rbor]
Presented to the
LIBRARY of the
UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
by
MULTICULTURAL HISTORY
SOCIETY
OF ONTARIO
PRISON MEMOIRS
OF AN ANARCHIST
PRISON MEMOIRS
OF AN
ANARCHIST
BY
ALEXANDER BERKMAN
NEW YORK
Mother Earth publishing Association
1912
Published September, 1912
Second Edition, 1920
41 GRAPHIC PRESS, NEW TOBK
Xo all those who m and out of prison
right against tneir bonaage
But this I know, tnat every Law
Xnat men nave made xor Man,
Since first Man took Lis trotker s life.
And tke sad w^orld began.
But straws tke wkeat and saves tke ckaff
Witk a most evil fan."
Oscar Wilde
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 philos-
ophers 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, de-
structive 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 pos-
session 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
AS INTRODUCTORY
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, de-
moralizing psychology of prison life. It shows, in pic-
ture after picture, sketch after sketch, not only the obvious
brutality, stupidity, ugliness permeating the institution,
but, very touching, it shows the good qualities and in-
stincts of the human heart perverted, demoralized, help-
lessly struggling for life ; beautiful tendencies basely ex-
pressing themselves. And the personality of Berkman
goes through it all; idealistic, courageous, uncompromis-
ing, 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 truth-
ful 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 at-
tempt on the life of Frick — an attempt made at a violent
AS INTRODUCTORY
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 docu-
ment, 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
Part I : The Awakening and Its Toll
Chapter Page
I. The Call of Homestead i
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
VIIL To the Girl 148
IX. Persecution 152
X. The Yegg 159
XI. The Route Sub Rosa 174
XII. *'Zuchthausbluethen" 176
XIIL The Judas 185
XIV. The Dip 195
XV. The Urge of Sex 201
XVI. The Warden's Threat 209
XVII. The "Basket'' Cell 219
XVIIL 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
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
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
XXXVIL Anxious Days 382
XXXVIII. "How Men Their Brothers Maim". . .389
XXXIX. A New Plan of Escape 395
XL. Done to Death 401
XLL 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
XLVIIL Last Days 465
Part III
The Workhouse 473
Part IV
The Resurrection 4^3
ILLUSTRATIONS
Alexander Berkman (Frontispiece)
The Author at the Time of the Homestead Stuike
Western Penitentiary of Pennsylvania
Facsimile of Prison Letter
"Zuchthausbluethen"
Cell Ranges
The Tunnel
PART 1
THE AWAKENING AND ITS TOLL
CHAPTER I
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD
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 excite-
ment 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 Amalga-
mated Association of Iron and Steel Workers; the se-
lection, for the purpose, of Henry Clay Frick, whose
attitude toward labor is implacably hostile; his secret
military preparations while designedly prolonging the
I
2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
peace negotiations with the Amalgamated; the fortifica-
tion 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 stuflfy in the train. The air is oppres-
sive 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 i resh-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 sur-
render, to surrender most humbly, ignominiously. What
humiliating defeat for the powers that be ! Does not the
Pinkerton janizary represent organized authority, forever
crushing the toiler in the interest of the exploiters?
Well may the enemies of the People be terrified at the
unexpected awakening. But the People, the workers of
America, have joyously acclaimed the rebellious man-
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 3
hood of Homestead. The steel-workers were not the
aggressors. Resignedly they had toiled and suffered. Out
of their flesh and bone grew the great steel industry;
on their blood fattened the powerful Carnegie Com-
pany. 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 condi-
tions 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 pro-
claimed 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
4 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 des-
potic 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 dis-
inherited, 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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD J
me to distribute such a fiery appeal, my friend remon-
strated. 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 com-
positor, 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
banks 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 rush-
ing 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, rever-
ently 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 sufifering! 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
6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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? *Tt 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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 7
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 para-
sites, 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 constitu-
tionally and functionally. Surgical treatment is often im-
perative. The removal of a tyrant is not merely justifi-
able; 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* 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.
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 signifi-
cance 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,
An act of political assassination.
8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 senti-
ments 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 revo-
lutionist? 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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 9
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 / do not need them.
The feeling is quite impersonal, strange as it may
seem. My own individuality is entirely in the back-
ground; aye, I am not conscious of any personality
in matters pertaining to the Cause. I am simply a,
lO PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 tremen-
dously 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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD II
to kiss the uppermost peak, striking it with blinding bril-
liancy, 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 in-
cident, 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 eyen by the benighted objects of their great
sacrifice.
t2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 sud-
denly 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
paldtch/'"^
I was struck with terror. Mother's tone, my rich
uncle Nathan's unwonted presence at our house, the
fearful word paldtch — something awful must have hap-
pened. I tiptoed out of the hallway, and ran to my
room. Trembling with fear, I threw myself on the
bed. What has the paldtch done? I moaned. ''Your
brother," she had said to uncle. Her own youngest
brother, my favorite uncle Maxim. Oh, what has hap-
pened to him? My excited imagination conjured up
horrible visions. There stood the powerful figure of
the giant paldtch, 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
Hangman.
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD I3
my feverish eyes followed, bewitched, the glowing black
coals in the paldtch'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 paldtch
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, goluh-
chikf 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: "Goluhchik, 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, throw-
ing 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.
14 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"Who — told — you? You — know?" she whispers be-
tween 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 paldtch
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 con-
fidential manner: "Maximushka, tell me, what is a Ni-
hilist?"
"Go to the devil, molokossoss"^ you!" he cries, angrily.
With a show of violence, quite inexplicable to me, Maxim
throws his paper on the floor, jumps from his seat, up-
setting the chair, and leaves the room.
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 mys-
terious 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
* Literally, milk-sucker. A contemptuous term applied to
inexperienced youth.
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 15
of the Ministry of Education, compulsory religious in-
struction is being introduced in the State schools. Spe-
cial 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*
But the school authorities have order-ed the gymnasiasts
of Jewish faith to attend classes in religion.
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 reli-
gion. The prim Director looks inexpressibly shocked.
"Young man," he addresses me in the artificial gut-
tural voice he aflfects on solemn occasions. "Young
man, when, permit me to ask, did you reach so pro-
found 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 ?"
* Schools for instruction in Jewish religion and laws.
l6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 "pre-
cocious godlessness, dangerous tendencies, and insubor-
dination." 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 after-
noon, and the station clock drones like an endless old
woman.
Ill
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
The call of homestead if
'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 I dwell won-
deringly 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 attend-
ance," 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
l8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 19
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 over-
flowing 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, golubchickT 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!
^0 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
Almost as suddenly had I been transplanted to Amer-
ican 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 achieve-
ment, 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
THE CALL OF HOMESTEAD 21
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 destina-
22 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
tion comes unexpectedly, overwhelming me with the dread
of unpreparedness. In a flurry I gather up my things,
but, noticing that the other passengers keep their places,
I precipitately resume my seat, fearful lest my agitation
be noticed. To hide my confusion, I turn to the open
window. Thick clouds of smoke overcast the sky,
shrouding the morning with sombre gray. The air is
heavy with soot and cinders; the smell is nauseating.
In the distance, giant furnaces vomit pillars of fire, the
lurid flashes accentuating a line of frame structures,
dilapidated and miserable. They are the homes of the
workers who have created the industrial glory of Pitts-
burgh, 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, stal-
es
24 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
wart men, the power of conscious strength in their step
and bearing. Each of them^ carries a weapon : some Win-
chesters, 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. ''J^^t 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 lawless-
ness. 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
THE SEAT OF WAR 2$
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, **0'Donnell !"
I see the popular leader of the strike nimbly ascend
the platform. The assembly becomes hushed.
"Brothers," O'Donnell begins in a flowing, ingra-
tiating manner, "we have won a great, noble victory
over the Company. We have driven the Pinkerton
invaders out of ocir 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 argu-
ment, and the crowd sways back and forth, breaking
into several excited groups. Presently a tall, dark
man appears on the platform. His stentorian voice
2() PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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'Vi 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!"
wm
THE SEAT OF WAR 27
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 Com-
pany. A large-boned, good-natured-looking working-
man 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 hozvf 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
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 Hfe. 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 indus-
trialism, 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
28
THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH 29
blood, are cast into Bessemer steel, rolled into armor
plate, and converted into engines of murder to be con-
secrated to Mammon by his high priests, the Carnegies,
the Fricks.
The spirit of the Iron City characterizes the nego-
tiations 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 w^orkers 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 "J^ck." For weeks the neigh-
30 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
borhood resounded with her frenzied cry, "My husband !
Where's my husband?" But the loving care of kind-
hearted neighbors has now somewhat restored the poor
woman's reason. Accompanied by her four little
orphans, she recently gained admittance to Mr. Frick.
On her knees she implored him not to drive her out
of her home. Her poor husband was dead, she pleaded ;
she could not pay off the mortgage; the children were
too young to work; she herself was hardly able to
walk. Frick was very kind, she thought ; he had prom-
ised 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,
THE SPIRIT OF PITTSBURGH 3I
" '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 pro-
duces 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.
Ill
East End, the fashionable residence quarter of Pitts-
burgh, 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 v/idow rises before me, the
little children weeping, and again I hear the anguished
cry of a broken heart, a shattered brain. . . .
32 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 work-
ers. 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 con-
spiracy, perhaps; but a conspiracy nevertheless. And
the fine ladies on horseback smile and laugh. What is
the misery of the People to themf 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 \z
determined to crush his rebellious slaves.
CHAPTER IV
THE ATTENTAT
The door of Prick'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
33
34 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.
THE ATTENTAT 35
Police, clerks, workmen in overalls, surround me.
An officer pulls my head back by the hair, and my
eyes meet Prick'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 revolu-
tionist. 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
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 dis-
gusting and tiresome it all is! A sense of complete
indifference possesses me. I stretch myself out on the
wooden benck, 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.
36
THE THIRD DEGREE 3?
"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 cross-
wise 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 exam-
ining his work. He seems pleased. How peculiar the
38 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dis-
cussion. "Not another word, now! I won't hear any
more of that peasant criminal." The peculiar diver-
gence 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!
THE THIRD DEGREE 39
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 shaU 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 under-
stand you asked for some water?"
"Yes."
40 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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, com-
fortable cell. The other—"
"Worse than a Russian prison," I interrupt, angrily.
THE THIRD DEGREE 4*
"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 '*Rakh-
metov," 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 ques-
tions, 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."
42 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 him-
self, 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. Prick's office?"
Impatient of the comedy, I rise with the words :
"I came to Pittsburgh alone. I stopped at the Mer-
chants' 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 Prick's office alone. I had no helpers. That's
all I have to tell you."
"Very good, very good. Take your seat, Mr. Berk-
man. 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."
THE THIRD DEGREE 43
"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 indiffer-
ent. 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
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 ?"
44
THE JAIL 45
"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 quick-
46 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
ened breathing. Oh, it is the guard! Is it the death
watch ? His outline is lost in the semi-darkness, but I see
the whites of his eyes. They stare at me, they watch
and follow me. I feel their gaze upon me, as I
nervously pace the floor. Unconsciously my step
quickens, but I cannot escape that glint of steel. It
grimaces and mocks me. It dances before me: it is
here and there, all around me. Now it flits up and
down; it doubles, trebles. The fearful eyes stare at
me from a hundred depressions in the wall. On
every side they surround me, and bar my way.
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.
Ill
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 Dutch-
man," 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
THE JAIL 47
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 com-
panion 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
4B PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
kitchen, yo see. 'Niggah, drop dat/ Ah hollos, an' he
come at me. Den dis ah coon pull his trusty li'Ue
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-c? Not a
steel- woikeh ?" with utter amazement. "What yo wan'
teh shoot Frick f oah ?" 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.
THE JAIL 49
"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him.
He is short and stocky. The thin lips and pointed
cnin 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.
50 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
I THE JAIL 51
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.
52 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHISt
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 net-
work 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."
THE JAIL 53
Pained at his manner, yet not fully realizing its
s'<Tnificance, I slowly fall back. His tall, broad figure
completely hides me from view. He speaks to me in
monosyllables, unwillingly. At the mention of Home-
stead 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 Com-
mittee of the Amalgamated, too. They know he wasn't
on the shore. They'll swear to ii in court, anyhow —
54 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
comer 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 pre-
tend? 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
THE JAIL 55
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. Wonder-
ful man! To be worthy of your comradeship. . . .
