheek. In sudden affright I draw back. The cell is damp and +musty; the foul air nauseates me. Slowly my foot feels the floor, +drawing my body forward, all my senses on the alert. I clutch the bars. +The feel of iron is reassuring. Pressed close to the door, my mouth in +the narrow opening, I draw quick, short breaths. I am hot, perspiring. +My throat is dry to cracking; I cannot swallow. "Water! I want water!" +The voice frightens me. Was it I that spoke? The sound rolls up; it +rises from gallery to gallery, and strikes the opposite corner under the +roof; now it crawls underneath, knocks in the distant hollows, and +abruptly ceases. + +"Holloa, there! Whatcher in for?" + +The voice seems to issue at once from all sides of the corridor. But the +sound relieves me. Now the air feels better; it is not so difficult to +breathe. I begin to distinguish the outline of a row of cells opposite +mine. There are dark forms at the doors. The men within look like beasts +restlessly pacing their cages. + +"Whatcher in for?" It comes from somewhere alongside. "Can't talk, eh? +'Sorderly, guess." + +What am I in for? Oh, yes! It's Frick. Well, I shall not stay _here_ +long, anyhow. They will soon take me out--they will lean me against a +wall--a slimy wall like this, perhaps. They will bandage my eyes, and +the soldiers there.... No: they are going to hang me. Well, I shall be +glad when they take me out of here. I am so dry. I'm suffocating.... + +... The upright irons of the barred door grow faint, and melt into a +single line; it adjusts itself crosswise between the upper and side +sills. It resembles a scaffold, and there is a man sinking the beam into +the ground. He leans it carefully against the wall, and picks up a +spade. Now he stands with one foot in the hole. It is the carpenter! He +hit me on the head. From behind, too, the coward. If he only knew what +he had done. He is one of the People: we must go to them, enlighten +them. I wish he'd look up. He doesn't know his real friends. He looks +like a Russian peasant, with his broad back. What hairy arms he has! If +he would only look up.... Now he sinks the beam into the ground; he is +stamping down the earth. I will catch his eye as he turns around. Ah, he +didn't look! He has his eyes always on the ground. Just like the +_muzhik_. Now he is taking a few steps backward, critically examining +his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the cross-piece looks. The +horizontal beam seems too long; out of proportion. I hope it won't +break. I remember the feeling I had when my brother once showed me the +picture of a man dangling from the branch of a tree. Underneath was +inscribed, _The Execution of Stenka Razin_. "Didn't the branch break?" I +asked. "No, Sasha," mother replied, "Stenka--well, he weighed nothing"; +and I wondered at the peculiar look she exchanged with Maxim. But mother +smiled sadly at me, and wouldn't explain. Then she turned to my brother: +"Maxim, you must not bring Sashenka such pictures. He is too young." +"Not too young, mamotchka, to learn that Stenka was a great man." "What! +You young fool," father bristled with anger, "he was a murderer, a +common rioter." But mother and Maxim bravely defended Stenka, and I was +deeply incensed at father, who despotically terminated the discussion. +"Not another word, now! I won't hear any more of that peasant criminal." +The peculiar divergence of opinion perplexed me. Anybody could tell the +difference between a murderer and a worthy man. Why couldn't they agree? +He must have been a good man, I finally decided. Mother wouldn't cry +over a hanged murderer: I saw her stealthily wipe her eyes as she looked +at that picture. Yes, Stenka Razin was surely a noble man. I cried +myself to sleep over the unspeakable injustice, wondering how I could +ever forgive "them" the killing of the good Stenka, and why the +weak-looking branch did not break with his weight. Why didn't it +break?... The scaffold they will prepare for me might break with my +weight. They'll hang me like Stenka, and perhaps a little boy will some +day see the picture--and they will call me murderer--and only a few will +know the truth--and the picture will show me hanging from.... No, they +shall not hang me! + +My hand steals to the lapel of my coat, and a deep sense of +gratification comes over me, as I feel the nitro-glycerine cartridge +secure in the lining. I smile at the imaginary carpenter. Useless +preparations! I have, myself, prepared for the event. No, they won't +hang me. My hand caresses the long, narrow tube. Go ahead! Make your +gallows. Why, the man is putting on his coat. Is he done already? Now he +is turning around. He is looking straight at me. Why, it's Frick! +Alive?... + +My brain is on fire. I press my head against the bars, and groan +heavily. Alive? Have I failed? Failed?... + + +II + +Heavy footsteps approach nearer; the clanking of the keys grows more +distinct. I must compose myself. Those mocking, unfriendly eyes shall +not witness my agony. They could allay this terrible uncertainty, but I +must seem indifferent. + +Would I "take lunch with the Chief"? I decline, requesting a glass of +water. Certainly; but the Chief wishes to see me first. Flanked on each +side by a policeman, I pass through winding corridors, and finally +ascend to the private office of the Chief. My mind is busy with thoughts +of escape, as I carefully note the surroundings. I am in a large, +well-furnished room, the heavily curtained windows built unusually high +above the floor. A brass railing separates me from the roll-top desk, at +which a middle-aged man, of distinct Irish type, is engaged with some +papers. + +"Good morning," he greets me, pleasantly. "Have a seat," pointing to a +chair inside the railing. "I understand you asked for some water?" + +"Yes." + +"Just a few questions first. Nothing important. Your pedigree, you know. +Mere matter of form. Answer frankly, and you shall have everything you +want." + +His manner is courteous, almost ingratiating. + +"Now tell me, Mr. Berkman, what is your name? Your real name, I mean." + +"That's my real name." + +"You don't mean you gave your real name on the card you sent in to Mr. +Frick?" + +"I gave my real name." + +"And you are an agent of a New York employment firm?" + +"No." + +"That was on your card." + +"I wrote it to gain access to Frick." + +"And you gave the name 'Alexander Berkman' to gain access?" + +"No. I gave my real name. Whatever might happen, I did not want anyone +else to be blamed." + +"Are you a Homestead striker?" + +"No." + +"Why did you attack Mr. Frick?" + +"He is an enemy of the People." + +"You got a personal grievance against him?" + +"No. I consider him an enemy of the People." + +"Where do you come from?" + +"From the station cell." + +"Come, now, you may speak frankly, Mr. Berkman. I am your friend. I am +going to give you a nice, comfortable cell. The other--" + +"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily. + +"How long did you serve there?" + +"Where?" + +"In the prison in Russia." + +"I was never before inside a cell." + +"Come, now, Mr. Berkman, tell the truth." + +He motions to the officer behind my chair. The window curtains are drawn +aside, exposing me to the full glare of the sunlight. My gaze wanders to +the clock on the wall. The hour-hand points to V. The calendar on the +desk reads, July--23--Saturday. Only three hours since my arrest? It +seemed so long in the cell.... + +"You can be quite frank with me," the inquisitor is saying. "I know a +good deal more about you than you think. We've got your friend +Rak-metov." + +With difficulty I suppress a smile at the stupidity of the intended +trap. In the register of the hotel where I passed the first night in +Pittsburgh, I signed "Rakhmetov," the name of the hero in +Chernishevsky's famous novel. + +"Yes, we've got your friend, and we know all about you." + +"Then why do you ask me?" + +"Don't you try to be smart now. Answer my questions, d'ye hear?" + +His manner has suddenly changed. His tone is threatening. + +"Now answer me. Where do you live?" + +"Give me some water. I am too dry to talk." + +"Certainly, certainly," he replies, coaxingly. "You shall have a drink. +Do you prefer whiskey or beer?" + +"I never drink whiskey, and beer very seldom. I want water." + +"Well, you'll get it as soon as we get through. Don't let us waste time, +then. Who are your friends?" + +"Give me a drink." + +"The quicker we get through, the sooner you'll get a drink. I am having +a nice cell fixed up for you, too. I want to be your friend, Mr. +Berkman. Treat me right, and I'll take care of you. Now, tell me, where +did you stop in Pittsburgh?" + +"I have nothing to tell you." + +"Answer me, or I'll--" + +His face is purple with rage. With clenched fist he leaps from his seat; +but, suddenly controlling himself, he says, with a reassuring smile: + +"Now be sensible, Mr. Berkman. You seem to be an intelligent man. Why +don't you talk sensibly?" + +"What do you want to know?" + +"Who went with you to Mr. Frick's office?" + +Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words: + +"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Merchants' Hotel, opposite +the B. and O. depot. I signed the name Rakhmetov in the register there. +It's a fictitious name. My real name is Alexander Berkman. I went to +Frick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's all I have to tell you." + +"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berkman. We're not in any +hurry. Take your seat. You may as well stay here as in the cell; it's +pleasanter. But I am going to have another cell fixed up for you. Just +tell me, where do you stay in New York?" + +"I have told you all there is to tell." + +"Now, don't be stubborn. Who are your friends?" + +"I won't say another word." + +"Damn you, you'll think better of it. Officers, take him back. Same +cell." + + * * * * * + +Every morning and evening, during three days, the scene is repeated by +new inquisitors. They coax and threaten, they smile and rage in turn. I +remain indifferent. But water is refused me, my thirst aggravated by the +salty food they have given me. It consumes me, it tortures and burns my +vitals through the sleepless nights passed on the hard wooden bench. The +foul air of the cell is stifling. The silence of the grave torments me; +my soul is in an agony of uncertainty. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE JAIL + + +I + +The days ring with noisy clamor. There is constant going and coming. The +clatter of levers, the slamming of iron doors, continually reverberates +through the corridors. The dull thud of a footfall in the cell above +hammers on my head with maddening regularity. In my ears is the yelling +and shouting of coarse voices. + +"Cell num-ber ee-e-lev-ven! To court! Right a-way!" + +A prisoner hurriedly passes my door. His step is nervous, in his look +expectant fear. + +"Hurry, there! To court!" + +"Good luck, Jimmie." + +The man flushes and averts his face, as he passes a group of visitors +clustered about an overseer. + +"Who is that, Officer?" One of the ladies advances, lorgnette in hand, +and stares boldly at the prisoner. Suddenly she shrinks back. A man is +being led past by the guards. His face is bleeding from a deep gash, his +head swathed in bandages. The officers thrust him violently into a cell. +He falls heavily against the bed. "Oh, don't! For Jesus' sake, don't!" +The shutting of the heavy door drowns his cries. + +The visitors crowd about the cell. + +"What did he do? He can't come out now, Officer?" + +"No, ma'am. He's safe." + +The lady's laugh rings clear and silvery. She steps closer to the bars, +eagerly peering into the darkness. A smile of exciting security plays +about her mouth. + +"What has he done, Officer?" + +"Stole some clothes, ma'am." + +Disdainful disappointment is on the lady's face. "Where is that man +who--er--we read in the papers yesterday? You know--the newspaper artist +who killed--er--that girl in such a brutal manner." + +"Oh, Jack Tarlin. Murderers' Row, this way, ladies." + + +II + +The sun is slowly nearing the blue patch of sky, visible from my cell in +the western wing of the jail. I stand close to the bars to catch the +cheering rays. They glide across my face with tender, soft caress, and I +feel something melt within me. Closer I press to the door. I long for +the precious embrace to surround me, to envelop me, to pour its soft +balm into my aching soul. The last rays are fading away, and something +out of my heart is departing with them.... But the lengthening shadows +on the gray flagstones spread quiet. Gradually the clamor ceases, the +sounds die out. I hear the creaking of rusty hinges, there is the click +of a lock, and all is hushed and dark. + + * * * * * + +The silence grows gloomy, oppressive. It fills me with mysterious awe. +It lives. It pulsates with slow, measured breathing, as of some monster. +It rises and falls; approaches, recedes. It is Misery asleep. Now it +presses heavily against my door. I hear its quickened breathing. Oh, it +is the guard! Is it the death watch? His outline is lost in the +semi-darkness, but I see the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they +watch and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I nervously pace the +floor. Unconsciously my step quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of +steel. It grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is here and +there, all around me. Now it flits up and down; it doubles, trebles. The +fearful eyes stare at me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On +every side they surround me, and bar my way. + +I bury my head in the pillow. My sleep is restless and broken. Ever the +terrible gaze is upon me, watching, watching, the white eyeballs turning +with my every movement. + + +III + +The line of prisoners files by my cell. They walk in twos, conversing in +subdued tones. It is a motley crowd from the ends of the world. The +native of the western part of the State, the "Pennsylvania Dutchman," of +stolid mien, passes slowly, in silence. The son of southern Italy, +stocky and black-eyed, alert suspicion on his face, walks with quick, +nervous step. The tall, slender Spaniard, swarthy and of classic +feature, looks about him with suppressed disdain. Each, in passing, +casts a furtive glance into my cell. The last in the line is a young +negro, walking alone. He nods and smiles broadly at me, exposing teeth +of dazzling whiteness. The guard brings up the rear. He pauses at my +door, his sharp eye measuring me severely, critically. + +"You may fall in." + +The cell is unlocked, and I join the line. The negro is at my side. He +loses no time in engaging me in conversation. He is very glad, he +assures me, that they have at last permitted me to "fall in." It was a +shame to deprive me of exercise for four days. Now they will "call de +night-dog off. Must been afeared o' soocide," he explains. + +His flow of speech is incessant; he seems not a whit disconcerted by my +evident disinclination to talk. Would I have a cigarette? May smoke in +the cell. One can buy "de weed" here, if he has "de dough"; buy anything +'cept booze. He is full of the prison gossip. That tall man there is +Jack Tinford, of Homestead--sure to swing--threw dynamite at the +Pinkertons. That little "dago" will keep Jack company--cut his wife's +throat. The "Dutchy" there is "bugs"--choked his son in sleep. Presently +my talkative companion volunteers the information that he also is +waiting for trial. Nothing worse than second degree murder, though. +Can't hang him, he laughs gleefully. "His" man didn't "croak" till after +the ninth day. He lightly waves aside my remark concerning the ninth-day +superstition. He is convinced they won't hang him. "Can't do't," he +reiterates, with a happy grin. Suddenly he changes the subject. "Wat am +yo doin' heah? Only murdah cases on dis ah gal'ry. Yuh man didn' croak!" +Evidently he expects no answer, immediately assuring me that I am "all +right." "Guess dey b'lieve it am mo' safe foah yo. But can't hang yo, +can't hang yo." He grows excited over the recital of his case. Minutely +he describes the details. "Dat big niggah, guess 'e t'ot I's afeared of +'m. He know bettah now," he chuckles. "Dis ah chile am afeared of none +ov'm. Ah ain't. 'Gwan 'way, niggah,' Ah says to 'm; 'yo bettah leab mah +gahl be.' An' dat big black niggah grab de cleaveh,--we's in d'otel +kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat,' Ah hollos, an' he come at me. Den +dis ah coon pull his trusty li'lle brodeh," he taps his pocket +significantly, "an' Ah lets de ornery niggah hab it. Plum' in de belly, +yassah, Ah does, an' he drop his cleaveh an' Ah pulls mah knife out, two +inches, 'bout, an' den Ah gives it half twist like, an' shoves it in +'gen." He illustrates the ghastly motion. "Dat bad niggah neveh botheh +_me_ 'gen, noh nobody else, Ah guess. But dey can't hang me, no sah, dey +can't, 'cause mah man croak two weeks later. Ah's lucky, yassah, Ah is." +His face is wreathed in a broad grin, his teeth shimmer white. Suddenly +he grows serious. "Yo am strikeh? No-o-o? Not a steel-woikeh?" with +utter amazement. "What yo wan' teh shoot Frick foah?" He does not +attempt to disguise his impatient incredulity, as I essay an +explanation. "Afeared t' tell. Yo am deep all right, Ahlick--dat am yuh +name? But yo am right, yassah, yo am right. Doan' tell nobody. Dey's +mos'ly crooks, dat dey am, an' dey need watchin' sho'. Yo jes' membuh +dat." + + * * * * * + +There is a peculiar movement in the marching line. I notice a prisoner +leave his place. He casts an anxious glance around, and disappears in +the niche of the cell door. The line continues on its march, and, as I +near the man's hiding place, I hear him whisper, "Fall back, Aleck." +Surprised at being addressed in such familiar manner, I slow down my +pace. The man is at my side. + +"Say, Berk, you don't want to be seen walking with that 'dinge.'" + +The sound of my shortened name grates harshly on my ear. I feel the +impulse to resent the mutilation. The man's manner suggests a lack of +respect, offensive to my dignity as a revolutionist. + +"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him. + +He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed chin of the elongated +face suggest the fox. He meets my gaze with a sharp look from above his +smoked-glass spectacles. His voice is husky, his tone unpleasantly +confidential. It is bad for a white man to be seen with a "nigger," he +informs me. It will make feeling against me. He himself is a Pittsburgh +man for the last twenty years, but he was "born and raised" in the +South, in Atlanta. They have no use for "niggers" down there, he assures +me. They must be taught to keep their place, and they are no good, +anyway. I had better take his advice, for he is friendly disposed toward +me. I must be very careful of appearances before the trial. My +inexperience is quite evident, but he "knows the ropes." I must not give +"them" an opportunity to say anything against me. My behavior in jail +will weigh with the judge in determining my sentence. He himself expects +to "get off easy." He knows some of the judges. Mostly good men. He +ought to know: helped to elect one of them; voted three times for him at +the last election. He closes the left eye, and playfully pokes me with +his elbow. He hopes he'll "get before that judge." He will, if he is +lucky, he assures me. He had always had pretty good luck. Last time he +got off with three years, though he nearly killed "his" man. But it was +in self-defence. Have I got a chew of tobacco about me? Don't use the +weed? Well, it'll be easier in the "pen." What's the pen? Why, don't I +know? The penitentiary, of course. I should have no fear. Frick ain't +going to die. But what did I want to kill the man for? I ain't no +Pittsburgh man, that he could see plain. What did I want to "nose in" +for? Help the strikers? I must be crazy to talk that way. Why, it was +none of my "cheese." Didn't I come from New York? Yes? Well, then, how +could the strike concern me? I must have some personal grudge against +Frick. Ever had dealings with him? No? Sure? Then it's plain "bughouse," +no use talking. But it's different with his case. It was his partner in +business. He knew the skunk meant to cheat him out of money, and they +quarreled. Did I notice the dark glasses he wears? Well, his eyes are +bad. He only meant to scare the man. But, damn him, he croaked. Curse +such luck. His third offence, too. Do I think the judge will have pity +on him? Why, he is almost blind. How did he manage to "get his man"? +Why, just an accidental shot. He didn't mean to-- + +The gong intones its deep, full bass. + +"All in!" + +The line breaks. There is a simultaneous clatter of many doors, and I am +in the cell again. + + +IV + +Within, on the narrow stool, I find a tin pan filled with a dark-brown +mixture. It is the noon meal, but the "dinner" does not look inviting: +the pan is old and rusty; the smell of the soup excites suspicion. The +greasy surface, dotted here and there with specks of vegetable, +resembles a pool of stagnant water covered with green slime. The first +taste nauseates me, and I decide to "dine" on the remnants of my +breakfast--a piece of bread. + + * * * * * + +I pace the floor in agitation over the conversation with my +fellow-prisoners. Why can't they understand the motives that prompted +my act? Their manner of pitying condescension is aggravating. My +attempted explanation they evidently considered a waste of effort. +Not a striker myself, I could and should have had no interest in +the struggle,--the opinion seemed final with both the negro and +the white man. In the purpose of the act they refused to see any +significance,--nothing beyond the mere physical effect. It would have +been a good thing if Frick had died, because "he was bad." But it is +"lucky" for me that he didn't die, they thought, for now "they" can't +hang me. My remark that the probable consequences to myself are not to +be weighed in the scale against the welfare of the People, they had met +with a smile of derision, suggestive of doubt as to my sanity. It is, of +course, consoling to reflect that neither of those men can properly be +said to represent the People. The negro is a very inferior type of +laborer; and the other--he is a _bourgeois_, "in business." He is not +worth while. Besides, he confessed that it is his third offence. He is a +common criminal, not an honest producer. But that tall man--the +Homestead steel-worker whom the negro pointed out to me--oh, _he_ will +understand: he is of the real People. My heart wells up in admiration of +the man, as I think of his participation in the memorable struggle of +Homestead. He fought the Pinkertons, the myrmidons of Capital. Perhaps +he helped to dynamite the barges and drive those Hessians out of town. +He is tall and broad-shouldered, his face strong and determined, his +body manly and powerful. He is of the true spirit; the embodiment of the +great, noble People: the giant of labor grown to his full stature, +conscious of his strength. Fearless, strong, and proud, he will conquer +all obstacles; he will break his chains and liberate mankind. + + +V + +Next morning, during exercise hour, I watch with beating heart for an +opportunity to converse with the Homestead steel-worker. I shall explain +to him the motives and purpose of my attempt on Frick. He will +understand me; he will himself enlighten his fellow-strikers. It is very +important _they_ should comprehend my act quite clearly, and he is the +very man to do this great service to humanity. He is the rebel-worker; +his heroism during the struggle bears witness. I hope the People will +not allow the enemy to hang him. He defended the rights of the Homestead +workers, the cause of the whole working class. No, the People will never +allow such a sacrifice. How well he carries himself! Erect, head high, +the look of conscious dignity and strength-- + +"Cell num-b-ber fi-i-ve!" + +The prisoner with the smoked glasses leaves the line, and advances in +response to the guard's call. Quickly I pass along the gallery, and fall +into the vacant place, alongside of the steel-worker. + +"A happy chance," I address him. "I should like to speak to you about +something important. You are one of the Homestead strikers, are you +not?" + +"Jack Tinford," he introduces himself. "What's your name?" + +He is visibly startled by my answer. "The man who shot Frick?" he asks. + +An expression of deep anxiety crosses his face. His eye wanders to the +gate. Through the wire network I observe visitors approaching from the +Warden's office. + +"They'd better not see us together," he says, impatiently. "Fall in back +of me. Then we'll talk." + +Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its significance, I slowly +fall back. His tall, broad figure completely hides me from view. He +speaks to me in monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Homestead +he grows more communicative, talking in an undertone, as if conversing +with his neighbor, the Sicilian, who does not understand a syllable of +English. I strain my ear to catch his words. The steel-workers merely +defended themselves against armed invaders, I hear him say. They are not +on strike: they've been locked out by Frick, because he wants to +non-unionize the works. That's why he broke the contract with the +Amalgamated, and hired the damned Pinkertons two months before, when all +was peace. They shot many workers from the barges before the millmen +"got after them." They deserved roasting alive for their unprovoked +murders. Well, the men "fixed them all right." Some were killed, others +committed suicide on the burning barges, and the rest were forced to +surrender like whipped curs. A grand victory all right, if that coward +of a sheriff hadn't got the Governor to send the militia to Homestead. +But it was a victory, you bet, for the boys to get the best of three +hundred armed Pinkertons. He himself, though, had nothing to do with the +fight. He was sick at the time. They're trying to get the Pinkertons to +swear his life away. One of the hounds has already made an affidavit +that he saw him, Jack Tinford, throw dynamite at the barges, before the +Pinkertons landed. But never mind, he is not afraid. No Pittsburgh jury +will believe those lying murderers. He was in his sweetheart's house, +sick abed. The girl and her mother will prove an alibi for him. And the +Advisory Committee of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't on the +shore. They'll swear to it in court, anyhow-- + +Abruptly he ceases, a look of fear on his face. For a moment he is lost +in thought. Then he gives me a searching look, and smiles at me. As we +turn the corner of the walk, he whispers: "Too bad you didn't kill him. +Some business misunderstanding, eh?" he adds, aloud. + +Could he be serious, I wonder. Does he only pretend? He faces straight +ahead, and I am unable to see his expression. I begin the careful +explanation I had prepared: + +"Jack, it was for you, for your people that I--" + +Impatiently, angrily he interrupts me. I'd better be careful not to talk +that way in court, he warns me. If Frick should die, I'd hang myself +with such "gab." And it would only harm the steel-workers. They don't +believe in killing; they respect the law. Of course, they had a right to +defend their homes and families against unlawful invaders. But they +welcomed the militia to Homestead. They showed their respect for +authority. To be sure, Frick deserves to die. He is a murderer. But the +mill-workers will have nothing to do with Anarchists. What did I want to +kill him for, anyhow? I did not belong to the Homestead men. It was none +of my business. I had better not say anything about it in court, or-- + +The gong tolls. + +"All in!" + + +VI + +I pass a sleepless night. The events of the day have stirred me to the +very depths. Bitterness and anger against the Homestead striker fill my +heart. My hero of yesterday, the hero of the glorious struggle of the +People,--how contemptible he has proved himself, how cravenly small! No +consciousness of the great mission of his class, no proud realization +of the part he himself had acted in the noble struggle. A cowardly, +overgrown boy, terrified at to-morrow's punishment for the prank he has +played! Meanly concerned only with his own safety, and willing to resort +to lying, in order to escape responsibility. + +The very thought is appalling. It is a sacrilege, an insult to the holy +Cause, to the People. To myself, too. Not that lying is to be condemned, +provided it is in the interest of the Cause. All means are justified in +the war of humanity against its enemies. Indeed, the more repugnant the +means, the stronger the test of one's nobility and devotion. All great +revolutionists have proved that. There is no more striking example in +the annals of the Russian movement than that peerless Nihilist--what was +his name? Why, how peculiar that it should escape me just now! I knew it +so well. He undermined the Winter Palace, beneath the very dining-room +of the Tsar. What debasement, what terrible indignities he had to endure +in the role of the servile, simple-minded peasant carpenter. How his +proud spirit must have suffered, for weeks and months,--all for the sake +of his great purpose. Wonderful man! To be worthy of your +comradeship.... But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by comparison. +He is absorbed in the single thought of saving himself, the traitor. A +veritable Judas, preparing to forswear his people and their cause, +willing to lie and deny his participation. How proud I should be in his +place: to have fought on the barricades, as he did! And then to die for +it,--ah, could there be a more glorious fate for a man, a real man? To +serve even as the least stone in the foundation of a free society, or as +a plank in the bridge across which the triumphant People shall finally +pass into the land of promise? + +A plank in the bridge.... In the _most_.[5] What a significant name! How +it impressed me the first time I heard it! No, I saw it in print, I +remember quite clearly. Mother had just died. I was dreaming of the New +World, the Land of Freedom. Eagerly I read every line of "American +news." One day, in the little Kovno library--how distinctly it all comes +back to me--I can see myself sitting there, perusing the papers. Must +get acquainted with the country. What is this? "Anarchists hanged in +Chicago." There are many names--one is "Most." "What is an Anarchist?" I +whisper to the student near by. He is from Peter,[6] he will know. +"S--sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free America?" I wondered. + + [5] Russian for "bridge." + + [6] Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg. + +How little I knew of America then! A free country, indeed, that hangs +its noblest men. And the misery, the exploitation,--it's terrible. I +must mention all this in court, in my defence. No, not defence--some +fitter word. Explanation! Yes, my explanation. I need no defence: I +don't consider myself guilty. What did the Warden mean? Fool for a +client, he said, when I told him that I would refuse legal aid. He +thinks I am a fool. Well, he's a _bourgeois_, he can't understand. I'll +tell him to leave me alone. He belongs to the enemy. The lawyers, too. +They are all in the capitalist camp. I need no lawyers. They couldn't +explain my case. I shall not talk to the reporters, either. They are a +lying pack, those journalistic hounds of capitalism. They always +misrepresent us. And they know better, too. They wrote columns of +interviews with Most when he went to prison. All lies. I saw him off +myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are our worst enemies. The +Warden said that they'll come to see me to-morrow. I'll have nothing to +say to them. They're sure to twist my words, and thus impair the effect +of my act. It is not complete without my explanation. I shall prepare it +very carefully. Of course, the jury won't understand. They, too, belong +to the capitalist class. But I must use the trial to talk to the People. +To be sure, an _Attentat_ on a Frick is in itself splendid propaganda. +It combines the value of example with terroristic effect. But very much +depends upon my explanation. It offers me a rare opportunity for a +broader agitation of our ideas. The comrades outside will also use my +act for propaganda. The People misunderstand us: they have been +prejudiced by the capitalist press. They must be enlightened; that is +our glorious task. Very difficult and slow work, it is true; but they +will learn. Their patience will break, and then--the good People, they +have always been too kind to their enemies. And brave, even in their +suffering. Yes, very brave. Not like that fellow, the steel-worker. He +is a disgrace to Homestead, the traitor.... + + * * * * * + +I pace the cell in agitation. The Judas-striker is not fit to live. +Perhaps it would be best they should hang him. His death would help to +open the eyes of the People to the real character of legal justice. +Legal justice--what a travesty! They are mutually exclusive terms. Yes, +indeed, it would be best he should be hanged. The Pinkerton will testify +against him. He saw Jack throw dynamite. Very good. Perhaps others will +also swear to it. The judge will believe the Pinkertons. Yes, they will +hang him. + +The thought somewhat soothes my perturbation. At least the cause of the +People will benefit to some extent. The man himself is not to be +considered. He has ceased to exist: his interests are exclusively +personal; he can be of no further benefit to the People. Only his death +can aid the Cause. It is best for him to end his career in the service +of humanity. I hope he will act like a man on the scaffold. The enemy +should not gloat over his fear, his craven terror. They'll see in him +the spirit of the People. Of course, he is not worthy of it. But he must +die like a rebel-worker, bravely, defiantly. I must speak to him about +it. + +The deep bass of the gong dispels my reverie. + + +VII + +There is a distinct sense of freedom in the solitude of the night. The +day's atmosphere is surcharged with noisome anxiety, the hours laden +with impending terrors. But the night is soothing. For the first time I +feel alone, unobserved. The "night-dog has been called off." How +refinedly brutal is this constant care lest the hangman be robbed of his +prey! A simple precaution against suicide, the Warden told me. I felt +the naive stupidity of the suggestion like the thrust of a dagger. What +a tremendous chasm in our mental attitudes! His mind cannot grasp the +impossibility of suicide before I have explained to the People the +motive and purpose of my act. Suicide? As if the mere death of Frick was +my object! The very thought is impossible, insulting. It outrages me +that even a _bourgeois_ should so meanly misjudge the aspirations of an +active revolutionist. The insignificant reptile, Frick,--as if the mere +man were worth a terroristic effort! I aimed at the many-headed hydra +whose visible representative was Frick. The Homestead developments had +given him temporary prominence, thrown this particular hydra-head into +bold relief, so to speak. That alone made him worthy of the +revolutionist's attention. Primarily, as an object lesson; it would +strike terror into the soul of his class. They are craven-hearted, their +conscience weighted with guilt,--and life is dear to them. Their +strangling hold on labor might be loosened. Only for a while, no doubt. +But that much would be gained, due to the act of the _Attentaeter_. The +People could not fail to realize the depth of a love that will give its +own life for their cause. To give a young life, full of health and +vitality, to give all, without a thought of self; to give all, +voluntarily, cheerfully; nay, enthusiastically--could any one fail to +understand such a love? + +But this is the first terrorist act in America. The People may fail to +comprehend it thoroughly. Yet they will know that an Anarchist committed +the deed. I will talk to them from the courtroom. And my comrades at +liberty will use the opportunity to the utmost to shed light on the +questions involved. Such a deed must draw the attention of the world. +This first act of voluntary Anarchist sacrifice will make the workingmen +think deeply. Perhaps even more so than the Chicago martyrdom. The +latter was preeminently a lesson in capitalist justice. The culmination +of a plutocratic conspiracy, the tragedy of 1887 lacked the element of +voluntary Anarchist self-sacrifice in the interests of the People. In +that distinctive quality my act is initial. Perhaps it will prove the +entering wedge. The leaven of growing oppression is at work. It is for +us, the Anarchists, to educate labor to its great mission. Let the world +learn of the misery of Homestead. The sudden thunderclap gives warning +that beyond the calm horizon the storm is gathering. The lightning of +social protest-- + + * * * * * + +"Quick, Ahlick! Plant it." Something white flutters between the bars. +Hastily I read the newspaper clipping. Glorious! Who would have +expected it? A soldier in one of the regiments stationed at Homestead +called upon the line to give "three cheers for the man who shot Frick." +My soul overflows with beautiful hopes. Such a wonderful spirit among +the militia; perhaps the soldiers will fraternize with the strikers. It +is by no means an impossibility: such things have happened before. After +all, they are of the People, mostly workingmen. Their interests are +identical with those of the strikers, and surely they hate Frick, who is +universally condemned for his brutality, his arrogance. This +soldier--what is his name? Iams, W. L. Iams--he typifies the best +feeling of the regiment. The others probably lack his courage. They +feared to respond to his cheers, especially because of the Colonel's +presence. But undoubtedly most of them feel as Iams does. It would be +dangerous for the enemy to rely upon the Tenth Pennsylvania. And in the +other Homestead regiments, there must also be such noble Iamses. They +will not permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the Colonel +threatens. Iams is not merely a militia man. He is a citizen, a native. +He has the right to express his opinion regarding my deed. If he had +condemned it, he would not be punished. May he not, then, voice a +favorable sentiment? No, they can't punish him. And he is surely very +popular among the soldiers. How manfully he behaved as the Colonel raged +before the regiment, and demanded to know who cheered for "the assassin +of Mr. Frick," as the imbecile put it. Iams stepped out of the ranks, +and boldly avowed his act. He could have remained silent, or denied it. +But he is evidently not like that cowardly steel-worker. He even refused +the Colonel's offer to apologize. + +Brave boy! He is the right material for a revolutionist. Such a man has +no business to belong to the militia. He should know for what purpose +it is intended: a tool of capitalism in the enslavement of labor. After +all, it will benefit him to be court-martialed. It will enlighten him. I +must follow the case. Perhaps the negro will give me more clippings. It +was very generous of him to risk this act of friendship. The Warden has +expressly interdicted the passing of newspapers to me, though the other +prisoners are permitted to buy them. He discriminates against me in +every possible way. A rank ignoramus: he cannot even pronounce +"Anarchist." Yesterday he said to me: "The Anachrists are no good. What +do they want, anyhow?" I replied, angrily: "First you say they are no +good, then you ask what they want." He flushed. "Got no use for them, +anyway." Such an imbecile! Not the least sense of justice--he condemns +without knowing. I believe he is aiding the detectives. Why does he +insist I should plead guilty? I have repeatedly told him that, though I +do not deny the act, I am innocent. The stupid laughed outright. "Better +plead guilty, you'll get off easier. You did it, so better plead +guilty." In vain I strove to explain to him: "I don't believe in your +laws, I don't acknowledge the authority of your courts. I am innocent, +morally." The aggravating smile of condescending wisdom kept playing +about his lips. "Plead guilty. Take my advice, plead guilty." + + * * * * * + +Instinctively I sense some presence at the door. The small, cunning eyes +of the Warden peer intently through the bars. I feel him an enemy. Well, +he may have the clipping now if he wishes. But no torture shall draw +from me an admission incriminating the negro. The name Rakhmetov flits +through my mind. I shall be true to that memory. + +"A gentleman in my office wishes to see you," the Warden informs me. + +"Who is he?" + +"A friend of yours, from Pittsburgh." + +"I know no one in Pittsburgh. I don't care to see the man." + +The Warden's suave insistence arouses my suspicions. Why should he be so +much interested in my seeing a stranger? Visits are privileges, I have +been told. I decline the privilege. But the Warden insists. I refuse. +Finally he orders me out of the cell. Two guards lead me into the +hallway. They halt me at the head of a line of a dozen men. Six are +counted off, and I am assigned to the seventh place. I notice that I am +the only one in the line wearing glasses. The Warden enters from an +inner office, accompanied by three visitors. They pass down the row, +scrutinizing each face. They return, their gaze fixed on the men. One of +the strangers makes a motion as if to put his hand on the shoulder of +the man on my left. The Warden hastily calls the visitors aside. They +converse in whispers, then walk up the line, and pass slowly back, till +they are alongside of me. The tall stranger puts his hand familiarly on +my shoulder, exclaiming: + +"Don't you recognize me, Mr. Berkman? I met you on Fifth Avenue, right +in front of the Telegraph building."[7] + + [7] The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company + were located. + +"I never saw you before in my life." + +"Oh, yes! You remember I spoke to you--" + +"No, you did not," I interrupt, impatiently. + +"Take him back," the Warden commands. + +I protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A positive +identification," the Warden asserts. The detective had seen me "in the +company of two friends, inspecting the office of Mr. Frick." Indignantly +I deny the false statement, charging him with abetting the conspiracy to +involve my comrades. He grows livid with rage, and orders me deprived of +exercise that afternoon. + + * * * * * + +The Warden's role in the police plot is now apparent to me. I realize +him in his true colors. Ignorant though he is, familiarity with police +methods has developed in him a certain shrewdness: the low cunning of +the fox seeking its prey. The good-natured smile masks a depth of +malice, his crude vanity glorying in the successful abuse of his +wardenship over unfortunate human beings. + +This new appreciation of his character clarifies various incidents +heretofore puzzling to me. My mail is being detained at the office, I am +sure. It is impossible that my New York comrades should have neglected +me so long: it is now over a week since my arrest. As a matter of due +precaution, they would not communicate with me at once. But two or three +days would be sufficient to perfect a _Deckadresse_.[8] Yet not a line +has reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is being detained. + + [8] A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the + correspondent. + +My reflections rouse bitter hatred of the Warden. His infamy fills me +with rage. The negro's warning against the occupant of the next cell +assumes a new aspect. Undoubtedly the man is a spy; placed there by the +Warden, evidently. Little incidents, insignificant in themselves, add +strong proof to justify the suspicion. It grows to conviction as I +review various circumstances concerning my neighbor. The questions I +deemed foolish, prompted by mere curiosity, I now see in the light of +the Warden's role as volunteer detective. The young negro was sent to +the dungeon for warning me against the spy in the next cell. But the +latter is never reported, notwithstanding his continual knocking and +talking. Specially privileged, evidently. And the Warden, too, is +hand-in-glove with the police. I am convinced he himself caused the +writing of those letters he gave me yesterday. They were postmarked +Homestead, from a pretended striker. They want to blow up the mills, the +letter said; good bombs are needed. I should send them the addresses of +my friends who know how to make effective explosives. What a stupid +trap! One of the epistles sought to involve some of the strike leaders +in my act. In another, John Most was mentioned. Well, I am not to be +caught with such chaff. But I must be on my guard. It is best I should +decline to accept mail. They withhold the letters of my friends, anyhow. +Yes, I'll refuse all mail. + + * * * * * + +I feel myself surrounded by enemies, open and secret. Not a single being +here I may call friend; except the negro, who, I know, wishes me well. I +hope he will give me more clippings,--perhaps there will be news of my +comrades. I'll try to "fall in" with him at exercise to-morrow.... Oh! +they are handing out tracts. To-morrow is Sunday,--no exercise! + + +VIII + +The Lord's day is honored by depriving the prisoners of dinner. A scanty +allowance of bread, with a tincupful of black, unsweetened coffee, +constitutes breakfast. Supper is a repetition of the morning meal, +except that the coffee looks thinner, the tincup more rusty. I force +myself to swallow a mouthful by shutting my eyes. It tastes like greasy +dishwater, with a bitter suggestion of burnt bread. + +Exercise is also abolished on the sacred day. The atmosphere is pervaded +with the gloom of unbroken silence. In the afternoon, I hear the +creaking of the inner gate. There is much swishing of dresses: the good +ladies of the tracts are being seated. The doors on Murderers' Row are +opened partly, at a fifteen-degree angle. The prisoners remain in their +cells, with the guards stationed at the gallery entrances. + +All is silent. I can hear the beating of my heart in the oppressive +quiet. A faint shadow crosses the darksome floor; now it oscillates on +the bars. I hear the muffled fall of felt-soled steps. Silently the +turnkey passes the cell, like a flitting mystery casting its shadow +athwart a troubled soul. I catch the glint of a revolver protruding from +his pocket. + +Suddenly the sweet strains of a violin resound in the corridor. Female +voices swell the melody, "Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee." Slowly +the volume expands; it rises, grows more resonant in contact with the +gallery floor, and echoes in my cell, "Nearer to Thee, to Thee." + +The sounds die away. A deep male voice utters, "Let us pray." Its +metallic hardness rings like a command. The guards stand with lowered +heads. Their lips mumble after the invisible speaker, "Our Father who +art in Heaven, give us this day our daily bread.... Forgive us our +trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us----" + +"Like hell you do!" some one shouts from the upper gallery. There is +suppressed giggling in the cells. Pellmell the officers rush up the +stairs. The uproar increases. "Order!" Yells and catcalls drown the +Warden's voice. Doors are violently opened and shut. The thunder of +rattling iron is deafening. Suddenly all is quiet: the guards have +reached the galleries. Only hasty tiptoeing is heard. + +The offender cannot be found. The gong rings the supper hour. The +prisoners stand at the doors, cup in hand, ready to receive the coffee. + +"Give the s---- of b---- no supper! No supper!" roars the Warden. + +Sabbath benediction! + +The levers are pulled, and we are locked in for the night. + + +IX + +In agitation I pace the cell. Frick didn't die! He has almost recovered. +I have positive information: the "blind" prisoner gave me the clipping +during exercise. "You're a poor shot," he teased me. + +The poignancy of the disappointment pierces my heart. I feel it with the +intensity of a catastrophe. My imprisonment, the vexations of jail life, +the future--all is submerged in the flood of misery at the realization +of my failure. Bitter thoughts crowd my mind; self-accusation overwhelms +me. I failed! Failed!... It might have been different, had I gone to +Frick's residence. It was my original intention, too. But the house in +the East End was guarded. Besides, I had no time to wait: that very +morning the papers had announced Frick's intended visit to New York. I +was determined he should not escape me. I resolved to act at once. It +was mainly his cowardice that saved him--he hid under the chair! Played +dead! And now he lives, the vampire.... And Homestead? How will it +affect conditions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have +hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot only made use of +Frick to destroy the hated union. He himself was absent, he could not be +held accountable. The author of "Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to +adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick, responsibility for +Homestead conditions would rest with Carnegie. To support his role as +the friend of labor, he must needs terminate the sanguinary struggle. +Such a development of affairs would have greatly advanced the Anarchist +propaganda. However some may condemn my act, the workers could not be +blind to the actual situation, and the practical effects of Frick's +death. But his recovery.... + +Yet, who can tell? It may perhaps have the same results. If not, the +strike was virtually lost when the steel-workers permitted the militia +to take possession of Homestead. It afforded the Company an opportunity +to fill the mills with scabs. But even if the strike be lost,--our +propaganda is the chief consideration. The Homestead workers are but a +very small part of the American working class. Important as this great +struggle is, the cause of the whole People is supreme. And their true +cause is Anarchism. All other issues are merged in it; it alone will +solve the labor problem. No other consideration deserves attention. The +suffering of individuals, of large masses, indeed, is unavoidable under +capitalist conditions. Poverty and wretchedness must constantly +increase; it is inevitable. A revolutionist cannot be influenced by mere +sentimentality. We bleed for the People, we suffer for them, but we know +the real source of their misery. Our whole civilization, false to the +core as it is, must be destroyed, to be born anew. Only with the +abolition of exploitation will labor gain justice. Anarchism alone can +save the world. + +These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure to accomplish the +desired result is grievously exasperating, and I feel deeply humiliated. +But I shall be the sole sufferer. Properly viewed, the merely physical +result of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value; and that is, +always, the supreme consideration. The chief purpose of my _Attentat_ +was to call attention to our social iniquities; to arouse a vital +interest in the sufferings of the People by an act of self-sacrifice; to +stimulate discussion regarding the cause and purpose of the act, and +thus bring the teachings of Anarchism before the world. The Homestead +situation offered the psychologic social moment. What matter the +personal consequences to Frick? the merely physical results of my +_Attentat_? The conditions necessary for propaganda are there: the act +is accomplished. + +As to myself--my disappointment is bitter, indeed. I wanted to die for +the Cause. But now they will send me to prison--they will bury me +alive.... + +Involuntarily my hand reaches for the lapel of my coat, when suddenly I +remember my great loss. In agony, I live through again the scene in the +police station, on the third day after my arrest.... Rough hands seize +my arms, and I am forced into a chair. My head is thrust violently +backward, and I face the Chief. He clutches me by the throat. + +"Open your mouth! Damn you, open your mouth!" + +Everything is whirling before me, the desk is circling the room, the +bloodshot eyes of the Chief gaze at me from the floor, his feet flung +high in the air, and everything is whirling, whirling.... + +"Now, Doc, quick!" + +There is a sharp sting in my tongue, my jaws are gripped as by a vise, +and my mouth is torn open. + +"What d'ye think of _that_, eh?" + +The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite cartridge. + +"What's this?" he demands, with an oath. + +"Candy," I reply, defiantly. + + +X + +How full of anxiety these two weeks have been! Still no news of my +comrades. The Warden is not offering me any more mail; he evidently +regards my last refusal as final. But I am now permitted to purchase +papers; they may contain something about my friends. If I could only +learn what propaganda is being made out of my act, and what the Girl and +Fedya are doing! I long to know what is happening with them. But my +interest is merely that of the revolutionist. They are so far away,--I +do not count among the living. On the outside, everything seems to +continue as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frick is quite well now; +at his desk again, the press reports. Nothing else of importance. The +police seem to have given up their hunt. How ridiculous the Chief has +made himself by kidnaping my friend Mollock, the New York baker! The +impudence of the authorities, to decoy an unsuspecting workingman across +the State line, and then arrest him as my accomplice! I suppose he is +the only Anarchist the stupid Chief could find. My negro friend informed +me of the kidnaping last week. But I felt no anxiety: I knew the "silent +baker" would prove deaf and dumb. Not a word, could they draw from him. +Mollock's discharge by the magistrate put the Chief in a very ludicrous +position. Now he is thirsting for revenge, and probably seeking a victim +nearer home, in Allegheny. But if the comrades preserve silence, all +will be well, for I was careful to leave no clew. I had told them that +my destination was Chicago, where I expected to secure a position. I can +depend on Bauer and Nold. But that man E., whom I found living in the +same house with Nold, impressed me as rather unreliable. I thought there +was something of the hang-dog look about him. I should certainly not +trust him, and I'm afraid he might compromise the others. Why are they +friendly, I wonder. He is probably not even a comrade. The Allegheny +Anarchists should have nothing in common with him. It is not well for us +to associate with the _bourgeois_-minded. + + * * * * * + +My meditation is interrupted by a guard, who informs me that I am +"wanted at the office." There is a letter for me, but some postage is +due on it. Would I pay? + +"A trap," it flits through my mind, as I accompany the overseer. I shall +persist in my refusal to accept decoy mail. + +"More letters from Homestead?" I turn to the Warden. + +He quickly suppresses a smile. "No, it is postmarked, Brooklyn, N. Y." + +I glance at the envelope. The writing is apparently a woman's, but the +chirography is smaller than the Girl's. I yearn for news of her. The +letter is from Brooklyn--perhaps a _Deckadresse_! + +"I'll take the letter, Warden." + +"All right. You will open it here." + +"Then I don't want it." + +I start from the office; when the Warden detains me: + +"Take the letter along, but within ten minutes you must return it to me. +You may go now." + +I hasten to the cell. If there is anything important in the letter, I +shall destroy it: I owe the enemy no obligations. As with trembling +hand I tear open the envelope, a paper dollar flutters to the floor. I +glance at the signature, but the name is unfamiliar. Anxiously I scan +the lines. An unknown sympathizer sends greetings, in the name of +humanity. "I am not an Anarchist," I read, "but I wish you well. My +sympathy, however, is with the man, not with the act. I cannot justify +your attempt. Life, human life, especially, is sacred. None has the +right to take what he cannot give." + + * * * * * + +I pass a troubled night. My mind struggles with the problem presented so +unexpectedly. Can any one understanding my motives, doubt the +justification of the _Attentat_? The legal aspect aside, can the +morality of the act be questioned? It is impossible to confound law with +right; they are opposites. The law is immoral: it is the conspiracy of +rulers and priests against the workers, to continue their subjection. To +be law-abiding means to acquiesce, if not directly participate, in that +conspiracy. A revolutionist is the truly moral man: to him the interests +of humanity are supreme; to advance them, his sole aim in life. +Government, with its laws, is the common enemy. All weapons are +justifiable in the noble struggle of the People against this terrible +curse. The Law! It is the arch-crime of the centuries. The path of Man +is soaked with the blood it has shed. Can this great criminal determine +Right? Is a revolutionist to respect such a travesty? It would mean the +perpetuation of human slavery. + +No, the revolutionist owes no duty to capitalist morality. He is the +soldier of humanity. He has consecrated his life to the People in their +great struggle. It is a bitter war. The revolutionist cannot shrink from +the service it imposes upon him. Aye, even the duty of death. Cheerfully +and joyfully he would die a thousand times to hasten the triumph of +liberty. His life belongs to the People. He has no right to live or +enjoy while others suffer. + + * * * * * + +How often we had discussed this, Fedya and I. He was somewhat inclined +to sybaritism; not quite emancipated from the tendencies of his +_bourgeois_ youth. Once in New York--I shall never forget--at the time +when our circle had just begun the publication of the first Jewish +Anarchist paper in America, we came to blows. We, the most intimate +friends; yes, actually came to blows. Nobody would have believed it. +They used to call us the Twins. If I happened to appear anywhere alone, +they would inquire, anxiously, "What is the matter? Is your chum sick?" +It was so unusual; we were each other's shadow. But one day I struck +him. He had outraged my most sacred feelings: to spend twenty cents for +a meal! It was not mere extravagance; it was positively a crime, +incredible in a revolutionist. I could not forgive him for months. Even +now,--two years have passed,--yet a certain feeling of resentment still +remains with me. What right had a revolutionist to such self-indulgence? +The movement needed aid; every cent was valuable. To spend twenty cents +for a single meal! He was a traitor to the Cause. True, it was his first +meal in two days, and we were economizing on rent by sleeping in the +parks. He had worked hard, too, to earn the money. But he should have +known that he had no right to his earnings while the movement stood in +such need of funds. His defence was unspeakably aggravating: he had +earned ten dollars that week--he had given seven into the paper's +treasury--he needed three dollars for his week's expenses--his shoes +were torn, too. I had no patience with such arguments. They merely +proved his _bourgeois_ predilections. Personal comforts could not be of +any consideration to a true revolutionist. It was a question of the +movement; _its_ needs, the first issue. Every penny spent for ourselves +was so much taken from the Cause. True, the revolutionist must live. But +luxury is a crime; worse, a weakness. One could exist on five cents a +day. Twenty cents for a single meal! Incredible. It was robbery. + +Poor Twin! He was deeply grieved, but he knew that I was merely just. +The revolutionist has no personal right to anything. Everything he has +or earns belongs to the Cause. Everything, even his affections. Indeed, +these especially. He must not become too much attached to anything. He +should guard against strong love or passion. The People should be his +only great love, his supreme passion. Mere human sentiment is unworthy +of the real revolutionist: he lives for humanity, and he must ever be +ready to respond to its call. The soldier of Revolution must not be +lured from the field of battle by the siren song of love. Great danger +lurks in such weakness. The Russian tyrant has frequently attempted to +bait his prey with a beautiful woman. Our comrades there are careful not +to associate with any woman, except of proved revolutionary character. +Aye, her mere passive interest in the Cause is not sufficient. Love may +transform her into a Delilah to shear one's strength. Only with a woman +consecrated to active participation may the revolutionist associate. +Their perfect comradeship would prove a mutual inspiration, a source of +increased strength. Equals, thoroughly solidaric, they would the more +successfully serve the Cause of the People. Countless Russian women bear +witness--Sophia Perovskaya, Vera Figner, Zassulitch, and many other +heroic martyrs, tortured in the casemates of Schluesselburg, buried alive +in the Petropavlovka. What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect comrades +they were, often stronger than the men. Brave, noble women that fill the +prisons and _etapes_, tramp the toilsome road.... + +The Siberian steppe rises before me. Its broad expanse shimmers in the +sun's rays, and blinds the eye with white brilliancy. The endless +monotony agonizes the sight, and stupefies the brain. It breathes the +chill of death into the heart, and grips the soul with the terror of +madness. In vain the eye seeks relief from the white Monster that slowly +tightens his embrace, and threatens to swallow you in his frozen +depth.... There, in the distance, where the blue meets the white, a +heavy line of crimson dyes the surface. It winds along the virgin bosom, +grows redder and deeper, and ascends the mountain in a dark ribbon, +twining and wreathing its course in lengthening pain, now disappearing +in the hollow, and again rising on the height. Behold a man and a woman, +hand in hand, their heads bent, on their shoulders a heavy cross, slowly +toiling the upward way, and behind them others, men and women, young and +old, all weary with the heavy task, trudging along the dismal desert, +amid death and silence, save for the mournful clank, clank of the +chains.... + + * * * * * + +"Get out now. Exercise!" + + * * * * * + +As in a dream I walk along the gallery. The voice of my exercise mate +sounds dully in my ears. I do not understand what he is saying. Does he +know about the Nihilists, I wonder? + +"Billy, have you ever read anything about Nihilists?" + +"Sure, Berk. When I done my last bit in the dump below, a guy lent me a +book. A corker, too, it was. Let's see, what you call 'em again?" + +"Nihilists." + +"Yes, sure. About some Nihirists. The book's called Aivan Strodjoff." + +"What was the name?" + +"Somethin' like that. Aivan Strodjoff or Strogoff." + +"Oh, you mean Ivan Strogov, don't you?" + +"That's it. Funny names them foreigners have. A fellow needs a cast-iron +jaw to say it every day. But the story was a corker all right. About a +Rooshan patriot or something. He was hot stuff, I tell you. Overheard a +plot to kill th' king by them fellows--er--what's you call 'em?" + +"Nihilists?" + +"Yep. Nihilist plot, you know. Well, they wants to kill his Nibs and all +the dookes, to make one of their own crowd king. See? Foxy fellows, you +bet. But Aivan was too much for 'em. He plays detective. Gets in all +kinds of scrapes, and some one burns his eyes out. But he's game. I +don't remember how it all ends, but--" + +"I know the story. It's trash. It doesn't tell the truth about--" + +"Oh, t'hell with it! Say, Berk, d'ye think they'll hang me? Won't the +judge sympathize with a blind man? Look at me eyes. Pretty near blind, +swear to God, I am. Won't hang a blind man, will they?" + +The pitiful appeal goes to my heart, and I assure him they will not hang +a blind man. His eyes brighten, his face grows radiant with hope. + +Why does he love life so, I wonder. Of what value is it without a high +purpose, uninspired by revolutionary ideals? He is small and cowardly: +he lies to save his neck. There is nothing at all wrong with his eyes. +But why should _I_ lie for his sake? + +My conscience smites me for the moment of weakness. I should not allow +inane sentimentality to influence me: it is beneath the revolutionist. + +"Billy," I say with some asperity, "many innocent people have been +hanged. The Nihilists, for instance--" + +"Oh, damn 'em! What do _I_ care about 'em! Will they hang _me_, that's +what I want to know." + +"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. A +look of terror spreads over his face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his +lips parted. "Yes," I continue, "perhaps they will hang you. Many +innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don't think you are innocent, +either; nor blind. You don't need those glasses; there is nothing the +matter with your eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don't want them to hang +you. I don't believe in hanging. But I must tell you the truth, and +you'd better be ready for the worst." + +Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage suffuses his cheeks +with spots of dark red. + +"You're crazy! What's the use talkin' to you, anyhow? You are a damn +Anarchist. I'm a good Catholic, I want you to know that! I haven't +always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. I'm no +damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I'm pretty near blind, +and this is a Christian country, thank God! They won't hang a blind man. +Don't you ever talk to _me_ again!" + + +XI + +The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety +about the approaching trial. It is part of the designed cruelty to keep +me ignorant of the precise date. "Hold yourself ready. You may be called +any time," the Warden had said. But the shadows are lengthening, the +days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court +calendar. Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My mission is +almost accomplished,--the explanation in court, and then my life is +done. I shall never again have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I +may therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for the partial +failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my +heart. Yet why? The physical results of my act cannot affect its +propagandistic value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above +them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. "Bad shot, ain't +you?" They do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and +try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the +revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness. They are so far +beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests; +they cannot understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the +eagle's aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights. + + * * * * * + +The "trusty" passes along the gallery. He walks slowly, dusting the iron +railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the +cat-o'-many-tails. Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low, +pretending to wipe the doorsill,--there is a quick movement of his hand, +and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my +feet. "A stiff," he whispers. + +Indifferently I pick up the note. I know no one in the jail; it is +probably some poor fellow asking for cigarettes. Placing the roll +between the pages of a newspaper, I am surprised to find it in German. +From whom can it be? I turn to the signature. Carl Nold? It's +impossible; it's a trap! No, but that handwriting,--I could not mistake +it: the small, clear chirography is undoubtedly Nold's. But how did he +smuggle in this note? I feel the blood rush to my head as my eye flits +over the penciled lines: Bauer and he are arrested; they are in the jail +now, charged with conspiracy to kill Frick; detectives swore they met +them in my company, in front of the Frick office building. They have +engaged a lawyer, the note runs on. Would I accept his services? I +probably have no money, and I shouldn't expect any from New York, +because Most--what's this?--because Most has repudiated the act-- + +The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty I walk to the gallery. +I feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and I stumble against the +railing. + +"Is yo sick, Ahlick?" It must be the negro's voice. My throat is dry; my +lips refuse to move. Hazily I see the guard approach. He walks me to the +cell, and lowers the berth. "You may lie down." The lock clicks, and I'm +alone. + + * * * * * + +The line marches past, up and down, up and down. The regular footfall +beats against my brain like hammer strokes. When will they stop? My head +aches dreadfully--I am glad I don't have to walk--it was good of the +negro to call the guard--I felt so sick. What was it? Oh, the note! +Where is it? + +The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick the newspaper up from +the floor. With trembling hands I turn the leaves. Ah, it's here! If I +had not found it, I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy? + +The sight of the crumpled paper fills me with dread. Nold and Bauer +here! Perhaps--if they act discreetly--all will be well. They are +innocent; they can prove it. But Most! How can it be possible? Of +course, he was displeased when I began to associate with the +autonomists. But how can that make any difference? At such a time! What +matter personal likes and dislikes to a revolutionist, to a Most--the +hero of my first years in America, the name that stirred my soul in that +little library in Kovno--Most, the Bridge of Liberty! My teacher--the +author of the _Kriegswissenschaft_--the ideal revolutionist--he to +denounce me, to repudiate propaganda by deed? + +It's incredible! I cannot believe it. The Girl will not fail to write to +me about it. I'll wait till I hear from her. But, then, Nold is himself +a great admirer of Most; he would not say anything derogatory, unless +fully convinced that it is true. Yet--it is barely conceivable. How +explain such a change in Most? To forswear his whole past, his glorious +past! He was always so proud of it, and of his extreme revolutionism. +Some tremendous motive must be back of such apostasy. It has no parallel +in Anarchist annals. But what can it be? How boldly he acted during the +Haymarket tragedy--publicly advised the use of violence to avenge the +capitalist conspiracy. He must have realized the danger of the speech +for which he was later doomed to Blackwell's Island. I remember his +defiant manner on the way to prison. How I admired his strong spirit, as +I accompanied him on the last ride! That was only a little over a year +ago, and he is just out a few months. Perhaps--is it possible? A coward? +Has that prison experience influenced his present attitude? Why, it is +terrible to think of Most--a coward? He who has devoted his entire life +to the Cause, sacrificed his seat in the Reichstag because of +uncompromising honesty, stood in the forefront all his life, faced peril +and danger,--_he_ a coward? Yet, it is impossible that he should have +suddenly altered the views of a lifetime. What could have prompted his +denunciation of my act? Personal dislike? No, that was a matter of +petty jealousy. His confidence in me, as a revolutionist, was unbounded. +Did he not issue a secret circular letter to aid my plans concerning +Russia? That was proof of absolute faith. One could not change his +opinion so suddenly. Moreover, it can have no bearing on his repudiation +of a terrorist act. I can find no explanation, unless--can it be?--fear +of personal consequences. Afraid _he_ might be held responsible, +perhaps. Such a possibility is not excluded, surely. The enemy hates him +bitterly, and would welcome an opportunity, would even conspire, to hang +him. But that is the price one pays for his love of humanity. Every +revolutionist is exposed to this danger. Most especially; his whole +career has been a duel with tyranny. But he was never before influenced +by such considerations. Is he not prepared to take the responsibility +for his terrorist propaganda, the work of his whole life? Why has he +suddenly been stricken with fear? Can it be? Can it be?... + +My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair grips my heart, as +I hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. But it cannot be; +Nold has made a mistake. May be the letter is a trap; it was not written +by Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps I'll have +a letter in the morning. The Girl--she is the only one I can +trust--she'll tell me-- + +My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed. Perhaps to-morrow ... a +letter.... + + +XII + +"Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?" the Warden asks. + +"What 'pards'?" + +"Your partners, Bauer and Nold." + +"My comrades, you mean. I have no partners." + +"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers are here." + +"Yes, I'll see them." + +Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct my own case, and +explain my act. But I shall be glad to meet my comrades. I wonder how +they feel about their arrest,--perhaps they are inclined to blame me. +And what is their attitude toward my deed? If they side with Most-- + +My senses are on the alert as the guard accompanies me into the hall. +Near the wall, seated at a small table, I behold Nold and Bauer. Two +other men are with them; their attorneys, I suppose. All eyes scrutinize +me curiously, searchingly. Nold advances toward me. His manner is +somewhat nervous, a look of intense seriousness in his heavy-browed +eyes. He grasps my hand. The pressure is warm, intimate, as if he yearns +to pour boundless confidence into my heart. For a moment a wave of +thankfulness overwhelms me: I long to embrace him. But curious eyes bore +into me. I glance at Bauer. There is a cheerful smile on the +good-natured, ruddy face. The guard pushes a chair toward the table, and +leans against the railing. His presence constrains me: he will report to +the Warden everything said. + +I am introduced to the lawyers. The contrast in their appearance +suggests a lifetime of legal wrangling. The younger man, evidently a +recent graduate, is quick, alert, and talkative. There is an air of +anxious expectancy about him, with a look of Semitic shrewdness in the +long, narrow face. He enlarges upon the kind consent of his +distinguished colleague to take charge of my case. His demeanor toward +the elder lawyer is deeply respectful, almost reverential. The latter +looks bored, and is silent. + +"Do you wish to say something, Colonel?" the young lawyer suggests. + +"Nothing." + +He ejects the monosyllable sharply, brusquely. His colleague looks +abashed, like a schoolboy caught in a naughty act. + +"You, Mr. Berkman?" he asks. + +I thank them for their interest in my case. But I need no defence, I +explain, since I do not consider myself guilty. I am exclusively +concerned in making a public statement in the courtroom. If I am +represented by an attorney, I should be deprived of the opportunity. Yet +it is most vital to clarify to the People the purpose of my act, the +circumstances-- + +The heavy breathing opposite distracts me. I glance at the Colonel. His +eyes are closed, and from the parted lips there issues the regular +respiration of sound sleep. A look of mild dismay crosses the young +lawyer's face. He rises with an apologetic smile. + +"You are tired, Colonel. It's awfully close here." + +"Let us go," the Colonel replies. + + * * * * * + +Depressed I return to the cell. The old lawyer,--how little my +explanation interested him! He fell asleep! Why, it is a matter of life +and death, an issue that involves the welfare of the world! I was so +happy at the opportunity to elucidate my motives to intelligent +Americans,--and he was sleeping! The young lawyer, too, is disgusting, +with his air of condescending pity toward one who "will have a fool for +a client," as he characterized my decision to conduct my own case. He +may think such a course suicidal. Perhaps it is, in regard to +consequences. But the length of the sentence is a matter of +indifference to me: I'll die soon, anyway. The only thing of importance +now is my explanation. And that man fell asleep! Perhaps he considers me +a criminal. But what can I expect of a lawyer, when even the +steel-worker could not understand my act? Most himself-- + +With the name, I recollect the letters the guard had given me during the +interview. There are three of them; one from the Girl! At last! Why did +she not write before? They must have kept the letter in the office. Yes, +the postmark is a week old. She'll tell me about Most,--but what is the +use? I'm sure of it now; I read it plainly in Nold's eyes. It's all +true. But I must see what she writes. + +How every line breathes her devotion to the Cause! She is the real +Russian woman revolutionist. Her letter is full of bitterness against +the attitude of Most and his lieutenants in the German and Jewish +Anarchist circles, but she writes words of cheer and encouragement in my +imprisonment. She refers to the financial difficulties of the little +commune consisting of Fedya, herself, and one or two other comrades, and +closes with the remark that, fortunately, I need no money for legal +defence or attorneys. + +The staunch Girl! She and Fedya are, after all, the only true +revolutionists I know in our ranks. The others all possess some +weakness. I could not rely on them. The German comrades,--they are +heavy, phlegmatic; they lack the enthusiasm of Russia. I wonder how they +ever produced a Reinsdorf. Well, he is the exception. There is nothing +to be expected from the German movement, excepting perhaps the +autonomists. But they are a mere handful, quite insignificant, kept +alive mainly by the Most and Peukert feud. Peukert, too, the life of +their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal rehabilitation. +Quite natural, of course. A terrible injustice has been done him.[9] It +is remarkable that the false accusations have not driven him into +obscurity. There is great perseverance, aye, moral courage of no mean +order, in his survival in the movement. It was that which first awakened +my interest in him. Most's explanation, full of bitter invective, +suggested hostile personal feeling. What a tremendous sensation I +created at the first Jewish Anarchist Conference by demanding that the +charges against Peukert be investigated! The result entirely failed to +substantiate the accusations. But the Mostianer were not convinced, +blinded by the vituperative eloquence of Most. And now ... now, again, +they will follow, as blindly. To be sure, they will not dare take open +stand against my act; not the Jewish comrades, at least. After all, the +fire of Russia still smolders in their hearts. But Most's attitude +toward me will influence them: it will dampen their enthusiasm, and thus +react on the propaganda. The burden of making agitation through my act +will fall on the Girl's shoulders. She will stand a lone soldier in the +field. She will exert her utmost efforts, I am convinced. But she will +stand alone. Fedya will also remain loyal. But what can he do? He is not +a speaker. Nor the rest of the commune circle. And Most? We had all been +so intimate.... It's his cursed jealousy, and cowardice, too. Yes, +mostly cowardice--he can't be jealous of me now! He recently left +prison,--it must have terrorized him. The weakling! He will minimize the +effect of my act, perhaps paralyze its propagandistic influence +altogether.... Now I stand alone--except for the Girl--quite alone. It +is always so. Was not "he" alone, my beloved, "unknown" Grinevitzky, +isolated, scorned by his comrades? But his bomb ... how it thundered... + + [9] Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria, + was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into + the hands of the police. Neve was sentenced to ten years' + prison. Peukert always insisted that the accusation against + him originated with some of his political enemies among the + Socialists. It is certain that the arrest of Neve was not + due to calculated treachery on the part of Peukert, but + rather to indiscretion. + +I was just a boy then. Let me see,--it was in 1881. I was about eleven +years old. The class was assembling after the noon recess. I had barely +settled in my seat, when the teacher called me forward. His long pointer +was dancing a fanciful figure on the gigantic map of Russia. + +"What province is that?" he demanded. + +"Astrakhan." + +"Mention its chief products." + +Products? The name Chernishevsky flitted through my mind. He was in +Astrakhan,--I heard Maxim tell mother so at dinner. + +"Nihilists," I burst out. + +The boys tittered; some laughed aloud. The teacher grew purple. He +struck the pointer violently on the floor, shivering the tapering end. +Suddenly there broke a roll of thunder. One--two-- With a terrific +crash, the window panes fell upon the desks; the floor shook beneath our +feet. The room was hushed. Deathly pale, the teacher took a step toward +the window, but hastily turned, and dashed from the room. The pupils +rushed after him. I wondered at the air of fear and suspicion on the +streets. At home every one spoke in subdued tunes. Father looked at +mother severely, reproachfully, and Maxim was unusually silent, but his +face seemed radiant, an unwonted brilliancy in his eye. At night, alone +with me in the dormitory, he rushed to my bed, knelt at my side, and +threw his arms around me and kissed me, and cried, and kissed me. His +wildness frightened me. "What is it, Maximotchka?" I breathed softly. He +ran up and down the room, kissing me and murmuring, "Glorious, glorious! +Victory!" + +Between sobs, solemnly pledging me to secrecy, he whispered mysterious, +awe-inspiring words: Will of the People--tyrant removed--Free Russia.... + + +XIII + +The nights overwhelm me with the sense of solitude. Life is so remote, +so appallingly far away--it has abandoned me in this desert of silence. +The distant puffing of fire engines, the shrieking of river sirens, +accentuate my loneliness. Yet it feels so near, this monster Life, huge, +palpitating with vitality, intent upon its wonted course. How unmindful +of myself, flung into the darkness,--like a furnace spark belched forth +amid fire and smoke into the blackness of night. + +The monster! Its eyes are implacable; they watch every gate of life. +Every approach they guard, lest I enter back--I and the others here. +Poor unfortunates, how irritated and nervous they are growing as their +trial day draws near! There is a hunted look in their eyes; their faces +are haggard and anxious. They walk weakly, haltingly, worn with the long +days of waiting. Only "Blackie," the young negro, remains cheerful. But +I often miss the broad smile on the kindly face. I am sure his eyes were +moist when the three Italians returned from court this morning. They had +been sentenced to death. Joe, a boy of eighteen, walked to the cell with +a firm step. His brother Pasquale passed us with both hands over his +face, weeping silently. But the old man, their father--as he was +crossing the hallway, we saw him suddenly stop. For a moment he swayed, +then lurched forward, his head striking the iron railing, his body +falling limp to the floor. By the arms the guards dragged him up the +stairway, his legs hitting the stone with a dull thud, the fresh crimson +spreading over his white hair, a glassy torpor in his eyes. Suddenly he +stood upright. His head thrown back, his arms upraised, he cried +hoarsely, anguished, "O Santa Maria! Sio innocente inno--" + +The guard swung his club. The old man reeled and fell. + +"Ready! Death-watch!" shouted the Warden. + +"In-no-cente! Death-watch!" mocked the echo under the roof. + + * * * * * + +The old man haunts my days. I hear the agonized cry; its black despair +chills my marrow. Exercise hour has become insupportable. The prisoners +irritate me: each is absorbed in his own case. The deadening monotony of +the jail routine grows unbearable. The constant cruelty and brutality is +harrowing. I wish it were all over. The uncertainty of my trial day is a +ceaseless torture. I have been waiting now almost two months. My court +speech is prepared. I could die now, but they would suppress my +explanation, and the People thus remain ignorant of my aim and purpose. +I owe it to the Cause--and to the true comrades--to stay on the scene +till after the trial. There is nothing more to bind me to life. With the +speech, my opportunities for propaganda will be exhausted. Death, +suicide, is the only logical, the sole possible, conclusion. Yes, that +is self-evident. If I only knew the date of my trial,--that day will be +my last. The poor old Italian,--he and his sons, they at least know when +they are to die. They count each day; every hour brings them closer to +the end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Perhaps they killed +under great provocation, in the heat of passion. But the sheriff will +murder them in cold blood. The law of peace and order! + +I shall not be hanged--yet I feel as if I were dead. My life is done; +only the last rite remains to be performed. After that--well, I'll find +a way. When the trial is over, they'll return me to my cell. The spoon +is of tin: I shall put a sharp edge on it--on the stone floor--very +quietly, at night-- + +"Number six, to court! Num-ber six!" + +Did the turnkey call "six"? Who is in cell six? Why, it's _my_ cell! I +feel the cold perspiration running down my back. My heart beats +violently, my hands tremble, as I hastily pick up the newspaper. +Nervously I turn the pages. There must be some mistake: my name didn't +appear yet in the court calendar column. The list is published every +Monday--why, this is Saturday's paper--yesterday we had service--it must +be Monday to-day. Oh, shame! They didn't give me the paper to-day, and +it's Monday--yes, it's Monday-- + +The shadow falls across my door. The lock clicks. + +"Hurry, To court!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE TRIAL + + +The courtroom breathes the chill of the graveyard. The stained windows +cast sickly rays into the silent chamber. In the sombre light the faces +look funereal, spectral. + +Anxiously I scan the room. Perhaps my friends, the Girl, have come to +greet me.... Everywhere cold eyes meet my gaze. Police and court +attendants on every side. Several newspaper men draw near. It is +humiliating that through them I must speak to the People. + +"Prisoner at the bar, stand up!" + +The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania--the clerk vociferates--charges me with +felonious assault on H. C. Frick, with intent to kill; felonious assault +on John G. A. Leishman; feloniously entering the offices of the Carnegie +Company on three occasions, each constituting a separate indictment; and +with unlawfully carrying concealed weapons. + +"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" + +I protest against the multiplication of the charges. I do not deny the +attempt on Frick, but the accusation of having assaulted Leishman is not +true. I have visited the Carnegie offices only-- + +"Do you plead guilty or not guilty?" the judge interrupts. + +"Not guilty. I want to explain--" + +"Your attorneys will do that." + +"I have no attorney." + +"The Court will appoint one to defend you." + +"I need no defence. I want to make a statement." + +"You will be given an opportunity at the proper time." + +Impatiently I watch the proceedings. Of what use are all these +preliminaries? My conviction is a foregone conclusion. The men in the +jury box there, they are to decide my fate. As if they could understand! +They measure me with cold, unsympathetic looks. Why were the talesmen +not examined in my presence? They were already seated when I entered. + +"When was the jury picked?" I demand. + +"You have four challenges," the prosecutor retorts. + +The names of the talesmen sound strange. But what matter who are the men +to judge me? They, too, belong to the enemy. They will do the master's +bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the +Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and +the new jurors file into the box. + +The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro employees of Frick in +turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick +office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the +hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective +who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a +physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal. +John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies. +"It's a lie!" I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat. +Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him. + +The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the +State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall +not participate in the mockery. + +"Call the witnesses for the defence," the judge commands. + +I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The +prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my +prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of +the court interpreter. + +"I address myself to the People," I begin. "Some may wonder why I have +declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I +am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave +and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an +_Attentat_ cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It +requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A +lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of +the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but +rather the _explanation_ of the deed. It is mistaken to believe _me_ on +trial. The actual defendant is Society--the system of injustice, of the +organized exploitation of the People." + +The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he +translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his +inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart +bleeds at his meaningless declamation. + +"Translate sentences, not single words," I remonstrate. + +With an impatient gesture he leaves me. + +"Oh, please, go on!" I cry in dismay. + +He returns hesitatingly. + +"Look at my paper," I adjure him, "and translate each sentence as I read +it." + +The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is +blind! + +"Let--us--continue," he stammers. + +"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts. + +"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in consternation. + +"It will do." + +"I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to--" + +"We allow you five more minutes." + +"But I can't explain in such a short time. I have the right to be +heard." + +"We'll teach you differently." + +I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats, +but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They +remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises. + +"Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?" + +"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your justice is a farce." + +"Silence!" + +In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards +lead me from the courtroom. + +"The judge was easy on you," the Warden jeers. "Twenty-two years! Pretty +stiff, eh?" + + + + +PART II + +THE PENITENTIARY + + + + +[Illustration: WESTERN PENITENTIARY OF PENNSYLVANIA--MAIN BUILDING] + + + + +CHAPTER I + +DESPERATE THOUGHTS + + +I + +"Make yourself at home, now. You'll stay here a while, huh, huh!" + +As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I +wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone. + +Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I +am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a +void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my +heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep. + + * * * * * + +My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my +eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a +raging fire. Oh! + +I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face. +Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces +my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture. + +"Get up and undress. What's the matter with you, anyhow?" + +The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare. +Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible. + +"Now lay down and go to sleep." + +Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A +terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed, +the wall ... I can't see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A +faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my +face. Oh, I can see! I can see! + +"What t' hell's the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?" + +Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.... What +a terrible place this must be! This agony---- I cannot support it. +Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I'll die +to-night.... With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead +creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The +guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull's-eye even with +closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about +the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are nauseating.... I cannot +live here. I must die. This very night.... Something white glimmers in +the corner. Cautiously I bend over. It is a spoon. For a moment I hold +it indifferently; then a great joy overwhelms me. Now I can die! I creep +back into bed, nervously clutching the tin. My hand feels for my heart. +It is beating violently. I will put the narrow end of the spoon over +here--like this--I will force it in--a little lower--a steady +pressure--just between the ribs.... The metal feels cold. How hot my +body is! Caressingly I pat the spoon against my side. My fingers seek +the edge. It is dull. I must press it hard. Yes, it is very dull. If I +only had my revolver. But the cartridge might fail to explode. That's +why Frick is now well, and I must die. How he looked at me in court! +There was hate in his eyes, and fear, too. He turned his head away, he +could not face me. I saw that he felt guilty. Yet he lives. I didn't +crush him. Oh, I failed, I failed.... + +"Keep quiet there, or I'll put you in the hole." + +The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moaning. I'll draw the +blanket over my head, so. What was I thinking about? Oh, I remember. He +is well, and I am here. I failed to crush him. He lives. Of course, it +does not really matter. The opportunity for propaganda is there, as the +result of my act. That was the main purpose. But I meant to kill him, +and he lives. My speech, too, failed. They tricked me. They kept the +date secret. They were afraid my friends would be present. It was +maddening the way the prosecuting attorney and the judge kept +interrupting me. I did not read even a third of my statement. And the +whole effect was lost. How that man interpreted! The poor old man! He +was deeply offended when I corrected his translation. I did not know he +was blind. I called him back, and suffered renewed torture at his +screeching. I was almost glad when the judge forced me to discontinue. +That judge! He acted as indifferently as if the matter did not concern +him. He must have known that the sentence meant death. Twenty-two years! +As if it is possible to survive such a sentence in this terrible place! +Yes, he knew it; he spoke of making an example of me. The old villain! +He has been doing it all his life: making an example of social victims, +the victims of his own class, of capitalism. The brutal mockery of +it--had I anything to say why sentence should not be passed? Yet he +wouldn't permit me to continue my statement. "The court has been very +patient!" I am glad I told him that I didn't expect justice, and did not +get it. Perhaps I should have thrown in his face the epithet that sprang +to my lips. No, it was best that I controlled my anger. Else they would +have rejoiced to proclaim the Anarchists vulgar criminals. Such things +help to prejudice the People against us. We, criminals? We, who are ever +ready to give our lives for liberty, criminals? And they, our accusers? +They break their own laws: they knew it was not legal to multiply the +charges against me. They made six indictments out of one act, as if the +minor "offences" were not included in the major, made necessary by the +deed itself. They thirsted for blood. Legally, they could not give me +more than seven years. But I am an Anarchist. I had attempted the life +of a great magnate; in him capitalism felt itself attacked. Of course, I +knew they would take advantage of my refusal to be legally represented. +Twenty-two years! The judge imposed the maximum penalty on each charge. +Well, I expected no less, and it makes no difference now. I am going to +die, anyway. + +I clutch the spoon in my feverish hand. Its narrow end against my heart, +I test the resistance of the flesh. A violent blow will drive it between +the ribs.... + +One, two, three--the deep metallic bass floats upon the silence, +resonant, compelling. Instantly all is motion: overhead, on the sides, +everything is vibrant with life. Men yawn and cough, chairs and beds are +noisily moved about, heavy feet pace stone floors. In the distance +sounds a low rolling, as of thunder. It grows nearer and louder. I hear +the officers' sharp command, the familiar click of locks, doors opening +and shutting. Now the rumbling grows clearer, more distinct. With a moan +the heavy bread-wagon stops at my cell. A guard unlocks the door. His +eyes rest on me curiously, suspiciously, while the trusty hands me a +small loaf of bread. I have barely time to withdraw my arm before the +door is closed and locked. + +"Want coffee? Hold your cup." + +Between the narrow bars, the beverage is poured into my bent, rusty tin +can. In the semi-darkness of the cell the steaming liquid overflows, +scalding my bare feet. With a cry of pain I drop the can. In the +dimly-lit hall the floor looks stained with blood. + +"What do you mean by that?" the guard shouts at me. + +"I couldn't help it." + +"Want to be smart, don't you? Well, we'll take it out of you. Hey, +there, Sam," the officer motions to the trusty, "no dinner for A 7, you +hear!" + +"Yes, sir. Yes, sir!" + +"No more coffee, either." + +"Yes, sir." + +The guard measures me with a look of scornful hatred. Malice mirrors in +his face. Involuntarily I step back into the cell. His gaze falls on my +naked feet. + +"Ain't you got no shoes?" + +"Yes." + +"Ye-e-s! Can't you say 'sir'? Got shoes?" + +"Yes." + +"Put 'em on, damn you." + +His tongue sweeps the large quid of tobacco from one cheek to the +either. With a hiss, a thick stream of brown splashes on my feet. "Damn +you, put 'em on." + + * * * * * + +The clatter and noises have ceased; the steps have died away. All is +still in the dark hall. Only occasional shadows flit by, silent, +ghostlike. + + +II + +"Forward, march!" + +The lung line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep, resembles an +undulating snake, wriggling from side to side, its black-and-gray body +moving forward, yet apparently remaining in the same spot. A thousand +feet strike the stone floor in regular tempo, with alternate rising and +falling accent, as each division, flanked by officers, approaches and +passes my cell. Brutal faces, repulsive in their stolid indifference or +malicious leer. Here and there a well-shaped head, intelligent eye, or +sympathetic expression, but accentuates the features of the striped +line: coarse and sinister, with the guilty-treacherous look of the +ruthlessly hunted. Head bent, right arm extended, with hand touching the +shoulder of the man in front, all uniformly clad in horizontal black and +gray, the men seem will-less cogs in a machine, oscillating to the +shouted command of the tall guards on the flanks, stern and alert. + + * * * * * + +The measured beat grows fainter and dies with the hollow thud of the +last footfall, behind the closed double door leading into the prison +yard. The pall of silence descends upon the cell-house. I feel utterly +alone, deserted and forsaken amid the towering pile of stone and iron. +The stillness overwhelms me with almost tangible weight. I am buried +within the narrow walls; the massive rock is pressing down upon my head, +my sides. I cannot breathe. The foul air is stifling. Oh, I can't, I +can't live here! I can't suffer this agony. Twenty-two years! It is a +lifetime. No, it's impossible. I must die. I will! Now! + + * * * * * + +Clutching the spoon, I throw myself on the bed. My eyes wander over the +cell, faintly lit by the light in the hall: the whitewashed walls, +yellow with damp--the splashes of dark-red blood at the head of the +bed--the clumps of vermin around the holes in the wall--the small table +and the rickety chair--the filthy floor, black and gray in spots.... +Why, it's stone! I can sharpen the spoon. Cautiously I crouch in the +corner. The tin glides over the greasy surface, noiselessly, smoothly, +till the thick layer of filth is worn off. Then it scratches and +scrapes. With the pillow I deaden the rasping sound. The metal is +growing hot in my hand. I pass the sharp edge across my finger. Drops of +blood trickle down to the floor. The wound is ragged, but the blade is +keen. Stealthily I crawl back into bed. My hand gropes for my heart. I +touch the spot with the blade. Between the ribs--here--I'll be dead when +they find me.... If Frick had only died. So much propaganda could be +made--that damned Most, if he hadn't turned against me! He will ruin the +whole effect of the act. It's nothing but cowardice. But what is he +afraid of? They can't implicate him. We've been estranged for over a +year. He could easily prove it. The traitor! Preached propaganda by deed +all his life--now he repudiates the first _Attentat_ in this country. +What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he +doesn't know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too, +when together we set up the secret circular in the _Freiheit_ office. It +was in William Street. We waited for the other compositors to leave; +then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to +Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something +important there. Why didn't I go? What was it? Well, I can't think of it +now. It's peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of +revolutionists in Russia. And now.... Oh, I'll never do anything more. +I'll be dead soon. They'll find me cold--a pool of blood under me--the +mattress will be red--no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak +through the straw.... I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from +my heart--I must strike right here--strong and quick--it will not pain +much. But the edge is ragged--it may catch--or tear the flesh. They say +the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against +the blade? No, the tin may bend. I'll grasp it close--like this--then a +quick drive--right into the heart--it's the surest way. I must not wound +myself--I would bleed slowly--they might discover me still alive. No, +no! I must die at once. They'll find me dead--my heart--they'll feel +it--not beating--the blade still in it--they'll call the doctor--"He's +dead." And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it--she'll be +sad--but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad--they couldn't +torture me here--she'll know I cheated them--yes, she.... Where is she +now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I've failed? +And Fedya, also? If I'd only hear from her--just once. It would be +easier to die. But she'll understand, she-- + +"Git off that bed! Don't you know the rules, eh? Get out o' there!" + +Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my +relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly, +damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something +repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive +smile. Oh, it's the officer of the morning! + +"Foxy, ain't you? Gimme that spoon." + +The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the +tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the +spoon. I cannot afford to lose it--not to this brute-- + +"Cap'n, here!" + +I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the +spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face. + +"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate, eh?" + +"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings." + + +III + +In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy +stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped +shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow +parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely +eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly. + +"Who is this?" + +The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like +face and figure. The contrast is startling. + +"A 7." + +"What is the charge, Officer?" + +"Two charges, Mr. McPane. Layin' in bed and tryin' soocide." + +A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy's wizened +face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if +drumming stiffly on an imaginary board. + +"Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm, +to commit suicide?" + +"With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor." + +"Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as +trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave +offence. I'll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by +lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer. +He will, hm, hm, cool off." + +I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me. +Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors, +dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally +thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger +and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon. + + * * * * * + +The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending +over me. + +"A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell." + +"Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment." + +"Not safe, Mr. McPane." + +"We'll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers." + +"Git up." + +My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up +the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a +bed. + + * * * * * + +I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no +weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell +that I could use. These iron bars--I could beat my head against them. +But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the +brains ooze out.... But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with +one blow? I'm afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to +strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and +quickest. I've always thought I'd prefer such a death--to be shot. The +barrel close to the temple--one couldn't miss. Some people have done it +in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver, +either.... Through the mouth it is also fatal.... That Moscow +student--Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov--he shot himself through +the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I +admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even +left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady, +because--he wrote--after passing through his brain, the bullet might +damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the +bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and +peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my +brother's study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I +liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: "Sasha, Ivan +Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time." My +hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I +was glad I didn't cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very +strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her +about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little. +"Rather energetic," she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the +favorable impression made by his college chum. "What did I tell you?" he +cried, in glee; "Ivan Nikolaievitch _molodetz_![10] Think of it, he's +only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the +foundation of the university. _Molodetz_!" But how red were Maxim's eyes +when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as +he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan +Nikolaievitch's room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the +cotton, an I showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma +called Max a brute. "For a woman, an unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I +thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a +little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly. +They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno. +She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she +seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to +talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that +I was in love with Nadya, my sister's chum. And I had kissed our +chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa,--I remember she threatened to tell +mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn't come to dinner. Mamma sent the +maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell.... +The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the +little imp couldn't keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our +neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me +about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor +would open and swallow me. I was so mortified. + + [10] Clever, brave lad. + + * * * * * + +... How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become +of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had +almost forgotten,--I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was +standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I boarded. I had then +been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She +looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. "Don't you know me, +Mr. Berkman? Don't you really recognize me?" Some mistake, I thought. I +had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited +me into the hallway. "Don't tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don't you +remember? Why, you know, I was your mother's--your mother's maid." She +blushed violently. Those red cheeks--why, certainly, it's Rosa! I +thought of the stolen kiss. "Would I dare it now?" I wondered, suddenly +conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. How our +positions were changed! She looked the very _barishnya_,[11] like my +sister. "Is your mother here?" she asked. "Mother? She died, just before +I left." I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible +scene when mother struck her? "I didn't know about your mother." Her +voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always +generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother's insult. We +looked at each other in embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand. +Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. "Good-bye, _Gospodin_[12] +Berkman," she said. "I'll see you again soon. Please don't tell these +people who I am." I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. _Gospodin_ +Berkman--somehow it echoed the servile _barinya_[13] with which the +domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not +gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor girl. She has not become +emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no +doubt. She was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she has +learned in this country. Now she will read about me, and she'll know how +I died.... Oh, I haven't the spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I +can't live. I couldn't stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years, +I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn't, anyhow. I might live +here a year, or two. But twenty-two, twenty-two years! What is the use? +No man could survive it. It's terrible, twenty-two years! Their cursed +justice--they always talk of law. Yet legally I shouldn't have gotten +more than seven years. Legally! As if _they_ care about "legality." +They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand; +but if I had seven years--perhaps I might live through it; I would try. +But twenty-two--it's a lifetime, a whole lifetime. Seventeen is no +better. That man Jamestown got seventeen years. He celled next to me in +the jail. He didn't look like a highway robber, he was so small and +puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he could live here seventeen +years. In this hell--what an imbecile he is! He should have committed +suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial; it's about three +weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn't he done something? He will soon die +here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. A strong man might live +five years; I doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. _I_ +couldn't; no, I know I couldn't; perhaps two or three years, at most. We +had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a +peculiar idea of prison: I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a +gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and +the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes, +and I so helpless, chained to the wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar +idea. She said she might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a +year, I thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms +off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my +flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.... And the vermin +here, those big, brown bedbugs, they must be like those worms, so +vicious and hungry. Perhaps there are worms here, too. There must be in +the dungeon: there is a wound on my foot. I don't know how it happened. +I was unconscious in that dark hole--it was just like my old idea of +prison. I couldn't live even a week there: it's awful. Here it is a +little better; but it's never light in this cell,--always in +semidarkness. And so small and narrow; no windows; it's damp, and smells +so foully all the time. The walls are wet and clammy; smeared with +blood, too. Bedbugs--augh! it's nauseating. Not much better than that +black hole, with my hands and arms chained to the wall. Just a trifle +better,--my hands are not chained. Perhaps I could live here a few +years: no more than three, or may be five. But these brutal officers! +No, no, I couldn't stand it. I want to die! I'd die here soon, anyway; +they will kill me. But I won't give the enemy the satisfaction; they +shall not be able to say that they are torturing me in prison, or that +they killed me. No! I'd rather kill myself. Yes, kill myself. I shall +have to do it--with my head against the bars--no, not now! At night, +when it's all dark,--they couldn't save me then. It will be a terrible +death, but it must be done.... If I only knew about "them" in New +York--the Girl and Fedya--it would be easier to die then.... What are +they doing in the case? Are they making propaganda out of it? They must +be waiting to hear of my suicide. They know I can't live here long. +Perhaps they wonder why I didn't suicide right after the trial. But I +could not. I thought I should be taken from the court to my cell in +jail; sentenced prisoners usually are. I had prepared to hang myself +that night, but they must have suspected something. They brought me +directly here from the courtroom. Perhaps I should have been dead now-- + + [11] Young lady. + + [12] Mister. + + [13] Lady. + +"Supper! Want coffee? Hold your tin!" the trusty shouts into the door. +Suddenly he whispers, "Grab it, quick!" A long, dark object is shot +between the bars into the cell, dropping at the foot of the bed. The man +is gone. I pick up the parcel, tightly wrapped in brown paper. What can +it be? The outside cover protects two layers of old newspaper; then a +white object comes to view. A towel! There is something round and hard +inside--it's a cake of soap. A sense of thankfulness steals into my +heart, as I wonder who the donor may be. It is good to know that there +is at least one being here with a friendly spirit. Perhaps it's some one +I knew in the jail. But how did he procure these things? Are they +permitted? The towel feels nice and soft; it is a relief from the hard +straw bed. Everything is so hard and coarse here--the language, the +guards.... I pass the towel over my face; it soothes me somewhat. I +ought to wash up--my head feels so heavy--I haven't washed since I got +here. When did I come? Let me see; what is to-day? I don't know, I can't +think. But my trial--it was on Monday, the nineteenth of September. They +brought me here in the afternoon; no, in the evening. And that guard--he +frightened me so with the bull's-eye lantern. Was it last night? No, it +must have been longer than that. Have I been here only since yesterday? +Why, it seems such a long time! Can this be Tuesday, only Tuesday? I'll +ask the trusty the next time he passes. I'll find out who sent this +towel too. Perhaps I could get some cold water from him; or may be there +is some here-- + +My eyes are growing accustomed to the semi-darkness of the cell. I +discern objects quite clearly. There is a small wooden table and an old +chair; in the furthest corner, almost hidden by the bed, is the privy; +near it, in the center of the wall opposite the door, is a water spigot +over a narrow, circular basin. The water is lukewarm and muddy, but it +feels refreshing. The rub-down with the towel is invigorating. The +stimulated blood courses through my veins with a pleasing tingle. +Suddenly a sharp sting, as of a needle, pricks my face. There's a pin in +the towel. As I draw it out, something white flutters to the floor. A +note! + +With ear alert for a passing step, I hastily read the penciled writing: + + Be shure to tare this up as soon as you reade it, it's from a + friend. We is going to make a break and you can come along, we + know you are on the level. Lay low and keep your lamps lit at + night, watch the screws and the stools they is worse than bulls. + Dump is full of them and don't have nothing to say. So long, + will see you tomorrow. A true friend. + +I read the note carefully, repeatedly. The peculiar language baffles me. +Vaguely I surmise its meaning: evidently an escape is being planned. My +heart beats violently, as I contemplate the possibilities. If I could +escape.... Oh, I should not have to die! Why haven't I thought of it +before? What a glorious thing it would be! Of course, they would ransack +the country for me. I should have to hide. But what does it matter? I'd +be at liberty. And what tremendous effect! It would make great +propaganda: people would become much interested, and I--why, I should +have new opportunities-- + +The shadow of suspicion falls over my joyous thought, overwhelming me +with despair. Perhaps a trap! I don't know who wrote the note. A fine +conspirator I'd prove, to be duped so easily. But why should they want +to trap me? And who? Some guard? What purpose could it serve? But they +are so mean, so brutal. That tall officer--the Deputy called him +Fellings--he seems to have taken a bitter dislike to me. This may be his +work, to get me in trouble. Would he really stoop to such an outrage? +These things happen--they have been done in Russia. And he looks like a +_provocateur_, the scoundrel. No, he won't get me that way. I must read +the note again. It contains so many expressions I don't understand. I +should "keep my lamps lit." What lamps? There are none in the cell; +where am I to get them? And what "screws" must I watch? And the +"stools,"--I have only a chair here. Why should I watch it? Perhaps it's +to be used as a weapon. No, it must mean something else. The note says +he will call to-morrow. I'll be able to tell by his looks whether he can +be trusted. Yes, yes, that will be best. I'll wait till to-morrow. Oh, I +wish it were here! + + + + +CHAPTER II + +THE WILL TO LIVE + + +I + +The days drag interminably in the semidarkness of the cell. The gong +regulates my existence with depressing monotony. But the tenor of my +thoughts has been changed by the note of the mysterious correspondent. +In vain I have been waiting for his appearance,--yet the suggestion of +escape has germinated hope. The will to live is beginning to assert +itself, growing more imperative as the days go by. I wonder that my mind +dwells upon suicide more and more rarely, ever more cursorily. The +thought of self-destruction fills me with dismay. Every possibility of +escape must first be exhausted, I reassure my troubled conscience. +Surely I have no fear of death--when the proper time arrives. But haste +would be highly imprudent; worse, quite unnecessary. Indeed, it is my +duty as a revolutionist to seize every opportunity for propaganda: +escape would afford me many occasions to serve the Cause. It was +thoughtless on my part to condemn that man Jamestown. I even resented +his seemingly unforgivable delay in committing suicide, considering the +impossible sentence of seventeen years. Indeed, I was unjust: Jamestown +is, no doubt, forming his plans. It takes time to mature such an +undertaking: one must first familiarize himself with the new +surroundings, get one's bearings in the prison. So far I have had but +little chance to do so. Evidently, it is the policy of the authorities +to keep me in solitary confinement, and in consequent ignorance of the +intricate system of hallways, double gates, and winding passages. At +liberty to leave this place, it would prove difficult for me to find, +unaided, my way out. Oh, if I possessed the magic ring I dreamed of last +night! It was a wonderful talisman, secreted--I fancied in the dream--by +the goddess of the Social Revolution. I saw her quite distinctly: tall +and commanding, the radiance of all-conquering love in her eyes. She +stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness suffusing the +queenly countenance, her arm extended above me, half in blessing, half +pointing toward the dark wall. Eagerly I looked in the direction of the +arched hand--there, in a crevice, something luminous glowed with the +brilliancy of fresh dew in the morning sun. It was a heart-shaped ring +cleft in the centre. Its scintillating rays glorified the dark corner +with the aureole of a great hope. Impulsively I reached out, and pressed +the parts of the ring into a close-fitting whole, when, lo! the rays +burst into a fire that spread and instantly melted the iron and steel, +and dissolved the prison walls, disclosing to my enraptured gaze green +fields and woods, and men and women playfully at work in the sunshine of +freedom. And then ... something dispelled the vision. + +Oh, if I had that magic heart now! To escape, to be free! May be my +unknown friend will yet keep his word. He is probably perfecting plans, +or perhaps it is not safe for him to visit me. If my comrades could aid +me, escape would be feasible. But the Girl and Fedya will never consider +the possibility. No doubt they refrain from writing because they +momentarily expect to hear of my suicide. How distraught the poor Girl +must be! Yet she should have written: it is now four days since my +removal to the penitentiary. Every day I anxiously await the coming of +the Chaplain, who distributes the mail.--There he is! The quick, nervous +step has become familiar to my ear. Expectantly I follow his movements; +I recognize the vigorous slam of the door and the click of the spring +lock. The short steps patter on the bridge connecting the upper rotunda +with the cell-house, and pass along the gallery. The solitary footfall +amid the silence reminds me of the timid haste of one crossing a +graveyard at night. Now the Chaplain pauses: he is comparing the number +of the wooden block hanging outside the cell with that on the letter. +Some one has remembered a friend in prison. The steps continue and grow +faint, as the postman rounds the distant corner. He passes the cell-row +on the opposite side, ascends the topmost tier, and finally reaches the +ground floor containing my cell. My heart beats faster as the sound +approaches: there must surely be a letter for me. He is nearing the +cell--he pauses. I can't see him yet, but I know he is comparing +numbers. Perhaps the letter is for me. I hope the Chaplain will make no +mistake: Range K, Cell 6, Number A 7. Something light flaps on the floor +of the next cell, and the quick, short step has passed me by. No mail +for me! Another twenty-four hours must elapse before I may receive a +letter, and then, too, perhaps the faint shadow will not pause at my +door. + + +II + +The thought of my twenty-two-year sentence is driving me desperate. I +would make use of any means, however terrible, to escape from this hell, +to regain liberty. Liberty! What would it not offer me after this +experience? I should have the greatest opportunity for revolutionary +activity. I would choose Russia. The Mostianer have forsaken me. I will +keep aloof, but they shall learn what a true revolutionist is capable of +accomplishing. If there is a spark of manhood in them, they will blush +for their despicable attitude toward my act, their shameful treatment of +me. How eager they will then be to prove their confidence by exaggerated +devotion, to salve their guilty conscience! I should not have to +complain of a lack of financial aid, were I to inform our intimate +circles of my plans regarding future activity in Russia. It would be +glorious, glorious! S--sh-- + +It's the Chaplain. Perhaps he has mail for me to-day.... May be he is +suppressing letters from my friends; or probably it is the Warden's +fault: the mailbag is first examined in his office.--Now the Chaplain is +descending to the ground floor. He pauses. It must be Cell 2 getting a +letter. Now he is coming. The shadow is opposite my door,--gone! + +"Chaplain, one moment, please." + +"Who's calling?" + +"Here, Chaplain. Cell 6 K." + +"What is it, my boy?" + +"Chaplain, I should like something to read." + +"Read? Why, we have a splendid library, m' boy; very fine library. I +will send you a catalogue, and you can draw one book every week." + +"I missed library day on this range. I'll have to wait another week. But +I'd like to have something in the meantime, Chaplain." + +"You are not working, m' boy?" + +"No." + +"You have not refused to work, have you?" + +"No, I have not been offered any work yet." + +"Oh, well, you will be assigned soon. Be patient, m' boy." + +"But can't I have something to read now?" + +"Isn't there a Bible in your cell?" + +"A Bible? I don't believe in it, Chaplain." + +"My boy, it will do you no harm to read it. It may do you good. Read it, +m' boy." + +For a moment I hesitate. A desperate idea crosses my mind. + +"All right, Chaplain, I'll read the Bible, but I don't care for the +modern English version. Perhaps you have one with Greek or Latin +annotations?" + +"Why, why, m' boy, do you understand Latin or Greek?" + +"Yes, I have studied the classics." + +The Chaplain seems impressed. He steps close to the door, leaning +against it in the attitude of a man prepared for a long conversation. We +talk about the classics, the sources of my knowledge, Russian schools, +social conditions. An interesting and intelligent man, this prison +Chaplain, an extensive traveler whose visit to Russia had impressed him +with the great possibilities of that country. Finally he motions to a +guard: + +"Let A 7 come with me." + +With a suspicious glance at me, the officer unlocks the door. "Shall I +come along, Chaplain?" he asks. + +"No, no. It is all right. Come, m' boy." + +Past the tier of vacant cells, we ascend the stairway to the upper +rotunda, on the left side of which is the Chaplain's office. Excited and +alert, I absorb every detail of the surroundings. I strive to appear +indifferent, while furtively following every movement of the Chaplain, +as he selects the rotunda key from the large bunch in his hand, and +opens the door. Passionate longing for liberty is consuming me. A plan +of escape is maturing in my mind. The Chaplain carries all the keys--he +lives in the Warden's house, connected with the prison--he is so +fragile--I could easily overpower him--there is no one in the +rotunda--I'd stifle his cries--take the keys-- + +"Have a seat, my boy. Sit down. Here are some books. Look them over. I +have a duplicate of my personal Bible, with annotations. It is somewhere +here." + +With feverish eyes I watch him lay the keys on the desk. A quick motion, +and they would be mine. That large and heavy one, it must belong to the +gate. It is so big,--one blow would kill him. Ah, there is a safe! The +Chaplain is taking some books from it. His back is turned to me. A +thrust--and I'd lock him in.... Stealthily, imperceptibly, I draw nearer +to the desk, my eyes fastened on the keys. Now I bend over them, +pretending to be absorbed in a book, the while my hand glides forward, +slowly, cautiously. Quickly I lean over; the open book in my hands +entirely hides the keys. My hand touches them. Desperately I clutch the +large, heavy bunch, my arm slowly rises-- + +"My boy, I cannot find that Bible just now, but I'll give you some other +book. Sit down, my boy. I am so sorry about you. I am an officer of the +State, but I think you were dealt with unjustly. Your sentence is quite +excessive. I can well understand the state of mind that actuated you, a +young enthusiast, in these exciting times. It was in connection with +Homestead, is it not so, m' boy?" + + * * * * * + +I fall back into the chair, shaken, unmanned. That deep note of +sympathy, the sincerity of the trembling voice--no, no, I cannot touch +him.... + + +III + +At last, mail from New York! Letters from the Girl and Fedya. With a +feeling of mixed anxiety and resentment, I gaze at the familiar +handwriting. Why didn't they write before? The edge of expectancy has +been dulled by the long suspense. The Girl and the Twin, my closest, +most intimate friends of yesterday,--but the yesterday seems so distant +in the past, its very reality submerged in the tide of soul-racking +events. + +There is a note of disappointment, almost of bitterness, in the Girl's +letter. The failure of my act will lessen the moral effect, and diminish +its propagandistic value. The situation is aggravated by Most. Owing to +his disparaging attitude, the Germans remain indifferent. To a +considerable extent, even the Jewish revolutionary element has been +influenced by him. The Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at +the attempted completion of my work, planned, yet impossible of +realization. + +I smile scornfully at the "completion" that failed even of an attempt. +The damningly false viewpoint of the Girl exasperates me, and I angrily +resent the disapproving surprise I sense in both letters at my continued +existence. + +I read the lines repeatedly. Every word drips bitterness into my soul. +Have I grown morbid, or do they actually presume to reproach me with my +failure to suicide? By what right? Impatiently I smother the accusing +whisper of my conscience, "By the right of revolutionary ethics." The +will to live leaps into being peremptorily, more compelling and +imperative at the implied challenge. + +No, I will struggle and fight! Friend or enemy, they shall learn that I +am not so easily done for. I will live, to escape, to conquer! + + + + +CHAPTER III + +SPECTRAL SILENCE + + +The silence grows more oppressive, the solitude unbearable. My natural +buoyancy is weighted down by a nameless dread. With dismay I realize the +failing elasticity of my step, the gradual loss of mental vivacity. I +feel worn in body and soul. + +The regular tolling of the gong, calling to toil or meals, accentuates +the enervating routine. It sounds ominously amid the stillness, like the +portent of some calamity, horrible and sudden. Unshaped fears, the more +terrifying because vague, fill my heart. In vain I seek to drown my +riotous thoughts by reading and exercise. The walls stand, immovable +sentinels, hemming me in on every side, till movement grows into +torture. In the constant dusk of the windowless cell the letters dance +before my eyes, now forming fantastic figures, now dissolving into +corpses and images of death. The morbid pictures fascinate my mind. The +hissing gas jet in the corridor irresistibly attracts me. With eyes half +shut, I follow the flickering light. Its diffusing rays form a +kaleidoscope of variegated pattern, now crystallizing into scenes of my +youth, now converging upon the image of my New York life, with grotesque +illumination of the tragic moments. Now the flame is swept by a gust of +wind. It darts hither and thither, angrily contending with the +surrounding darkness. It whizzes and strikes into its adversary, who +falters, then advances with giant shadow, menacing the light with +frenzied threats on the whitewashed wall. Look! The shadow grows and +grows, till it mounts the iron gates that fall heavily behind me, as the +officers lead me through the passage. "You're home now," the guard mocks +me. I look back. The gray pile looms above me, cold and forbidding, and +on its crest stands the black figure leering at me in triumph. The walls +frown upon me. They seem human in their cruel immobility. Their huge +arms tower into the night, as if to crush me on the instant. I feel so +small, unutterably weak and defenceless amid all the loneliness,--the +breath of the grave is on my face, it draws closer, it surrounds me, and +shuts the last rays from my sight. In horror I pause.... The chain grows +taut, the sharp edges cut into my wrist. I lurch forward, and wake on +the floor of the cell. + + * * * * * + +Restless dream and nightmare haunt the long nights. I listen eagerly for +the tolling of the gong, bidding darkness depart. But the breaking day +brings neither hope nor gladness. Gloomy as yesterday, devoid of +interest as the to-morrows at its heels, endlessly dull and leaden: the +rumbling carts, with their loads of half-baked bread; the tasteless +brown liquid; the passing lines of striped misery; the coarse commands; +the heavy tread; and then--the silence of the tomb. + +Why continue the unprofitable torture? No advantage could accrue to the +Cause from prolonging this agony. All avenues of escape are closed; the +institution is impregnable. The good people have generously fortified +this modern bastille; the world at large may sleep in peace, undisturbed +by the anguish of Calvary. No cry of tormented soul shall pierce these +walls of stone, much less the heart of man. Why, then, prolong the +agony? None heeds, none cares, unless perhaps my comrades,--and they are +far away and helpless. + +Helpless, quite helpless. Ah, if our movement were strong, the enemy +would not dare commit such outrages, knowing that quick and merciless +vengeance would retaliate for injustice. But the enemy realizes our +weakness. To our everlasting shame, the crime of Chicago has not yet +been avenged. _Vae victis!_ They shall forever be the victims. Only +might is respected; it alone can influence tyrants. Had we +strength,--but if the judicial murders of 1887 failed to arouse more +than passive indignation, can I expect radical developments in +consequence of my brutally excessive sentence? It is unreasonable. Five +years, indeed, have passed since the Haymarket tragedy. Perhaps the +People have since been taught in the bitter school of oppression and +defeat. Oh, if labor would realize the significance of my deed, if the +worker would understand my aims and motives, he could be roused to +strong protest, perhaps to active demand. Ah, yes! But when, when will +the dullard realize things? When will he open his eyes? Blind to his own +slavery and degradation, can I expect him to perceive the wrong suffered +by others? And who is to enlighten him? No one conceives the truth as +deeply and clearly as we Anarchists. Even the Socialists dare not +advocate the whole, unvarnished truth. They have clothed the Goddess of +Liberty with a fig-leaf; religion, the very fountain-head of bigotry and +injustice, has officially been declared _Privatsache_. Henceforth these +timid world-liberators must be careful not to tread upon the toes of +prejudice and superstition. Soon they will grow to _bourgeois_ +respectability, a party of "practical" politics and "sound" morality. +What a miserable descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed +defiance of all established institutions, _because_ they were +established, hence wrong. Indeed, there is not a single institution in +our pseudo-civilization that deserves to exist. But only the Anarchists +dare wage war upon all and every form of wrong, and they are few in +number, lacking in power. The internal divisions, too, aggravate our +weakness; and now, even Most has turned apostate. The Jewish comrades +will be influenced by his attitude. Only the Girl remains. But she is +young in the movement, and almost unknown. Undoubtedly she has talent as +a speaker, but she is a woman, in rather poor health. In all the +movement, I know of no one capable of propaganda by deed, or of an +avenging act, except the Twin. At least I can expect no other comrade to +undertake the dangerous task of a rescue. The Twin is a true +revolutionist; somewhat impulsive and irresponsible, perhaps, with +slight aristocratic leanings, yet quite reliable in matters of +revolutionary import. But he would not harbor the thought. We held such +queer notions of prison: the sight of a police uniform, an arrest, +suggested visions of a bottomless pit, irrevocable disappearance, as in +Russia. How can I broach the subject to the Twin? All mail passes +through the hands of the censor; my correspondence, especially--a +long-timer and an Anarchist--will be minutely scrutinized. There seems +no possibility. I am buried alive in this stone grave. Escape is +hopeless. And this agony of living death--I cannot support it.... + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +A RAY OF LIGHT + + +I yearn for companionship. Even the mere sight of a human form is a +relief. Every morning, after breakfast, I eagerly listen for the +familiar swish-swash on the flagstones of the hallway: it is the old +rangeman[14] "sweeping up." The sensitive mouth puckered up in an +inaudible whistle, the one-armed prisoner swings the broom with his +left, the top of the handle pressed under the armpit. + + [14] Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells. + +"Hello, Aleck! How're you feeling to-day?" + +He stands opposite my cell, at the further end of the wall, the broom +suspended in mid-stroke. I catch an occasional glance of the kind blue +eyes, while his head is in constant motion, turning to right and left, +alert for the approach of a guard. + +"How're you, Aleck?" + +"Oh, nothing extra." + +"I know how it is, Aleck, I've been through the mill. Keep up your +nerve, you'll be all right, old boy. You're young yet." + +"Old enough to die," I say, bitterly. + +"S--sh! Don't speak so loud. The screw's got long ears." + +"The screw?" + +A wild hope trembles in my heart. The "screw"! The puzzling expression +in the mysterious note,--perhaps this man wrote it. In anxious +expectancy, I watch the rangeman. His back turned toward me, head bent, +he hurriedly plies the broom with the quick, short stroke of the +one-armed sweeper. "S--sh!" he cautions, without turning, as he crosses +the line of my cell. + +I listen intently. Not a sound, save the regular swish-swash of the +broom. But the more practiced ear of the old prisoner did not err. A +long shadow falls across the hall. The tall guard of the malicious eyes +stands at my door. + +"What you pryin' out for?" he demands. + +"I am not prying." + +"Don't you contradict me. Stand back in your hole there. Don't you be +leanin' on th' door, d'ye hear?" + +Down the hall the guard shouts: "Hey you, cripple! Talkin' there, wasn't +you?" + +"No, sir." + +"Don't you dare lie to me. You was." + +"Swear to God I wasn't." + +"W-a-all, if I ever catch you talkin' to that s---- of a b----, I'll fix +you." + + * * * * * + +The scratching of the broom has ceased. The rangeman is dusting the +doors. The even strokes of the cat-o'-nine-tails sound nearer. Again the +man stops at my door, his head turning right and left, the while he +diligently plies the duster. + +"Aleck," he whispers, "be careful of that screw. He's a ----. See him +jump on me?" + +"What would he do to you if he saw you talking to me?" + +"Throw me in the hole, the dungeon, you know. I'd lose my job, too." + +"Then better don't talk to me." + +"Oh, I ain't scared of him. He can't catch _me_, not he. He didn't see +me talkin'; just bluffed. Can't bluff _me_, though." + +"But be careful." + +"It's all right. He's gone out in the yard now. He has no biz in the +block,[15] anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time. He's jest lookin' for trouble. +Mean skunk he is, that Cornbread Tom." + + [15] Cell-house. + +"Who?" + +"That screw Fellings. We call him Cornbread Tom, b'cause he swipes our +corn dodger." + +"What's corn dodger?" + +"Ha, ha! Toosdays and Satoordays we gets a chunk of cornbread for +breakfast. It ain't much, but better'n stale punk. Know what punk is? +Not long on lingo, are you? Punk's bread, and then some kids is punk." + +He chuckles, merrily, as at some successful _bon mot_. Suddenly he +pricks up his ears, and with a quick gesture of warning, tiptoes away +from the cell. In a few minutes he returns, whispering: + +"All O. K. Road's clear. Tom's been called to the shop. Won't be back +till dinner, thank th' Lord. Only the Cap is in the block, old man +Mitchell, in charge of this wing. North Block it's called." + +"The women are in the South Block?" + +"Nope. Th' girls got a speshal building. South Block's th' new +cell-house, just finished. Crowded already, an' fresh fish comin' every +day. Court's busy in Pittsburgh all right. Know any one here?" + +"No." + +"Well, get acquainted, Aleck. It'll give you an interest. Guess that's +what you need. I know how you feel, boy. Thought I'd die when I landed +here. Awful dump. A guy advised me to take an interest an' make friends. +I thought he was kiddin' me, but he was on the level, all right. Get +acquainted, Aleck; you'll go bugs if you don't. Must vamoose now. See +you later. My name's Wingie." + +"Wingie?" + +"That's what they call me here. I'm an old soldier; was at Bull Run. Run +so damn fast I lost my right wing, hah, hah, hah! S'long." + + * * * * * + +Eagerly I look forward to the stolen talks with Wingie. They are the +sole break in the monotony of my life. But days pass without the +exchange of a word. Silently the one-armed prisoner walks by, apparently +oblivious of my existence, while with beating heart I peer between the +bars for a cheering sign of recognition. Only the quick wink of his eye +reassures me of his interest, and gives warning of the spying guard. + +By degrees the ingenuity of Wingie affords us more frequent snatches of +conversation, and I gather valuable information about the prison. The +inmates sympathize with me, Wingie says. They know I'm "on th' level." +I'm sure to find friends, but I must be careful of the "stool pigeons," +who report everything to the officers. Wingie is familiar with the +history of every keeper. Most of them are "rotten," he assures me. +Especially the Captain of the night watch is "fierce an' an ex-fly."[16] +Only three "screws" are on night duty in each block, but there are a +hundred overseers to "run th' dump" during the day. Wingie promises to +be my friend, and to furnish "more pointers bymby." + + [16] Fly or fly-cop, a detective. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE SHOP + + +I + +I stand in line with a dozen prisoners, in the anteroom of the Deputy's +office. Humiliation overcomes me as my eye falls, for the first time in +the full light of day, upon my striped clothes. I am degraded to a +beast! My first impression of a prisoner in stripes is painfully vivid: +he resembled a dangerous brute. Somehow the idea is associated in my +mind with a wild tigress,--and I, too, must now look like that. + +The door of the rotunda swings open, admitting the tall, lank figure of +the Deputy Warden. + +"Hands up!" + +The Deputy slowly passes along the line, examining a hand here and +there. He separates the men into groups; then, pointing to the one in +which I am included, he says in his feminine accents: + +"None crippled. Officers, take them, hm, hm, to Number Seven. Turn them +over to Mr. Hoods." + +"Fall in! Forward, march!" + +My resentment at the cattle-like treatment is merged into eager +expectation. At last I am assigned to work! I speculate on the character +of "Number Seven," and on the possibilities of escape from there. +Flanked by guards, we cross the prison yard in close lockstep. The +sentinels on the wall, their rifles resting loosely on crooked arm, +face the striped line winding snakelike through the open space. The yard +is spacious and clean, the lawn well kept and inviting. The first breath +of fresh air in two weeks violently stimulates my longing for liberty. +Perhaps the shop will offer an opportunity to escape. The thought +quickens my observation. Bounded north, east, and south by the stone +wall, the two blocks of the cell-house form a parallelogram, enclosing +the shops, kitchen, hospital, and, on the extreme south, the women's +quarters. + +"Break ranks!" + +We enter Number Seven, a mat shop. With difficulty I distinguish the +objects in the dark, low-ceilinged room, with its small, barred windows. +The air is heavy with dust; the rattling of the looms is deafening. An +atmosphere of noisy gloom pervades the place. + +The officer in charge assigns me to a machine occupied by a lanky +prisoner in stripes. "Jim, show him what to do." + +Considerable time passes, without Jim taking the least notice of me. +Bent low over the machine, he seems absorbed in the work, his hands +deftly manipulating the shuttle, his foot on the treadle. Presently he +whispers, hoarsely: + +"Fresh fish?" + +"What did you say?" + +"You bloke, long here?" + +"Two weeks." + +"Wotcher doin'?" + +"Twenty-one years." + +"Quitcher kiddin'." + +"It's true." + +"Honest? Holy gee!" + +The shuttle flies to and fro. Jim is silent for a while, then he +demands, abruptly: + +"Wat dey put you here for?" + +"I don't know." + +"Been kickin'?" + +"No." + +"Den you'se bugs." + +"Why so?" + +"Dis 'ere is crank shop. Dey never put a mug 'ere 'cept he's bugs, or +else dey got it in for you." + +"How do _you_ happen to be here?" + +"Me? De God damn ---- got it in for me. See dis?" He points to a deep +gash over his temple. "Had a scrap wid de screws. Almost knocked me +glimmer out. It was dat big bull[17] dere, Pete Hoods. I'll get even wid +_him_, all right, damn his rotten soul. I'll kill him. By God, I will. +I'll croak 'ere, anyhow." + + [17] Guard. + +"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him. + +"It ain't, eh? Wat d'_you_ know 'bout it? I've got the con bad, spittin' +blood every night. Dis dust's killin' me. Kill you, too, damn quick." + +As if to emphasize his words, he is seized with a fit of coughing, +prolonged and hollow. + +The shuttle has in the meantime become entangled in the fringes of the +matting. Recovering his breath, Jim snatches the knife at his side, and +with a few deft strokes releases the metal. To and fro flies the +gleaming thing, and Jim is again absorbed in his task. + +"Don't bother me no more," he warns me, "I'm behind wid me work." + +Every muscle tense, his long body almost stretched across the loom, in +turn pulling and pushing, Jim bends every effort to hasten the +completion of the day's task. + +The guard approaches. "How's he doing?" he inquires, indicating me with +a nod of the head. + +"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place for de kid. He's +got a twenty-one spot."[18] + + [18] Sentence. + +"Shut your damned trap!" the officer retorts, angrily. The consumptive +bends over his work, fearfully eyeing the keeper's measuring stick. + +As the officer turns away, Jim pleads: + +"Mr. Hoods, I lose time teachin'. Won't you please take off a bit? De +task is more'n I can do, an' I'm sick." + +"Nonsense. There's nothing the matter with you, Jim. You're just lazy, +that's what you are. Don't be shamming, now. It don't go with _me_." + +At noon the overseer calls me aside. "You are green here," he warns me, +"pay no attention to Jim. He wanted to be bad, but we showed him +different. He's all right now. You have a long time; see that you behave +yourself. This is no playhouse, you understand?" + +As I am about to resume my place in the line forming to march back to +the cells for dinner, he recalls me: + +"Say, Aleck, you'd better keep an eye on that fellow Jim. He is a little +off, you know." + +He points toward my head, with a significant rotary motion. + + +II + +The mat shop is beginning to affect my health: the dust has inflamed my +throat, and my eyesight is weakening in the constant dusk. The officer +in charge has repeatedly expressed dissatisfaction with my slow progress +in the work. "I'll give you another chance," he cautioned me yesterday, +"and if you don't make a good mat by next week, down in the hole you +go." He severely upbraided Jim for his inefficiency as instructor. As +the consumptive was about to reply, he suffered an attack of coughing. +The emaciated face turned greenish-yellow, but in a moment he seemed to +recover, and continued working. Suddenly I saw him clutch at the frame, +a look of terror spread over his face, he began panting for breath, and +then a stream of dark blood gushed from his mouth, and Jim fell to the +floor. + +The steady whir of the looms continued. The prisoner at the neighboring +machine cast a furtive look at the prostrate form, and bent lower over +his work. Jim lay motionless, the blood dyeing the floor purple. I +rushed to the officer. + +"Mr. Hoods, Jim has--" + +"Back to your place, damn you!" he shouted at me. "How dare you leave it +without permission?" + +"I just--" + +"Get back, I tell you!" he roared, raising the heavy stick. + +I returned to my place. Jim lay very still, his lips parted, his face +ashen. + +Slowly, with measured step, the officer approached. + +"What's the matter here?" + +I pointed at Jim. The guard glanced at the unconscious man, then lightly +touched the bleeding face with his foot. + +"Get up, Jim, get up!" + +The nerveless head rolled to the side, striking the leg of the loom. + +"Guess he isn't shamming," the officer muttered. Then he shook his +finger at me, menacingly: "Don't you ever leave your place without +orders. Remember, you!" + +After a long delay, causing me to fear that Jim had been forgotten, the +doctor arrived. It was Mr. Rankin, the senior prison physician, a short, +stocky man of advanced middle age, with a humorous twinkle in his eye. +He ordered the sick prisoner taken to the hospital. "Did any one see the +man fall?" he inquired. + +"This man did," the keeper replied, indicating me. + +While I was explaining, the doctor eyed me curiously. Presently he asked +my name. "Oh, the celebrated case," he smiled. "I know Mr. Frick quite +well. Not such a bad man, at all. But you'll be treated well here, Mr. +Berkman. This is a democratic institution, you know. By the way, what is +the matter with your eyes? They are inflamed. Always that way?" + +"Only since I am working in this shop." + +"Oh, he is all right, Doctor," the officer interposed. "He's only been +here a week." + +Mr. Rankin cast a quizzical look at the guard. + +"You want him here?" + +"Y-e-s: we're short of men." + +"Well, _I_ am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning to me, he added: +"Report in the morning on sick list." + + +III + +The doctor's examination has resulted in my removal to the hosiery +department. The change has filled me with renewed hope. A disciplinary +shop, to which are generally assigned the "hard cases"--inmates in the +first stages of mental derangement, or exceptionally unruly +prisoners--the mat shop is the point of special supervision and severest +discipline. It is the best-guarded shop, from which escape is +impossible. But in the hosiery department, a recent addition to the +local industries. I may find the right opportunity. It will require +time, of course; but my patience shall be equal to the great object. The +working conditions, also, are more favorable: the room is light and +airy, the discipline not so stringent. My near-sightedness has secured +for me immunity from machine work. The Deputy at first insisted that my +eyes were "good enough" to see the numerous needles of the hosiery +machine. It is true, I could see them; but not with sufficient +distinctness to insure the proper insertion of the initial threads. To +admit partial ability would result, I knew, in being ordered to produce +the task; and failure, or faulty work, would be severely punished. +Necessity drove me to subterfuge: I pretended total inability to +distinguish the needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to +change my determination, I have been assigned the comparatively easy +work of "turning" the stockings. The occupation, though tedious, is not +exacting. It consists in gathering the hosiery manufactured by the +knitting machines, whence the product issues without soles. I carry the +pile to the table provided with an iron post, about eighteen inches +high, topped with a small inverted disk. On this instrument the +stockings are turned "inside out" by slipping the article over the post, +then quickly "undressing" it. The hosiery thus "turned" is forwarded to +the looping machines, by which the product is finished and sent back to +me, once more to be "turned," preparatory to sorting and shipment. + + * * * * * + +Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Practice lends me great +dexterity in the work, but the hours of drudgery drag with heavy heel. I +seek to hasten time by forcing myself to take an interest in the task. I +count the stockings I turn, the motions required by each operation, and +the amount accomplished within a given time. But in spite of these +efforts, my mind persistently reverts to unprofitable subjects: my +friends and the propaganda; the terrible injustice of my excessive +sentence; suicide and escape. + +My nights are restless. Oppressed with a nameless weight, or tormented +by dread, I awake with a start, breathless and affrighted, to experience +the momentary relief of danger past. But the next instant I am +overwhelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and plunged into +rage and despair, powerless, hopeless. + +Thus day succeeds night, and night succeeds day, in the ceaseless +struggle of hope and discouragement, of life and death, amid the +externally placid tenor of my Pennsylvania nightmare. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +MY FIRST LETTER + + +I + + Direct to Box A 7, + Allegheny City, Pa., + October 19th, 1892. + + Dear Sister:[19] + + It is just a month, a month to-day, since my coming here. I keep + wondering, can such a world of misery and torture be compressed + into one short month?... How I have longed for this opportunity! + You will understand: a month's stay is required before we are + permitted to write. But many, many long letters I have written + to you--in my mind, dear Sonya. Where shall I begin now? My + space is very limited, and I have so much to say to you and to + the Twin.--I received your letters. You need not wait till you + hear from me: keep on writing. I am allowed to receive all mail + sent, "of moral contents," in the phraseology of the rules. And + I shall write whenever I may. + + Dear Sonya, I sense bitterness and disappointment in your + letter. Why do you speak of failure? You, at least, you and + Fedya, should not have your judgment obscured by the mere + accident of physical results. Your lines pained and grieved me + beyond words. Not because you should write thus; but that you, + even you, should _think_ thus. Need I enlarge? True morality + deals with motives, not consequences. I cannot believe that we + differ on this point. + + I fully understand what a terrible blow the apostasy of + Wurst[20] must have been to you. But however it may minimize + the effect, it cannot possibly alter the fact, or its + character. This you seem to have lost sight of. In spite of + Wurst, a great deal could have been accomplished. I don't know + whether it has been done: your letter is very meagre on this + point. Yet it is of supreme interest to me. But I know, + Sonya,--of this one thing, at least, I am sure--you will do all + that is in your power. Perhaps it is not much--but the Twin and + part of Orchard Street[21] will be with you. + + Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment, as to + Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory?[22] You must + consider that the layman cannot judge of the intricacies of + scientific hypotheses. The scientist would justly object to such + presumption. + + I embrace you both. The future is dark; but, then, who knows?... + Write often. Tell me about the movement, yourself and friends. + It will help to keep me in touch with the outside world, which + daily seems to recede further. I clutch desperately at the + thread that still binds me to the living--it seems to unravel in + my hands, the thin skeins are breaking, one by one. My hold is + slackening. But the Sonya thread, I know, will remain taut and + strong. I have always called you the Immutable. + + ALEX. + + [19] The Girl; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor. + + [20] John Most. + + [21] 54 Orchard Street--the hall in which the first Jewish + Anarchist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion + to the aid of the Jewish comrades. + + [22] Tolstogub--the author's Russian nickname. The expression + signifies the continued survival of the writer. + +[Illustration: FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD] + + +II + +I posted the letter in the prisoners' mail-box when the line formed for +work this morning. But the moment the missive left my hands, I was +seized with a great longing. Oh, if some occult means would transform me +into that slip of paper! I should now be hidden in that green box--with +bated breath I'd flatten myself in the darkest recess, and wait for the +Chaplain to collect the mail.... + +My heart beats tumultuously as the wild fancy flutters in my brain. I am +oblivious of the forming lines, the sharp commands, the heavy tread. +Automatically I turn the hosiery, counting one, two, one pair; three, +four, two pair. Whose voice is it I hear? I surely know the man--there +is something familiar about him. He bends over the looping machines and +gathers the stockings. Now he is counting: one, two, one pair; three, +four, two pair. Just like myself. Why, he looks like myself! And the men +all seem to think it is I. Ha, ha, ha! the officer, also. I just heard +him say, "Aleck, work a little faster, can't you? See the piles there, +you're falling behind." He thinks it's I. What a clever substitution! +And all the while the real "me" is snugly lying here in the green box, +peeping through the keyhole, on the watch for the postman. S-sh! I hear +a footstep. Perhaps it is the Chaplain: he will open the box with his +quick, nervous hands, seize a handful of letters, and thrust them into +the large pocket of his black serge coat. There are so many letters +here--I'll slip among them into the large pocket--the Chaplain will not +notice me. He'll think it's just a letter, ha, ha! He'll scrutinize +every word, for it's the letter of a long-timer; his first one, too. But +I am safe, I'm invisible; and when they call the roll, they will take +that man there for me. He is counting nineteen, twenty, ten pair; +twenty-one, twenty-two.... What was that? Twenty-two--oh, yes, +twenty-two, that's my sentence. The imbeciles, they think I am going to +serve it. I'd kill myself first. But it will not be necessary, thank +goodness! It was such a lucky thought, this going out in my letter. But +what has become of the Chaplain? If he'd only come--why is he so long? +They might miss me in the shop. No, no! that man is there--he is turning +the stockings--they don't know I am here in the box. The Chaplain won't +know it, either: I am invisible; he'll think it's a letter when he puts +me in his pocket, and then he'll seal me in an envelope and address--I +must flatten myself so his hand shouldn't feel--and he'll address me to +Sonya. He'll not know whom he is sending to her--he doesn't know who she +is, either--the _Deckadresse_ is splendid--we must keep it up. Keep it +up? Why? It will not be necessary: after he mails me, we don't need to +write any more--it is well, too--I have so much to tell Sonya--and it +wouldn't pass the censor. But it's all right now--they'll throw the +letters into the mail-carrier's bag--there'll be many of them--this is +general letter day. I'll hide in the pile, and they'll pass me through +the post-office, on to New York. Dear, dear New York! I have been away +so long. Only a month? Well, I must be patient--and not breathe so loud. +When I get to New York, I shall not go at once into the house--Sonya +might get frightened. I'll first peep in through the window--I wonder +what she'll be doing--and who will be at home? Yes, Fedya will be there, +and perhaps Claus and Sep. How surprised they'll all be! Sonya will +embrace me--she'll throw her arms around my neck--they'll feel so soft +and warm-- + +"Hey, there! Are you deaf? Fall in line!" + +Dazed, bewildered, I see the angry face of the guard before me. The +striped men pass me, enveloped in a mist. I grasp the "turner." The iron +feels cold. Chills shake my frame, and the bundle of hosiery drops from +my hand. + +"Fall in line, I tell you!" + +"Sucker!" some one hisses behind me. "Workin' after whistle. 'Fraid you +won't get 'nough in yer twenty-two spot, eh? You sucker, you!" + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +WINGIE + + +The hours at work help to dull the acute consciousness of my +environment. The hosiery department is past the stage of experiment; the +introduction of additional knitting machines has enlarged my task, +necessitating increased effort and more sedulous application. + +The shop routine now demands all my attention. It leaves little time for +thinking or brooding. My physical condition alarms me: the morning hours +completely exhaust me, and I am barely able to keep up with the line +returning to the cell-house for the noon meal. A feeling of lassitude +possesses me, my feet drag heavily, and I experience great difficulty in +mastering my sleepiness. + + * * * * * + +I have grown indifferent to the meals; the odor of food nauseates me. I +am nervous and morbid: the sight of a striped prisoner disgusts me; the +proximity of a guard enrages me. The shop officer has repeatedly warned +me against my disrespectful and surly manner. But I am indifferent to +consequences: what matter what happens? My waning strength is a source +of satisfaction: perhaps it indicates the approach of death. The thought +pleases me in a quiet, impersonal way. There will be no more suffering, +no anguish. The world at large is non-existent; it is centered in Me; +and yet I myself stand aloof, and see it falling into gradual peace and +quiet, into extinction. + + * * * * * + +Back in my cell after the day's work, I leave the evening meal of bread +and coffee untouched. My candle remains unlit. I sit listlessly in the +gathering dusk, conscious only of the longing to hear the gong's deep +bass,--the three bells tolling the order to retire. I welcome the +blessed permission to fall into bed. The coarse straw mattress beckons +invitingly; I yearn for sleep, for oblivion. + + * * * * * + +Occasional mail from friends rouses me from my apathy. But the awakening +is brief: the tone of the letter is guarded, their contents too general +in character, the matters that might kindle my interest are missing. The +world and its problems are drifting from my horizon. I am cast into the +darkness. No ray of sunshine holds out the promise of spring. + + * * * * * + +At times the realization of my fate is borne in upon me with the +violence of a shock, and I am engulfed in despair, now threatening to +break down the barriers of sanity, now affording melancholy satisfaction +in the wild play of fancy.... Existence grows more and more unbearable +with the contrast of dream and reality. Weary of the day's routine, I +welcome the solitude of the cell, impatient even of the greeting of the +passing convict. I shrink from the uninvited familiarity of these men, +the horizontal gray and black constantly reviving the image of the +tigress, with her stealthy, vicious cunning. They are not of _my_ world. +I would aid them, as in duty bound to the victims of social injustice. +But I cannot be friends with them: they do not belong to the People, to +whose service my life is consecrated. Unfortunates, indeed; yet +parasites upon the producers, less in degree, but no less in kind than +the rich exploiters. By virtue of my principles, rather than their +deserts, I must give them my intellectual sympathy; they touch no chord +in my heart. + +Only Wingie seems different. There is a gentle note about his manner +that breathes cheer and encouragement. Often I long for his presence, +yet he seldom finds opportunity to talk with me, save Sundays during +church service, when I remain in the cell. Perhaps I may see him to-day. +He must be careful of the Block Captain, on his rounds of the galleries, +counting the church delinquents.[23] The Captain is passing on the range +now. I recognize the uncertain step, instantly ready to halt at the +sight of a face behind the bars. Now he is at the cell. He pencils in +his note-book the number on the wooden block over the door, A 7. + + [23] Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending + Protestant service, and _vice versa_. + +"Catholic?" he asks, mechanically. Then, looking up, he frowns on me. + +"You're no Catholic, Berkman. What d'you stay in for?" + +"I am an atheist." + +"A what?" + +"An atheist, a non-believer." + +"Oh, an infidel, are you? You'll be damned, shore 'nough." + +The wooden stairs creak beneath the officer's weight. He has turned the +corner. Wingie will take advantage now. I hope he will come soon. +Perhaps somebody is watching-- + +"Hello, Aleck! Want a piece of pie? Here, grab it!" + +"Pie, Wingie?" I whisper wonderingly. "Where do you get such luxuries?" + +"Swiped from the screw's poke, Cornbread Tom's dinner-basket, you know. +The cheap guy saved it after breakfast. Rotten, ain't he?" + +"Why so?" + +"Why, you greenie, he's a stomach robber, that's what he is. It's _our_ +pie, Aleck, made here in the bakery. That's why our punk is stale, see; +they steals the east[24] to make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How +d' you like the grub, anyhow?" + + [24] Yeast. + +"The bread is generally stale, Wingie. And the coffee tastes like tepid +water." + +"Coffee you call it? He, he, coffee hell. It ain't no damn coffee; +'tnever was near coffee. It's just bootleg, Aleck, bootleg. Know how't's +made?" + +"No." + +"Well, I been three months in th' kitchen. You c'llect all the old punk +that the cons dump out with their dinner pans. Only the crust's used, +see. Like as not some syph coon spit on 't. Some's mean enough to do't, +you know. Makes no diff, though. Orders is, cut off th' crusts an' burn +'em to a good black crisp. Then you pour boiling water over it an' dump +it in th' kettle, inside a bag, you know, an' throw a little dirty +chic'ry in--there's your _coffee_. I never touch th' rotten stuff. It +rooins your stummick, that's what it does, Aleck. You oughtn't drink th' +swill." + +"I don't care if it kills me." + +"Come, come, Aleck. Cheer up, old boy. You got a tough bit, I know, but +don' take it so hard. Don' think of your time. Forget it. Oh, yes, you +can; you jest take my word for't. Make some friends. Think who you wan' +to see to-morrow, then try t' see 'm. That's what you wan' to do, Aleck. +It'll keep you hustlin'. Best thing for the blues, kiddie." + +For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The soft eyes are full of +sympathy, the lips smile encouragingly. He leans the broom against the +door, glances quickly around, hesitates an instant, and then deftly +slips a slender, delicate hand between the bars, and gives my cheek a +tender pat. + +Involuntarily I step back, with the instinctive dislike of a man's +caress. Yet I would not offend my kind friend. But Wingie must have +noticed my annoyance: he eyes me critically, wonderingly. Presently +picking up the broom, he says with a touch of diffidence: + +"You are all right, Aleck. I like you for 't. Jest wanted t' try you, +see?" + +"How 'try me,' Wingie?" + +"Oh, you ain't next? Well, you see--" he hesitates, a faint flush +stealing over his prison pallor, "you see, Aleck, it's--oh, wait till I +pipe th' screw." + +Poor Wingie, the ruse is too transparent to hide his embarrassment. I +can distinctly follow the step of the Block Captain on the upper +galleries. He is the sole officer in the cell-house during church +service. The unlocking of the yard door would apprise us of the entrance +of a guard, before the latter could observe Wingie at my cell. + +I ponder over the flimsy excuse. Why did Wingie leave me? His flushed +face, the halting speech of the usually loquacious rangeman, the +subterfuge employed to "sneak off,"--as he himself would characterize +his hasty departure,--all seem very peculiar. What could he have meant +by "trying" me? But before I have time to evolve a satisfactory +explanation, I hear Wingie tiptoeing back. + +"It's all right, Aleck. They won't come from the chapel for a good while +yet." + +"What did you mean by 'trying' me, Wingie?" + +"Oh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You are a good boy, all +right. You don't belong here, that's what _I_ say." + +"Well, I _am_ here; and the chances are I'll die here." + +"Now, don't talk so foolish, boy. I 'lowed you looked down at the mouth. +Now, don't you fill your head with such stuff an' nonsense. Croak here, +hell! You ain't goin' t'do nothin' of the kind. Don't you go broodin', +now. You listen t'me, Aleck, that's your friend talkin', see? You're so +young, why, you're just a kid. Twenty-one, ain't you? An' talkin' about +dyin'! Shame on you, shame!" + +His manner is angry, but the tremor in his voice sends a ray of warmth +to my heart. Impulsively I put my hand between the bars. His firm clasp +assures me of returned appreciation. + +"You must brace up, Aleck. Look at the lifers. You'd think they'd be +black as night. Nit, my boy, the jolliest lot in th' dump. You seen old +Henry? No? Well, you ought' see 'im. He's the oldest man here; in +fifteen years. A lifer, an' hasn't a friend in th' woild, but he's happy +as th' day's long. An' you got plenty friends; true blue, too. I know +you have." + +"I have, Wingie. But what could they do for me?" + +"How you talk, Aleck. Could do anythin'. You got rich friends, I know. +You was mixed up with Frick. Well, your friends are all right, ain't +they?" + +"Of course. What could they do, Wingie?" + +"Get you pard'n, in two, three years may be, see? You must make a good +record here." + +"Oh, I don't care for a pardon." + +"Wha-a-t? You're kiddin'." + +"No, Wingie, quite seriously. I am opposed to it on principle." + +"You're sure bugs. What you talkin' 'bout? Principle fiddlesticks. Want +to get out o' here?" + +"Of course I do." + +"Well, then, quit your principle racket. What's principle got t' do with +'t? Your principle's 'gainst get-tin' out?" + +"No, but against being pardoned." + +"You're beyond me, Aleck. Guess you're joshin' me." + +"Now listen, Wingie. You see, I wouldn't apply for a pardon, because it +would be asking favors from the government, and I am against it, you +understand? It would be of no use, anyhow, Wingie." + +"An' if you could get a pard'n for the askin', you won't ask, Aleck. +That's what you mean?" + +"Yes." + +"You're hot stuff, Aleck. What they call you, Narchist? Hot stuff, by +gosh! Can't make you out, though. Seems daffy. Lis'n t' me, Aleck. If I +was you, I'd take anythin' I could get, an' then tell 'em to go t'hell. +That's what _I_ would do, my boy." + +He looks at me quizzically, searchingly. The faint echo of the Captain's +step reaches us from a gallery on the opposite side. With a quick glance +to right and left, Wingie leans over toward the door. His mouth between +the bars, he whispers very low: + +"Principles opposed to a get-a-way, Aleck?" + +The sudden question bewilders me. The instinct of liberty, my +revolutionary spirit, the misery of my existence, all flame into being, +rousing a wild, tumultuous beating of my heart, pervading my whole being +with hope, intense to the point of pain. I remain silent. Is it safe to +trust him? He seems kind and sympathetic-- + +"You may trust me, Aleck," Wingie whispers, as if reading my thoughts. +"I'm your friend." + +"Yes, Wingie, I believe you. My principles are not opposed to an escape. +I have been thinking about it, but so far--" + +"S-sh! Easy. Walls have ears." + +"Any chance here, Wingie?" + +"Well, it's a damn tough dump, this 'ere is; but there's many a star in +heaven, Aleck, an' you may have a lucky one. Hasn't been a get-a-way +here since Paddy McGraw sneaked over th' roof, that's--lemme see, six, +seven years ago, 'bout." + +"How did he do it?" I ask, breathlessly. + +"Jest Irish luck. They was finishin' the new block, you know. Paddy was +helpin' lay th' roof. When he got good an' ready, he jest goes to work +and slides down th' roof. Swiped stuff in the mat shop an' spliced a +rope together, see. They never got 'im, either." + +"Was he in stripes, Wingie?" + +"Sure he was. Only been in a few months." + +"How did he manage to get away in stripes? Wouldn't he be recognized as +an escaped prisoner?" + +"_That_ bother you, Aleck? Why, it's easy. Get planted till dark, then +hold up th' first bloke you see an' take 'is duds. Or you push in th' +back door of a rag joint; plenty of 'em in Allegheny." + +"Is there any chance now through the roof?" + +"Nit, my boy. Nothin' doin' _there_. But a feller's got to be alive. +Many ways to kill a cat, you know. Remember the stiff[25] you got in +them things, tow'l an' soap?" + + [25] Note. + +"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement. + +"Do I? He, he, you little--" + +The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disappears. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +TO THE GIRL + + + Direct to Box A 7, + Allegheny City, Pa., + November 18, 1892. + + My dear Sonya: + + It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month. + But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the + only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear, + affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the + cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager + expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the + morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand + shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the + little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will + flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the + little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is + long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the + warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly + to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into + your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air + grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again + with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The touch of + the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga, + our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the + _dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float + about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream over your + letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the + end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch + and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for + my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare + of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams. + + And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in + anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real + world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I + think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is + in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes + ... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing + along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows + meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does + not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But + the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a + letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error + might happen.... No, it is impossible--my name and prison + number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the + envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery. + Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell. + There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the + table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment. + Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner. + No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me + to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the + blankets.... No, there is no letter! + + * * * * * + + Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you + and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get + used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the + moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We + are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands, + though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end. + In that consciousness we must find our solace. + + ALEX. + + [26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river. + + [27] Folk-song. + + + _Sub rosa_, + Last Day of November, 1892. + + Beloved Girl: + + I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but + human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts, + all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to + look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that + has filled my days with strength and hope.... An embrace, a + lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine. + To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant + into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the + warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful + eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day + dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of + the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so + strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street + hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments! + But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with + exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face, + and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look + of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been + searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that + feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring + upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath + that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming + fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me + of the beast, hungry for prey.... The halo was dissipated. The + words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid + smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer, + and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about + us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death), + and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to + bury the dead.... But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my + agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips + upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and + then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld + seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The + drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of + torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned + suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all + misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and + place in the afflatus of martyrdom? + + Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the + prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment. + Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... What though the + cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and + forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth + could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain. + + The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on + my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom + reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were + suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was + locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of + the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly + dawned on me. The quick had left the dead.... Terror of the + reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish-- + + I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed + _sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has + befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of + which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually + mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow. + Remember to sign "Sister." + + With a passionate embrace, + + YOUR SASHA. + + [28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed + suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him + by a friend. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +PERSECUTION + + +I + +Suffering and ever-present danger are quick teachers. In the three +months of penitentiary life I have learned many things. I doubt whether +the vague terrors pictured by my inexperience were more dreadful than +the actuality of prison existence. + +In one respect, especially, the reality is a source of bitterness and +constant irritation. Notwithstanding all its terrors, perhaps because of +them, I had always thought of prison as a place where, in a measure, +nature comes into its own: social distinctions are abolished, artificial +barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's thoughts and emotions; one +could be his real self, shedding all hypocrisy and artifice at the +prison gates. But how different is this life! It is full of deceit, +sham, and pharisaism--an aggravated counterpart of the outside world. +The flatterer, the backbiter, the spy,--these find here a rich soil. The +ill-will of a guard portends disaster, to be averted only by truckling +and flattery, and servility fawns for the reward of an easier job. The +dissembling soul in stripes whines his conversion into the pleased ears +of the Christian ladies, taking care he be not surprised without tract +or Bible,--and presently simulated piety secures a pardon, for the +angels rejoice at the sinner's return to the fold. It sickens me to +witness these scenes. + +The officers make the alternative quickly apparent to the new inmate: to +protest against injustice is unavailing and dangerous. Yesterday I +witnessed in the shop a characteristic incident--a fight between Johnny +Davis and Jack Bradford, both recent arrivals and mere boys. Johnny, a +manly-looking fellow, works on a knitting machine, a few feet from my +table. Opposite him is Jack, whose previous experience in a reformatory +has "put him wise," as he expresses it. My three months' stay has taught +me the art of conversing by an almost imperceptible motion of the lips. +In this manner I learned from Johnny that Bradford is stealing his +product, causing him repeated punishment for shortage in the task. +Hoping to terminate the thefts, Johnny complained to the overseer, +though without accusing Jack. But the guard ignored the complaint, and +continued to report the youth. Finally Johnny was sent to the dungeon. +Yesterday morning he returned to work. The change in the rosy-cheeked +boy was startling: pale and hollow-eyed, he walked with a weak, halting +step. As he took his place at the machine, I heard him say to the +officer: + +"Mr. Cosson, please put me somewhere else." + +"Why so?" the guard asked. + +"I can't make the task here. I'll make it on another machine, please, +Mr. Cosson." + +"Why can't you make it here?" + +"I'm missing socks." + +"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again, +eh?" + +"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't. +But my socks's missing here." + +"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such +bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work +now, and you'd better make the task, understand?" + +Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen +pairs short. Bradford was "over." + +I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny. + +"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh? +Put your coat and cap on." + +Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the +inevitable sentence to the dungeon. + +"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God, +it isn't." + +"It ain't, eh? Whose fault is it; mine?" + +Johnny hesitated. His eyes sought the ground, then wandered toward +Bradford, who studiously avoided the look. + +"I can't squeal," he said, quietly. + +"Oh, hell! You ain't got nothin' to squeal. Get your coat and cap." + +Johnny passed the night in the dungeon. This morning he came up, his +cheeks more sunken, his eyes more hollow. With desperate energy he +worked. He toiled steadily, furiously, his gaze fastened upon the +growing pile of hosiery. Occasionally he shot a glance at Bradford, who, +confident of the officer's favor, met the look of hatred with a sly +winking of the left eye. + +Once Johnny, without pausing in the work, slightly turned his head in my +direction. I smiled encouragingly, and at that same instant I saw Jack's +hand slip across the table and quickly snatch a handful of Johnny's +stockings. The next moment a piercing shriek threw the shop into +commotion. With difficulty they tore away the infuriated boy from the +prostrate Bradford. Both prisoners were taken to the Deputy for trial, +with Senior Officer Cosson as the sole witness. + +Impatiently I awaited the result. Through the open window I saw the +overseer return. He entered the shop, a smile about the corners of his +mouth. I resolved to speak to him when he passed by. + +"Mr. Cosson," I said, with simulated respectfulness, "may I ask you a +question?" + +"Why, certainly, Burk, I won't eat you. Fire away!" + +"What have they done with the boys?" + +"Johnny got ten days in the hole. Pretty stiff, eh? You see, he started +the fight, so he won't have to make the task. Oh, I'm next to _him_ all +right. They can't fool me so easy, can they, Burk?" + +"Well, I should say not, Mr. Cosson. Did you see how the fight started?" + +"No. But Johnny admitted he struck Bradford first. That's enough, you +know. 'Brad' will be back in the shop to-morrow. I got 'im off easy, +see; he's a good worker, always makes more than th' task. He'll jest +lose his supper. Guess he can stand it. Ain't much to lose, is there, +Burk?" + +"No, not much," I assented. "But, Mr. Cosson, it was all Bradford's +fault." + +"How so?" the guard demanded. + +"He has been stealing Johnny's socks." + +"You didn't see him do 't." + +"Yes, Mr. Cosson. I saw him this--" + +"Look here, Burk. It's all right. Johnny is no good anyway; he's too +fresh. You'd better say nothing about it, see? My word goes with the +Deputy." + + * * * * * + +The terrible injustice preys on my mind. Poor Johnny is already the +fourth day in the dreaded dungeon. His third time, too, and yet +absolutely innocent. My blood boils at the thought of the damnable +treatment and the officer's perfidy. It is my duty as a revolutionist +to take the part of the persecuted. Yes, I will do so. But how proceed +in the matter? Complaint against Mr. Cosson would in all likelihood +prove futile. And the officer, informed of my action, will make life +miserable for me: his authority in the shop is absolute. + +The several plans I revolve in my mind do not prove, upon closer +examination, feasible. Considerations of personal interest struggle +against my sense of duty. The vision of Johnny in the dungeon, his +vacant machine, and Bradford's smile of triumph, keep the accusing +conscience awake, till silence grows unbearable. I determine to speak +to the Deputy Warden at the first opportunity. + +Several days pass. Often I am assailed by doubts: is it advisable to +mention the matter to the Deputy? It cannot benefit Johnny; it will +involve me in trouble. But the next moment I feel ashamed of my +weakness. I call to mind the much-admired hero of my youth, the +celebrated Mishkin. With an overpowering sense of my own unworthiness, I +review the brave deeds of Hippolyte Nikitich. What a man! Single-handed +he essayed to liberate Chernishevsky from prison. Ah, the curse of +poverty! But for that, Mishkin would have succeeded, and the great +inspirer of the youth of Russia would have been given back to the world. +I dwell on the details of the almost successful escape, Mishkin's fight +with the pursuing Cossacks, his arrest, and his remarkable speech in +court. Sentenced to ten years of hard labor in the Siberian mines, he +defied the Russian tyrant by his funeral oration at the grave of +Dmokhovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen years of +_katorga_.