But this Homestead worker, what a pigmy by com-
parison. 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?
56 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
A plank in the bridge. ... In the most* 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,**
he will know. "S — sh! Same as Nihilists." "In free
America?" I wondered.
How little I knew of America then 1 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 oflF
myself; he didn't say a word to them. They are
our worst enemies. The Warden said that they'll
♦Russian for "bridge."
** Popular abbreviation of St. Petersburg.
THE JAIL 57
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 juty 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 Pinker-
tons. 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.
58 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
ofif." 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 impos-
sible, 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
THE JAIL 59
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 Attentdter. 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 martyr-
dom. 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.
6o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 sol-
diers 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 con-
demned for his brutality, his arrogance. This soldier —
what is his name? lams, W. L. lams — 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 lams 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 lamses. They will not
permit their comrade to be court-martialed, as the
Colonel threatens. lams 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.
lams 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 revo-
lutionist. Such a man has no business to belong to
THE JAIL 6l
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 friend-
ship. 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 con-
demns 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.
62 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 sus-
picions. 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, scrutiniz-
ing 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 con-
verse 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."*
"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.
* The building in which the offices of the Carnegie Company
were located.
THE JAIL 63
r protest against the perfidious proceeding. "A
positive identification," the Warden asserts. The de-
tective 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 con-
spiracy 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 devel-
oped 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 appreciatio'n 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* Yet not a line has
reached me from them. It is evident that my mail is
being detained.
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
* A "disguise" address, to mask the identity of the corre-
spondent.
64 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHISt
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 Home-
stead, 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 tincup-
ful of black, unsweetened coffee, constitutes breakfast.
Supper is a repetition of the morning meal, except that
THE JAIL 65
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 dark-
some 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 com-
mand. 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 tres-
pass against us "
"Like hell you do !" some one shouts from the upper
gallery. There is suppressed giggling in the cells.
Pellmell the officers tush up the stairs. The uproar
(^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 resi-
dence. 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 vam-
pire. . . . And Homestead? How will it affect condi-
THE JAIL ^
tions there? If Frick had died, Carnegie would have
hastened to settle with the strikers. The shrewd Scot
only made use of Frick to destroy the hated union. He
himself was absent, he could not be held accountable.
The author of 'Triumphant Democracy" is sensitive to
adverse criticism. With the elimination of Frick,
responsibility for Homestead conditions would rest
with Carnegie. To support his 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 con-
sideration deserves attention. The suffering of indi-
viduals, 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.
68 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
These reflections somewhat soothe me. My failure
to accomplish the desired result is grievously exasperat-
ing, 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 sta-
tion, 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 jail 69
The Chief stands before me, in his hand the dynamite
cartridge.
"What's this?" he demands, with an oath.
*'Candy," I reply, defiantly.
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 out-
side, 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 accom-
plice! 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. MoUock'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
yo PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 prob-
ably not even a comrade. The Allegheny Anarchists
should have nothing in common with him. It is not
well for us to associate with the hourgeois-rmnd&d.
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 post-
marked, 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
THE JAIL 71
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 greet-
ings, 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 f 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 justi-
fiable 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 con-
secrated 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
^2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
thousand times to hasten the triumph of liberty. His
Hfe 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 eman-
cipated 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. H 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
THE JAIL 73
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 per-
sonal 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 inspira-
tion, 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 Schliisselburg, buried alive in the Petro-
74 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
pavlovka. What devotion, what fortitude! Perfect
comrades they were, often stronger than the men.
Brave, noble women that fill the prisons and Stapes,
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."
THE JAIL 75
"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 / lie for his sake?
My conscience smites me for the moment of weak-
76 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
ness. I should not allow inane sentimentality to influ-
ence 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 / care about 'em! Will
they hang me, that's what I want to know."
"May be they will," I reply, irritated at the profana-
tion 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, any-
how? 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
THE JAIL ^7
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 v^ith 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 dis-
appointment 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 weak-
ness. 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
78 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 con-
spiracy 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.
*Ts 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 dread-
fully— 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
THE JAIL 79
autonomists. But how can that make any difference?
.11 such a time! What matter personal Hkes and dis-
likes 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 con-
ceivable. 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 revolu-
tionism. 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 Hay-
market 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? H;e 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
8o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. More-
over, 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 mis-
take. May be the letter is a trap ; it was not written by
Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his ! Per-
haps 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'?"
THE JAIL 8l
' Your partners, Bauer and Nold."
''My comrades, you mean. I have no partners."
"Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers
are here."
"Yes, ril 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 serious-
ness 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 shrewd-
ness in the iong, narrow face. He enlarges upon the
kind consent of his distinguished colleague to take
charge of my case. His demeanor toward the elder
82 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 my-
self 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 re-
gard to consequences. But the length of the sentence
THE JAIL 83
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 encourage-
ment 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 move-
ment, 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
\
^4 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
their circle, is chiefly concerned with his personal re-
habilitation. Quite natural, of course. A terrible injus-
tice has been done him.* 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 ex-
planation, full of bitter invective, suggested hostile per-
sonal 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 vitu-
perative 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
* Joseph Peukert, at one time a leading Anarchist of Austria,
was charged with betraying the German Anarchist Neve into the
hands of the pohce. 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.
THE JAIL 85
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 alto-
gether. . . . 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 thun-
dered. . . .
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
tones. 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,
86 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 I 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 aban-
doned 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 dark-
ness,— 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 j^oung 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,
THE JAIL 87
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 up-
raised, 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 1 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 con-
stant 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 pro-
paganda 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
88 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
count each day; every hour brings them closer to the
end. They will be hanged here, in the jail yard. Per-
haps 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 Satur-
day's paper — ^yesterday we had service — it must be Mon-
day 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 Car-
negie Company on three occasions, each constituting a
separate indictment; and with unlawfully carrying con-
cealed 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 inter-
rupts.
"Not guilty. I want to explain — "
"Your attorneys will do that."
"I have no attorney."
89
90 , PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 Jugger-
naut. 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.
THE TRIAL 91
"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 An-
archist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to
enslave and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraor-
dinary 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 expla-
nation 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 Eng-
lish. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart
bleeds at his meaningless declamation.
"Translate sentences, not single words," I remon-
strate.
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!
92 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
*'Let — us — continue," he stammers.
"We have heard enough," the judge interrupts.
"I have not read a third of my paper," I cry in con-
sternation.
"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 jury-
men 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 iipnn you ?"
"You would not let me speak," I reply. "Your jus-
tice 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 *>« ycj, ' the Warden jeers.
"Twenty-two years! Pretty stiff, eh?"
(^ZA^^auJ^^^^— ^/St^^
PART N
THE PENITENTIARY
CHAPTER I
DESPERATE THOUGHTS
"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 con-
tinuous glare. Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.
95
96 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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
Jpoked at me in court ! There was hate in his eyes, and
DESPERATE THOUGHTS 97
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 Til put you in the hole."
The gruff voice startles me. I must have been moan-
ing, ril 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 propa-
ganda 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 discon-
tinue. 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
98 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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."
DESPERATE THOUGHTS 99
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.
'1 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 other. 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.
n
"Forward, march !"
The long line of prisoners, in stripes and lockstep,
resembles an undulating snake, wriggling from side to
100 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
side, its black-and-gray body moving forward, yet appar-
ently 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, de-
serted 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
DESPERATE THOUGHTS IC)1
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 m
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
t02 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
— 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. Loath-
ing 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 care-
fully examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over
his face.
DESPERATE THOUGHTS 103
"Look, Cap'n* Sharp as a razor. Pretty des-
p'ratc, eh?"
"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."
Ill
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. Til 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."
I04 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
DESPERATE THOUGHTS I05
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 molodets!* Think
of it, he's only twenty. Graduates next year. The
youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university.
MolodetzT 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,
and showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics,
and mamma called Max a brute. "For a woman, an
* Qever, brave lad.
Io6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
unworthy woman!" sister moaned. I thought he was
foolish to take his Hfe 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.
. . . 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 for-
gotten,— 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.
DESPERATE THOUGHTS I07
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* 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,
Gospodirff 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 barinyaX 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!
♦Young lady, f Mister. tLady.
Io8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. / 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
DESPERATE THOUGHTS I09
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 —
*'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
no PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 Septem-
ber. 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 refresh-
ing. 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!
DESPERATE THOUGHTS III
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 con-
spirator Fd 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
112 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
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 corre-
spondent. In vain I have been waiting for his appear-
ance,— 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 unfor-
givable 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
113
114 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 com-
manding, the radiance of all-conquering love In her eyes.
She stood at my bedside, a smile of surpassing gentleness
sufifusing 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 in-
stantly 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 dis-
pelled 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
I
THE WILL TO LIVE "5
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 connect-
ing 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 con-
taining 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,
1 however terrible, to escape from this hell, to regain
Il6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 accom-
plishing. 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 devo-
tion, 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,"
THE WILL- TO LIVE 117
"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?"
"AJBible? 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 indiffer-
ent, 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
Il8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. . . .
THE WILL TO LIVE II9
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 bitter-
ness, 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 in-
different. To a considerable extent, even the Jewish
revolutionary element has been influenced by him. The
Twin, in veiled and abstruse Russian, hints at the at-
tempted 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 dis-
approving 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
120
SPECTRAL SILENCE 121
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 advan-
tage could accrue to the Cause from prolonging this
agony. All avenues of escape are closed ; the institu-
tion 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
122 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 weak-
ness. 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 "prac-
tical" politics and "sound" morality. What a miserable
descent from the peaks of Nihilism that proclaimed
defiance of all established institutions, because they were
SPECTRAL SILENCE I23
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 move-
ment, 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, irrevo-
cable 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*
''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.
''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, IVe 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."
* Prisoner taking care of a range or tier of cells.
124
A RAY OF LIGHT I25
*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, with-
out 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.
"1 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?"
J26 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
* '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,* anyhow, 'cept at feedin' time.
He's jest lookin' for trouble. Mean skunk he is, that
Cornbread Tom."
"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 min-
utes 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."
* Cell-house.
A RAY OF LIGHT 127
"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. Fm 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 sympa-
thize 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."* 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."
♦ Fly or fly-cop, a detective.
CHAPTER V
THE SHOP
I STAND in line with a dozen prisoners, in the ante-
room 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. Some-
how 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
128
THE SHOP 129
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, en-
closing 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. "]im, 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 manipulat-
ing 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:
130 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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* 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."
"Perhaps it isn't so bad," I try to encourage him.
"It ain't, eh? Wat d'3;o« 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.
* Guard.
THE SHOP 131
"He's all right. But say, Hoods, dis 'ere is no place
for de kid. He's got a twenty-one spot." *
"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 weak-
ening 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.
♦ Sentence.
132 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 pris-
oner 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 uncon-
scious 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
THE SHOP 133
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 g^ard.
"You want him here?"
"Y-e-s : we're short of men."
"Well, / am the doctor, Mr. Hoods." Then, turning
to me, he added : "Report in the morning on sick list."
Ill
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 super-
vision 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 indus-
tries, 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
134 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 sub-
terfuge: I pretended total inability to distinguish the
needles. Repeated threats of punishment failing to
change my determination, I have been assigned the com-
paratively easy work of "turning" the stockings. The oc-
cupation, though tedious, is not exacting. It consists in
gathering the hosiery manufactured by the knitting ma-
chines, 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 "un-
dressing" 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," prepara-
tory to sorting and shipment.
Monotonously the days and weeks pass by. Prac-
tice 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 sen-
tence ; suicide and escape.
THE SHOP 135
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 pas'l But the next instant I am over-
whelmed by the consciousness of my surroundings, and
plunged into rage and despair, powerless, hopeless.
Thus day succeeas 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 LETTKR
Direct to Box A 7,
Allegheny City, Pa.,
October 19th, 1892.
Dear Sister :*
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 re-
quired 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
Wurstf must have been to you. But however it may minimize
* The Girl ; also referred to as Sonya, Musick, and Sailor,
t John Most.
136
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A
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^i^L^^127
'^-
FACSIMILE OF PRISON LETTER, REDUCED ONE-THIRD
MY FIRST LETTER 137
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* will be with you.
Why that note of disappointment, almost of resentment,
as to Tolstogub's relation to the Darwinian theory ?t 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, your-
self 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.
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. . . .
* 54 Orchard Street— the hall in which the first Jewish An-
archist gatherings were held in New York. An allusion to the
aid of the Jewish comrades.
tTolstogub — the author's Russian nickname. The ex-
pression signifies the continued survival of the writer.
138 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
MY FIRST LETTER 139
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.
"Fallinline, I tellyou!"
"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 conscious-
ness of my environment. The hosiery department is
past the stage of experiment; the introduction of addi-
tional knitting machines has enlarged my task, necessi-
tating 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.
140
WINGIE 141
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, con-
scious 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 let-
ters 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. Un-
fortunates, 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
142 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 oppor-
tunity 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 delin-
quents.* 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.
''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
* Inmates of Catholic faith are excused from attending
Protestant service, and vice versa.
WINGIE 143
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* to
make pies for th' screws. Are you next? How d' you
like the grub, anyhow ?"
"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'flect
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."
♦Yeast
X44 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
For a moment he pauses in his hurried whisper. The
soft eyes are full of sympathy, the lips smile encourag-
ingly. 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 ycu 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 un-
locking 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?"
"Qh, well," he stammers, "never min', Aleck. You
WINGIE 145
are a good boy, all right. You don't belong here, that's
what / 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? Prin-
ciple fiddlesticks. Want to get out o' here ?"
146 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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, Nar-
chist ? 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 / 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 exist-
ence, 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—"
WINGIE 147
"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 McGrav^
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 to-
gether, 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.
R'member the stiff* you got in them things, tow'l an'
soap?"
"You know about it, Wingie?" I ask, in amazement.
"Do I? He, he, you little— "
The click of steel sounds warning. Wingie disap-
pears.
*Nite.
CHAPTER VHI
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 walb 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* and the strains of the
dubinushka,f 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
* Brave knight — affectionately applied to the great river,
t Folk-song.
148
TO THE GIRL 149
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 dis-
appointment. 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.
150 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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* 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 ballroom? 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 move-
ment 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
* Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed I
ide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him by a 1
i
TO THE GIRL 151
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 mis-
understanding, 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 men-
tioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.
Remember to sign "Sister."
With a passionate embrace.
Your Sasha.
CHAPTER IX
PERSECUTION
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, arti-
ficial barriers destroyed; no need of hiding one's
thoughts and emotions; one could be his real self, shed-
ding all hypocrisy and artifice at the prison gates. But
how dififerent 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 dis-
aster, 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 wit-
ness these scenes.
152
PERSECUTION 153
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 con-
tinued 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
154 pr;son memoirs of an anarchist
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 morn-
ing 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 Brad-
ford, 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.
PERSECUTION 155
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 1"
"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
15^ PRISOlir MEMOIRS OF AIST ANARCHlSt
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 miser-
able for me: his authority in the shop is absolute.
The several plans I revolve in my mind do not
prove, upon closer examination, feasible. Considera-
tions 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 Dmo-
khovsky, his boldness resulting in an additional fifteen
years of kdtorga* Minutely I follow his repeated at-
tempts to escape, the transfer of the redoubtable prisoner
Hard labor in the mines.
PERSECUTION 157
to the Petropavloskaia fortress, and thence to the terrible
Schliisselburg 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.
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,"
158 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.
I!
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 confine-
ment 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 peer-
ing 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 ter-
rible 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
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 oppor-
tunity 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
159
l6o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 neigh-
bor. 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 Super-
intendent 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
THE YEGG i6l
of interest and adventure, its romance, joys and sorrows.
An interesting character, indeed, who facetiously pre-
tends 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;'*' don't need it in
me biz. I'm a yegg."
"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.
* Professional thief.
l62 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 address-
ing 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 con-
founded 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, meas-
ured 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?"
THE YEGG 163
"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* then, I s'pose."
"Not on your life, Mr. Cosson. It v^as 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, discriminate^
and 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
* The penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.
l64 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 reform-
ing 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, Colum-
bus 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 pro-
found 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
THE YEGG 165
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
l66 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
and unknown sympathizers germinate the hope of an
approaching reaction against the campaign of denuncia-
tion. 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 Rob-
ert Reitzel's publication. All the other periodicals ad-
dressed 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, —
Cruss an Btcxandcr J3crhmanl
For days the music of the Dawn rings in my ears.
Again and again recurs the refrain of faith and proud
courage,
Sc^on riiflet jtc^ ber ^retljeit Sc^aar
§ur Ijciligen <Hntfc^etbungsfc^Iac^t;
<Es enbcn ^3iDctunb3rpan3ig* 3<i^t'
PteHeic^t in einer Sturmesnac^tl
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 YEGG 167
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,* now
that Pm in this 'ere shop. Dunno how long I shall
choose to remain, sir, in this magnificent hosiery estab-
lishment, but I see there's a vacant cell next yours, an'
Pm goin' to try an' land there. Are you next, me bye?
Pm goin' to learn you to be wise, sonny. I shall, so to
* Gallery.
l68 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
speak, assume benevolent guardianship over you; over
you and your morals, yes, sir, for you're my kid now,
see?"
"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 some-
thing 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, all 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
THE YEGG 169
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 in-
terrupted— eh, what? You didn't? Oh, what's the
I70 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
matter with you? Don't yer go now an' rooin the
elegant flight of my rhetorical Pegasus with an insignifi-
cant interpolation of mere fact. None of your lip, now,
boy, an' lemme develop this sublime science of moonol-
ogy 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 chap-
eron 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."
THE YEGG 171
"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-11," 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
j machinery, "Red" soon takes up the conversation again.
j "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
jthat. Why, you talk so foolish, you make me plumb
forget myself. Say, that kid is all to the good, ain't
172 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 spin-
ning ghost stories, or whatever you call it. I don't be-
lieve 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, and 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, disgust-
ing! You talk like a man up a tree, you holy sky-pilot.".
THE YEGG 173
"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.* Oh, it is quite evident, sir,
you have not delved into the esoteric mysteries of
moonology, nor tasted the mellifluous fruit on the for-
bidden tree of — "
"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
i human being would be capable of such iniquity. I must
■ not suffer "Red's" chaffing to disturb me.
* A boy serving his apprenticeship with a full-fledged tramp.
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.* 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 sur-
♦ Reading backward, pobeg; Russian for "escape.**
THE ROUTE SUB ROSA 1^5
roundings; 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* 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,t
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.
* Sub rosa route, t Russian for "guard.
CHAPTER XII
'2UCHTHAUSBLUETHEN''
A DENSE FOG riscs 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 w^ith angry frov^n. 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 com-
munication 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' yoilr
ears."
"I didn't know you could talk this way."
"You didn't? Well, you know now. Them's empty
176
"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" 177
pipes, no standin' water, see ? Fine t' talk. Oh, dammit
to--"
The words arc lost in the gurgle of rushing water.
Presently the flow subsides, and the knocking is re-
sumed. 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, Horse-
thief 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
178 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
you want, but always to th' same cell as you're my Cd/
6, understand? Now if you wan' t' talk to Cell 14, tc
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 oughten 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 talk-
ing 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
"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" 179
on this 'ere range. I'll sneak around to you in the
mornin', when I go t' fetch me can of bootleg. Now,
jiggaroo,* screw's comin'."
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 correspond-
ence. Again and again I review the arguments eluci-
dating 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 grad-
ually ripens our previously brief and superficial acquaint-
ance into closer intimacy. There is something in Carl
Nold that especially attracts me: I sense in him a con-
genial spirit. His spontaneous frankness appeals to me;
my heart echoes his grief at the realization of Most's
unpardonable behavior. But the ill-concealed antag-
onism 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 An-
archist leaflet among the Homestead workers. On the
other hand, both Carl and Henry appreciate my efforts
* Look out.
l8o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
on the witness stand, to exonerate them from complicity
in my act. Their condemnation, as acknowledged An-
archists, 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 impres-
sions, and discuss prison gossip. I learn the history of
the movement in the twin cities, the personnel of An-
archist circles, and collect a fund of anecdotes about
Albrecht, the philosophic old shoemaker whose dimin-
utive 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 determine 1 to kill me.
"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" l8l
The personal tenor of our correspondence is grad-
ually 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 circum-
spection; 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 cor-
respondence, and fills us with dismay. But the genius
of our faithful postman, of proud horsethieving procliv-
ities, proves equal to the occasion : Bob constitutes him-
self 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 cor-
respondence into a magazinelet, and wax warm over
the proposed list of readers. Before long the first issue
of the Zuchthausbliithen'^ is greeted with the encour-
aging approval of our sole subscriber, whose contribu-
tion 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 Meis-
tersinger, with dominion over the department of poetry.
* Prison Blossoms.
l82 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
Soon we plan more pretentious issues: the outward
size of the pubHcation 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 ed-
itors. The appearance of the Bluthen 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."* 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 Bluthen 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-con-
tributors. The publication, its contents growing in
transit, is finally to reach the second contributor, upon
whom will devolve the editorial management of the
following issue.
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 hand-
writing heightens the interest, and stimulates speculation
on the personality of our increasing readers-contrib-
utors. 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, arid
a dissertation on "The Nature of Things" is interspersed
with prison small-talk and personal reminiscence.
Flashes of unstudied humor and unconscious rivalry
♦Initial of the German klein, small
"ZUCHTHAUSBLUETHEN" 183
of orthography lend peculiar charm to the unconven-
tional editorials, and waft a breath of Josh Billings
into the manuscript pages.
But the success of the Zuchthausbluthen soon dis-
covers 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 imagina-
tion, causes us grave anxiety lest his untamable Peg-
asus traverse the limits of our paper supply. The ap-
palling 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.
Ill
The presence of Hugh F. Dempsey and Robert J.
Beatty, prominent in the Knights of Labor organization,
offers opportunity for propaganda among workers rep-
resenting 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 revolu-
tionary tactics. Labor can never be unjus^ '*n 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
184 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
am saddened by their denial of complicity in the scheme
of wholesale extermination of the scabs. The black-
leg 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 hu-
manity.
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 dis-
covery, disaster. But perseverance and intelligent pur-
pose 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
Attentat er and the social significance of conscious indi-
vidual protest. The discussion ramifies, the interest
aroused soon transcending the limits of my paper sup-
ply. Presently I am involved in a correspondence with
several men, whose questions and misinterpretations re-
garding 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 Zuchthaushluthen.
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 scru-
tinizes 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. Til 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 repeaty 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 civiliza-
tion,— 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
I8S
l86 PRISON MEMOIRS 01^ A^ ANARCHIST
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, horned 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 lams 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 lams by the
thumbs till th' poor boy was almost dead. For nothin',
too. Suppose you remember, don't you? lams 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."
THE JUDAS 187
"An' that damn Sandy swore in th' papers he didn't
beheve 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 Eng-
lish. But whenever that skunk of a Warden is the
subject of conversation, sir, even my usually imper-
turbable 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 gras^
l88 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
whose very presence, sir, is a mortal insult to a self-
respecting member of my clan, — Mr. Patrick Gallagher,
pf the honorable Pinkerton family, sir."
"Gallagher?" I ask, in astonishment. "The inform-
er, 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 experi-
ment?"
"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 bow-
els of earth and man, sir, ascribed the sudden and phe-
nomenal 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-man-
nered 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
THE JUDAS 189
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 plen-
itude 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 I, 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-11! Don' stand there an' gape at me
I90 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
like a wooden Injun. Has the unexpected revelation
of my magnanimous generosity deprived you of artic-
ulate 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 del-
icacies.
''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 con-
fession 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 cal-
culated 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 con-
fessions, mutually contradictory and exclusive. Does
that strike you in th' right spot, sonny?"
THE JUDAS 191
*'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 of¥. 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 man-
ner—"
"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 common-
wealth, charged with the sacred duty of protecting its
interests in my prosecution. And all the time he was
the mouthpiece of Prick'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
192 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 f er you. Catch
me swinging for the peo-pul! The cattle don't deserve
any better than they get, that's what / 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 con-
fession. 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."
THE JUDAS 193
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 I 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
194 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 impu-
dence. 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,"* Johnny Davis whispers to me. "A
top-notcher," he adds, admiringly.
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 class-
room by a fierce gendarme. The boys had been missing
their lunches, and Kolya confessed the theft. Vv^e ran
* Pickpocket.
195
196 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.^
'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 insinua-
tion. "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.
♦ Thief.
THE DIP ^7
''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?"
198 PRISON "MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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?"