[29] Minutely I follow his repeated attempts to escape, the +transfer of the redoubtable prisoner to the Petropavloskaia fortress, +and thence to the terrible Schluesselburg prison, where Mishkin braved +death by avenging the maltreatment of his comrades on a high government +official. Ah! thus acts the revolutionist; and I--yes, I am decided. No +danger shall seal my lips against outrage and injustice. + + [29] Hard labor in the mines. + + * * * * * + +At last an opportunity is at hand. The Deputy enters the shop. Tall and +gray, slightly stooping, with head carried forward, he resembles a wolf +following the trail. + +"Mr. McPane, one moment, please." + +"Yes." + +"I think Johnny Davis is being punished innocently." + +"You think, hm, hm. And who is this innocent Johnny, hm, Davis?" + +His fingers drum impatiently on the table; he measures me with mocking, +suspicious eyes. + +"Machine thirty, Deputy." + +"Ah, yes; machine thirty; hm, hm, Reddy Davis. Hm, he had a fight." + +"The other man stole his stockings. I saw it, Mr. McPane." + +"So, so. And why, hm, hm, did you see it, my good man? You confess, +then, hm, hm, you were not, hm, attending to your own work. That is bad, +hm, very bad. Mr. Cosson!" + +The guard hastens to him. + +"Mr. Cosson, this man has made a, hm, hm, a charge against you. +Prisoner, don't interrupt me. Hm, what is your number?" + +"A 7." + +"Mr. Cosson, A 7 makes a, hm, complaint against the officer, hm, in +charge of this shop. Please, hm, hm, note it down." + +Both draw aside, conversing in low tones. The words "kicker," "his kid," +reach my ears. The Deputy nods at the overseer, his steely eyes fastened +on me in hatred. + + +II + +I feel helpless, friendless. The consolation of Wingie's cheerful spirit +is missing. My poor friend is in trouble. From snatches of conversation +in the shop I have pieced together the story. "Dutch" Adams, a +third-timer and the Deputy's favorite stool pigeon, had lost his month's +allowance of tobacco on a prize-fight bet. He demanded that Wingie, who +was stakeholder, share the spoils with him. Infuriated by refusal, +"Dutch" reported my friend for gambling. The unexpected search of +Wingie's cell discovered the tobacco, thus apparently substantiating the +charge. Wingie was sent to the dungeon. But after the expiration of five +days my friend failed to return to his old cell, and I soon learned that +he had been ordered into solitary confinement for refusing to betray the +men who had trusted him. + +The fate of Wingie preys on my mind. My poor kind friend is breaking +down under the effects of the dreadful sentence. This morning, chancing +to pass his cell, I hailed him, but he did not respond to my greeting. +Perhaps he did not hear me, I thought. Impatiently I waited for the noon +return to the block. "Hello, Wingie!" I called. He stood at the door, +intently peering between the bars. He stared at me coldly, with blank, +expressionless eyes. "Who are you?" he whimpered, brokenly. Then he +began to babble. Suddenly the terrible truth dawned on me. My poor, poor +friend, the first to speak a kind word to me,--he's gone mad! + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE YEGG + + +I + +Weeks and months pass without clarifying plans of escape. Every step, +every movement, is so closely guarded, I seem to be hoping against hope. +I am restive and nervous, in a constant state of excitement. + +Conditions in the shop tend to aggravate my frame of mind. The task of +the machine men has been increased; in consequence, I am falling behind +in my work. My repeated requests for assistance have been ignored by the +overseer, who improves every opportunity to insult and humiliate me. His +feet wide apart, arms akimbo, belly disgustingly protruding, he measures +me with narrow, fat eyes. "Oh, what's the matter with you," he drawls, +"get a move on, won't you, Burk?" Then, changing his tone, he +vociferates, "Don't stand there like a fool, d'ye hear? Nex' time I +report you, to th' hole you go. That's _me_ talkin', understand?" + +Often I feel the spirit of Cain stirring within me. But for the hope of +escape, I should not be able to bear this abuse and persecution. As it +is, the guard is almost overstepping the limits of my endurance. His low +cunning invents numerous occasions to mortify and harass me. The +ceaseless dropping of the poison is making my days in the shop a +constant torture. I seek relief--forgetfulness rather--in absorbing +myself in the work: I bend my energies to outdo the efforts of the +previous day; I compete with myself, and find melancholy pleasure in +establishing and breaking high records for "turning." Again, I tax my +ingenuity to perfect means of communication with Johnny Davis, my young +neighbor. Apparently intent upon our task, we carry on a silent +conversation with eyes, fingers, and an occasional motion of the lips. +To facilitate the latter method, I am cultivating the habit of tobacco +chewing. The practice also affords greater opportunity for exchanging +impressions with my newly-acquired assistant, an old-timer, who +introduced himself as "Boston Red." I owe this development to the return +of the Warden from his vacation. Yesterday he visited the shop. A +military-looking man, with benevolent white beard and stately carriage, +he approached me, in company with the Superintendent of Prison +Manufactures. + +"Is this the celebrated prisoner?" he asked, a faint smile about the +rather coarse mouth. + +"Yes, Captain, that's Berkman, the man who shot Frick." + +"I was in Naples at the time. I read about you in the English papers +there, Berkman. How is his conduct, Superintendent?" + +"Good." + +"Well, he should have behaved outside." + +But noticing the mountain of unturned hosiery, the Warden ordered the +overseer to give me help, and thus "Boston Red" joined me at work the +next day. + + * * * * * + +My assistant is taking great pleasure in perfecting me in the art of +lipless conversation. A large quid of tobacco inflating his left cheek, +mouth slightly open and curved, he delights in recounting "ghost +stories," under the very eyes of the officers. "Red" is initiating me +into the world of "de road," with its free life, so full of interest +and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows. An interesting character, +indeed, who facetiously pretends to "look down upon the world from the +sublime heights of applied cynicism." + +"Why, Red, you can talk good English," I admonish him. "Why do you use +so much slang? It's rather difficult for me to follow you." + +"I'll learn you, pard. See, I should have said 'teach' you, not 'learn.' +That's how they talk in school. Have I been there? Sure, boy. Gone +through college. Went through it with a bucket of coal," he amplifies, +with a sly wink. He turns to expectorate, sweeping the large shop with a +quick, watchful eye. Head bent over the work, he continues in low, +guttural tones: + +"Don't care for your classic language. I can use it all right, all +right. But give me the lingo, every time. You see, pard, I'm no gun;[30] +don't need it in me biz. I'm a yegg." + + [30] Professional thief. + +"What's a yegg, Red?" + +"A supercilious world of cheerful idiots applies to my kind the term +'tramp.'" + +"A yegg, then, is a tramp. I am surprised that you should care for the +life of a bum." + +A flush suffuses the prison pallor of the assistant. "You are stoopid as +the rest of 'em," he retorts, with considerable heat, and I notice his +lips move as in ordinary conversation. But in a moment he has regained +composure, and a good-humored twinkle plays about his eyes. + +"Sir," he continues, with mock dignity, "to say the least, you are not +discriminative in your terminology. No, sir, you are not. Now, lookee +here, pard, you're a good boy, but your education has been sadly +neglected. Catch on? Don't call me that name again. It's offensive. +It's an insult, entirely gratuitous, sir. Indeed, sir, I may say without +fear of contradiction, that this insult is quite supervacaneous. Yes, +sir, that's _me_. I ain't no bum, see; no such damn thing. Eliminate the +disgraceful epithet from your vocabulary, sir, when you are addressing +yours truly. I am a yagg, y--a--double g, sir, of the honorable clan of +yaggmen. Some spell it y--e--double g, but I insist on the a, sir, as +grammatically more correct, since the peerless word has no etymologic +consanguinity with hen fruit, and should not be confounded by vulgar +misspelling." + +"What's the difference between a yegg and a bum?" + +"All the diff in the world, pard. A bum is a low-down city bloke, whose +intellectual horizon, sir, revolves around the back door, with a skinny +hand-out as his center of gravity. He hasn't the nerve to forsake his +native heath and roam the wide world, a free and independent gentleman. +That's the yagg, me bye. He dares to be and do, all bulls +notwithstanding. He lives, aye, he lives,--on the world of suckers, +thank you, sir. Of them 'tis wisely said in the good Book, 'They shall +increase and multiply like the sands of the seashore,' or words to that +significant effect. A yagg's the salt of the earth, pard. A real, +true-blood yagg will not deign to breathe the identical atmosphere with +a city bum or gaycat. No, sirree." + +I am about to ask for an explanation of the new term, when the quick, +short coughs of "Red" warn me of danger. The guard is approaching with +heavy, measured tread, head thrown back, hands clasped behind,--a sure +indication of profound self-satisfaction. + +"How are you, Reddie?" he greets the assistant. + +"So, so." + +"Ain't been out long, have you?" + +"Two an' some." + +"That's pretty long for you." + +"Oh, I dunno. I've been out four years oncet." + +"Yes, you have! Been in Columbus[31] then, I s'pose." + + [31] The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio. + +"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It was Sing Sing." + +"Ha, ha! You're all right, Red. But you'd better hustle up, fellers. I'm +putting in ten more machines, so look lively." + +"When's the machines comin', Mr. Cosson?" + +"Pretty soon, Red." + +The officer passing on, "Red" whispers to me: + +"Aleck, 'pretty soon' is jest the time I'll quit. Damn his work and the +new machines. I ain't no gaycat to work. Think I'm a nigger, eh? No, +sir, the world owes me a living, and I generally manage to get it, you +bet you. Only mules and niggers work. I'm a free man; I can live on my +wits, see? I don't never work outside; damme if I'll work here. I ain't +no office-seeker. What d' I want to work for, eh? Can you tell me +_that_?" + +"Are you going to refuse work?" + +"Refuse? Me? Nixie. That's a crude word, that. No, sir, I never refuse. +They'll knock your damn block off, if you refuse. I merely avoid, sir, +discriminately end with steadfast purpose. Work is a disease, me bye. +One must exercise the utmost care to avoid contagion. It's a regular +pest. _You_ never worked, did you?" + +The unexpected turn surprises me into a smile, which I quickly suppress, +however, observing the angry frown on "Red's" face. + +"You bloke," he hisses, "shut your face; the screw'll pipe you. You'll +get us in th' hole for chewin' th' rag. Whatcher hehawin' about?" he +demands, repeating the manoeuvre of pretended expectoration. "D'ye mean +t' tell me you work?" + +"I am a printer, a compositor," I inform him. + +"Get off! You're an Anarchist. I read the papers, sir. You people don't +believe in work. You want to divvy up. Well, it is all right, I'm with +you. Rockefeller has no right to the whole world. He ain't satisfied +with that, either; he wants a fence around it." + +"The Anarchists don't want to 'divvy up,' Red. You got your +misinformation--" + +"Oh, never min', pard. I don' take stock in reforming the world. It's +good enough for suckers, and as Holy Writ says, sir, 'Blessed be they +that neither sow nor hog; all things shall be given unto them.' Them's +wise words, me bye. Moreover, sir, neither you nor me will live to see a +change, so why should I worry me nut about 't? It takes all my wits to +dodge work. It's disgraceful to labor, and it keeps me industriously +busy, sir, to retain my honor and self-respect. Why, you know, pard, or +perhaps you don't, greenie, Columbus is a pretty tough dump; but d'ye +think I worked the four-spot there? Not me; no, sirree!" + +"Didn't you tell Cosson you were in Sing Sing, not in Columbus?" + +"'Corse I did. What of it? Think I'd open my guts to my Lord Bighead? +I've never been within thirty miles of the York pen. It was Hail +Columbia all right, but that's between you an' I, savvy. Don' want th' +screws to get next." + +"Well, Red, how did you manage to keep away from work in Columbus?" + +"Manage? That's right, sir. 'Tis a word of profound significance, quite +adequately descriptive of my humble endeavors. Just what I did, buddy. I +managed, with a capital M. To good purpose, too, me bye. Not a stroke +of work in a four-spot. How? I had Billie with me, that's me kid, you +know, an' a fine boy he was, too. I had him put a jigger on me; kept it +up for four years. There's perseverance and industry for you, sir." + +"What's 'putting a jigger on'?" + +"A jigger? Well, a jigger is--" + +The noon whistle interrupts the explanation. With a friendly wink in my +direction, the assistant takes his place in the line. In silence we +march to the cell-house, the measured footfall echoing a hollow threat +in the walled quadrangle of the prison yard. + + +II + +Conversation with "Boston Red," Young Davis, and occasional other +prisoners helps to while away the tedious hours at work. But in the +solitude of the cell, through the long winter evenings, my mind dwells +in the outside world. Friends, the movement, the growing antagonisms, +the bitter controversies between the _Mostianer_ and the defenders of my +act, fill my thoughts and dreams. By means of fictitious, but +significant, names, Russian and German words written backward, and +similar devices, the Girl keeps me informed of the activities in our +circles. I think admiringly, yet quite impersonally, of her strenuous +militancy in championing my cause against all attacks. It is almost weak +on my part, as a terrorist of Russian traditions, to consider her +devotion deserving of particular commendation. She is a revolutionist; +it is her duty to our common Cause. Courage, whole-souled zeal, is very +rare, it is true. The Girl. Fedya, and a few others,--hence the sad lack +of general opposition in the movement to Most's attitude.... But +communications from comrades and unknown sympathizers germinate the +hope of an approaching reaction against the campaign of denunciation. +With great joy I trace the ascending revolutionary tendency in _Der Arme +Teufel_. I have persuaded the Chaplain to procure the admission of the +ingenious Robert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals +addressed to me are regularly assigned to the waste basket, by orders of +the Deputy. The latter refused to make an exception even in regard to +the _Knights of Labor Journal_. "It is an incendiary Anarchist sheet," +he persisted. + + * * * * * + +The arrival of the _Teufel_ is a great event. What joy to catch sight of +the paper snugly reposing between the legs of the cell table! Tenderly I +pick it up, fondling the little visitor with quickened pulse. It is an +animate, living thing, a ray of warmth in the dreary evenings. What +cheering message does Reitzel bring me now? What beauties of his rich +mind are hidden to-day in the quaint German type? Reverently I unfold +the roll. The uncut sheet opens on the fourth page, and the stirring +paean of Hope's prophecy greets my eye,-- + + Gruss an Alexander Berkman! + +For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears. Again and again recurs +the refrain of faith and proud courage, + + Schon ruestet sich der freiheit Schaar + Zur heiligen Entscheidungschlacht; + Es enden "zweiundzwanzig" Jahr' + Vielleicht in e i n e r Sturmesnacht! + +But in the evening, when I return to the cell, reality lays its heavy +hand upon my heart. The flickering of the candle accentuates the gloom, +and I sit brooding over the interminable succession of miserable days +and evenings and nights.... The darkness gathers around the candle, as +I motionlessly watch its desperate struggle to be. Its dying agony, +ineffectual and vain, presages my own doom, approaching, inevitable. +Weaker and fainter grows the light, feebler, feebler--a last spasm, and +all is utter blackness. + +Three bells. "Lights out!" + +Alas, mine did not last its permitted hour.... + + * * * * * + +The sun streaming into the many-windowed shop routs the night, and +dispels the haze of the fire-spitting city. Perhaps my little candle +with its bold defiance has shortened the reign of darkness,--who knows? +Perhaps the brave, uneven struggle coaxed the sun out of his slumbers, +and hastened the coming of Day. The fancy lures me with its warming +embrace, when suddenly the assistant startles me: + +"Say, pard, slept bad last night? You look boozy, me lad." + +Surprised at my silence, he admonishes me: + +"Young man, keep a stiff upper lip. Just look at me! Permit me to +introduce to you, sir, a gentleman who has sounded the sharps and flats +of life, and faced the most intricate network, sir, of iron bars between +York and Frisco. Always acquitted himself with flying colors, sir, +merely by being wise and preserving a stiff upper lip; see th' point?" + +"What are you driving at, Red?" + +"They'se goin' to move me down on your row,[32] now that I'm in this +'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall choose to remain, sir, in this +magnificent hosiery establishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next +yours, an' I'm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye? I'm +goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to speak, assume +benevolent guardianship over you; over you and your morals, yes, sir, +for you're my kid now, see?" + + [32] Gallery. + +"How, your kid?" + +"How? My kid, of course. That's just what I mean. Any objections, sir, +as the learned gentlemen of the law say in the honorable courts of the +blind goddess. You betcher life she's blind, blind as an owl on a sunny +midsummer day. Not in your damn smoky city, though; sun's ashamed here. +But 'way down in my Kentucky home, down by the Suanee River, +Sua-a-nee-ee Riv--" + +"Hold on, Red. You are romancing. You started to tell me about being +your 'kid'. Now explain, what do you mean by it?" + +"Really, you--" He holds the unturned stocking suspended over the post, +gazing at me with half-closed, cynical eyes, in which doubt struggles +with wonder. In his astonishment he has forgotten his wonted caution, +and I warn him of the officer's watchful eye. + +"Really, Alex; well, now, damme, I've seen something of this 'ere round +globe, some mighty strange sights, too, and there ain't many things to +surprise me, lemme tell you. But _you_ do, Alex; yes, me lad, you do. +Haven't had such a stunnin' blow since I first met Cigarette Jimmie in +Oil City. Innocent? Well, I should snicker. He was, for sure. Never +heard a ghost story; was fourteen, too. Well, I got 'im all right, ah +right. Now he's doin' a five-bit down in Kansas, poor kiddie. Well, he +certainly was a surprise. But many tempestuous billows of life, sir, +have since flown into the shoreless ocean of time, yes, sir, they have, +but I never got such a stunner as you just gave me. Why, man, it's a +body-blow, a reg'lar knockout to my knowledge of the world, sir, to my +settled estimate of the world's supercilious righteousness. Well, +damme, if I'd ever believe it. Say, how old are you, Alex?" + +"I'm over twenty-two, Red. But what has all this to do with the question +I asked you?" + +"Everythin', me bye, everythin'. You're twenty-two and don't know what a +kid is! Well, if it don't beat raw eggs, I don't know what does. Green? +Well, sir, it would be hard to find an adequate analogy to your +inconsistent immaturity of mind; aye, sir, I may well say, of soul, +except to compare it with the virtuous condition of green corn in the +early summer moon. You know what 'moon' is, don't you?" he asks, +abruptly, with an evident effort to suppress a smile. + +I am growing impatient of his continuous avoidance of a direct answer. +Yet I cannot find it in my heart to be angry with him; the face +expressive of a deep-felt conviction of universal wisdom, the eyes of +humorous cynicism, and the ludicrous manner of mixing tramp slang with +"classic" English, all disarm my irritation. Besides, his droll chatter +helps to while away the tedious hours at work; perhaps I may also glean +from this experienced old-timer some useful information regarding my +plans of escape. + +"Well, d'ye know a moon when you see 't?" "Red" inquires, chaffingly. + +"I suppose I do." + +"I'll bet you my corn dodger you don't. Sir, I can see by the tip of +your olfactory organ that you are steeped in the slough of densest +ignorance concerning the supreme science of moonology. Yes, sir, do not +contradict me. I brook no sceptical attitude regarding my undoubted and +proven perspicacity of human nature. How's that for classic style, eh? +That'll hold you down a moment, kid. As I was about to say when you +interrupted--eh, what? You didn't? Oh, what's the matter with you? +Don't yer go now an' rooin the elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus +with an insignificant interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now, +boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonology before your +wondering gaze. To begin with, sir, moonology is an exclusively +aristocratic science. Not for the pretenders of Broad Street and Fifth +Avenue. Nixie. But for the only genuine aristocracy of de road, sir, for +the pink of humankind, for the yaggman, me lad, for yours truly and his +clan. Yes, sirree!" + +"I don't know what you are talking about." + +"I know you don't. That's why I'm goin' to chaperon you, kid. In plain +English, sir, I shall endeavor to generate within your postliminious +comprehension a discriminate conception of the subject at issue, sir, by +divesting my lingo of the least shadow of imperspicuity or ambiguity. +Moonology, my Marktwainian Innocent, is the truly Christian science of +loving your neighbor, provided he be a nice little boy. Understand now?" + +"How can you love a boy?" + +"Are you really so dumb? You are not a ref boy, I can see that." + +"Red, if you'd drop your stilted language and talk plainly, I'd +understand better." + +"Thought you liked the classic. But you ain't long on lingo neither. How +can a self-respecting gentleman explain himself to you? But I'll try. +You love a boy as you love the poet-sung heifer, see? Ever read Billy +Shakespeare? Know the place, 'He's neither man nor woman; he's punk.' +Well, Billy knew. A punk's a boy that'll...." + +"What!" + +"Yes, sir. Give himself to a man. Now we'se talkin' plain. Savvy now, +Innocent Abroad?" + +"I don't believe what you are telling me, Red." + +"You don't be-lie-ve? What th' devil--damn me soul t' hell, what d' you +mean, you don't b'lieve? Gee, look out!" + +The look of bewilderment on his face startles me. In his excitement, he +had raised his voice almost to a shout, attracting the attention of the +guard, who is now hastening toward us. + +"Who's talkin' here?" he demands, suspiciously eyeing the knitters. +"You, Davis?" + +"No, sir." + +"Who was, then?" + +"Nobody here, Mr. Cosson." + +"Yes, they was. I heard hollerin'." + +"Oh, that was me," Davis replies, with a quick glance at me. "I hit my +elbow against the machine." + +"Let me see 't." + +The guard scrutinizes the bared arm. + +"Wa-a-ll," he says, doubtfully, "it don't look sore." + +"It hurt, and I hollered." + +The officer turns to my assistant: "Has he been talkin', Reddie?" + +"I don't think he was, Cap'n." + +Pleased with the title, Cosson smiles at "Red," and passes on, with a +final warning to the boy: "Don't you let me catch you at it again, you +hear!" + + * * * * * + +During the rest of the day the overseers exercise particular vigilance +over our end of the shop. But emboldened by the increased din of the new +knitting machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again. + +"Screws can't hear us now," he whispers, "'cept they's close to us. But +watch your lips, boy; the damn bulls got sharp lamps. An' don' scare me +again like that. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb forget +myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't he? What's his name, +Johnny Davis? Yes, a wise kid all right. Just like me own Billie I tole +you 'bout. He was no punk, either, an' don't you forget it. True as +steel, he was; stuck to me through my four-spot like th' bark to a tree. +Say, what's that you said, you don't believe what I endeavored so +conscientiously, sir, to drive into your noodle? You was only kiddin' +me, wasn't you?" + +"No, Red, I meant it quite seriously. You're spinning ghost stories, or +whatever you call it. I don't believe in this kid love." + +"An' why don't you believe it?" + +"Why--er--well, I don't think it possible." + +"_What_ isn't possible?" + +"You know what I mean. I don't think there can be such intimacy between +those of the same sex." + +"Ho, ho! _That's_ your point? Why, Alex, you're more of a damfool than +the casual observer, sir, would be apt to postulate. You don't believe +it possible, you don't, eh? Well, you jest gimme half a chance, an I'll +show you." + +"Red, don't you talk to me like that," I burst out, angrily. "If you--" + +"Aisy, aisy, me bye," he interrupts, good-naturedly. "Don't get on your +high horse. No harm meant, Alex. You're a good boy, but you jest rattle +me with your crazy talk. Why, you're bugs to say it's impossible. Man +alive, the dump's chuckful of punks. It's done in every prison, an' on +th' road, everywhere. Lord, if I had a plunk for every time I got th' +best of a kid, I'd rival Rockefeller, sir; I would, me bye." + +"You actually confess to such terrible practices? You're disgusting. But +I don't really believe it, Red." + +"Confess hell! I confess nothin'. Terrible, disgusting! You talk like a +man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot." + +"Are there no women on the road?" + +"Pshaw! Who cares for a heifer when you can get a kid? Women are no +good. I wouldn't look at 'em when I can have my prushun.[33] Oh, it is +quite evident, sir, you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of +moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the forbidden tree of--" + + [33] A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp. + +"Oh, quit!" + +"Well, you'll know better before _your_ time's up, me virtuous sonny." + + * * * * * + +For several days my assistant fails to appear in the shop on account of +illness. He has been "excused" by the doctor, the guard informs me. +I miss his help at work; the hours drag heavier for lack of "Red's" +companionship. Yet I am gratified by his absence. His cynical attitude +toward woman and sex morality has roused in me a spirit of antagonism. +The panegyrics of boy-love are deeply offensive to my instincts. The +very thought of the unnatural practice revolts and disgusts me. But +I find solace in the reflection that "Red's" insinuations are pure +fabrication; no credence is to be given them. Man, a reasonable being, +could not fall to such depths; he could not be guilty of such +unspeakably vicious practices. Even the lowest outcast must not be +credited with such perversion, such depravity. I should really take the +matter more calmly. The assistant is a queer fellow; he is merely +teasing me. These things are not credible; indeed, I don't believe they +are possible. And even if they were, no human being would be capable of +such iniquity. I must not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE ROUTE SUB ROSA + + + March 4, 1893. + + GIRL AND TWIN: + + I am writing with despair in my heart. I was taken to Pittsburgh + as a witness in the trial of Nold and Bauer. I had hoped for an + opportunity--you understand, friends. It was a slender thread, + but I clung to it desperately, prepared to stake everything on + it. It proved a broken straw. Now I am back, and I may never + leave this place alive. + + I was bitterly disappointed not to find you in the courtroom. I + yearned for the sight of your faces. But you were not there, nor + any one else of our New York comrades. I knew what it meant: you + are having a hard struggle to exist. Otherwise perhaps something + could be done to establish friendly relations between Rakhmetov + and Mr. Gebop.[34] It would require an outlay beyond the + resources of our own circle; others cannot be approached in this + matter. Nothing remains but the "inside" developments,--a + terribly slow process. + + This is all the hope I can hold out to you, dear friends. You + will think it quite negligible; yet it is the sole ray that has + again and again kindled life in moments of utmost darkness.... I + did not realize the physical effects of my stay here (it is five + months now) till my return from court. I suppose the excitement + of being on the outside galvanized me for the nonce.... My head + was awhirl; I could not collect my thoughts. The wild hope + possessed me,--_pobeg_! The click of the steel, as I was + handcuffed to the Deputy, struck my death-knell.... The + unaccustomed noise of the streets, the people and loud voices in + the courtroom, the scenes of the trial, all absorbed me in the + moment. It seemed to me as if I were a spectator, interested, + but personally unconcerned, in the surroundings; and these, + too, were far away, of a strange world in which I had no part. + Only when I found myself alone in the cell, the full + significance of the lost occasion was borne in upon me with + crushing force. + + But why sadden you? There is perhaps a cheerier side, now that + Nold and Bauer are here. I have not seen them yet, but their + very presence, the circumstance that somewhere within these + walls there are _comrades_, men who, like myself, suffer for an + ideal--the thought holds a deep satisfaction for me. It brings + me closer, in a measure, to the environment of political + prisoners in Europe. Whatever the misery and torture of their + daily existence, the politicals--even in Siberia--breathe the + atmosphere of solidarity, of appreciation. What courage and + strength there must be for them in the inspiration radiated by a + common cause! Conditions here are entirely different. Both + inmates and officers are at loss to "class" me. They have never + known political prisoners. That one should sacrifice or risk his + life with no apparent personal motives, is beyond their + comprehension, almost beyond their belief. It is a desert of + sordidness that constantly threatens to engulf one. I would + gladly exchange places with our comrades in Siberia. + + The former _podpoilnaya_[35] was suspended, because of the great + misfortune that befell my friend Wingie, of whom I wrote to you + before. This dove will be flown by Mr. Tiuremshchick,[36] an old + soldier who really sympathizes with Wingie. I believe they + served in the same regiment. He is a kindly man, who hates his + despicable work. But there is a family at home, a sick wife--you + know the old, weak-kneed tale. I had a hint from him the other + day: he is being spied upon; it is dangerous for him to be seen + at my cell, and so forth. It is all quite true; but what he + means is, that a little money would be welcome. You know how to + manage the matter. Leave no traces. + + I hear the felt-soled step. It's the soldier. I bid my birdie a + hasty good-bye. + + SASHA. + + [34] Reading backward, _pobeg_; Russian for "escape." + + [35] _Sub rosa_ route. + + [36] Russian for "guard." + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" + + +I + +A dense fog rises from the broad bosom of the Ohio. It ensnares the +river banks in its mysterious embrace, veils tree and rock with sombre +mist, and mocks the sun with angry frown. Within the House of Death is +felt the chilling breath, and all is quiet and silent in the iron cages. + +Only an occasional knocking, as on metal, disturbs the stillness. I +listen intently. Nearer and more audible seem the sounds, hesitating and +apparently intentional I am involuntarily reminded of the methods of +communication practiced by Russian politicals, and I strive to detect +some meaning in the tapping. It grows clearer as I approach the back +wall of the cell, and instantly I am aware of a faint murmur in the +privy. Is it fancy, or did I hear my name? + +"Halloa!" I call into the pipe. + +The knocking ceases abruptly. I hear a suppressed, hollow voice: "That +you, Aleck?" + +"Yes. Who is it?" + +"Never min'. You must be deaf not to hear me callin' you all this time. +Take that cott'n out o' your ears." + +"I didn't know you could talk this way." + +"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty pipes, no standin' water, +see? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit to--" + +The words are lost in the gurgle of rushing water. Presently the flow +subsides, and the knocking is resumed. I bend over the privy. + +"Hello, hello! That you, Aleck?" + +"Git off that line, ye jabberin' idiot!" some one shouts into the pipe. + +"Lay down, there!" + +"Take that trap out o' the hole." + +"Quit your foolin', Horsethief." + +"Hey, boys, stop that now. That's me, fellers. It's Bob, Horsethief Bob. +I'm talkin' business. Keep quiet now, will you? Are you there, Aleck? +Yes? Well, pay no 'tention to them dubs. 'Twas that crazy Southside Slim +that turned th' water on--" + +"Who you call crazy, damn you," a voice interrupts. + +"Oh, lay down, Slim, will you? Who said you was crazy? Nay, nay, you're +bugs. Hey, Aleck, you there?" + +"Yes, Bob." + +"Oh, got me name, have you? Yes, I'm Bob, Horsethief Bob. Make no +mistake when you see me; I'm Big Bob, the Horsethief. Can you hear me? +It's you, Aleck?" + +"Yes, yes." + +"Sure it's you? Got t' tell you somethin'. What's your number?" + +"A 7." + +"Right you are. What cell?" + +"6 K." + +"An' this is me, Big Bob, in--" + +"Windbag Bob," a heavy bass comments from above. + +"Shut up, Curley, I'm on th' line. I'm in 6 F, Aleck, top tier. Call me +up any time I'm in, ha, ha! You see, pipe's runnin' up an' down, an' you +can talk to any range you want, but always to th' same cell as you're +in, Cell 6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, to Shorty, +you know--" + +"I don't want to talk to Shorty. I don't know him, Bob." + +"Yes, you do. You list'n what I tell you, Aleck, an' you'll be all +right. That's me talkin', Big Bob, see? Now, I say if you'd like t' chew +th' rag with Shorty, you jest tell me. Tell Brother Bob, an' he'll +connect you all right. Are you on? Know who's Shorty?" + +"No." + +"Yo oughter. That's Carl, Carl Nold. Know _him_, don't you?" + +"What!" I cry in astonishment. "Is it true, Bob? Is Nold up there on +your gallery?" + +"Sure thing. Cell 14." + +"Why didn't you say so at once? You've been talking ten minutes now. Did +you see him?" + +"What's your hurry, Aleck? _You_ can't see 'im; not jest now, anyway. +P'r'aps bimeby, mebbe. There's no hurry, Aleck. _You_ got plenty o' +time. A few years, _rather_, ha, ha, ha!" + +"Hey, there, Horsethief, quit that!" I recognize "Curley's" deep bass. +"What do you want to make the kid feel bad for?" + +"No harm meant, Curley," Bob returns, "I was jest joshin' him a bit." + +"Well, quit it." + +"You don' min' it, Aleck, do you?" I hear Bob again, his tones softened, +"I didn' mean t' hurt your feelin's. I'm your friend, Aleck, you can bet +your corn dodger on that. Say, I've got somethin' for you from Shorty, I +mean Carl, you savvy?" + +"What have you, Bob?" + +"Nixie through th' hole, ain't safe. I'm coffee-boy on this 'ere range. +I'll sneak around to you in the mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of +bootleg. Now, jiggaroo,[37] screw's comin'." + + [37] Look out. + + +II + +The presence of my comrades is investing existence with interest and +meaning. It has brought to me a breeze from the atmosphere of my former +environment; it is stirring the graves, where lie my soul's dead, into +renewed life and hope. + +The secret exchange of notes lends color to the routine. It is like a +fresh mountain streamlet joyfully rippling through a stagnant swamp. At +work in the shop, my thoughts are engrossed with our correspondence. +Again and again I review the arguments elucidating to my comrades the +significance of my _Attentat_: they, too, are inclined to exaggerate the +importance of the purely physical result. The exchange of views +gradually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaintance into +closer intimacy. There is something in Carl Nold that especially +attracts me: I sense in him a congenial spirit. His spontaneous +frankness appeals to me; my heart echoes his grief at the realization of +Most's unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antagonism of Bauer +is irritating. It reflects his desperate clinging to the shattered idol. +Presently, however, a better understanding begins to manifest itself. +The big, jovial German has earned my respect; he braved the anger of the +judge by consistently refusing to betray the man who aided him in the +distribution of the Anarchist leaflet among the Homestead workers. On +the other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts on the +witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity in my act. Their +condemnation, as acknowledged Anarchists, was, of course, a foregone +conclusion, and I am gratified to learn that neither of my comrades had +entertained any illusions concerning the fate that awaited them. Indeed, +both have expressed surprise that the maximum revenge of the law was not +visited upon them. Their philosophical attitude exerts a soothing effect +upon me. Carl even voices satisfaction that the sentence of five years +will afford him a long-needed vacation from many years of ceaseless +factory toil. He is facetiously anxious lest capitalist industry be +handicapped by the loss of such a splendid carpenter as Henry, whom he +good-naturedly chaffs on the separation from his newly affianced. + + * * * * * + +The evening hours have ceased to drag: there is pleasure and diversion +in the correspondence. The notes have grown into bulky letters, daily +cementing our friendship. We compare views, exchange impressions, and +discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of the movement in the twin +cities, the personnel of Anarchist circles, and collect a fund of +anecdotes about Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose diminutive +shop in Allegheny is the center of the radical _inteligenzia_. With deep +contrition Bauer confesses how narrowly he escaped the role of my +executioner. My unexpected appearance in their midst, at the height of +the Homestead struggle, had waked suspicion among the Allegheny +comrades. They sent an inquiry to Most, whose reply proved a warning +against me. Unknown to me, Bauer shared the room I occupied in Nold's +house. Through the long hours of the night he lay awake, with revolver +cocked. At the first sign of a suspicious move on my part, he had +determined to kill me. + +The personal tenor of our correspondence is gradually broadening into +the larger scope of socio-political theories, methods of agitation, and +applied tactics. The discussions, prolonged and often heated, absorb our +interest. The bulky notes necessitate greater circumspection; the +difficulty of procuring writing materials assumes a serious aspect. +Every available scrap of paper is exhausted; margins of stray newspapers +and magazines have been penciled on, the contents repeatedly erased, and +the frayed tatters microscopically covered with ink. Even an occasional +fly-leaf from library books has been sacrilegiously forced to leave its +covers, and every evidence of its previous association dexterously +removed. The problem threatens to terminate our correspondence and fills +us with dismay. But the genius our faithful postman, of proud +horsethieving proclivities, proves equal to the occasion: Bob +constitutes himself our commissary, designating the broom shop, in which +he is employed, as the base of our future supplies. + +The unexpected affluence fills us with joy. The big rolls requisitioned +by "Horsethief" exclude the fear of famine; the smooth yellow wrapping +paper affords the luxury of larger and more legible chirography. The +pride of sudden wealth germinates ambitious projects. We speculate on +the possibility of converting our correspondence into a magazinelet, and +wax warm over the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue +of the _Zuchthausbluethen_[38] is greeted with the encouraging approval +of our sole subscriber, whose contribution surprises us in the form of a +rather creditable poem on the blank last page of the publication. Elated +at the happy acquisition, we unanimously crown him _Meistersinger_, with +dominion over the department of poetry. Soon we plan more pretentious +issues: the outward size of the publication is to remain the same, three +by five inches, but the number of pages is to be enlarged; each issue to +have a different editor, to ensure equality of opportunity; the readers +to serve as contributing editors. The appearance of the _Bluethen_ is to +be regulated by the time required to complete the circle of readers, +whose identity is to be masked with certain initials, to protect them +against discovery. Henceforth Bauer, physically a giant, is to be known +as "G"; because of my medium stature, I shall be designated with the +letter "M"; and Nold, as the smallest, by "K."[39] The poet, his history +somewhat shrouded in mystery, is christened "D" for _Dichter_. "M," "K," +"G," are to act, in turn, as editor-in-chief, whose province it is to +start the _Bluethen_ on its way, each reader contributing to the issue +till it is returned to the original editor, to enable him to read and +comment upon his fellow contributors. The publication, its contents +growing transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon whom +will devolve the editorial management of the following issue. + + [38] Prison Blossoms. + + [39] Initial of the German _klein_, small. + +The unique arrangement proves a source of much pleasure and recreation. +The little magazine is rich in contents and varied in style. The +diversity of handwriting heightens the interest, and stimulates +speculation on the personality of our increasing readers-contributors. +In the arena of the diminutive publication, there rages the conflict of +contending social philosophies; here a political essay rubs elbows with +a witty anecdote, and a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is +interspersed with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence. Flashes +of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry of orthography lend +peculiar charm to the unconventional editorials, and waft a breath of +Josh Billings into the manuscript pages. + +[Illustration: Special Spring Edition of the Z. Bluethen.] + +But the success of the _Zuchthausbluethen_ soon discovers itself a +veritable Frankenstein, which threatens the original foundation and aims +of the magazinelet. The popularity of joint editorship is growing at the +cost of unity and tendency; the Bard's astonishing facility at +versification, coupled with his Jules Vernian imagination, causes us +grave anxiety lest his untamable Pegasus traverse the limits of our +paper supply. The appalling warning of the commissary that the +improvident drain upon his resources is about to force him on a strike, +imperatively calls a halt. We are deliberating policies of retrenchment +and economy, when unexpectedly the arrival of two Homestead men suggests +an auspicious solution. + + +III + +The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J. Beatty, prominent in the +Knights of Labor organization, offers opportunity for propaganda among +workers representing the more radical element of American labor. Accused +of poisoning the food served to the strike-breakers in the mills, +Dempsey and Beatty appear to me men of unusual type. Be they innocent or +guilty, the philosophy of their methods is in harmony with revolutionary +tactics. Labor can never be unjust in its demands: is it not the creator +of all the wealth in the world? Every weapon may be employed to return +the despoiled People into its rightful ownership. Is not the terrorizing +of scabbery, and ultimately of the capitalist exploiters, an effective +means of aiding the struggle? Therefore Dempsey and Beatty deserve +acclaim. Morally certain of their guilt, I respect them the more for it, +though I am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme of +wholesale extermination of the scabs. The blackleg is also human, it is +true, and desires to live. But one should starve rather than turn +traitor to the cause of his class. Moreover, the individual--or any +number of them--cannot be weighed against the interests of humanity. + + * * * * * + +Infinite patience weaves the threads that bring us in contact with the +imprisoned labor leaders. In the ceaseless duel of vital need against +stupidity and malice, caution and wit are sharpened by danger. The least +indiscretion, the most trifling negligence, means discovery, disaster. +But perseverance and intelligent purpose conquer: by the aid of the +faithful "Horsethief," communication with Dempsey and Beatty is +established. With the aggressiveness of strong conviction I present to +them my views, dwelling on the historic role of the _Attentaeter_ and the +social significance of conscious individual protest. The discussion +ramifies, the interest aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper +supply. Presently I am involved in a correspondence with several men, +whose questions and misinterpretations regarding my act I attempt to +answer and correct with individual notes. But the method proves an +impossible tax on our opportunities, and "KGM" finally decide to publish +an English edition of the _Zuchthausbluethen_. The German magazinelet is +suspended, and in its place appears the first issue of the _Prison +Blossoms_. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +THE JUDAS + + +"Ah, there, Sporty!" my assistant greets me in the shop. "Stand treat on +this festive occasion?" + +"Yes, Red. Have a chew," I reply with a smile, handing him my fresh plug +of tobacco. + +His eyes twinkle with mischievous humor as he scrutinizes my changed +suit of dark gray. The larger part of the plug swelling out his cheek, +he flings to me the remnant across the table, remarking: + +"Don't care for't. Take back your choo, I'll keep me honor,--your plug, +I mean, sonny. A gentleman of my eminence, sir, a natural-born navigator +on the high seas of social life,--are you on, me bye?--a gentleman, I +repeat, sir, whose canoe the mutations of all that is human have chucked +on this here dry, thrice damned dry latitude, sir, this nocuous +plague-spot of civilization,--say, kid, what t' hell am I talkin' about? +Damn if I ain't clean forgot." + +"I'm sure I don't know, Red." + +"Like hell you don't! It's your glad duds, kid. Offerin' _me_ a ch-aw +tob-b-bac-co! Christ, I'm dyin' for a drop of booze. This magnificent +occasion deserves a wetting, sir. And, say, Aleck, it won't hurt your +beauty to stretch them sleeves of yours a bit. You look like a +scarecrow in them high-water pants. Ain't old Sandy the king of +skinners, though!" + +"Whom do you mean, Red?" + +"Who I mean, you idjot! Who but that skunk of a Warden, the Honorable +Captain Edward S. Wright, if you please, sir. Captain of rotten old +punks, that's what he is. You ask th' screws. He's never smelt powder; +why, he's been _here_ most o' his life. But some o' th' screws been here +longer, borned here, damn 'em; couldn't pull 'em out o' here with a +steam engine, you couldn't. They can tell you all 'bout the Cap, though. +Old Sandy didn' have a plugged nickel to his name when he come 'ere, an' +now the damn stomach-robber is rich. Reg'lar gold mine this dump's for +'im. Only gets a lousy five thousan' per year. Got big fam'ly an' keeps +carriages an' servants, see, an' can 'ford t' go to Europe every year, +an' got a big pile in th' bank to boot, all on a scurvy five thousan' a +year. Good manager, ain't he? A reg'lar church member, too, damn his +rotten soul to hell!" + +"Is he as bad as all that, Red?" + +"Is he? A hypocrite dyed in th' wool, that's what he is. Plays the +humanitarian racket. He had a great deal t' say t' the papers why he +didn't believe in the brutal way Iams was punished by that Homestead +colonel--er--what's 'is name?" + +"Colonel Streator, of the Tenth Pennsylvania." + +"That's the cur. He hung up Private Iams by the thumbs till th' poor boy +was almost dead. For nothin', too. Suppose you remember, don't you? Iams +had called for 'three cheers for the man who shot Frick,' an' they +pretty near killed 'im for 't, an' then drummed 'im out of th' regiment +with 'is head half shaved." + +"It was a most barbarous thing." + +"An' that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't believe in such +things, an' all th' while th' lyin' murderer is doin' it himself. Not a +day but some poor con is 'cuffed up' in th' hole. That's th' kind of +humanitarian _he_ is! It makes me wild t' think on 't. Why, kid, I even +get a bit excited, and forget that you, young sir, are attuned to the +dulcet symphonies of classic English. But whenever that skunk of a +Warden is the subject of conversation, sir, even my usually +imperturbable serenity of spirit and tranquil stoicism are not equal to +'Patience on a monument smiling at grief.' Watch me, sonny, that's yours +truly spielin'. Why, look at them dingy rags of yours. I liked you +better in th' striped duds. They give you the hand-me-downs of that +nigger that went out yesterday, an' charge you on th' books with a bran' +new suit. See where Sandy gets his slice, eh? An' say, kid, how long are +you here?" + +"About eight months, Red." + +"They beat you out o' two months all right. Suppose they obey their own +rules? Nit, sir. You are aware, my precious lamb, that you are entitled +to discard your polychromic vestments of zebra hue after a sojourn of +six months in this benevolent dump. I bet you that fresh fish at the +loopin' machine there, came up 'ere some days ago, _he_ won't be kept +waitin' more'n six months for 'is black clothes." + +I glance in the direction of the recent arrival. He is a slender man, +with swarthy complexion and quick, shifting eye. The expression of +guilty cunning is repelling. + +"Who is that man?" I whisper to the assistant. + +"Like 'im, don't you? Permit me, sir, to introduce to you the handiwork +of his Maker, a mealy-mouthed, oily-lipped, scurvy gaycat, a yellow cur, +a snivelling, fawning stool, a filthy, oozy sneak, a snake in the grass +whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-respecting member +of my clan,--Mr. Patrick Gallagher, of the honorable Pinkerton family, +sir." + +"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The informer, who denounced +Dempsey and Beatty?" + +"The very same. The dirty snitch that got those fellows railroaded here +for seven years. Dempsey was a fool to bunch up with such vermin as +Gallagher and Davidson. He was Master Workman of some district of the +Knights of Labor. Why in hell didn't he get his own men to do th' job? +Goes to work an' hires a brace of gaycats; sent 'em to the scab mills, +you savvy, to sling hash for the blacklegs and keep 'im posted on the +goings on, see? S'pose you have oriented yourself, sir, concerning the +developments in the culinary experiment?" + +"Yes. Croton oil is supposed to have been used to make the scabs sick +with diarrhoea." + +"Make 'em sick? Why, me bye, scores of 'em croaked. I am surprised, sir, +at your use of such a vulgar term as diarrhoea. You offend my +aestheticism. The learned gentlemen who delve deeply into the bowels of +earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phenomenal increase of +unmentionable human obligations to nature, the mysterious and +extravagant popularity of the houses of ill odor, sir, and the automatic +obedience to their call, as due entirely to the dumping of a lot o' +lousy bums, sir, into filthy quarters, or to impurities of the liquid +supply, or to--pardon my frankness, sir--to intestinal effeminacy, +which, in flaccid excitability, persisted in ill-timed relaxation +unseemly in well-mannered Christians. Some future day, sir, there may +arise a poet to glorify with beauteous epic the heroic days of the +modern Bull Run--an' I kin tell you, laddie, they run and kept runnin', +top and bottom--or some lyric bard may put to Hudibrastic verse--watch +me climbin' th' Parnassus, kid--the poetic feet, the numbers, the +assonance, and strain of the inspiring days when Croton Oil was King. +Yes, sirree; but for yours truly, me hand ain't in such pies; and +moreover, sir, I make it an invariable rule of gentlemanly behavior t' +keep me snout out o' other people's biz." + +"Dempsey may be innocent, Red." + +"Well, th' joory didn't think so. But there's no tellin'. Honest t' God, +Aleck, that rotten scab of a Gallagher has cast the pale hue of +resolution, if I may borrow old Billy Shake's slang, sir, over me +gener'ly settled convictions. You know, in the abundant plenitude of my +heterogeneous experience with all sorts and conditions of rats and +gaycats, sir, fortified by a natural genius of no mean order, of 1859 +vintage, damme if I ever run across such an acute form of confessionitis +as manifested by the lout on th' loopin' machine there. You know what he +done yesterday?" + +"What?" + +"Sent for th' distric' attorney and made another confesh." + +"Really? How do you know?" + +"Night screw's a particular fren' o' mine, kid. I shtands in, see? The +mick's a reg'lar Yahoo, can't hardly spell 'is own name. He daily +requisitions upon my humble but abundant intelligence, sir, to make out +his reports. Catch on, eh? I've never earned a hand-out with more +dignified probity, sir. It's a cinch. Last night he gimme a great slice +of corn dodger. It was A 1, I tell you, an' two hard boiled eggs and +half a tomato, juicy and luscious, sir. Didn't I enjoy it, though! Makes +your mouth water, eh, kid? Well, you be good t' me, an' you kin have +what I got. I'll divvy up with you. We-ll! Don' stand there an' gape at +me like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation of my magnanimous +generosity deprived you of articulate utterance, sir?" + +The sly wink with which he emphasizes the offer, and his suddenly +serious manner, affect me unpleasantly. With pretended indifference, I +decline to share his delicacies. + +"You need those little extras for yourself, Red," I explain. "You told +me you suffer from indigestion. A change of diet now and then will do +you good. But you haven't finished telling me about the new confession +of Gallagher." + +"Oh, you're a sly one, Aleck; no flies on you. But it's all right, me +bye, mebbe I can do somethin' for you some day. I'm your friend, Aleck; +count on me. But that mutt of a Gallagher, yes, sirree, made another +confession; damme if it ain't his third one. Ever hear such a thing? I +got it straight from th' screw all right. I can't make the damn snitch +out. Unreservedly I avow, sir, that the incomprehensible vacillations of +the honorable gentleman puzzle me noodle, and are calculated to disturb +the repose of a right-thinking yagg in the silken lap of Morpheus. +What's 'is game, anyhow? Shall we diagnoze the peculiar mental +menstruation as, er--er--what's your learned opinion, my illustrious +colleague, eh? What you grinnin' for, Four Eyes? It's a serious matter, +sir; a highly instructive phenomenon of intellectual vacuity, +impregnated with the pernicious virus of Pinkertonism, sir, and +transmuted in the alembic of Carnegie alchemy. A judicious injection of +persuasive germs by the sagacious jurisconsults of the House of Dempsey, +and lo! three brand-new confessions, mutually contradictory and +exclusive. Does that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?" + +"In the second confession he retracted his accusations against Dempsey. +What is the third about, Red?" + +"Retracts his retraction, me bye. Guess why, Aleck." + +"I suppose he was paid to reaffirm his original charges." + +"You're not far off. After that beauty of a Judas cleared the man, Sandy +notified Reed and Knox. Them's smart guys, all right; the attorneys of +the Carnegie Company to interpret Madame Justicia, sir, in a manner--" + +"I know, Red," I interrupt him, "they are the lawyers who prosecuted me. +Even in court they were giving directions to the district attorney, and +openly whispering to him questions to be asked the witnesses. He was +just a figurehead and a tool for them, and it sounded so ridiculous when +he told the jury that he was not in the service of any individual or +corporation, but that he acted solely as an officer of the commonwealth, +charged with the sacred duty of protecting its interests in my +prosecution. And all the time he was the mouthpiece of Frick's lawyers." + +"Hold on, kid. I don't get a chance to squeeze a word in edgewise when +you start jawin'. Think you're on th' platform haranguing the +long-haired crowd? You can't convert _me_, so save your breath, man." + +"I shouldn't want to convert you, Red. You are intelligent, but a +hopeless case. You are not the kind that could be useful to the Cause." + +"Glad you're next. Got me sized up all right, eh? Well, me saintly bye, +I'm Johnny-on-the-spot to serve the cause, all right, all right, and the +cause is Me, with a big M, see? A fellow's a fool not t' look out for +number one. I give it t' you straight, Aleck. What's them high-flown +notions of yours--oppressed humanity and suffering people--fiddlesticks! +There you go and shove your damn neck into th' noose for the strikers, +but what did them fellows ever done for you, eh? Tell me that! They +won't do a darned thing fer you. Catch _me_ swinging for the peo-pul! +The cattle don't deserve any better than they get, that's what _I_ say." + +"I don't want to discuss these questions with you, Red. You'll never +understand, anyhow." + +"Git off, now. You voice a sentiment, sir, that my adequate appreciation +of myself would prompt me to resent on the field of honor, sir. But the +unworthy spirit of acerbity is totally foreign to my nature, sir, and I +shall preserve the blessed meekness so becoming the true Christian, and +shall follow the bidding of the Master by humbly offering the other +cheek for that chaw of th' weed I gave you. Dig down into your poke, +kid." + +I hand him the remnant of my tobacco, remarking: + +"You've lost the thread of our conversation, as usual, Red. You said the +Warden sent for the Carnegie lawyers after Gallagher had recanted his +original confession. Well, what did they do?" + +"Don't know what _they_ done, but I tole you that the muttonhead sent +for th' district attorney the same day, an' signed a third confesh. Why, +Dempsey was tickled to death, 'cause--" + +He ceases abruptly. His quick, short coughs warn me of danger. +Accompanied by the Deputy and the shop officer, the Warden is making the +rounds of the machines, pausing here and there to examine the work, and +listen to the request of a prisoner. The youthfully sparkling eyes +present a striking contrast to the sedate manner and seamed features +framed in grayish-white. Approaching the table, he greets us with a +benign smile: + +"Good morning, boys." + +Casting a glance at my assistant, the Warden inquires: "Your time must +be up soon, Red?" + +"Been out and back again, Cap'n," the officer laughs. + +"Yes, he is, hm, hm, back home." The thin feminine accents of the Deputy +sound sarcastic. + +"Didn't like it outside, Red?" the Warden sneers. + +A flush darkens the face of the assistant. "There's more skunks out than +in," he retorts. + +The Captain frowns. The Deputy lifts a warning finger, but the Warden +laughs lightly, and continues on his rounds. + +We work in silence for a while. "Red" looks restive, his eyes stealthily +following the departing officials. Presently he whispers: + +"See me hand it to 'im, Aleck? He knows I'm on to 'im, all right. Didn't +he look mad, though? Thought he'd burst. Sobered 'im up a bit. Pipe 'is +lamps, kid?" + +"Yes. Very bright eyes." + +"Bright eyes your grandmother! Dope, that's what's th' matter. Think I'd +get off as easy if he wasn't chuck full of th' stuff? I knowed it the +minute I laid me eyes on 'im. I kin tell by them shinin' glimmers and +that sick smile of his, when he's feelin' good; know th' signals, all +right. Always feelin' fine when he's hit th' pipe. That's th' time you +kin get anythin' you wan' of 'im. Nex' time you see that smirk on 'im, +hit 'im for some one t' give us a hand here; we's goin' t' be drowned in +them socks, first thing you know." + +"Yes, we need more help. Why didn't _you_ ask him?" + +"Me? Me ask a favor o' the damn swine? Not on your tintype! You don' +catch me to vouchsafe the high and mighty, sir, the opportunity--" + +"All right, Red. I won't ask him, either." + +"I don't give a damn. For all I care, Aleck, and--well, confidentially +speaking, sir, they may ensconce their precious hosiery in the +infundibular dehiscence of his Nibs, which, if I may venture my humble +opinion, young sir, is sufficiently generous in its expansiveness to +disregard the rugosity of a stocking turned inside out, sir. Do you +follow the argument, me bye?" + +"With difficulty, Red," I reply, with a smile. "What are you really +talking about? I do wish you'd speak plainer." + +"You do, do you? An' mebbe you don't. Got to train you right; gradual, +so to speak. It's me dooty to a prushun. But we'se got t' get help here. +I ain't goin' t' kill meself workin' like a nigger. I'll quit first. D' +you think--s-s-ss!" + +The shop officer is returning. "Damn your impudence, Red," he shouts at +the assistant. "Why don't you keep that tongue of yours in check?" + +"Why, Mr. Cosson, what's th' trouble?" + +"You know damn well what's the trouble. You made the old man mad clean +through. You ought t' know better'n that. He was nice as pie till you +opened that big trap of yourn. Everythin' went wrong then. He gave me +th' dickens about that pile you got lyin' aroun' here. Why don't you +take it over to th' loopers, Burk?" + +"They have not been turned yet," I reply. + +"What d' you say? Not turned!" he bristles. "What in hell are you +fellows doin', I'd like t' know." + +"We're doin' more'n we should," "Red" retorts, defiantly. + +"Shut up now, an' get a move on you." + +"On that rotten grub they feed us?" the assistant persists. + +"You better shut up, Red." + +"Then give us some help." + +"I will like hell!" + +The whistle sounds the dinner hour. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +THE DIP + + +For a week "Boston Red" is absent from work. My best efforts seem +ineffectual in the face of the increasing mountain of unturned hosiery, +and the officer grows more irritable and insistent. But the fear of +clogging the industrial wheel presently forces him to give me +assistance, and a dapper young man, keen-eyed and nervous, takes the +vacant place. + +"He's a dip,"[40] Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A top-notcher," he adds, +admiringly. + + [40] Pickpocket. + +I experience a tinge of resentment at the equality implied by the forced +association. I have never before come in personal contact with a +professional thief, and I entertain the vaguest ideas concerning his +class. But they are not producers; hence parasites who deliberately prey +upon society, upon the poor, mostly. There can be nothing in common +between me and this man. + + * * * * * + +The new helper's conscious superiority is provoking. His distant manner +piques my curiosity. How unlike his scornful mien and proudly +independent bearing is my youthful impression of a thief! Vividly I +remember the red-headed Kolya, as he was taken from the classroom by a +fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing their lunches, and Kolya +confessed the theft. We ran after the prisoner, and he hung his head +and looked frightened, and so pale I could count each freckle on his +face. He did not return to school, and I wondered what had become of +him. The terror in his eyes haunted my dreams, the brown spots on his +forehead shaping themselves into fiery letters, spelling the fearful +word _vor_.[41] + + [41] Thief. + +"That's a snap," the helper's voice breaks in on my reverie. He speaks +in well-modulated tones, the accents nasal and decided. "You needn't be +afraid to talk," he adds, patronizingly. + +"I am not afraid," I impatiently resent the insinuation. "Why should I +be afraid of you?" + +"Not of me; of the officer, I meant." + +"I am not afraid of him, either." + +"Well, then, let's talk about something. It will help while away the +time, you know." + +His cheerful friendliness smooths my ruffled temper. The correct +English, in striking contrast with the peculiar language of my former +assistant, surprises me. + +"I am sorry," he continues, "they gave you such a long sentence, Mr. +Berkman, but--" + +"How do you know my name?" I interrupt. "You have just arrived." + +"They call me 'Lightning Al'," he replies, with a tinge of pride. "I'm +here only three days, but a fellow in my line can learn a great deal in +that time. I had you pointed out to me." + +"What do you call your line? What are you here for?" + +For a moment he is silent. With surprise I watch his face blush darkly. + + +"You're a dead give-away. Oh, excuse me, Mr. Berkman," he corrects +himself, "I sometimes lapse into lingo, under provocation, you know. I +meant to say, it's easy to see that you are not next to the way--not +familiar, I mean, with such things. You should never ask a man what he +is in for." + +"Why not?" + +"Well, er--" + +"You are ashamed." + +"Not a bit of it. Ashamed to fall, perhaps,--I mean, to be caught at +it--it's no credit to a gun's rep, his reputation, you understand. But +I'm proud of the jobs I've done. I'm pretty slick, you know." + +"But you don't like to be asked why you were sent here." + +"Well, it's not good manners to ask such questions." + +"Against the ethics of the trade, I suppose?" + +"How sarcastic we can be, Mr. Berkman. But it's true, it's not the +ethics. And it isn't a trade, either; it's a profession. Oh, you may +smile, but I'd rather be a gun, a professional, I mean, than one of your +stupid factory hands." + +"They are honest, though. Honest producers, while you are a thief." + +"Oh, there's no sting in that word for _me_. I take pride in being a +thief, and what's more, I _am_ an A number one gun, you see the point? +The best dip in the States." + +"A pickpocket? Stealing nickels off passengers on the street cars, +and--" + +"Me? A hell of a lot _you_ know about it. Take me for such small fry, do +you? I work only on race tracks." + +"You call it work?" + +"Sure. Damned hard work, too. Takes more brains than a whole shopful of +your honest producers can show." + +"And you prefer that to being honest?" + +"Do I? I spend more on gloves than a bricklayer makes in a year. Think +I'm so dumb I have to slave all week for a few dollars?" + +"But you spend most of your life in prison." + +"Not by a long shot. A real good gun's always got his fall money +planted,--I mean some ready coin in case of trouble,--and a smart lawyer +will spring you most every time; beat the case, you know. I've never +seen the fly-cop you couldn't fix if you got enough dough; and most +judges, too. Of course, now and then, the best of us may fall; but it +don't happen very often, and it's all in the game. This whole life is a +game, Mr. Berkman, and every one's got his graft." + +"Do you mean there are no honest men?" I ask, angrily. + +"Pshaw! I'm just as honest as Rockefeller or Carnegie, only they got the +law with them. And I work harder than they, I'll bet you on that. I've +got to eat, haven't I? Of course," he adds, thoughtfully, "if I could be +sure of my bread and butter, perhaps--" + + * * * * * + +The passing overseer smiles at the noted pickpocket, inquiring +pleasantly: + +"How're you doin', Al?" + +"Tip-top, Mr. Cosson. Hope you are feeling good to-day." + +"Never better, Al." + +"A friend of mine often spoke to me about you, Mr. Cosson." + +"Who was that?" + +"Barney. Jack Barney." + +"Jack Barney! Why, he worked for me in the broom shop." + +"Yes, he did a three-spot. He often said to me, 'Al, it you ever land in +Riverside,' he says, 'be sure you don't forget to give my best to Mr. +Cosson, Mr. Ed. Cosson,' he says, 'he's a good fellow.'" + +The officer looks pleased. "Yes, I treated him white, all right," he +remarks, continuing on his rounds. + +"I knew he'd swallow it," the assistant sneers after him. "Always good +to get on the right side of them," he adds, with a wink. "Barney told me +about him all right. Said he's the rottenest sneak in the dump, a +swell-head yap. You see, Mr. Berkman,--may I call you Aleck? It's +shorter. Well, you see, Aleck, I make it a point to find things out. +It's wise to know the ropes. I'm next to the whole bunch here. That +Jimmy McPane, the Deputy, he's a regular brute. Killed his man, all +right. Barney told me all about it; he was doing his bit, then,--I mean +serving his sentence. You see, Aleck," he lowers his voice, +confidentially, "I don't like to use slang; it grows on one, and every +fly-cop can spot you as a crook. It's necessary in my business to +present a fine front and use good English, so I must not get the lingo +habit. Well, I was speaking of Barney telling me about the Deputy. He +killed a con in cold blood. The fellow was bughouse, D. T., you know; +saw snakes. He ran out of his cell one morning, swinging a chair and +hollering 'Murder! Kill 'em!' The Deputy was just passing along, and he +out with his gat--I mean his revolver, you know--and bangs away. He +pumped the poor loony fellow full of holes; he did, the murderer. Killed +him dead. Never was tried, either. Warden told the newspapers it was +done in self-defence. A damn lie. Sandy knew better; everybody in the +dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder, with no provocation at all. It's +a regular ring, you see, and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of +them all; and that sky-pilot, too, is an A 1 fakir. Did you hear about +the kid born here? Before your time. A big scandal. Since then the holy +man's got to have a screw with him at Sunday service for the females, +and I tell you he needs watching all right." + +The whistle terminates the conversation. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE URGE OF SEX + + +Sunday night: my new cell on the upper gallery is hot and stuffy; I +cannot sleep. Through the bars, I gaze upon the Ohio. The full moon +hangs above the river, bathing the waters in mellow light. The strains +of a sweet lullaby wander through the woods, and the banks are merry +with laughter. A girlish cadence rings like a silvery bell, and voices +call in the distance. Life is joyous and near, terribly, tantalizingly +near,--but all is silent and dead around me. + +For days the feminine voice keeps ringing in my ears. It sounded so +youthful and buoyant, so fondly alluring. A beautiful girl, no doubt. +What joy to feast my eye on her! I have not beheld a woman for many +months: I long to hear the soft accents, feel the tender touch. My mind +persistently reverts to the voice on the river, the sweet strains in the +woods; and fancy wreathes sad-toned fugues upon the merry carol, paints +vision and image, as I pace the floor in agitation. They live, they +breathe! I see the slender figure with the swelling bosom, the delicate +white throat, the babyish face with large, wistful eyes. Why, it is +Luba! My blood tingles violently, passionately, as I live over again the +rapturous wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How temptingly +innocent sounded the immodest invitation on the velvety lips, how +exquisite the suddenness of it all! We were in New Haven then. One by +one we had gathered, till the little New York commune was complete. The +Girl joined me first, for I felt lonely in the strange city, drudging as +compositor on a country weekly, the evenings cold and cheerless in the +midst of a conservative household. But the Girl brought light and +sunshine, and then came the Twin and Manya. Luba remained in New York; +but Manya, devoted little soul, yearned for her sister, and presently +the three girls worked side by side in the corset factory. All seemed +happy in the free atmosphere, and Luba was blooming into beautiful +womanhood. There was a vague something about her that now and then +roused in me a fond longing, a rapturous desire. Once--it was in New +York, a year before--I had experienced a sudden impulse toward her. It +seized me unheralded, unaccountably. I had called to try a game of chess +with her father, when he informed me that Luba had been ill. She was +recovering now, and would be pleased to see me. I sat at the bedside, +conversing in low tones, when I noticed the pillows slipping from under +the girl's head. Bending over, I involuntarily touched her hair, loosely +hanging down the side. The soft, dark chestnut thrilled me, and the next +instant I stooped and stealthily pressed the silken waves to my lips. +The momentary sense of shame was lost in the feeling of reverence for +the girl with the beautiful hair, that bewildered and fascinated me, and +a deep yearning suddenly possessed me, as she lay in exquisite disarray, +full of grace and beauty. And all the while we talked, my eyes feasted +on her ravishing form, and I felt envious of her future lover, and hated +the desecration. But when I left her bedside, all trace of desire +disappeared, and the inspiration of the moment faded like a vision +affrighted by the dawn. Only a transient, vague inquietude remained, as +of something unattainable. + +Then came that unforgettable moment of undreamed bliss. We had just +returned from the performance of _Tosca_, with Sarah Bernhardt in her +inimitable role. I had to pass through Luba's room on my way to the +attic, in the little house occupied by the commune. She had already +retired, but was still awake. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and we +talked of the play. She glowed with the inspiration of the great +tragedienne; then, somehow, she alluded to the _decollete_ of the +actresses. + +"I don't mind a fine bust exposed on the stage," I remarked. "But I had +a powerful opera glass: their breasts looked fleshy and flabby. It was +disgusting." + +"Do you think--mine nice?" she asked, suddenly. + +For a second I was bewildered. But the question sounded so enchantingly +unpremeditated, so innocently eager. + +"I never--Let me see them," I said, impulsively. + +"No, no!" she cried, in aroused modesty; "I can't, I can't!" + +"I wont look, Luba. See, I close my eyes. Just a touch." + +"Oh, I can't, I'm ashamed! Only over the blanket, please, Sasha," she +pleaded, as my hand softly stole under the covers. She gripped the sheet +tightly, and my arm rested on her side. The touch of the firm, round +breast thrilled me with passionate ecstasy. In fear of arousing her +maidenly resistance, I strove to hide my exultation, while cautiously +and tenderly I released the coverlet. + +"They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling the tremor of my +voice. + +"You--like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes looked lustrous and +happy. + +"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last covering aside, I kissed +her between the breasts. + +"I'm so glad I came here," she spoke dreamily. + +"Were you very lonesome in New York?" + +"It was terrible, Sasha." + +"You like the change?" + +"Oh, you silly boy! Don't you know?" + +"What, Luba?" + +"I wanted _you_, dear." Her arms twined softly about me. + +I felt appalled. The Girl, my revolutionary plans, flitted through my +mind, chilling me with self-reproach. The pale hue of the attained cast +its shadow across the spell, and I lay cold and quiet on Luba's breast. +The coverlet was slipping down, and, reaching for it, my hand +inadvertently touched her knee. + +"Sasha, how _can_ you!" she cried in alarm, sitting up with terrified +eyes. + +"I didn't mean to, Luba. How could you _think_ that of me?" I was deeply +mortified. + +My hand relaxed on her breast. We lay in silent embarrassment. + +"It is getting late, Sasha." She tenderly drew my head to her bosom. + +"A little while yet, dear," and again the enchantment of the virgin +breasts was upon me, and I showered wild kisses on them, and pressed +them passionately, madly, till she cried out in pain. + +"You must go now, dear." + +"Good night, Luba." + +"Good night, dearest. You haven't kissed me, Sashenka." + +I felt her detaining lips, as I left. + + * * * * * + +In the wakeful hours of the night, the urge of sex grows more and more +insistent. Scenes from the past live in my thoughts; the cell is +peopled with familiar faces. Episodes long dead to memory rise animated +before me; they emerge from the darkest chambers of my soul, and move +with intense reality, like the portraits of my sires come to life in the +dark, fearful nights of my childhood. Pert Masha smiles at me from her +window across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me demurely, with +modestly averted gaze, and then call back saucily, in thinly disguised +voices. Again I am with my playmates, trailing the schoolgirls on their +way to the river, and we chuckle gleefully at their affright and +confusion, as they discover the eyes glued to the peep-holes we had cut +in the booth. Inwardly I resent Nadya's bathing in her shirt, and in +revenge dive beneath the boards, rising to the surface in the midst of +the girls, who run to cover in shame and terror. But I grow indignant at +Vainka who badgers the girls with "Tsiba,[42] tsiba, ba-aa!" and I +soundly thrash Kolya for shouting nasty epithets across the school yard +at little Nunya, whom I secretly adore. + + [42] Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls. + + * * * * * + +But the note of later days returns again and again, and the scenes of +youth recede into their dim frames. Clearer and more frequently appear +Sonya and Luba, and the little sweetheart of my first months in America. +What a goose she was! She would not embrace me, because it's a great +sin, unless one is married. But how slyly she managed to arrange kissing +games at the Sunday gatherings at her home, and always lose to me! She +must be quite a woman now, with a husband, children ... Quickly she +flits by, the recollection even of her name lost in the glow of +Anarchist emotionalism and the fervent enthusiasm of my Orchard Street +days. There flames the light that irradiates the vague longings of my +Russian youth, and gives rapt interpretation to obscurely pulsating +idealism. It sheds the halo of illuminating justification upon my +blindly rebellious spirit, and visualizes my dreams on the sunlit +mountains. The sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days assumes a new +aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those first years in America!... And +still Time's woof and warp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World, +its joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewildered by the +flurry of Castle Garden, yet strong with hope and courage to carve my +fate in freedom. The Tsar is far away, and the fear of his hated +Cossacks is past. How inspiring is liberty! The very air breathes +enthusiasm and strength, and with confident ardor I embrace the new +life. I join the ranks of the world's producers, and glory in the full +manhood conferred by the dignity of labor. I resent the derision of my +adopted country on the part of my family abroad,--resent it hotly. I +feel wronged by the charge of having disgraced my parents' respected +name by turning "a low, dirty workingman." I combat their snobbishness +vehemently, and revenge the indignity to labor by challenging comparison +between the Old and the New World. Behold the glory of liberty and +prosperity, the handiwork of a nation that honors labor!... The loom of +Time keeps weaving. Lone and friendless, I struggle in the new land. +Life in the tenements is sordid, the fate of the worker dreary. There is +no "dignity of labor." Sweatshop bread is bitter. Oppression guards the +golden promise, and servile brutality is the only earnest of success. +Then like a clarion note in the desert sounds the call of the Ideal. +Strong and rousing rolls the battle-cry of Revolution. Like a flash in +the night, it illumines my groping. My life becomes full of new meaning +and interest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipation. +Fedya joins me, and together we are absorbed in the music of the new +humanity. + + * * * * * + +It is all far, far--yet every detail is sharply etched upon my memory. +Swiftly pass before me the years of complete consecration to the +movement, the self-imposed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of +agitation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the evenings of spirited +debate, the nights of diligent study. And over all loom the Fridays in +the little dingy hall in the Ghetto, where the handful of Russian +refugees gather; where bold imprecations are thundered against the +tyranny and injustice of the existing, and winged words prophesy the +near approach of a glorious Dawn. Beshawled women, and men, long-coated +and piously bearded, steal into the hall after synagogue prayers, and +listen with wondering eyes, vainly striving to grasp the strange Jewish, +so perplexedly interspersed with the alien words of the new evangel. How +our hearts rejoice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly encourage +the diffident questioner, "Do you really mean--may the good Lord forgive +me--there is no one in heaven above?"... Late in the evening the meeting +resolves into small groups, heatedly contending over the speaker's +utterances, the select circle finally adjourning to "the corner." The +obscure little tea room resounds with the joust of learning and wit. +Fascinating is the feast of reason, impassioned the flow of soul, as the +passage-at-arms grows more heated with the advance of the night. The +alert-eyed host diplomatically pacifies the belligerent factions, +"Gentlemen, gentlemen, s-sh! The police station is just across the +street." There is a lull in the combat. The angry opponents frown at +each other, and in the interim the Austrian Student in his mellow voice +begins an interminable story of personal reminiscence, apropos of +nothing and starting nowhere, but intensely absorbing. With sparkling +eyes he holds us spellbound, relating the wonderful journey, taking us +through the Nevsky in St. Petersburg, thence to the Caucasus, to engage +in the blood-feuds of the Tcherkessi; or, enmeshed in a perilous +flirtation with an Albanian beauty in a Moslem harem, he descants on the +philosophy of Mohammed, imperceptibly shifting the scene to the Nile to +hunt the hippopotamus, and suddenly interrupting the amazing adventures +by introducing an acquaintance of the evening, "My excellent friend, the +coming great Italian virtuoso, from Odessa, gentlemen. He will entertain +us with an aria from _Trovatore_." But the circle is not in a musical +mood: some one challenges the Student's familiarity with the Moslem +philosophy, and the Twin hints at the gossiped intimacy of the Austrian +with Christian missionaries. There are protestations, and loud clamor +for an explanation. The Student smilingly assents, and presently he is +launched upon the Chinese sea, in the midst of a strange caravan, +trading tea at Yachta, and aiding a political to escape to +Vladivostok.... The night pales before the waking sun, the Twin yawns, +and I am drowsy with-- + +"Cof-fee! Want coffee? Hey, git up there! Didn't you hear th' bell?" + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +THE WARDEN'S THREAT + + +I + +The dying sun grows pale with haze and fog. Slowly the dark-gray line +undulates across the shop, and draws its sinuous length along the +gloaming yard. The shadowy waves cleave the thickening mist, vibrate +ghostlike, and are swallowed in the yawning blackness of the cell-house. + +"Aleck, Aleck!" I hear an excited whisper behind me, "quick, plant it. +The screw's goin' t' frisk[43] me." + + [43] Search. + +Something small and hard is thrust into my coat pocket. The guard in +front stops short, suspiciously scanning the passing men. + +"Break ranks!" + +The overseer approaches me. "You are wanted in the office, Berk." + +The Warden, blear-eyed and sallow, frowns as I am led in. + +"What have you got on you?" he demands, abruptly. + +"I don't understand you." + +"Yes, you do. Have you money on you?" + +"I have not." + +"Who sends clandestine mail for you?" + +"What mail?" + +"The letter published in the Anarchist sheet in New York." + +I feel greatly relieved. The letter in question passed through official +channels. + +"It went through the Chaplain's hands," I reply, boldly. + +"It isn't true. Such a letter could never pass Mr. Milligan. Mr. +Cosson," he turns to the guard, "fetch the newspaper from my desk." + +The Warden's hands tremble as he points to the marked item. "Here it is! +You talk of revolution, and comrades, and Anarchism. Mr. Milligan never +saw _that_, I'm sure. It's a nice thing for the papers to say that you +are editing--from the prison, mind you--editing an Anarchist sheet in +New York." + +"You can't believe everything the papers say." I protest. + +"Hm, this time the papers, hm, hm, may be right," the Deputy interposes. +"They surely didn't make the story, hm, hm, out of whole cloth." + +"They often do," I retort. "Didn't they write that I tried to jump over +the wall--it's about thirty feet high--and that the guard shot me in the +leg?" + +A smile flits across the Warden's face. Impulsively I blurt out: + +"Was the story inspired, perhaps?" + +"Silence!" the Warden thunders. "You are not to speak, unless addressed, +remember. Mr. McPane, please search him." + +The long, bony fingers slowly creep over my neck and shoulders, down my +arms and body, pressing in my armpits, gripping my legs, covering every +spot, and immersing me in an atmosphere of clamminess. The loathsome +touch sickens me, but I rejoice in the thought of my security: I have +nothing incriminating about me. + +Suddenly the snakelike hand dips into my coat pocket. + +"Hm, what's this?" He unwraps a small, round object. "A knife, Captain." + +"Let me see!" I cry in amazement. + +"Stand back!" the Warden commands. "This knife has been stolen from the +shoe shop. On whom did you mean to use it?" + +"Warden, I didn't even know I had it. A fellow dropped it into my pocket +as we--" + +"That'll do. You're not so clever as you think." + +"It's a conspiracy!" I cry. + +He lounges calmly in the armchair, a peculiar smile dancing in his eyes. + +"Well, what have you got to say?" + +"It's a put-up job." + +"Explain yourself." + +"Some one threw this thing into my pocket as we were coming--" + +"Oh, we've already heard that. It's too fishy." + +"You searched me for money and secret letters--" + +"That will do now. Mr. McPane, what is the sentence for the possession +of a dangerous weapon?" + +"Warden," I interrupt, "it's no weapon. The blade is only half an inch, +and--" + +"Silence! I spoke to Mr. McPane." + +"Hm, three days, Captain." + +"Take him down." + + * * * * * + +In the storeroom I am stripped of my suit of dark gray, and again clad +in the hateful stripes. Coatless and shoeless, I am led through hallways +and corridors, down a steep flight of stairs, and thrown into the +dungeon. + + * * * * * + +Total darkness. The blackness is massive, palpable,--I feel its hand +upon my head, my face. I dare not move, lest a misstep thrust me into +the abyss. I hold my hand close to my eyes--I feel the touch of my +lashes upon it, but I cannot see its outline. Motionless I stand on one +spot, devoid of all sense of direction. The silence is sinister; it +seems to me I can hear it. Only now and then the hasty scrambling of +nimble feet suddenly rends the stillness, and the gnawing of invisible +river rats haunts the fearful solitude. + +Slowly the blackness pales. It ebbs and melts; out of the sombre gray, a +wall looms above; the silhouette of a door rises dimly before me, +sloping upward and growing compact and impenetrable. + +The hours drag in unbroken sameness. Not a sound reaches me from the +cell-house. In the maddening quiet and darkness I am bereft of all +consciousness of time, save once a day when the heavy rattle of keys +apprises me of the morning: the dungeon is unlocked, and the silent +guards hand me a slice of bread and a cup of water. The double doors +fall heavily to, the steps grow fainter and die in the distance, and all +is dark again in the dungeon. + +The numbness of death steals upon my soul. The floor is cold and clammy, +the gnawing grows louder and nearer, and I am filled with dread lest the +starving rats attack my bare feet. I snatch a few unconscious moments +leaning against the door; and then again I pace the cell, striving to +keep awake, wondering whether it be night or day, yearning for the sound +of a human voice. + +Utterly forsaken! Cast into the stony bowels of the underground, the +world of man receding, leaving no trace behind.... Eagerly I strain my +ear--only the ceaseless, fearful gnawing. I clutch the bars in +desperation--a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands tear +violently at the door--"Ho, there! Any one here?" All is silent. +Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weaving nightmares of mortal dread +and despair. Fear shapes convulsive thoughts: they rage in wild tempest, +then calm, and again rush through time and space in a rapid succession +of strangely familiar scenes, wakened in my slumbering consciousness. + +Exhausted and weary I droop against the wall. A slimy creeping on my +face startles me in horror, and again I pace the cell. I feel cold and +hungry. Am I forgotten? Three days must have passed, and more. Have they +forgotten me?... + + * * * * * + +The clank of keys sends a thrill of joy to my heart. My tomb will +open--oh, to see the light, and breathe the air again.... + +"Officer, isn't my time up yet?" + +"What's your hurry? You've only been here one day." + +The doors fall to. Ravenously I devour the bread, so small and thin, +just a bite. Only _one_ day! Despair enfolds me like a pall. Faint with +anguish, I sink to the floor. + + +II + +The change from the dungeon to the ordinary cell is a veritable +transformation. The sight of the human form fills me with delight, the +sound of voices is sweet music. I feel as if I had been torn from the +grip of death when all hope had fled me,--caught on the very brink, as +it were, and restored to the world of the living. How bright the sun, +how balmy the air! In keen sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The +tick is soiled, the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to +rest, secure from the vicious river rats and the fierce vermin. It is +almost liberty, freedom! + +But in the morning I awake in great agony. My eyes throb with pain; +every joint of my body is on the rack. The blankets had been removed +from the dungeon; three days and nights I lay on the bare stone. It was +unnecessarily cruel to deprive me of my spectacles, in pretended anxiety +lest I commit suicide with them. It is very touching, this solicitude +for my safety, in view of the flimsy pretext to punish me. Some hidden +motive must be actuating the Warden. But what can it be? Probably they +will not keep me long in the cell. When I am returned to work, I shall +learn the truth. + + * * * * * + +The days pass in vain expectation. The continuous confinement is +becoming distressing. I miss the little comforts I have lost by the +removal to the "single" cell, considerably smaller than my previous +quarters. My library, also, has disappeared, and the pictures I had so +patiently collected for the decoration of the walls. The cell is bare +and cheerless, the large card of ugly-printed rules affording no relief +from the irritating whitewash. The narrow space makes exercise +difficult: the necessity of turning at every second and third step +transforms walking into a series of contortions. But some means must be +devised to while away the time. I pace the floor, counting the seconds +required to make ten turns. I recollect having heard that five miles +constitutes a healthy day's walk. At that rate I should make 3,771 +turns, the cell measuring seven feet in length. I divide the exercise +into three parts, adding a few extra laps to make sure of five miles. +Carefully I count, and am overcome by a sense of calamity when the peal +of the gong confuses my numbers. I must begin over again. + +The change of location has interrupted communication with my comrades. +I am apprehensive of the fate of the _Prison Blossoms_: strict +surveillance makes the prospect of restoring connections doubtful. I am +assigned to the ground floor, my cell being but a few feet distant from +the officers' desk at the yard door. Watchful eyes are constantly upon +me; it is impossible for any prisoner to converse with me. The rangeman +alone could aid me in reaching my friends, but I have been warned +against him: he is a "stool" who has earned his position as trusty by +spying upon the inmates. I can expect no help from him; but perhaps the +coffee-boy may prove of service. + +I am planning to approach the man, when I am informed that prisoners +from the hosiery department are locked up on the upper gallery. By means +of the waste pipe, I learn of the developments during my stay in the +dungeon. The discontent of the shop employees with the insufficient +rations was intensified by the arrival of a wagon-load of bad meat. The +stench permeated the yard, and several men were punished for passing +uncomplimentary remarks about the food. The situation was aggravated by +an additional increase of the task. The knitters and loopers were on the +verge of rebellion. Twice within the month had the task been enlarged. +They sent to the Warden a request for a reduction; in reply came the +appalling order for a further increase. Then a score of men struck. They +remained in the cells, refusing to return to the shop unless the demand +for better food and less work was complied with. With the aid of +informers, the Warden conducted a quiet investigation. One by one the +refractory prisoners were forced to submit. By a process of elimination +the authorities sifted the situation, and now it is whispered about that +a decision has been reached, placing responsibility for the unique +episode of a strike in the prison. + +An air of mystery hangs about the guards. Repeatedly I attempt to engage +them in conversation, but the least reference to the strike seals their +lips. I wonder at the peculiar looks they regard me with, when +unexpectedly the cause is revealed. + + +III + +It is Sunday noon. The rangeman pushes the dinner wagon along the tier. +I stand at the door, ready to receive the meal. The overseer glances at +me, then motions to the prisoner. The cart rolls past my cell. + +"Officer," I call out, "you missed me." + +"Smell the pot-pie, do you?" + +"Where's my dinner?" + +"You get none." + +The odor of the steaming delicacy, so keenly looked forward to every +second Sunday, reaches my nostrils and sharpens my hunger. I have eaten +sparingly all week in expectation of the treat, and now--I am humiliated +and enraged by being so unceremoniously deprived of the rare dinner. +Angrily I rap the cup across the door; again and again I strike the tin +against it, the successive falls from bar to bar producing a sharp, +piercing clatter. + +A guard hastens along. "Stop that damn racket," he commands. "What's the +matter with you?" + +"I didn't get dinner." + +"Yes, you did." + +"I did not." + +"Well, I s'pose you don't deserve it." + +As he turns to leave, my can crashes against the door--one, two, three-- + +"What t'hell do you want, eh?" + +"I want to see the Warden." + +"You can't see 'im. You better keep quiet now." + +"I demand to see the Warden. He is supposed to visit us every day. He +hasn't been around for weeks. I must see him now." + +"If you don't shut up, I'll--" + +The Captain of the Block approaches. + +"What do you want, Berkman?" + +"I want to see the Warden." + +"Can't see him. It's Sunday." + +"Captain," I retort, pointing to the rules on the wall of the cell, +"there is an excerpt here from the statutes of Pennsylvania, directing +the Warden to visit each prisoner every day--" + +"Never mind, now," he interrupts. "What do you want to see the Warden +about?" + +"I want to know why I got no dinner." + +"Your name is off the list for the next four Sundays." + +"What for?" + +"That you'll have to ask the boss. I'll tell him you want to see him." + +Presently the overseer returns, informing me in a confidential manner +that he has induced "his Nibs" to grant me an audience. Admitted to the +inner office, I find the Warden at the desk, his face flushed with +anger. + +"You are reported for disturbing the peace," he shouts at me. + +"There is also, hm, hm, another charge against him," the Deputy +interposes. + +"Two charges," the Warden continues. "Disturbing the peace and making +demands. How dare you demand?" he roars. "Do you know where you are?" + +"I wanted to see you." + +"It is not a question of what you want or don't want. Understand that +clearly. You are to obey the rules implicitly." + +"The rules direct you to visit--" + +"Silence! What is your request?" + +"I want to know why I am deprived of dinner." + +"It is not, hm, for _you_ to know. It is enough, hm, hm, that _we_ +know," the Deputy retorts. + +"Mr. McPane," the Warden interposes, "I am going to speak plainly to +him. From this day on," he turns to me, "you are on 'Pennsylvania diet' +for four weeks. During that time no papers or books are permitted you. +It will give you leisure to think over your behavior. I have +investigated your conduct in the shop, and I am satisfied it was you who +instigated the trouble there. You shall not have another chance to +incite the men, even if you live as long as your sentence. But," he +pauses an instant, then adds, threateningly, "but you may as well +understand it now as later--your life is not worth the trouble you give +us. Mark you well, whatever the cost, it will be at _your_ expense. For +the present you'll remain in solitary, where you cannot exert your +pernicious influence. Officers, remove him to the 'basket.'" + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE "BASKET" CELL + + +Four weeks of "Pennsylvania diet" have reduced me almost to a skeleton. +A slice of wheat bread with a cup of unsweetened black coffee is my sole +meal, with twice a week dinner of vegetable soup, from which every trace +of meat has been removed. Every Saturday I am conducted to the office, +to be examined by the physician and weighed. The whole week I look +forward to the brief respite from the terrible "basket" cell. The sight +of the striped men scouring the floor, the friendly smile on a +stealthily raised face as I pass through the hall, the strange blue of +the sky, the sweet-scented aroma of the April morning--how quickly it is +all over! But the seven deep breaths I slowly inhale on the way to the +office, and the eager ten on my return, set my blood aglow with renewed +life. For an instant my brain reels with the sudden rush of exquisite +intoxication, and then--I am in the tomb again. + + * * * * * + +The torture of the "basket" is maddening; the constant dusk is driving +me blind. Almost no light or air reaches me through the close wire +netting covering the barred door. The foul odor is stifling; it grips my +throat with deathly hold. The walls hem me in; daily they press closer +upon me, till the cell seems to contract, and I feel crushed in the +coffin of stone. From every point the whitewashed sides glare at me, +unyielding, inexorable, in confident assurance of their prey. + + * * * * * + +The darkness of despondency gathers day by day; the hand of despair +weighs heavier. At night the screeching of a crow across the river +ominously voices the black raven keeping vigil in my heart. The windows +in the hallway quake and tremble in the furious wind. Bleak and desolate +wakes the day--another day, then another-- + + * * * * * + +Weak and apathetic I lie on the bed. Ever further recedes the world of +the living. Still day follows night, and life is in the making, but I +have no part in the pain and travail. Like a spark from the glowing +furnace, flashing through the gloom, and swallowed in the darkness, I +have been cast upon the shores of the forgotten. No sound reaches me +from the island prison where beats the fervent heart of the Girl, no ray +of hope falls across the bars of desolation. But on the threshold of +Nirvana life recoils; in the very bowels of torment it cries out _to be_! +Persecution feeds the fires of defiance, and nerves my resolution. Were +I an ordinary prisoner, I should not care to suffer all these agonies. +To what purpose, with my impossible sentence? But my Anarchist ideals +and traditions rise in revolt against the vampire gloating over its +prey. No, I shall not disgrace the Cause, I shall not grieve my comrades +by weak surrender! I will fight and struggle, and not be daunted by +threat or torture. + + * * * * * + +With difficulty I walk to the office for the weekly weighing. My step +falters as I approach the scales, and I sway dizzily. As through a mist +I see the doctor bending over me, his head pressing against my body. +Somehow I reach the "basket," mildly wondering why I did not feel the +cold air. Perhaps they did not take me through the yard--Is it the Block +Captain's voice? "What did you say?" + +"Return to your old cell. You're on full diet now." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE SOLITARY + + +I + + Direct to Box A 7, + Allegheny City, Pa., + March 25, 1894. + + DEAR FEDYA: + + This letter is somewhat delayed: for certain reasons I missed + mail-day last month. Prison life, too, has its ups and downs, + and just now I am on the down side. We are cautioned to refrain + from referring to local affairs; therefore I can tell you only + that I am in solitary, without work. I don't know how long I am + to be kept "locked up." It may be a month, or a year, I hope it + will not be the latter. + + I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you + sent.... We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can + easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to the + last ad: they keep me in touch, to some extent, with the + living.... Blessed be the shades of Guttenberg! Hugo and Zola, + even Gogol and Turgenev, are in the library. It is like meeting + an old friend in a strange land to find our own Bazarov + discoursing--in English.... Page after page unfolds the + past--the solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again + I roam with Leather Stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow + with poor Oliver Twist. But the "Captain's Daughter" irritates + me, and Pugatchev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature + in the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Tarass + Bulba--is it our own Tarass, the fearless warrior, the scourge + of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old hetman + storming maledictions against the hated Moslems--in long-winded + German periods! Exasperated and offended, I turn my back upon + the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of the + requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth. Posies + bloom on his pages, and rosebuds scent his rhymes, but the pains + of the world's labor wake no chord in his soul.... Science and + romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy--all come + trooping into the cell in irrelevant sequence, for the allowance + of only one book at a time limits my choice. The variety of + reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to + perfect my English. But some passage in the "Starry Heavens" + suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with + the direct perception of despair, and the anguished question + surges through my mind, What is the use of all this study and + learning? And then--but why harrow you with this tenor. + + I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be + undone: the sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will be + mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you also are not bedded + on roses. And the poor Sailor? + + My space is all. + + ALEX. + + +II + +The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links +through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer +heat; rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my +face. On the pretext of a "draught" the unfriendly guard has closed the +hall windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The +leaden hours of the night are insufferable with the foul odor of the +perspiration and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless, I toss on +the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the weight of many +inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bedtick. But the +Block Captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing +me to "shake it up a bit." I am fearful of repeating the experiment: the +clouds of dust almost strangled me; for days the cell remained hazy with +the powdered filth. Impatiently I await the morning: the yard door will +open before the marching lines, and the fresh air be wafted past my +cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give +me life this day. + +And when the block has belched forth its striped prey, and silence +mounts its vigil, I may improve a favorable moment to exchange a +greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the +tier above me. Thrice his request for a "high gear" machine has been +refused, and the tall youth forced to work doubled over a low table. +Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has +repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a +hemorrhage; all through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate +with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The +Warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original +high machine. But the boy has grown obdurate: he is determined not to go +back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison +discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday +the torture is repeated: the youth is called before the Deputy, and +assigned to the hosiery department; the unvarying refusal is followed by +the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary, to be cited +again before the Warden the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness +to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of +yielding enrages him. "I'll die before I give in," he told me. + +From whispered talks through the waste pipe I learn the sad story of his +young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him. +His father, a brakeman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for +damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow +destitute. Since the age of fourteen young Johnny had to support the +whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon, +associating with a rough element that gradually drew him into gambling. +One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's +accounts: the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily +clad in stripes. + + * * * * * + +In vain I strive to absorb myself in the library book. The shoddy heroes +of Laura Jean wake no response in my heart; the superior beings of +Corelli, communing with mysterious heavenly circles, stalk by, strange +and unhuman. Here, in the cell above me, cries and moans the terrible +tragedy of Reality. What a monstrous thing it is that the whole power of +the commonwealth, all the machinery of government, is concentrated to +crush this unfortunate atom! Innocently guilty, too, the poor boy is. +Ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of +vitiating environment, his fate is sealed by a moment of weakness. Yet +his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint +reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy +of organized Society! The very foundation of its existence rests upon +the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and +justice. Every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the +semblance of truth; the whole life of humanity a mockery of the very +name. Political mastery based on violence and jesuitry; industry +gathering the harvest of human blood; commerce ascendant on the ruins of +manhood--such is the morality of civilization. And over the edifice of +this stupendous perversion the Law sits enthroned, and Religion weaves +the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong, and bids the +cowering helot intone, "Thy will be done!" + +Devoutly Johnny goes to Church, and prays forgiveness for his "sins." +The prosecutor was "very hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole +perceives only the immediate, and is embittered against the persons +directly responsible for his long imprisonment. But greater minds have +failed fully to grasp the iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns, +even, seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep +sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. But "man's inhumanity to man" is +not the last word. The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the +savage struggle for a crumb, that has converted mankind into wolves and +sheep. In liberty and communism, none would have the will or the power +"to make countless thousands mourn." Verily, it is the system, rather +than individuals, that is the source of pollution and degradation. My +prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the Midas-hand, +whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of Mammon. +Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement; with savage joy the shop +foreman cracks his whip, for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The +famished bodies in stripes, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon +night, the men buried in "basket" and solitary,--what human hand would +turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness, but for the dread of a like +fate, and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but an +intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with +the levers of Greed, guarded by the spawn of Hunger. + + * * * * * + +My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It is a Herculean task +to rouse Apathy to the sordidness of its misery. Yet if the People would +but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means +of deliverance, how joyously they would embrace Anarchy! Quick and +decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of +their despoilers. An hour of sanity, freed from prejudice and +superstition, and the torch of liberty would flame 'round the world, and +the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a +regenerated humanity. Ah, if the world would but pause for one short +while, and understand, and become free! + +Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical lore: only one instant +of righteousness, and Messiah would come upon earth. The beautiful +promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The +merciful God requires so little of us, I had often pondered. Why will we +not abstain from sin and evil, for just "the twinkling of an eye-lash"? +For weeks I went about weighed down with the grief of impenitent Israel +refusing to be saved, my eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening +the deliverance. Like a divine inspiration came the solution: at the +stroke of the noon hour, on a preconcerted day, all the men and women of +the Jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer. For a single stroke +of time, all at once--behold the Messiah come! In agonizing perplexity I +gazed at my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly smile quivered +dismay into my thrilling heart! The children of Israel could not be +saved thus,--he spoke sadly. Nay, not even in the most circumspect +manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time +to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah will come, the good tutor +kindly consoled me. It had been promised. "But the hour hath not +arrived," he quoted; "no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the +Deliverer." + +With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new hope, the +revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken: it +hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery. Out of the +People's need, from the womb of their suffering, must be born the hour +of redemption. Necessity, Necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur +numb Misery to effort, and waken the living dead. The process is +tortuously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried +by impatience. We must bide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers +for the great upheaval. The errors of the past are to be guarded +against: always has apparent victory been divested of its fruits, and +paralyzed into defeat, because the People were fettered by their respect +for property, by the superstitious awe of authority, and by reliance +upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason +lighted in the darkness of men's minds, ere blind rebellion can rend the +midway clouds of defeat, and sight the glory of the Social Revolution, +and the beyond. + + +III + +A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused sounds ring in my ears, +and beat upon my head. I wake in nameless dread. The cell-house is +raging with uproar: crash after crash booms through the hall; it +thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous +drum along the galleries, and abruptly ceases. + +In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still. Timidly I look +around. The cell is in darkness, and only a faint gas light flickers +unsteadily in the corridor. Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and +unearthly, bursting into wild laughter. And again the fearful thunder, +now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the +distance, then dying with a growl. And all is hushed again, and only the +unearthly laughter rings through the hall. + +"Johnny, Johnny!" I call in alarm. "Johnny!" + +"Th' kid's in th' hole," comes hoarsely through the privy. "This is +Horsethief. Is that you, Aleck?" + +"Yes. What _is_ it, Bob?" + +"Some one breakin' up housekeepin'." + +"Who?" + +"Can't tell. May be Smithy." + +"What Smithy, Bob?" + +"Crazy Smith, on crank row. Look out now, they're comin'." + +The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. Shadowlike, giant +figures glide past my cell. They walk inaudibly, felt-soled and +portentous, the long riot clubs rigid at their sides. Behind them +others, and then the Warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With +bated breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the +doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierce the night: there is the +rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling +body, and all is quiet. Noiselessly the bread cart flits by, the huge +shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards. + + * * * * * + +The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun glints a ray upon the +bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. A squad +of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the +floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones. + + * * * * * + +With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not dead. He will +recover, the rangeman assures me. The doctor bandaged the man's wounds, +and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon. +Little by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith has been +insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four +years ago. His "partner," Burns, has also become deranged through worry +over his sentence of twenty-five years. His madness assumed such +revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the +insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank row," the Warden insisting +that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape. + + +IV + +The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in +the monotony of the solitary. Owing to the illness of Bob, communication +with my friends is almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the +hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvarying sameness. By +violent efforts of will I strangle the recurring thought of my long +sentence, and seek forgetfulness in reading. Volume after volume passes +through my hands, till my brain is steeped with the printed word. Page +by page I recite the history of the Holy Church, the lives of the +Fathers and the Saints, or read aloud, to hear a human voice, the +mythology of Greece and India, mingling with it, for the sake of +variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But in the midst of an +intricate passage in the "Unknowable," or in the heart of a difficult +mathematical problem, I suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing +familiar figures on the library slate: 22 x 12 = 264. What is this, I +wonder. And immediately I proceed, in semiconscious manner, to finish +the calculation: + + 264 x 30 = 7,920 days. + 7,920 x 24 = 190,080 hours. + 190,080 x 60 = 11,404,800 minutes. + 11,404,800 x 60 = 684,288,000 seconds. + +But the next moment I am aghast at the realization that my computation +allows only 30 days per month, whereas the year consists of 365, +sometimes even of 366 days. And again I repeat the process, multiplying +22 by 365, and am startled to find that I have almost 700,000,000 +seconds to pass in the solitary. From the official calendar alongside of +the rules the cheering promise faces me, Good conduct shortens time. But +I have been repeatedly reported and punished--they will surely deprive +me of the commutation. With great care I figure out my allowance: one +month on the first year, one on the second; two on the third and fourth; +three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth; four months' +"good time" on each succeeding year. I shall therefore have to serve +fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in +the workhouse. I have been here now two years. It still leaves me 14 +years and 2 months, or more than 5,170 days. Appalled by the figures, I +pace the cell in agitation. It is hopeless! It is folly to expect to +survive such a sentence, especially in view of the Warden's persecution, +and the petty tyranny of the keepers. + +Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fancies of unforeseen developments +in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all +struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute +isolation holds no promise of deliverance; the days of illness and +suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp pang I observe the thinning +of my hair. The evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental +collapse, insanity.... I shudder at the terrible suggestion, and lash +myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangeman, and every +passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the Warden, the +guards, the judge, and that unembodied, shapeless, but inexorable and +merciless, thing--the world. In the moments of reacting calm I apply +myself to philosophy and science, determinedly, with the desperation +born of horror. But the dread ghost is ever before me; it follows me up +and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of "Crazy Smith" in +the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my +neighbor suddenly gone mad. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +MEMORY-GUESTS + + +Often the Chaplain pauses at my door, and speaks words of encouragement. +I feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions +forbid the expression of my emotions: a cog in the machinery of +oppression, he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the +fawning convict. But I hope he feels my appreciation in the simple +"thank you." It is kind of him to lend me books from his private +library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing +paper. Correspondence with the Girl and the Twin, and the unfrequent +exchange of notes with my comrades, are the only links that still bind +me to the living. I feel weary and life-worn, indifferent to the trivial +incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the +other inmates. "Old Sammy," the rangeman, grown nervous with the +approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his +heart. All day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the +doorsills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the +solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated recital of the "news," +elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness. +He interrupts his anathemas upon the "rotten food" and the "thieving +murderers," to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will +enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember +with towels and handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of +the folks at home: the "old woman" died of a broken heart, the boys have +not written a line in three years. He fears they have sold the little +farmhouse, and flown to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives +away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, "I'll see, I'll see," +and rejoices in being "alive and still good for a while," and then +abruptly changes the conversation, and relates minutely how "that poor, +crazy Dick" was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to +discover him, and to help the guards cut him down. And last week he was +present when the physician tried to revive "the little dago," and if the +doctor had only returned quicker from the theatre, poor Joe might have +been saved. He "took a fit" and "the screws jest let 'im lay; 'waitin' +for the doc,' they says. Hope they don't kill _me_ yet," he comments, +hobbling away. + + * * * * * + +The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction. Ever +stronger asserts itself the love of life; the will to be roots deeper. +But the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The +constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the _Blossoms_. The +eccentric Warden seems to have conceived a great fear of an Anarchist +conspiracy: special orders have been issued, placing the trio under +extraordinary surveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence, +yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us in a +manner excluding all possibility of communication. Apparently I am to be +continued in the solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the +South Wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery +in the North Block. The precious magazine is suspended, and only the +daring of the faithful "Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional +note. + +Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle light, I pass the long +winter evenings. The prison day between 7 A. M. and 9 P. M. I divide +into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and +reading, the remaining two hours occupied with meals and "cleaning up." +Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries, borrowed from the Chaplain, I +absorb myself in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word, +studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. I find +moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through +all the vicissitudes of its existence, to its Latin or Greek source. In +the history of the corresponding epoch, I seek the people's joys and +tragedies, contemporary with the fortunes of the word. Philology, with +the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and +comparative religion, through the mazes of metaphysics and warring +philosophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science. + +Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the disciples of Socrates, flee +Athens with the persecuted Diagoras, "the Atheist," and listen in +ecstasy to the sweet-voiced lute of Arion; or with Suetonius I pass in +review the Twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the +triumph of the Eternal City. But on the very threshold of Cleopatra's +boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three +giant slaves with the command: + +"A 7, hands up! Step out to be searched!" + + * * * * * + +For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. With difficulty I +force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the +past. The placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the +quagmire seethes toward the surface, and fills my cup with the +bitterness of death. + +The release of "Old Sammy" stirs me to the very depths. Many prisoners +have come and gone during my stay; with some I merely touched hands as +they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my +existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid +optimism, has grown dear to me. He shared with me his hopes and fears, +divided his extra slice of cornbread, and strove to cheer me in his own +homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something has gone out of my +life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow +my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the +alluring "outside," the charmed circle that holds the promise of life +and joy and liberty. Like a horrible nightmare the sombre walls fade +away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden +menace, faint, yet ever-present and terrible. The sun glows brilliant in +the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odors +are everywhere about me. All the longing of my soul wells up with +violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself upon +the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss.... + + * * * * * + +The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the dark. Silently lifts +the veil of time. The little New York flat rises before me. The Girl is +returning home, the roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of +death. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her +saddened face. As on an open page, I read the suffering of her prison +experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose.... The joys and +sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again I live in the old +surroundings. The memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little +cafe at Sachs', projects clearly. The room is chilly in the November +dusk, as I return from work and secure my accustomed place. One by one +the old habitues drop in, and presently I am in a heated discussion with +two Russian refugees at the table opposite. The door opens, and a young +woman enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an +atmosphere of strength and vitality. I wonder who the newcomer may be. +Two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the +revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl is evidently a +stranger; I am quite sure I have never met her at our gatherings. I +motion to the passing proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question. +"You want to know who the young lady is?" he whispers. "I'll see, I'll +see."--Somehow I find myself at her table. Without constraint, we soon +converse like old acquaintances, and I learn that she left her home in +Rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is a +dressmaker, and hopes to find work in New York. I like her simple, frank +confidence; the "comrade" on her lips thrills me. She is one of us, +then. With a sense of pride in the movement, I enlarge upon the +activities of our circle. There are important meetings she ought to +attend, many people to meet; Hasselmann is conducting a course in +sociology; Schultze is giving splendid lectures. "Have you heard Most?" +I ask suddenly. "No? You must hear our Grand Old Man. He speaks +to-morrow; will you come with me?"--Eagerly I look forward to the next +evening, and hasten to the cafe. It is frosty outdoors as I walk the +narrow, dark streets in animated discussion with "Comrade Rochester." +The ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spots crusted with +filth. As we cross Delancey Street, the girl slips and almost falls, +when I catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking +the curbstone. "You have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes +dancing vivaciously.... With great pride I introduce my new friend to +the _inteligentzia_ of the Ghetto, among the exiles of the colony. Ah, +the exaltation, the joy of being!... The whole history of revolutionary +Russia is mirrored in our circles; every shade of temperamental Nihilism +and political view is harbored there. I see Hartman, surrounded by the +halo of conspirative mystery; at his side is the _velikorussian_, with +flowing beard and powerful frame, of the older generation of the +_narodovoiltzy_; and there is Schewitsch, big and broad of feature, the +typical _dvoryanin_ who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. The +line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony: Cahan is +among us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality; +Solotaroff, his pale student face peculiarly luminous; Miller, +poetically eloquent, and his strangely-named brother Brandes, looking +consumptive from his experience in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and +Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein--all are united in enthusiasm for the +common cause. Types from Turgenev and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski +and Nekrassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality, +individualized with varying shade and light. And other elements are in +the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of Tsardom. +Shapes in the making, still being kneaded in the mold of old tradition +and new environment. Who knows what shall be the amalgam, some day to be +recast by the master hand of a new Turgenev?... + + * * * * * + +Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past. With +infinite detail I live again through the years of the inspiring +friendship that held the Girl, the Twin, and myself in the closest bonds +of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest +and rich promise was life in those days, so far away, when after the +hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory I would hasten to the +little room in Suffolk Street! Small and narrow, with its diminutive +table and solitary chair, the cage-like bedroom would be transfigured +into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's +weal. Only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety +chair. And if somebody else called, we would stand around the room, +filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm +consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing +the glorious Dawn. + + * * * * * + +The memory of the life "outside" intensifies the misery of the solitary. +I brood over the uselessness of my suffering. My mission in life +terminated with the _Attentat_. What good can my continued survival do? +My propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and +political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me +the duty of existence. And even if it were, the almost three years of my +imprisonment have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration, so +long as I remain constantly under lock and key, the subject of special +surveillance. Communication with Nold and Bauer, too, is daily growing +more difficult. My health is fast failing; I am barely able to walk. +What is the use of all this misery and torture? What is the use?... + +In such moments, I stand on the brink of eternity. Is it sheer apathy +and languor that hold the weak thread of life, or nature's law and the +inherent spirit of resistance? Were I not in the enemy's power, I should +unhesitatingly cross the barrier. But as a pioneer of the Cause, I must +live and struggle. Yet life without activity or interest is +terrifying.... I long for sympathy and affection. With an aching heart I +remember my comrades and friends, and the Girl. More and more my mind +dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night with a passionate desire +for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning +fills me for the women I have known, as they pass in my mind's eye from +the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. With a +thrill I recall each bright look and tender accent. My heart beats +tumultuously as I meet little Nadya, on the way to school, pretending I +do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the +breeze, when I surprise her stealthily watching me. I adore her +secretly, but proudly decline my chum's offer to introduce me. How +foolish of me! But I know no timid shrinking as I wait, on a cold winter +evening, for our neighbor's servant girl to cross the yard; and how +unceremoniously I embrace her! She is not a _barishnya_; I need not mask +my feelings. And she is so primitive; she accuses me of knowing things +"not fit for a boy" of my age. But she kisses me again, and passion +wakes at the caress of the large, coarse hand.... My Eldridge Street +platonic sweetheart stands before me, and I tingle with every sensual +emotion of my first years in New York.... Out of the New Haven days +rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with unutterable longing for the +unattained. And again I live through the experiences of the past, +passionately visualizing every detail with images that flatter my erotic +palate and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE + + +I + + To K. & G. + + Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The + coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put in his + place. + + It's lucky the old Deputy died--he was determined to keep me in + solitary. In the absence of the Warden, Benny Greaves, the new + Deputy, told me he will "risk" giving me a job. But he has + issued strict orders I should not be permitted to step into the + yard. I'll therefore still be under special surveillance, and I + shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with our + "Faithful," and we can now resume a more regular correspondence. + + Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out of + the cell! + + M. + + +II + +My position as coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact +with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of +sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it +are, successively, I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of the +cell-house. On the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are +labelled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries form parallelograms about each +double cell-row; bridged at the centre, they permit easy access to the +several ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty +cells, are contained within the outer stone building, and comprise the +North Block of the penitentiary. It connects with the South Wing by +means of the rotunda. + +[Illustration: CELL RANGES--SOUTH BLOCK] + +The bottom tiers A and K serve as "receiving" ranges. Here every new +arrival is temporarily "celled," before he is assigned to work and +transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges +are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and +solitary. The lower end of the two ranges is designated "bughouse row." +It contains the "cranks," among whom are classed inmates in different +stages of mental aberration. + +My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and +assisting at feeding, enable me to become acquainted and to form +friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of "the +criminal." I resent the presumption of "science" that pretends to evolve +the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a +digit cut from a dead hand, and labels it "criminal type." Daily +association dispels the myth of the "species," and reveals the +individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers +coarsened by lack of opportunity, and brutalized by misery and fear. +There is "Reddie" Butch, a rosy-cheeked young fellow of twenty-one, as +frank-spoken a boy as ever honored a striped suit. A jolly criminal is +Butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song. He was "just dying to +take his girl for a ride," he relates to me. But he couldn't afford it; +he earned only seven dollars per week, as butcher's boy. He always gave +his mother every penny he made, but the girl kept taunting him because +he couldn't spend anything on her. "And I goes to work and swipes a rig, +and say, Aleck, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house, big-like. +In I goes. 'Put on your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you +the drive of your life.' And I did; you bet your sweet life, I did, ha, +ha, ha!" But when he returned the rig to its owner, Butch was arrested. +"'Just a prank, Your Honor,' I says to the Judge. And what d' you think, +Aleck? Thought I'd die when he said three years. I was foolish, of +course; but there's no use crying over spilt milk, ha, ha, ha! But you +know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar +you, eh? Well, I'll try hard to forget th' minx. She's a sweet girl, +though, you bet, ha, ha, ha!" + + * * * * * + +And there is Young Rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the +great American physician. The delicate features, radiant with +spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to Shelley; the limping gait +recalls the tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder! He sits at the door, +an open book in his hands,--the page is moist with the tears silently +trickling down his face. He smiles at my approach, and his expressive +eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking +through the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a Summer night: the skiff +suddenly upturned, "right opposite here,"--he points to the +river,--"near McKees Rocks." He was dragged out, unconscious. They told +him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer! He reaches for the +photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs. + + * * * * * + +Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell with +deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange +a greeting, with the prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie. How he +cheered me in the first days of misery; how kind he was! In gentler +tones I speak to the unfortunates, and encourage the new arrivals, or +indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of +the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my +wake. Taking advantage of the old Block Captain's "cold in the head," I +cautiously hint at the danger of germs lurking in the dust-laden +atmosphere. "A little wet sawdust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you +wouldn't catch colds so often." A capital idea, he thinks, and +thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell. + +In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary. Every trifle means so +much. "Long Joe," the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their +needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. The poor fellow is serving +twenty-five years, and he is much worried by "Wild Bill" and "Bighead" +Wilson. They are constantly demanding to see the Warden. It is +remarkable that they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in fear +of them. "Wild Bill" is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar +rumors concerning his intimacy with the Warden. Recently Bill complained +of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him. +"From the Warden's table," he remarked, with a sly wink. And Wilson is +jocularly referred to as "the Deputy," even by the officers. He is still +in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new +Deputy; he openly defies the rules, upbraids the guards, and issues +orders. He is the Warden's "runner," clad with the authority of his +master. The prisoners regard Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially +hate them; but none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed by +"Deputy" Wilson; there seems to be bitter enmity between the two on +account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried +by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is +indifferent to the unfortunates in the cells. Butch is devoured by +bedbugs, and "Praying" Andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. The +simple-minded life-timer is being neglected: he has not yet recovered +from the assault by Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer. +I urge the rangeman to report to the Captain the need of "bedbugging" +Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with a new mattress, and of notifying +the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries. + + +III + +Breakfast is over; the lines form in lockstep, and march to the shops. +Broom in hand, rangemen and assistants step upon the galleries, and +commence to sweep the floors. Officers pass along the tiers, closely +scrutinizing each cell. Now and then they pause, facing a "delinquent." +They note his number, unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the "sick +line" on the ground floor. + +One by one the men augment the row; they walk slowly, bent and coughing, +painfully limping down the steep flights. From every range they come; +the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a +tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy. All look withered and +dejected,--a ghastly line, palsied and blear-eyed, blanched in the +valley of death. + +The rotunda door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by +Deputy Warden Greaves and Assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a +prisoner, dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine box. Dr. Boyce +glances at the long line, and knits his brow. He looks at his watch, and +the frown deepens. He has much to do. Since the death of the senior +doctor, the young graduate is the sole physician of the big prison. He +must make the rounds of the shops before noon, and visit the patients +in the hospital before the Warden or the Deputy drops in. + +Mr. Greaves sits down at the officers' desk, near the hall entrance. The +Assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sick +line. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda, facing the +Deputy. The block officers stand within call, at respectful distances. + +"Two-fifty-five!" the Assistant Deputy calls out. + +A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is +tall and well featured, the large eyes lustrous in the pale face. He +speaks in a hoarse voice: + +"Doctor, there is something the matter with my side. I have pains, and I +cough bad at night, and in the morning--" + +"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking up from his +notebook. "Give him some salts," he adds, with a nod to his assistant. + +"Next!" the Deputy calls. + +"Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days?" the sick +prisoner pleads, a tremor in his voice. + +The physician glances questioningly at the Deputy. The latter cries, +impatiently, "Next, next man!" striking the desk twice, in quick +succession, with the knuckles of his hand. + +"Return to the shop," the doctor says to the prisoner. + +"Next!" the Deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the +direction of the cuspidor. It strikes sidewise, and splashes over the +foot of the approaching new patient, a young negro, his neck covered +with bulging tumors. + +"Number?" the doctor inquires. + +"One-thirty-seven. A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy mumbles, his head +thrown back to receive a fresh handful of "scrap" tobacco. + +"Guess Ah's got de big neck, Ah is, Mistah Boyce," the negro says +hoarsely. + +"Salts. Return to work. Next!" + +"A one-twenty-six!" + +A young man with parchment-like face, sere and yellow, walks painfully +from the line. + +"Doctor, I seem to be gettin' worser, and I'm afraid--" + +"What's the trouble?" + +"Pains in the stomach. Gettin' so turrible, I--" + +"Give him a plaster. Next!" + +"Plaster hell!" the prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing +livid. "Look at this, will you?" With a quick motion he pulls his shirt +up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous +plasters; not an inch of skin is visible. "Damn yer plasters," he cries +with sudden sobs, "I ain't got no more room for plasters. I'm putty near +dyin', an' you won't do nothin' fer me." + +The guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda. + + * * * * * + +One by one the sick prisoners approach the doctor. He stands, head bent, +penciling, rarely glancing up. The elongated ascetic face wears a +preoccupied look; he drawls mechanically, in monosyllables, "Next! +Numb'r? Salts! Plaster! Salts! Next!" Occasionally he glances at his +watch; his brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere +face grows more severe and rigid. Now and then he turns his eyes upon +the Deputy Warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a +thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking +the gray beard. Cheeks protruding, mouth full of juice, the Deputy +mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts "Next!" +and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signaling to the physician to +order the man to work. Only the withered and the lame are temporarily +excused, the Deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to +the doctor. + +Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing, +wheezing, and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning. +Quite often, breaking down at the machine or fainting at the task, the +men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital, to receive a respite +from the killing toil,--a short intermission, or a happier, eternal +reprieve. + +The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are +sent back to their quarters, and locked up for the day. Only these, the +permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the +sweepers, remain within the inner walls during working hours. The pall +of silence descends upon the House of Death. + + +IV + +The guards creep stealthily along the tiers. Officer George Dean, lank +and tall, tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance, +his evil-looking eyes peering through the bars, scrutinizing every +inmate. Suddenly the heavy jaws snap. "Hey, you, Eleven-thirty-nine! On +the bed again! Wha-at? Sick, hell! No dinner!" Noisily he pretends to +return to the desk "in front," quietly steals into the niche of a cell +door, and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed murmur +proceeds from the upper galleries. Cautiously the guard advances, +hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps +into the center of the hall, shouting: "Cells forty-seven K, I, H! +Talking through the pipe! Got you this time, all right." He grins +broadly as he returns to the desk, and reports to the Block Captain. The +guards ascend the galleries. Levers are pulled, doors opened with a +bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. For days their +cells remain vacant: the men are in the dungeon. + + * * * * * + +Gaunt and cadaverous, Guard Hughes makes the rounds of the tiers, on a +tour of inspection. With bleary eyes, sunk deep in his head, he gazes +intently through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely he walks +along, stepping from cell to cell, here tearing a picture off the wall, +there gathering a few scraps of paper. As I pass along the hall, he +slams a door on the range above, and appears upon the gallery. His +pockets bulge with confiscated goods. He glances around, as the Deputy +enters from the yard. "Hey, Jasper!" the guard calls. The colored trusty +scampers up the stairs. "Take this to the front." The officer hands him +a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of +cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by +sitting in the dark for weeks. "Show 't to the Deputy," the officer +says, in an undertone. "I'm doing business, all right!" The trusty +laughs boisterously, "Yassah, yassah, dat yo sure am." + +The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front. +The Deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. The officer casts +his eye about the cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers. +A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. On the bed +are some bananas and a bunch of grapes,--forbidden fruit. The guard +steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches +for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. It bears the +legend, painted in black, A 480. On the reverse side the officer reads, +"Collins Hamilton, dated----." His watery eyes strain to decipher the +penciled marks paled by the damp, whitewashed wall. "Jasper!" he calls, +"come up here." The trusty hastens to him. + +"You know who this man is, Jasper? A four-eighty." + +"Ah sure knows. Dat am Hamilton, de bank 'bezleh." + +"Where's he working?" + +"Wat _he_ wan' teh work foh? He am de Cap'n's clerk. In de awfice, _he_ +am." + +"All right, Jasper." The guard carefully closes the clerk's door, and +enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean and orderly. The stone floor +is bare, the bedding smooth; the library book, tin can, and plate, are +neatly arranged on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the +blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of +secreted contraband. He reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall, and +takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco,--the weekly allowance of the +prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up, and +thrusts it into his mouth. He produces a prison "plug" from his pocket, +bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy, and yawns; looks +at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the +corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. He surveys the field, +leans over the railing, and squints at the front. The chairs at the +officers' desk are vacant. The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and +stretches, and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock. He +picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the +book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew, and +sprawls down on the bed. + + +V + +At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and Assistant Deputy +Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb physique and glowing vitality, Mr. +Woods wears his new honors as Captain of the Block with aggressive +self-importance. He has recently been promoted from the shop to the +charge of the North Wing, on the morning shift, from 5 A. M. to 1 P. M. +Every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the +hallway, crosses the open centre, and returns past the opposite +cell-row. + +With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the +Assistant Deputy, in measured, low tones. The latter listens gravely, +his head slightly bent, his sharp gray eyes restless above the +heavy-rimmed spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered, +rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he espies the shining face of +Jasper on an upper gallery. The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a +large apple from his pocket, and, holding it up to view, asks: + +"How does this strike you, Jasper?" + +"Looks teh dis niggah like a watahmelon, Cunnel." + +Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins laughs, and motions to the +negro. The trusty joins them at the desk. + +"I'll bet the coon could get away with this apple in two bites," the +Assistant Deputy says to Woods. + +"Hardly possible," the latter remarks, doubtfully. + +"You don't know this darky, Scot," Hopkins rejoins. "I know him for the +last--let me see--fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. That's when you first +came here, eh, Jasper?" + +"Yassah, 'bout dat." + +"In the old prison, then?" Woods inquires. + +"Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when 'Shoe-box' Miller got out, +wasn't you?" + +"Yo 'member good, Cunnel. Dat Ah was, sure 'nuf. En mighty slick it +was, bress me, teh hab imsef nailed in dat shoebox, en mek his +get-away." + +"Yes, yes. And this is your fourth time since then, I believe." + +"No, sah, no, sah; dere yo am wrong, Cunnel. Youh remnishent am bad. Dis +jus' free times, jus' free." + +"Come off, it's four." + +"Free, Cunnel, no moah." + +"Do you think, Mr. Hopkins, Jasper could eat the apple in two bites?" +Woods reminds him. + +"I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line this coon couldn't +do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple if you make it in two bites. Don't +disgrace me, now." + +The negro grins, "Putty big, Cunnel, but Ah'm a gwine teh try powful +hard." + +With a heroic effort he stretches his mouth, till his face looks like a +veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear, and edged by large, +shimmering tusks. With both hands he inserts the big apple, and his +sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. He chews quickly, swallows, +repeats the performance, and then holds up his hands. The apple has +disappeared. + +The Assistant Deputy roars with laughter. "What did I tell you, eh, +Scot? What did I tell you, ho, ho, ho!" The tears glisten in his eye. + + * * * * * + +They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. He relates his +experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. Now +and then Deputy Warden Greaves drops in. Woods rises. + +"Have a seat, Mr. Greaves." + +"That's all right, that's all right, Scot," the Deputy mumbles, his eye +searching for the cuspidor. "Sit down, Scot: I'm as young as any of +you." + +With mincing step he walks into the first cell, reserved for the +guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps, +wabbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into Woods's seat. + +"Jasper, go bring me a chew," he turns to the trusty. + +"Yassah. Scrap, Dep'ty?" + +"Yah. A nip of plug, too." + +"Yassah, yassah, immejitly." + +"What are you men doing here?" the Deputy blusters at the two +subordinates. + +Woods frowns, squares his shoulders, glances at the Deputy, and then +relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant Hopkins looks sternly at the +Deputy Warden from above his glasses. "That's all right, Greaves," he +says, familiarly, a touch of scorn in his voice. "Say, you should have +seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great, big apple in two bites; as big +as your head, I'll swear." + +"That sho?" the Deputy nods sleepily. + +The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in +the other. The Deputy slowly opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the +cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling +at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his +mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands, hoarsely: + +"Where's all them spittoons, eh, you men?" + +"Just being cleaned, Mr. Greaves," Woods replies. + +"Cleaned, always th' shame shtory. I ordered--ya--ordered--hey, bring +shpittoon, Jasper." He wags his head drowsily. + +"He means he ordered spittoons by the wagonload," Hopkins says, with a +wink at Woods. "It was the very first order he gave when he became +Deputy after Jimmie McPane died. I tell you, Scot, we won't see soon +another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all right, every inch of +him. Wouldn't stand for the old man, the Warden, interfering with him, +either. Not like this here," he points contemptuously at the snoring +Greaves. "Here, Benny," he raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the +knee, "here's Jasper with your spittoon." + +Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about; presently, +noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor, and spurts a long jet at +it. + +"Say, Jasper," Hopkins calls to the retiring negro, "the deputy wants to +hear that story you told us a while ago, about you got the left hind +foot of a she-rabbit, on a moonlit night in a graveyard." + +"Who shaid I want to hear 't?" the Deputy bristles, suddenly wide awake. + +"Yes, you do, Greaves," Hopkins asserts. "The rabbit foot brings good +luck, you know. This coon here wears it on his neck. Show it to the +Deputy, Jasper." + + * * * * * + +Prisoner Wilson, the Warden's favorite messenger, enters from the yard. +With quick, energetic step he passes the officers at the desk, entirely +ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his +unnaturally large head set close upon the heavy, almost neckless +shoulders. + +"Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after?" the Deputy shouts after him. + +Without replying, Wilson continues on his way. + +"Dep'ty Wilson," the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy. + +Assistant Deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. "Wilson," he calls with +quiet sternness, "Mr. Greaves is speaking to you. Come back at once." + +His face purple with anger, Wilson retraces his steps. "What do you +want, Deputy?" he demands, savagely. + +The Deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the +severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently: "What do you want in the +block?" + +"On Captain Edward S. Wright's business," Wilson replies with a sneer. + +"Well, go ahead. But next time I call you, you better come back." + +"The Warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detained me +with an idle question," Wilson snarls back. + +"That'll do, Wilson," the Assistant Deputy warns him. + +"Wait till I see the Captain," Wilson growls, as he departs. + +"If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off," the Assistant mutters. + +"Such impudence in a convict cannot be tolerated," Woods comments. + +"The Cap'n won't hear a word against Wilson," the Deputy says meekly. + +Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping +the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidor. The Deputy ambles stiffly +to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to +the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side, and +scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall, in +melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell-building brooding in the +centre, like some monstrous hunchback, without life or motion. Woods +resumes his seat. + +"Quiet as a church," he remarks with evident satisfaction. + +"You're doing well, Scot," the Deputy mumbles. "Doing well." + +A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness. The officers prick up +their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty +tiptoes up the tiers. + +"It's somebody with his spoon on the door," the Assistant Deputy +remarks, indifferently. + +The Block Captain motions to me. "See who's rapping there, will you?" + +I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to the wall, I can see +up to the doors of the third gallery. Here and there a nose protrudes in +the air, the bleached face glued to the bars, the eyes glassy. The +rapping grows louder as I advance. + +"Who is it?" I call. + +"Up here, 18 C." + +"Is that you, Ed?" + +"Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell th' screw I must see the doctor." + +I run to the desk. "Mr. Woods," I report, "18 C got a hemorrhage. Can't +stop it. He needs the doctor." + +"Let him wait," the Deputy growls. + +"Doctor hour is over. He should have reported in the morning," the +Assistant Deputy flares up. + +"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask. + +"Nothing! Get back to your cell." + +"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot," the Deputy suggests. + +Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18 C, and +returns. + +"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in +the morning." + + * * * * * + +A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner, +enters from the yard. It is the "French Count," one of the clerks in the +"front office." + +"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. He leans familiarly +over the Deputy's chair, remarking: "I've been hunting half an hour for +you. The Captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you." + +The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he asks anxiously. + +"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about?" + +"What? Quick, now." + +"They caught Wild Bill right in the act. Out in the yard there, back of +the shed." + +The Deputy stumps heavily out into the yard. + +"Who's the kid?" the Assistant Deputy inquires, an amused twinkle in his +eye. + +"Bobby." + +"Who? That boy on the whitewash gang?" + +"Yes, Fatty Bobby." + + * * * * * + +The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. The sick man is +striking his tin can on the bars, and shaking the door. Woods hastens to +C 18. + +"You stop that, you hear!" he commands angrily. + +"I'm sick. I want th' doctor." + +"This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning." + +"I may be dead in the morning. I want him now." + +"You won't see him, that's all. You keep quiet there." + +Furiously the prisoner raps on the door. The hall reverberates with +hollow booming. + +The Block Captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. He whispers to +the Assistant Deputy. The latter nods his head. Woods claps his hands, +deliberately, slowly--one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend from the +galleries, and advance to the desk. The rangemen appear at their doors. + +"Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock 'em in!" Woods commands. + +"You can stay here, Jasper," the Assistant Deputy remarks to the trusty. + +The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are pulled, the doors +locked. I hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. Now they +cease, and all is quiet. + +"C 18, step out here!" + +The door slams, there is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull, +heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud cry and a moan. They drag the +prisoner along the range, and down the stairway. The rotunda door +creaks, and the clamor dies away. + +A few minutes elapse in silence. Now some one whispers through the +pipes; insane solitaries bark and crow. Loud coughing drowns the noises, +and then the rotunda door opens with a plaintive screech. + +The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open door of my cell. The +negro trusty dusts and brushes the officers, their hacks and arms +covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall. + +Their clothes cleaned and smoothed, the guards loll in the chairs, and +sit on the desk. They look somewhat ruffled and flustered. Jasper +enlarges upon the piquant gossip. "Wild Bill," notorious invert and +protege of the Warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from +the stocking shop; he has been after "Fatty Bobby" for quite a while, +and he's forever pestering "Lady Sally," and Young Davis, too. The +guards are astir with curiosity; they ply the negro with questions. He +responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. There is +merriment and laughter at the officers' desk. + + +VI + +Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen +squad, enters the cell-house. Behind him, a score of prisoners carry +large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. The negro trusty, his +nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air, and announces +with a grin: "Dooke's mixchoor foh dinneh teh day!" + +The scene becomes animated at the front. Tables are noisily moved about, +the tinplate rattles, and men talk and shout. With a large ladle the +soup is dished out from the tubs, and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked +up in long rows. The Deputy Warden flounces in, splutters some orders +that remain ignored, and looks critically at the dinner pans. He +produces a pocket knife, and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato +here, a bit of floating vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of +the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. He +hovers about, waiting for the Deputy to leave. The latter stands, hands +dug into his pockets, short legs wide apart, scraggy beard keeping time +with the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the kitchen men, and +slinks into an open cell. The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move +the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup, +and passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by +Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer walks to the open cell +and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, the large pan covering +his face. Woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle. + + * * * * * + +"Chief Jim," the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloonkeeper serving twelve +years for murder, promenades down the range. Large-bellied and +whitecapped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. With +swelling chest, stomach protruding, and hand wrapped in his dirty +apron, the Chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging +greetings. He pauses at a door: it's Cell 9 A,--the "Fat Kid." Jim leans +against the wall, his back toward the dinner tables; presently his hand +steals between the bars. Now and then he glances toward the front, and +steps closer to the door. He draws a large bundle from his bosom, +hastily tears it open, and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw +onions, some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the young +prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. He +lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork; +then he smiles, casts a searching look to the front, grips the bars with +both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche. + +As suddenly he appears to view again, takes several quick steps, then +pauses at another cell. Standing away from the door, he speaks loudly +and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he +leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the rangeman, +lifts his eyebrows questioningly, and winks. The man nods affirmatively, +and retreats into his cell. The Chief dives into the bosom of his shirt, +and flings a bundle through the open door. He holds out his hand, +whispering: "Two bits. Broke now? Be sure you pay me to-morrow. That +steak there's worth a plunk." + + * * * * * + +The gong tolls the dinner hour. The negro trusty snatches two pans, and +hastens away. The guards unlock the prisoners, excepting the men in +solitary who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms in +single file, and advances slowly to the tables; then, pan in hand, the +men circle the block to the centre, ascend the galleries, and are locked +in their cells. + +The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step, sounds from the yard. +The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells. +Some sniff the air, make a wry face, and pass on, empty-handed. There is +much suppressed murmuring and whispering. + +Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour. Every prisoner is +counted and locked in. Only the trusties are about. + + +VII + +The afternoon brings a breath of relief. "Old Jimmie" Mitchell, +rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers, on duty from +1 till 9 P. M. The venerable Captain of the Block trudges past the +cells, stroking his flowing white beard, and profusely swearing at the +men. But the prisoners love him: he frowns upon clubbing, and +discourages trouble-seeking guards. + +Head downward, he thumps heavily along the hall, on his first round of +the bottom ranges. Presently a voice hails him: "Oh, Mr. Mitchell! Come +here, please." + +"Damn your soul t' hell," the officer rages, "don't you know better than +to bother me when I'm counting, eh? Shut up now, God damn you. You've +mixed me all up." + +He returns to the front, and begins to count again, pointing his finger +at each occupied cell. This duty over, and his report filed, he returns +to the offending prisoner. + +"What t' hell do you want, Butch?" + +"Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on th' bum. I am walking on my socks." + +"Where th' devil d' you think you're going, anyhow? To a ball?" + +"Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you?" the youth coaxes. + +"Go an' take a--thump to yourself, will you?" + +The officer walks off, heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short +distance from the cell, to hear Butch mumbling discontentedly. The Block +Captain retraces his steps, and, facing the boy, storms at him: + +"What did you say? 'Damn the old skunk!' that's what you said, eh? You +come on out of there!" + +With much show of violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the +door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard: + +"Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give 'im--er--give 'im a +pair of shoes." + +He starts down the range, when some one calls from an upper tier: + +"Jimmy, Jimmy! Come on up here!" + +"I'll jimmy you damn carcass for you," the old man bellows, angrily, +"Where th' hell are you?" + +"Here, on B, 20 B. Right over you." + +The officer steps back to the wall, and looks up toward the second +gallery. + +"What in th' name of Jesus Christ do you want, Slim?" + +"Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp mixture, Jim." + +"Cramps in yer head, that's what you've got, you big bum you. Where the +hell did you get your cramp mixture, when you was spilling around in a +freight car, eh?" + +"I got booze then," the prisoner retorts. + +"Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get a louzy hand-out at the +back door, you ornery pimple on God's good earth." + +"Th' hell you say! The hand-out was a damn sight better'n th' rotten +slush I get here. I wouldn't have a belly-ache, if it wasn't for th' +hogwash they gave us to-day." + +"Lay down now! You talk like a horse's rosette." + +It's the old man's favorite expression, in his rich vocabulary of +picturesque metaphor and simile. But there is no sting in the brusque +speech, no rancor in the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses +to whisper to the block trusty: + +"John, you better run down to the dispensary, an' get that big stiff +some cramp mixture." + +Happening to glance into a cell, Mitchell notices a new arrival, a +bald-headed man, his back against the door, reading. + +"Hey you!" the Block Captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner +off his chair, "take that bald thing out of there, or I'll run you in +for indecent exposure." + +He chuckles at the man's fright, like a boy pleased with a naughty +prank, and ascends the upper tiers. + + * * * * * + +Duster in hand, I walk along the range. The guards are engaged on the +galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded +inmates to the South Wing, or chatting with the trusties. The chairs at +the officers' desk are vacant. Keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors, +I walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in +conversation. Johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and +then glancing into the yard, and giving me "the office" by sharply +snapping his fingers, to warn me of danger. I ply the duster diligently, +while the Deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the +trusties imparting information gathered during the day. Gradually they +disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress, or nosing +about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. The "coast is clear," +and I return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation. + +But the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted. The oft-repeated +tirade against the "rotten grub," the "stale punk," and the "hogwash"; +vehement cursing of the brutal "screws," the "stomach-robber of a +Warden" and the unreliability of his promises; the exchange of gossip, +and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. Within the +narrow circle runs the interminable tale, colored by individual +temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is +dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment, +often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider +responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor, +the informer, the witnesses, and, in rare instances, the trial judge. +But as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty +rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and +irrepressible sex desire. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL + + +The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in +their eyes. The long-timers among them seem dazed, as if with some +terrible shock, and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys +from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and +moan, and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only the "repeaters" and +old-timers preserve their composure, scoff at the "fresh fish," nod at +old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But +all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, leaning +against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious +expectancy on their faces. They yearn for companionship, and are +pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbosom +their heavy hearts. + +I am minutely familiar with every detail of their "case," their +life-history, their hopes and fears. Through the endless weeks and +months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of +conversation. A glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against +the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me,--the cell-house +grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier and more depressing. + +There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as I +pause at his door. "Hello, Alick," he greets me in his sweet, sad voice. +He knows me from the jail. His father and elder brother have been +executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. He is barely +eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He has been acting queerly of +late: at night I often hear him muttering and walking, walking +incessantly and muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes, +restless, roving. + +"Alick," he says, suddenly, "me wanna tell you sometink. You no tell +nobody, yes?" + +Assured I'll keep his confidence, he begins to talk quickly, excitedly: + +"Nobody dere, Alick? No scroo? S-sh! Lassa night me see ma broder. Yes, +see Gianni. Jesu Cristo, me see ma poor broder in da cella 'ere, an' den +me fader he come. Broder and fader day stay der, on da floor, an so +quieta, lika dead, an' den dey come an lay downa in ma bed. Oh, Jesu +Christo, me so fraida, me cry an' pray. You not know wat it mean? +No-o-o? Me tell you. It mean me die, me die soon." + +His eyes glow with a sombre fire, a hectic flush on his face. He knits +his brows, as I essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly: + +"S-sh! Waita till me tell you all. You know watta for ma fader an' +Gianni come outa da grave? Me tell you. Dey calla for ravange, 'cause +dey innocente. Me tell you trut. See, we all worka in da mine, da coal +mine, me an' my fader an' Gianni. All worka hard an' mek one dollar, +maybe dollar quater da day. An' bigga American man, him come an' boder +ma fader. Ma fader him no wanna trouble; him old man, no boder nobody. +An' da American man him maka two dollars an mebbe two fifty da day an' +him boder my fader, all da time, boder 'im an' kick 'im to da legs, an' +steal ma broder's shovel, an' hide fader's hat, an' maka trouble for ma +countrymen, an' call us 'dirty dagoes.' An' one day him an' two Arish +dey all drunk, an' smash ma fader, an' American man an Arish holler, +'Dago s---- b---- fraida fight,' an' da American man him take a bigga +pickax an' wanna hit ma fader, an' ma fader him run, an' me an' ma +broder an' friend we fight, an' American man him fall, an' we all go way +home. Den p'lice come an' arresta me an' fader an' broder, an' say we +killa American man. Me an' ma broder no use knife, mebbe ma friend do. +Me no know; him no arresta; him go home in Italia. Ma fader an' broder +dey save nineda-sev'n dollar, an' me save twenda-fife, an' gotta laiyer. +Him no good, an' no talk much in court. We poor men, no can take case in +oder court, an' fader him hang, an' Gianni hang, an' me get life. Ma +fader an' broder dey come lassa night from da grave, cause dey innocente +an' wanna ravange, an' me gotta mek ravange, me no rest, gotta--" + +The sharp snapping of Johnny, the runner, warns me of danger, and I +hastily leave. + + * * * * * + +The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up and down the hall. +The blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or lean dejectedly +against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the +stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture I +witness in the prison house. Like ghastly nightmares, the shadows pass +before me. There is "Silent Nick," restlessly pacing his cage, never +ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he has not +left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid features are cut and +bleeding. Last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him, +and left him unconscious on the floor. + +There is "Crazy Hunkie," the Austrian. Every morning, as the officer +unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for +the yard, shouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes toward the +front and desperately grabs the door handle. The double iron gate is +securely locked. A look of blank amazement on his face, he slowly +returns to the cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly +they rush upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me wife, me seen her!" the +Austrian cries. The blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him +into the cell. "Me wife waiting in de yard," he moans. + +In the next cell is Tommy Wellman; adjoining him, Jim Grant. They are +boys recently transferred from the reformatory. They cower in the +corner, in terror of the scene. With tearful eyes, they relate their +story. Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they had been sent to the +reform school at Morganza, for snatching fruit off a corner stand. +Maltreated and beaten, they sought to escape. Childishly they set fire +to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. "I says to me chum, +says I," Tommy narrates with boyish glee, "'Kid,' says I, 'let's fire de +louzy joint; dere'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our get-away in de' +'citement.'" They were taken to court and the good judge sentenced them +to five years to the penitentiary. "Glad to get out of dat dump," Tommy +comments; "it was jest fierce. Dey paddled an' starved us someting' +turrible." + +In the basket cell, a young colored man grovels on the floor. It is +Lancaster, Number 8523. He was serving seven years, and working every +day in the mat shop. Slowly the days passed, and at last the longed-for +hour of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged. He was kept +at his task, the Warden informing him that he had lost six months of his +"good time" for defective work. The light hearted negro grew sullen and +morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished +cry in the night, "My time's up, time's up. I want to go home." The +guards would take him from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One +morning, in a fit of frenzy, he attacked Captain McVey, the officer of +the shop. The Captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and +Lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. He +returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed +him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, "Going home, going +home." The Warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the +way coaching the poor idiot to answer "yes" to the question, "Do you +plead guilty?" He received seven years, the extreme penalty of the law, +for the "attempted murder of a keeper." They brought him back to the +prison, and locked him up in a basket cell, the barred door covered with +a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. He receives +no medical attention, and is fed on a bread-and-water diet. + +The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching +with his nails fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly, +"Going, Jesus going to Jerusalem. See, he rides the holy ass; he's going +to his father's home. Going home, going home." As I pass he looks up, +perplexed wonder on his face; his brows meet in a painful attempt to +collect his wandering thoughts, and he drawls with pathetic sing-song, +"Going home, going home; Jesus going to father's home." The guards raise +their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell: the poor +imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair, and the floor. Twice a month +he is taken to the bathroom, his clothes are stripped, and the hose is +turned on the crazy negro. + + * * * * * + +The cell of "Little Sammy" is vacant. He was Number 9521, a young man +from Altoona. I knew him quite well. He was a kind boy and a diligent +worker; but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. He +would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face, +neglecting food and work. These spells generally lasted two or three +days, Sammy refusing to leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPane, the dead +Deputy, on such occasions commanded the prisoner to the shop, while +Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPane would order the "stubborn kid" to +the dungeon, and every time Sammy got his "head workin'," he was +dragged, silent and motionless, to the cellar. The new Deputy has +followed the established practice, and last evening, at "music hour," +while the men were scraping their instruments, "Little Sammy" was found +on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear. + +At the Coroner's inquest the Warden testified that the boy was +considered mentally defective; that he was therefore excused from work, +and never punished. + + * * * * * + +Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on +the wall: + +"The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge +with humanity and kindness. * * * The aim of all prison discipline is, +by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil and to protect the innocent +from further harm; to so apply the law upon the criminal as to produce a +cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of +his nature." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL + + +I + +The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings +of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities. +The personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. I find their +average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates. +Especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective +service lack sympathy with the unfortunates in their charge. They are +mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual +drunkenness, or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their attitude toward +the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. They look upon +the men as will-less objects of iron-handed discipline, exact +unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to peremptory whims, +and harbor personal animosity toward the less pliant. The more +intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties, and crave +advancement. The authority and remuneration of a Deputy Wardenship is +alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the +vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded to the guard most feared by +the inmates, and most subservient to the Warden,--a direct incitement to +brutality, on the one hand, to sycophancy, on the other. + +A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil War; several among +them had suffered incarceration in Libby Prison. These often manifest a +more sympathetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however, +have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five +years; some even for a longer period, like Officer Stewart, who has been +a guard for forty years. This element is unspeakably callous and cruel. +The prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards, and +speculate on the days allotted them. The death of one of them is hailed +with joy: seldom they are discharged; still more seldom do they resign. + +The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. New +guards--unless drafted from the police bureau--are almost without +exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates +vie with each other in showing complaisance to the "candidate." It is a +point of honor in their unwritten ethics to "treat him white." They +frown upon the fellow-convict who seeks to take advantage of the "green +screw," by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the +prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new +blood. They strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the +dangers of the position, and depreciating its financial desirability for +an ambitious young man; they impress upon him the Warden's unfairness to +the guards, and the lack of opportunity for advancement. Often they +dissuade the new man, and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if +he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him, in +pretended friendliness, upon his leniency, chide him for a "soft-hearted +tenderfoot," and improve every opportunity to initiate him into the +practices of brutality. The system is known in the prison as "breaking +in": the new man is constantly drafted in the "clubbing squad," the +older officers setting the example of cruelty. Refusal to participate +signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine +duty, and results in immediate discharge. But such instances are +extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer, Mr. Stewart, it +happened only once, and the man was sickly. + +Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. Within a short time +the prisoners notice the first signs of change: he grows less tolerant +and chummy, more irritated and distant. Presently he feels himself the +object of espionage by the favorite trusties of his fellow-officers. In +some mysterious manner, the Warden is aware of his every step, berating +him for speaking unduly long to this prisoner, or for giving another +half a banana,--the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of commiseration +and pity, the officer is moved by the tearful pleadings of misery to +carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. The latter +confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy +with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the Warden "on charges," and +is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated misplacement of confidence, +occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the Warden, +and the new officer grows embittered against the species "convict." The +instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side, +becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of +the "system." + + +II + +Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing, +brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates. Far removed from the +strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature +replica, more agonizing and merciless within the walls. A perfected +model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull +passivity. But beneath the torpid surface smolder the fires of being, +now crackling faintly under a dun smothering smoke, now blazing forth +with the ruthlessness of despair. Hidden by the veil of discipline rages +the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are +woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression. + +Intrigue and counter plot, violence and corruption, are rampant in +cell-house and shop. The prisoners spy upon each other, and in turn upon +the officers. The latter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret +doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other +in supplying information to the keepers. Often they deliberately +inveigle the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and +encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce +him to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished, usually +remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. The _provocateur_ is +rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. Frequently his +treachery proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the Warden's +official recommendation of the "model prisoner" to the State Board of +Pardons. + +The stools and the trusties are an essential element in the government +of the prison. With rare exception, every officer has one or more on his +staff. They assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make +out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally they are even +called upon to help the "clubbing squad." The more intelligent stools +enjoy the confidence of the Deputy and his assistants, and thence +advance to the favor of the Warden. The latter places more reliance upon +his favorite trusties than upon the guards. "I have about a hundred paid +officers to keep watch over the prisoners," the Warden informs new +applicant, "and two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volunteers" +are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the +inferior officers. They invariably secure the sinecures of the prison, +involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. They are +"runners," "messengers," yard and office men. + +Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to +influential prisoners, such as bankers, embezzlers, and boodlers. These +are known in the institution as holding "political jobs." Together with +the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as "the pets." + + * * * * * + +The professional craftiness of the "con man" stands him in good stead in +the prison. A shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and +self-confident, he applies the practiced cunning of his vocation to +secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His +evident intelligence and aplomb powerfully impress the guards; his +well-affected deference to authority flatters them. They are awed by his +wonderful facility of expression, and great attainments in the +mysterious world of baccarat and confidence games. At heart they envy +the high priest of "easy money," and are proud to befriend him in his +need. The officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for +him, and surreptitiously favor him with delicacies and even money. His +game is won. The "con" has now secured the friendship and confidence of +his keepers, and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm +interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their +whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the Warden's +discrimination. + +The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles. But +even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the +confidence man. His "business" has perfected his sense of orientation; +he quickly rends the veil of appearance, and scans the undercurrents. He +frets at his imprisonment, and hints at high social connections. His +real identity is a great secret: he wishes to save his wealthy relatives +from public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays his college +education. With a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a +State Senator; he is the only black sheep in his family; yet they are +"good" to him, and will not disown him. But he must not bring notoriety +upon them. + +Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trusties, or fearful +of punishment, the "con man" matures his campaign. He writes a note to a +fellow-prisoner. With much detail and thorough knowledge of prison +conditions, he exposes all the "ins and outs" of the institution. In +elegant English he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance +and brutality of the guards, and charges the Warden and the Board of +Prison Inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. He +denounces the Warden as a stomach-robber of poor unfortunates: the +counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate; +the Federal Government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person. +Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate +food? he demands. Does not the State appropriate thousands of dollars +for the support of the penitentiary, besides the money received from the +counties?--With keen scalpel the "con man" dissects the anatomy of the +institution. One by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most +intimate knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and so many +dozen of stockings per day. They are not stamped "convict-made," as the +law requires. The labels attached are misleading, and calculated to +decoy the innocent buyer. The character of the product in the several +mat shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great State +of Pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. The broom shop is +leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang Brothers: +the law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. The stamp +"convict-made" on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the +source of manufacture. + +Thus the "con man" runs on in his note. With much show of secrecy he +entrusts it to a notorious stool, for delivery to a friend. Soon the +writer is called before the Warden. In the latter's hands is the note. +The offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities are +terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the +secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent, +possibly well-connected man. He must be propitiated at all cost. The +"con man" joins the "politicians." + + * * * * * + +The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all +leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. The +"old-timer," veteran of oft-repeated experience, easily avoids hard +labor. He has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers, +and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. The officers are +glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. It brings +interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as +the prisoner's. + +The seasoned "yeggman," constitutionally and on principle opposed to +toil, rarely works. Generally suffering a comparatively short sentence, +he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the +wear and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he scorns work +in general, prison labor in particular. He avoids it with unstinted +expense of energy and effort. As a last resort, he plays the "jigger" +card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every +appearance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened by +the infection, and prevails upon the physician to examine him. The +doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease. +"Ever had syphilis?" he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly. +"Perhaps in the family?" the medicus suggests. The patient looks +diffident, blushes, cries, "No, never!" and assumes a guilty look. The +doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is +"excused" from work, indefinitely. + +The wily yegg, now a patient, secures a "snap" in the yard, and adapts +prison conditions to his habits of life. He sedulously courts the +friendship of some young inmate, and wins his admiration by "ghost +stories" of great daring and cunning. He puts the boy "next to de +ropes," and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the +guards and the advances of other prisoners. He guides the youth's steps +through the maze of conflicting rules, and finally initiates him into +the "higher wisdom" of "de road." + + * * * * * + +The path of the "gun" is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. Even +before his arrival, the _esprit de corps_ of the "profession" is at +work, securing a soft berth for the expected friend. If noted for +success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers, and the +admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks, of lesser experience +and reputation. With conscious superiority he instructs them in the +finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble-fingered "touches," and +imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of "suckers," whom the +good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an "honest living." +His sentence nearing completion, the "gun" grows thoughtful, carefully +scans the papers, forms plans for his first "job," arranges dates with +his "partners," and gathers messages for their "moll buzzers."