THE DIP 199
"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,
if 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; every-
200 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
body in the dump knew it was a cold-blooded murder,
with no provocation at all. It*s a regular ring, you see,
and that old Warden is the biggest grafter of them all;
and that sky-pilot, too, is an A i 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 eyes 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
I bosom, the delicate white throat, the babyish face with
I large, wistful eyes. Why, it is Luba ! My blood tingles
1 violently, passionately, as I live over again the rapturous
i wonder at the first touch of her maiden breast. How
I temptingly innocent sounded the immodest invitation on
jthe velvety lips, how exquisite the suddenness of it all!
5Ve were in New Haven then. One by one we had
■ 1 201
202 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 disap-
peared, and the insj^iration 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
Trtt£ Urge of sex ^03
bliss. We had just returned from the performance
of Tosca, with Sarah Bernhardt in her inimitaDie
role. I had to pass through Luba's room on my wa)'^
to the attic, in the little house occupied by the . com-
mune. 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 won't 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 re-
leased the coverlet.
. "They are very beautiful, Luba," I said, controlling
I the tremor of my voice.
i "You— like them, really, Sasha?" The large eyes
' looked lustrous and happy.
"They are Greek, dear," and snatching the last cov^r-
I ing aside, I kissed her between the breasts.
204 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 enchant-
ment 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 s<
grows more and more insistent. Scenes from the p^st
THE URGE OF SEX 205
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 win-
dow across the street, and a bevy of girls pass me de-
murely, 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 af-
fright 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,* tsiba, ba-aa!" and I soundly thrash Kolya for
shouting nasty epithets across the school yard at little
Nunya, whom I secretly adore.
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 v/ould 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, chil-
dren . . . 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 long-
* Goat: derisively applied to schoolgirls.
2(^ 'l^RISbN MEMblT^ OF Xn anarchisI:
ings of my Russian youth, iand gives rapt iriterpfetatioh
to obscurely Ipulsating idealism. It sheds the halo of
iiilurrtinatitiyE^ jjustifieation upon my blindly rebellious
iSpirit, ^nd ^vtSUailii^es tt^y 'breams on the sunlit moun-
tains. tThe sordid misery of my "greenhorn" days as-
sumes -a new aspect. Ah, the wretchedness of those
ifirst years in America! .... And still Time's woof and
^arp unroll the tapestry of life in the New World, its
joys and heart-throbs. I stand a lone stranger, bewil-
dered 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 em-
brace the new life. I join the ranks of the world's pro-
ducers, 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 com-
parison 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." Sweat-
shop bread is bitter. Oppression guards the golden prom-
ise, 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 in-
terest, translated into the struggle of a world's emancipa-
THE URGE OF SEX 30/
tion. 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-im-
posed poverty and sacrifices, the feverish tide of agi-
tation in the wake of the Chicago martyrdom, the eve-
nings 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 re-
joice, as, with exaggerated deference, we eagerly en-
courage 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 adjourn-
ing to "the corner." The obscure little tea room re-
sounds with the joust of learning and wit. Fascinat-
ing 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
2o8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 TrovatoreJ' 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 pro-
testations, 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-f ee ! Want coffee ? Hey, git up there ! Didn't
you hear th' bell?"
CHAPTER XVI
THE WARDEN'S THREAT
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* me."
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?"
Search.
209
2IO PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
''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.
THE WARDEN'S THREAT 211
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, —
212 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 mo-
ments 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 despera-
THE WARDEN'S THREAT 213
tion — a hollow echo mocks the clanking iron. My hands
tear violently at the door — "Ho, there! Any one here?"
All is silent. Nameless terrors quiver in my mind, weav-
ing 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
slimibering 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! Tn keen
sensuousness I stretch out on the bed. The tick is soiled,
the straw protrudes in places, but it is luxury to rest,
214 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 unneces-
sarily 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? Prob-
ably 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 communica-
THE WARDEN'S THREAT 21$
tion 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. Watch-
ful 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 uncom-
plimentary 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 investi-
gation. 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.
2l6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.
Ill
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."
THE WARDEN'S THREAT 517
"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. "Disturb-
ing 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."
2i8 PRISON MEMOIRS OB" AH ANARCHIST
"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 'Tennsylvania 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 con-
stant 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 thq
219
220 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dark-
ness, 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 he! 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 pur-
pose, 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 sur-
render! 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 bend-
ing over me, his head pressing against my body. Some-
how 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
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,
but 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
221
222 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 per-
sistently 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
THE SOLITARY 523
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 brake-
. man, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for
i 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
224 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dol-
lars 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 ascend-
ant on the ruins of manhod — 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 for-
giveness for his "sins." The prosecutor was "very
THE SOLITARY 225
hard" on him, he told me. The blind mole perceives
only the immediate, and is embittered against the per-
sons 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 com-
munism, 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 advance-
ment ; with savage joy the shop foreman cracks his whip,
for his meed of the gold-transmuted blood. The fam-
ished 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
226 PRISON MEMOIRS OP AN ANARCHIST
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 under-
stand, 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 thiok of the new
hope, the revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi
was wise beyond his ken : it hath been given to no man to
I
THE SOLITARY 227
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 impa-
tience. 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.
Ill
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 mutter-
ing menacingly in the distance, then dying with a growl.
And all is hushed again, and only the unearthly laughter
rings through the hall.
228 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 wit, 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 flag-
stones.
With great relief I learn that "Crazy Smithy" is not
dead. He will recover, the rangeman assures me. The
doctor bandaged the man's wounds, and then the prisoner,
still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon. Little
by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith
has been insane, at times violently, ever since his impris-
THE SOLITARY 229
onment, about four years ago. His "partner," Burns, has
also become deranged through worry over his sentence of
twenty-five years. His madness assumed such revolting
expression that the authorities caused his commitment
to the insane asylum. But Smith remains on "crank
row," the Warden insisting that he is shamming to gain
an opportunity to escape.
IV
The rare snatches of conversation with the old range-
man 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 unvary-
ing sameness. By violent efforts of will I strangle the
recurring thought of my long sentence, and seek for-
getfulness 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 semi-
conscious manner, to finish the calculation:
264 X 30 = 7,920 days.
7,920 X 24 = 190,080 hours.
190,080X60=11,404,800 minutes.
11,404,800X60 = 684,288,000 seconds.
But the next moment I am aghast at the realization
230 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
1 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 con-
fusion, 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
THE SOLITARY 231
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 th.t ^s^ild laughter oi *'Crazy Smith" in
the stillness of the nignt, and with the moaning and
wailing of my neighbor suddenly fione mad.
CHAPTER XIX
MEMORY-GUESTb
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 com-
rades, are the only links that still bind me to the liv-
ing. 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 range-
man, grown nervous with the approach of liberty, invents
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 com-
mented upon with impassioned earnestness. He inter-
rupts 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]
232
MEMORY-GUESTS 233
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,
ril 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 yester-
day 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 ;
I the will to be roots deeper. But the hope of escape
j 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
if ear of an Anarchist conspiracy: special orders have
been issued, placing the trio under extraordinary
isurveillance. Suspecting our clandestine correspondence,
yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to
separate us in a manner excluding all possibility of com-
nunication. Apparently I am to be continued in the
jolitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the South
iVing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an
ipper gallery in the North Block. The precious maga-
:ine is suspended, and only the daring of the faithful
Horsethief" enables us to exchange an occasional note.
234 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dic-
tionaries, 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 philos-
ophies, to rationalism and evolutionary science.
Oblivious of my environment, I walk with the dis-
ciples 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 l|
with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three giai
slaves with the command:
"A 7, hands up 1 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
terness of death.
MEMORY-GUESTS 235
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
I 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. Some-
thing 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,
iaint, 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.
A.11 the longing of my soul wells up with violent pas-
sion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself
ipon the earth, and weep and kiss it in prayerful
>liss
The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the
iark. Silently lifts the veil of time. The little New
fork flat rises before me. The Girl is returning home,
he roses of youth grown pallid amid the shadows of
eath. Only her eyes glow firmer and deeper, a look
£ challenge in her saddened face. As on an open page,
read the suffering of her prison experience, the
arper lines of steadfast purpose. . . . The joys and
rrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again
live in the old surroundings. The memorable scene
f our first meeting, in the little cafe at Sachs', projects
2z(i PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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;
"ni see, ril see." — Somehow I find myself at her table.
Without constraint, we soon converse like old acquaint-
ances, 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 conduct-
ing 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." Th
ancient sidewalks are uneven and cracked, in spoi
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
rl
MEMORY-GUESTS ^37
have saved my life," she smiles at me, her eyes .'.ancing
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 mys-
tery ; 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 ex-
p>erience in the Odessa prison. Timmermann and
Aleinikoff, Rinke and Weinstein — all are united in
enthusiasm for the common cause. Types from Tur-
geneV and Chernishevski, from Dostoyevski and Ne-
krassov, mingle in the seeming confusion of reality, in-
dividualized 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 amal-
gam, 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
I years of the inspiring friendship that held the Girl, the
1 .^Ewin, and myself in the closest bonds of revolutionary
23^ PRISON MEMblRS OP AN ANX:rCHIST
aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of intere^
and rich ipromise was life in 'those days, ^so Sar away,
vwhen-af t^r tthe hours of ^humiliating drudgery iintthe fac-
ttory U would -hasten ^to tthe ^little room m Suffolk Street !
vSmall vand inarTOW, wiih iits 'diminutive table and solitary
fidhair, iihe c^e-ilike Ibedroom would be transfigured into
tihe sandtified 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 im-
portance to impose upon me the duty of existence. And
even if it were, the almost three years of my imprison-
ment have served the purpose. Escape is out of con-
sideration, so long as I remain constantly under lock
and key, the subject of special surveillance. Communi-
cation 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 re-
sistance ? 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
MEMORY-GUESTS 239
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 be-
fore 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 unutter-
able longing for the unattained. And again I live
through the experiences of the past, passionately visual-
izing 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
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 corre-
spondence.
Over a year in solitary. It's almost like liberty to be out
of the cell!
M.
II
My position as coflFee-boy affords many opportunities
for closer contact with the prisoners. I assist the range-
man in taking care of a row of sixty- four cells situated
on the ground floor, and lettered K. Above it are, suc-
cessively, 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
240
«
CELL RANGES — SOUTH BLOCK
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 241
ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and
forty cells, are contained within the outer stone build-
ing, and comprise the North Block of the penitentiary.
It connects with the South Wing by means of the
rotunda.
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 gal-
lery 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. Grow-
ing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers coars-
ened 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
242 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
drive to me girl's house, big-like. In I goes. Tut on
your glad duds, Kate,' I says, says I, 'I'll give you the
drive of your Hfe.' And I did; you bet your sweet Hfe,
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 strik-
ing 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 dark-
ened 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
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 243
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 Cap-
tain'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
244 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 neg-
lected: 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 increas-
ing signs of insanity among the solitaries.
Ill
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 asth-
matic, 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 en-
ters, 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 brows. 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 b^ore noon,
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 245
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 dis-
tances.
"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 morn-
ing—"
"All right," the doctor interrupts, without looking
up from his note book. "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 bulg-
ing tumors.
"Number?" the doctor inquires.
"One-thirty-seven, A one-thirty-seven!" the Deputy
mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh hand-
ful of "scrap" tobacco.
246 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 1" 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
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE ^47
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 intermis-
sion, 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 din-ner!" 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.
24^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHISt
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 I"
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 249
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 'bez-
!eh,"
'''^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.
At the head of the hall, Senior Officer Woods and
Assistant Deputy Hopkins sit at the desk. Of superb
250 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 morn-
ing shift, from 5 A. M. to i 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 ad-
dresses 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, Gunnel."
Woods struggles to suppress a smile. Hopkins
laughs, and motions to the negro. The trusty joins them
at the desk.
"ril 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, Jas-
per?"
"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,
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 251
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 anec-
dotes, 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, re-
252 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
served for the guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket,
takes several quick gulps, wabbles back to the desk, and
sinks heavily into Woods's seat.
"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. Assis-
tant 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 fum-
bling 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 so soon
another Deputy like old Jimmie. He was Deputy all
right, every inch of him. Wouldn't stand for the qH
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE ^53
man, the Warden, interfering with him, either. Not
Hke 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 spit-
toon."
Greaves wakes with a start, and gazes stupidly about ;
presently, noticing the trusty with the large cuspidor,
he 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 how 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 rab-
bit 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 un-
naturally 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. "Wil-
son," 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,
254 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
but catching the severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts ve-
hemently: "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 stiflly 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 satis-
faction.
"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
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 255
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 rap-
ping 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 mo-
ment 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 :
^5^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 i8.
"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 morn-
ing."
"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, deliber-
ately, slowly — one, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend
from the galleries, and advance to the desk. The range-
men appear at their doors.
A DAY IN THE ^ELL-HOUSE 257
"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 stamp-
ing, 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 whis-
pers 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 backs and arms covered with white-
wash, 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 ofH-
cers' desk.
258 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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,
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 259
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 open-
ings 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 un-
lock 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 tlie block to the centre,
ascend the galleries, and arc locked in their cells.
The loud tempo of many feet, marching in step,
26o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 Jim-
mie" Mitchell, rough-spoken and kind, heads the second
shift of officers, on duty from i till 9 P. M. The vener-
able 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 club-
bing, 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 walk-
ing 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?"
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 261
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 your 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 to-
ward 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 in 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."
2.(i2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"Lay down now I 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 ex-
posure."
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 im-
parting 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.
A DAY IN THE CELL-HOUSE 263
But the subjects of common interest are soon ex-
hausted. 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 misfor-
tune, 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 bewil-
dered 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 trage-
dies 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 ex-
264
THE DEEDS OF THE GOOT) TO THE EVIL 26^
ecuted, and he commuted to life because of youth. He
is barely eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He
has been acting queerly of late: at night I often hear
him muttering and walking, walking incessantly and
muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes, rest-
less, 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-0-0? 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'
266 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
American man an Arish holler, 'Dago s b f raida
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 Ameri-
can 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 dol-
lar, 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 at-
tempted 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,
sliouting, "Me wife! Where's me wife?" He rushes
THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL 267
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. Sud-
denly they rush. upon him, blackjacks in hand. "Me
wife, me seen her !" the Austrian cries. The blood gush-
ing 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, al-
most 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 serv-
ing 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 de-
fective 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
268 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
from the cell, and place him in the dungeon. One morn-
ing, 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 wander-
ing 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 Num-
ber 9521, a young man from Altoona. I knew him quite
well. He was a kind boy and a diligent worker; but
THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL 269
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 fol-
lowed the established practice, and last evening, at
"music hour," while the men were scraping their instru-
ments, "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 pro-
duce a cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out
the better principles of his nature."
CHAPTER XXII
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL
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 dis-
charged 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 sub-
servient 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
270
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 271
War; several among them had suffered incarceration in
Libby Prison. These often manifest a more sympa-
thetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, how-
ever, 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 *'can-
didate." It is a point of honor in their unwritten ethics
to "treat him white." They frown upon the fellow-con-
vict 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 posi-
tion, and depreciating its financial desirability for an
ambitious young man; they impress upon him the War-
den's unfairness to the guards, and the lack of oppor-
tunity 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 "break-
ing in" : the new man is constantly drafted in the "club-
bing squad," the older officers setting the example of
2^2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 un-
duly 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 tear-
ful 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. Re-
peated 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
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 273
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 in-
tricate 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 lat-
ter encourage the trusties in unearthing the secret do-
ings 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 pun-
ished, usually remaining in utter ignorance of the in-
trigue. The provocateur is rewarded with greater lib-
erty and special privileges. Frequently his treachery
proves the stepping-stone to freedom, aided by the War-
den'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
274 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
the prisoners," the Warden informs new applicants, *'and
two hundred volunteers to watch both." The "volun-
teers" are vested with unofficial authority, often exceed-
ing that of the inferior officers. They invariably secure
the sinecures of the prison, involving little work and
affording opportunity for espionage. They are *'run-
ners," "messengers," yard and office men.
Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are
awarded to influential prisoners, such as bankers, em-
bezzlers, and boodlers. These are known in the insti-
tution 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 ex-
pression, 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 be-
friend 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 com-
plaints, their family troubles, and their whispered ambi-
tion of promotion and fear of the Warden's discrimina-
tion.
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 275
The more intelligent officers are the easiest vic-
tims 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 under-
currents. 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 con-
fesses 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 notori-
ety upon them.
Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the
trusties, or fearful of punishment, the "con man" ma-
tures his campaign. He writes a note to a fellow-pris-
oner. 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 collec-
tively. 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 Gov-
ernment, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person.
Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantita-
tively inadequate food? he demands. Does not the
State appropriate thousands of dollars for the sup-
port of the penitentiary, besides the money received from
the counties? — With keen scalpel the "con man" dis-
sects the anatomy of the institution. One by one he
analyzes the industries, showing the most intimate
knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and
27(i PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 pro-
tection of free labor. The broom shop is leased by con-
tract 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 manu-
facture.
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 authori-
ties 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 suffer-
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL V1
ing a comparatively short sentence, he looks upon his
imprisonment as, in a measure, a rest-cure from the wear
and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he
scorns work in general, prison labor in particular. He
avoids it with unstinted expense of energy and effort.
As a last resort, he plays the "jigger" card, producing
an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every appear-
ance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be fright-
ened 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 indig-
nantly. "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 "ex-
cused" 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 in-
mate, 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 conflict-
ing rules, and finally initiates him into the "higher wis-
dom" 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 experi-
ence and reputation. With conscious superiority he
278 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 buz-
zers."* He is gravely concerned with the somewhat
roughened condition of his hands, and the possible dull-
ing of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers, generally
successfully, for lighter work, to "limber up a bit," "jol-
lies" 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. f He argues the need of money
"to leave the State." Often he does leave. More fre-
quently 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.
The great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occa-
sional 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 monoto-
nous 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 con-
* Women thieves.
t Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the
County of Allegheny — in which the Western Penitentiary is
located — receive only five dollars.
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 279
tradictory 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 appro-
priation for a new chapel having been secured) making
church-going optional. They are astonished at the sud-
den 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.
Ill
Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasper-
ating 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
2&) PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
printed slip which the officer will give you." The writ-
ten 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 un-
friendly 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 post-
poned. 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 com-
plaint to some member of the highest authority in the
penitentiary — the Board of Inspectors. These are sup-
posed 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 Secre-
tary of the Board, Mr. Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pitts-
burgh, 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 up-
wards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he inquires
of the rangeman:
"Whose cell is this?"
"A 1108, Mr. Reed," the prisoner informs him.
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 281
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 care-
fully adjusts the little looking-glass and the rules, hang-
ing 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 punish-
ment. 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?"
282 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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, momenta-
rily 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.
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 283
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 mal-
treatment 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
284 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 "subscrip-
tions" 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, an-
other sketching a "pete man," with mask and dark lan-
tern, 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 cari-
catures of the officials ; the balance of the Blossoms con-
sists 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 "sec-
ond-story man," or some sex experience by "Magazine
Alvin." One of the associate editors lampoons "Billy-
THE GRIST OF THE PRISON-MILL 285
goat Benny," the Deputy Warden; "K" sketches the
"Shop Screw" and "The Trusted Prisoner"; and "G"
relates the story of the recent strike in his shop, the
men's demand for clear pump water instead of the liquid
mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the
strike by the exile of a score of "rioters" to the dungeon.
In the next issue the incident is paralleled with the
Pullman Car Strike, and the punished prisoners eulogized
for their courageous stand, some one dedicating an ultra-
original poem to the "Noble Sons of Eugene Debs."
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 inter-
est 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 con-
fidence in our resourceful frienH, we give the matter
serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious
projept 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
286 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
writing material, to the larger purpose. We decide to
honor the approaching day, so pregnant with revolution-
ary inspiration, and as the sun bursts in brilliant splendor
on the eastern skies, the First of May, 18^5, he steals a
blushing beam upon the heading of the first chapter —
"The Homestead Strike."
CHAPTER XXIII
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE
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 assist-
ant, 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.
I 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 ?"
287
288 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"Nothing that I know of."
*'0h, 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,
%V 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 uncon-
cealed 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 unex-
plained. Notwithstanding the Chaplain's promise to
intercede in my behalf, I remain locked "in," and again
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 289
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 move-
ment, 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 favor-
able 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 sen-
tence involves recourse to the courts ! The sudden real-
ization fills me with dismay. I cannot be guilty of a
sacrifice of principle to gain freedom; the mere sug-
gestion 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
290 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
maximum penalty should not have exceeded seven years ;
the Supreme Court would undoubtedly reverse the
judgment of the lower tribunal, specifically the convic-
tion 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 ap-
pealed his case to the Supreme Court, and the Girl also
took advantage of a legal defence. Considerable pro-
paganda resulted from it. Should I refuse the oppor-
tunity which would offer such a splendid field for agita-
-* tion? 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 pre-
tence of impartial right. It decided against Most, sus-
taining the prejudiced verdict of the trial jury. They
n^y, do the same in my case. But that very circumstance
will serve to confirm our arraignment of class justice,
'"i'^hall 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 uncon-
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 291
stitutionallty 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 I 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 Gen-
eral" disturbs my resolution. I learn that in Pennsyl-
vania 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 Garri-
son, 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.
292 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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, neces-
sarily 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 Cap-
tain Wright and the officers for so successfully protect-
ing the community. The Warden is deeply affected, and
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 293
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; Jas-
per'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 re-
fused 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."
294 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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' conver-
sation, 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
THE SCALES OF JUSTICE 295
concealed in the buckle of a pair of suspenders. The
runner is highly elated, and assures me of success, direct-
ing 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 sur-
reptitious 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?"
296 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
**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 look-
ing 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. Inspec-
tor," "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 in-
terest 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 lan-
guage of a strange world, with its bewildering flurry and fer-
ment, 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 inter-
est 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 communica-
tions 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
297
298 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 oil 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 apply-
ing 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 polit-
ical 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 con-
sidering; 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 pror
cure 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 sur-
veillance and constantly discriminated against, though "K" and
"G" are permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infan-
tile terror of the authorities : it is bruited about that a "certain
Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was
Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat
against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited Inspector
Reed at his business place, and requested to see me. The In-
THOUGHTS THAT STOLE OUT OF PRISON 299
spector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty walls
down." I could not determine whether there is any foundation
for the story, but it is circulated here, and the prisoners firmly
believe it explains my deprivation of visits.
That is a characteristic instance of local conditions. In-
voluntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the bru-
talities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian prisons.
He would find it almost impossible to learn the true con-
ditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the
rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the pur-
pose ; 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 suc-
ceeded 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.
I 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?
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, dissatisfac-
tion 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.
300
HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY? 301
I keep busy helping the men exchange notes matur-
ing 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 trust-
worthy, 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
302 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
their columns. Ryan cynically derides the faithlessness
of convict promises; Butch rages and swears 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-11," 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 treach-
ery of the released men fills him with resentment and
suspicion of every one. He is impatient of my sugges-
tion 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 pa-
pers 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 start-
lingly significant excerpts from Grant's letter. Editor-
ially, however, the indictment is ignored by the major-
ity of the Pittsburgh papers. One writer comments
HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY? 303
ambiguously, in guarded language, suggesting the im-
probability 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 dis-
charged 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 peni-
tentiary. December is on the wane, and the Board is
expected to visit Riverside after the holidays.
Ill
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.
304 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
It has again been demonstrated by the Congressional "inquiry"
into the Carnegie blow-hole armor plate; in the terrible revela-
tions regarding Superintendent Brockway, of the Elmira Re-
formatory— a veritable den for maiming and killing; and in
numerous other instances. Warden Wright also was investi-
gated, 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 in-
vestigation 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 pres-
entation 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 suffi-
cient 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 antici-
pate 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
neded. 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
HOW SHALL THE DEPTHS CRY?
305
to the press the existence of gambling in the prison, the
selling of bakery and kitchen provisions for cash, the pos-
session of weapons, and the possibility of underground com-
munication.)
(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.
306 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
(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.
(/) Librar}^: 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.
(^f) 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 de-
ducted, and the balance paid to their families or depend-
ents; in case none such appear, the amount shall be, paid
to the convict at the expiration of his term of imprison-
ment.
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
It is New Year's eve. An air of pleasant anticipa-
tion 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=^riced,' 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 con-
fident assurance, yet tinged with anxiety. There is great
rejoicing among the men. Only Sol, the lifer, is queru-
lous : he doesn't care a snap about the "extra feed" — stom-
ach still sour from the Christmas dinner — and, anyhow,
it only makes the week-a-day "grub" more disgusting.