[44] He is +gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands, +and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers, +generally successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit," +"jollies" the officers and cajoles the Warden for new shoes, made to +measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten-dollar allowance to +prisoners received from counties outside of Allegheny[45]. He argues the +need of money "to leave the State." Often he does leave. More frequently +a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police, +and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously +notified by the prison authorities. + + [44] Women thieves. + + [45] Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the + County of Allegheny--in which the Western Penitentiary is + located--receive only five dollars. + + * * * * * + +The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders +direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in +sullen misery and dread. Day in, day out, year after year, they drudge +at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trusties idling +about, while their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. From cell +to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their +days drag in deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive +contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the +officials. They are surprised at the new rule making attendance at +religious service obligatory; and again at the succeeding order (the +desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured) making +church-going optional. They are astonished at the sudden disappearance +of the considerate and gentle guard, Byers, and anxiously hope for his +return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand +methods of the trusties fell a victim to their cabal. + + +III + +Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality. +Released from punishment, he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain +to the Warden of his unjust treatment. Weeks pass. At last the Captain +visits the shop. A propitious moment! The carefully trimmed beard frames +the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and +lending dignity to his appearance. His eyes brighten with peculiar +brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost +imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he passes through the +shop, the prisoner raises his hand. "What is it?" the Warden inquires, a +pleasant smile on his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous +eagerness. "Oh, well," the Captain claps him on the shoulder, "perhaps a +mistake; an unfortunate mistake. But, then, you might have done +something at another time, and not been punished." He laughs merrily at +his witticism. "It's so long ago, anyhow; we'll forget it," and he +passes on. + +But if the Captain is in a different mood, his features harden, the +stern eyes scowl, and he says in his clear, sharp tones: "State your +grievance in writing, on the printed slip which the officer will give +you." The written complaint, deposited in the mail-box, finally reaches +the Chaplain, and is forwarded by him to the Warden's office. There the +Deputy and the Assistant Deputy read and classify the slips, placing +some on the Captain's file and throwing others into the waste basket, +according as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an +unfriendly brother officer. Months pass before the prisoner is called +for "a hearing." By that time he very likely has a more serious charge +against the guard, who now persecutes the "kicker." But the new +complaint has not yet been "filed," and therefore the hearing is +postponed. Not infrequently men are called for a hearing, who have been +discharged, or died since making the complaint. + +The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from +the Warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest +authority in the penitentiary--the Board of Inspectors. These are +supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution, +visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. The complainant +waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience +with the Inspectors. But the latter remain invisible, some not visiting +the penitentiary within a year. Only the Secretary of the Board, Mr. +Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an +appearance. Tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere +of sanctimoniousness. He walks leisurely through the block, passes a +cell with a lithograph of Christ on the wall, and pauses. His hands +folded, eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he +inquires of the rangeman: + +"Whose cell is this?" + +"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him. + +It is the cell of Jasper, the colored trusty, chief stool of the prison. + +"He is a good man, a good man, God bless him," the Inspector says, a +quaver in his voice. + +He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the +little looking-glass and the rules, hanging awry on the wall. "It +offends my eye," he smiles at the attending rangeman, "they don't hang +straight." + +Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out: "Mr. Officer, please." + +The Inspector steps forward. "This is Inspector Reed," he corrects the +boy. "What is it you wish?" + +"Oh. Mr. Inspector, I've been askin' t' see you a long time. I wanted--" + +"You should have sent me a slip. Have you a copy of the rules in the +cell, my man?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Can you read?" + +"No, sir." + +"Poor boy, did you never go to school?" + +"No, sir. Me moder died when I was a kid. Dey put me in de orphan an' +den in de ref." + +"And your father?" + +"I had no fader. Moder always said he ran away before I was born'd." + +"They have schools in the orphan asylum. Also in the reformatory, I +believe." + +"Yep. But dey keeps me most o' de time in punishment. I didn' care fer +de school, nohow." + +"You were a bad boy. How old are you now?" + +"Sev'nteen." + +"What is your name?" + +"Tommy Wellman." + +"From Pittsburgh?" + +"Allegheny. Me moder use'ter live on de hill, near dis 'ere dump." + +"What did you wish to see me about?" + +"I can't stand de cell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me have some work." + +"Are you locked up 'for cause'?" + +"I smashed a guy in de jaw fer callin' me names." + +"Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man?" + +"He said me moder was a bitch, God damn his--" + +"Don't! Don't swear! Never take the holy name in vain. It's a great sin. +You should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting." + +"I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of de cell, Mr. Inspector?" + +"You are in the hands of the Warden. He is very kind, and he will do +what is best for you." + +"Oh, hell! I'm locked up five months now. Dat's de best _he's_ doin' fer +me." + +"Don't talk like that to me," the Inspector upbraids him, severely. "You +are a bad boy. You must pray; the good Lord will take care of you." + +"You get out o' here!" the boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and +swearing. + +Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily paling, turns red +with shame and anger. He motions to the Captain of the Block. + +"Mr. Woods, report this man for impudence to an Inspector," he orders, +stalking out into the yard. + +The boy is removed to the dungeon. + + * * * * * + +Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, I welcome the +relief of solitude, as I am locked in the cell for the night. + + +IV + +Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. I spend considerable +time corresponding with Nold and Bauer: our letters are bulky--ten, +fifteen, and twenty pages long. There is much to say! We discuss events +in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of +the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food. +I share with my comrades my experiences on the range; they, in turn, +keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their paths run smoother, +less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness +of spirit. They, too, are objects of prejudice and persecution. The +officer of the shop where Nold is employed has been severely reprimanded +for "neglect of duty": the Warden had noticed Carl, in the company of +several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of +mattings. He ordered the guard never to allow Nold out of his sight. +Bauer has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has been deprived of +his dark clothes, and reduced to the stripes for "disrespectful +behavior." Now he is removed to the North Wing, where my cell also is +located, while Nold is in the South Wing, in a "double" cell, enjoying +the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our friend, the +"Horsethief," is still coffee-boy on Bauer's range, thus enabling me to +reach the big German. The latter, after reading my notes, returns them +to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl. Our mail +connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising utmost care +not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells +and persons. + +Again the _Prison Blossoms_ is revived. Most of the readers of the +previous year, however, are missing. Dempsey and Beatty, the Knights of +Labor men, have been pardoned, thanks to the multiplied and conflicting +confessions of the informer, Gallagher, who still remains in prison. +"D," our poet laureate, has also been released, his short term having +expired. His identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he +was a "scientist of the old school, an alchemist," from which we +inferred that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our reading +public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element: the Duquesne +strikers renew their "subscriptions" by contributing paper material; +with them join Frank Shay, the philosophic "second-story man"; George, +the prison librarian; "Billy" Ryan, professional gambler and confidence +man; "Yale," a specialist in the art of safe blowing, and former +university student; the "Attorney-General," a sharp lawyer; "Magazine +Alvin," writer and novelist; "Jim," from whose ingenuity no lock is +secure, and others. "M" and "K" act as alternate editors; the rest as +contributors. The several departments of the little magazinelet are +ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing Dante visiting the +Inferno, another sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lantern, in +the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription: + + I sometimes hold it half a sin + To put in words the grief I feel,-- + For words, like nature, half reveal + And half conceal the soul within. + +The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events, interspersed +with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials; the balance of +the _Blossoms_ consists of articles and essays of a more serious +character, embracing religion and philosophy, labor and politics, with +now and then a personal reminiscence by the "second-story man," or some +sex experience by "Magazine Alvin." One of the associate editors +lampoons "Billygoat Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the "Shop +Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G" relates the story of the +recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead +of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike +by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon. In the next issue +the incident is paralleled with the Pullman Car Strike, and the punished +prisoners eulogized for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an +ultra-original poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs." + +But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several +readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarrange the +route. During the winter, "K" produces a little booklet of German poems, +while I elaborate the short "Story of Luba," written the previous year, +into a novelette, dealing with life in New York and revolutionary +circles. Presently "G" suggests that the manuscripts might prove of +interest to a larger public, and should be preserved. We discuss the +unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled +into the light of day. In our perplexity we finally take counsel with +Bob, the faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with astonishing +levity: "Youse fellows jest go ahead an' write, an' don't bother about +nothin'. Think I can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't +got brains enough to get away with a bit of scribbling, eh? Jest leave +that to th' Horsethief, an' write till you bust th' paper works, see?" +Thus encouraged, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we +give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious +project of publishing a book by "MKG"! + +In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. The little +magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as +every available scrap of writing material, to the larger purpose. We +decide to honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary +inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor on the eastern +skies, the _First of May, 1895_, he steals a blushing beam upon the +heading of the first chapter--"The Homestead Strike." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +THE SCALES OF JUSTICE + + +I + +The summer fades into days of dull gray; the fog thickens on the Ohio; +the prison house is dim and damp. The river sirens sound sharp and +shrill, and the cells echo with coughing and wheezing. The sick line +stretches longer, the men looking more forlorn and dejected. The +prisoner in charge of tier "K" suffers a hemorrhage, and is carried to +the hospital. From assistant, I am advanced to his position on the +range. + +But one morning the levers are pulled, the cells unlocked, and the men +fed, while I remain under key. I wonder at the peculiar oversight, and +rap on the bars for the officers. The Block Captain orders me to desist. +1 request to see the Warden, but am gruffly told that he cannot be +disturbed in the morning. In vain I rack my brain to fathom the cause of +my punishment. I review the incidents of the past weeks, ponder over +each detail, but the mystery remains unsolved. Perhaps I have +unwittingly offended some trusty, or I may be the object of the secret +enmity of a spy. + +The Chaplain, on his daily rounds, hands me a letter from the Girl, and +glances in surprise at the closed door. + +"Not feeling well, m' boy?" he asks. + +"I'm locked up, Chaplain." + +"What have you done?" + +"Nothing that I know of." + +"Oh, well, you'll be out soon. Don't fret, m' boy." + +But the days pass, and I remain in the cell. The guards look worried, +and vent their ill-humor in profuse vulgarity. The Deputy tries to +appear mysterious, wobbles comically along the range, and splutters at +me: "Nothin'. Shtay where you are." Jasper, the colored trusty, flits up +and down the hall, tremendously busy, his black face more lustrous than +ever. Numerous stools nose about the galleries, stop here and there in +confidential conversation with officers and prisoners, and whisper +excitedly at the front desk. Assistant Deputy Hopkins goes in and out of +the block, repeatedly calls Jasper to the office, and hovers in the +neighborhood of my cell. The rangemen talk in suppressed tones. An air +of mystery pervades the cell-house. + +Finally I am called to the Warden. With unconcealed annoyance, he +demands: + +"What did you want?" + +"The officers locked me up--" + +"Who said you're locked up?" he interrupts, angrily. "You're merely +locked _in_." + +"Where's the difference?" I ask. + +"One is locked up 'for cause.' You're just kept in for the present." + +"On what charge?" + +"No charge. None whatever. Take him back, Officers." + + * * * * * + +Close confinement becomes increasingly more dismal and dreary. By +contrast with the spacious hall, the cell grows smaller and narrower, +oppressing me with a sense of suffocation. My sudden isolation remains +unexplained. Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to intercede in my +behalf, I remain locked "in," and again return the days of solitary, +with all their gloom and anguish of heart. + + +II + +A ray of light is shed from New York. The Girl writes in a hopeful vein +about the progress of the movement, and the intense interest in my case +among radical circles. She refers to Comrade Merlino, now on a tour of +agitation, and is enthusiastic about the favorable labor sentiment +toward me, manifested in the cities he had visited. Finally she informs +me of a plan on foot to secure a reduction of my sentence, and the +promising outlook for the collection of the necessary funds. From +Merlino I receive a sum of money already contributed for the purpose, +together with a letter of appreciation and encouragement, concluding: +"Good cheer, dear Comrade; the last word has not yet been spoken." + +My mind dwells among my friends. The breath from the world of the living +fans the smoldering fires of longing; the tone of my comrades revibrates +in my heart with trembling hope. But the revision of my sentence +involves recourse to the courts! The sudden realization fills me with +dismay. I cannot be guilty of a sacrifice of principle to gain freedom; +the mere suggestion rouses the violent protest of my revolutionary +traditions. In bitterness of soul, I resent my friends' ill-advised +waking of the shades. I shall never leave the house of death.... + +And yet mail from my friends, full of expectation and confidence, +arrives more frequently. Prominent lawyers have been consulted; their +unanimous opinion augurs well: the multiplication of my sentences was +illegal; according to the statutes of Pennsylvania, the maximum penalty +should not have exceeded seven years; the Supreme Court would +undoubtedly reverse the judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the +conviction on charges not constituting a crime under the laws of the +State. And so forth. + +I am assailed by doubts. Is it consequent in me to decline liberty, +apparently within reach? John Most appealed his case to the Supreme +Court, and the Girl also took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable +propaganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the opportunity which would +offer such a splendid field for agitation? Would it not be folly to +afford the enemy the triumph of my gradual annihilation? I would without +hesitation reject freedom at the price of my convictions; but it +involves no denial of my faith to rob the vampire of its prey. We must, +if necessary, fight the beast of oppression with its own methods, +scourge the law in its own tracks, as it were. Of course, the Supreme +Court is but another weapon in the hands of authority, a pretence of +impartial right. It decided against Most, sustaining the prejudiced +verdict of the trial jury. They may do the same in my case. But that +very circumstance will serve to confirm our arraignment of class +justice. I shall therefore endorse the efforts of my friends. + +But before long I am informed that an application to the higher court is +not permitted. The attorneys, upon examination of the records of the +trial, discovered a fatal obstacle, they said. The defendant, not being +legally represented, neglected to "take exceptions" to rulings of the +court prejudicial to the accused. Because of the technical omission, +there exists no basis for an appeal. They therefore advise an +application to the Board of Pardons, on the ground that the punishment +in my case is excessive. They are confident that the Board will act +favorably, in view of the obvious unconstitutionality of the compounded +sentences,--the five minor indictments being indispensible parts of the +major charge and, as such, not constituting separate offences. + +The unexpected development disquiets me: the sound of "pardon" is +detestable. What bitter irony that the noblest intentions, the most +unselfish motives, need seek pardon! Aye, of the very source that +misinterprets and perverts them! For days the implied humiliation keeps +agitating me; I recoil from the thought of personally affixing my name +to the meek supplication of the printed form, and finally decide to +refuse. + +An accidental conversation with the "Attorney General" disturbs my +resolution. I learn that in Pennsylvania the applicant's signature is +not required by the Pardon Board. A sense of guilty hope steals over me. +Yet--I reflect--the pardon of the Chicago Anarchists had contributed +much to the dissemination of our ideas. The impartial analysis of the +trial-evidence by Governor Altgeld completely exonerated our comrades +from responsibility for the Haymarket tragedy, and exposed the heinous +conspiracy to destroy the most devoted and able representatives of the +labor movement. May not a similar purpose be served by my application +for a pardon? + +I write to my comrades, signifying my consent. We arrange for a personal +interview, to discuss the details of the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, +a _persona non grata_, cannot visit me. But a mutual friend, Miss +Garrison, is to call on me within two months. At my request, the +Chaplain forwards to her the necessary permission, and I impatiently +await the first friendly face in two years. + + +III + +As unaccountably as my punishment in the solitary, comes the relief at +the expiration of three weeks. The "K" hall-boy is still in the +hospital, and I resume the duties of rangeman. The guards eye me with +suspicion and greater vigilance, but I soon unravel the tangled skein, +and learn the details of the abortive escape that caused my temporary +retirement. + +The lock of my neighbor, Johnny Smith, had been tampered with. The +youth, in solitary at the time, necessarily had the aid of another, it +being impossible to reach the keyhole from the inside of the cell. The +suspicion of the Warden centered upon me, but investigation by the +stools discovered the men actually concerned, and "Dutch" Adams, +Spencer, Smith, and Jim Grant were chastised in the dungeon, and are now +locked up "for cause," on my range. + +By degrees Johnny confides to me the true story of the frustrated plan. +"Dutch," a repeater serving his fifth "bit," and favorite of Hopkins, +procured a piece of old iron, and had it fashioned into a key in the +machine shop, where he was employed. He entrusted the rude instrument to +Grant, a young reformatory boy, for a preliminary trial. The guileless +youth easily walked into the trap, and the makeshift key was broken in +the lock--with disastrous results. + +The tricked boys now swear vengeance upon the _provocateur_, but "Dutch" +is missing from the range. He has been removed to an upper gallery, and +is assigned to a coveted position in the shops. + +The newspapers print vivid stories of the desperate attempt to escape +from Riverside, and compliment Captain Wright and the officers for so +successfully protecting the community. The Warden is deeply affected, +and orders the additional punishment of the offenders with a +bread-and-water diet. The Deputy walks with inflated chest; Hopkins +issues orders curtailing the privileges of the inmates, and inflicting +greater hardships. The tone of the guards sounds haughtier, more +peremptory; Jasper's face wears a blissful smile. The trusties look +pleased and cheerful, but sullen gloom shrouds the prison. + + +IV + +I am standing at my cell, when the door of the rotunda slowly opens, and +the Warden approaches me. + +"A lady just called; Miss Garrison, from New York. Do you know her?" + +"She is one of my friends." + +"I dismissed her. You can't see her." + +"Why? The rules entitle me to a visit every three months. I have had +none in two years. I want to see her." + +"You can't. She needs a permit." + +"The Chaplain sent her one at my request." + +"A member of the Board of Inspectors rescinded it by telegraph." + +"What Inspector?" + +"You can't question me. Your visitor has been refused admittance." + +"Will you tell me the reason, Warden?" + +"No reason, no reason whatever." + +He turns on his heel, when I detain him: "Warden, it's two years since +I've been in the dungeon. I am in the first grade now," I point to the +recently earned dark suit. "I am entitled to all the privileges. Why am +I deprived of visits?" + +"Not another word." + +He disappears through the yard door. From the galleries I hear the +jeering of a trusty. A guard near by brings his thumb to his nose, and +wriggles his fingers in my direction. Humiliated and angry, I return to +the cell, to find the monthly letter-sheet on my table. I pour out all +the bitterness of my heart to the Girl, dwell on the Warden's +discrimination against me, and repeat our conversation and his refusal +to admit my visitor. In conclusion, I direct her to have a Pittsburgh +lawyer apply to the courts, to force the prison authorities to restore +to me the privileges allowed by the law to the ordinary prisoner. I drop +the letter in the mail-box, hoping that my outburst and the threat of +the law will induce the Warden to retreat from his position. The Girl +will, of course, understand the significance of the epistle, aware that +my reference to a court process is a diplomatic subterfuge for effect, +and not meant to be acted upon. + +But the next day the Chaplain returns the letter to me. "Not so rash, my +boy," he warns me, not unkindly. "Be patient; I'll see what I can do for +you." + +"But the letter, Chaplain?" + +"You've wasted your paper, Aleck. I can't pass this letter. But just +keep quiet, and I'll look into the matter." + +Weeks pass in evasive replies. Finally the Chaplain advises a personal +interview with the Warden. The latter refers me to the Inspectors. To +each member of the Board I address a request for a few minutes' +conversation, but a month goes by without word from the high officials. +The friendly runner, "Southside" Johnny, offers to give me an +opportunity to speak to an Inspector, on the payment of ten plugs of +tobacco. Unfortunately, I cannot spare my small allowance, but I tender +him a dollar bill of the money the Girl had sent me artfully concealed +in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The runner is highly elated, and +assures me of success, directing me to keep careful watch on the yard +door. + +Several days later, passing along the range engaged in my duties, I +notice "Southside" entering from the yard, in friendly conversation with +a strange gentleman in citizen clothes. For a moment I do not realize +the situation, but the next instant I am aware of Johnny's violent +efforts to attract my attention. He pretends to show the man some fancy +work made by the inmates, all the while drawing him closer to my door, +with surreptitious nods at me. I approach my cell. + +"This is Berkman, Mr. Nevin, the man who shot Frick," Johnny remarks. + +The gentleman turns to me with a look of interest. + +"Good morning, Berkman," he says pleasantly. "How long are you doing?" + +"Twenty-two years." + +"I'm sorry to hear that. It's rather a long sentence. You know who I +am?" + +"Inspector Nevin, I believe." + +"Yes. You have never seen me before?" + +"No. I sent a request to see you recently." + +"When was that?" + +"A month ago." + +"Strange. I was in the office three weeks ago. There was no note from +you on my file. Are you sure you sent one?" + +"Quite sure. I sent a request to each Inspector." + +"What's the trouble?" + +I inform him briefly that I have been deprived of visiting privileges. +Somewhat surprised, he glances at my dark clothes, and remarks: + +"You are in the first grade, and therefore entitled to visits. When did +you have your last visitor?" + +"Two years ago." + +"Two years?" he asks, almost incredulously. "Did the lady from New York +have a permit?" + +The Warden hurriedly enters from the yard. + +"Mr. Nevin," he calls out anxiously, "I've been looking for you." + +"Berkman was just telling me about his visitor being sent away, +Captain," the Inspector remarks. + +"Yes, yes," the Warden smiles, forcedly, "'for cause.'" + +"Oh!" the face of Mr. Nevin assumes a grave look. "Berkman," he turns to +me, "you'll have to apply to the Secretary of the Board, Mr. Reed. I am +not familiar with the internal affairs." + +The Warden links his arm with the Inspector, and they walk toward the +yard door. At the entrance they are met by "Dutch" Adams, the shop +messenger. + +"Good morning, Mr. Nevin," the trusty greets him. "Won't you issue me a +special visit? My mother is sick; she wants to see me." + +The Warden grins at the ready fiction. + +"When did you have your last visit?" the Inspector inquires. + +"Two weeks ago." + +"You are entitled to one only every three months." + +"That is why I asked you for an extra, Mr. Inspector," "Dutch" retorts +boldly. "I know you are a kind man." + +Mr. Nevin smiles good-naturedly and glances at the Warden. + +"Dutch is all right," the Captain nods. + +The Inspector draws his visiting card, pencils on it, and hands it to +the prisoner. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON + + + April 12, 1896. + + MY DEAR GIRL: + + I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with + you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover + of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it + will reach you safely. + + In my local correspondence you have been christened the + "Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up + letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual + interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the + existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to + expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes very + seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful. + But you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents + that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a + strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment, + disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of a + letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart + to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate + interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. And + then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of + our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications + from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our + European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself, + they bring me nearer to you and to life. + + The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various + occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical + publications permitted. I especially regret to miss + _Solidarity_. I have not seen a single copy since its + resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of + Chas. W. Mowbray and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as + the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more + about our English comrades. + + I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know from + my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The action + of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less + to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a + favorable decision. But that they should so cynically evade the + issue,--I was hardly prepared for _that_. I had hoped they would + at least consider the case. But evidently they were averse to + going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me + that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their + arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not + actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want + remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the + first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission + of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still + have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt + whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be + expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another + proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. It is + this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the + Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor, is indebted to + the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The + attorney's name is K---- D---- of Pittsburgh. He has intimated + to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000.00, + the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in + case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a large fee. + And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still, + you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I + leave the matter in your hands. + + The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure + no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the + Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist plot against + the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance and + constantly discriminated against, though "K" and "G" are + permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile + terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain + Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was + Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat + against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited + Inspector Reed at his business place, and requested to see me. + The Inspector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty + walls down." I could not determine whether there is any + foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the + prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits. + + That is a characteristic instance of local conditions. + Involuntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the + brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian + prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true + conditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the + rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the + purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in + the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be + permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the + prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he + succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to + revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in + regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness + the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the + abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the + keynote of stupidity in power. + + Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible + tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and lamenting, in + the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no Nemesis + in Spain? + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY? + + +I + +The change of seasons varies the tone of the prison. A cheerier +atmosphere pervades the shops and the cell-house in the summer. The +block is airier and lighter; the guards relax their stern look, in +anticipation of their vacations; the men hopefully count the hours till +their approaching freedom, and the gates open daily to release some one +going back to the world. + +But heavy gloom broods over the prison in winter. The windows are closed +and nailed; the vitiated air, artificially heated, is suffocating with +dryness. Smoke darkens the shops, and the cells are in constant dusk. +Tasks grow heavier, the punishments more severe. The officers look +sullen; the men are morose and discontented. The ravings of the insane +become wilder, suicides more frequent; despair and hopelessness oppress +every heart. + +The undercurrent of rebellion, swelling with mute suffering and +repression, turbulently sweeps the barriers. The severity of the +authorities increases, methods of penalizing are more drastic; the +prisoners fret, wax more querulous, and turn desperate with blind, +spasmodic defiance. + +But among the more intelligent inmates, dissatisfaction manifest more +coherent expression. The Lexow investigation in New York has awakened an +echo in the prison. A movement is quietly initiated among the +solitaries, looking toward an investigation of Riverside. + +I keep busy helping the men exchange notes maturing the project. Great +care must be exercised to guard against treachery: only men of proved +reliability may be entrusted with the secret, and precautions taken that +no officer or stool scent our design. The details of the campaign are +planned on "K" range, with Billy Ryan, Butch, Sloane, and Jimmie Grant, +as the most trustworthy, in command. It is decided that the attack upon +the management of the penitentiary is to be initiated from the +"outside." A released prisoner is to inform the press of the abuses, +graft, and immorality rampant in Riverside. The public will demand an +investigation. The "cabal" on the range will supply the investigators +with data and facts that will rouse the conscience of the community, and +cause the dismissal of the Warden and the introduction of reforms. + +A prisoner, about to be discharged, is selected for the important +mission of enlightening the press. In great anxiety and expectation we +await the newspapers, the day following his liberation; we scan the +pages closely. Not a word of the penitentiary! Probably the released man +has not yet had an opportunity to visit the editors. In the joy of +freedom, he may have looked too deeply into the cup that cheers. He will +surely interview the papers the next day. + +But the days pass into weeks, without any reference in the press to the +prison. The trusted man has failed us! The revelation of the life at +Riverside is of a nature not to be ignored by the press. The discharged +inmate has proved false to his promise. Bitterly the solitaries denounce +him, and resolve to select a more reliable man among the first +candidates for liberty. + +One after another, a score of men are entrusted with the mission to the +press. But the papers remain silent. Anxiously, though every day less +hopefully, we search their columns. Ryan cynically derides the +faithlessness of convict promises; Butch rages and at the traitors. But +Sloane is sternly confident in his own probity, and cheers me as I pause +at his cell: + +"Never min' them rats, Aleck. You just wait till I go out. Here's the +boy that'll keep his promise all right. What I won't do to old Sandy +ain't worth mentionin'." + +"Why, you still have two years, Ed," I remind him. + +"Not on your tintype, Aleck. Only one and a stump." + +"How big is the stump?" + +"Wa-a-ll," he chuckles, looking somewhat diffident, "it's one year, +elev'n months, an' twenty-sev'n days. It ain't no two years, though, +see?" + +Jimmy Grant grows peculiarly reserved, evidently disinclined to talk. He +seeks to avoid me. The treachery of the released men fills him with +resentment and suspicion of every one. He is impatient of my suggestion +that the fault may lie with a servile press. At the mention of our +plans, he bursts out savagely: + +"Forget it! You're no good, none of you. Let me be!" He turns his back +to me, and angrily paces the cell. + +His actions fill me with concern. The youth seems strangely changed. +Fortunately, his time is almost served. + + +II + +Like wildfire the news circles the prison. "The papers are giving Sandy +hell!" The air in the block trembles with suppressed excitement. Jimmy +Grant, recently released, had sent a communication to the State Board of +Charities, bringing serious charges against the management of Riverside. +The press publishes startlingly significant excerpts from Grant's +letter. Editorially, however, the indictment is ignored by the majority +of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments ambiguously, in guarded +language, suggesting the improbability of the horrible practices alleged +by Grant. Another eulogizes Warden Wright as an intelligent and humane +man, who has the interest of the prisoners at heart. The detailed +accusations are briefly dismissed as unworthy of notice, because coming +from a disgruntled criminal who had not found prison life to his liking. +Only the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ consider the matter seriously, +refer to the numerous complaints from discharged prisoners, and suggest +the advisability of an investigation; they urge upon the Warden the +necessity of disproving, once for all, the derogatory statements +regarding his management. + +Within a few days the President of the Board of Charities announces his +decision to "look over" the penitentiary. December is on the wane, and +the Board is expected to visit Riverside after the holidays. + + +III + + K. & G.: + + Of course, neither of you has any more faith in alleged + investigations than myself. The Lexow investigation, which + shocked the whole country with its expose of police corruption, + has resulted in practically nothing. One or two subordinates + have been "scapegoated"; those "higher up" went unscathed, as + usual; the "system" itself remains in _statu quo_. The one who + has mostly profited by the spasm of morality is Goff, to whom + the vice crusade afforded an opportunity to rise from obscurity + into the national limelight. Parkhurst also has subsided, + probably content with the enlarged size of his flock + and--salary. To give the devil his due, however, I admired his + perseverance and courage in face of the storm of ridicule and + scorn that met his initial accusations against the glorious + police department of the metropolis. But though every charge has + been proved in the most absolute manner, the situation, as a + whole, remains unchanged. + + It is the history of all investigations. As the Germans say, you + can't convict the devil in the court of his mother-in-law. It + has again been demonstrated by the Congressional "inquiry" into + the Carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revelations + regarding Superintendent Brockway, of the Elmira Reformatory--a + veritable den for maiming and killing; and in numerous other + instances. Warden Wright also was investigated, about ten years + ago; a double set of books was then found, disclosing peculation + of appropriations and theft of the prison product; brutality and + murder were uncovered--yet Sandy has remained in his position. + + * * * * * + + We can, therefore, expect nothing from the proposed + investigation by the Board of Charities. I have no doubt it will + be a whitewash. But I think that we--the Anarchist trio--should + show our solidarity, and aid the inmates with our best efforts; + we must prevent the investigation resulting in a farce, so far + as evidence against the management is concerned. We should leave + the Board no loophole, no excuse of a lack of witnesses or + proofs to support Grant's charges. I am confident you will agree + with me in this. I am collecting data for presentation to the + investigators; I am also preparing a list of volunteer + witnesses. I have seventeen numbers on my range and others from + various parts of this block and from the shops. They all seem + anxious to testify, though I am sure some will weaken when the + critical moment arrives. Several have already notified me to + erase their names. But we shall have a sufficient number of + witnesses; we want preferably such men as have personally + suffered a clubbing, the bull ring, hanging by the wrists, or + other punishment forbidden by the law. + + I have already notified the Warden that I wish to testify before + the Investigation Committee. My purpose was to anticipate his + objection that there are already enough witnesses. I am the + first on the list now. The completeness of the case against the + authorities will surprise you. Fortunately, my position as + rangeman has enabled me to gather whatever information I needed. + I will send you to-morrow duplicates of the evidence (to insure + greater safety for our material). For the present I append a + partial list of our "exhibits": + + * * * * * + + (1) Cigarettes and outside tobacco; bottle of whiskey and + "dope"; dice, playing cards, cash money, several knives, two + razors, postage stamps, outside mail, and other contraband. + (These are for the purpose of proving the Warden a liar in + denying to the press the existence of gambling in the prison, + the selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the + possession of weapons, and the possibility of underground + communication.) + + (2) Prison-made beer. A demonstration of the staleness of our + bread and the absence of potatoes in the soup. (The beer is made + from fermented yeast stolen by the trusties from the bakery; + also from potatoes.) + + (3) Favoritism; special privileges of trusties; political jobs; + the system of stool espionage. + + (4) Pennsylvania diet; basket; dungeon; cuffing and chaining up; + neglect of the sick; punishment of the insane. + + (5) Names and numbers of men maltreated and clubbed. + + (6) Data of assaults and cutting affrays in connection with + "kid-business," the existence of which the Warden absolutely + denies. + + (7) Special case of A-444, who attacked the Warden in church, + because of jealousy of "Lady Goldie." + + (8) Graft: + + (_a_) Hosiery department: fake labels, fictitious names of + manufacture, false book entries. + + (_b_) Broom-Shop: convict labor hired out, contrary to law, + to Lang Bros., broom manufacturers, of Allegheny, Pa. Goods + sold to the United States Government, through sham middleman. + Labels bear legend, "Union Broom." Sample enclosed. + + [Illustration] + + (_c_) Mats, mattings, mops--product not stamped. + + (_d_) Shoe and tailor shops: prison materials used for + the private needs of the Warden, the officers, and their + families. + + (_e_) $75,000, appropriated by the State (1893) for a new + chapel. The bricks of the old building used for the new, + except one outside layer. All the work done by prisoners. + Architect, Mr. A. Wright, the Warden's son. Actual cost of + chapel, $7,000. The inmates _forced_ to attend services to + overcrowd the old church; after the desired appropriation + was secured, attendance became optional. + + (_f_) Library: the 25c. tax, exacted from every unofficial + visitor, is supposed to go to the book fund. About 50 + visitors per day, the year round. No new books added to the + library in 10 years. Old duplicates donated by the public + libraries of Pittsburgh are catalogued as purchased new + books. + + (_g_) Robbing the prisoners of remuneration for their labor. + See copy of Act of 1883, P. L. 112. + + + LAW ON PRISON LABOR AND WAGES OF CONVICTS + + (Act of 1883, June 13th, P. L. 112) + + Section 1--At the expiration of existing contracts Wardens are + directed to employ the convicts under their control for and in + behalf of the State. + + Section 2--No labor shall be hired out by contract. + + Section 4--All convicts under the control of the State and + county officers, and all inmates of reformatory institutions + engaged in the manufacture of articles for general consumption, + shall receive quarterly wages equal to the amount of their + earnings, to be fixed from time to time by the authorities of + the institution, from which board, lodging, clothing, and costs + of trial shall be deducted, and the balance paid to their + families or dependents; in case none such appear, the amount + shall be paid to the convict at the expiration of his term of + imprisonment. + + The prisoners receive no payment whatever, even for overtime + work, except occasionally a slice of pork for supper. + + K. G., plant this and other material I'll send you, in a safe + place. + + M. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +HIDING THE EVIDENCE + + +I + +It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipation fills the prison; +to-morrow's feast is the exciting subject of conversation. Roast beef +will be served for dinner, with a goodly loaf of currant bread, and two +cigars for dessert. Extra men have been drafted for the kitchen; they +flit from block to yard, looking busy and important, yet halting every +passer-by to whisper with secretive mien, "Don't say I told you. Sweet +potatoes to-morrow!" The younger inmates seem skeptical, and strive to +appear indifferent, the while they hover about the yard door, nostrils +expanded, sniffing the appetizing wafts from the kitchen. Here and there +an old-timer grumbles: we should have had sweet "murphies" for +Christmas. "'Too high-priced,' Sandy said," they sneer in ill humor. The +new arrivals grow uneasy; perhaps they are still too expensive? Some +study the market quotations on the delicacy. But the chief cook drops in +to visit "his" boy, and confides to the rangeman that the sweet potatoes +are a "sure thing," just arrived and counted. The happy news is +whispered about, with confident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety. +There is great rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is +querulous: he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed"--stomach still +sour from the Christmas dinner--and, anyhow, it only makes the +week-a-day "grub" more disgusting. + +The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen converse freely; the yard +gangs lounge about and cluster in little groups, that separate at the +approach of a superior officer. Men from the bakery and kitchen run in +and out of the block, their pockets bulging suspiciously. "What are you +after?" the doorkeeper halts them. "Oh, just to my cell; forgot my +handkerchief." The guard answers the sly wink with an indulgent smile. +"All right; go ahead, but don't be long." If "Papa" Mitchell is about, +he thunders at the chief cook, his bosom swelling with packages: "Wotch +'er got there, eh? Big family of kids _you_ have, Jim. First thing you +know, you'll swipe the hinges off th' kitchen door." The envied bakery +and kitchen employees supply their friends with extra holiday tidbits, +and the solitaries dance in glee at the sight of the savory dainty, the +fresh brown bread generously dotted with sweet currants. It is the +prelude of the promised culinary symphony. + + * * * * * + +The evening is cheerful with mirth and jollity. The prisoners at first +converse in whispers, then become bolder, and talk louder through the +bars. As night approaches, the cell-house rings with unreserved hilarity +and animation,--light-hearted chaff mingled with coarse jests and droll +humor. A wag on the upper tier banters the passing guards, his quips and +sallies setting the adjoining cells in a roar, and inspiring imitation. + + * * * * * + +Slowly the babel of tongues subsides, as the gong sounds the order to +retire. Some one shouts to a distant friend, "Hey, Bill, are you there? +Ye-es? Stay there!" It grows quiet, when suddenly my neighbor on the +left sing-songs, "Fellers, who's goin' to sit up with me to greet New +Year's." A dozen voices yell their acceptance. "Little Frenchy," the +spirited grayhead on the top tier, vociferates shrilly, "Me, too, boys. +I'm viz you all right." + +All is still in the cell-house, save for a wild Indian whoop now and +then by the vigil-keeping boys. The block breathes in heavy sleep; loud +snoring sounds from the gallery above. Only the irregular tread of the +felt-soled guards falls muffled in the silence. + + * * * * * + +The clock in the upper rotunda strikes the midnight hour. A siren on the +Ohio intones its deep-chested bass. Another joins it, then another. +Shrill factory whistles pierce the boom of cannon; the sweet chimes of a +nearby church ring in joyful melody between. Instantly the prison is +astir. Tin cans rattle against iron bars, doors shake in fury, beds and +chairs squeak and screech, pans slam on the floor, shoes crash against +the walls with a dull thud, and rebound noisily on the stone. Unearthly +yelling, shouting, and whistling rend the air; an inventive prisoner +beats a wild tatto with a tin pan on the table--a veritable Bedlam of +frenzy has broken loose in both wings. The prisoners are celebrating the +advent of the New Year. + + * * * * * + +The voices grow hoarse and feeble. The tin clanks languidly against the +iron, the grating of the doors sounds weaker. The men are exhausted with +the unwonted effort. The guards stumbled up the galleries, their forms +swaying unsteadily in the faint flicker of the gaslight. In maudlin +tones they command silence, and bid the men retire to bed. The younger, +more daring, challenge the order with husky howls and catcalls,--a +defiant shout, a groan, and all is quiet. + +Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twenty-four hours the +long-repressed animal spirits are rampant. No music or recreation honors +the New Year; the day is passed in the cell. The prisoners, securely +barred and locked, are permitted to vent their pain and sorrow, their +yearnings and hopes, in a Saturnalia of tumult. + + +II + +The month of January brings sedulous activity. Shops and block are +overhauled, every nook and corner is scoured, and a special squad +detailed to whitewash the cells. The yearly clean-up not being due till +spring, I conclude from the unusual preparations that the expected visit +of the Board of Charities is approaching. + + * * * * * + +The prisoners are agog with the coming investigation. The solitaries and +prospective witnesses are on the _qui vive_, anxious lines on their +faces. Some manifest fear of the ill will of the Warden, as the probable +result of their testimony. I seek to encourage them by promising to +assume full responsibility, but several men withdraw their previous +consent. The safety of my data causes me grave concern, in view of the +increasing frequency of searches. Deliberation finally resolves itself +into the bold plan of secreting my most valuable material in the cell +set aside for the use of the officers. It is the first cell on the +range; it is never locked, and is ignored at searches because it is not +occupied by prisoners. The little bundle, protected with a piece of +oilskin procured from the dispensary, soon reposes in the depths of the +waste pipe. A stout cord secures it from being washed away by the rush +of water, when the privy is in use. I call Officer Mitchell's attention +to the dusty condition of the cell, and offer to sweep it every morning +and afternoon. He accedes in an offhand manner, and twice daily I +surreptitiously examine the tension of the water-soaked cord, renewing +the string repeatedly. + +Other material and copies of my "exhibits" are deposited with several +trustworthy friends on the range. Everything is ready for the +investigation, and we confidently await the coming of the Board of +Charities. + + +III + +The cell-house rejoices at the absence of Scot Woods. The Block Captain +of the morning has been "reduced to the ranks." The disgrace is +signalized by his appearance on the wall, pacing the narrow path in the +chilly winter blasts. The guards look upon the assignment as "punishment +duty" for incurring the displeasure of the Warden. The keepers smile at +the indiscreet Scot interfering with the self-granted privileges of +"Southside" Johnny, one of the Warden's favorites. The runner who +afforded me an opportunity to see Inspector Nevin, came out victorious +in the struggle with Woods. The latter was upbraided by Captain Wright +in the presence of Johnny, who is now officially authorized in his +perquisites. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse, to avoid comment, +whereupon the officer was withdrawn from the block. + +I regret his absence. A severe disciplinarian, Woods was yet very +exceptional among the guards, in that he sought to discourage the spying +of prisoners on each other. He frowned upon the trusties, and strove to +treat the men impartially. + +Mitchell has been changed to the morning shift to fill the vacancy made +by the transfer of Woods. The charge of the block in the afternoon +devolves upon Officer McIlvaine, a very corpulent man, with sharp, +steely eyes. He is considerably above the average warder in +intelligence, but extremely fond of Jasper, who now acts as his +assistant, the obese turnkey rarely leaving his seat at the front desk. + + * * * * * + +Changes of keepers, transfers from the shops to the two cell-houses are +frequent; the new guards are alert and active. Almost daily the Warden +visits the ranges, leaving in his wake more stringent discipline. Rarely +do I find a chance to pause at the cells; I keep in touch with the men +through the medium of notes. But one day, several fights breaking out in +the shops, the block officers are requisitioned to assist in placing the +combatants in the punishment cells. The front is deserted, and I improve +the opportunity to talk to the solitaries. Jasper, "Southside," and Bob +Runyon, the "politicians," also converse at the doors, Bob standing +suspiciously close to the bars. Suddenly Officer McIlvaine appears in +the yard door. His face is flushed, his eyes filling with wrath as they +fasten on the men at the cells. + +"Hey, you fellows, get away from there!" he shouts. "Confound you all, +the 'Old Man' just gave me the deuce; too much talking in the block. I +won't stand for it, that's all," he adds petulantly. + +Within half an hour I am haled before the Warden. He looks worried, deep +lines of anxiety about his mouth. + +"You are reported for standing at the doors," he snarls at me. "What are +you always telling the men?" + +"It's the first time the officer--" + +"Nothing of the kind," he interrupts; "you're always talking to the +prisoners. They are in punishment, and you have no business with them." + +"Why was _I_ picked out? Others talk, too." + +"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to the keeper, he +says: "How is that, Officer? The man is charging you with neglect of +duty." + +"I am not charging--" + +"Silence! What have you to say, Mr. McIlvaine?" + +The guard reddens with suppressed rage. "It isn't true, Captain," he +replies; "there was no one except Berkman." + +"You hear what the officer says? You are always breaking the rules. +You're plotting; I know you,--pulling a dozen wires. You are inimical to +the management of the institution. But I will break your connections. +Officers, take him directly to the South Wing, you understand? He is not +to return to his cell. Have it searched at once, thoroughly. Lock him +up." + +"Warden, what for?" I demand. "I have not done anything to lose my +position. Talking is not such a serious charge." + +"Very serious, very serious. You're too dangerous on the range. I'll +spoil your infernal schemes by removing you from the North Block. You've +been there too long." + +"I want to remain there." + +"The more reason to take you away. That will do now." + +"No, it won't," I burst out. "I'll stay where I am." + +"Remove him, Mr. McIlvaine." + +I am taken to the South Wing and locked up in a vacant cell, neglected +and ill-smelling. It is Number 2, Range M--the first gallery, facing the +yard; a "double" cell, somewhat larger than those of the North Block, +and containing a small window. The walls are damp and bare, save for the +cardboard of printed rules and the prison calendar. It is the 27th of +February, 1896, but the calendar is of last year, indicating that the +cell has not been occupied since the previous November. It contains the +usual furnishings: bedstead and soiled straw mattress, a small table and +a chair. It feels cold and dreary. + +In thought I picture the guards ransacking my former cell. They will not +discover anything: my material is well hidden. The Warden evidently +suspects my plans: he fears my testimony before the investigation +committee. My removal is to sever my connections, and now it is +impossible for me to reach my data. I must return to the North Block; +otherwise all our plans are doomed to fail. I can't leave my friends on +the range in the lurch: some of them have already signified to the +Chaplain their desire to testify; their statements will remain +unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must rejoin them. I have told +the Warden that I shall remain where I was, but he probably ignored it +as an empty boast. + +I consider the situation, and resolve to "break up housekeeping." It is +the sole means of being transferred to the other cell-house. It will +involve the loss of the grade, and a trip to the dungeon; perhaps even a +fight with the keepers: the guards, fearing the broken furniture will be +used for defence, generally rush the prisoner with blackjacks. But my +return to the North Wing will be assured,--no man in stripes can remain +in the South Wing. + +Alert for an approaching step, I untie my shoes, producing a scrap of +paper, a pencil, and a knife. I write a hurried note to "K," briefly +informing him of the new developments, and intimating that our data are +safe. Guardedly I attract the attention of the runner on the floor +beneath; it is Bill Say, through whom Carl occasionally communicates +with "G." The note rolled into a little ball, I shoot between the bars +to the waiting prisoner. Now everything is prepared. + +It is near supper time; the men are coming back from work. It would be +advisable to wait till everybody is locked in, and the shop officers +depart home. There will then be only three guards on duty in the block. +But I am in a fever of indignation and anger. Furiously snatching up the +chair, I start "breaking up." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER + + +The dungeon smells foul and musty; the darkness is almost visible, the +silence oppressive; but the terror of my former experience has abated. I +shall probably be kept in the underground cell for a longer time than on +the previous occasion,--my offence is considered very grave. Three +charges have been entered against me: destroying State property, having +possession of a knife, and uttering a threat against the Warden. When I +saw the officers gathering at my back, while I was facing the Captain, I +realized its significance. They were preparing to assault me. Quickly +advancing to the Warden, I shook my fist in his face, crying: + +"If they touch me, I'll hold you personally responsible." + +He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he demanded: + +"What do you mean? How dare you?" + +"I mean just what I say. I won't be clubbed. My friends will avenge me, +too." + +He glanced at the guards standing rigid, in ominous silence. One by one +they retired, only two remaining, and I was taken quietly to the +dungeon. + + * * * * * + +The stillness is broken by a low, muffled sound. I listen intently. It +is some one pacing the cell at the further end of the passage. + +"Halloo! Who's there?" I shout. + +No reply. The pacing continues. It must be "Silent Nick"; he never +talks. + +I prepare to pass the night on the floor. It is bare; there is no bed or +blanket, and I have been deprived of my coat and shoes. It is freezing +in the cell; my feet grow numb, hands cold, as I huddle in the corner, +my head leaning against the reeking wall, my body on the stone floor. I +try to think, but my thoughts are wandering, my brain frigid. + + * * * * * + +The rattling of keys wakes me from my stupor. Guards are descending into +the dungeon. I wonder whether it is morning, but they pass my cell: it +is not yet breakfast time. Now they pause and whisper. I recognize the +mumbling speech of Deputy Greaves, as he calls out to the silent +prisoner: + +"Want a drink?" + +The double doors open noisily. + +"Here!" + +"Give me the cup," the hoarse bass resembles that of "Crazy Smithy." His +stentorian voice sounds cracked since he was shot in the neck by Officer +Dean. + +"You can't have th' cup," the Deputy fumes. + +"I won't drink out of your hand, God damn you. Think I'm a cur, do you?" +Smithy swears and curses savagely. + +The doors are slammed and locked. The steps grow faint, and all is +silent, save the quickened footfall of Smith, who will not talk to any +prisoner. + +I pass the long night in drowsy stupor, rousing at times to strain my +ear for every sound from the rotunda above, wondering whether day is +breaking. The minutes drag in dismal darkness.... + +The loud clanking of the keys tingles in my ears like sweet music. It is +morning! The guards hand me the day's allowance--two ounces of white +bread and a quart of water. The wheat tastes sweet; it seems to me I've +never eaten anything so delectable. But the liquid is insipid, and +nauseates me. At almost one bite I swallow the slice, so small and thin. +It whets my appetite, and I feel ravenously hungry. + +At Smith's door the scene of the previous evening is repeated. The +Deputy insists that the man drink out of the cup held by a guard. The +prisoner refuses, with a profuse flow of profanity. Suddenly there is a +splash, followed by a startled cry, and the thud of the cell bucket on +the floor. Smith has emptied the contents of his privy upon the +officers. In confusion they rush out of the dungeon. + +Presently I hear the clatter of many feet in the cellar. There is a +hubbub of suppressed voices. I recognize the rasping whisper of Hopkins, +the tones of Woods, McIlvaine, and others. I catch the words, "Both +sides at once." Several cells in the dungeon are provided with double +entrances, front and back, to facilitate attacks upon obstreperous +prisoners. Smith is always assigned to one of these cells. I shudder as +I realize that the officers are preparing to club the demented man. He +has been weakened by years of unbroken solitary confinement, and his +throat still bleeds occasionally from the bullet wound. Almost half his +time he has been kept in the dungeon, and now he has been missing from +the range twelve days. It is.... Involuntarily I shut my eyes at the +fearful thud of the riot clubs. + + * * * * * + +The hours drag on. The monotony is broken by the keepers bringing +another prisoner to the dungeon. I hear his violent sobbing from the +depth of the cavern. + +"Who is there?" I hail him. I call repeatedly, without receiving an +answer. Perhaps the new arrival is afraid of listening guards. + +"Ho, man!" I sing out, "the screws have gone. Who are you? This is +Aleck, Aleck Berkman." + +"Is that you, Aleck? This is Johnny." There is a familiar ring about the +young voice, broken by piteous moans. But I fail to identify it. + +"What Johnny?" + +"Johnny Davis--you know--stocking shop. I've just--killed a man." + +In bewilderment I listen to the story, told with bursts of weeping. +Johnny had returned to the shop; he thought he would try again: he +wanted to earn his "good" time. Things went well for a while, till +"Dutch" Adams became shop runner. He is the stool who got Grant and +Johnny Smith in trouble with the fake key, and Davis would have nothing +to do with him. But "Dutch" persisted, pestering him all the time; and +then-- + +"Well, you know, Aleck," the boy seems diffident, "he lied about me like +hell: he told the fellows he _used_ me. Christ, my mother might hear +about it! I couldn't stand it, Aleck; honest to God, I couldn't. I--I +killed the lying cur, an' now--now I'll--I'll swing for it," he sobs as +if his heart would break. + +A touch of tenderness for the poor boy is in my voice, as I strive to +condole with him and utter the hope that it may not be so bad, after +all. Perhaps Adams will not die. He is a powerful man, big and strong; +he may survive. + +Johnny eagerly clutches at the straw. He grows more cheerful, and we +talk of the coming investigation and local affairs. Perhaps the Board +will even clear him, he suggests. But suddenly seized with fear, he +weeps and moans again. + +More men are cast into the dungeon. They bring news from the world +above. An epidemic of fighting seems to have broken out in the wake of +recent orders. The total inhibition of talking is resulting in more +serious offences. "Kid Tommy" is enlarging upon his trouble. "You see, +fellers," he cries in a treble, "dat skunk of a Pete he pushes me in de +line, and I turns round t' give 'im hell, but de screw pipes me. Got no +chance t' choo, so I turns an' biffs him on de jaw, see?" But he is +sure, he says, to be let out at night, or in the morning, at most. "Them +fellers that was scrappin' yesterday in de yard didn't go to de hole. +Dey jest put 'em in de cell. Sandy knows de committee's comin' all +right." + +Johnny interrupts the loquacious boy to inquire anxiously about "Dutch" +Adams, and I share his joy at hearing that the man's wound is not +serious. He was cut about the shoulders, but was able to walk unassisted +to the hospital. Johnny overflows with quiet happiness; the others dance +and sing. I recite a poem from Nekrassov; the boys don't understand a +word, but the sorrow-laden tones appeal to them, and they request more +Russian "pieces." But Tommy is more interested in politics, and is +bristling with the latest news from the Magee camp. He is a great +admirer of Quay,--"dere's a smart guy fer you, fellers; owns de whole +Keystone shebang all right, all right. He's Boss Quay, you bet you." He +dives into national issues, rails at Bryan, "16 to 1 Bill, you jest +list'n to 'm, he'll give sixteen dollars to every one; he will, nit!" +and the boys are soon involved in a heated discussion of the respective +merits of the two political parties, Tommy staunchly siding with the +Republican. "Me gran'fader and me fader was Republicans," he +vociferates, "an' all me broders vote de ticket. Me fer de Gran' Ole +Party, ev'ry time." Some one twits him on his political wisdom, +challenging the boy to explain the difference in the money standards. +Tommy boldly appeals to me to corroborate him; but before I have an +opportunity to speak, he launches upon other issues, berating Spain for +her atrocities in Cuba, and insisting that this free country cannot +tolerate slavery at its doors. Every topic is discussed, with Tommy +orating at top speed, and continually broaching new subjects. +Unexpectedly he reverts to local affairs, waxes reminiscent over former +days, and loudly smacks his lips at the "great feeds" he enjoyed on the +rare occasions when he was free to roam the back streets of Smoky City. +"Say, Aleck, my boy," he calls to me familiarly, "many a penny I made on +_you_, all right. How? Why, peddlin' extras, of course! Say, dem was +fine days, all right; easy money; papers went like hot cakes off the +griddle. Wish you'd do it again, Aleck." + + * * * * * + +Invisible to each other, we chat, exchange stories and anecdotes, the +boys talking incessantly, as if fearful of silence. But every now and +then there is a lull; we become quiet, each absorbed in his own +thoughts. The pauses lengthen--lengthen into silence. Only the faint +steps of "Crazy Smith" disturb the deep stillness. + + * * * * * + +Late in the evening the young prisoners are relieved. But Johnny +remains, and his apprehensions reawaken. Repeatedly during the night he +rouses me from my drowsy torpor to be reassured that he is not in danger +of the gallows, and that he will not be tried for his assault. I allay +his fears by dwelling on the Warden's aversion to giving publicity to +the sex practices in the prison, and remind the boy of the Captain's +official denial of their existence. These things happen almost every +week, yet no one has ever been taken to court from Riverside on such +charges. + +Johnny grows more tranquil, and we converse about his family history, +talking in a frank, confidential manner. With a glow of pleasure, I +become aware of the note of tenderness in his voice. Presently he +surprises me by asking: + +"Friend Aleck, what do they call you in Russian?" + +He prefers the fond "Sashenka," enunciating the strange word with quaint +endearment, then diffidently confesses dislike for his own name, and +relates the story he had recently read of a poor castaway Cuban youth; +Felipe was his name, and he was just like himself. + +"Shall I call you Felipe?" I offer. + +"Yes, please do, Aleck, dear; no, Sashenka." + +The springs of affection well up within me, as I lie huddled on the +stone floor, cold and hungry. With closed eyes, I picture the boy before +me, with his delicate face, and sensitive, girlish lips. + +"Good night, dear Sashenka," he calls. + +"Good night, little Felipe." + + * * * * * + +In the morning we are served with a slice of bread and water. I am +tormented with thirst and hunger, and the small ration fails to assuage +my sharp pangs. Smithy still refuses to drink out of the Deputy's hand; +his doors remain unopened. With tremulous anxiety Johnny begs the Deputy +Warden to tell him how much longer he will remain in the dungeon, but +Greaves curtly commands silence, applying a vile epithet to the boy. + +"Deputy," I call, boiling over with indignation, "he asked you a +respectful question. I'd give him a decent answer." + +"You mind your own business, you hear?" he retorts. + +But I persist in defending my young friend, and berate the Deputy for +his language. He hastens away in a towering passion, menacing me with +"what Smithy got." + +Johnny is distressed at being the innocent cause of the trouble. The +threat of the Deputy disquiets him, and he warns me to prepare. My cell +is provided with a double entrance, and I am apprehensive of a sudden +attack. But the hours pass without the Deputy returning, and our fears +are allayed. The boy rejoices on my account, and brims over with +appreciation of my intercession. + +The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffidence disappears, and +we become openly tender and affectionate. The conversation lags: we feel +weak and worn. But every little while we hail each other with words of +encouragement. Smithy incessantly paces the cell; the gnawing of the +river rats reaches our ears; the silence is frequently pierced by the +wild yells of the insane man, startling us with dread foreboding. The +quiet grows unbearable, and Johnny calls again: + +"What are you doing, Sashenka?" + +"Oh, nothing. Just thinking, Felipe." + +"Am I in your thoughts, dear?" + +"Yes, kiddie, you are." + +"Sasha, dear, I've been thinking, too." + +"What, Felipe?" + +"You are the only one I care for. I haven't a friend in the whole +place." + +"Do you care much for me, Felipe?" + +"Will you promise not to laugh at me, Sashenka?" + +"I wouldn't laugh at you." + +"Cross your hand over your heart. Got it, Sasha?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, I'll tell you. I was thinking--how shall I tell you? I was +thinking, Sashenka--if you were here with me--I would like to kiss you." + +An unaccountable sense of joy glows in my heart, and I muse in silence. + +"What's the matter, Sashenka? Why don't you say something? Are you angry +with me?" + +"No, Felipe, you foolish little boy." + +"You are laughing at me." + +"No, dear; I feel just as you do." + +"Really?" + +"Yes." + +"Oh, I am so glad, Sashenka." + + * * * * * + +In the evening the guards descend to relieve Johnny; he is to be +transferred to the basket, they inform him. On the way past my cell, he +whispers: "Hope I'll see you soon, Sashenka." A friendly officer knocks +on the outer blind door of my cell. "That you thar, Berkman? You want to +b'have to th' Dep'ty. He's put you down for two more days for sassin' +him." + +I feel more lonesome at the boy's departure. The silence grows more +oppressive, the hours of darkness heavier. + + * * * * * + +Seven days I remain in the dungeon. At the expiration of the week, +feeling stiff and feeble, I totter behind the guards, on the way to the +bathroom. My body looks strangely emaciated, reduced almost to a +skeleton. The pangs of hunger revive sharply with the shock of the cold +shower, and the craving for tobacco is overpowering at the sight of the +chewing officers. I look forward to being placed in a cell, quietly +exulting at my victory as I am led to the North Wing. But, in the +cell-house, the Deputy Warden assigns me to the lower end of Range A, +insane department. Exasperated by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on +edge with the dungeon experience, I storm in furious protest, demanding +to be returned to "the hole." The Deputy, startled by my violence, +attempts to soothe me, and finally yields. I am placed in Number 35, the +"crank row" beginning several cells further. + +Upon the heels of the departing officers, the rangeman is at my door, +bursting with the latest news. The investigation is over, the Warden +whitewashed! For an instant I am aghast, failing to grasp the astounding +situation. Slowly its full significance dawns on me, as Bill excitedly +relates the story. It's the talk of the prison. The Board of Charities +had chosen its Secretary, J. Francis Torrance, an intimate friend of the +Warden, to conduct the investigation. As a precautionary measure, I was +kept several additional days in the dungeon. Mr. Torrance has privately +interviewed "Dutch" Adams, Young Smithy, and Bob Runyon, promising them +their full commutation time, notwithstanding their bad records, and +irrespective of their future behavior. They were instructed by the +Secretary to corroborate the management, placing all blame upon me! No +other witnesses were heard. The "investigation" was over within an hour, +the committee of one retiring for dinner to the adjoining residence of +the Warden. + +Several friendly prisoners linger at my cell during the afternoon, +corroborating the story of the rangeman, and completing the details. The +cell-house itself bears out the situation; the change in the personnel +of the men is amazing. "Dutch" Adams has been promoted to messenger for +the "front office," the most privileged "political" job in the prison. +Bob Runyon, a third-timer and notorious "kid man," has been appointed a +trusty in the shops. But the most significant cue is the advancement of +Young Smithy to the position of rangeman. He has but recently been +sentenced to a year's solitary for the broken key discovered in the lock +of his door. His record is of the worst. He is a young convict of +extremely violent temper, who has repeatedly attacked fellow-prisoners +with dangerous weapons. Since his murderous assault upon the inoffensive +"Praying Andy," Smithy was never permitted out of his cell without the +escort of two guards. And now this irresponsible man is in charge of a +range! + + * * * * * + +At supper, Young Smithy steals up to my cell, bringing a slice of +cornbread. I refuse the peace offering, and charge him with treachery. +At first he stoutly protests his innocence, but gradually weakens and +pleads his dire straits in mitigation. Torrance had persuaded him to +testify, but he avoided incriminating me. That was done by the other two +witnesses; he merely exonerated the Warden from the charges preferred by +James Grant. He had been clubbed four times, but he denied to the +committee that the guards practice violence; and he supported the Warden +in his statement that the officers are not permitted to carry clubs or +blackjacks. He feels that an injustice has been done me, and now that he +occupies my former position, he will be able to repay the little favors +I did him when he was in solitary. + +Indignantly I spurn his offer. He pleads his youth, the torture of the +cell, and begs my forgiveness; but I am bitter at his treachery, and bid +him go. + +Officer McIlvaine pauses at my door. "Oh, what a change, what an awful +change!" he exclaims, pityingly. I don't know whether he refers to my +appearance, or to the loss of range liberty; but I resent his tone of +commiseration; it was he who had selected me as a victim, to be +reported for talking. Angrily I turn my back to him, refusing to talk. + +Somebody stealthily pushes a bundle of newspapers between the bars. +Whole columns detail the report of the "investigation," completely +exonerating Warden Edward S. Wright. The base charges against the +management of the penitentiary were the underhand work of Anarchist +Berkman, Mr. Torrance assured the press. One of the papers contains a +lengthy interview with Wright, accusing me of fostering discontent and +insubordination among the men. The Captain expresses grave fear for the +safety of the community, should the Pardon Board reduce my sentence, in +view of the circumstance that my lawyers are preparing to renew the +application at the next session. + +In great agitation I pace the cell. The statement of the Warden is fatal +to the hope of a pardon. My life in the prison will now be made still +more unbearable. I shall again be locked in solitary. With despair I +think of my fate in the hands of the enemy, and the sense of my utter +helplessness overpowers me. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +FOR SAFETY + + + DEAR K.: + + I know you must have been worried about me. Give no credence to + the reports you hear. I did not try to suicide. I was very + nervous and excited over the things that happened while I was in + the dungeon. I saw the papers after I came up--you know what + they said. I couldn't sleep; I kept pacing the floor. The screws + were hanging about my cell, but I paid no attention to them. + They spoke to me, but I wouldn't answer: I was in no mood for + talking. They must have thought something wrong with me. The + doctor came, and felt my pulse, and they took me to the + hospital. The Warden rushed in and ordered me into a + strait-jacket. "For safety," he said. + + You know Officer Erwin; he put the jacket on me. He's a pretty + decent chap; I saw he hated to do it. But the evening screw is a + rat. He called three times during the night, and every time he'd + tighten the straps. I thought he'd cut my hands off; but I + wouldn't cry for mercy, and that made him wild. They put me in + the "full size" jacket that winds all around you, the arms + folded. They laid me, tied in the canvas, on the bed, bound me + to it feet and chest, with straps provided with padlocks. I was + suffocating in the hot ward; could hardly breathe. In the + morning they unbound me. My legs were paralyzed, and I could not + stand up. The doctor ordered some medicine for me. The head + nurse (he's in for murder, and he's rotten) taunted me with the + "black bottle." Every time he passed my bed, he'd say: "You + still alive? Wait till I fix something up for you." I refused + the medicine, and then they took me down to the dispensary, + lashed me to a chair, and used the pump on me. You can imagine + how I felt. That went on for a week; every night in the + strait-jacket, every morning the pump. Now I am back in the + block, in 6 A. A peculiar coincidence,--it's the same cell I + occupied when I first came here. + + Don't trust Bill Say. The Warden told me he knew about the note + I sent you just before I smashed up. If you got it, Bill must + have read it and told Sandy. Only dear old Horsethief can be + relied upon. + + How near the boundary of joy is misery! I shall never forget the + first morning in the jacket. I passed a restless night, but just + as it began to dawn I must have lost consciousness. Suddenly I + awoke with the most exquisite music in my ears. It seemed to me + as if the heavens had opened in a burst of ecstasy.... It was + only a little sparrow, but never before in my life did I hear + such sweet melody. I felt murder in my heart when the convict + nurse drove the poor birdie from the window ledge. + + A. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +DREAMS OF FREEDOM + + +I + +Like an endless _miserere_ are the days in the solitary. No glimmer of +light cheers the to-morrows. In the depths of suffering, existence +becomes intolerable; and as of old, I seek refuge in the past. The +stages of my life reappear as the acts of a drama which I cannot bring +myself to cut short. The possibilities of the dark motive compel the +imagination, and halt the thought of destruction. Misery magnifies the +estimate of self; the vehemence of revolt strengthens to endure. Despair +engenders obstinate resistance; in its spirit hope is trembling. Slowly +it assumes more definite shape: escape is the sole salvation. The world +of the living is dim and unreal with distance; its voice reaches me like +the pale echo of fantasy; the thought of its turbulent vitality is +strange with apprehension. But the present is bitter with wretchedness, +and gasps desperately for relief. + +The efforts of my friends bring a glow of warmth into my life. The +indefatigable Girl has succeeded in interesting various circles: she is +gathering funds for my application for a rehearing before the Pardon +Board in the spring of '98, when my first sentence of seven years will +have expired. With a touch of old-time tenderness, I think of her +loyalty, her indomitable perseverance in my behalf. It is she, almost +she alone, who has kept my memory green throughout the long years. Even +Fedya, my constant chum, has been swirled into the vortex of narrow +ambition and self-indulgence, the plaything of commonplace fate. + +Resentment at being thus lightly forgotten tinges my thoughts of the +erstwhile twin brother of our ideal-kissed youth. By contrast, the Girl +is silhouetted on my horizon as the sole personification of +revolutionary persistence, the earnest of its realization. Beyond, all +is darkness--the mystic world of falsehood and sham, that will hate and +persecute me even as its brutal high priests in the prison. Here and +there the gloom is rent: an unknown sympathizer, or comrade, sends a +greeting; I pore eagerly over the chirography, and from the clear, +decisive signature, "Voltairine de Cleyre," strive to mold the character +and shape the features of the writer. To the Girl I apply to verify my +"reading," and rejoice in the warm interest of the convent-educated +American, a friend of my much-admired Comrade Dyer D. Lum, who is aiding +the Girl in my behalf. + +But the efforts for a rehearing wake no hope in my heart. My comrades, +far from the prison world, do not comprehend the full significance of +the situation resulting from the investigation. My underground +connections are paralyzed; I cannot enlighten the Girl. But Nold and +Bauer are on the threshold of liberty. Within two months Carl will carry +my message to New York. I can fully rely on his discretion and devotion; +we have grown very intimate through common suffering. He will inform the +Girl that nothing is to be expected from legal procedure; instead, he +will explain to her the plan I have evolved. + +My position as rangeman has served me to good advantage. I have +thoroughly familiarized myself with the institution; I have gathered +information and explored every part of the cell-house offering the least +likelihood of an escape. The prison is almost impregnable; Tom's attempt +to scale the wall proved disastrous, in spite of his exceptional +opportunities as kitchen employee, and the thick fog of the early +morning. Several other attempts also were doomed to failure, the great +number of guards and their vigilance precluding success. No escape has +taken place since the days of Paddy McGraw, before the completion of the +prison. Entirely new methods must be tried: the road to freedom leads +underground! But digging _out_ of the prison is impracticable in the +modern structure of steel and rock. We must force a passage _into_ the +prison: the tunnel is to be dug from the outside! A house is to be +rented in the neighborhood of the penitentiary, and the underground +passage excavated beneath the eastern wall, toward the adjacent +bath-house. No officers frequent the place save at certain hours, and I +shall find an opportunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the +regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are permitted to bathe. + +The project will require careful preparation and considerable expense. +Skilled comrades will have to be entrusted with the secret work, the +greater part of which must be carried on at night. Determination and +courage will make the plan feasible, successful. Such things have been +done before. Not in this country, it is true. But the act will receive +added significance from the circumstance that the liberation of the +first American political prisoner has been accomplished by means similar +to those practised by our comrades in Russia. Who knows? It may prove +the symbol and precursor of Russian idealism on American soil. And what +tremendous impression the consummation of the bold plan will make! What +a stimulus to our propaganda, as a demonstration of Anarchist initiative +and ability! I glow with the excitement of its great possibilities, and +enthuse Carl with my hopes. If the preparatory work is hastened, the +execution of the plan will be facilitated by the renewed agitation +within the prison. Rumors of a legislative investigation are afloat, +diverting the thoughts of the administration into different channels. I +shall foster the ferment to afford my comrades greater safety in the +work. + + * * * * * + +During the long years of my penitentiary life I have formed many +friendships. I have earned the reputation of a "square man" and a "good +fellow," have received many proofs of confidence, and appreciation of my +uncompromising attitude toward the generally execrated management. Most +of my friends observe the unwritten ethics of informing me of their +approaching release, and offer to smuggle out messages or to provide me +with little comforts. I invariably request them to visit the newspapers +and to relate their experiences in Riverside. Some express fear of the +Warden's enmity, of the fatal consequences in case of their return to +the penitentiary. But the bolder spirits and the accidental offenders, +who confidently bid me a final good-bye, unafraid of return, call +directly from the prison on the Pittsburgh editors. + +Presently the _Leader_ and the _Dispatch_ begin to voice their censure +of the hurried whitewash by the State Board of Charities. The attitude +of the press encourages the guards to manifest their discontent with the +humiliating eccentricities of the senile Warden. They protest against +the whim subjecting them to military drill to improve their appearance, +and resent Captain Wright's insistence that they patronize his private +tailor, high-priced and incompetent. Serious friction has also arisen +between the management and Mr. Sawhill, Superintendent of local +industries. The prisoners rejoice at the growing irascibility of the +Warden, and the deeper lines on his face, interpreting them as signs of +worry and fear. Expectation of a new investigation is at high pitch as +Judge Gordon, of Philadelphia, severely censures the administration of +the Eastern Penitentiary, charging inhuman treatment, abuse of the +insane, and graft. The labor bodies of the State demand the abolition of +convict competition, and the press becomes more assertive in urging an +investigation of both penitentiaries. The air is charged with rumors of +legislative action. + + +II + +The breath of spring is in the cell-house. My two comrades are jubilant. +The sweet odor of May wafts the resurrection! But the threshold of life +is guarded by the throes of new birth. A tone of nervous excitement +permeates their correspondence. Anxiety tortures the sleepless nights; +the approaching return to the living is tinged with the disquietude of +the unknown, the dread of the renewed struggle for existence. But the +joy of coming emancipation, the wine of sunshine and liberty tingles in +every fiber, and hope flutters its disused wings. + +Our plans are complete. Carl is to visit the Girl, explain my project, +and serve as the medium of communication by means of our prearranged +system, investing apparently innocent official letters with _sub rosa_ +meaning. The initial steps will require time. Meanwhile "K" and "G" are +to make the necessary arrangements for the publication of our book. The +security of our manuscripts is a source of deep satisfaction and much +merriment at the expense of the administration. The repeated searches +have failed to unearth them. With characteristic daring, the faithful +Bob had secreted them in a hole in the floor of his shop, almost under +the very seat of the guard. One by one they have been smuggled outside +by a friendly officer, whom we have christened "Schraube."[46] By +degrees Nold has gained the confidence of the former mill-worker, with +the result that sixty precious booklets now repose safely with a comrade +in Allegheny. I am to supply the final chapters of the book through Mr. +Schraube, whose friendship Carl is about to bequeath to me. + + [46] German for "screw." + + * * * * * + +The month of May is on the wane. The last note is exchanged with my +comrades. Dear Bob was not able to reach me in the morning, and now I +read the lines quivering with the last pangs of release, while Nold and +Bauer are already beyond the walls. How I yearned for a glance at Carl, +to touch hands, even in silence! But the customary privilege was refused +us. Only once in the long years of our common suffering have I looked +into the eyes of my devoted friend, and stealthily pressed his hand, +like a thief in the night. No last greeting was vouchsafed me to-day. +The loneliness seems heavier, the void more painful. + +The routine is violently disturbed. Reading and study are burdensome: my +thoughts will not be compelled. They revert obstinately to my comrades, +and storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the distance, to +commune with the absent. I seek diversion in the manufacture of prison +"fancy work," ornamental little fruit baskets, diminutive articles of +furniture, picture frames, and the like. The little momentos, +constructed of tissue-paper rolls of various design, I send to the Girl, +and am elated at her admiration of the beautiful workmanship and +attractive color effects. But presently she laments the wrecked +condition of the goods, and upon investigation I learn from the runner +that the most dilapidated cardboard boxes are selected for my product. +The rotunda turnkey, in charge of the shipments, is hostile, and I +appeal to the Chaplain. But his well-meant intercession results in an +order from the Warden, interdicting the expressage of my work, on the +ground of probable notes being secreted therein. I protest against the +discrimination, suggesting the dismembering of every piece to disprove +the charge. But the Captain derisively remarks that he is indisposed to +"take chances," and I am forced to resort to the subterfuge of having my +articles transferred to a friendly prisoner and addressed by him to his +mother in Beaver, Pa., thence to be forwarded to New York. At the same +time the rotunda keeper detains a valuable piece of ivory sent to me by +the Girl for the manufacture of ornamental toothpicks. The local ware, +made of kitchen bones bleached in lime, turns yellow in a short time. My +request for the ivory is refused on the plea of submitting the matter to +the Warden's decision, who rules against me. I direct the return of it +to my friend, but am informed that the ivory has been mislaid and cannot +be found. Exasperated, I charge the guard with the theft, and serve +notice that I shall demand the ivory at the expiration of my time. The +turnkey jeers at the wild impossibility, and I am placed for a week on +"Pennsylvania diet" for insulting an officer. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +WHITEWASHED AGAIN + + + CHRISTMAS, 1897. + + MY DEAR CARL: + + I have been despairing of reaching you _sub rosa_, but the + holidays brought the usual transfers, and at last friend + Schraube is with me. Dear Carolus, I am worn out with the misery + of the months since you left, and the many disappointments. Your + official letters were not convincing. I fail to understand why + the plan is not practicable. Of course, you can't write openly, + but you have means of giving a hint as to the "impossibilities" + you speak of. You say that I have become too estranged from the + outside, and so forth--which may be true. Yet I think the matter + chiefly concerns the inside, and of that I am the best judge. I + do not see the force of your argument when you dwell upon the + application at the next session of the Pardon Board. You mean + that the other plan would jeopardize the success of the legal + attempt. But there is not much hope of favorable action by the + Board. You have talked all this over before, but you seem to + have a different view now. Why? + + Only in a very small measure do your letters replace in my life + the heart-to-heart talks we used to have here, though they were + only on paper. But I am much interested in your activities. It + seems strange that you, so long the companion of my silence, + should now be in the very Niagara of life, of our movement. It + gives me great satisfaction to know that your experience here + has matured you, and helped to strengthen and deepen your + convictions. It has had a similar effect upon me. You know what + a voluminous reader I am. I have read--in fact, studied--every + volume in the library here, and now the Chaplain supplies me + with books from his. But whether it be philosophy, travel, or + contemporary life that falls into my hands, it invariably + distils into my mind the falsity of dominant ideas, and the + beauty, the inevitability of Anarchism. But I do not want to + enlarge upon this subject now; we can discuss it through + official channels. + + You know that Tony and his nephew are here. We are just getting + acquainted. He works in the shop; but as he is also coffee-boy, + we have an opportunity to exchange notes. It is fortunate that + his identity is not known; otherwise he would fall under special + surveillance. I have my eyes on Tony,--he may prove valuable. + + I am still in solitary, with no prospect of relief. You know the + policy of the Warden to use me as a scapegoat for everything + that happens here. It has become a mania with him. Think of it, + he blames me for Johnny Davis' cutting "Dutch." He laid + everything at my door when the legislative investigation took + place. It was a worse sham than the previous whitewash. Several + members called to see me at the cell,--unofficially, they said. + They got a hint of the evidence I was prepared to give, and one + of them suggested to me that it is not advisable for one in my + position to antagonize the Warden. I replied that I was no + toady. He hinted that the authorities of the prison might help + me to procure freedom, if I would act "discreetly." I insisted + that I wanted to be heard by the committee. They departed, + promising to call me as a witness. One Senator remarked, as he + left: "You are too intelligent a man to be at large." + + When the hearing opened, several officers were the first to take + the stand. The testimony was not entirely favorable to the + Warden. Then Mr. Sawhill was called. You know him; he is an + independent sort of man, with an eye upon the wardenship. His + evidence came like a bomb; he charged the management with + corruption and fraud, and so forth. The investigators took + fright. They closed the sessions and departed for Harrisburg, + announcing through the press that they would visit + Moyamensing[47] and then return to Riverside. But they did not + return. The report they submitted to the Governor exonerated the + Warden. + + The men were gloomy over the state of affairs. A hundred + prisoners were prepared to testify, and much was expected from + the committee. I had all my facts on hand: Bob had fished out + for me the bundle of material from its hiding place. It was in + good condition, in spite of the long soaking. (I am enclosing + some new data in this letter, for use in our book.) + + Now that he is "cleared," the Warden has grown even more + arrogant and despotic. Yet _some_ good the agitation in the + press has accomplished: clubbings are less frequent, and the + bull ring is temporarily abolished. But his hatred of me has + grown venomous. He holds us responsible (together with Dempsey + and Beatty) for organizing the opposition to convict labor, + which has culminated in the Muehlbronner law. It is to take + effect on the first of the year. The prison administration is + very bitter, because the statute, which permits only thirty-five + per cent. of the inmates to be employed in productive labor, + will considerably minimize opportunities for graft. But the men + are rejoicing: the terrible slavery in the shops has driven many + to insanity and death. The law is one of the rare instances of + rational legislation. Its benefit to labor in general is + nullified, however, by limiting convict competition only within + the State. The Inspectors are already seeking a market for the + prison products in other States, while the convict manufactures + of New York, Ohio, Illinois, etc., are disposed of in + Pennsylvania. The irony of beneficent legislation! On the other + hand, the inmates need not suffer for lack of employment. The + new law allows the unlimited manufacture, within the prison, of + products for local consumption. If the whine of the management + regarding the "detrimental effect of idleness on the convict" is + sincere, they could employ five times the population of the + prison in the production of articles for our own needs. + + At present all the requirements of the penitentiary are supplied + from the outside. The purchase of a farm, following the example + set by the workhouse, would alone afford work for a considerable + number of men. I have suggested, in a letter to the Inspectors, + various methods by which every inmate of the institution could + be employed,--among them the publication of a prison paper. Of + course, they have ignored me. But what can you expect of a body + of philanthropists who have the interest of the convict so much + at heart that they delegated the President of the Board, George + A. Kelly, to oppose the parole bill, a measure certainly along + advanced lines of modern criminology. Owing to the influence of + Inspector Kelly, the bill was shelved at the last session of the + legislature, though the prisoners have been praying for it for + years. It has robbed the moneyless lifetimers of their last + hope: a clause in the parole bill held out to them the promise + of release after 20 years of good behavior. + + Dark days are in store for the men. Apparently the campaign of + the Inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the + Muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and + sickness. They are actually causing both by keeping half the + population locked up. You know how quickly the solitary drives + certain classes of prisoners insane. Especially the more + ignorant element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their + personal troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. Think of men, + who cannot even read, put _incommunicado_ for months at a time, + for years even! Most of the colored prisoners, and those + accustomed to outdoor life, such as farmers and the like quickly + develop the germs of consumption in close confinement. Now, this + wilful murder--for it is nothing else--is absolutely + unnecessary. The yard is big and well protected by the + thirty-foot wall, with armed guards patrolling it. Why not give + the unemployed men air and exercise, since the management is + determined to keep them idle? I suggested the idea to the + Warden, but he berated me for my "habitual interference" in + matters that do not concern me. I often wonder at the enigma of + human nature. There's the Captain, a man 72 years old. He should + bethink himself of death, of "meeting his Maker," since he + pretends to believe in religion. Instead, he is bending all his + energies to increase insanity and disease among the convicts, in + order to force the repeal of the law that has lessened the flow + of blood money. It is almost beyond belief; but you have + yourself witnessed the effect of a brutal atmosphere upon new + officers. Wright has been Warden for thirty years; he has come + to regard the prison as his undisputed dominion; and now he is + furious at the legislative curtailment of his absolute control. + + This letter will remind you of our bulky notes in the "good" old + days when "KG" were here. I miss our correspondence. There are + some intelligent men on the range, but they are not interested + in the thoughts that seethe within me and call for expression. + Just now the chief topic of local interest (after, of course, + the usual discussion of the grub, women, kids, and their health + and troubles) is the Spanish War and the new dining-room, in + which the shop employees are to be fed _en masse_, out of + chinaware, think of it! Some of the men are tremendously + patriotic; others welcome the war as a sinecure affording easy + money and plenty of excitement. You remember Young Butch and his + partners, Murtha, Tommy, etc. They have recently been released, + too wasted and broken in health to be fit for manual labor. All + of them have signified their intention of joining the + insurrection; some are enrolling in the regular army for the + war. Butch is already in Cuba. I had a letter from him. There is + a passage in it that is tragically characteristic. He refers to + a skirmish he participated in. "We shot a lot of Spaniards, + mostly from ambush," he writes; "it was great sport." It is the + attitude of the military adventurer, to whom a sacred cause like + the Cuban uprising unfortunately affords the opportunity to + satisfy his lust for blood. Butch was a very gentle boy when he + entered the prison. But he has witnessed much heartlessness and + cruelty during his term of three years. + + Letter growing rather long. Good night. + + A. + + [47] The Eastern Penitentiary at Philadelphia, Pa. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +"AND BY ALL FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT" + + +I + +A year of solitary has wasted my strength, and left me feeble and +languid. My expectations of relief from complete isolation have been +disappointed. Existence is grim with despair, as day by day I feel my +vitality ebbing; the long nights are tortured with insomnia; my body is +racked with constant pains. All my heart is dark. + +A glimmer of light breaks through the clouds, as the session of the +Pardon Board approaches. I clutch desperately at the faint hope of a +favorable decision. With feverish excitement I pore over the letters of +the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. My application is +supported by numerous labor bodies, she writes. Comrade Harry Kelly has +been tireless in my behalf; the success of his efforts to arouse public +sympathy augurs well for the application. The United Labor League of +Pennsylvania, representing over a hundred thousand toilers, has passed a +resolution favoring my release. Together with other similar expressions, +individual and collective, it will be laid before the Pardon Board, and +it is confidently expected that the authorities will not ignore the +voice of organized labor. In a ferment of anxiety and hope I count the +days and hours, irritable with impatience and apprehension as I near +the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before me, glorified by +the meeting with the Girl and my former companions, and I thrill with +the return to the world, as I restlessly pace the cell in the silence of +the night. + +The thought of my prison friends obtrudes upon my visions. With the +tenderness born of common misery I think of their fate, resolving to +brighten their lives with little comforts and letters, that mean so much +to every prisoner. My first act in liberty shall be in memory of the men +grown close to me with the kinship of suffering, the unfortunates +endeared by awakened sympathy and understanding. For so many years I +have shared with them the sorrows and the few joys of penitentiary life, +I feel almost guilty to leave them. But henceforth their cause shall be +mine, a vital part of the larger, social cause. It will be my constant +endeavor to ameliorate their condition, and I shall strain every effort +for my little friend Felipe; I must secure his release. How happy the +boy will be to join me in liberty!... The flash of the dark lantern +dispels my fantasies, and again I walk the cell in vehement misgiving +and fervent hope of to-morrow's verdict. + +At noon I am called to the Warden. He must have received word from the +Board,--I reflect on the way. The Captain lounges in the armchair, his +eyes glistening, his seamed face yellow and worried. With an effort I +control my impatience as he offers me a seat. He bids the guard depart, +and a wild hope trembles in me. He is not afraid,--perhaps good news! + +"Sit down, Berkman," he speaks with unwonted affability. "I have just +received a message from Harrisburg. Your attorney requests me to inform +you that the Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is probably +under consideration at this moment." + +I remain silent. The Warden scans me closely. + +"You would return to New York, if released?" he inquires. + +"Yes." + +"What are your plans?" + +"Well, I have not formed any yet." + +"You would go back to your Anarchist friends?" + +"Certainly." + +"You have not changed your views?" + +"By no means." + +A turnkey enters. "Captain, on official business," he reports. + +"Wait here a moment, Berkman," the Warden remarks, withdrawing. The +officer remains. + +In a few minutes the Warden returns, motioning to the guard to leave. + +"I have just been informed that the Board has refused you a hearing." + +I feel the cold perspiration running down my back. The prison rumors of +the Warden's interference flash through my mind. The Board promised a +rehearing at the previous application,--why this refusal? + +"Warden," I exclaim, "you objected to my pardon!" + +"Such action lies with the Inspectors," he replies evasively. The +peculiar intonation strengthens my suspicions. + +A feeling of hopelessness possesses me. I sense the Warden's gaze +fastened on me, and I strive to control my emotion. + +"How much time have you yet?" he asks. + +"Over eleven years." + +"How long have you been locked up this time?" + +"Sixteen months." + +"There is a vacancy on your range. The assistant hallman is going home +to-morrow. You would like the position?" he eyes me curiously. + +"Yes." + +"I'll consider it." + +I rise weakly, but he detains me: "By the way, Berkman, look at this." + +He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several casts of plaster of +paris. I wonder at the strange proceeding. + +"You know what they are?" he inquires. + +"Plaster casts, I think." + +"Of what? For what purpose? Look at them well, now." + +I glance indifferently at the molds bearing the clear impression of an +eagle. + +"It's the cast of a silver dollar, I believe." + +"I am glad you speak truthfully. I had no doubt you would know. I +examined your library record and found that you have drawn books on +metallurgy." + +"Oh, you suspect me of this?" I flare up. + +"No, not this time," he smiles in a suggestive manner. "You have drawn +practically every book from the library. I had a talk with the Chaplain, +and he is positive that you would not be guilty of counterfeiting, +because it would be robbing poor people." + +"The reading of my letters must have familiarized the Chaplain with +Anarchist ideas." + +"Yes, Mr. Milligan thinks highly of you. You might antagonize the +management, but he assures me you would not abet such a crime." + +"I am glad to hear it." + +"You would protect the Federal Government, then?" + +"I don't understand you." + +"You would protect the people from being cheated by counterfeit money?" + +"The government and the people are not synonymous." + +Flushing slightly, and frowning, he asks: "But you would protect the +poor?" + +"Yes, certainly." + +His face brightens. "Oh, quite so, quite so," he smiles reassuringly. +"These molds were found hidden in the North Block. No; not in a cell, +but in the hall. We suspect a certain man. It's Ed Sloane; he is located +two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the management is very anxious to get +to the bottom of this matter. It's a crime against the people. You may +have heard Sloane speaking to his neighbors about this." + +"No. I am sure you suspect an innocent person." + +"How so?" + +"Sloane is a very sick man. It's the last thing he'd think of." + +"Well, we have certain reasons for suspecting him. If you should happen +to hear anything, just rap on the door and inform the officers you are +ill. They will be instructed to send for me at once." + +"I can't do it, Warden." + +"Why not?" he demands. + +"I am not a spy." + +"Why, certainly not, Berkman. I should not ask you to be. But you have +friends on the range, you may learn something. Well, think the matter +over," he adds, dismissing me. + +Bitter disappointment at the action of the Board, indignation at the +Warden's suggestion, struggle within me as I reach my cell. The guard is +about to lock me in, when the Deputy Warden struts into the block. + +"Officer, unlock him," he commands. "Berkman, the Captain says you are +to be assistant rangeman. Report to Mr. McIlvaine for a broom." + + +II + +The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty. Local methods are +of no avail, but now my opportunities for escape are more favorable. +Considerable changes have taken place during my solitary, and the first +necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confidants have been released; +others were transferred during the investigation period to the South +Wing, to disrupt my connections. New men are about the cell-house and I +miss many of my chums. The lower half of the bottom ranges A and K is +now exclusively occupied by the insane, their numbers greatly augmented. +Poor Wingie has disappeared. Grown violently insane, he was repeatedly +lodged in the dungeon, and finally sent to an asylum. There my +unfortunate friend had died after two months. His cell is now occupied +by "Irish Mike," a good-natured boy, turned imbecile by solitary. He +hops about on all fours, bleating: "baah, baah, see the goat. I'm the +goat, baah, baah." I shudder at the fate I have escaped, as I look at +the familiar faces that were so bright with intelligence and youth, now +staring at me from the "crank row," wild-eyed and corpse-like, their +minds shattered, their bodies wasted to a shadow. My heart bleeds as I +realize that Sid and Nick fail to recognize me, their memory a total +blank; and Patsy, the Pittsburgh bootblack, stands at the door, +motionless, his eyes glassy, lips frozen in an inane smile. + +From cell to cell I pass the graveyard of the living dead, the silence +broken only by intermittent savage yells and the piteous bleating of +Mike. The whole day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and +recreation, their rations reduced because of "delinquency." New +"bughouse cases" are continually added from the ranks of the prisoners +forced to remain idle and kept in solitary. The sight of the terrible +misery almost gives a touch of consolation to my grief over Johnny +Davis. My young friend had grown ill in the foul basket. He begged to be +taken to the hospital; but his condition did not warrant it, the +physician said. Moreover, he was "in punishment." Poor boy, how he must +have suffered! They found him dead on the floor of his cell. + + * * * * * + +My body renews its strength with the exercise and greater liberty of the +range. The subtle hope of the Warden to corrupt me has turned to my +advantage. I smile with scorn at his miserable estimate of human nature, +determined by a lifetime of corruption and hypocrisy. How saddening is +the shallowness of popular opinion! Warden Wright is hailed as a +progressive man, a deep student of criminology, who has introduced +modern methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an expression of +respect and appreciation, the National Prison Association has selected +Captain Wright as its delegate to the International Congress at +Brussels, which is to take place in 1900. And all the time the Warden is +designing new forms of torture, denying the pleadings of the idle men +for exercise, and exerting his utmost efforts to increase sickness and +insanity, in the attempt to force the repeal of the "convict labor" law. +The puerility of his judgment fills me with contempt: public sentiment +in regard to convict competition with outside labor has swept the State; +the efforts of the Warden, disastrous though they be to the inmates, are +doomed to failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted +experience of thirty years. The so confidently uttered suspicion of Ed +Sloane in regard to the counterfeiting charge, has proved mere +lip-wisdom. The real culprit is Bob Runyon, the trusty basking in the +Warden's special graces. His intimate friend, John Smith, the witness +and protege of Torrane, has confided to me the whole story, in a final +effort to "set himself straight." He even exhibited to me the coins made +by Runyon, together with the original molds, cast in the trusty's cell. +And poor Sloane, still under surveillance, is slowly dying of neglect, +the doctor charging him with eating soap to produce symptoms of illness. + + +III + +The year passes in a variety of interests. The Girl and several +newly-won correspondents hold the thread of outside life. The Twin has +gradually withdrawn from our New York circles, and is now entirely +obscured on my horizon. But the Girl is staunch and devoted, and I +keenly anticipate her regular mail. She keeps me informed of events in +the international labor movement, news of which is almost entirely +lacking in the daily press. We discuss the revolutionary expressions of +the times, and I learn more about Pallas and Luccheni, whose acts of the +previous winter had thrown Europe into a ferment of agitation. I hunger +for news of the agitation against the tortures in Montjuich, the revival +of the Inquisition rousing in me the spirit of retribution and deep +compassion for my persecuted comrades in the Spanish bastille. Beneath +the suppressed tone of her letters, I read the Girl's suffering and +pain, and feel the heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows. + +Presently I am apprised that some prominent persons interested in my +case are endeavoring to secure Carnegie's signature for a renewed +application to the Board of Pardons. The Girl conveys the information +guardedly; the absence of comment discovers to me the anguish of soul +the step has caused her. What terrible despair had given birth to the +suggestion, I wonder. If the project of the underground escape had been +put in operation, we should not have had to suffer such humiliation. Why +have my friends ignored the detailed plan I had submitted to them +through Carl? I am confident of its feasibility and success, if we can +muster the necessary skill and outlay. The animosity of the prison +authorities precludes the thought of legal release. The underground +route, very difficult and expensive though it be, is the sole hope. It +must be realized. My _sub rosa_ communications suspended during the +temporary absence of Mr. Schraube, I hint these thoughts in official +mail to the Girl, but refrain from objecting to the Carnegie idea. + +Other matters of interest I learn from correspondence with friends in +Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The frequent letters of Carl, still +reminiscent of his sojourn at Riverside, thrill with the joy of active +propaganda and of his success as public speaker. Voltairine de Cleyre +and Sarah Patton lend color to my existence by discursive epistles of +great charm and rebellious thought. Often I pause to wonder at the +miracle of my mail passing the censorial eyes. But the Chaplain is a +busy man; careful perusal of every letter would involve too great a +demand upon his time. The correspondence with Mattie I turn over to my +neighbor Pasquale, a young Italian serving sixteen years, who has +developed a violent passion for the pretty face on the photograph. The +roguish eyes and sweet lips exert but a passing impression upon me. My +thoughts turn to Johnny, my young friend in the convict grave. Deep snow +is on the ground; it must be cold beneath the sod. The white shroud is +pressing, pressing heavily upon the lone boy, like the suffocating night +of the basket cell. But in the spring little blades of green will +sprout, and perhaps a rosebud will timidly burst and flower, all white, +and perfume the air, and shed its autumn tears upon the convict grave of +Johnny. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED + + + February 14, 1899. + + DEAR CAROLUS: + + The Greeks thought the gods spiteful creatures. When things + begin to look brighter for man, they grow envious. You'll be + surprised,--Mr. Schraube has turned into an enemy. Mostly my own + fault; that's the sting of it. It will explain to you the + failure of the former _sub rosa_ route. The present one is safe, + but very temporary. + + It happened last fall. From assistant I was advanced to hallman, + having charge of the "crank row," on Range A. A new order + curtailed the rations of the insane,--no cornbread, cheese, or + hash; only bread and coffee. As rangeman, I help to "feed," and + generally have "extras" left on the wagon,--some one sick, or + refusing food, etc. I used to distribute the extras, "on the q. + t.," among the men deprived of them. One day, just before + Christmas, an officer happened to notice Patsy chewing a piece + of cheese. The poor fellow is quite an imbecile; he did not know + enough to hide what I gave him. Well, you are aware that + "Cornbread Tom" does not love me. He reported me. I admitted the + charge to the Warden, and tried to tell him how hungry the men + were. He wouldn't hear of it, saying that the insane should not + "overload" their stomachs. I was ordered locked up. Within a + month I was out again, but imagine my surprise when Schraube + refused even to talk to me. At first I could not fathom the + mystery; later I learned that he was reprimanded, losing ten + days' pay for "allowing" me to feed the demented. He knew + nothing about it, of course, but he was at the time in special + charge of "crank row." The Schraube has been telling my friends + that I got him in trouble wilfully. He seems to nurse his + grievance with much bitterness; he apparently hates me now with + the hatred we often feel toward those who know our secrets. But + he realizes he has nothing to fear from me. + + Many changes have taken place since you left. You would hardly + recognize the block if you returned (better stay out, though). + No more talking through the waste pipes; the new privies have + standing water. Electricity is gradually taking the place of + candles. The garish light is almost driving me blind, and the + innovation has created a new problem: how to light our pipes. We + are given the same monthly allowance of matches, each package + supposed to contain 30, but usually have 27; and last month I + received only 25. I made a kick, but it was in vain. The worst + of it is, fully a third of the matches are damp and don't light. + While we used candles we managed somehow, borrowing a few + matches occasionally from non-smokers. But now that candles are + abolished, the difficulty is very serious. I split each match + into four; sometimes I succeed in making six. There is a man on + the range who is an artist at it: he can make eight cuts out of + a match; all serviceable, too. Even at that, there is a famine, + and I have been forced to return to the stone age: with flint + and tinder I draw the fire of Prometheus. + + The mess-room is in full blast. The sight of a thousand men, + bent over their food in complete silence, officers flanking each + table, is by no means appetizing. But during the Spanish war, + the place resembled the cell-house on New Year's eve. The + patriotic Warden daily read to the diners the latest news, and + such cheering and wild yelling you have never heard. Especially + did the Hobson exploit fire the spirit of jingoism. But the + enthusiasm suddenly cooled when the men realized that they were + wasting precious minutes hurrahing, and then leaving the table + hungry when the bell terminated the meal. Some tried to pocket + the uneaten beans and rice, but the guards detected them, and + after that the Warden's war reports were accompanied only with + loud munching and champing. + + Another innovation is exercise. Your interviews with the + reporters, and those of other released prisoners, have at last + forced the Warden to allow the idle men an hour's recreation. In + inclement weather, they walk in the cell-house; on fine days, in + the yard. The reform was instituted last autumn, and the + improvement in health is remarkable. The doctor is + enthusiastically in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has + been so considerably reduced that he estimates his time-saving + at two hours daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost + entirely ceased masturbating. The shop employees envy the + "idlers" now; many have purposely precipitated trouble in order + to be put in solitary, and thus enjoy an hour in the open. But + Sandy "got next," and now those locked up "for cause" are + excluded from exercise. + + Here are some data for our book. The population at the end of + last year was 956--the lowest point in over a decade. The Warden + admits that the war has decreased crime; the Inspectors' report + refers to the improved economic conditions, as compared with the + panicky times of the opening years in the 90's. But the + authorities do not appear very happy over the reduction in the + Riverside population. You understand the reason: the smaller the + total, the less men may be exploited in the industries. I am not + prepared to say whether there is collusion between the judges + and the administration of the prison, but it is very significant + that the class of offenders formerly sent to the workhouse are + being increasingly sentenced to the penitentiary, and an unusual + number are transferred here from the Reformatory at Huntington + and the Reform School of Morganza. The old-timers joke about the + Warden telephoning to the Criminal Court, to notify the judges + how many men are "wanted" for the stocking shop. + + The unions might be interested in the methods of nullifying the + convict labor law. In every shop twice as many are employed as + the statute allows; the "illegal" are carried on the books as + men working on "State account"; that is, as cleaners and clerks, + not as producers. Thus it happens that in the mat shop, for + instance, more men are booked as clerks and sweepers than are + employed on the looms! In the broom shop there are 30 supposed + clerks and 15 cleaners, to a total of 53 producers legally + permitted. This is the way the legislation works on which the + labor bodies have expended such tremendous efforts. The broom + shop is still contracted to Lang Bros., with their own foreman + in charge, and his son a guard in the prison. + + Enough for to-day. When I hear of the safe arrival of this + letter, I may have more intimate things to discuss. + + A. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +THE TUNNEL + + +I + +The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons terminates all hope of +release by legal means. Had the Board refused to commute my sentence +after hearing the argument, another attempt could be made later on. But +the refusal to grant a rehearing, the crafty stratagem to circumvent +even the presentation of my case, reveals the duplicity of the previous +promise and the guilty consciousness of the illegality of my multiplied +sentences. The authorities are determined that I should remain in the +prison, confident that it will prove my tomb. Realizing this fires my +defiance, and all the stubborn resistance of my being. There is no hope +of surviving my term. At best, even with the full benefit of the +commutation time--which will hardly be granted me, in view of the +attitude of the prison management--I still have over nine years to +serve. But existence is becoming increasingly more unbearable; long +confinement and the solitary have drained my vitality. To endure the +nine years is almost a physical impossibility. I must therefore +concentrate all my energy and efforts upon escape. + +My position as rangeman is of utmost advantage. I have access to every +part of the cell-house, excepting the "crank row." The incident of +feeding the insane has put an embargo upon my communication with them, a +special hallboy having been assigned to care for the deranged. But +within my area on the range are the recent arrivals and the sane +solitaries; the division of my duties with the new man merely +facilitates my task, and affords me more leisure. + + * * * * * + +The longing for liberty constantly besets my mind, suggesting various +projects. The idea of escape daily strengthens into the determination +born of despair. It possesses me with an exclusive passion, shaping +every thought, molding every action. By degrees I curtail correspondence +with my prison chums, that I may devote the solitude of the evening to +the development of my plans. The underground tunnel masters my mind with +the boldness of its conception, its tremendous possibilities. But the +execution! Why do my friends regard the matter so indifferently? Their +tepidity irritates me. Often I lash myself into wild anger with Carl for +having failed to impress my comrades with the feasibility of the plan, +to fire them with the enthusiasm of activity. My _sub rosa_ route is +sporadic and uncertain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the +bitter surprise I feel at their provoking indifference; but my +reproaches have been studiously ignored. I cannot believe that +conditions in the movement preclude the realization of my suggestion. +These things have been accomplished in Russia. Why not in America? The +attempt should be made, if only for its propagandistic effect. True, the +project will require considerable outlay, and the work of skilled and +trustworthy men. Have we no such in our ranks? In Parsons and Lum, this +country has produced her Zheliabovs; is the genius of America not equal +to a Hartman?[48] The tacit skepticism of my correspondents pain me, and +rouses my resentment. They evidently lack faith in the judgment of "one +who has been so long separated" from their world, from the interests and +struggles of the living. The consciousness of my helplessness without +aid from the outside gnaws at me, filling my days with bitterness. But I +will persevere: I will compel their attention and their activity; aye, +their enthusiasm! + + [48] Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow railway, + undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander + II., in 1880. + +With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of Tony. The months of +frequent correspondence and occasional personal meetings have developed +a spirit of congeniality and good will. I exert my ingenuity to create +opportunities for stolen interviews and closer comradeship. Through the +aid of a friendly officer, I procure for Tony the privilege of assisting +his rangeman after shop hours, thus enabling him to communicate with me +to greater advantage. Gradually we become intimate, and I learn the +story of his life, rich in adventure and experience. An Alsatian, small +and wiry, Tony is a man of quick wit, with a considerable dash of the +Frenchman about him. He is intelligent and daring--the very man to carry +out my plan. + +For days I debate in my mind the momentous question: shall I confide the +project to Tony? It would be placing myself in his power, jeopardizing +the sole hope of my life. Yet it is the only way; I must rely on my +intuition of the man's worth. My nights are sleepless, excruciating with +the agony of indecision. But my friend's sentence is nearing completion. +We shall need time for discussion and preparation, for thorough +consideration of every detail. At last I resolve to take the decisive +step, and next day I reveal the secret to Tony. + +His manner allays apprehension. Serene and self-possessed, he listens +gravely to my plan, smiles with apparent satisfaction, and briefly +announces that it shall be done. Only the shining eyes of my reticent +comrade betray his elation at the bold scheme, and his joy in the +adventure. He is confident that the idea is feasible, suggesting the +careful elaboration of details, and the invention of a cipher to insure +greater safety for our correspondence. The precaution is necessary; it +will prove of inestimable value upon his release. + +With great circumspection the cryptogram is prepared, based on a +discarded system of German shorthand, but somewhat altered, and further +involved by the use of words of our own coinage. The cipher, thus +perfected, will defy the skill of the most expert. + +But developments within the prison necessitate changes in the project. +The building operations near the bathhouse destroy the serviceability of +the latter for my purpose. We consider several new routes, but soon +realize that lack of familiarity with the construction of the +penitentiary gas and sewer systems may defeat our success. There are no +means of procuring the necessary information: Tony is confined to the +shop, while I am never permitted out of the cell-house. In vain I strive +to solve the difficulty; weeks pass without bringing light. + +My Providence comes unexpectedly, in the guise of a fight in the yard. +The combatants are locked up on my range. One of them proves to be +"Mac," an aged prisoner serving a third term. During his previous +confinement, he had filled the position of fireman, one of his duties +consisting in the weekly flushing of the sewers. He is thoroughly +familiar with the underground piping of the yard, but his reputation +among the inmates is tinged with the odor of sycophancy. He is, however, +the only means of solving my difficulty, and I diligently set myself to +gain his friendship. I lighten his solitary by numerous expressions of +my sympathy, often secretly supplying him with little extras procured +from my kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of an +opportunity to converse, and I devote every propitious moment to +listening to his long-winded stories of the "great jobs" he had +accomplished in "his" time, the celebrated "guns" with whom he had +associated, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in with th' +fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encouraging the recital of his +prison experiences, and leading him on to dwell upon his last "bit." He +becomes reminiscent of his friends in Riverside, bewails the early +graves of some, others "gone bugs," and rejoices over his good chum +Patty McGraw managing to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives +"Mac" a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the ingenuity of +Patty, while I express surprise that he himself had never attempted to +take French leave. "What!" he bristles up, "think I'm such a dummy?" and +with great detail he discloses his plan, "'way in th' 80's" to swim +through the sewer. I scoff at his folly, "You must have been a chump, +Mac, to think it could be done," I remark. "I was, was I? What do you +know about the piping, eh? Now, let me tell you. Just wait," and, +snatching up his library slate, he draws a complete diagram of the +prison sewerage. In the extreme southwest corner of the yard he +indicates a blind underground alley. + +"What's this?" I ask, in surprise. + +"Nev'r knew _that_, did yer? It's a little tunn'l, connectin' th' +cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen men in th' dump know 't; not +ev'n a good many screws. Passage ain't been used fer a long time." + +In amazement I scan the diagram. I had noticed a little trap door at the +very point in the yard indicated in the drawing, and I had often +wondered what purpose it might serve. My heart dances with joy at the +happy solution of my difficulty. The "blind alley" will greatly +facilitate our work. It is within fifteen feet, or twenty at most, of +the southwestern wall. Its situation is very favorable: there are no +shops in the vicinity; the place is never visited by guards or +prisoners. + +The happy discovery quickly matures the details of my plan: a house is +to be rented opposite the southern wall, on Sterling Street. Preferably +it is to be situated very near to the point where the wall adjoins the +cell-house building. Dug in a direct line across the street, and +underneath the south wall, the tunnel will connect with the "blind +alley." I shall manage the rest. + + +II + +Slowly the autumn wanes. The crisp days of the Indian summer linger, as +if unwilling to depart. But I am impatient with anxiety, and long for +the winter. Another month, and Tony will be free. Time lags with tardy +step, but at last the weeks dwarf into days, and with joyful heart we +count the last hours. + +To-morrow my friend will greet the sunshine. He will at once communicate +with my comrades, and urge the immediate realization of the great plan. +His self-confidence and faith will carry conviction, and stir them with +enthusiasm for the undertaking. A house is to be bought or rented +without loss of time, and the environs inspected. Perhaps operations +could not begin till spring; meanwhile funds are to be collected to +further the work. Unfortunately, the Girl, a splendid organizer, is +absent from the country. But my friends will carefully follow the +directions I have entrusted to Tony, and through him I shall keep in +touch with the developments. I have little opportunity for _sub rosa_ +mail; by means of our cipher, however, we can correspond officially, +without risk of the censor's understanding, or even suspecting, the +innocent-looking flourishes scattered through the page. + +With the trusted Tony my thoughts walk beyond the gates, and again and +again I rehearse every step in the project, and study every detail. My +mind dwells in the outside. In silent preoccupation I perform my duties +on the range. More rarely I converse with the prisoners: I must take +care to comply with the rules, and to retain my position. To lose it +would be disastrous to all my hopes of escape. + +As I pass the vacant cell, in which I had spent the last year of my +solitary, the piteous chirping of a sparrow breaks in upon my thoughts. +The little visitor, almost frozen, hops on the bar above. My assistant +swings the duster to drive it away, but the sparrow hovers about the +door, and suddenly flutters to my shoulder. In surprise I pet the bird; +it seems quite tame. "Why, it's Dick!" the assistant exclaims. "Think of +him coming back!" my hands tremble as I examine the little bird. With +great joy I discover the faint marks of blue ink I had smeared under its +wings last summer, when the Warden had ordered my little companion +thrown out of the window. How wonderful that it should return and +recognize the old friend and the cell! Tenderly I warm and feed the +bird. What strange sights my little pet must have seen since he was +driven out into the world! what struggles and sorrows has he suffered! +The bright eyes look cheerily into mine, speaking mute confidence and +joy, while he pecks from my hand crumbs of bread and sugar. Foolish +birdie, to return to prison for shelter and food! Cold and cruel must be +the world, my little Dick; or is it friendship, that is stronger than +even love of liberty? + +So may it be. Almost daily I see men pass through the gates and soon +return again, driven back by the world--even like you, little Dick. Yet +others there are who would rather go cold and hungry in freedom, than be +warm and fed in prison--even like me, little Dick. And still others +there be who would risk life and liberty for the sake of their +friendship--even like you and, I hope, Tony, little Dick. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +THE DEATH OF DICK + + + _Sub Rosa_, + Jan. 15, 1900. + + TONY: + + I write in an agony of despair. I am locked up again. It was all + on account of my bird. You remember my feathered pet, Dick. Last + summer the Warden ordered him put out, but when cold weather set + in, Dick returned. Would you believe it? He came back to my old + cell, and recognized me when I passed by. I kept him, and he + grew as tame as before--he had become a bit wild in the life + outside. On Christmas day, as Dick was playing near my cell, Bob + Runyon--the stool, you know--came by and deliberately kicked the + bird. When I saw Dick turn over on his side, his little eyes + rolling in the throes of death, I rushed at Runyon and knocked + him down. He was not hurt much, and everything could have passed + off quietly, as no screw was about. But the stool reported me to + the Deputy, and I was locked up. + + Mitchell has just been talking to me. The good old fellow was + fond of Dick, and he promises to get me back on the range. He is + keeping the position vacant for me, he says; he put a man in my + place who has only a few more weeks to serve. Then I'm to take + charge again. + + I am not disappointed at your information that "the work" will + have to wait till spring. It's unavoidable, but I am happy that + preparations have been started. How about those revolvers, + though? You haven't changed your mind, I hope. In one of your + letters you seem to hint that the matter has been attended to. + How can that be? Jim, the plumber--you know he can be + trusted--has been on the lookout for a week. He assures me that + nothing came, so far. Why do you delay? I hope you didn't throw + the package through the cellar window when Jim wasn't at his + post. Hardly probable. But if you did, what the devil could have + become of it? I see no sign here of the things being discovered: + there would surely be a terrible hubbub. Look to it, and write + at once. + + A. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS + + +I + +The disappearance of the revolvers is shrouded in mystery. In vain I +rack my brain to fathom the precarious situation; it defies +comprehension and torments me with misgivings. Jim's certainty that the +weapons did not pass between the bars of the cellar, momentarily allays +my dread. But Tony's vehement insistence that he had delivered the +package, throws me into a panic of fear. My firm faith in the two +confidants distracts me with uncertainty and suspense. It is incredible +that Tony should seek to deceive me. Yet Jim has kept constant vigil at +the point of delivery; there is little probability of his having missed +the package. But supposing he has, what has become of it? Perhaps it +fell into some dark corner of the cellar. The place must be searched at +once. + +Desperate with anxiety, I resort to the most reckless means to afford +Jim an opportunity to visit the cellar. I ransack the cell-house for old +papers and rags; with miserly hand I gather all odds and ends, broken +tools, pieces of wood, a bucketful of sawdust. Trembling with fear of +discovery, I empty the treasure into the sewer at the end of the hall, +and tightly jam the elbow of the waste pipe. The smell of excrement +fills the block, the cell privies overrun, and inundate the hall. The +stench is overpowering; steadily the water rises, threatening to flood +the cell-house. The place is in a turmoil: the solitaries shout and +rattle on the bars, the guards rush about in confusion. The Block +Captain yells, "Hey, Jasper, hurry! Call the plumber; get Jim. Quick!" + +But repeated investigation of the cellar fails to disclose the weapons. +In constant dread of dire possibilities, I tremble at every step, +fancying lurking suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the days +pass; the calm of the prison routine is undisturbed, giving no +indication of untoward happening or agitation. By degrees my fears +subside. The inexplicable disappearance of the revolvers is fraught with +danger; the mystery is disquieting, but it has fortunately brought no +results, and must apparently remain unsolved. + + * * * * * + +Unexpectedly my fears are rearoused. Called to the desk by Officer +Mitchell for the distribution of the monthly allowance of matches, I +casually glance out of the yard door. At the extreme northwestern end, +Assistant Deputy Hopkins loiters near the wall, slowly walking on the +grass. The unusual presence of the overseer at the abandoned gate wakes +my suspicion. The singular idling of the energetic guard, his furtive +eyeing of the ground, strengthens my worst apprehensions. Something must +have happened. Are they suspecting the tunnel? But work has not been +commenced; besides, it is to terminate at the very opposite point of the +yard, fully a thousand feet distant. In perplexity I wonder at the +peculiar actions of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every inmate +would immediately be subjected to a search, and shops and cell-house +ransacked. + +In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night; morning dawns without +bringing a solution. But after breakfast the cell-house becomes +strangely quiet; the shop employees remain locked in. The rangemen are +ordered to their cells, and guards from the yard and shops march into +the block, and noisily ascend the galleries. The Deputy and Hopkins +scurry about the hall; the rotunda door is thrown open with a clang, and +the sharp command of the Warden resounds through the cell-house, +"General search!" + +I glance hurriedly over my table and shelf. Surprises of suspected +prisoners are frequent, and I am always prepared. But some contraband is +on hand. Quickly I snatch my writing material from the womb of the +bedtick. In the very act of destroying several sketches of the previous +year, a bright thought flashes across my mind. There is nothing +dangerous about them, save the theft of the paper. "Prison Types," "In +the Streets of New York," "Parkhurst and the Prostitute," "Libertas--a +Study in Philology," "The Slavery of Tradition"--harmless products of +evening leisure. Let them find the booklets! I'll be severely +reprimanded for appropriating material from the shops, but my sketches +will serve to divert suspicion: the Warden will secretly rejoice that my +mind is not busy with more dangerous activities. But the sudden search +signifies grave developments. General overhaulings, involving temporary +suspension of the industries and consequent financial loss, are rare. +The search of the entire prison is not due till spring. Its precipitancy +confirms my worst fears: the weapons have undoubtedly been found! Jim's +failure to get possession of them assumes a peculiar aspect. It is +possible, of course, that some guard, unexpectedly passing through the +cellar, discovered the bundle between the bars, and appropriated it +without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the latter's confident assertion of +his presence at the window at the appointed moment indicates another +probability. The thought is painful, disquieting. But who knows? In an +atmosphere of fear and distrust and almost universal espionage, the best +friendships are tinged with suspicion. It may be that Jim, afraid of +consequences, surrendered the weapons to the Warden. He would have no +difficulty in explaining the discovery, without further betrayal of my +confidence. Yet Jim, a "pete man"[49] of international renown, enjoys +the reputation of a thoroughly "square man" and loyal friend. He has +given me repeated proof of his confidence, and I am disinclined to +accuse a possibly innocent man. It is fortunate, however, that his +information is limited to the weapons. No doubt he suspects some sort of +escape; but I have left him in ignorance of my real plans. With these +Tony alone is entrusted. + + [49] Safe blower. + +The reflection is reassuring. Even if indiscretion on Tony's part is +responsible for the accident, he has demonstrated his friendship. +Realizing the danger of his mission, he may have thrown in the weapons +between the cellar bars, ignoring my directions of previously +ascertaining the presence of Jim at his post. But the discovery of the +revolvers vindicates the veracity of Tony, and strengthens my confidence +in him. My fate rests in the hands of a loyal comrade, a friend who has +already dared great peril for my sake. + + * * * * * + +The general search is over, bringing to light quantities of various +contraband. The counterfeit outfit, whose product has been circulating +beyond the walls of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret +investigation by Federal officials. In the general excitement, the +sketches among my effects have been ignored, and left in my possession. +But no clew has been found in connection with the weapons. The +authorities are still further mystified by the discovery that the lock +on the trapdoor in the roof of the cell-house building had been tampered +with. With an effort I suppress a smile at the puzzled bewilderment of +the kindly old Mitchell, as, with much secrecy, he confides to me the +information. I marvel at the official stupidity that failed to make the +discovery the previous year, when, by the aid of Jim and my young friend +Russell, I had climbed to the top of the cell-house, while the inmates +were at church, and wrenched off the lock of the trapdoor, leaving in +its place an apparent counterpart, provided by Jim. With the key in our +possession, we watched for an opportunity to reach the outside roof, +when certain changes in the block created insurmountable obstacles, +forcing the abandonment of the project. Russell was unhappy over the +discovery, the impulsive young prisoner steadfastly refusing to be +reconciled to the failure. His time, however, being short, I have been +urging him to accept the inevitable. The constant dwelling upon escape +makes imprisonment more unbearable; the passing of his remaining two +years would be hastened by the determination to serve out his sentence. + +The boy listens quietly to my advice, his blue eyes dancing with +merriment, a sly smile on the delicate lips. "You are right, Aleck," he +replies, gravely, "but say, last night I thought out a scheme; it's +great, and we're sure to make our get-a-way." With minute detail he +pictures the impossible plan of sawing through the bars of the cell at +night, "holding up" the guards, binding and gagging them, and "then the +road would be clear." The innocent boy, for all his back-country +reputation of "bad man," is not aware that "then" is the very threshold +of difficulties. I seek to explain to him that, the guards being +disposed of, we should find ourselves trapped in the cell-house. The +solid steel double doors leading to the yard are securely locked, the +key in the sole possession of the Captain of the night watch, who cannot +be reached except through the well-guarded rotunda. But the boy is not +to be daunted. "We'll have to storm the rotunda, then," he remarks, +calmly, and at once proceeds to map out a plan of campaign. He smiles +incredulously at my refusal to participate in the wild scheme. "Oh, yes, +you will, Aleck. I don't believe a word you say. I know you're keen to +make a get-a-way." His confidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he +announces that he will "go it alone." + +The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reckless youth will throw +away his life; his attempt may frustrate my own success. But it is in +vain to dissuade him by direct means. I know the determination of the +boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-assurance of exuberant +youth, combined with indomitable courage. The redundance of animal +vitality and the rebellious spirit have violently disturbed the inertia +of his rural home, aggravating its staid descendants of Dutch forbears. +The taunt of "ne'er-do-well" has dripped bitter poison into the innocent +pranks of Russell, stamping the brand of desperado upon the good-natured +boy. + +I tax my ingenuity to delay the carrying out of his project. He has +secreted the saws I had procured from the Girl for the attempt of the +previous year, and his determination is impatient to make the dash for +liberty. Only his devotion to me and respect for my wishes still hold +the impetuous boy in leash. But each day his restlessness increases; +more insistently he urges my participation and a definite explanation of +my attitude. + +At a loss to invent new objections, I almost despair of dissuading +Russell from his desperate purpose. From day to day I secure his solemn +promise to await my final decision, the while I vaguely hope for some +development that would force the abandonment of his plan. But nothing +disturbs the routine, and I grow nervous with dread lest the boy, +reckless with impatience, thwart my great project. + + +II + +The weather is moderating; the window sashes in the hall are being +lowered: the signs of approaching spring multiply. I chafe at the lack +of news from Tony, who had departed on his mission to New York. With +greedy eyes I follow the Chaplain on his rounds of mail delivery. +Impatient of his constant pauses on the galleries, I hasten along the +range to meet the postman. + +"Any letters for me, Mr. Milligan?" I ask, with an effort to steady my +voice. + +"No, m' boy." + +My eyes devour the mail in his hand. "None to-day, Aleck," he adds; +"this is for your neighbor Pasquale." + +I feel apprehensive at Tony's silence. Another twenty-four hours must +elapse before the Chaplain returns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me +to-morrow, either. What can be the matter with my friend? So many +dangers menace his every step--he might be sick--some accident.... +Anxious days pass without mail. Russell is becoming more insistent, +threatening a "break." The solitaries murmur at my neglect. I am nervous +and irritable. For two weeks I have not heard from Tony; something +terrible must have happened. In a ferment of dread, I keep watch on the +upper rotunda. The noon hour is approaching: the Chaplain fumbles with +his keys; the door opens, and he trips along the ranges. Stealthily I +follow him under the galleries, pretending to dust the bars. He descends +to the hall. + +"Good morning, Chaplain," I seek to attract his attention, wistfully +peering at the mail in his hand. + +"Good morning, m' boy. Feeling good to-day?" + +"Thank you; pretty fair." My voice trembles at his delay, but I fear +betraying my anxiety by renewed questioning. + +He passes me, and I feel sick with disappointment. Now he pauses. +"Aleck," he calls, "I mislaid a letter for you yesterday. Here it is." + +With shaking hand I unfold the sheet. In a fever of hope and fear, I +pore over it in the solitude of the cell. My heart palpitates violently +as I scan each word and letter, seeking hidden meaning, analyzing every +flourish and dash, carefully distilling the minute lines, fusing the +significant dots into the structure of meaning. Glorious! A house has +been rented--28 Sterling Street--almost opposite the gate of the south +wall. Funds are on hand, work is to begin at once! + +With nimble step I walk the range. The river wafts sweet fragrance to my +cell, the joy of spring is in my heart. Every hour brings me nearer to +liberty: the faithful comrades are steadily working underground. Perhaps +within a month, or two at most, the tunnel will be completed. I count +the days, crossing off each morning the date on my calendar. The news +from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is progressing smoothly, +the prospects of success are splendid. I grow merry at the efforts of +uninitiated friends in New York to carry out the suggestions of the +attorneys to apply to the Superior Court of the State for a writ, on the +ground of the unconstitutionality of my sentence. I consult gravely with +Mr. Milligan upon the advisability of the step, the amiable Chaplain +affording me the opportunity of an extra allowance of letter paper. I +thank my comrades for their efforts, and urge the necessity of +collecting funds for the appeal to the upper court. Repeatedly I ask the +advice of the Chaplain in the legal matter, confident that my apparent +enthusiasm will reach the ears of the Warden: the artifice will mask my +secret project and lull suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance +of success, and with much show of confidence I impress upon the trusties +my sanguine expectation of release. I discuss the subject with officers +and stools, till presently the prison is agog with the prospective +liberation of its fourth oldest inmate. The solitaries charge me with +messages to friends, and the Deputy Warden offers advice on behavior +beyond the walls. The moment is propitious for a bold stroke. Confined +to the cell-house, I shall be unable to reach the tunnel. The privilege +of the yard is imperative. + +It is June. Unfledged birdies frequently fall from their nests, and I +induce the kindly runner, "Southside" Johnny, to procure for me a brace +of sparlings. I christen the little orphans Dick and Sis, and the memory +of my previous birds is revived among inmates and officers. Old Mitchell +is in ecstasy over the intelligence and adaptability of my new feathered +friends. But the birds languish and waste in the close air of the +block; they need sunshine and gravel, and the dusty street to bathe in. +Gradually I enlist the sympathies of the new doctor by the curious +performances of my pets. One day the Warden strolls in, and joins in +admiration of the wonderful birds. + +"Who trained them?" he inquires. + +"This man," the physician indicates me. A slight frown flits over the +Warden's face. Old Mitchell winks at me, encouragingly. + +"Captain," I approach the Warden, "the birds are sickly for lack of air. +Will you permit me to give them an airing in the yard?" + +"Why don't you let them go? You have no permission to keep them." + +"Oh, it would be a pity to throw them out," the doctor intercedes. "They +are too tame to take care of themselves." + +"Well, then," the Warden decides, "let Jasper take them out every day." + +"They will not go with any one except myself," I inform him. "They +follow me everywhere." + +The Warden hesitates. + +"Why not let Berkman go out with them for a few moments," the doctor +suggests. "I hear you expect to be free soon," he remarks to me +casually. "Your case is up for revision?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, Berkman," the Warden motions to me, "I will permit you ten +minutes in the yard, after your sweeping is done. What time are you +through with it?" + +"At 9.30 A. M." + +"Mr. Mitchell, every morning, at 9.30, you will pass Berkman through the +doors. For ten minutes, on the watch." Then turning to me, he adds: +"You are to stay near the greenhouse; there is plenty of sand there. If +you cross the dead line of the sidewalk, or exceed your time a single +minute, you will be punished." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +THE UNDERGROUND + + + May 10, 1900. + + MY DEAR TONY: + + Your letters intoxicate me with hope and joy. No sooner have I + sipped the rich aroma than I am athirst for more nectar. Write + often, dear friend; it is the only solace of suspense. + + Do not worry about this end of the line. All is well. By + stratagem I have at last procured the privilege of the yard. + Only for a few minutes every morning, but I am judiciously + extending my prescribed time and area. The prospects are bright + here; every one talks of my application to the Superior Court, + and peace reigns--you understand. + + A pity I cannot write directly to my dear, faithful comrades, + your coworkers. You shall be the medium. Transmit to them my + deepest appreciation. Tell "Yankee" and "Ibsen" and our Italian + comrades what I feel--I know I need not explain it further to + you. No one realizes better than myself the terrible risks they + are taking, the fearful toil in silence and darkness, almost + within hearing of the guards. The danger, the heroic + self-sacrifice--what money could buy such devotion? I grow faint + with the thought of their peril. I could almost cry at the + beautiful demonstration of solidarity and friendship. Dear + comrades, I feel proud of you, and proud of the great truth of + Anarchism that can produce such disciples, such spirit. I + embrace you, my noble comrades, and may you speed the day that + will make me happy with the sight of your faces, the touch of + your hands. + + A. + + + June 5. + + DEAR TONY: + + Your silence was unbearable. The suspense is terrible. Was it + really necessary to halt operations so long? I am surprised you + did not foresee the shortage of air and the lack of light. You + would have saved so much time. It is a great relief to know that + the work is progressing again, and very fortunate indeed that + "Yankee" understands electricity. It must be hellish work to + pump air into the shaft. Take precautions against the whir of + the machinery. The piano idea is great. Keep her playing and + singing as much as possible, and be sure you have all windows + open. The beasts on the wall will be soothed by the music, and + it will drown the noises underground. Have an electric button + connected from the piano to the shaft; when the player sees + anything suspicious on the street or the guards on the wall, she + can at once notify the comrades to stop work. + + I am enclosing the wall and yard measurements you asked. But why + do you need them? Don't bother with unnecessary things. From + house beneath the street, directly toward the southwestern wall. + For that you can procure measurements outside. On the inside you + require none. Go under wall, about 20-30 feet, till you strike + wall of blind alley. Cut into it, and all will be complete. + Write of progress without delay. Greetings to all. + + A. + + + June 20. + + TONY: + + Your letters bewilder me. Why has the route been changed? You + were to go to southwest, yet you say now you are near the east + wall. It's simply incredible, Tony. Your explanation is not + convincing. If you found a gas main near the gate, you could + have gone around it; besides, the gate is out of your way + anyhow. Why did you take that direction at all? I wish, Tony, + you would follow my instructions and the original plan. Your + failure to report the change immediately, may prove fatal. I + could have informed you--once you were near the southeastern + gate--to go directly underneath; then you would have saved + digging under the wall; there is no stone foundation, of course, + beneath the gate. Now that you have turned the south-east + corner, you will have to come under the wall there, and it is + the worst possible place, because that particular part used to + be a swamp, and I have learned that it was filled with extra + masonry. Another point; an old abandoned natural-gas well is + somewhere under the east wall, about 300 feet from the gate. + Tell our friends to be on the lookout for fumes; it is a very + dangerous place; special precautions must be taken. + + [Illustration: A--House on Sterling Street from which the Tunnel + started. B--Point at which the Tunnel entered under the east + wall. C--Mat Shop, near which the Author was permitted to take + his birds for ten minutes every day, for exercise. D--North + Block, where the Author was confined at the time of the Tunnel + episode. E--South Block.] + + Do not mind my brusqueness, dear Tony. My nerves are on edge, + the suspense is driving me mad. And I must mask my feelings, and + smile and look indifferent. But I haven't a moment's peace. I + imagine the most terrible things when you fail to write. Please + be more punctual. I know you have your hands full; but I fear + I'll go insane before this thing is over. Tell me especially how + far you intend going along the east wall, and where you'll come + out. This complicates the matter. You have already gone a longer + distance than would have been necessary per original plan. It + was a grave mistake, and if you were not such a devoted friend, + I'd feel very cross with you. Write at once. I am arranging a + new _sub rosa_ route. They are building in the yard; many + outside drivers, you understand. + + A. + + + DEAR TONY: + + I'm in great haste to send this. You know the shed opposite the + east wall. It has only a wooden floor and is not frequented much + by officers. A few cons are there, from the stone pile. I'll + attend to them. Make directly for that shed. It's a short + distance from wall. I enclose measurements. + + A. + + + TONY: + + You distract me beyond words. What has become of your caution, + your judgment? A hole in the grass _will not do_. I am + absolutely opposed to it. There are a score of men on the stone + pile and several screws. It is sure to be discovered. And even + if you leave the upper crust intact for a foot or two, how am I + to dive into the hole in the presence of so many? You don't seem + to have considered that. There is only _one_ way, the one I + explained in my last. Go to the shed; it's only a little more + work, 30-40 feet, no more. Tell the comrades the grass idea is + impossible. A little more effort, friends, and all will be well. + Answer at once. + + A. + + + DEAR TONY: + + Why do you insist on the hole in the ground? I tell you again it + will not do. I won't consider it for a moment. I am on the + inside--you must let me decide what can or cannot be done here. + I am prepared to risk everything for liberty, would risk my life + a thousand times. I am too desperate now for any one to block my + escape; I'd break through a wall of guards, if necessary. But I + still have a little judgment, though I am almost insane with the + suspense and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the + break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for success. + I beg of you, Tony, the thing must be dug to the shed; it's only + a little way. After such a tremendous effort, can we jeopardize + it all so lightly? I assure you, the success of the hole plan is + unthinkable. They'd all see me go down into it; I'd be followed + at once--what's the use talking. + + Besides, you know I have no revolvers. Of course I'll have a + weapon, but it will not help the escape. Another thing, your + change of plans has forced me to get an assistant. The man is + reliable, and I have only confided to him parts of the project. + I need him to investigate around the shed, take measurements, + etc. I am not permitted anywhere near the wall. But you need not + trouble about this; I'll be responsible for my friend. But I + tell you about it, so that you prepare two pair of overalls + instead of one. Also leave two revolvers in the house, money, + and cipher directions for us where to go. None of our comrades + is to wait for us. Let them all leave as soon as everything is + ready. But be sure you don't stop at the hole. Go to the shed, + absolutely. + + A. + + + TONY: + + The hole will not do. The more I think of it, the more + impossible I find it. I am sending an urgent call for money to + the Editor. You know whom I mean. Get in communication with him + at once. Use the money to continue work to shed. + + A. + + + Direct to Box A 7, + Allegheny City, Pa., + June 25, 1900. + + DEAR COMRADE: + + The Chaplain was very kind to permit me an extra sheet of paper, + on urgent business. I write to you in a very great extremity. + You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal my case. + Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their attorneys. I + have engaged my _own_ "lawyers." Lawyers in quotation marks--a + prison joke, you see. I have utmost confidence in _these_ + lawyers. They will, absolutely, procure my release, even if it + is not a pardon, you understand. I mean, we'll go to the + Superior Court, different from a Pardon Board--another prison + joke. + + My friends are short of money. We need some _at once_. The work + is started, but cannot be finished for lack of funds. Mark well + what I say: _I'll not be responsible for anything_--the worst + may happen--unless money is procured _at once_. You have + influence. I rely on you to understand and to act promptly. + + Your comrade, + + ALEXANDER BERKMAN. + + + MY POOR TONY: + + I can see how this thing has gone on your nerves. To think that + you, you the cautious Tony, should be so reckless--to send me a + telegram. You could have ruined the whole thing. I had trouble + explaining to the Chaplain, but it's all right now. Of course, + if it must be the hole, it can't be helped. I understood the + meaning of your wire: from the seventh bar on the east wall, ten + feet to west. We'll be there on the minute--3 P. M. But July 4th + won't do. It's a holiday: no work; my friend will be locked up. + Can't leave him in the lurch. It will have to be next day, July + 5th. It's only three days more. I wish it was over; I can't bear + the worry and suspense any more. May it be my Independence Day! + + A. + + + July 6. + + TONY: + + It's terrible. It's all over. Couldn't make it. Went there on + time, but found a big pile of stone and brick right on top of + the spot. Impossible to do anything. I warned you they were + building near there. I was seen at the wall--am now strictly + forbidden to leave the cell-house. But my friend has been there + a dozen times since--the hole can't be reached: a mountain of + stone hides it. It won't be discovered for a little while. + Telegraph at once to New York for more money. You must continue + to the shed. I can force my way there, if need be. It's the only + hope. Don't lose a minute. + + A. + + + July 13. + + TONY: + + A hundred dollars was sent to the office for me from New York. I + told Chaplain it is for my appeal. I am sending the money to + you. Have work continued at once. There is still hope. Nothing + suspected. But the wire that you pushed through the grass to + indicate the spot, was not found by my friend. Too much stone + over it. Go to shed at once. + + A. + + + July 16. + + Tunnel discovered. Lose no time. Leave the city immediately. I + am locked up on suspicion. + + A. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +ANXIOUS DAYS + + +The discovery of the tunnel overwhelms me with the violence of an +avalanche. The plan of continuing the work, the trembling hope of +escape, of liberty, life--all is suddenly terminated. My nerves, tense +with the months of suspense and anxiety, relax abruptly. With torpid +brain I wonder, "Is it possible, is it really possible?" + + * * * * * + +An air of uneasiness, as of lurking danger, fills the prison. Vague +rumors are afloat: a wholesale jail delivery had been planned, the walls +were to be dynamited, the guards killed. An escape has actually taken +place, it is whispered about. The Warden wears a look of bewilderment +and fear; the officers are alert with suspicion. The inmates manifest +disappointment and nervous impatience. The routine is violently +disturbed: the shops are closed, the men locked in the cells. + +The discovery of the tunnel mystifies the prison and the city +authorities. Some children, at play on the street, had accidentally +wandered into the yard of the deserted house opposite the prison gates. +The piles of freshly dug soil attracted their attention; a boy, +stumbling into the cellar, was frightened by the sight of the deep +cavern; his mother notified the agent of the house, who, by a peculiar +coincidence, proved to be an officer of the penitentiary. But in vain +are the efforts of the prison authorities to discover any sign of the +tunnel within the walls. Days pass in the fruitless investigation of the +yard--the outlet of the tunnel within the prison cannot be found. +Perhaps the underground passage does not extend to the penitentiary? The +Warden voices his firm conviction that the walls have not been +penetrated. Evidently it was not the prison, he argues, which was the +objective point of the diggers. The authorities of the City of Allegheny +decide to investigate the passage from the house on Sterling Street. But +the men that essay to crawl through the narrow tunnel are forced to +abandon their mission, driven back by the fumes of escaping gas. It is +suggested that the unknown diggers, whatever their purpose, have been +trapped in the abandoned gas well and perished before the arrival of +aid. The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposition of human +bodies; the terrible accident has forced the inmates of 28 Sterling +Street to suspend their efforts before completing the work. The +condition of the house--the half-eaten meal on the table, the clothing +scattered about the rooms, the general disorder--all seem to point to +precipitate flight. + +The persistence of the assertion of a fatal accident disquiets me, in +spite of my knowledge to the contrary. Yet, perhaps the reckless Tony, +in his endeavor to force the wire signal through the upper crust, +perished in the well. The thought unnerves me with horror, till it is +announced that a negro, whom the police had induced to crawl the length +of the tunnel, brought positive assurance that no life was sacrificed in +the underground work. Still the prison authorities are unable to find +the objective point, and it is finally decided to tear up the streets +beneath which the tunnel winds its mysterious way. + + * * * * * + +The undermined place inside the walls at last being discovered after a +week of digging at various points in the yard, the Warden reluctantly +admits the apparent purpose of the tunnel, at the same time informing +the press that the evident design was the liberation of the Anarchist +prisoner. He corroborates his view by the circumstance that I had been +reported for unpermitted presence at the east wall, pretending to +collect gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hopkins further +asserts having seen and talked with Carl Nold near the "criminal" house, +a short time before the discovery of the tunnel. The developments, +fraught with danger to my friends, greatly alarm me. Fortunately, no +clew can be found in the house, save a note in cipher which apparently +defies the skill of experts. The Warden, on his Sunday rounds, passes my +cell, then turns as if suddenly recollecting something. "Here, Berkman," +he says blandly, producing a paper, "the press is offering a +considerable reward to any one who will decipher the note found in the +Sterling Street house. It's reproduced here. See if you can't make it +out." I scan the paper carefully, quickly reading Tony's directions for +my movements after the escape. Then, returning the paper, I remark +indifferently, "I can read several languages, Captain, but this is +beyond me." + +The police and detective bureaus of the twin cities make the +announcement that a thorough investigation conclusively demonstrates +that the tunnel was intended for William Boyd, a prisoner serving twelve +years for a series of daring forgeries. His "pals" had succeeded in +clearing fifty thousand dollars on forged bonds, and it is they who did +the wonderful feat underground, to secure the liberty of the valuable +penman. The controversy between the authorities of Allegheny and the +management of the prison is full of animosity and bitterness. Wardens of +prisons, chiefs of police, and detective departments of various cities +are consulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and the +discussion in the press waxes warm and antagonistic. Presently the chief +of police of Allegheny suffers a change of heart, and sides with the +Warden, as against his personal enemy, the head of the Pittsburgh +detective bureau. The confusion of published views, and my persistent +denial of complicity in the tunnel, cause the much-worried Warden to +fluctuate. A number of men are made the victims of his mental +uncertainty. Following my exile into solitary, Pat McGraw is locked up +as a possible beneficiary of the planned escape. In 1890 he had slipped +through the roof of the prison, the Warden argues, and it is therefore +reasonable to assume that the man is meditating another delivery. Jack +Robinson, Cronin, "Nan," and a score of others, are in turn suspected by +Captain Wright, and ordered locked up during the preliminary +investigation. But because of absolute lack of clews the prisoners are +presently returned to work, and the number of "suspects" is reduced to +myself and Boyd, the Warden having discovered that the latter had +recently made an attempt to escape by forcing an entry into the cupola +of the shop he was employed in, only to find the place useless for his +purpose. + +A process of elimination and the espionage of the trusties gradually +center exclusive suspicion upon myself. In surprise I learn that young +Russell has been cited before the Captain. The fear of indiscretion on +the part of the boy startles me from my torpor. I must employ every +device to confound the authorities and save my friends. Fortunately none +of the tunnelers have yet been arrested, the controversy between the +city officials and the prison management having favored inaction. My +comrades cannot be jeopardized by Russell. His information is limited +to the mere knowledge of the specific person for whom the tunnel was +intended; the names of my friends are entirely unfamiliar to him. My +heart goes out to the young prisoner, as I reflect that never once had +he manifested curiosity concerning the men at the secret work. Desperate +with confinement, and passionately yearning for liberty though he was, +he had yet offered to sacrifice his longings to aid my escape. How +transported with joy was the generous youth when I resolved to share my +opportunity with him! He had given faithful service in attempting to +locate the tunnel entrance; the poor boy had been quite distracted at +our failure to find the spot. I feel confident Russell will not betray +the secret in his keeping. Yet the persistent questioning by the Warden +and Inspectors is perceptibly working on the boy's mind. He is so young +and inexperienced--barely nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent +remark, might convert suspicion into conviction. + +Every day Russell is called to the office, causing me torments of +apprehension and dread, till a glance at the returning prisoner, smiling +encouragingly as he passes my cell, informs me that the danger is past +for the day. With a deep pang, I observe the increasing pallor of his +face, the growing restlessness in his eyes, the languid step. The +continuous inquisition is breaking him down. With quivering voice he +whispers as he passes, "Aleck, I'm afraid of them." The Warden has +threatened him, he informs me, if he persists in his pretended ignorance +of the tunnel. His friendship for me is well known, the Warden reasons; +we have often been seen together in the cell-house and yard; I must +surely have confided to Russell my plans of escape. The big, strapping +youth is dwindling to a shadow under the terrible strain. Dear, +faithful friend! How guilty I feel toward you, how torn in my inmost +heart to have suspected your devotion, even for that brief instant when, +in a panic of fear, you had denied to the Warden all knowledge of the +slip of paper found in your cell. It cast suspicion upon me as the +writer of the strange Jewish scrawl. The Warden scorned my explanation +that Russell's desire to learn Hebrew was the sole reason for my writing +the alphabet for him. The mutual denial seemed to point to some secret; +the scrawl was similar to the cipher note found in the Sterling Street +house, the Warden insisted. How strange that I should have so +successfully confounded the Inspectors with the contradictory testimony +regarding the tunnel, that they returned me to my position on the range. +And yet the insignificant incident of Russell's hieroglyphic imitation +of the Hebrew alphabet should have given the Warden a pretext to order +me into solitary! How distracted and bitter I must have felt to charge +the boy with treachery! His very reticence strengthened my suspicion, +and all the while the tears welled into his throat, choking the innocent +lad beyond speech. How little I suspected the terrible wound my hasty +imputation had caused my devoted friend! In silence he suffered for +months, without opportunity to explain, when at last, by mere accident, +I learned the fatal mistake. + +In vain I strive to direct my thoughts into different channels. My +misunderstanding of Russell plagues me with recurring persistence; the +unjust accusation torments my sleepless nights. It was a moment of +intense joy that I experienced as I humbly begged his pardon to-day, +when I met him in the Captain's office. A deep sense of relief, almost +of peace, filled me at his unhesitating, "Oh, never mind, Aleck, it's +all right; we were both excited." I was overcome by thankfulness and +admiration of the noble boy, and the next instant the sight of his wan +face, his wasted form, pierced me as with a knife-thrust. With the +earnest conviction of strong faith I sought to explain to the Board of +Inspectors the unfortunate error regarding the Jewish writing. But they +smiled doubtfully. It was too late: their opinion of a prearranged +agreement with Russell was settled. But the testimony of Assistant +Deputy Hopkins that he had seen and conversed with Nold a few weeks +before the discovery of the tunnel, and that he saw him enter the +"criminal" house, afforded me an opportunity to divide the views among +the Inspectors. I experienced little difficulty in convincing two +members of the Board that Nold could not possibly have been connected +with the tunnel, because for almost a year previously, and since, he had +been in the employ of a St. Louis firm. They accepted my offer to prove +by the official time-tables of the company that Nold was in St. Louis on +the very day that Hopkins claimed to have spoken with him. The fortunate +and very natural error of Hopkins in mistaking the similar appearance of +Tony for that of Carl, enabled me to discredit the chief link connecting +my friends with the tunnel. The diverging views of the police officials +of the twin cities still further confounded the Inspectors, and I was +gravely informed by them that the charge of attempted escape against me +had not been conclusively substantiated. They ordered my reinstatement +as rangeman, but the Captain, on learning the verdict, at once charged +me before the Board with conducting a secret correspondence with +Russell. On the pretext of the alleged Hebrew note, the Inspectors +confirmed the Warden's judgment, and I was sentenced to the solitary and +immediately locked up in the South Wing. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM" + + +I + +The solitary is stifling with the August heat. The hall windows, high +above the floor, cast a sickly light, shrouding the bottom range in +darksome gloom. At every point, my gaze meets the irritating white of +the walls, in spots yellow with damp. The long days are oppressive with +silence; the stone cage echoes my languid footsteps mournfully. + +Once more I feel cast into the night, torn from the midst of the living. +The failure of the tunnel forever excludes the hope of liberty. +Terrified by the possibilities of the planned escape, the Warden's +determination dooms my fate. I shall end my days in strictest seclusion, +he has informed me. Severe punishment is visited upon any one daring to +converse with me; even officers are forbidden to pause at my cell. Old +Evans, the night guard, is afraid even to answer my greeting, since he +was disciplined with the loss of ten days' pay for being seen at my +door. It was not his fault, poor old man. The night was sultry; the +sashes of the hall window opposite my cell were tightly closed. Almost +suffocated with the foul air, I requested the passing Evans to raise the +window. It had been ordered shut by the Warden, he informed me. As he +turned to leave, three sharp raps on the bars of the upper rotunda +almost rooted him to the spot with amazement. It was 2 A. M. No one was +supposed to be there at night. "Come here, Evans!" I recognized the curt +tones of the Warden. "What business have you at that man's door?" I +could distinctly hear each word, cutting the stillness of the night. In +vain the frightened officer sought to explain: he had merely answered a +question, he had stopped but a moment. "I've been watching you there for +half an hour," the irate Warden insisted. "Report to me in the morning." + +Since then the guards on their rounds merely glance between the bars, +and pass on in silence. I have been removed within closer observation of +the nightly prowling Captain, and am now located near the rotunda, in +the second cell on the ground floor, Range Y. The stringent orders of +exceptional surveillance have so terrorized my friends that they do not +venture to look in my direction. A special officer has been assigned to +the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to keep me under observation. I +feel buried alive. Communication with my comrades has been interrupted, +the Warden detaining my mail. I am deprived of books and papers, all my +privileges curtailed. If only I had my birds! The company of my little +pets would give me consolation. But they have been taken from me, and I +fear the guards have killed them. Deprived of work and exercise I pass +the days in the solitary, monotonous, interminable. + + +II + +By degrees anxiety over my friends is allayed. The mystery of the tunnel +remains unsolved. The Warden reiterates his moral certainty that the +underground passage was intended for the liberation of the Anarchist +prisoner. The views of the police and detective officials of the twin +cities are hopelessly divergent. Each side asserts thorough familiarity +with the case, and positive conviction regarding the guilty parties. But +the alleged clews proving misleading, the matter is finally abandoned. +The passage has been filled with cement, and the official investigation +is terminated. + +The safety of my comrades sheds a ray of light into the darkness of my +existence. It is consoling to reflect that, disastrous as the failure is +to myself, my friends will not be made victims of my longing for +liberty. At no time since the discovery of the tunnel has suspicion been +directed to the right persons. The narrow official horizon does not +extend beyond the familiar names of the Girl, Nold, and Bauer. These +have been pointed at by the accusing finger repeatedly, but the men +actually concerned in the secret attempt have not even been mentioned. +No danger threatens them from the failure of my plans. In a +communication to a local newspaper, Nold has incontrovertibly proved his +continuous residence in St. Louis for a period covering a year previous +to the tunnel and afterwards. Bauer has recently married; at no time +have the police been in ignorance of his whereabouts, and they are aware +that my former fellow-prisoner is to be discounted as a participator in +the attempted escape. Indeed, the prison officials must have learned +from my mail that the big German is regarded by my friends as an +ex-comrade merely. But the suspicion of the authorities directed toward +the Girl--with a pang of bitterness, I think of her unfortunate absence +from the country during the momentous period of the underground work. +With resentment I reflect that but for that I might now be at liberty! +Her skill as an organizer, her growing influence in the movement, her +energy and devotion, would have assured the success of the undertaking. +But Tony's unaccountable delay had resulted in her departure without +learning of my plans. It is to him, to his obstinacy and conceit, that +the failure of the project is mostly due, staunch and faithful though he +is. + +In turn I lay the responsibility at the door of this friend and that, +lashing myself into furious rage at the renegade who had appropriated a +considerable sum of the money intended for the continuation of the +underground work. Yet the outbursts of passion spent, I strive to find +consolation in the correctness of the intuitive judgment that prompted +the selection of my "lawyers," the devoted comrades who so heroically +toiled for my sake in the bowels of the earth. Half-naked they had +labored through the weary days and nights, stretched at full length in +the narrow passage, their bodies perspiring and chilled in turn, their +hands bleeding with the terrible toil. And through the weeks and months +of nerve-racking work and confinement in the tunnel, of constant dread +of detection and anxiety over the result, my comrades had uttered no +word of doubt or fear, in full reliance upon their invisible friend. +What self-sacrifice in behalf of one whom some of you had never even +known! Dear, beloved comrades, had you succeeded, my life could never +repay your almost superhuman efforts and love. Only the future years of +active devotion to our great common Cause could in a measure express my +thankfulness and pride in you, whoever, wherever you are. Nor were your +heroism, your skill and indomitable perseverance, without avail. You +have given an invaluable demonstration of the elemental reality of the +Ideal, of the marvelous strength and courage born of solidaric purpose, +of the heights devotion to a great Cause can ascend. And the lesson has +not been lost. Almost unanimous is the voice of the press--only +Anarchists could have achieved the wonderful feat! + + * * * * * + +The subject of the tunnel fascinates my mind. How little thought I had +given to my comrades, toiling underground, in the anxious days of my own +apprehension and suspense! With increasing vividness I visualize their +trepidation, the constant fear of discovery, the herculean efforts in +spite of ever-present danger. How terrible must have been _their_ +despair at the inability to continue the work to a successful +termination!... + +My reflections fill me with renewed strength. I must live! I must live +to meet those heroic men, to take them by the hand, and with silent lips +pour my heart into their eyes. I shall be proud of their comradeship, +and strive to be worthy of it. + + +III + +The lines form in the hallway, and silently march to the shops. I peer +through the bars, for the sight of a familiar face brings cheer, and the +memory of the days on the range. Many friends, unseen for years, pass by +my cell. How Big Jack has wasted! The deep chest is sunk in, the face +drawn and yellow, with reddish spots about the cheekbones. Poor Jack, so +strong and energetic, how languid and weak his step is now! And Jimmy is +all broken up with rheumatism, and hops on crutches. With difficulty I +recognize Harry Fisher. The two years have completely changed the young +Morganza boy. He looks old at seventeen, the rosy cheeks a ghastly +white, the delicate features immobile, hard, the large bright eyes dull +and glassy. Vividly my friends stand before me in the youth and strength +of their first arrival. How changed their appearance! My poor chums, +readers of the _Prison Blossoms_, helpers in our investigation efforts, +what wrecks the torture of hell has made of you! I recall with sadness +the first years of my imprisonment, and my coldly impersonal valuation +of social victims. There is Evans, the aged burglar, smiling furtively +at me from the line. Far in the distance seems the day when I read his +marginal note upon a magazine article I sent him, concerning the +stupendous cost of crime. I had felt quite piqued at the flippancy of +his comment, "We come high, but they must have us." With the severe +intellectuality of revolutionary tradition, I thought of him and his +kind as inevitable fungus growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying +society. Unfortunate derelicts, indeed, yet parasites, almost devoid of +humanity. But the threads of comradeship have slowly been woven by +common misery. The touch of sympathy has discovered the man beneath the +criminal; the crust of sullen suspicion has melted at the breath of +kindness, warming into view the palpitating human heart. Old Evans and +Sammy and Bob,--what suffering and pain must have chilled their fiery +souls with the winter of savage bitterness! And the resurrection +trembles within! How terrible man's ignorance, that forever condemns +itself to be scourged by its own blind fury! And these my friends, Davis +and Russell, these innocently guilty,--what worse punishment could +society inflict upon itself, than the loss of their latent nobility +which it had killed?... Not entirely in vain are the years of suffering +that have wakened my kinship with the humanity of _les miserables_, whom +social stupidity has cast into the valley of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE + + +I + +My new neighbor turns my thoughts into a different channel. It is +"Fighting" Tom, returned after several years of absence. By means of a +string attached to a wire we "swing" notes to each other at night, and +Tom startles me by the confession that he was the author of the +mysterious note I had received soon after my arrival in the +penitentiary. An escape was being planned, he informs me, and I was to +be "let in," by his recommendation. But one of the conspirators getting +"cold feet," the plot was betrayed to the Warden, whereupon Tom "sent +the snitch to the hospital." As a result, however, he was kept in +solitary till his release. In the prison he had become proficient as a +broom-maker, and it was his intention to follow the trade. There was +nothing in the crooked line, he thought; and he resolved to be honest. +But on the day of his discharge he was arrested at the gate by officers +from Illinois on an old charge. He swore vengeance against Assistant +Deputy Hopkins, before whom he had once accidentally let drop the remark +that he would never return to Illinois, because he was "wanted" there. +He lived the five years in the Joliet prison in the sole hope of +"getting square" with the man who had so meanly betrayed him. Upon his +release, he returned to Pittsburgh, determined to kill Hopkins. On the +night of his arrival he broke into the latter's residence, prepared to +avenge his wrongs. But the Assistant Deputy had left the previous day on +his vacation. Furious at being baffled, Tom was about to set fire to the +house, when the light of his match fell upon a silver trinket on the +bureau of the bedroom. It fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off +it. Suddenly he was seized with the desire to examine the contents of +the house. The old passion was upon him. He could not resist. Hardly +conscious of his actions, he gathered the silverware into a tablecloth, +and quietly stole out of the house. He was arrested the next day, as he +was trying to pawn his booty. An old offender, he received a sentence of +ten years. Since his arrival, eight months ago, he has been kept in +solitary. His health is broken; he has no hope of surviving his +sentence. But if he is to die--he swears--he is going to take "his man" +along. + +Aware of the determination of "Fighting" Tom, I realize that the safety +of the hated officer is conditioned by Tom's lack of opportunity to +carry out his revenge. I feel little sympathy for Hopkins, whose +craftiness in worming out the secrets of prisoners has placed him on the +pay-roll of the Pinkerton agency; but I exert myself to persuade Tom +that it would be sheer insanity thus deliberately to put his head in the +noose. He is still a young man; barely thirty. It is not worth while +sacrificing his life for a sneak of a guard. + +However, Tom remains stubborn. My arguments seem merely to rouse his +resistance, and strengthen his resolution. But closer acquaintance +reveals to me his exceeding conceit over his art and technic, as a +second-story expert. I play upon his vanity, scoffing at the crudity of +his plans of revenge. Would it not be more in conformity with his +reputation as a skilled "gun," I argue, to "do the job" in a "smoother" +manner? Tom assumes a skeptical attitude, but by degrees grows more +interested. Presently, with unexpected enthusiasm, he warms to the +suggestion of "a break." Once outside, well--"I'll get 'im all right," +he chuckles. + + +II + +The plan of escape completely absorbs us. On alternate nights we take +turns in timing the rounds of the guards, the appearance of the Night +Captain, the opening of the rotunda door. Numerous details, seemingly +insignificant, yet potentially fatal, are to be mastered. Many obstacles +bar the way of success, but time and perseverance will surmount them. +Tom is thoroughly engrossed with the project. I realize the desperation +of the undertaking, but the sole alternative is slow death in the +solitary. It is the last resort. + +With utmost care we make our preparations. The summer is long past; the +dense fogs of the season will aid our escape. We hasten to complete all +details, in great nervous tension with the excitement of the work. The +time is drawing near for deciding upon a definite date. But Tom's state +of mind fills me with apprehension. He has become taciturn of late. +Yesterday he seemed peculiarly glum, sullenly refusing to answer my +signal. Again and again I knock on the wall, calling for a reply to my +last note. Tom remains silent. Occasionally a heavy groan issues from +his cell, but my repeated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay +awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to investigate the +cause of the groaning. But my attempts to speak to the officers are +ignored. The next morning I behold Tom carried on a stretcher from his +cell, and learn with horror that he had bled to death during the night. + + +III + +The peculiar death of my friend preys on my mind. Was it suicide or +accident? Tom had been weakened by long confinement; in some manner he +may have ruptured a blood vessel, dying for lack of medical aid. It is +hardly probable that he would commit suicide on the eve of our attempt. +Yet certain references in his notes of late, ignored at the time, assume +new significance. He was apparently under the delusion that Hopkins was +"after him." Once or twice my friend had expressed fear for his safety. +He might be poisoned, he hinted. I had laughed the matter away, familiar +with the sporadic delusions of men in solitary. Close confinement exerts +a similar effect upon the majority of prisoners. Some are especially +predisposed to auto-suggestion; Young Sid used to manifest every symptom +of the diseases he read about. Perhaps poor Tom's delusion was +responsible for his death. Spencer, too, had committed suicide a month +before his release, in the firm conviction that the Warden would not +permit his discharge. It may be that in a sudden fit of despondency, Tom +had ended his life. Perhaps I could have saved my friend: I did not +realize how constantly he brooded over the danger he believed himself +threatened with. How little I knew of the terrible struggle that must +have been going on in his tortured heart! Yet we were so intimate; I +believed I understood his every feeling and emotion. + + * * * * * + +The thought of Tom possesses my mind. The news from the Girl about +Bresci's execution of the King of Italy rouses little interest in me. +Bresci avenged the peasants and the women and children shot before the +palace for humbly begging bread. He did well, and the agitation +resulting from his act may advance the Cause. But it will have no +bearing on my fate. The last hope of escape has departed with my poor +friend. I am doomed to perish here. And Bresci will perish in prison, +but the comrades will eulogize him and his act, and continue their +efforts to regenerate the world. Yet I feel that the individual, in +certain cases, is of more direct and immediate consequence than +humanity. What is the latter but the aggregate of individual +existences--and shall these, the best of them, forever be sacrificed for +the metaphysical collectivity? Here, all around me, a thousand +unfortunates daily suffer the torture of Calvary, forsaken by God and +man. They bleed and struggle and suicide, with the desperate cry for a +little sunshine and life. How shall they be helped? How helped amid the +injustice and brutality of a society whose chief monuments are prisons? +And so we must suffer and suicide, and countless others after us, till +the play of social forces shall transform human history into the history +of true humanity,--and meanwhile our bones will bleach on the long, +dreary road. + + * * * * * + +Bereft of the last hope of freedom, I grow indifferent to life. The +monotony of the narrow cell daily becomes more loathsome. My whole being +longs for rest. Rest, no more to awaken. The world will not miss me. An +atom of matter, I shall return to endless space. Everything will pursue +its wonted course, but I shall know no more of the bitter struggle and +strife. My friends will sorrow, and yet be glad my pain is over, and +continue on their way. And new Brescis will arise, and more kings will +fall, and then all, friend and enemy, will go my way, and new +generations will be born and die, and humanity and the world be whirled +into space and disappear, and again the little stage will be set, and +the same history and the same facts will come and go, the playthings of +cosmic forces renewing and transforming forever. + +How insignificant it all is in the eye of reason, how small and puny +life and all its pain and travail!... With eyes closed, I behold myself +suspended by the neck from the upper bars of the cell. My body swings +gently against the door, striking it softly, once, twice,--just like +Pasquale, when he hanged himself in the cell next to mine, some months +ago. A few twitches, and the last breath is gone. My face grows livid, +my body rigid; slowly it cools. The night guard passes. "What's this, +eh?" He rings the rotunda bell. Keys clang; the lever is drawn, and my +door unlocked. An officer draws a knife sharply across the rope at the +bars: my body sinks to the floor, my head striking against the iron +bedstead. The doctor kneels at my side; I feel his hand over my heart. +Now he rises. + +"Good job, Doc?" I recognize the Deputy's voice. + +The physician nods. + +"Damn glad of it," Hopkins sneers. + +The Warden enters, a grin on his parchment face. With an oath I spring +to my feet. In terror the officers rush from the cell. "Ah, I fooled +you, didn't I, you murderers!" + + * * * * * + +The thought of the enemy's triumph fans the embers of life. It engenders +defiance, and strengthens stubborn resistance. + + + + +CHAPTER XL + +DONE TO DEATH + + +I + +In my utter isolation, the world outside appears like a faint memory, +unreal and dim. The deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me +from the living. Letters from my comrades have become rare and +irregular; they sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life of the +prison is also receding; no communication reaches me from my friends. +"Pious" John, the rangeman, is unsympathetic; he still bears me ill will +from the days of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I +tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough, apprising me of +the "stiff" he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file +of prisoners marches past my door. He looks pale and haggard, the old +buoyant step now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension pervades his +notes. He is constantly harassed by the officers, he writes; his task +has been increased; he is nervous and weak, and his health is declining. +In the broken sentences, I sense some vague misgiving, as of impending +calamity. + +With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I live through the +hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship, the days of +terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project. My heart goes out to +the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the +safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship possesses +me. In the gnawing loneliness, his face floats before me, casting the +spell of a friendly presence, his strong features softened by sorrow, +his eyes grown large with the same sweet sadness of "Little Felipe." A +peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy; I look forward +eagerly to his notes. Impatiently I scan the faces in the passing line, +wistful for the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his +fleeting smile. + +How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The hours are weary with silence +and solitude. Listlessly I turn the pages of my library book. If only I +had the birds! I should find solace in their thoughtful eyes: Dick and +Sis would understand and feel with me. But my poor little friends have +disappeared; only Russell remains. My only friend! I shall not see him +when he returns to the cell at noon: the line passes on the opposite +side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked +for work, I shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the +dear boy will have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted: his +correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to +cheer me with the good news: another day is gone, his sentence is +nearing its end; he will at once secure a position, and save every penny +to aid in my release. Tacitly I concur in his ardent hope,--it would +break his heart to be disillusioned. + + +II + +The passing weeks and months bring no break in the dreary monotony. The +call of the robin on the river bank rouses no echo in my heart. No sign +of awakening spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the +solitary. The dampness of the cell is piercing my bones; every movement +racks my body with pain. My eyes are tortured with the eternal white of +the walls. Sombre shadows brood around me. + +I long for a bit of sunshine. I wait patiently at the door: perhaps it +is clear to-day. My cell faces west; may be the setting sun will steal a +glance upon me. For hours I stand with naked breast close to the bars: I +must not miss a friendly ray; it may suddenly peep into the cell and +turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. Now a bright beam plays on my +neck and shoulders, and I press closer to the door to welcome the dear +stranger. He caresses me with soft touch,--perhaps it is the soul of +little Dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song of light,--or +may be the astral aura of my beloved Uncle Maxim, bringing warmth and +hope. Sweet conceit of Oriental thought, barren of joy in life.... The +sun is fading. It feels chilly in the twilight,--and now the solitary is +once more bleak and cold. + + * * * * * + +As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more +assertive in Russell's letter. The boy is jubilant and full of vitality: +within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of +sadness at leaving me behind permeates his communications, but he is +enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty. + +Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting, as he passes in the +line. This morning I saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in +sign of the remaining "two and a stump." A joyous light is in his eyes, +his step firmer, more elastic. + +But in the afternoon he is missing from the line. With sudden +apprehension I wonder at his absence. Could I have overlooked him in the +closely walking ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained +in the cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious; he will surely +be in line to-morrow. + +For three days, every morning and afternoon, I anxiously scrutinize the +faces of the passing men; but Russell is not among them. His absence +torments me with a thousand fears. May be the Warden has renewed his +inquisition of the boy--perhaps he got into a fight in the shop--in the +dungeon now--he'll lose his commutation time.... Unable to bear the +suspense, I am about to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner +surreptitiously hands me a note. + +With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold handwriting in the uneven, +nervous scrawl. Russell is in the hospital! At work in the shop, he +writes, he had suffered a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward +for observation, but the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of +shamming to evade work. They threaten to have him returned to the shop, +and he implores me to have the Chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak +and feverish, and the thought of being left alone in the cell in his +present condition fills him with horror. + +I send an urgent request to see the Chaplain. But the guard informs me +that Mr. Milligan is absent; he is not expected at the office till the +following week. I prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred +to the South Block, to deliver a note to the Warden, in which I appeal +on behalf of Russell. But several days pass, and still no reply from +Captain Wright. Finally I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford +Frank, the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. As +the "medicine boy" pours the prescribed pint of "horse salts" through +the funnel inserted between the bars, I hastily inquire: + +"Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he?" + +"What Russell?" he asks indifferently. + +"Russell Schroyer, put four days ago under observation," + +"Oh, that poor kid! Why, he is paralyzed." + +For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it cannot be. Some +mistake. + +"Frank, I mean young Schroyer, from the construction shop. He's Number +2608." + +"Your friend Russell; I know who you mean. I'm sorry for the boy. He is +paralyzed, all right." + +"But.... No, it can't be! Why, Frank, it was just a chill and a little +weakness." + +"Look here, Aleck. I know you're square, and you can keep a secret all +right. I'll tell you something if you won't give me away." + +"Yes, yes, Frank. What is it?" + +"Sh--sh. You know Flem, the night nurse? Doing a five spot for murder. +His father and the Warden are old cronies. That's how he got to be +nurse; don't know a damn thing about it, an' careless as hell. Always +makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for Russell. Now don't +ever say I told you. Flem got the wrong bottle; gave the poor boy some +acid in the injection. Paralyzed the kid; he did, the damn murderer." + + * * * * * + +I pass the night in anguish, clutching desperately at the faint hope +that it cannot be--some mistake--perhaps Frank has exaggerated. But in +the morning the "medicine boy" confirms my worst fears: the doctor has +said the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation: there is +something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes; he is unable to move +them, and suffers great pain. It can't be fever, he thinks; but the +physician will not tell him what is the matter.... + +The kindly Frank is sympathetic; every day he passes notes between us, +and I try to encourage Russell. He will improve, I assure him; his time +is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem +to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he +learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. His notes grow piteous with +misery. Tears fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry, "Oh, Aleck, I +am so young. I don't want to die." He implores me to visit him; if I +could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. He distrusts +the convict attendants who harry and banter the country lad; their +heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patience. Exasperated +by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday threw a saucer at +him. He was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed +youth to the dungeon. Plagued and tormented, in great suffering, Russell +grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and officers are persecuting +him, he writes; they will soon do him to death, if I will not come to +his rescue. If he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to +recover. + +Every evening Frank brings sadder news: Russell is feeling worse; he is +so nervous, the doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers; the +doors in the ward have been lined with cotton, to deaden the noise of +slamming; but even the sight of a moving figure throws Russell into +convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports; decomposition has already +set in. The boy is in terrible agony; he is constantly crying with pain, +and calling for me. + +Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, I resolve +upon a way to visit the hospital. In the morning, as the guard hands me +the bread ration and shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and +door. With an involuntary cry I withdraw my maimed and bleeding +fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary. By tacit permission +of the friendly "medicine boy" I pass to the second floor, where the +wards are located, and quickly steal to Russell's bedside. The look of +mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand. +"Oh, dear Aleck," he whispers, "I'm so glad they let you come. I'll get +well if you'll nurse me." The shadow of death is in his eyes; the body +exudes decomposition. Bereft of speech, I gently press his white, +emaciated hand. The weary eyes close, and the boy falls into slumber. +Silently I touch his dry lips, and steal away. + +In the afternoon I appeal to the Warden to permit me to nurse my friend. +It is the boy's dying wish; it will ease his last hours. The Captain +refers me to the Inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be +subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon I ask permission +to arrange a collection among the prisoners: Russell firmly believes +that he would improve in an outside hospital, and the Pardon Board might +grant the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate +subscription lists among the inmates, and two years previously I had +collected a hundred and twenty-three dollars for the pardon of a +lifetimer. But the Warden curtly refuses my plea, remarking that it is +dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I suggest the Chaplain +for the mission, or some prisoner selected by the authorities. But this +offer is also vetoed, the Warden berating me for having taken advantage +of my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely, and +threatening to punish me with the dungeon. I plead with him for +permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence, +and constantly calling for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the +Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he informs me, on +condition that a guard be present at the meeting. For a moment I +hesitate. The desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of +irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform; but I cannot expose +the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by my refusal, +perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel +from the visit, the Warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital. + + * * * * * + +Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks very grave, as he +whispers: + +"Aleck, you must bear up." + +"Russell--?" + +"Yes, Aleck." + +"Worse? Tell me, Frank." + +"He is dead. Bear up, Aleck. His last thought was of you. He was +unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end--it was 9.33--he sat +up in bed so suddenly, he frightened me. His arm shot out, and he cried, +'Good bye, Aleck.'" + + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO + + +I + + July 10, 1901. + + DEAR GIRL: + + This is from the hospital, _sub rosa_. Just out of the + strait-jacket, after eight days. + + For over a year I was in the strictest solitary; for a long time + mail and reading matter were denied me. I have no words to + describe the horror of the last months.... I have passed through + a great crisis. Two of my best friends died in a frightful + manner. The death of Russell, especially, affected me. He was + very young, and my dearest and most devoted friend, and he died + a terrible death. The doctor charged the boy with shamming, but + now he says it was spinal meningitis. I cannot tell you the + awful truth,--it was nothing short of murder, and my poor friend + rotted away by inches. When he died they found his back one mass + of bedsores. If you could read the pitiful letters he wrote, + begging to see me, and to be nursed by me! But the Warden + wouldn't permit it. In some manner his agony seemed to affect + me, and I began to experience the pains and symptoms that + Russell described in his notes. I knew it was my sick fancy; I + strove against it, but presently my legs showed signs of + paralysis, and I suffered excruciating pain in the spinal + column, just like Russell. I was afraid that I would be done to + death like my poor friend. I grew suspicious of every guard, and + would barely touch the food, for fear of its being poisoned. My + "head was workin'," they said. And all the time I knew it was my + diseased imagination, and I was in terror of going mad.... I + tried so hard to fight it, but it would always creep up, and get + hold of me stronger and stronger. Another week of solitary would + have killed me. + + I was on the verge of suicide. I demanded to be relieved from + the cell, and the Warden ordered me punished. I was put in the + strait-jacket. They bound my body in canvas, strapped my arms to + the bed, and chained my feet to the posts. I was kept that way + eight days, unable to move, rotting in my own excrement. + Released prisoners called the attention of our new Inspector to + my case. He refused to believe that such things were being done + in the penitentiary. Reports spread that I was going blind and + insane. Then the Inspector visited the hospital and had me + released from the jacket. + + I am in pretty bad shape, but they put me in the general ward + now, and I am glad of the chance to send you this note. + + Sasha. + + +II + + Direct to Box A 7, + Allegheny City, Pa., + July 25th, 1901. + + DEAR SONYA: + + I cannot tell you how happy I am to be allowed to write to you + again. My privileges have been restored by our new Inspector, a + very kindly man. He has relieved me from the cell, and now I am + again on the range. The Inspector requested me to deny to my + friends the reports which have recently appeared in the papers + concerning my condition. I have not been well of late, but now I + hope to improve. My eyes are very poor. The Inspector has given + me permission to have a specialist examine them. Please arrange + for it through our local comrades. + + There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A new + commutation law has been passed, which reduces my sentence by + 2-1/2 years. It still leaves me a long time, of course; almost 4 + years here, and another year to the workhouse. However, it is a + considerable gain, and if I should not get into solitary again, + I may--I am almost afraid to utter the thought--I may live to + come out. I feel as if I am being resurrected. + + The new law benefits the short-timers proportionately much more + than the men with longer sentences. Only the poor lifers do not + share in it. We were very anxious for a while, as there were + many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional. + Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved + ineffectual. Think of men who will see something + unconstitutional in allowing the prisoners a little more good + time than the commutation statute of 40 years ago. As if a + little kindness to the unfortunates--really justice--is + incompatible with the spirit of Jefferson! We were greatly + worried over the fate of this statute, but at last the first + batch has been released, and there is much rejoicing over it. + + There is a peculiar history about this new law, which may + interest you; it sheds a significant side light. It was + especially designed for the benefit of a high Federal officer + who was recently convicted of aiding two wealthy Philadelphia + tobacco manufacturers to defraud the government of a few + millions, by using counterfeit tax stamps. Their influence + secured the introduction of the commutation bill and its hasty + passage. The law would have cut their sentences almost in two, + but certain newspapers seem to have taken offence at having been + kept in ignorance of the "deal," and protests began to be + voiced. The matter finally came up before the Attorney General + of the United States, who decided that the men in whose special + interest the law was engineered, could not benefit by it, + because a State law does not affect U. S. prisoners, the latter + being subject to the Federal commutation act. Imagine the + discomfiture of the politicians! An attempt was even made to + suspend the operation of the statute. Fortunately it failed, and + now the "common" State prisoners, who were not at all meant to + profit, are being released. The legislature has unwittingly + given some unfortunates here much happiness. + + I was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a + visit. I could hardly credit it: the first comrade I have been + allowed to see in nine years! It was Harry Gordon, and I was so + overcome by the sight of the dear friend, I could barely speak. + He must have prevailed upon the new Inspector to issue a permit. + The latter is now Acting Warden, owing to the serious illness of + Captain Wright. Perhaps he will allow me to see my sister. Will + you kindly communicate with her at once? Meantime I shall try to + secure a pass. With renewed hope, and always with green memory + of you, + + Alex. + + +III + + _Sub Rosa_, + Dec. 20, 1901. + + DEAREST GIRL: + + I know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected + you.... The sight of your face after all these years completely + unnerved me. I could not think, I could not speak. It was as if + all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the living, were + concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was dangling from + your watch chain.... I couldn't take my eyes off it, I couldn't + keep my hand from playing with it. It absorbed my whole + being.... And all the time I felt how nervous you were at my + silence, and I couldn't utter a word. + + Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen each + other under the present conditions. It was lucky they did not + recognize you: they took you for my "sister," though I believe + your identity was suspected after you had left. You would surely + not have been permitted the visit, had the old Warden been here. + He was ill at the time. He never got over the shock of the + tunnel, and finally he has been persuaded by the prison + physician (who has secret aspirations to the Wardenship) that + the anxieties of his position are a menace to his advanced age. + Considerable dissatisfaction has also developed of late against + the Warden among the Inspectors. Well, he has resigned at last, + thank goodness! The prisoners have been praying for it for + years, and some of the boys on the range celebrated the event by + getting drunk on wood alcohol. The new Warden has just assumed + charge, and we hope for improvement. He is a physician by + profession, with the title of Major in the Pennsylvania militia. + + It was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious + friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary worry + over my health, and my renewed persecution. You remember that in + July the new Inspector released me from the strait-jacket and + assigned me to work on the range. But I was locked up again in + October, after the McKinley incident. The President of the Board + of Inspectors was at the time in New York. He inquired by wire + what I was doing. Upon being informed that I was working on the + range, he ordered me into solitary. The new Warden, on assuming + office, sent for me. "They give you a bad reputation," he said; + "but I will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do + what is right by me." He spoke brusquely, in the manner of a man + closing a business deal, with the power of dictating terms. He + reminded me of Bismarck at Versailles. Yet he did not seem + unkind; the thought of escape was probably in his mind. But the + new law has germinated the hope of survival; my weakened + condition and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at + last decided me to abandon the idea of escape. I therefore + replied to the Warden: "I will do what is right by you, if you + treat _me_ right." Thereupon he assigned me to work on the + range. It is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the + cell-house after the close solitary. + + And you, dear friend? In your letters I feel how terribly torn + you are by the events of the recent months. I lived in great + fear for your safety, and I can barely credit the good news that + you are at liberty. It seems almost a miracle. + + I followed the newspapers with great anxiety. The whole country + seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. To a considerable + extent the press fanned the fires of persecution. Here in the + prison very little sincere grief was manifested. Out out of + hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary + remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner + corresponds to the average citizen--their patriotism is very + passive, except when stimulated by personal interest, or + artificially excited. But if the press mirrored the sentiment of + the people, the nation must have suddenly relapsed into + cannibalism. There were moments when I was in mortal dread for + your very life, and for the safety of the other arrested + comrades. In previous letters you hinted that it was official + rivalry and jealousy, and your absence from New York, to which + you owe your release. You may be right; yet I believe that your + attitude of proud self-respect and your admirable self-control + contributed much to the result. You were splendid, dear; and I + was especially moved by your remark that you would faithfully + nurse the wounded man, if he required your services, but that + the poor boy, condemned and deserted by all, needed and deserved + your sympathy and aid more than the president. More strikingly + than your letters, that remark discovered to me the great change + wrought in us by the ripening years. Yes, in us, in both, for my + heart echoed your beautiful sentiment. How impossible such a + thought would have been to us in the days of a decade ago! We + should have considered it treason to the spirit of revolution; + it would have outraged all our traditions even to admit the + humanity of an official representative of capitalism. Is it not + very significant that we two--you living in the very heart of + Anarchist thought and activity, and I in the atmosphere of + absolute suppression and solitude--should have arrived at the + same evolutionary point after a decade of divergent paths? + + You have alluded in a recent letter to the ennobling and + broadening influence of sorrow. Yet not upon every one does it + exert a similar effect. Some natures grow embittered, and shrink + with the poison of misery. I often wonder at my lack of + bitterness and enmity, even against the old Warden--and surely I + have good cause to hate him. Is it because of greater maturity? + I rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. The love of + the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days, vital + as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than + emotional. Fortunately so, I think. For those like Fedya and + Lewis and Pauline, and numerous others, soon have their + emotionally inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of + the social protestant. Only aspirations that spontaneously leap + from the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic + forces. The revolutionist is born. Beneath our love and hatred + of former days lay inherent rebellion, and the passionate desire + for liberty and life. + + In the long years of isolation I have looked deeply into my + heart. With open mind and sincere purpose, I have revised every + emotion and every thought. Away from my former atmosphere and + the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil, I have divested + myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. I have studied + the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life, and pondered + over human destiny. For weeks and months I would be absorbed in + the domain of "pure reason," or discuss with Leibnitz the + question of free will, and seek to penetrate, beyond Spencer, + into the Unknowable. Political science and economics, law and + criminology--I studied them with unprejudiced mind, and sought + to slacken my soul's thirst by delving deeply into religion and + theology, seeking the "Key to Life" at the feet of Mrs. Eddy, + expectantly listening for the voice of disembodied, studying + Koreshanity and Theosophy, absorbing the _prana_ of knowledge + and power, and concentrating upon the wisdom of the Yogi. And + after years of contemplation and study, chastened by much + sorrow and suffering, I arise from the broken fetters of the + world's folly and delusions, to behold the threshold of a new + life of liberty and equality. My youth's ideal of a free + humanity in the vague future has become clarified and + crystallized into the living truth of Anarchy, as the sustaining + elemental force of my every-day existence. + + Often I have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom dear + at the price of enthusiasm? At 30 one is not so reckless, not so + fanatical and one-sided as at 20. With maturity we become more + universal; but life is a Shylock that cannot be cheated of his + due. For every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound or a scar + to show. We grow broader; but too often the heart contracts as + the mind expands, and the fires are burning down while we are + learning. At such moments my mind would revert to the days when + the momentarily expected approach of the Social Revolution + absorbed our exclusive interest. The raging present and its + conflicting currents passed us by, while our eyes were riveted + upon the Dawn, in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise. Life and + its manifold expressions were vexatious to the spirit of revolt; + and poetry, literature, and art were scorned as hindrances to + progress, unless they sounded the tocsin of immediate + revolution. Humanity was sharply divided in two warring + camps,--the noble People, the producers, who yearned for the + light of the new gospel, and the hated oppressors, the + exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that + was to give back to man his heritage. If only "the good People" + were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully + they would embrace Anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised + land! + + The splendid naivety of the days that resented as a personal + reflection the least misgiving of the future; the enthusiasm + that discounted the power of inherent prejudice and + predilection! Magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the + hatred of oppression and the love of liberty! Woe indeed to the + man or the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of + Prometheus,--for it is youth that has climbed the heights.... + But maturity has clarified the way, and the stupendous task of + human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified + vision of hearts that grow not cold. + + And you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time, you + have yet happily kept your heart young. I have rejoiced at it + in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident + from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening + at Buffalo. I share your view entirely; for that very reason, it + is the more distressing to disagree with you in one very + important particular: the value of Leon's act. I know the + terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish + persecution to which you have been subjected. Worse than all + must have been to you the general lack of understanding for such + phenomena; and, sadder yet, the despicable attitude of some + would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. But I am + confident you will not mistake my expressed disagreement for + condemnation. + + We need not discuss the phase of the _Attentat_ which manifested + the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest against + social wrong. Such phenomena are the natural result of evil + conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the river banks by + the swelling mountain torrents. But I cannot agree with you + regarding the social value of Leon's act. + + I have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of his + inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the + rebellion of his soul. It throws a significant light upon the + causes of the _Attentat_. Indeed, it is at once the greatest + tragedy of martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of + society, that it forces the noblest men and women to shed human + blood, though their souls shrink from it. But the more + imperative it is that drastic methods of this character be + resorted to only as a last extremity. To prove of value, they + must be motived by social rather than individual necessity, and + be directed against a real and immediate enemy of the people. + The significance of such a deed is understood by the popular + mind--and in that alone is the propagandistic, educational + importance of an _Attentat_, except if it is exclusively an act + of terrorism. + + Now, I do not believe that this deed was terroristic; and I + doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity + for its performance was not manifest. That you may not + misunderstand, I repeat: as an expression of personal revolt it + was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing + conditions. But the background of social necessity was lacking, + and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent + nullified. + + In Russia, where political oppression is popularly felt, such a + deed would be of great value. But the scheme of political + subjection is more subtle in America. And though McKinley was + the chief representative of our modern slavery, he could not be + considered in the light of a direct and immediate enemy of the + people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat is visible and + tangible. The real despotism of republican institutions is far + deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the popular delusion + of self-government and independence. That is the subtle source + of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it cannot be reached with a + bullet. + + In modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression is the + real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its handmaid. Hence + the battle is to be waged in the economic rather than the + political field. It is therefore that I regard my own act as far + more significant and educational than Leon's. It was directed + against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as such by the + people. + + As long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts + and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of the + race--our Czolgoszes--burst forth in "rockets of iron." But does + this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or merely + confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? The struggle of + labor against capital is a class war, essentially and chiefly + economic. In that arena the battles must be fought. + + It was not these considerations, of course, that inspired the + nation-wide man-hunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals. + Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness. The + brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole + proceeding, the thirst for the blood of the martyr,--these make + one almost despair of humanity. + + I must close. The friend to smuggle out this letter will be + uneasy about its bulk. Send me sign of receipt, and I hope that + you may be permitted a little rest and peace, to recover from + the nightmare of the last months. + + SASHA. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +MARRED LIVES + + +I + +The discussion with the Girl is a source of much mortification. Harassed +on every side, persecuted by the authorities, and hounded even into the +street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative +disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. I realize +the inadequacy of the written word, and despair at the hopelessness of +human understanding, as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the +Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued +correspondence with the Girl accentuates the divergence of our views, +painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying +even common conclusions. + +By degrees the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's +correspondence. Our discussion lags, and soon ceases entirely. The world +of the outside, temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the +urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison. + + +II + +A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell-house. The new commutation +law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. In the shops and yard the +men excitedly discuss the increased "good time," and prisoners flit +about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to "figure out" +their time of release. Even the solitaries, on the verge of despair, and +the long-timers facing a vista of cheerless years, are instilled with +new courage and hope. + +The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment of the new +Warden the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. Pleasant +surprise is manifest at the welcome change in "the grub." I wonder at +the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas dinner. The +men impatiently frown down the occasional "kicker." The Warden is +"green," they argue; he did not know that we are supposed to get currant +bread for the holidays; he will do better, "jest give 'im a chanc't." +The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon, and the men thrill +with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's +dinner!" With gratification we hear the Major's expression of disgust at +the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell +and dungeon as barbarous, and the promise of radical reforms. As an +earnest of his regime he has released from solitary the men whom Warden +Wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defence of +Murphy and Mong. Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had +accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in Elk City several +years previously. The criminal trial, involving the suicide of an +officer[50] whom the Warden had forced to testify against the +defendants, resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon +Captain Wright ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be +punished. + + [50] Officer Robert G. Hunter, who committed suicide August 30, + 1901, in Clarion, Pa. (where the trial took place). He left + a written confession, in which he accused Warden E. S. + Wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew + to be innocent. + +The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules, +abolishes the "holy-stoning"[51] of the cell-house floor because of the +detrimental effect of the dust, and decides to separate the consumptive +and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Upon +examination, 40 per cent. of the population are discovered in various +stages of tuberculosis, and 20 per cent. insane. The death rate from +consumption is found to range between 25 and 60 per cent. At light tasks +in the block and the yard the Major finds employment for the sickly +inmates; special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the +rest of the men at work in the shop. With the exception of a number of +dangerously insane, who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner +in the institution is at work, and the vexed problem of idleness +resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved. + + [51] The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand + into their surfaces. + +The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon, +produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. The gloom of +the cell-house perceptibly lifts, and presently the men are surprised at +music hour, between six and seven in the evening, with the strains of +merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band. + + +III + +New faces greet me on the range. But many old friends are missing. Billy +Ryan is dead of consumption; "Frenchy" and Ben have become insane; +Little Mat, the Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remembrance +I think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering. +Some of the old-timers have survived, but broken in spirit and health. +"Praying" Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips +constantly moving in prayer. "Me innocent," the old man reiterates, "God +him know." Last month the Board has again refused to pardon the +lifetimer, and now he is bereft of hope. "Me have no more money. My +children they save and save, and bring me for pardon, and now no more +money." Aleck Killain has also been refused by the Board at the same +session. He is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service, and +the most popular lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions +of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers, a +woman was found dead. No clew could be discovered, and Aleck was +sentenced to life, because he could not be forced to divulge the names +of the men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the sad news: +the authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the +information desired by them. He looks sere with confinement, his eyes +full of a mute sadness that can find no words. His face is deeply +seamed, his features grave, almost immobile. In the long years of our +friendship I have never seen Aleck laugh. Once or twice he smiled, and +his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly, +with a perceptible effort. + +"Yes, Aleck," he is saying, "it's true. They refused me." + +"But they pardoned Mac," I retort hotly. "He confessed to a cold-blooded +murder, and he's only been in four years." + +"Good luck," he remarks. + +"How, good luck?" + +"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm." + +"Well, what of it?" + +"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son a pardon." + +"But on what ground did they dismiss your application? They know you are +innocent." + +"District Attorney came to me. 'You're innocent, we know. Tell us who +did the murder.' I had nothing to tell. Pardon refused." + +"Is there any hope later on, Aleck?" + +"When the present administration are all dead, perhaps." + +Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He walks weakly, with +halting step. + + * * * * * + +"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. "I'm +here again, friend Aleck," he smiles apologetically. "What could I do? +The old woman died, an' my boys went off somewhere. Th' farm was sold +that I was borned in," his voice trembles with emotion. "I couldn't find +th' boys, an' no one wanted me, an' wouldn't give me any work. 'Go to +th' pogy',[52] they told me. I couldn't, Aleck. I've worked all me +life; I don't want no charity. I made a bluff," he smiles between +tears,--"Broke into a store, and here I am." + + [52] Poorhouse. + +With surprise I recognize "Tough" Monk among the first-grade men. For +years he had been kept in stripes, and constantly punished for bad work +in the hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in the prison: +not once in five years had he accomplished his task. But the new Warden +transferred him to the construction shop, where Monk was employed at his +trade of blacksmith. "I hated that damn sock makin'," he tells me. +"I've struck it right now, an' the Major says I'm the best worker in th' +shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh, would you? Major promised me a ten-spot +for the fancy iron work I did for them 'lectric posts in th' yard. Says +it's artistic, see? That's me all right; it's work I like. I won't lose +any time, either. Warden says Old Sandy was a fool for makin' me knit +socks with them big paws of mine. Th' Major is aw' right, aw' right." + + * * * * * + +With a glow of pleasure I meet "Smiling" Al, my colored friend from the +jail. The good-natured boy looks old and infirm. His kindness has +involved him in much trouble; he has been repeatedly punished for +shouldering the faults of others, and now the Inspectors have informed +him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. He has +grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. Every morning is +tense with expectation. "Might be Ah goes to-day, Aleck," he hopefully +smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks pass. The suspense is +torturing the young negro, and he is visibly failing day by day. + + * * * * * + +A familiar voice greets me. "Hello, Berk, ain't you glad t' see an old +pal?" Big Dave beams on me with his cheerful smile. + +"No, Davy. I hoped you wouldn't come back." + +He becomes very grave. "Yes, I swore I'd swing sooner than come back. +Didn't get a chanc't. You see," he explains, his tone full of +bitterness, "I goes t' work and gets a job, good job, too; an' I keeps +'way from th' booze an' me pals. But th' damn bulls was after me. Got me +sacked from me job three times, an' den I knocked one of 'em on th' +head. Damn his soul to hell, wish I'd killed 'im. 'Old offender,' they +says to the jedge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker all +right for tryin' t' be straight." + + +IV + +In the large cage at the centre of the block, the men employed about the +cell-house congregate in their idle moments. The shadows steal silently +in and out of the inclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within +sounds the hum of subdued conversation, the men lounging about the +sawdust barrel, absorbed in "Snakes" Wilson's recital of his protracted +struggle with "Old Sandy." He relates vividly his persistent waking at +night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of "Murder! I see snakes!" +With admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old +criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former +Warden to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital, where his +snake-seeing propensities would become dormant, to suffer again violent +awakening the moment he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years +the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and +the strait-jacket, till the Warden yielded, and "Snakes" was permanently +established in the comparative freedom of the special room. + +Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the +"Four-eyed Yegg," who styles himself "Bill Nye," or excitedly discussing +the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of Pittsburgh +winning the baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's +dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation of the Deputy +Warden is discussed. The Major is gradually weeding out the "old gang," +it is gossiped. A colonel of the militia is to secure the position of +assistant to the Warden. This source of conversation is inexhaustible, +every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated +debate. But at the 'lookout's' whimpered warning of an approaching +guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and +cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by; with short legs wide apart, he +stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking +eyebrows. + +"Quiet as me grandmother at church, ain't ye? All of a sudden, too. And +mighty busy, every damn one of you. You 'Snakes' there, what business +you got here, eh?" + +"I've jest come in fer a broom." + +"You old reprobate, you, I saw you sneak in there an hour ago, and +you've been chawin' the rag to beat the band. Think this a barroom, do +you? Get to your cells, all of you." + +He trudges slowly away, mumbling: "You loafers, when I catch you here +again, don't you dare talk so loud." + +One by one the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other +upon their happy escape. Presently several rangemen join the group. +Conversation becomes animated; voices are raised in dispute. But anger +subsides, and a hush falls upon the men, as Blind Charley gropes his way +along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for his hand, and leads him to a seat +on the barrel. "Feelin' better to-day, Charley?" he asks gently. + +"Ye-es. I--think a little--better," the blind man says in an uncertain, +hesitating manner. His face wears a bewildered expression, as if he has +not yet become resigned to his great misfortune. It happened only a few +months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for +liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was +growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A +head appeared at an upper window. "Robbers!" some one suddenly cried. +There was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charley caught at his eyes. He +staggered, then turned round and round, helpless, in a daze. He couldn't +see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was +utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charley +fell down upon his face moaning and calling to his friends. But they had +fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness,--alone and blind. + +"I'm glad you feel better, Charley," Bill Nye says kindly. "How are your +eyes?" + +"I think--a bit--better." + +The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is +destroyed forever; but with the incomplete realization of sudden +calamity, Charley believes his eyesight only temporarily injured. + +"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morning it--didn't seem +so--dark. It was like--a film over my eyes. Perhaps--it may--get better +yet," his voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope +confirmed. + +"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" interposes. + +"Shut up, you big stiff," Bill flares up, grabbing "Snakes" by the +throat. "Charley," he adds, "I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It +looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do +you see things like in a fog, Charley?" + +"Yes, yes, just like that." + +"Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little things got to +be lighter, and now the eye is as good as ever." + +"Is that right, Billy?" Charley inquires anxiously. "What did you do?" + +"Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker here is giving you some +applications, ain't he?" + +"Yes; but he says it's for the inflammation." + +"That's right. That's what the doctors told me. You just take it easy, +Charley; don't worry. You'll come out all right, see if you don't." + +Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up +a warning finger to silence the giggling "Snowball Kid." Then, with +sudden vehemence, he exclaims: "By God, Charley, if I ever meet that +Judge of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here hands, so +help me! It's a damn shame to send you here in this condition. You +should have gone to a hospital, that's what I say. But cheer up, old +boy, you won't have to serve your three years; you can bet on that. +We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we, +boys?" + +With unwonted energy the old yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking +pledges of contributions. "Doctor George" appears around the corner, +industriously polishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to +corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A smile of timid +joy suffuses the sightless face, as Bill Nye slaps him on the shoulder, +crying jovially, "What did I tell you, eh? You'll be O. K. soon, and +meantime keep your mind busy how to avenge the injustice done you," and +with a violent wink in the direction of "Snakes," the yegg launches upon +a reminiscence of his youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the +spirit of vengeance was strong within him. He has always religiously +revenged any wrong he was made to suffer, but the incident that afforded +him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen +then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a +small country place. One evening, as the family gathered in the large +sitting-room, his sister Mary said something which deeply offended him. +In great rage he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street, he +was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the +town. The man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to +some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. "Quick as a +flash a brilliant idea struck me," Bill narrates, warming to his story. +"Never short of them, anyhow," he remarks parenthetically, "but here was +my revenge! 'you mean a whore-house, don't you?' I ask the fellow. Yes, +that's what was wanted, my man says. 'Why,' says I to him, kind of +suddenly, 'see the house there right across the street? That's the place +you want,' and I point out to him the house where the old lady and my +three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant like--waiting +for me, you know. Well, the man gives me a quarter, and up he goes, +knocks on the door and steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see +what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with +a bang and something comes out with a rush, and falls on the veranda, +and mother she's got a broom in her hand, and the girls, every blessed +one of them, out with flatiron and dustpan, and biff, baff, they rain it +upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split my sides laughing. By +an' by I return to the house, and mother and sisters are kind of +excited, and I says innocent-like, 'What's up, girls?' Well, you ought +to hear 'em! Talk, did they? 'That beast of a man, the dirty thing that +came to the house and insulted us with--' they couldn't even mention the +awful things he said; and Mary--that's the sis I got mad at--she cries, +'Oh, Billie, you're so big and strong, I wish you was here when that +nasty old thing came up.'" + +The boys are hilarious over the story, and "Doctor George" motions me +aside to talk over "old times." With a hearty pressure I greet my +friend, whom I had not seen since the days of the first investigation. +Suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops, and only +recently returned to his former position in the block. His beautiful +thick hair has grown thin and gray; he looks aged and worn. With sadness +I notice his tone of bitterness. "They almost killed me, Aleck!" he +says; "if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old Warden." Throughout +his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her +unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness +and despair. "The dear girl," he muses, "I'd be dead if it wasn't for +her." But his release is approaching. He has almost served the sentence +of sixteen years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at +Leechburg, during which the cashier was killed. The other two men +convicted of the crime have both died in prison. The Doctor alone has +survived, "thanks to the dear girl," he repeats. But the six months at +the workhouse fill him with apprehension. He has been informed that the +place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. However, +his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence +suspended, and full liberty may be at hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" + + +The presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. George is an +intelligent man; the long years of incarceration have not circumscribed +his intellectual horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his +interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours +conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories +and problems of the day. He has a broad grasp of affairs, but his +temperament and Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear +to me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice, +and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines. +The recent death of Liebknecht and the American lecture tour of Peter +Kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social +questions. There are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend, +whose great-grandfather was among the signers of the Declaration, waxes +eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the +Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the Republic. A +Democrat of the Jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old Warden +on account of his favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience, +he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once +entertained. + +"Why, Aleck, there _is_ no justice," he says vehemently; "no, not even +in the best democracy. Ten years ago I would have staked my life on the +courts. To-day I know they are a failure; our whole jurisprudence is +wrong. You see, I have been here nine years. I have met and made friends +with hundreds of criminals. Some were pretty desperate, and many of them +scoundrels. But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover some +good quality, if he's scratched right. Look at that fellow there," he +points to a young prisoner scrubbing an upper range, "that's 'Johnny the +Hunk.' He's in for murder. Now what did the judge and jury know about +him? Just this: he was a hard-working boy in the mills. One Saturday he +attended a wedding, with a chum of his. They were both drunk when they +went out into the street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to +arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. The cop must have lost his head--he +shot the fellow dead. It was right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and +got a pistol, and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with drink. +Well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly +sixteen. They gave him fifteen years. Now he's all in--they've just +ruined the boy's life. And what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess +what he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told him that the +widow of the cop he shot is hard up; she has three children, and takes +in washing. Do you know what Johnny did? He went around among the cons, +and got together fifty dollars on the fancy paper-work he is making; +he's an artist at it. He sent the woman the money, and begged her to +forgive him." + +"Is that true, Doctor?" + +"Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some business, and the boy +had just sent the money to the woman. The Chaplain was so much moved by +it, he told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You know what +that woman did?" + +"What?" + +"She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever +goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. She didn't want anything to do +with him, she wrote. But she kept the money." + +"How did Johnny take it?" + +"It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy cried over the +letter, and told the Chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. But +every minute he can spare he works on that fancy work, and every month +he sends her money. That's the _criminal_ the judge sentenced to fifteen +years in this hell!" + +My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal +with our social ills. "Why, look at the courts!" he exclaims, "they +don't concern themselves with crime. They merely punish the criminal, +absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the +predisposing causes." + +"But, George," I rejoin, "it is the economic system of exploitation, the +dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want, +which are responsible for most crimes." + +"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corruption in our public +life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the +spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be +so much violence and crime, even under what you call the capitalist +system. At any rate, there is no doubt the law is an absolute failure in +dealing with crime. The criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics. +Give him to the doctor instead of the jailer." + +"You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered a product of +anthropological and physical factors. But don't you see that you must +also examine society, to determine to what extent social conditions are +responsible for criminal actions? And if that were done, I believe most +crimes would be found to be misdirected energy--misdirected because of +false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest." + +"Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase of the question. But +aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are +making of it. For one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old, +without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting +prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. The blackjack and the +dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what +the social causes of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform. +The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True reformation can +emanate only from voluntary impulse, inspired and cultivated by +intelligent advice and kind treatment. But reformation which is the +result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish +like smoke the moment fear abates. And you know, Aleck, the +reformatories are even worse than the prisons. Look at the fellows here +from the various reform schools. Why, it's a disgrace! The boys who come +from the outside are decent fellows. But those kids from the +reformatories--one-third of the cons here have graduated there--they are +terrible. You can spot them by looking at them. They are worse than +street prostitutes." + +My friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as +"the girls," "Sallies," and "punks," who for gain traffic in sexual +gratification. But he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of +homosexuality; his denunciation is against the commerce in carnal +desires. As a medical man, and a student, he is deeply interested in the +manifestations of suppressed sex. He speaks with profound sympathy of +the brilliant English man-of-letters, whom the world of cant and +stupidity has driven to prison and to death because his sex life did not +conform to the accepted standards. In detail, my friend traces the +various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and I +warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the +intimate emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner, he had +not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. He had heard +of pederasty; but like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither +understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered +abnormal and vicious. In prison he was horrified at the perversion that +frequently came under his observation. For two years the very thought of +such matters filled him with disgust; he even refused to speak to the +men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning +them--"with my prejudices rather than my reason," he remarks. But the +forces of suppression were at work. "Now, this is in confidence, Aleck," +he cautions me. "I know you will understand. Probably you yourself have +experienced the same thing. I'm glad I can talk to some one about it; +the other fellows here wouldn't understand it. It makes me sick to see +how they all grow indignant over a fellow who is caught. And the +officers, too, though you know as well as I that quite a number of them +are addicted to these practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the +same story with every one here, especially the long-timers. I was +terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen years--I didn't +believe for a moment I could live through it. I was abusing myself +pretty badly. Still, after a while, when I got work and began to take an +interest in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex instinct +awakened. I was young: about twenty-five, strong and healthy. Sometimes +I thought I'd get crazy with passion. You remember when we were celling +together on that upper range, on R; you were in the stocking shop then, +weren't you? Don't you remember?" + +"Of course I remember, George. You were in the cell next mine. We could +see out on the river. It was in the summer: we could hear the excursion +boats, and the girls singing and dancing." + +"That, too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I really believe the +whole blessed range used to 'indulge' then. Think of the precious +material fed to the fishes," he smiles; "the privies, you know, empty +into the river." + +"Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies." + +"Yes, orgies; that's just what they were. As a matter of fact, I don't +believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself, +at one time or another." + +"If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known some men to +masturbate four and five times a day. Kept it up for months, too." + +"Yes, and they either get the con, or go bugs. As a medical man I think +that self-abuse, if practised no more frequently than ordinary coition, +would be no more injurious than the latter. But it can't be done. It +grows on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous than the +first." + +"What do you call the second?" + +"Well, the first is the dejection stage. Hopeless and despondent, you +seek forgetfulness in onanism. You don't care what happens. It's what I +might call mechanical self-abuse, not induced by actual sex desire. This +stage passes with your dejection, as soon as you begin to take an +interest in the new life, as all of us are forced to do, before long. +The second stage is the psychic and mental. It is not the result of +dejection. With the gradual adaptation to the new conditions, a +comparatively normal life begins, manifesting sexual desires. At this +stage your self-abuse is induced by actual need. It is the more +dangerous phase, because the frequency of the practice grows with the +recurring thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. While the first was +mechanical, giving no special pleasure, and resulting only in increasing +lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved +woman, or one desired, and affords intense joy. Therein is its +allurement and danger; and that's why the habit gains in strength. The +more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon +your sole source of pleasure. Many become helpless victims. I have +noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this +respect." + +"I have had the same experience. The narrower your mental horizon, the +more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. That is probably +the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement." + +"No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities for observation +of the solitaries and the new men. What did you notice, Aleck?" + +"Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of +a factory worker. As a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from +solitary. They are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters, +and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who have no +interests beyond their personal life, soon become victims of insanity. +I've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or +fancy work,--it's their only salvation." + +"If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories +and ideals; I'm sure of it. And I continued my medical studies, and +sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects." + +For a moment George pauses. The veins of his forehead protrude, as if he +is undergoing a severe mental struggle. Presently he says: "Aleck, I'm +going to speak very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject. +I'll give you my intimate experiences, and I want you to be just as +frank with me. I think it's one of the most important things, and I want +to learn all I can about it. Very little is known about it, and much +less understood." + +"About what, George?" + +"About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second phase of onanism. With +a strong effort I overcame it. Not entirely, of course. But I have +succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain +intervals. But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested +themselves. It was like a psychic awakening. The desire to love +something was strong upon me. Once I caught a little mouse in my cell, +and tamed it a bit. It would eat out of my hand, and come around at meal +times, and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. I +learned to love it. Honestly, Aleck, I cried when it died. And then, for +a long time, I felt as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted +something to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for affection. +Somehow the thought of woman gradually faded from my mind. When I saw my +wife, it was just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel toward her +sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I noticed a young boy. +He had been in only a short time, and he was rosy-cheeked, with a smooth +little face and sweet lips--he reminded me of a girl I used to court +before I married. After that I frequently surprised myself thinking of +the lad. I felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get +friendly. I became acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a +medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble +he suffered. The doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and +physics all the time. Well, Aleck, I could hardly believe it myself, but +I grew so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed without my +seeing him. I would take big chances to get near him. I was rangeman +then, and he was assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to +talk. I got him interested in literature, and advised him what to read, +for he didn't know what to do with his time. He had a fine character, +that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. At first it was only a +liking for him, but it increased all the time, till I couldn't think of +any woman. But don't misunderstand me, Aleck; it wasn't that I wanted a +'kid.' I swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me +whatever; but this boy--his name was Floyd--he became so dear to me, +why, I used to give him everything I could get. I had a friendly guard, +and he'd bring me fruit and things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it, +but I always gave it to Floyd. And, Aleck--you remember when I was down +in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for the sake of that boy. He did +something, and I took the blame on myself. And the last time--they kept +me nine days chained up--I hit a fellow for abusing Floyd: he was small +and couldn't defend himself. I did not realize it at the time, Aleck, +but I know now that I was simply in love with the boy; wildly, madly in +love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved him without the +least taint of sex desire. It was the purest affection I ever felt in my +life. It was all-absorbing, and I would have sacrificed my life for him +if he had asked it. But by degrees the psychic stage began to manifest +all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. I remember the +first time he kissed me. It was early in the morning; only the rangemen +were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. He put both +hands between the bars, and pressed his lips to mine. Aleck, I tell you, +never in my life had I experienced such bliss as at that moment. It's +five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think of it. It came +suddenly; I didn't expect it. It was entirely spontaneous: our eyes met, +and it seemed as if something drew us together. He told me he was very +fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used to neglect my work, +and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew +terribly jealous, too, though I had no cause. I passed through every +phase of a passionate love. With this difference, though--I felt a touch +of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. That I didn't +do. It seemed to me a desecration of the boy, and of my love for him. +But after a while that feeling also wore off, and I desired sexual +relation with him. He said he loved me enough to do even that for me, +though he had never done it before. He hadn't been in any reformatory, +you know. And yet, somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it; I loved the +lad too much for it. Perhaps you will smile, Aleck, but it was real, +true love. When Floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I +felt that I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his hand +again, or get one more kiss. You--you're laughing?" he asks abruptly, a +touch of anxiety in his voice. + +"No, George. I am grateful for your confidence. I think it is a +wonderful thing; and, George--I had felt the same horror and disgust at +these things, as you did. But now I think quite differently about them." + +"Really, Aleck? I'm glad you say so. Often I was troubled--is it +viciousness or what, I wondered; but I could never talk to any one about +it. They take everything here in such a filthy sense. Yet I knew in my +heart that it was a true, honest emotion." + +"George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just as beautiful as love +for a woman. I had a friend here; his name was Russell; perhaps you +remember him. I felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved +him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible shock to me. It +almost drove me insane." + +Silently George holds out his hand. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +LOVE'S DARING + + + Castle on the Ohio, + Aug. 18, 1902. + + MY DEAR CAROLUS: + + You know the saying, "Der eine hat den Beutel, der andere das + Geld." I find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with my + correspondents. I have the leisure, but theirs is the advantage + of the paper supply. Thus runs the world. But you, a most + faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long while. + Therefore this unexpected _sub rosa_ chance is for you. + + My dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me, don't + fashion your philosophy in the image of disappointment. All life + is a multiplied pain; its highest expressions, love and + friendship, are sources of the most heart-breaking sorrow. That + has been my experience; no doubt, yours also. And you are aware + that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the + grief and anguish, are so much more acute, more bitter and + lasting. What then? Shall one seal his emotions, or barricade + his heart? Ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some + claim. But remember, dear Carl, mere wisdom is a barren life. + + I think it a natural reaction against your prison existence that + you feel the need of self-indulgence. But it is a temporary + phase, I hope. You want to live and enjoy, you say. But surely + you are mistaken to believe that the time is past when we + cheerfully sacrificed all to the needs of the cause. The first + flush of emotional enthusiasm may have paled, but in its place + there is the deeper and more lasting conviction that permeates + one's whole being. There come moments when one asks himself the + justification of his existence, the meaning of his life. No + torment is more excruciating and overwhelming than the failure + to find an answer. You will discover it neither in physical + indulgence nor in coldly intellectual pleasure. Something more + substantial is needed. In this regard, life outside does not + differ so very much from prison existence. The narrower your + horizon--the more absorbed you are in your immediate + environment, and dependent upon it--the sooner you decay, + morally and mentally. You can, in a measure, escape the + sordidness of life only by living for something higher. + + Perhaps that is the secret of my survival. Wider interests have + given me strength. And other phases there are. From your own + experience you know what sustaining satisfaction is found in + prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human dignity, + because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense of + self-respect. I have seen prisoners offer most desperate + resistance in defence of their manhood. On my part it has been a + continuous struggle. Do you remember the last time I was in the + dungeon? It was on the occasion of Comrade Kropotkin's presence + in this country, during his last lecture tour. The old Warden + was here then; he informed me that I would not be permitted to + see our Grand Old Man. I had a tilt with him, but I did not + succeed in procuring a visiting card. A few days later I + received a letter from Peter. On the envelope, under my name, + was marked, "Political prisoner." The Warden was furious. "We + have no political prisoners in a free country," he thundered, + tearing up the envelope. "But you have political grafters," I + retorted. We argued the matter heatedly, and I demanded the + envelope. The Warden insisted that I apologize. Of course I + refused, and I had to spend three days in the dungeon. + + There have been many changes since then. Your coming to + Pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place (they + knew you had the facts) helped to bring matters to a point. They + assigned me to a range, and I am still holding the position. The + new Warden is treating me more decently. He "wants no trouble + with me," he told me. But he has proved a great disappointment. + He started in with promising reforms, but gradually he has + fallen into the old ways. In some respects his regime is even + worse than the previous one. He has introduced a system of + "economy" which barely affords us sufficient food. The dungeon + and basket, which he had at first abolished, are in operation + again, and the discipline is daily becoming more drastic. The + result is more brutality and clubbings, more fights and cutting + affairs, and general discontent. The new management cannot plead + ignorance, for the last 4th of July the men gave a demonstration + of the effects of humane treatment. The Warden had assembled + the inmates in the chapel, promising to let them pass the day in + the yard, on condition of good behavior. The Inspectors and the + old guards advised against it, arguing the "great risk" of such + a proceeding. But the Major decided to try the experiment. He + put the men on their honor, and turned them loose in the yard. + He was not disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the + least mishap; there was not even a single report. We began to + breathe easier, when presently the whole system was reversed. It + was partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the + Warden; and the latter completely lost his head when a trusty + made his escape from the hospital. It seems to have terrorized + the Warden into abandoning all reforms. He has also been + censured by the Inspectors because of the reduced profits from + the industries. Now the tasks have been increased, and even the + sick and consumptives are forced to work. The labor bodies of + the State have been protesting in vain. How miserably weak is + the Giant of Toil, because unconscious of his strength! + + The men are groaning, and wishing Old Sandy back. In short, + things are just as they were during your time. Men and Wardens + may come and go, but the system prevails. More and more I am + persuaded of the great truth: given authority and the + opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially + the same, no matter what particular set of men, or of + "principles," happens to be in the saddle. + + Fortunately I am on the "home run." I'm glad you felt that the + failure of my application to the Superior Court would not + depress me. I built no castles upon it. Yet I am glad it has + been tried. It was well to demonstrate once more that neither + lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals, are + interested in doing justice. My lawyers had such a strong case, + from the legal standpoint, that the State Pardon Board resorted + to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. And now + the Superior Court thought it the better part of wisdom to + ignore the argument that I am being illegally detained. They + simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases + that entirely evade the question at issue. + + Well, to hell with them. I have "2 an' a stump" (stump, 11 + months) and I feel the courage of perseverance. But I hope that + the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation law. + There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians are angry + that their efforts in behalf of the wealthy U. S. grafters in + the Eastern Penitentiary failed. They begrudge the "common" + prisoner the increased allowance of good time. However, I shall + "make" it. Of course, you understand that both French leave and + Dutch act are out of the question now. I have decided to + stay--till I can _walk_ through the gates. + + In reference to French leave, have you read about the Biddle + affair? I think it was the most remarkable attempt in the + history of the country. Think of the wife of the Jail Warden + helping prisoners to escape! The boys here were simply wild with + joy. Every one hoped they would make good their escape, and old + Sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught. But all the + bloodhounds of the law were unchained; the Biddle boys got no + chance at all. + + The story is this. The brothers Biddle, Jack and Ed, and Walter + Dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a man. It + was Dorman who fired the shot, but he turned State's evidence. + The State rewards treachery. Dorman escaped the noose, but the + two brothers were sentenced to die. As is customary, they were + visited in the jail by the "gospel ladies," among them the wife + of the Warden. You probably remember him--Soffel; he was Deputy + Warden when we were in the jail, and a rat he was, too. Well, Ed + was a good-looking man, with soft manners, and so forth. Mrs. + Soffel fell in love with him. It was mutual, I believe. Now + witness the heroism a woman is capable of, when she loves. Mrs. + Soffel determined to save the two brothers; I understand they + promised her to quit their criminal life. Every day she would + visit the condemned men, to console them. Pretending to read the + gospel, she would stand close to the doors, to give them an + opportunity to saw through the bars. She supplied them with + revolvers, and they agreed to escape together. Of course, she + could not go back to her husband, for she loved Ed, loved him + well enough never even to see her children again. The night for + the escape was set. The brothers intended to separate + immediately after the break, subsequently to meet together with + Mrs. Soffel. But the latter insisted on going with them. Ed + begged her not to. He knew that it was sheer suicide for all of + them. But she persisted, and Ed acquiesced, fully realizing that + it would prove fatal. Don't you think it showed a noble trait in + the boy? He did not want her to think that he was deserting her. + The escape from the jail was made successfully; they even had + several hours' start. But snow had fallen, and it was easy to + trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. The brutality of the + man-hunters is past belief. When the detectives came upon the + boys, they fired their Winchesters into the two brothers. Even + when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and + helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into Ed, killing him. + Jack died later, and Mrs. Soffel was placed in jail. You can + imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. Mrs. Soffel was + denounced by her husband, and all the good Christian women cried + "Unclean!" and clamored for the punishment of their unfortunate + sister. She is now here, serving two years for aiding in the + escape. I caught a glimpse of her when she came in. She has a + sympathetic face, that bears signs of deep suffering; she must + have gone through a terrible ordeal. Think of the struggle + before she decided upon the desperate step; then the days and + weeks of anxiety, as the boys were sawing the bars and preparing + for the last chance! I should appreciate the love of a woman + whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters of convention. + In some ways this woman reminds me of the Girl--the type that + possesses the courage and strength to rise above all + considerations for the sake of the man or the cause held dear. + How little the world understands the vital forces of life! + + A. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV + +THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" + + +I + +It is September the nineteenth. The cell-house is silent and gray in the +afternoon dusk. In the yard the rain walks with long strides, hastening +in the dim twilight, hastening whither the shadows have gone. I stand at +the door, in reverie. In the sombre light, I see myself led through the +gate yonder,--it was ten years ago this day. The walls towered +menacingly in the dark, the iron gripped my heart, and I was lost in +despair. I should not have believed then that I could survive the long +years of misery and pain. But the nimble feet of the rain patter +hopefully; its tears dissipate the clouds, and bring light; and soon I +shall step into the sunshine, and come forth grown and matured, as the +world must have grown in the struggle of suffering-- + +"Fresh fish!" a rangeman announces, pointing to the long line of striped +men, trudging dejectedly across the yard, and stumbling against each +other in the unaccustomed lockstep. The door opens, and Aleck Killain, +the lifetimer, motions to me. He walks with measured, even step along +the hall. Rangeman "Coz" and Harry, my young assistant, stealthily crowd +with him into my cell. The air of mystery about them arouses my +apprehension. + +"What's the matter, boys?" I ask. + +They hesitate and glance at each other, smiling diffidently. + +"You speak, Killain," Harry whispers. + +The lifetimer carefully unwraps a little package, and I become aware of +the sweet scent of flowers perfuming the cell. The old prisoner stammers +in confusion, as he presents me with a rose, big and red. "We swiped it +in the greenhouse," he says. + +"Fer you, Aleck," Harry adds. + +"For your tenth anniversary," corrects "Coz." "Good luck to you, Aleck." + +Mutely they grip my hand, and steal out of the cell. + + * * * * * + +In solitude I muse over the touching remembrance. These men--they are +the shame Society hides within the gray walls. These, and others like +them. Daily they come to be buried alive in this grave; all through the +long years they have been coming, and the end is not yet. Robbed of joy +and life, their being is discounted in the economy of existence. And all +the while the world has been advancing, it is said; science and +philosophy, art and letters, have made great strides. But wherein is the +improvement that augments misery and crowds the prisons? The discovery +of the X-ray will further scientific research, I am told. But where is +the X-ray of social insight that will discover in human understanding +and mutual aid the elements of true progress? Deceptive is the advance +that involves the ruthless sacrifice of peace and health and life; +superficial and unstable the civilization that rests upon the +treacherous sands of strife and warfare. The progress of science and +industry, far from promoting man's happiness and social harmony, merely +accentuates discontent and sharpens the contrasts. The knowledge gained +at so much cost of suffering and sacrifice bears bitter fruit, for lack +of wisdom to apply the lessons learned. There are no limits to the +achievements of man, were not humanity divided against itself, +exhausting its best energies in sanguinary conflict, suicidal and +unnecessary. And these, the thousands stepmothered by cruel stupidity, +are the victims castigated by Society for her own folly and sins. There +is Young Harry. A child of the slums, he has never known the touch of a +loving hand. Motherless, his father a drunkard, the heavy arm of the law +was laid upon him at the age of ten. From reform school to reformatory +the social orphan has been driven about.