307
308 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
The rules are somewhat relaxed. The hallmen con-
verse 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 swell-
ing 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 accept-
ance. "Little Frenchy," the spirited grayhead on the
HIDING THE EVIDENCE 309
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 near-
by 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 gas-
light. In maudlin tones they command silence, and bid
the men retire to bed. The younger, more daring, chal-
lenge the order with husky howls and catcalls, — a defiant
shout, a groan, and all is quiet.
310 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
Daybreak wakes the turmoil and uproar. For twen-
ty-four hours the long-repressed animal spirits are ram-
pant. 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 ex-
pected 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
HIDING THE EVIDENCE 311
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 de-
posited with several trustworthy friends on the range.
Everything is ready for the investigation, and we con-
fidently await the coming of the Board of Charities.
Ill
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 "pun-
ishment duty" for incurring the displeasure of the War-
den. The keepers smile at the indiscreet Scot inter-
fering 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 per-
quisites. 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 Offi-
312 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
cer Mcllvaine, 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 com-
batants 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 Mcllvaine 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 *01d 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 / picked out ? Others talk, too."
"Ye-e-s?" he drawls sarcastically; then, turning to
HIDING THE EVIDENCE 313
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. Mcllvaine?"
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 manage-
ment of the institution. But I will break your connec-
tions. 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 remov-
ing 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. Mcllvaine."
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
314 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 commit-
tee. 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 Chap-
lain their desire to testify; their statements will remain
unsupported in the absence of my proofs. I must re-
join 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
Kousekeeping.'* It is the sole means of being trans-
ferred 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, pro-
ducing 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 occa-
sionally communicates with "G." The note rolled into
a little ball, I shoot between the bars to the waiting
prisoner. Now everything is prepared.
HIDING THE EVIDENCE 315
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 pre-
paring to assault me. Quickly advancing to the War-
den, I shook my fist in his face, crying:
"If they touch me, I'll hold you personally responsi-
ble."
He turned pale. Trying to steady his voice, he de-
manded :
"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.
316
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 317
"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 wan-
dering, 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.
V "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. . . .
318 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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,
Mcllvaine, 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 at-
tacks upon obstreperous prisoners. Smith is always as-
signed 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.
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 319
"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. IVe just
— skilled 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" per-
sisted, 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.
320 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 Nekras-
sov; the boys don't understand a word, but the sorrow-
laden tones appeal to them, and they request more Rus-
sian "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 Re-
publican. "Me gran'fader and me fader was Republi-
cans," 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
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 321
to explain the difference in the money standards. Tom-
my 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 sub-
jects. 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
322 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 man-
ner. 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
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 323
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 return-
ing, and our fears are allayed. The boy rejoices on my
account, and brims over with appreciation of my inter-
cession.
The incident cements our intimacy; our first diffi-
dence 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?"
*T 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
324 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
you? I was thinking, Sashenka — if you were here with
me — I would Hke 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
Wind 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 ex-
piration 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
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 325
by the terrible suggestion, my nerves on edge with the
dungeon experience, I storm in furious protest, demand-
ing 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 range-
man 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 Secre-
tary, J. Francis Torrance, an intimate friend of the
Warden, to conduct the investigation. As a precaution-
ary measure, I was kept several additional days in the
dungeon. Mr. Torrance has privately interviewd
"Dutch" Adams, Young Smithy, and Bob Runyon,
promising them their full commutation time, notwith-
standing 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 "investiga-
tion" 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 mes-
senger for the "front office," the most privileged "polit-
ical" 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
326 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ex-
tremely 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, bring-
ing 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 Mcllvaine 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 com-
miseration; it was he who had selected me as a victim, to
LOVE'S DUNGEON FLOWER 327
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 Ed-
ward S. Wright. The base charges against the manage-
ment 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 in-
subordination 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 cir-
cumstanc'e 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.
I
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 some-
thing 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 pad-
locks. 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 pn
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
328
FOR SAFETY 329
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
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
330
DREAMS OF FREEDOM 331
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 ambiiton and self-indulgence, the play-
thing 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 per-
sistence, 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 in-
form 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
332 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
the institution; I have gathered information and ex-
plored every part of the cell-house offering the least
likelihood of an escape. The prison is almost impreg-
nable; Tom's attempt to scale the wall proved disastrous,
in spite of his exceptional opportunities as kitchen em-
ployee, 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 im-
practicable 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 under-
ground 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 op-
portunity to disappear into the hidden opening on the
regular biweekly occasions when the solitaries are per-
mitted 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 sim-
ilar 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 tremen-
dous impression the consummation of the bold plan
DREAMS OF FREEDOM 333
will make! What a stimulus to our propaganda, as
a demonstration of Anarchist initiative and ability! I
glow with the excitement of its great possibiltiies, and
enthuse Carl with my hopes. If the preparatory work
is hastened, the execution of the plan will be facil-
itated by the renewed agitation within the prison. Ru-
mors of a legislative investigation are afloat, diverting
the thoughts of the administration into different chan-
nels. 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 encour-
ages 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
334 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
arisen between the management and Mr. Sawhill, Su-
perintendent 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 in-
human treatment, abuse of the insane, and graft. The
labor bodies of the State demand the abolition of con-
vict 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 vi«^it the Girl,
explain my project, and serve as the medium of com-
munication by means of our prearranged system, in-
vesting apparently innocent official letters with sub rosa
meaning. The initial steps will require time. Mean-
while "K" and "G" are to make the necessary arrange-
ments 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
DREAMS OF FREEDOM 335
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."* 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.
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 com-
pelled. They revert obstinately to my comrades, and
storm against my steel cage, trying to pierce the dis-
tance, to commune with the absent. I seek diversion
in the manufacture of prison "fancy work," ornamen-
tal 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
♦ German for "screw."
336 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dis-
membering 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 sub-
terfuge 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 'VPenn-
sylvania diet'* for insulting an officer.
CHAPTER XXX
WHITEWASHED AGAIN
My Dear Carl : Christmas, 1897.
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. We 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 sup-
plies 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.
337
338 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 every-
thing 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 re-
marked, 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*
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 en-
closing 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
♦The Eastern Penitentiary at Philadelphia, Pa.
WHITEWASHED AGAIN 339
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 sup-
plied 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 life-
timers of their last hope: a clause in the parole bill held
out to them the promise of release after 20 years of good be-
havior.
Dark days are in store for the men. Apparently the cam-
340 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
paign of the Inspectors consists in forcing the repeal of the
Muehlbronner law, by raising the hue and cry of insanity and
sickness. They are actually causing both by keeping half the
population locked up. You know how quickly the solitary drives
certain classes of prisoners insane. Especially the more ignorant
element, whose mental horizon is circumscribed by their personal
troubles and pain, speedily fall victims. Think of men, who
cannot even read, put incommunicado for months at a time,
for years even! Most of the colored prisoners, and those accus-
tomed 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 unneces-
sary. 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
WHITEWASHED AGAIN 341
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.
CHAPTER XXXI
"AND BY ALI, FORGOT. WE ROT AND ROT'
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 deci-
sion. With feverish excitement I pore over the letters
of the Girl, breathing cheer and encouraging news. M^y
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 sym-
pathy augurs well for the application. The United
Labor League of Pennsylvania, representing over a hun-
dred thousand toilers, has passed a resolution favor-
ing my release. Together with other similar expressions,
individual and collective, it will be laid before the Par-
don Board, and it is confidently expected that the au-
thorities 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
342
"AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 343
near the fateful moment. Visions of liberty flutter before
me, glorified by the meeting with the Girl and my for-
mer 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 mis-
ery 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 mis-
giving 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 affa-
bility. "I have just received a message from Harris-
burg. Your attorney requests me to inform you that the
Pardon Board has now reached your case. It is prob-
ably under consideration at this moment."
/
344 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 re-
marks, 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 re-
fused 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 sus-
picions.
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
"AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 345
hallman is going home to-morrow. You would like the
position?" he eyes me curiously.
"Yes."
*'ril consider it."
I rise weakly, but he detains me : "By the way, Berk-
man, look at this."
He holds up a small wooden box, disclosing several
casts of plaster of par is. I wonder at the strange pro-
ceeding.
"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 pos-
itive 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?"
346 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"The government and the people are not synony-
mous."
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 lo-
cated two tiers above you. Now, Berkman, the man-
agement 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
"AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 347
Captain says you are to be assistant rangeman. Report
to Mr. Mcllvaine for a broom."
II
The unexpected relief strengthens the hope of liberty.
Legal methods are of no avail, but now my opportu-
nities for escape are more favorable. Considerable
changes have taken place during my solitary, and the
first necessity is to orient myself. Some of my confi-
dants have been released; others were transferred dur-
ing the investigation period to the South Wing, to dis-
rupt 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 soli-
tary. 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 livin*^
dead, the silence broken only by intermittent savage
yells and the piteous bleating of Mike. The whole
348 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
day these men are locked in, deprived of exercise and
recreation, their rations reduced because of "delin-
quency." 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. More-
over, 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 mod-
ern methods in the treatment of prisoners. As an ex-
pression 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, dis-
astrous though they be to the inmates, are doomed to
failure. No less fatuous is the conceit of his boasted
"AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 349
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.
ni
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 move-
ment, 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 suflfering and pain, and feel the
heart pangs of her unuttered personal sorrows.
Presently I am apprised that some prominent per-
sons interested in my case are endeavoring to secure
350 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ig-
nored 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 correspond-
ence 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 pass-
ing 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 pas-
sion 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
"AND BY ALL FORGOT, WE ROT AND ROT" 351
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
352
THE DEVIOUSNESS OF REFORM LAW APPLIED 353
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 some-
how, 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 accom-
panied 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 enthusias-
tically in favor of the privilege; the sick-line has been so con-
siderably reduced that he estimates his time-saving at two hours
354 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
daily. Some of the boys tell me they have almost entirely ceased
masturbating. The shop employees en\{y 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 telephon-
ing 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 nullify-
ing 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 loojns ! 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
The adverse decision of the Board of Pardons ter-
minates 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 strata-
gem 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 stub-
born resistance of my being. There is no hope of sur-
viving 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 confine-
ment and the solitary have drained my vitality. To en-
dure 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
355
356 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 de-
ranged. But within my area on the range are the recent
arrivals and the sane solitaries; the division of my du-
ties 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 de-
vote 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 pos-
sibilities. But the execution! Why do my friends re-
gard the matter so indifferently? Their tepidity irri-
tates 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 uncer-
tain. Repeatedly I have hinted to my friends the bit-
ter 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 out-
lay, 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
THE TUNNEL 357
of America not equal to a Hartman?* The tacit skep-
ticism 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!
With utmost zeal I cultivate the acquaintance of
Tony. The months of frequent correspondence and oc-
casional 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 range-
man after shop hours, thus enabling him to communi-
cate with me to greater advantage. Gradually we be-
come 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 dar-
ing— the very man to carry out my plan.
For days I debate in my mind the momentous ques-
tion: 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. M'y 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 con-
* Hartman engineered the tunnel beneath the Moscow rail-
way, undermined in an unsuccessful attempt to kill Alexander
II, in 1880.
358 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
sideration 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 ap-
parent 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, sug-
gesting the careful elaboration of details, and the inven-
tion of a cipher to insure greater safety for our corre-
spondence. The precaution is necessary; it will prove
of inestimable value upon his release.
With great circumspection the cryptogram is pre-
pared, based on a discarded system of German short-
hand, 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 construc-
tion 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 with-
out 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
THE TUNNEL 359
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 numer-
ous expressions of my sympathy, often secretly sup-
plying him with little extras procured from my
kitchen friends. The loquacious old man is glad of
an opportunity to converse, and I devote every pro-
pitious 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 asso-
rted, the "great hauls" he had made and "blowed in
with th' fellers." I suffer his chatter patiently, encour-
aging 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 re-
joices over his good chum Patty McGraw managing
to escape. The ever-interesting subject gives "Mac"
a new start, and he waxes enthusiastic over the in-
genuity of Patty, while I express surprise that he him-
self 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, con-
360 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
nectin' th' cellar with th' females, see? Not a dozen
men in th' dump know 't ; not ev'n a good many screws.
Passage ain't been used fer a long time."
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 pur-
pose 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 situa-
tion 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 south-
ern 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
THE TUNNEL 361
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 splen-
did organizer, is absent from the country. But my
friends will carefully follow the directions I have en-
trusted 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 under-
standing, or even suspecting, the innocent-looking flour-
ishes 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 vis-
itor, 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 com-
ing 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
362 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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, 3ittle Dick. Yet others
there are who would rather go cold and hungry in free-
dom, 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. IS, 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 thf^w 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
363
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 tor-
ments 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 de-
livery; 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 reck-
less 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
364
AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 3^5
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 pos-
sibilities, I tremble at every step, fancying lurking
suspicion, sudden discovery, and disaster. But the
days pass; the calm of the prison routine is undis-
turbed, giving no indication of untoward happening
or agitation. By degrees my fears subside. The in-
explicable 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 sus-
picion. 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 dis-
tant. In perplexity I wonder at the peculiar actions
of Hopkins. Had the weapons been found, every in-
mate would immediately be subjected to a search, and
shops and cell-house ransacked.
366 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
In anxious speculation I pass a sleepless night;
morning dawns without bringing a solution. But after
breakfast the eell-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 Prosti-
tute," "Libertas— a Study in Philology," "The Slavery
of Tradition" — harmless products of evening leisure.
Let them find the booklets ! I'll be severely repri-
manded for appropriating material from the shops, but
my sketches will serve to divert suspicion: the War-
den 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 undoubt-
edly 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
AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 3^7
appropriated it without attracting Jim's notice. Yet the
latter's confident assertion of his presence at the win-
dow at the appointed moment indicates another proba-
biHty. 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 con-
fidence. Yet Jim, a "pete man"* of international re-
nown, 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.
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 pre-
viously 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 quan-
tities of various contraband. The counterfeit outfit,
* Safe blower.
368 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
whose product has been circulating beyond the walls
of the prison, is discovered, resulting in a secret in-
vestigation by Federal officials. In the general excite-
ment, the sketches among my effects have been ig-
nored, 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 offi-
cial 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 oppor-
tunity 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 stead-
fastly refusing to be reconciled to the failure. His
time, however, being short, I have been urging him to ac-
cept 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 deli-
cate 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
AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 3^9
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 con-
fidence somewhat shaken by my resolution, he announces
that he will "go it alone."
The declaration fills me with trepidation: the reck-
less youth will throw away his life; his attempt may
frustrate my own success. But it is in vain to dis-
suade him by direct means. I know the determination
of the boy. The smiling face veils the boundless self-
assurance of exuberant youth, combined with indomita-
ble 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 Rus-
sell, 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,
Z70 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 fgrce the abandonment of his
plan. But nothing disturbs the routine, and I grow
nervous with dread lest the boy, reckless with im-
patience, 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 gal-
leries, 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 re-
turns. Perhaps there will be no mail for me to-mor-
row, 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
AN ALLIANCE WITH THE BIRDS 3?!
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 soli-
tude 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 struc-
ture 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 under-
ground. Perhaps within a month, or two at most, the
tunnel will be completed. I count the days, crossing
Z7^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
off each morning the date on my calendar. The news
from Tony is cheerful, encouraging: the work is pro-
gressing smoothly, the prospects of success are splen-
did. 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 Chap-
lain 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 War-
den: the artifice will mask my secret project and lull
suspicion. My official letters breathe assurance of suc-
cess, 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 pres-
ently 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
AN ALLIANCE V/ITH THE BIRDS 373
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 per-
formances 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 per-
mission 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.
374 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 side-
walk, or exceed your time a single minute, you will
be punished."
■^1.
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 applica-
tion to the Superior Court, and peace reigns — ^you under-
stand.
A pity I cannot write directly to my dear, faithful com-
rades, 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 soli-
darity and friendship. Dear comrades, I feel proud of you,
and proud of the great truth of Anarchism that can pro-
duce 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.
375
37^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 v/ork 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 but-
ton 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
THE UNDERGROUND 377
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 aban-
doned 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.
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 measure-
ments.
A.
Tony:
You distract me beyond words. What has become of
your caution, your judgment? A hole in the grass will not
378 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 pres-
ence 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 sus-
pense and anxiety. If you insist on the hole, I'll make the
break, though there is not one chance in a hundred for suc-
cess. 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 suc-
cess 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 talk-
ing.
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 assist-
ant. 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 direc-
tions for us where to go. None of our comrades is to wait
THE UNDERGROUND 379
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 communi-
cation 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 ex-
tremity. You are aware of the efforts of my friends to appeal
my case. Read carefully, please. I have lost faith in their at-
torneys. I have engaged my own "lawyers." Lawyers in quota-
tion 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 he 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.
380 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 reck-
less— 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 dis-
covered 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 send-
ing the money to you. Have work continued at once. There
THE UNDERGROUND 381
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.
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 dis-
turbed : 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 eflForts 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
?:o2
ANXIOUS DAYS 3^3
tunnel within the prison cannot be found. Perhaps the
underground passage does not extend to the peni-
tentiary? 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, what-
ever their purpose, have been trapped in the aban-
doned gas well and perished before the arrival of aid.
The fearful stench no doubt indicates the decomposi-
tion 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 dis-
order— all seem to point to precipitate flight.
The persistence of the assertion of a fatal acci-
dent 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
384 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 unper-
mitted presence at the east wall, pretending to collect
gravel for my birds. Assistant Deputy Warden Hop-
kins 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. Fortu-
nately, 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 be-
yond 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,
ANXIOUS DAYS 3^5
and detective departments of various cities are con-
sulted upon the mystery of the ingenious diggers, and
the discussion in the press waxes warm and antago-
nistic. Presently the chief of police of Allegheny suf-
fers 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 ''sus-
pects" 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 my-
self. 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 I
city officials and the prison management having favored
inaction. My comrades cannot be jeopardized by Rus-
386 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
sell. His information is limited to the mere knowledge
of the specific person for whom the tunnel was in-
tended; 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 curi-
osity concerning the men at the secret work. Des-
perate 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 question-
ing by the Warden and Inspectors is perceptibly work-
ing on the boy's mind. He is so young and inex-
perienced— ^barely nineteen; a slip of the tongue, an
inadvertent remark, might convert suspicion into con-
viction.
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 break-
ing 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
ANXIOUS DAYS 3^7
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 alpha-
bet 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 in-
sisted. How strange that I should have so success-
fully 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 pre-
text 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 tor-
ments 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 unhesi-
tating, "Oh, never mind, Aleck, it's all right; we were
388 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
both excited." I was overcome by thankfulness and ad-
miration 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 Hop-
kins 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 Inspec-
tors. 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 ap-
pearance of Tony for that of Carl, enabled me to dis-
credit 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 conclu-
sively 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'
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 for-
ever excludes the hope of liberty. Terrified by the
possibilities of the planned escape, the Warden's de-
termination dooms my fate. I shall end my days in
strictest seclusion, he has informed me. Severe pun-
ishment 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 sul-
try ; 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
389
390 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ques-
tion, 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 ro-
tunda, 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 ofiicer has been
assigned to the vicinity of my door, his sole duty to
keep me under observation. I feel buried alive. Com-
munication 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 under-
ground passage was intended for the liberation of the
"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM" 391
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 1 Her skill as an organizer, her growing
/
392 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ob-
stinacy 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
j to find consolation in the correctness of the intuitive
I 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 per-
\ spiring 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 super-
human 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
"HOW MEN THEIR BROTHERS MAIM'* 393
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 under-
ground, 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 com-
radeship, and strive to be worthy of it.
Ill
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 immo-
bile, hard, the large bright eyes dull and glassy. Vividly
my friends stand before me in the youth and strength of
394 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dis-
tance 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 tradi-
tion, I thought of him and his kind as inevitable fungus
growths, the rotten fruit of a decaying society. Un-
fortunate 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 con-
demns 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 suffer-
ing that have wakened my kinship with the humanity
of les miseraUes, whom social stupidity has cast into the
valley of death.
CHAPTER XXXIX
A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE
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 recom-
mendation. 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, how-
ever, 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 noth-
ing 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, be-
cause 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
395
30 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. Sud-
denly he was seized with the desire to examine the con-
tents 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 sen-
tence. 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 sacri-
ficing 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
A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE 397
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 alter-
nate 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 in-
significant, 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 apprehen-
sion. 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. Occa-
sionally a heavy groan issues from his cell, but my re-
peated signals remain unanswered. In alarm I stay
awake all night, in the hope of inducing a guard to in-
vestigate 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
398 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
learn with horror that he had bled to death during the
night.
Ill
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 de-
lusions 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 War-
den would not permit his discharge. It may be that in a
sudden fit of despondency, Tom had ended his life. Per-
haps I could have saved my friend : I did not realize how
constantly he brooded over the danger he believed him-
self 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
i
I
A NEW PLAN OF ESCAPE 399
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 Cal-
vary, 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 indiffer-
ent to life. The monotony of the narrow cell daily be-
comes 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
400 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 transform-
ing 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
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 irregu-
lar; they sound strangely cold and im.personal. 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 appre-
hension 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 drev/ 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
AOl
402 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his com-
panionship 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. Im-
patiently 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 re-
mains. 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 awaken-
ing spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the
DONE TO DEATH 4^3
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 confi-
dence 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
404 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 commuta-
tion time. . . . Unable to bear the suspense,. I am about
to appeal to the Chaplain, when a friendly runner sur-
reptitiously hands me a note.
With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold hand-
writing 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?"
DONE TO DEATH 4^5
"What Russell?" he asks indifferently.
"Russell Schroycr, put four days ago under observa-
tion."
"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 construc-
tion 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 injec-
tion. 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 "med-
icine 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
pot tell him what is the matter. . . .
4o6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. Ex-
asperated by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yes-
terday 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 re-
ports; 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
DONE TO DEATH 40?
bleeding fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dis-
pensary. 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 excruciat-
ing 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 pris-
oners: 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 clandes-
tinely, 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 call-
ing for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the
Captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he
4o8 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 for-
bids 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 be-
fore 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
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 ^litary; 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 fright-
ful 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 sham-
ming, 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
409
4IO PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 special-
ist examine them. Please arrange for it through our local com-
rades.
There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A
new commutation law has been passed, which reduces my
sentence by 2^/2 years. It still leaves me a long time, of course;
almost 4 years here, and another year to the workhouse. How-
ever, it is a considerable gain, and if I should not get into soli-
tary 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 unconsti-
tutional. Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved
THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 4"
ineffectual. Think of men who will see something unconstitu-
tional 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 manufac-
turers 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 opera-
tion 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 unfortu-
nates 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.
412 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 com-
pletely 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 per-
suaded 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
THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 413
will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do what is right
Dy 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 condi-
tion 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
of hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplimentary
remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner cor-
responds 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 i^mark 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 I We should have
414 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 himW 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 emo-
tionally 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-f^I studied them with un-
prejudiced 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
the disembodied, studying Koreshanity and Theosophy, absorb-
ing the prana of knowledge and power, and concentrating upon
the wisdom of the Yogi. lAnd after years of contemplation and
;^.
THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 4^5
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 sustain-
ing 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 Hfe 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 sun-
rise. 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. H 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 prom-
ised 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 Hberty! Woe indeed to the man or
the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of Prome-
theus,— 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
A
4l6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
at it in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident
from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happen-
ing 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 perse-
cution 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 disagree-
ment for condemnation.
We need not discuss the phase of the Attentat which mani-
fested 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 rebel-
lion 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 m^hods 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 Atten-
tat, 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 con-
ditions. 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,
THE SHOCK AT BUFFALO 4^7
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 immedi-
ate enemy of the people; while in an absolutism, the autocrat
is visible and tangible. The real despotism of republican insti- |
tutions is far deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the |
popular delusion of self-government and independence. That i
is the subtle source of democratic tyranny, and, as such, it can- |
not be reached with a bullet.
In modern capitalism, exploitation rather than oppression
is the real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its hand-
maid. 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 con-
trasts 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 radi-
cals. Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness.
The brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole pro-
ceeding, 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
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 appre-
ciative disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity
and inertia. I reaHze the inadequacy of the written
word, and despair at the hopelessness of human under-
standing, as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the
. Buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Con-
\ tinned correspondence with the Girl accentuates the
divergence of our views, painfully discovering the fun-
damental 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.