--"You know, Aleck," he says, "I +nev'r had no real square meal, to feel full, you know; 'cept once, on +Christmas, in de ref." At the age of nineteen, he has not seen a day of +liberty since early childhood. + +Three years ago he was transferred to the penitentiary, under a sentence +of sixteen years for an attempted escape from the Morganza reform +school, which resulted in the death of a keeper. The latter was foreman +in the tailor shop, in which Harry was employed together with a number +of other youths. The officer had induced Harry to do overwork, above the +regular task, for which he rewarded the boy with an occasional dainty of +buttered bread or a piece of corn-cake. By degrees Harry's voluntary +effort became part of his routine work, and the reward in delicacies +came more rarely. But when they entirely ceased the boy rebelled, +refusing to exert himself above the required task. He was reported, but +the Superintendent censured the keeper for the unauthorized increase of +work. Harry was elated; but presently began systematic persecution that +made the boy's life daily more unbearable. In innumerable ways the +hostile guard sought to revenge his defeat upon the lad, till at last, +driven to desperation, Harry resolved upon escape. With several other +inmates the fourteen-year-old boy planned to flee to the Rocky +Mountains, there to hunt the "wild" Indians, and live the independent +and care-free life of Jesse James. "You know, Aleck," Harry confides to +me, reminiscently, "we could have made it easy; dere was eleven of us. +But de kids was all sore on de foreman. He 'bused and beat us, an' some +of de boys wouldn' go 'cept we knock de screw out first. It was me pal +Nacky that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den I hit 'im, lightly. But +dey all said in court that I hit 'im both times. Nacky's people had +money, an' he beat de case, but I got soaked sixteen years." His eyes +fill with tears and he says plaintively: "I haven't been outside since I +was a little kid, an' now I'm sick, an' will die here mebbe." + + +II + +Conversing in low tones, we sweep the range. I shorten my strokes to +enable Harry to keep pace. Weakly he drags the broom across the floor. +His appearance is pitifully grotesque. The sickly features, pale with +the color of the prison whitewash, resemble a little child's. But the +eyes look oldish in their wrinkled sockets, the head painfully out of +proportion with the puny, stunted body. Now and again he turns his gaze +on me, and in his face there is melancholy wonder, as if he is seeking +something that has passed him by. Often I ponder, Is there a crime more +appalling and heinous than the one Society has committed upon him, who +is neither man nor youth and never was child? Crushed by the heel of +brutality, this plant had never budded. Yet there is the making of a +true man in him. His mentality is pathetically primitive, but he +possesses character and courage, and latent virgin forces. His emotional +frankness borders on the incredible; he is unmoral and unsocial, as a +field daisy might be, surrounded by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious +of its own being. It distresses me to witness the yearning that comes +into his eyes at the mention of the "outside." Often he asks: "Tell me, +Aleck, how does it feel to walk on de street, to know that you're free +t' go where you damn please, wid no screw to foller you?" Ah, if he'd +only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so careful not to get into +trouble! He would like to keep company with a nice girl, he confides, +blushingly; he had never had one. But he fears his days are numbered. +His lungs are getting very bad, and now that his father has died, he has +no one to help him get a pardon. Perhaps father wouldn't have helped +him, either; he was always drunk, and never cared for his children. "He +had no business t' have any children," Harry comments passionately. And +he can't expect any assistance from his sister; the poor girl barely +makes a living in the factory. "She's been workin' ev'r so long in the +pickle works," Harry explains. "That feller, the boss there, must be +rich; it's a big factory," he adds, naively, "he oughter give 'er enough +to marry on." But he fears he will die in the prison. There is no one to +aid him, and he has no friends. "I never had no friend," he says, +wistfully; "there ain't no real friends. De older boys in de ref always +used me, an' dey use all de kids. But dey was no friends, an' every one +was against me in de court, an' dey put all de blame on me. Everybody +was always against me," he repeats bitterly. + + * * * * * + +Alone in the cell, I ponder over his words. "Everybody was always +against me," I hear the boy say. I wake at night, with the quivering +cry in the darkness, "Everybody against me!" Motherless in childhood, +reared in the fumes of brutal inebriation, cast into the slums to be +crushed under the wheels of the law's Juggernaut, was the fate of this +social orphan. Is this the fruit of progress? this the spirit of our +Christian civilization? In the hours of solitude, the scheme of +existence unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. In variegated design and +divergent angle it presents an endless panorama of stunted minds and +tortured bodies, of universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental +aspect of the boy's desolate life. And I behold all the suffering and +agony resolve themselves in the dominance of the established, in +tradition and custom that heavily encrust humanity, weighing down the +already fettered soul till its wings break and it beats helplessly +against the artificial barriers.... The blanched face of Misery is +silhouetted against the night. The silence sobs with the piteous cry of +the crushed boy. And I hear the cry, and it fills my whole being with +the sense of terrible wrong and injustice, with the shame of my kind, +that sheds crocodile tears while it swallows its helpless prey. The +submerged moan in the dark. I will echo their agony to the ears of the +world. I have suffered with them, I have looked into the heart of Pain, +and with its voice and anguish I will speak to humanity, to wake it from +sloth and apathy, and lend hope to despair. + + * * * * * + +The months speed in preparation for the great work. I must equip myself +for the mission, for the combat with the world that struggles so +desperately to defend its chains. The day of my resurrection is +approaching, and I will devote my new life to the service of my +fellow-sufferers. The world shall hear the tortured; it shall behold the +shame it has buried within these walls, yet not eliminated. The ghost +of its crimes shall rise and harrow its ears, till the social conscience +is roused to the cry of its victims. And perhaps with eyes once opened, +it will behold the misery and suffering in the world beyond, and Man +will pause in his strife and mad race to ask himself, wherefore? +whither? + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI + +A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER + + +I + +With deep gratification I observe the unfoldment of Harry's mind. My +friendship has wakened in him hope and interest in life. Merely to +please me, he smilingly reiterated, he would apply himself to reading +the mapped-out course. But as time passed he became absorbed in the +studies, developing a thirst for knowledge that is transforming his +primitive intelligence into a mentality of great power and character. +Often I marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration springing from +the depths of a prison friendship. "I did not believe in friendship, +Aleck," Harry says, as we ply our brooms in the day's work, "but now I +feel that I wouldn't be here, if I had had then a real friend. It isn't +only that we suffer together, but you have made me feel that our minds +can rise above these rules and bars. You know, the screws have warned me +against you, and I was afraid of you. I don't know how to put it, Aleck, +but the first time we had that long talk last year, I felt as if +something walked right over from you to me. And since then I have had +something to live for. You know, I have seen so much of the priests, I +have no use for the church, and I don't believe in immortality. But the +idea I got from you clung to me, and it was so persistent, I really +think there is such a thing as immortality of an idea." + +For an instant the old look of helpless wonder is in his face, as if he +is at a loss to master the thought. He pauses in his work, his eyes +fastened on mine. "I got it, Aleck," he says, an eager smile lighting up +his pallid features. "You remember the story you told me about them +fellers--Oh,"--he quickly corrects himself--"when I get excited, I drop +into my former bad English. Well, you know the story you told me of the +prisoners in Siberia; how they escape sometimes, and the peasants, +though forbidden to house them, put food outside of their huts, so that +an escaped man may not starve to death. You remember, Aleck?" + +"Yes, Harry. I'm glad you haven't forgotten it." + +"Forgotten? Why, Aleck, a few weeks ago, sitting at my door, I saw a +sparrow hopping about in the hall. It looked cold and hungry. I threw a +piece of bread to it, but the Warden came by and made me pick it up, and +drive the bird away. Somehow I thought of the peasants in Siberia, and +how they share their food with escaped men. Why should the bird starve +as long as I have bread? Now every night I place a few pieces near the +door, and in the morning, just when it begins to dawn, and every one is +asleep, the bird steals up and gets her breakfast. It's the immortality +of an idea, Aleck." + + +II + +The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon Harry. The foul hot air +of the cell-house is aggravating his complaint, and now the physician +has pronounced him in an advanced stage of consumption. The disease is +ravaging the population. Hygienic rules are ignored, and no precautions +are taken against contagion. Harry's health is fast failing. He walks +with an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my gaze. "I +feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't believe it's the con. It's +just a bad cold." + +He clings tenaciously to the slender hope; but now and then the cunning +of suspicion tests my faith. Pretending to wash his hands, he asks: "Can +I use your towel, Aleck? Sure you're not afraid?" My apparent confidence +seems to allay his fears, and he visibly rallies with renewed hope. I +strive to lighten his work on the range, and his friend "Coz," who +attends the officers' table, shares with the sick boy the scraps of +fruit and cake left after their meals. The kind-hearted Italian, serving +a sentence of twenty years, spends his leisure weaving hair chains in +the dim light of the cell, and invests the proceeds in warm underwear +for his consumptive friend. "I don't need it myself, I'm too +hot-blooded, anyhow," he lightly waves aside Harry's objections. He +shudders as the hollow cough shakes the feeble frame, and anxiously +hovers over the boy, mothering him with unobtrusive tenderness. + + * * * * * + +At the first sign of spring, "Coz" conspires with me to procure for +Harry the privilege of the yard. The consumptives are deprived of air, +immured in the shop or block, and in the evening locked in the cells. In +view of my long service and the shortness of my remaining time, the +Inspectors have promised me fifteen minutes' exercise in the yard. I +have not touched the soil since the discovery of the tunnel, in July +1900, almost four years ago. But Harry is in greater need of fresh air, +and perhaps we shall be able to procure the privilege for him, instead. +His health would improve, and in the meantime we will bring his case +before the Pardon Board. It was an outrage to send him to the +penitentiary, "Coz" asserts vehemently. "Harry was barely fourteen then, +a mere child. Think of a judge who will give such a kid sixteen years! +Why, it means death. But what can you expect! Remember the little boy +who was sent here--it was somewhere around '97--he was just twelve years +old, and he didn't look more than ten. They brought him here in +knickerbockers, and the fellows had to bend over double to keep in +lockstep with him. He looked just like a baby in the line. The first +pair of long pants he ever put on was stripes, and he was so frightened, +he'd stand at the door and cry all the time. Well, they got ashamed of +themselves after a while, and sent him away to some reformatory, but he +spent about six months here then. Oh, what's the use talking," "Coz" +concludes hopelessly; "it's a rotten world all right. But may be we can +get Harry a pardon. Honest, Aleck, I feel as if he's my own child. We've +been friends since the day he came in, and he's a good boy, only he +never had a chance. Make a list, Aleck. I'll ask the Chaplain how much +I've got in the office. I think it's twenty-two or may be twenty-three +dollars. It's all for Harry." + + * * * * * + +The spring warms into summer before the dime and quarter donations total +the amount required by the attorney to carry Harry's case to the Pardon +Board. But the sick boy is missing from the range. For weeks his dry, +hacking cough resounded in the night, keeping the men awake, till at +last the doctor ordered him transferred to the hospital. His place on +the range has been taken by "Big Swede," a tall, sallow-faced man who +shuffles along the hall, moaning in pain. The passing guards mimic him, +and poke him jocularly in the ribs. "Hey, you! Get a move on, and quit +your shammin'." He starts in affright; pressing both hands against his +side, he shrinks at the officer's touch. "You fakir, we're next to +_you_, all right." An uncomprehending, sickly smile spreads over the +sere face, as he murmurs plaintively, "Yis, sir, me seek, very seek." + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII + +CHUM + + +I + +The able-bodied men have been withdrawn to the shops, and only the old +and decrepit remain in the cell-house. But even the light duties of +assistant prove too difficult for the Swede. The guards insist that he +is shamming. Every night he is placed in a strait-jacket, and gagged to +stifle his groans. I protest against the mistreatment, and am cited to +the office. The Deputy's desk is occupied by "Bighead," the officer of +the hosiery department, now promoted to the position of Second Assistant +Deputy. He greets me with a malicious grin. "I knew you wouldn't +behave," he chuckles; "know you too damn well from the stockin' shop." + +The gigantic Colonel, the new Deputy, loose-jointed and broad, strolls +in with long, swinging step. He glances over the report against me. "Is +that all?" he inquires of the guard, in cold, impassive voice. + +"Yes, sir." + +"Go back to your work, Berkman." + +But in the afternoon, Officer "Bighead" struts into the cell-house, in +charge of the barber gang. As I take my turn in the first chair, the +guard hastens toward me. "Get out of that chair," he commands. "It ain't +your turn. You take _that_ chair," pointing toward the second barber, a +former boilermaker, dreaded by the men as a "butcher." + +"It _is_ my turn in this chair," I reply, keeping my seat. + +"Dat so, Mr. Officer," the negro barber chimes in. + +"Shut up!" the officer bellows. "Will you get out of that chair?" He +advances toward me threateningly. + +"I won't," I retort, looking him squarely in the eye. + +Suppressed giggling passes along the waiting line. The keeper turns +purple, and strides toward the office to report me. + + +II + +"This is awful, Aleck. I'm so sorry you're locked up. You were in the +right, too," "Coz" whispers at my cell. "But never min', old boy," he +smiles reassuringly, "you can count on me, all right. And you've got +other friends. Here's a stiff some one sends you. He wants an answer +right away. I'll call for it." + +The note mystifies me. The large, bold writing is unfamiliar; I cannot +identify the signature, "Jim M." The contents are puzzling. His +sympathies are with me, the writer says. He has learned all the details +of the trouble, and feels that I acted in the defence of my rights. It +is an outrage to lock me up for resenting undeserved humiliation at the +hands of an unfriendly guard; and he cannot bear to see me thus +persecuted. My time is short, and the present trouble, if not corrected, +may cause the loss of my commutation. He will immediately appeal to the +Warden to do me justice; but he should like to hear from me before +taking action. + +I wonder at the identity of the writer. Evidently not a prisoner; +intercession with the Warden would be out of the question. Yet I cannot +account for any officer who would take this attitude, or employ such +means of communicating with me. + +Presently "Coz" saunters past the cell. "Got your answer ready?" he +whispers. + +"Who gave you the note, Coz?" + +"I don't know if I should tell you." + +"Of course you must tell me. I won't answer this note unless I know to +whom I am writing." + +"Well, Aleck," he hesitates, "he didn't say if I may tell you." + +"Then better go and ask him first." + + * * * * * + +Considerable time elapses before "Coz" returns. From the delay I judge +that the man is in a distant part of the institution, or not easily +accessible. At last the kindly face of the Italian appears at the cell. + +"It's all right, Aleck," he says. + +"Who is he?" I ask impatiently. + +"I'll bet you'll never guess." + +"Tell me, then." + +"Well, I'll tell you. He is not a screw." + +"Can't be a prisoner?" + +"No." + +"Who, then?" + +"He is a fine fellow, Aleck." + +"Come now, tell me." + +"He is a citizen. The foreman of the new shop." + +"The weaving department?" + +"That's the man. Here's another stiff from him. Answer at once." + + +III + + DEAR MR. J. M.: + + I hardly know how to write to you. It is the most remarkable + thing that has happened to me in all the years of my + confinement. To think that you, a perfect stranger--and not a + prisoner, at that--should offer to intercede in my behalf + because you feel that an injustice has been done! It is almost + incredible, but "Coz" has informed me that you are determined to + see the Warden in this matter. I assure you I appreciate your + sense of justice more than I can express it. But I most urgently + request you not to carry out your plan. With the best of + intentions, your intercession will prove disastrous, to yourself + as well as to me. A shop foreman, you are not supposed to know + what is happening in the block. The Warden is a martinet, and + extremely vain of his authority. He will resent your + interference. I don't know who you are, but your indignation at + what you believe an injustice characterizes you as a man of + principle, and you are evidently inclined to be friendly toward + me. I should be very unhappy to be the cause of your discharge. + You need your job, or you would not be here. I am very, very + thankful to you, but I urge you most earnestly to drop the + matter. I must fight my own battles. Moreover, the situation is + not very serious, and I shall come out all right. + + With much appreciation, + + A. B. + + + DEAR MR. M.: + + I feel much relieved by your promise to accede to my request. It + is best so. You need not worry about me. I expect to receive a + hearing before the Deputy, and he seems a decent chap. You will + pardon me when I confess that I smiled at your question whether + your correspondence is welcome. Your notes are a ray of sunshine + in the darkness, and I am intensely interested in the + personality of a man whose sense of justice transcends + considerations of personal interest. You know, no great heroism + is required to demand justice for oneself, in the furtherance of + our own advantage. But where the other fellow is concerned, + especially a stranger, it becomes a question of "abstract" + justice--and but few people possess the manhood to jeopardize + their reputation or comfort for that. + + Since our correspondence began, I have had occasion to speak to + some of the men in your charge. I want to thank you in their + name for your considerate and humane treatment of them. + + "Coz" is at the door, and I must hurry. Trust no one with notes, + except him. We have been friends for years, and he can tell you + all you wish to know about my life here. + + Cordially, + + B. + + + MY DEAR M.: + + There is no need whatever for your anxiety regarding the effects + of the solitary upon me. I do not think they will keep me in + long; at any rate, remember that I do not wish you to intercede. + + You will be pleased to know that my friend Harry shows signs of + improvement, thanks to your generosity. "Coz" has managed to + deliver to him the tid-bits and wine you sent. You know the + story of the boy. He has never known the love of a mother, nor + the care of a father. A typical child of the disinherited, he + was thrown, almost in infancy, upon the tender mercies of the + world. At the age of ten the law declared him a criminal. He has + never since seen a day of liberty. At twenty he is dying of + prison consumption. Was the Spanish Inquisition ever guilty of + such organized child murder? With desperate will-power he + clutches at life, in the hope of a pardon. He is firmly + convinced that fresh air would cure him, but the new rules + confine him to the hospital. His friends here have collected a + fund to bring his case before the Pardon Board; it is to be + heard next month. That devoted soul, "Coz," has induced the + doctor to issue a certificate of Harry's critical condition, and + he may be released soon. I have grown very fond of the boy so + much sinned against. I have watched his heart and mind blossom + in the sunshine of a little kindness, and now--I hope that at + least his last wish will be gratified: just once to walk on the + street, and not hear the harsh command of the guard. He begs me + to express to his unknown friend his deepest gratitude. + + B. + + + DEAR M.: + + The Deputy has just released me. I am happy with a double + happiness, for I know how pleased you will be at the good turn + of affairs. It is probably due to the fact that my neighbor, the + Big Swede--you've heard about him--was found dead in the + strait-jacket this morning. The doctor and officers all along + pretended that he was shamming. It was a most cruel murder; by + the Warden's order the sick Swede was kept gagged and bound + every night. I understand that the Deputy opposed such brutal + methods, and now it is rumored that he intends to resign. But I + hope he will remain. There is something big and broad-minded + about the gigantic Colonel. He tries to be fair, and he has + saved many a prisoner from the cruelty of the Major. The latter + is continually inventing new modes of punishment; it is + characteristic that his methods involve curtailment of rations, + and consequent saving, which is not accounted for on the books. + He has recently cut the milk allowance of the hospital patients, + notwithstanding the protests of the doctor. He has also + introduced severe punishment for talking. You know, when you + have not uttered a word for days and weeks, you are often seized + with an uncontrollable desire to give vent to your feelings. + These infractions of the rules are now punished by depriving you + of tobacco and of your Sunday dinner. Every Sunday from 30 to 50 + men are locked up on the top range, to remain without food all + day. The system is called "Killicure" (kill or cure) and it + involves considerable graft, for I know numbers of men who have + not received tobacco or a Sunday dinner for months. + + Warden Wm. Johnston seems innately cruel. Recently he introduced + the "blind" cell,--door covered with solid sheet iron. It is + much worse than the basket cell, for it virtually admits no air, + and men are kept in it from 30 to 60 days. Prisoner Varnell was + locked up in such a cell 79 days, becoming paralyzed. But even + worse than these punishments is the more refined brutality of + torturing the boys with the uncertainty of release and the + increasing deprivation of good time. This system is developing + insanity to an alarming extent. + + Amid all this heartlessness and cruelty, the Chaplain is a + refreshing oasis of humanity. I noticed in one of your letters + the expression, "because of economic necessity," and--I + wondered. To be sure, the effects of economic causes are not to + be underestimated. But the extremists of the materialistic + conception discount character, and thus help to vitiate it. The + factor of personality is too often ignored by them. Take the + Chaplain, for instance. In spite of the surrounding swamp of + cupidity and brutality, notwithstanding all disappointment and + ingratitude, he is to-day, after 30 years of incumbency, as full + of faith in human nature and as sympathetic and helpful, as + years ago. He has had to contend against the various + administrations, and he is a poor man; necessity has not stifled + his innate kindness. + + And this is why I wondered. "Economic necessity"--has Socialism + pierced the prison walls? + + B. + + + DEAR, DEAR COMRADE: + + Can you realize how your words, "I am socialistically inclined," + warmed my heart? I wish I could express to you all the intensity + of what I feel, my dear _friend_ and _comrade_. To have so + unexpectedly found both in you, unutterably lightens this + miserable existence. What matter that you do not entirely share + my views,--we are comrades in the common cause of human + emancipation. It was indeed well worth while getting in trouble + to have found you, dear friend. Surely I have good cause to be + content, even happy. Your friendship is a source of great + strength, and I feel equal to struggling through the ten months, + encouraged and inspired by your comradeship and devotion. Every + evening I cross the date off my calendar, joyous with the + thought that I am a day nearer to the precious moment when I + shall turn my back upon these walls, to join my friends in the + great work, and to meet you, dear Chum, face to face, to grip + your hand and salute you, my friend and comrade! + + Most fraternally, + + Alex. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII + +LAST DAYS + + + On the Homestretch, + _Sub Rosa_, April 15, 1905. + + MY DEAR GIRL: + + The last spring is here, and a song is in my heart. Only three + more months, and I shall have settled accounts with Father Penn. + There is the year in the workhouse, of course, and that prison, + I am told, is even a worse hell than this one. But I feel strong + with the suffering that is past, and perhaps even more so with + the wonderful jewel I have found. The man I mentioned in former + letters has proved a most beautiful soul and sincere friend. In + every possible way he has been trying to make my existence more + endurable. With what little he may, he says, he wants to make + amends for the injustice and brutality of society. He is a + Socialist, with a broad outlook upon life. Our lengthy + discussions (per notes) afford me many moments of pleasure and + joy. + + It is chiefly to his exertions that I shall owe my commutation + time. The sentiment of the Inspectors was not favorable. I + believe it was intended to deprive me of two years' good time. + Think what it would mean to us! But my friend--my dear Chum, as + I affectionately call him--has quietly but persistently been at + work, with the result that the Inspectors have "seen the light." + It is now definite that I shall be released in July. The date is + still uncertain. I can barely realize that I am soon to leave + this place. The anxiety and restlessness of the last month would + be almost unbearable, but for the soothing presence of my + devoted friend. I hope some day you will meet him,--perhaps even + soon, for he is not of the quality that can long remain a + helpless witness of the torture of men. He wants to work in the + broader field, where he may join hands with those who strive to + reconstruct the conditions that are bulwarked with prison bars. + + But while necessity forces him to remain here, his character is + in evidence. He devotes his time and means to lightening the + burden of the prisoners. His generous interest kept my sick + friend Harry alive, in the hope of a pardon. You will be + saddened to hear that the Board refused to release him, on the + ground that he was not "sufficiently ill." The poor boy, who had + never been out of sight of a guard since he was a child of ten, + died a week after the pardon was refused. + + But though my Chum could not give freedom to Harry, he was + instrumental in saving another young life from the hands of the + hangman. It was the case of young Paul, typical of prison as the + nursery of crime. The youth was forced to work alongside of a + man who persecuted and abused him because he resented improper + advances. Repeatedly Paul begged the Warden to transfer him to + another department; but his appeals were ignored. The two + prisoners worked in the bakery. Early one morning, left alone, + the man attempted to violate the boy. In the struggle that + followed the former was killed. The prison management was + determined to hang the lad, "in the interests of discipline." + The officers openly avowed they would "fix his clock." + Permission for a collection, to engage an attorney for Paul, was + refused. Prisoners who spoke in his behalf were severely + punished; the boy was completely isolated preparatory to his + trial. He stood absolutely helpless, alone. But the dear Chum + came to the rescue of Paul. The work had to be done secretly, + and it was a most difficult task to secure witnesses for the + defence among the prisoners terrorized by the guards. But Chum + threw himself into the work with heart and soul. Day and night + he labored to give the boy a chance for his life. He almost + broke down before the ordeal was over. But the boy was saved; + the jury acquitted him on the ground of self-defence. + + * * * * * + + The proximity of release, if only to change cells, is + nerve-racking in the extreme. But even the mere change will be a + relief. Meanwhile my faithful friend does everything in his + power to help me bear the strain. Besides ministering to my + physical comforts, he generously supplies me with books and + publications. It helps to while away the leaden-heeled days, and + keeps me abreast of the world's work. The Chum is enthusiastic + over the growing strength of Socialism, and we often discuss the + subject with much vigor. It appears to me, however, that the + Socialist anxiety for success is by degrees perverting essential + principles. It is with much sorrow I have learned that political + activity, formerly viewed merely as a means of spreading + Socialist ideas, has gradually become an end in itself. + Straining for political power weakens the fibres of character + and ideals. Daily contact with authority has strengthened my + conviction that control of the governmental power is an illusory + remedy for social evils. Inevitable consequences of false + conceptions are not to be legislated out of existence. It is not + merely the conditions, but the fundamental ideas of present + civilization, that are to be transvalued, to give place to new + social and individual relations. The emancipation of labor is + the necessary first step along the road of a regenerated + humanity; but even that can be accomplished only through the + awakened consciousness of the toilers, acting on their own + initiative and strength. + + On these and other points Chum differs with me, but his intense + friendship knows no intellectual distinctions. He is to visit + you during his August vacation. I know you will make him feel my + gratitude, for I can never repay his boundless devotion. + + Sasha. + + + DEAREST CHUM: + + It seemed as if all aspiration and hope suddenly went out of my + life when you disappeared so mysteriously. I was tormented by + the fear of some disaster. Your return has filled me with joy, + and I am happy to know that you heard and responded + unhesitatingly to the call of a sacred cause. + + I greatly envy your activity in the P. circle. The revolution in + Russia has stirred me to the very depths. The giant is + awakening, the mute giant that has suffered so patiently, + voicing his misery and agony only in the anguish-laden song and + on the pages of his Gorkys. + + Dear friend, you remember our discussion regarding Plehve. I may + have been in error when I expressed the view that the execution + of the monster, encouraging sign of individual revolutionary + activity as it was, could not be regarded as a manifestation of + social awakening. But the present uprising undoubtedly points to + widespread rebellion permeating Russian life. Yet it would + probably be too optimistic to hope for a very radical change. I + have been absent from my native land for many years; but in my + youth I was close to the life and thought of the peasant. Large, + heavy bodies move slowly. The proletariat of the cities has + surely become impregnated with revolutionary ideas, but the + vital element of Russia is the agrarian population. I fear, + moreover, that the dominant reaction is still very strong, + though it has no doubt been somewhat weakened by the discontent + manifesting in the army and, especially, in the navy. With all + my heart I hope that the revolution will be successful. Perhaps + a constitution is the most we can expect. But whatever the + result, the bare fact of a revolution in long-suffering Russia + is a tremendous inspiration. I should be the happiest of men to + join in the glorious struggle. + + Long live the Revolution! + + A. + + + DEAR CHUM: + + Thanks for your kind offer. But I am absolutely opposed to + having any steps taken to eliminate the workhouse sentence. I + have served these many years and I shall survive one more, I + will ask no favors of the enemy. They will even twist their own + law to deprive me of the five months' good time, to which I am + entitled on the last year. I understand that I shall be allowed + only two months off, on the preposterous ground that the + workhouse term constitutes the first year of a _new_ sentence! + But I do not wish you to trouble about the matter. You have more + important work to do. Give all your energies to the good cause. + Prepare the field for the mission of Tchaikovsky and Babushka, + and I shall be with you in spirit when you embrace our brave + comrades of the Russian Revolution, whose dear names were a + hallowed treasure of my youth. + + May success reward the efforts of our brothers in Russia. + + A. + + + CHUM: + + Just got word from the Deputy that my papers are signed. I + didn't wish to cause you anxiety, but I was apprehensive of some + hitch. But it's positive and settled now,--I go out on the 19th. + Just one more week! This is the happiest day in thirteen years. + Shake, Comrade. + + A. + + + DEAREST CHUM: + + My hand trembles as I write this last good-bye. I'll be gone in + an hour. My heart is too full for words. Please send enclosed + notes to my friends, and embrace them all as I embrace you now. + I shall live in the hope of meeting you all next year. Good-bye, + dear, devoted friend. + + With my whole heart, + + Your Comrade and Chum. + + + July 19, 1905. + + DEAREST GIRL: + + It's Wednesday morning, the 19th, at last! + + Geh stiller meines Herzens Schlag + Und schliesst euch alle meine alten Wunden, + Denn dieses ist mein letzter Tag + Und dies sind seine letzten Stunden. + + My last thoughts within these walls are of you, my dear, dear + Sonya, the Immutable! + + Sasha. + + + + +PART III + +THE WORKHOUSE + + + + +THE WORKHOUSE + + +I + +The gates of the penitentiary open to leave me out, and I pause +involuntarily at the fascinating sight. It is a street: a line of houses +stretches before me; a woman, young and wonderfully sweet-faced, is +passing on the opposite side. My eyes follow her graceful lines, as she +turns the corner. Men stand about. They wear citizen clothes, and scan +me with curious, insistent gaze.... The handcuff grows taut on my wrist, +and I follow the sheriff into the waiting carriage. A little child runs +by. I lean out of the window to look at the rosy-cheeked, strangely +youthful face. But the guard impatiently lowers the blind, and we sit in +gloomy silence. + + * * * * * + +The spell of the civilian garb is upon me. It gives an exhilarating +sense of manhood. Again and again I glance at my clothes, and verify the +numerous pockets to reassure myself of the reality of the situation. I +am free, past the dismal gray walls! Free? Yet even now captive of the +law. The law!... + + * * * * * + +The engine puffs and shrieks, and my mind speeds back to another +journey. It was thirteen years and one week ago this day. On the wings +of an all-absorbing love I hastened to join the struggle of the +oppressed people. I left home and friends, sacrificed liberty, and +risked life. But human justice is blind: it will not see the soul on +fire. Only the shot was heard, by the Law that is deaf to the agony of +Toil. "Vengeance is mine," it saith. To the uttermost drop it will shed +the blood to exact its full pound of flesh. Twelve years and ten months! +And still another year. What horrors await me at the new prison? Poor, +faithful "Horsethief" will nevermore smile his greeting: he did not +survive six months in the terrible workhouse. But my spirit is strong; I +shall not be daunted. This garb is the visible, tangible token of +resurrection. The devotion of staunch friends will solace and cheer me. +The call of the great Cause will give strength to live, to struggle, to +conquer. + + +II + +Humiliation overwhelms me as I don the loathed suit of striped black and +gray. The insolent look of the guard rouses my bitter resentment, as he +closely scrutinizes my naked body. But presently, the examination over, +a sense of gratification steals over me at the assertiveness of my +self-respect. + + * * * * * + +The ordeal of the day's routine is full of inexpressible anguish. +Accustomed to prison conditions, I yet find existence in the workhouse a +nightmare of cruelty, infinitely worse than the most inhuman aspects of +the penitentiary. The guards are surly and brutal; the food foul and +inadequate; punishment for the slightest offence instantaneous and +ruthless. The cells are even smaller than in the penitentiary, and +contain neither chair nor table. They are unspeakably ill-smelling with +the privy buckets, for the purposes of which no scrap of waste paper is +allowed. The sole ablutions of the day are performed in the morning, +when the men form in the hall and march past the spigot of running +water, snatching a handful in the constantly moving line. Absolute +silence prevails in cell-house and shop. The slightest motion of the +lips is punished with the blackjack or the dungeon, referred to with +caustic satire as the "White House." + +The perverse logic of the law that visits the utmost limit of barbarity +upon men admittedly guilty of minor transgressions! Throughout the +breadth of the land the workhouses are notoriously more atrocious in +every respect than the penitentiaries and State prisons, in which are +confined men convicted of felonies. The Allegheny County Workhouse of +the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania enjoys infamous distinction as +the blackest of hells where men expiate the sins of society. + + * * * * * + +At work in the broom shop, I find myself in peculiarly familiar +surroundings. The cupidity of the management has evolved methods even +more inhuman than those obtaining in the State prison. The tasks imposed +upon the men necessitate feverish exertion. Insufficient product or +deficient work is not palliated by physical inability or illness. In the +conduct of the various industries, every artifice prevalent in the +penitentiary is practised to evade the law limiting convict competition. +The number of men employed in productive work by far exceeds the legally +permitted percentage; the provisions for the protection of free labor +are skilfully circumvented; the tags attached to the shop products are +designed to be obliterated as soon as the wares have left the prison; +the words "convict-made" stamped on the broom-handles are pasted over +with labels giving no indication of the place of manufacture. The +anti-convict-labor law, symbolic of the political achievements of labor, +is frustrated at every point, its element of protection a "lame and +impotent conclusion." + +How significant the travesty of the law in its holy of holies! Here +legal justice immures its victims; here are buried the disinherited, +whose rags and tatters annoy respectability; here offenders are punished +for breaking the law. And here the Law is daily and hourly violated by +its pious high priests. + + +III + +The immediate is straining at the leash that holds memory in the +environment of the penitentiary, yet the veins of the terminated +existence still palpitate with the recollection of friends and common +suffering. The messages from Riverside are wet with tears of misery, but +Johnny, the young Magyar, strikes a note of cheer: his sentence is about +to expire; he will devote himself to the support of the little children +he had so unwittingly robbed of a father. Meanwhile he bids me courage +and hope, enclosing two dollars from the proceeds of his fancy work, "to +help along." He was much grieved, he writes, at his inability to bid me +a last farewell, because the Warden refused the request, signed by two +hundred prisoners, that I be allowed to pass along the tiers to say +good-bye. But soon, soon we shall see each other in freedom. + +Words of friendship glow brightly in the darkness of the present, and +charm my visions of the near future. Coming liberty casts warming rays, +and I dwell in the atmosphere of my comrades. The Girl and the Chum are +aglow with the fires of Young Russia. Busily my mind shapes pictures of +the great struggle that transplant me to the days of my youth. In the +little tenement flat in New York we had sketched with bold stroke the +fortunes of the world--the Girl, the Twin, and I. In the dark, cage-like +kitchen, amid the smoke of the asthmatic stove, we had planned our +conspirative work in Russia. But the need of the hour had willed it +otherwise. Homestead had sounded the prelude of awakening, and my heart +had echoed the inspiring strains. + + * * * * * + +The banked fires of aspiration burst into life. What matter the +immediate outcome of the revolution in Russia? The yearning of my youth +wells up with spontaneous power. To live is to struggle! To struggle +against Caesar, side by side with the people: to suffer with them, and +to die, if need be. That is life. It will sadden me to part with Chum +even before I had looked deeply into the devoted face. But the Girl is +aflame with the spirit of Russia: it will be joyous work in common. The +soil of Monongahela, laden with years of anguish, has grown dear to me. +Like the moan of a broken chord wails the thought of departure. But no +ties of affection will strain at my heartstrings. Yet--the sweet face of +a little girl breaks in on my reverie, a look of reproaching sadness in +the large, wistful eyes. It is little Stella. The last years of my +penitentiary life have snatched many a grace from her charming +correspondence. Often I have sought consolation in the beautiful +likeness of her soulful face. With mute tenderness she had shared my +grief at the loss of Harry, her lips breathing sweet balm. Gray days had +warmed at her smile, and I lavished upon her all the affection with +which I was surcharged. It will be a violent stifling of her voice in my +heart, but the call of the _muzhik_ rings clear, compelling. Yet who +knows? The revolution may be over before my resurrection. In republican +Russia, with her enlightened social protestantism, life would be fuller, +richer than in this pitifully _bourgeois_ democracy. Freedom will +present the unaccustomed problem of self-support, but it is premature to +form definite plans. Long imprisonment has probably incapacitated me +for hard work, but I shall find means to earn my simple needs when I +have cast off the fetters of my involuntary parasitism. + +The thought of affection, the love of woman, thrills me with ecstasy, +and colors my existence with emotions of strange bliss. But the solitary +hours are filled with recurring dread lest my life forever remain bare +of woman's love. Often the fear possesses me with the intensity of +despair, as my mind increasingly dwells on the opposite sex. Thoughts of +woman eclipse the memory of the prison affections, and the darkness of +the present is threaded with the silver needle of love-hopes. + + +IV + +The monotony of the routine, the degradation and humiliation weigh +heavier in the shadow of liberty. My strength is failing with the hard +task in the shop, but the hope of receiving my full commutation sustains +me. The law allows five months' "good time" on every year beginning with +the ninth year of a sentence. But the Superintendent has intimated to me +that I may be granted the benefit of only two months, as a "new" +prisoner, serving the first year of a workhouse sentence. The Board of +Directors will undoubtedly take that view, he often taunts me. +Exasperation at his treatment, coupled with my protest against the abuse +of a fellow prisoner, have caused me to be ordered into the solitary. +Dear Chum is insistent on legal steps to secure my full commutation; +notwithstanding my unconditional refusal to resort to the courts, he has +initiated a _sub rosa_ campaign to achieve his object. The time drags in +torturing uncertainty. With each day the solitary grows more stifling, +maddening, till my brain reels with terror of the graveyard silence. +Like glad music sounds the stern command, "Exercise!" + +In step we circle the yard, the clanking of Charley's chain mournfully +beating time. He had made an unsuccessful attempt to escape, for which +he is punished with the ball and chain. The iron cuts into his ankle, +and he trudges painfully under the heavy weight. Near me staggers Billy, +his left side completely paralyzed since he was released from the "White +House." All about me are cripples. I am in the midst of the social +refuse: the lame and the halt, the broken in body and spirit, past work, +past even crime. These were the blessed of the Nazarene; these a +Christian world breaks on the wheel. They, too, are within the scope of +my mission, they above all others--these the living indictments of a +leprous system, the excommunicated of God and man. + + * * * * * + +The threshold of liberty is thickly sown with misery and torment. The +days are unbearable with nervous restlessness, the nights hideous with +the hours of agonizing stillness,--the endless, endless hours. +Feverishly I pace the cell. The day will pass, it _must_ pass. With +reverent emotion I bless the shamed sun as he dips beyond the western +sky. One day nearer to the liberty that awaits me, with unrestricted +sunshine and air and life beyond the hated walls of gray, out in the +daylight, in the open. The open world!... The scent of fresh-mown hay is +in my nostrils; green fields and forests stretch before me; sweetly +ripples the mountain spring. Up to the mountain crest, to the breezes +and the sunshine, where the storm breaks in its wild fury upon my +uncovered head. Welcome the rain and the wind that sweep the foul prison +dust off my heart, and blow life and strength into my being! +Tremblingly rapturous is the thought of freedom. Out in the woods, away +from the stench of the cannibal world I shall wander, nor lift my foot +from soil or sod. Close to the breath of Nature I will press my parched +lips, on her bosom I will pass my days, drinking sustenance and strength +from the universal mother. And there, in liberty and independence, in +the vision of the mountain peaks, I shall voice the cry of the social +orphans, of the buried and the disinherited, and visualize to the living +the yearning, menacing Face of Pain. + + + + +PART IV + +THE RESURRECTION + + + + +THE RESURRECTION + + +I + +All night I toss sleeplessly on the cot, and pace the cell in nervous +agitation, waiting for the dawn. With restless joy I watch the darkness +melt, as the first rays herald the coming of the day. It is the 18th of +May--my last day, my very last! A few more hours, and I shall walk +through the gates, and drink in the warm sunshine and the balmy air, and +be free to go and come as I please, after the nightmare of thirteen +years and ten months in jail, penitentiary, and workhouse. + +My step quickens with the excitement of the outside, and I try to while +away the heavy hours thinking of freedom and of friends. But my brain is +in a turmoil; I cannot concentrate my thoughts. Visions of the near +future, images of the past, flash before me, and crowd each other in +bewildering confusion. + + * * * * * + +Again and again my mind reverts to the unnecessary cruelty that has +kept me in prison three months over and above my time. It was sheer +sophistry to consider me a "new" prisoner, entitled only to two months' +commutation. As a matter of fact, I was serving the last year of a +twenty-two-year sentence, and therefore I should have received five +months time off. The Superintendent had repeatedly promised to inform me +of the decision of the Board of Directors, and every day, for weeks and +months, I anxiously waited for word from them. None ever came, and I +had to serve the full ten months. + +Ah, well, it is almost over now! I have passed my last night in the +cell, and the morning is here, the precious, blessed morning! + + * * * * * + +How slowly the minutes creep! I listen intently, and catch the sound of +bars being unlocked on the bottom range: it is the Night Captain turning +the kitchen men out to prepare breakfast--5 A. M.! Two and a half hours +yet before I shall be called; two endless hours, and then another thirty +long minutes. Will they ever pass?... And again I pace the cell. + + +II + +The gong rings the rising hour. In great agitation I gather up my +blankets, tincup and spoon, which must be delivered at the office before +I am discharged. My heart beats turbulently, as I stand at the door, +waiting to be called. But the guard unlocks the range and orders me to +"fall in for breakfast." + +The striped line winds down the stairs, past the lynx-eyed Deputy +standing in the middle of the hallway, and slowly circles through the +centre, where each man receives his portion of bread for the day and +returns to his tier. The turnkey, on his rounds of the range, casts a +glance into my cell. "Not workin'," he says mechanically, shutting the +door in my face. + +"I'm going out," I protest. + +"Not till you're called," he retorts, locking me in. + + * * * * * + +I stand at the door, tense with suspense. I strain my ear for the +approach of a guard to call me to the office, but all remains quiet. A +vague fear steals over me: perhaps they will not release me to-day; I +may be losing time.... A feeling of nausea overcomes me, but by a strong +effort I throw off the dreadful fancy, and quicken my step. I must not +think--not think.... + + * * * * * + +At last! The lever is pulled, my cell unlocked, and with a dozen other +men I am marched to the clothes-room, in single file and lockstep. I +await my turn impatiently, as several men are undressed and their naked +bodies scrutinized for contraband or hidden messages. The overseer +flings a small bag at each man, containing the prisoner's civilian garb, +shouting boisterously: "Hey, you! Take off them clothes, and put your +rags on." + +I dress hurriedly. A guard accompanies me to the office, where my +belongings are returned to me: some money friends had sent, my watch, +and the piece of ivory the penitentiary turnkey had stolen from me, and +which I had insisted on getting back before I left Riverside. The +officer in charge hands me a railroad ticket to Pittsburgh (the fare +costing about thirty cents), and I am conducted to the prison gate. + + +III + +The sun shines brightly in the yard, the sky is clear, the air fresh and +bracing. Now the last gate will be thrown open, and I shall be out of +sight of the guard, beyond the bars,--alone! How I have hungered for +this hour, how often in the past years have I dreamed of this rapturous +moment--to be alone, out in the open, away from the insolent eyes of my +keepers! I'll rush away from these walls and kneel on the warm sod, and +kiss the soil and embrace the trees, and with a song of joy give thanks +to Nature for the blessings of sunshine and air. + +The outer door opens before me, and I am confronted by reporters with +cameras. Several tall men approach me. One of them touches me on the +shoulder, turns back the lapel of his coat, revealing a police officer's +star, and says: + +"Berkman, you are to leave the city before night, by order of the +Chief." + + * * * * * + +The detectives and reporters trailing me to the nearby railway station +attract a curious crowd. I hasten into a car to escape their insistent +gaze, feeling glad that I have prevailed upon my friends not to meet me +at the prison. + +My mind is busy with plans to outwit the detectives, who have entered +the same compartment. I have arranged to join the Girl in Detroit. I +have no particular reason to mask my movements, but I resent the +surveillance. I must get rid of the spies, somehow; I don't want their +hateful eyes to desecrate my meeting with the Girl. + + * * * * * + +I feel dazed. The short ride to Pittsburgh is over before I can collect +my thoughts. The din and noise rend my ears; the rushing cars, the +clanging bells, bewilder me. I am afraid to cross the street; the flying +monsters pursue me on every side. The crowds jostle me on the sidewalk, +and I am constantly running into the passers-by. The turmoil, the +ceaseless movement, disconcerts me. A horseless carriage whizzes close +by me; I turn to look at the first automobile I have ever seen, but the +living current sweeps me helplessly along. A woman passes me, with a +child in her arms. The baby looks strangely diminutive, a rosy dimple in +the laughing face. I smile back at the little cherub, and my eyes meet +the gaze of the detectives. A wild thought to escape, to get away from +them, possesses me, and I turn quickly into a side street, and walk +blindly, faster and faster. A sudden impulse seizes me at the sight of +a passing car, and I dash after it. + + * * * * * + +"Fare, please!" the conductor sings out, and I almost laugh out aloud at +the fleeting sense of the material reality of freedom. Conscious of the +strangeness of my action, I produce a dollar bill, and a sense of +exhilarating independence comes over me, as the man counts out the +silver coins. I watch him closely for a sign of recognition. Does he +realize that I am just out of prison? He turns away, and I feel thankful +to the dear Chum for having so thoughtfully provided me with a new suit +of clothes. It is peculiar, however, that the conductor has failed to +notice my closely cropped hair. But the man in the seat opposite seems +to be watching me. Perhaps he has recognized me by my picture in the +newspapers; or may be it is my straw hat that has attracted his +attention. I glance about me. No one wears summer headgear yet; it must +be too early in the season. I ought to change it: the detectives could +not follow me so easily then. Why, there they are on the back platform! + +At the next stop I jump off the car. A hat sign arrests my eye, and I +walk into the store, and then slip quietly through a side entrance, a +dark derby on my head. I walk quickly, for a long, long time, board +several cars, and then walk again, till I find myself on a deserted +street. No one is following me now; the detectives must have lost track +of me. I feel worn and tired. Where could I rest up, I wonder, when I +suddenly recollect that I was to go directly from the prison to the +drugstore of Comrade M----. My friends must be worried, and M---- is +waiting to wire to the Girl about my release. + + * * * * * + +It is long past noon when I enter the drugstore. M---- seems highly +wrought up over something; he shakes my hand violently, and plies me +with questions, as he leads me into his apartments in the rear of the +store. It seems strange to be in a regular room: there is paper on the +walls, and it feels so peculiar to the touch, so different from the +whitewashed cell. I pass my hand over it caressingly, with a keen sense +of pleasure. The chairs, too, look strange, and those quaint things on +the table. The bric-a-brac absorbs my attention--the people in the room +look hazy, their voices sound distant and confused. + +"Why don't you sit down, Aleck?" the tones are musical and tender; a +woman's, no doubt. + +"Yes," I reply, walking around the table, and picking up a bright toy. +It represents Undine, rising from the water, the spray glistening in the +sun.... + +"Are you tired, Aleck?" + +"N--no." + +"You have just come out?" + +"Yes." + +It requires an effort to talk. The last year, in the workhouse, I have +barely spoken a dozen words; there was always absolute silence. The +voices disturb me. The presence of so many people--there are three or +four about me--is oppressive. The room reminds me of the cell, and the +desire seizes me to rush out into the open, to breathe the air and see +the sky. + +"I'm going," I say, snatching up my hat. + + +IV + +The train speeds me to Detroit, and I wonder vaguely how I reached the +station. My brain is numb; I cannot think. Field and forest flit by in +the gathering dusk, but the surroundings wake no interest in me. "I am +rid of the detectives"--the thought persists in my mind, and I feel +something relax within me, and leave me cold, without emotion or desire. + + * * * * * + +With an effort I descend to the platform, and sway from side to side, as +I cross the station at Detroit. A man and a girl hasten toward me, and +grasp me by the hand. I recognize Carl. The dear boy, he was a most +faithful and cheering correspondent all these years since he left the +penitentiary. But who is the girl with him, I wonder, when my gaze falls +on a woman leaning against a pillar. She looks intently at me. The wave +of her hair, the familiar eyes--why, it's the Girl! How little she has +changed! I take a few steps forward, somewhat surprised that she did not +rush up to me like the others. I feel pleased at her self-possession: +the excited voices, the quick motions, disturb me. I walk slowly toward +her, but she does not move. She seems rooted to the spot, her hand +grasping the pillar, a look of awe and terror in her face. Suddenly she +throws her arms around me. Her lips move, but no sound reaches my ear. + +We walk in silence. The Girl presses a bouquet into my hand. My heart is +full, but I cannot talk. I hold the flowers to my face, and mechanically +bite the petals. + + +V + +Detroit, Chicago, and Milwaukee pass before me like a troubled dream. I +have a faint recollection of a sea of faces, restless and turbulent, and +I in its midst. Confused voices beat like hammers on my head, and then +all is very still. I stand in full view of the audience. Eyes are turned +on me from every side, and I grow embarrassed. The crowd looks dim and +hazy; I feel hot and cold, and a great longing to flee. The +perspiration is running down my back; my knees tremble violently, the +floor is slipping from under my feet--there is a tumult of hand +clapping, loud cheers and bravos. + +We return to Carl's house, and men and women grasp my hand and look at +me with eyes of curious awe. I fancy a touch of pity in their tones, and +am impatient of their sympathy. A sense of suffocation possesses me +within doors, and I dread the presence of people. It is torture to talk; +the sound of voices agonizes me. I watch for an opportunity to steal out +of the house. It soothes me to lose myself among the crowds, and a sense +of quiet pervades me at the thought that I am a stranger to every one +about me. I roam the city at night, and seek the outlying country, +conscious only of a desire to be alone. + + +VI + +I am in the Waldheim, the Girl at my side. All is quiet in the cemetery, +and I feel a great peace. No emotion stirs me at the sight of the +monument, save a feeling of quiet sadness. It represents a woman, with +one hand placing a wreath on the fallen, with the other grasping a +sword. The marble features mirror unutterable grief and proud defiance. + +I glance at the Girl. Her face is averted, but the droop of her head +speaks of suffering. I hold out my hand to her, and we stand in mute +sorrow at the graves of our martyred comrades.... I have a vision of +Stenka Razin, as I had seen him pictured in my youth, and at his side +hang the bodies of the men buried beneath my feet. Why are they dead? I +wonder. Why should I live? And a great desire to lie down with them is +upon me. I clutch the iron post, to keep from falling. + + * * * * * + +Steps sound behind me, and I turn to see a girl hastening toward us. She +is radiant with young womanhood; her presence breathes life and the joy +of it. Her bosom heaves with panting; her face struggles with a solemn +look. + +"I ran all the way," her voice is soft and low; "I was afraid I might +miss you." + +The Girl smiles. "Let us go in somewhere to rest up, Alice." Turning to +me, she adds, "She ran to see--you." + +How peculiar the Girl should conceive such an idea! It is absurd. Why +should Alice be anxious to see me? I look old and worn; my step is +languid, unsteady.... Bitter thoughts fill my mind, as we ride back on +the train to Chicago. + +"You are sad," the Girl remarks. "Alice is very much taken with you. +Aren't you glad?" + +"You are mistaken," I reply. + +"I'm sure of it," the Girl persists. "Shall I ask her?" + +She turns to Alice. + +"Oh, I like you so much, Sasha," Alice whispers. I look up timidly at +her. She is leaning toward me in the abandon of artless tenderness, and +a great joy steals over me, as I read in her eyes frank affection. + + +VII + +New York looks unexpectedly familiar, though I miss many old landmarks. +It is torture to be indoors, and I roam the streets, experiencing a +thrill of kinship when I locate one of my old haunts. + +I feel little interest in the large meeting arranged to greet me back +into the world. Yet I am conscious of some curiosity about the comrades +I may meet there. Few of the old guard have remained. Some dropped from +the ranks; others died. John Most will not be there. I cherished the +hope of meeting him again, but he died a few months before my release. +He had been unjust to me; but who is free from moments of weakness? The +passage of time has mellowed the bitterness of my resentment, and I +think of him, my first teacher of Anarchy, with old-time admiration. His +unique personality stands out in strong relief upon the flat background +of his time. His life was the tragedy of the ever unpopular pioneer. A +social Lear, his whitening years brought only increasing isolation and +greater lack of understanding, even within his own circle. He had +struggled and suffered much; he gave his whole life to advance the +Cause, only to find at the last that he who crosses the threshold must +leave all behind, even friendship, even comradeship. + + * * * * * + +My old friend, Justus Schwab, is also gone, and Brady, the big Austrian. +Few of the comrades of my day have survived. The younger generation +seems different, unsatisfactory. The Ghetto I had known has also +disappeared. Primitive Orchard Street, the scene of our pioneer +meetings, has conformed to business respectability; the historic lecture +hall, that rang with the breaking chains of the awakening people, has +been turned into a dancing-school; the little cafe "around the corner," +the intellectual arena of former years, is now a counting-house. The +fervid enthusiasm of the past, the spontaneous comradeship in the common +cause, the intoxication of world-liberating zeal--all are gone with the +days of my youth. I sense the spirit of cold deliberation in the new +set, and a tone of disillusioned wisdom that chills and estranges me. + + * * * * * + +The Girl has also changed. The little Sailor, my companion of the days +that thrilled with the approach of the Social Revolution, has become a +woman of the world. Her mind has matured, but her wider interests +antagonize my old revolutionary traditions that inspired every day and +colored our every act with the direct perception of the momentarily +expected great upheaval. I feel an instinctive disapproval of many +things, though particular instances are intangible and elude my +analysis. I sense a foreign element in the circle she has gathered about +her, and feel myself a stranger among them. Her friends and admirers +crowd her home, and turn it into a sort of salon. They talk art and +literature; discuss science and philosophize over the disharmony of +life. But the groans of the dungeon find no gripping echo there. The +Girl is the most revolutionary of them all; but even she has been +infected by the air of intellectual aloofness, false tolerance and +everlasting pessimism. I resent the situation, the more I become +conscious of the chasm between the Girl and myself. It seems +unbridgeable; we cannot recover the intimate note of our former +comradeship. With pain I witness her evident misery. She is untiring in +her care and affection; the whole circle lavishes on me sympathy and +tenderness. But through it all I feel the commiserating tolerance toward +a sick child. I shun the atmosphere of the house, and flee to seek the +solitude of the crowded streets and the companionship of the plain, +untutored underworld. + + * * * * * + +In a Bowery resort I come across Dan, my assistant on the range during +my last year in the penitentiary. + +"Hello, Aleck," he says, taking me aside, "awful glad to see you out of +hell. Doing all right?" + +"So, so, Dan. And you?" + +"Rotten, Aleck, rotten. You know it was my first bit, and I swore I'd +never do a crooked job again. Well, they turned me out with a five-spot, +after four years' steady work, mind you, and three of them working my +head off on a loom. Then they handed me a pair of Kentucky jeans, that +any fly-cop could spot a mile off. My friends went back on me--that +five-spot was all I had in the world, and it didn't go a long way. +Liberty ain't what it looks to a fellow through the bars, Aleck, but +it's hell to go back. I don't know what to do." + +"How do you happen here, Dan? Could you get no work at home, in Oil +City?" + +"Home, hell! I wish I had a home and friends, like you, Aleck. Christ, +d'you think I'd ever turn another trick? But I got no home and no +friends. Mother died before I came out, and I found no home. I got a job +in Oil City, but the bulls tipped me off for an ex-con, and I beat my +way here. I tried to do the square thing, Aleck, but where's a fellow to +turn? I haven't a cent and not a friend in the world." + +Poor Dan! I feel powerless to help him, even with advice. Without +friends or money, his "liberty" is a hollow mockery, even worse than +mine. Five years ago he was a strong, healthy young man. He committed a +burglary, and was sent to prison. Now he is out, his body weakened, his +spirit broken; he is less capable than ever to survive in the struggle. +What is he to do but commit another crime and be returned to prison? +Even I, with so many advantages that Dan is lacking, with kind comrades +and helpful friends, I can find no place in this world of the outside. I +have been torn out, and I seem unable to take root again. Everything +looks so different, changed. And yet I feel a great hunger for life. I +could enjoy the sunshine, the open, and freedom of action. I could make +my life and my prison experience useful to the world. But I am +incapacitated for the struggle. I do not fit in any more, not even in +the circle of my comrades. And this seething life, the turmoil and the +noises of the city, agonize me. Perhaps it would be best for me to +retire to the country, and there lead a simple life, close to nature. + + +VIII + +The summer is fragrant with a thousand perfumes, and a great peace is in +the woods. The Hudson River shimmers in the distance, a solitary sail on +its broad bosom. The Palisades on the opposite side look immutable, +eternal, their undulating tops melting in the grayish-blue horizon. + +Puffs of smoke rise from the valley. Here, too, has penetrated the +restless spirit. The muffled thunder of blasting breaks in upon the +silence. The greedy hand of man is desecrating the Palisades, as it has +desecrated the race. But the big river flows quietly, and the sailboat +glides serenely on the waters. It skips over the foaming waves, near the +spot I stand on, toward the great, busy city. Now it is floating past +the high towers, with their forbidding aspect. It is Sing Sing prison. +Men groan and suffer there, and are tortured in the dungeon. And I--I am +a useless cog, an idler, while others toil; and I keep mute, while +others suffer. + + * * * * * + +My mind dwells in the prison. The silence rings with the cry of pain; +the woods echo the agony of the dungeon. I start at the murmur of the +leaves; the trees with their outstretched arms bar my way, menacing me +like the guards on the prison walls. Their monster shapes follow me in +the valley. + +At night I wake in cold terror. The agonized cry of Crazy Smithy is in +my ears, and again I hear the sickening thud of the riot clubs on the +prisoner's head. The solitude is harrowing with the memory of the +prison; it haunts me with the horrors of the basket cell. Away, I must +away, to seek relief amidst the people! + + * * * * * + +Back in the city, I face the problem of support. The sense of dependence +gnaws me. The hospitality of my friends is boundless, but I cannot +continue as the beneficiary of their generosity. I had declined the +money gift presented to me on my release by the comrades: I felt I could +not accept even their well-meant offering. The question of earning my +living is growing acute. I cannot remain idle. But what shall I turn to? +I am too weak for factory work. I had hoped to secure employment as a +compositor, but the linotype has made me superfluous. I might be engaged +as a proof-reader. My former membership in the Typographical Union will +enable me to join the ranks of labor. + +My physical condition, however, precludes the immediate realization of +my plans. Meanwhile some comrades suggest the advisability of a short +lecture tour: it will bring me in closer contact with the world, and +serve to awaken new interest in life. The idea appeals to me. I shall be +doing work, useful work. I shall voice the cry of the depths, and +perhaps the people will listen, and some may understand! + + +IX + +With a great effort I persevere on the tour. The strain is exhausting my +strength, and I feel weary and discontented. My innate dread of public +speaking is aggravated by the necessity of constant association with +people. The comrades are sympathetic and attentive, but their very care +is a source of annoyance. I long for solitude and quiet. In the midst of +people, the old prison instinct of escape possesses me. Once or twice +the wild idea of terminating the tour has crossed my mind. The thought +is preposterous, impossible. Meetings have already been arranged in +various cities, and my appearance widely announced. It would disgrace +me, and injure the movement, were I to prove myself so irresponsible. I +owe it to the Cause, and to my comrades, to keep my appointments. I must +fight off this morbid notion. + + * * * * * + +My engagement in Pittsburgh aids my determination. Little did I dream in +the penitentiary that I should live to see that city again, even to +appear in public there! Looking back over the long years of +imprisonment, of persecution and torture, I marvel that I have survived. +Surely it was not alone physical capacity to suffer--how often had I +touched the threshold of death, and trembled on the brink of insanity +and self-destruction! Whatever strength and perseverance I possessed, +they alone could not have saved my reason in the night of the dungeon, +or preserved me in the despair of the solitary. Poor Wingie, Ed Sloane, +and "Fighting" Tom; Harry, Russell, Crazy Smithy--how many of my friends +have perished there! It was the vision of an ideal, the consciousness +that I suffered for a great Cause, that sustained me. The very +exaggeration of my self-estimate was a source of strength: I looked upon +myself as a representative of a world movement; it was my duty to +exemplify the spirit and dignity of the ideas it embodied. I was not a +prisoner, merely; I was an Anarchist in the hands of the enemy; as such, +it devolved upon me to maintain the manhood and self-respect my ideals +signified. The example of the political prisoners in Russia inspired me, +and my stay in the penitentiary was a continuous struggle that was the +breath of life. + +Was it the extreme self-consciousness of the idealist, the power of +revolutionary traditions, or simply the persistent will to be? Most +likely, it was the fusing of all three, that shaped my attitude in +prison and kept me alive. And now, on my way to Pittsburgh, I feel the +same spirit within me, at the threat of the local authorities to prevent +my appearance in the city. Some friends seek to persuade me to cancel my +lecture there, alarmed at the police preparations to arrest me. +Something might happen, they warn me: legally I am still a prisoner out +on parole. I am liable to be returned to the penitentiary, without +trial, for the period of my commutation time--eight years and two +months--if convicted of a felony before the expiration of my full +sentence of twenty-two years. + +But the menace of the enemy stirs me from apathy, and all my old +revolutionary defiance is roused within me. For the first time during +the tour, I feel a vital interest in life, and am eager to ascend the +platform. + +An unfortunate delay on the road brings me into Pittsburgh two hours +late for the lecture. Comrade M---- is impatiently waiting for me, and +we hasten to the meeting. On the way he informs me that the hall is +filled with police and prison guards; the audience is in a state of +great suspense; the rumor has gone about that the authorities are +determined to prevent my appearance. + +I sense an air of suppressed excitement, as I enter the hall, and elbow +my way through the crowded aisle. Some one grips my arm, and I recognize +"Southside" Johnny, the friendly prison runner. "Aleck, take care," he +warns me, "the bulls are layin' for you." + + +X + +The meeting is over, the danger past. I feel worn and tired with the +effort of the evening. + +My next lecture is to take place in Cleveland, Ohio. The all-night ride +in the stuffy smoker aggravates my fatigue, and sets my nerves on edge. +I arrive in the city feeling feverish and sick. To engage a room in a +hotel would require an extra expense from the proceeds of the tour, +which are intended for the movement; moreover, it would be sybaritism, +contrary to the traditional practice of Anarchist lecturers. I decide to +accept the hospitality of some friend during my stay in the city. + +For hours I try to locate the comrade who has charge of arranging the +meetings. At his home I am told that he is absent. His parents, pious +Jews, look at me askance, and refuse to inform me of their son's +whereabouts. The unfriendly attitude of the old folks drives me into the +street again, and I seek out another comrade. His family gathers about +me. Their curious gaze is embarrassing; their questions idle. My pulse +is feverish, my head heavy. I should like to rest up before the lecture, +but a constant stream of comrades flows in on me, and the house rings +with their joy of meeting me. The talking wearies me; their ardent +interest searches my soul with rude hands. These men and women--they, +too, are different from the comrades of my day; their very language +echoes the spirit that has so depressed me in the new Ghetto. The abyss +in our feeling and thought appalls me. + +With failing heart I ascend the platform in the evening. It is chilly +outdoors, and the large hall, sparsely filled and badly lit, breathes +the cold of the grave upon me. The audience is unresponsive. The lecture +on Crime and Prisons that so thrilled my Pittsburgh meeting, wakes no +vital chord. I feel dispirited. My voice is weak and expressionless; at +times it drops to a hoarse whisper. I seem to stand at the mouth of a +deep cavern, and everything is dark within. I speak into the blackness; +my words strike metallically against the walls, and are thrown back at +me with mocking emphasis. A sense of weariness and hopelessness +possesses me, and I conclude the lecture abruptly. + +The comrades surround me, grasp my hand, and ply me with questions about +my prison life, the joy of liberty and of work. They are undisguisedly +disappointed at my anxiety to retire, but presently it is decided that I +should accept the proffered hospitality of a comrade who owns a large +house in the suburbs. + +The ride is interminable, the comrade apparently living several miles +out in the country. On the way he talks incessantly, assuring me +repeatedly that he considers it a great privilege to entertain me. I nod +sleepily. + +Finally we arrive. The place is large, but squalid. The low ceilings +press down on my head; the rooms look cheerless and uninhabited. +Exhausted by the day's exertion, I fall into heavy sleep. + +Awakening in the morning, I am startled to find a stranger in my bed. +His coat and hat are on the floor, and he lies snoring at my side, with +overshirt and trousers on. He must have fallen into bed very tired, +without even detaching the large cuffs, torn and soiled, that rattle on +his hands. + +The sight fills me with inexpressible disgust. All through the years of +my prison life, my nights had been passed in absolute solitude. The +presence of another in my bed is unutterably horrifying. I dress +hurriedly, and rush out of the house. + +A heavy drizzle is falling; the air is close and damp. The country looks +cheerless and dreary. But one thought possesses me: to get away from the +stranger snoring in my bed, away from the suffocating atmosphere of the +house with its low ceilings, out into the open, away from the presence +of man. The sight of a human being repels me, the sound of a voice is +torture to me. I want to be alone, always alone, to have peace and +quiet, to lead a simple life in close communion with nature. Ah, nature! +That, too, I have tried, and found more impossible even than the turmoil +of the city. The silence of the woods threatened to drive me mad, as did +the solitude of the dungeon. A curse upon the thing that has +incapacitated me for life, made solitude as hateful as the face of man, +made life itself impossible to me! And is it for this I have yearned and +suffered, for this spectre that haunts my steps, and turns day into a +nightmare--this distortion, Life? Oh, where is the joy of expectation, +the tremulous rapture, as I stood at the door of my cell, hailing the +blush of the dawn, the day of resurrection! Where the happy moments that +lit up the night of misery with the ecstasy of freedom, which was to +give me back to work and joy! Where, where is it all? Is liberty sweet +only in the anticipation, and life a bitter awakening? + +The rain has ceased. The sun peeps through the clouds, and glints its +rays upon a shop window. My eye falls on the gleaming barrel of a +revolver. I enter the place, and purchase the weapon. + +I walk aimlessly, in a daze. It is beginning to rain again; my body is +chilled to the bone, and I seek the shelter of a saloon on an obscure +street. + +In the corner of the dingy back room I notice a girl. She is very young, +with an air of gentility about her, that is somewhat marred by her +quick, restless look. + +We sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour outdoors. The girl is +toying with a glass of whiskey. + +Angry voices reach us from the street. There is a heavy shuffling of +feet, and a suppressed cry. A woman lurches through the swinging door, +and falls against a table. + +The girl rushes to the side of the woman, and assists her into a chair. +"Are you hurt, Madge?" she asks sympathetically. + +The woman looks up at her with bleary eyes. She raises her hand, passes +it slowly across her mouth, and spits violently. + +"He hit me, the dirty brute," she whimpers, "he hit me. But I sha'n't +give him no money; I just won't, Frenchy." + +The girl is tenderly wiping her friend's bleeding face. "Sh-sh, Madge, +sh--sh!" she warns her, with a glance at the approaching waiter. + +"Drunk again, you old bitch," the man growls. "You'd better vamoose +now." + +"Oh, let her be, Charley, won't you?" the girl coaxes. "And, say, bring +me a bitters." + +"The dirty loafer! It's money, always gimme money," the woman mumbles; +"and I've had such bad luck, Frenchy. You know it's true. Don't you, +Frenchy?" + +"Yes, yes, dear," the girl soothes her. "Don't talk now. Lean your head +on my shoulder, so! You'll be all right in a minute." + +The girl sways to and fro, gently patting the woman on the head, and all +is still in the room. The woman's breathing grows regular and louder. +She snores, and the young girl slowly unwinds her arms and resumes her +seat. + +I motion to her. "Will you have a drink with me?" + +"With pleasure," she smiles. "Poor thing," she nods toward the sleeper, +"her fellow beats her and takes all she makes." + +"You have a kind heart, Frenchy." + +"We girls must be good to each other; no one else will. Some men are so +mean, just too mean to live or let others live. But some are nice. Of +course, some twirls are bad, but we ain't all like that and--" she +hesitates. + +"And what?" + +"Well, some have seen better days. I wasn't always like this," she adds, +gulping down her drink. + +Her face is pensive; her large black eyes look dreamy. She asks +abruptly: + +"You like poetry?" + +"Ye--es. Why?" + +"I write. Oh, you don't believe me, do you? Here's something of mine," +and with a preliminary cough, she begins to recite with exaggerated +feeling: + + Mother dear, the days were young + When posies in our garden hung. + Upon your lap my golden head I laid, + With pure and happy heart I prayed. + +"I remember those days," she adds wistfully. + +We sit in the dusk, without speaking. The lights are turned on, and my +eye falls on a paper lying on the table. The large black print announces +an excursion to Buffalo. + +"Will you come with me?" I ask the girl, pointing to the advertisement. + +"To Buffalo?" + +"Yes." + +"You're kidding." + +"No. Will you come?" + +"Sure." + +Alone with me in the stateroom, "Frenchy" grows tender and playful. She +notices my sadness, and tries to amuse me. But I am thinking of the +lecture that is to take place in Cleveland this very hour: the anxiety +of my comrades, the disappointment of the audience, my absence, all prey +on my mind. But who am I, to presume to teach? I have lost my bearings; +there is no place for me in life. My bridges are burned. + +The girl is in high spirits, but her jollity angers me. I crave to speak +to her, to share my misery and my grief. I hint at the impossibility of +life, and my superfluity in the world, but she looks bored, not grasping +the significance of my words. + +"Don't talk so foolish, boy," she scoffs. "What do you care about work +or a place? You've got money; what more do you want? You better go down +now and fetch something to drink." + +Returning to the stateroom, I find "Frenchy" missing. In a sheltered +nook on the deck I recognize her in the lap of a stranger. Heart-sore +and utterly disgusted, I retire to my berth. In the morning I slip +quietly off the boat. + + * * * * * + +The streets are deserted; the city is asleep. In the fog and rain, the +gray buildings resemble the prison walls, the tall factory chimneys +standing guard like monster sentinels. I hasten away from the hated +sight, and wander along the docks. The mist weaves phantom shapes, and I +see a multitude of people and in their midst a boy, pale, with large, +lustrous eyes. The crowd curses and yells in frenzied passion, and arms +are raised, and blows rain down on the lad's head. The rain beats +heavier, and every drop is a blow. The boy totters and falls to the +ground. The wistful face, the dreamy eyes--why, it is Czolgosz! + +Accursed spot! I cannot die here. I must to New York, to be near my +friends in death! + + +XI + +Loud knocking wakes me. + +"Say, Mister," a voice calls behind the door, "are you all right?" + +"Yes." + +"Will you have a bite, or something?" + +"No." + +"Well, as you please. But you haven't left your room going on two days +now." + + * * * * * + +Two days, and still alive? The road to death is so short, why suffer? An +instant, and I shall be no more, and only the memory of me will abide +for a little while in this world. _This_ world? Is there another? If +there is anything in Spiritualism, Carl will learn of it. In the prison +we had been interested in the subject, and we had made a compact that he +who is the first to die, should appear in spirit to the other. Pretty +fancy of foolish man, born of immortal vanity! Hereafter, life after +death--children of earth's misery. The disharmony of life bears dreams +of peace and bliss, but there is no harmony save in death. Who knows but +that even then the atoms of my lifeless clay will find no rest, tossed +about in space to form new shapes and new thoughts for aeons of human +anguish. + +And so Carl will not see me after death. Our compact will not be kept, +for nothing will remain of my "soul" when I am dead, as nothing remains +of the sum when its units are gone. Dear Carl, he will be distraught at +my failure to come to Detroit. He had arranged a lecture there, +following Cleveland. It is peculiar that I should not have thought of +wiring him that I was unable to attend. He might have suspended +preparations. But it did not occur to me, and now it is too late. + +The Girl, too, will be in despair over my disappearance. I cannot notify +her now--I am virtually dead. Yet I crave to see her once more before I +depart, even at a distance. But that also is too late. I am almost dead. + + * * * * * + +I dress mechanically, and step into the street. The brilliant sunshine, +the people passing me by, the children playing about, strike on my +consciousness with pleasing familiarity. The desire grips me to be one +of them, to participate in their life. And yet it seems strange to think +of myself as part of this moving, breathing humanity. Am I not dead? + +I roam about all day. At dusk I am surprised to find myself near the +Girl's home. The fear seizes me that I might be seen and recognized. A +sense of guilt steals over me, and I shrink away, only to return again +and again to the familiar spot. + +I pass the night in the park. An old man, a sailor out of work, huddles +close to me, seeking the warmth of my body. But I am cold and cheerless, +and all next day I haunt again the neighborhood of the Girl. An +irresistible force attracts me to the house. Repeatedly I return to my +room and snatch up the weapon, and then rush out again. I am fearful of +being seen near the "Den," and I make long detours to the Battery and +the Bronx, but again and again I find myself watching the entrance and +speculating on the people passing in and out of the house. My mind +pictures the Girl, with her friends about her. What are they discussing, +I wonder. "Why, myself!" it flits through my mind. The thought appalls +me. They must be distraught with anxiety over my disappearance. Perhaps +they think me dead! + +I hasten to a telegraph office, and quickly pen a message to the Girl: +"Come. I am waiting here." + +In a flurry of suspense I wait for the return of the messenger. A little +girl steps in, and I recognize Tess, and inwardly resent that the Girl +did not come herself. + +"Aleck," she falters, "Sonya wasn't home when your message came. I'll +run to find her." + +The old dread of people is upon me, and I rush out of the place, hoping +to avoid meeting the Girl. I stumble through the streets, retrace my +steps to the telegraph office, and suddenly come face to face with her. + +Her appearance startles me. The fear of death is in her face, mute +horror in her eyes. + +"Sasha!" Her hand grips my arm, and she steadies my faltering step. + + +XII + +I open my eyes. The room is light and airy; a soothing quiet pervades +the place. The portieres part noiselessly, and the Girl looks in. + +"Awake, Sasha?" She brightens with a happy smile. + +"Yes. When did I come here?" + +"Several days ago. You've been very sick, but you feel better now, don't +you, dear?" + +Several days? I try to recollect my trip to Buffalo, the room on the +Bowery. Was it all a dream? + +"Where was I before I came here?" I ask. + +"You--you were--absent," she stammers, and in her face is visioned the +experience of my disappearance. + + * * * * * + +With tender care the Girl ministers to me. I feel like one recovering +from a long illness: very weak, but with a touch of joy in life. No one +is permitted to see me, save one or two of the Girl's nearest friends, +who slip in quietly, pat my hand in mute sympathy, and discreetly +retire. I sense their understanding, and am grateful that they make no +allusion to the events of the past days. + +The care of the Girl is unwavering. By degrees I gain strength. The room +is bright and cheerful; the silence of the house soothes me. The warm +sunshine is streaming through the open window; I can see the blue sky, +and the silvery cloudlets. A little bird hops upon the sill, looks +steadily at me, and chirps a greeting. It brings back the memory of +Dick, my feathered pet, and of my friends in prison. I have done nothing +for the agonized men in the dungeon darkness--have I forgotten them? I +have the opportunity; why am I idle? + + * * * * * + +The Girl calls cheerfully: "Sasha, our friend Philo is here. Would you +like to see him?" + +I welcome the comrade whose gentle manner and deep sympathy have +endeared him to me in the days since my return. There is something +unutterably tender about him. The circle had christened him "the +philosopher," and his breadth of understanding and non-invasive +personality have been a great comfort to me. + +His voice is low and caressing, like the soft crooning of a mother +rocking her child to sleep. "Life is a problem," he is saying, "a +problem whose solution consists in trying to solve it. Schopenhauer may +have been right," he smiles, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes, "but +his love of life was so strong, his need for expression so compelling, +he had to write a big book to prove how useless is all effort. But his +very sincerity disproves him. Life is its own justification. The +disharmony of life is more seeming than real; and what is real of it, is +the folly and blindness of man. To struggle against that folly, is to +create greater harmony, wider possibilities. Artificial barriers +circumscribe and dwarf life, and stifle its manifestations. To break +those barriers down, is to find a vent, to expand, to express oneself. +And that is life, Aleck: a continuous struggle for expression. It +mirrors itself in nature, as in all the phases of man's existence. Look +at the little vine struggling against the fury of the storm, and +clinging with all its might to preserve its hold. Then see it stretch +toward the sunshine, to absorb the light and the warmth, and then freely +give back of itself in multiple form and wealth of color. We call it +beautiful then, for it has found expression. That is life, Aleck, and +thus it manifests itself through all the gradations we call evolution. +The higher the scale, the more varied and complex the manifestations, +and, in turn, the greater the need for expression. To suppress or thwart +it, means decay, death. And in this, Aleck, is to be found the main +source of suffering and misery. The hunger of life storms at the gates +that exclude it from the joy of being, and the individual soul +multiplies its expressions by being mirrored in the collective, as the +little vine mirrors itself in its many flowers, or as the acorn +individualizes itself a thousandfold in the many-leafed oak. But I am +tiring you, Aleck." + +"No, no, Philo. Continue; I want to hear more." + +"Well, Aleck, as with nature, so with man. Life is never at a +standstill; everywhere and ever it seeks new manifestations, more +expansion. In art, in literature, as in the affairs of men, the struggle +is continual for higher and more intimate expression. That is +progress--the vine reaching for more sunshine and light. Translated into +the language of social life, it means the individualization of the mass, +the finding of a higher level, the climbing over the fences that shut +out life. Everywhere you see this reaching out. The process is +individual and social at the same time, for the species lives in the +individual as much as the individual persists in the species. The +individual comes first; his clarified vision is multiplied in his +immediate environment, and gradually permeates through his generation +and time, deepening the social consciousness and widening the scope of +existence. But perhaps you have not found it so, Aleck, after your many +years of absence?" + +"No, dear Philo. What you have said appeals to me very deeply. But I +have found things so different from what I had pictured them. Our +comrades, the movement--it is not what I thought it would be." + +"It is quite natural, Aleck. A change has taken place, but its meaning +is apt to be distorted through the dim vision of your long absence. I +know well what you miss, dear friend: the old mode of existence, the +living on the very threshold of the revolution, so to speak. And +everything looks strange to you, and out of joint. But as you stay a +little longer with us, you will see that it is merely a change of form; +the essence is the same. We are the same as before, Aleck, only made +deeper and broader by years and experience. Anarchism has cast off the +swaddling bands of the small, intimate circles of former days; it has +grown to greater maturity, and become a factor in the larger life of +Society. You remember it only as a little mountain spring, around which +clustered a few thirsty travelers in the dreariness of the capitalist +desert. It has since broadened and spread as a strong current that +covers a wide area and forces its way even into the very ocean of life. +You see, dear Aleck, the philosophy of Anarchism is beginning to pervade +every phase of human endeavor. In science, in art, in literature, +everywhere the influence of Anarchist thought is creating new values; +its spirit is vitalizing social movements, and finding interpretation +in life. Indeed, Aleck, we have not worked in vain. Throughout the world +there is a great awakening. Even in this socially most backward country, +the seeds sown are beginning to bear fruit. Times have changed, indeed; +but encouragingly so, Aleck. The leaven of discontent, ever more +conscious and intelligent, is moulding new social thought and new +action. To-day our industrial conditions, for instance, present a +different aspect from those of twenty years ago. It was then possible +for the masters of life to sacrifice to their interests the best friends +of the people. But to-day the spontaneous solidarity and awakened +consciousness of large strata of labor is a guarantee against the +repetition of such judicial murders. It is a most significant sign, +Aleck, and a great inspiration to renewed effort." + + * * * * * + +The Girl enters. "Are you crooning Sasha to sleep, Philo?" she laughs. + +"Oh, no!" I protest, "I'm wide awake and much interested in Philo's +conversation." + +"It is getting late," he rejoins. "I must be off to the meeting." + +"What meeting?" I inquire, + +"The Czolgosz anniversary commemoration." + +"I think--I'd like to come along." + +"Better not, Sasha," my friend advises. "You need some light +distraction." + +"Perhaps you would like to go to the theatre," the Girl suggests. +"Stella has tickets. She'd be happy to have you come, Sasha." + + * * * * * + +Returning home in the evening, I find the "Den" in great excitement. The +assembled comrades look worried, talk in whispers, and seem to avoid my +glance. I miss several familiar faces. + +"Where are the others?" I ask. + +The comrades exchange troubled looks, and are silent. + +"Has anything happened? Where are they?" I insist. + +"I may as well tell you," Philo replies, "but be calm, Sasha. The police +have broken up our meeting. They have clubbed the audience, and arrested +a dozen comrades." + +"Is it serious, Philo?" + +"I am afraid it is. They are going to make a test case. Under the new +'Criminal Anarchy Law' our comrades may get long terms in prison. They +have taken our most active friends." + + * * * * * + +The news electrifies me. I feel myself transported into the past, the +days of struggle and persecution. Philo was right! The enemy is +challenging, the struggle is going on!... I see the graves of Waldheim +open, and hear the voices from the tomb. + + * * * * * + +A deep peace pervades me, and I feel a great joy in my heart. + +"Sasha, what is it?" Philo cries in alarm. + +"My resurrection, dear friend. I have found work to do." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist, by +Alexander Berkman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST *** + +***** This file should be named 34406.txt or 34406.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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