11
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
418
MARRED LIVES 419
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 ap-
pointment 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 occa-
sional "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 en-
larged upon, and the men thrill with amazed expectancy
at the incredible report, "Oysters for New Year's din-
ner!" With gratification we hear the Major's expres-
sion of disgust at the filthy condition of the prison, his
condemnation of the basket cell and dungeon as bar-
barous, 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* whom the Warden
had forced to testify against the defendants, resulted in
the acquittal of the prisoners, whereupon Captain Wright
* 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
420 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
ordered the convict-witnesses for the defence to be pun-
ished.
The new Warden, himself a physician, introduces
hygienic rules, abolishes the ''holy-stoning"* 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 discov-
ered 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.
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.
Ill
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
* The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand
into their surfaces.
MARRED LIVES 42I
Duquesne striker, committed suicide. In sad remem-
brance 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 con-
stantly 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 popu-
lar lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the tradi-
tions 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 con-
fessed to a cold-blooded murder, and he's only been in
four years."
"Good luck," he remarks.
"How, good luck?"
422 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his f arm "
"Well, what of it?"
"Three hundred barrels a day. Rich. Got his son
a pardon."
"But on what ground did they dismiss your applica-
tion? 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, per-
haps."
Slowly he passes on, at the approach of a guard. He
walks weakly, with halting step.
"Old Sammy" is back again, his limp heavier, shoul-
ders 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 horned 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',* 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.
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 con-
struction shop, where Monk was employed at his trade
* Poorhouse.
MARRED LIVES 4^3
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 Ilike. 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 shoul-
dering 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
424 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. With-
in 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 prison-
ers hang upon the lips of the old criminal, whose per-
severance in shamming finally forced the former War-
den to assign "Snakes" a special room in the hospital,
where his snake-seeing propensities would become dor-
mant, to suffer again violent awakening the moment
he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years the
struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, tSie
dungeon, and the strait- jacket, till the Warden yielded,
and "Snakes" was pennanently established in the com-
parative 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 com-
mutation law, the chartces of Pittsburgh winning the
baseball pennant the following season, and next Sunday's
dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation
of the Deputy Warden is discussed. The Major is
gradually weeding out the "old gang," it is gossiped. A
colonel of the militia is to secure the position of assistant
to the Warden. This source of conversation is inex-
MARRED LIVES 4^5
haustible, every detail of local life serving for endless
discussion and heated debate. But at the 'lookout's'
whispered 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 sub-
sides, 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 re-
signed 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 out-
skirts of Allegheny. It was growing dark, and they
wanted a drink. Charley knocked at the door. A head
426 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 be-
neath 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 in-
complete realization of sudden calamity, Charley believes
his eyesight only temporarily injured.
"Billy," he says presently, "when I woke this morn-
ing, 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 con-
firmed.
"Ah, whatcher kiddin' yourself for," "Snakes" inter-
poses.
"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?"
MARRED LIVES 4^7
"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 pol-
ishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to cor-
roborate 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
428 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 re-
marks 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 'eml 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.' '*
MARRED LIVES 4^9
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 al-
leged complicity in the bank robbery at Leechburg, dur-
ing 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 peni-
tentiary. However, his wife is faithfully at work, try-
ing 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 in-
terest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle
hours conversing over subjects of mutual interest, dis-
cussing 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 Kro-
potkin 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 vehement-
ly; "no, not even in the best democracy. Ten years ago
430
"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 431
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 aX that
fellow there," he points to a young prisoner scrubbing an
upper range, "that's 'Johnny the Hunk.' He's in for mur-
der. 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 ?"
432 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
"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 sen-
tenced to fifteen years in this hell 1"
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, abso-
lutely 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 re-
sponsible for most crimes."
"Only partly so, Aleck. If it wasn't for the corrup-
tion 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 con-
sidered a product of anthropological and physical fac-
tors. But don't you see that you must also examine
society, to determine to what extent social conditions are
"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 433
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 botch the penal institutions are making of it. For one
thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old, with-
out regard to relative depravity and criminality, is con-
verting 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 prosti-
tutes."
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 homosexual-
ity; 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
434 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 develop-
ment since his imprisonment, and I warm toward him
with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the in-
timate emotions of his being. A general medical practi-
tioner, 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 under-
standing 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 cafi talk to some one about it; the other fel-
lows 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. Six-
teen 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 inter-
est 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
"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 435
with passion. You remember when we were celling to-
gether 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 mat-
ter 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 in-
jurious 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 forgetf ulness 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
43^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
mental. It is not the result of dejection. With the
l^radual adaptation to the new conditions, a compara-
tively normal life bej^ins, manifesting sexual desires. At
this stag^e 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 increas-
ing 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 misera-
ble 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 intelli-
gence 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 oppor-
tunities 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 con-
"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN** 437
tinued my medical studies, and sought to absorb myself
in scientific subjects.'*
For a moment George pauses. The veins of his fore-
head 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 sub-
ject. 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 regu-
lating the practice, indulging in it at certain intervals.
But as the months and years passed, my emotions mani-
fested 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
43^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
him, except just to know him and get friendly. I became
acquainted with him, and when he heard I was a med-
ical 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
"PASSING THE LOVE OF WOMAN" 439
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 range-
men 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 thaf
I would be the happiest man if I could only touch his
hand again, or get one more kiss. You — ^you're laugh-
ing?" 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
440 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
troubled — is it viciousness or what, I wondered; but I
could never talk to any one about it. They take every-
thing 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. i8, 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 last-
ing. 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 tempo-
rary 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 him-
self 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 phys-
ical 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
441
442 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 re-
sistance 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 Kropot-
kin'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 intro-
duced a system of "economy" which barely affords us sufficient
food. The dungeon and basket, which he had at first abolished,
are in operation again, and the discipline is daily becoming
more drastic. The result is more brutality and clubbings, more
fights and cutting affairs, and general discontent. The new
management cannot plead ignorance, for the last 4th of July
the men gave a demonstration of the effects of humane treat-
LOVE'S DARING 443
ment. The Warden had assembled the inmates in the chapel,
promising to let them pass the day in the yard, on condition of
good behavior. The Inspectors and the old guards advised
against it, arguing the "great risk" of such a proceeding. But
the Major decided to try the experiment. He put the men on
their honor, and turned them loose in the yard. He was not
disappointed; the day passed beautifully, without the least mis-
hap; 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 indus-
tries. 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 I
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,
II months) and I feel the courage of perseverance. But I
hope that the next legislature will not repeal the new commu-
tation law. There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians
444 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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. How-
ever, 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 beheve. 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 con-
demned 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 per-
sisted, 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
LOVE'S DARING 445
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*
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 dissi-
pate 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 suffer-
ing—
"Fresh fish!" a range'man announces, pointing to the
long line of striped men, trudging dejectedly across the
yard, and stumbling against each other in the unaccus-
tomed 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 appre-
hension.
446
THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" 447
"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 dis-
counted 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; super-
ficial 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 hap-
piness and social harmony, merely accentuates discon-
tent and sharpens the contrasts. The knowledge gained
448 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 stupid-
ity, 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 peni-
tentiary, under a sentence of sixteen years for an at-
tempted escape from the Morganza reform school, which
resulted in the death of a keeper. The latter was fore-
man 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
THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" 449
his defeat upon the lad, till at last, driven to desperation,
Harry resolved upon escape. With several other in-
mates 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, reminis-
cently, "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 mc pal Nacky
that hit 'im foist, good an' hard, an' den I hit 'im,
lightly. But dey all said in court that 1 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 ap-
pearance 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 appal-
ling 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
450 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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, sur-
rounded by giant trees, yet timidly tenacious of its own
being. It distresses me to v^itness 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 f oiler you?" Ah,
if he'd only have a chance, he reiterates, he'd be so care-
ful not to get into trouble ! He would like to keep com-
pany 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 pas-
sionately. 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. "Every-
body was always against me," I hear the boy say. I
THE BLOOM OF "THE BARREN STAFF" 45 1
wake at night, with the quivwing 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 Jug-
gernaut, 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 ex-
istence unfolds in kaleidoscope before me. In varie-
gated design and divergent angle it presents an endless
panorama of stunted minds and tortured bodies, of
universal misery and wretchedness, in the elemental as-
pect 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 approach-
ing, 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
452 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
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 knowl-
edge that is transforming his primitive intelligence into
a mentality of great power and character. Often I
marvel at the peculiar strength and aspiration spring-
ing 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
453
454 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 him-
self— *'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 im-
mortality of an idea, Aleck."
II
The inclement winter has laid a heavy hand upon
Harry. The foul hot air of the cell-house is aggravat-
ing his complaint, and now the physician has pro-
nounced him in an advanced stage of consumption.
The disease is ravaging the population. Hygienic rules
A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER 455
are ignored, and no precautions are taken against con-
tagion. Harry's health is fast faiHng. He walks with
an evident effort, but bravely straightens as he meets my
gaze. "I feel quite strong, Aleck," he says, "I don't be-
lieve 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. Pre-
tending 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 in-
vests the proceeds in warm underwear for his consump-
tive 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 remain-
ing time, the Inspectors have promised me fifteen min-
utes' 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
456 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
Board. It was an outrage to send him to the peniten-
tiary, "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 talk-
ing," ''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 at-
torney 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
A CHILD'S HEART-HUNGER 457
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
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.
*T 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. *Ts that all ?" he in-
quires 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."
458
CHUM 459
"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. Vm 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 cor-
rected, 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.
46o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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."
Ill
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
CHUM 461
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 indig-
nation 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 dark-
ness, 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 jeopard-
ize 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
4^2 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
you in their name for your considerate and humane treat-
ment 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.
CHUM ^ 4^3
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 doc-
tor 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 under-
stand 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 char-
acteristic 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, be-
coming 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
4^4 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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, notwithstand-
ing 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.
DiAi, 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 brutal-
ity 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 commuta-
tion 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
465
466 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
who strive to reconstruct the conditions that are bulwarked
with prison bars.
But while necessity forces him to remain here, his char-
acter is in evidence. He devotes his time and means to lighten-
ing 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 along-
side of a man who persecuted and abused him because he re-
sented 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
LAST DAYS 4^
enthusiastic over the growing strength of Socialism, and wc
often discuss the subject with much vigor. It appears to mc,
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 con-
sequences 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 regen-
erated 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 tor-
mented by the fear of some disaster. Your return has filled
me with joy, and I am happy to know that you heard and
responded unhestitatingly 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 awak-
ening, 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 revolu-
468 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
tionary activity as it was, could not be regarded as a manifesta-
tion 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 dis-
content 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 what-
ever 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 dearnames
were a hallowed treasure of my youth.
May success reward the efforts of our brothers in Russia.
A.
LAST DAYS 4^9
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 I 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 em-
brace 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 1
Sasha.
\
PART lis
THE WORKHOUSE
T
THE WORKHOUSE
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 im-
patiently 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 atn
free, past the dismal gray walls ! Free ? Yet even now
captive of the law. The lawl . . .
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
473
474 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.
11
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 scruti-
nizes my naked body. But presently, the examination
over, a sense of gratification steals over me at the as-
sertiveness of my self-respect.
The ordeal of the day's routine is full of inexpres-
sible 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, snatch-
ing a handful in the constantly moving line. Absolute
THE WORKHOUSE 475
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 re-
spect than the penitentiaries and State prisons, in which
are confined men convicted of felonies. The Allegheny
County Workhouse of the great Commonwealth of Penn-
sylvania 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 pecul-
iarly familiar surroundings. The cupidity of the man-
agement has evolved methods even more inhuman than
those obtaining in the State prison. The tasks imposed
upon the men necessitate feverish exertion. Insuffi-
cient product or deficient work is not palliated by phys-
ical inability or illness. In the conduct of the various in-
dustries, 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 pro-
visions 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 in-
dication 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."
47^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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.
Ill
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 trans-
plant me to the days of my youth. In the little tenement
flat in New York we had sketched with bold stroke the
fortunes of the world — the Girl, the Twin, and I. In
the dark, cage-like kitchen, amid the smoke of the asth-
THE WORKHOUSE 477
matic stove, we had planned our conspirative work in
Russia. But the need of the hour had willed it other-
wise. Homestead had sounded the prelude of awaken-
ing, 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 Rus-
sia? The yearning of my youth wells up with spon-
taneous 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 cor-
respondence. Often I have sought consolation in the
beautiful likeness of her soulful face. With mute ten-
derness 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 revolu-
tion 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
478 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
definite plans. Long imprisonment has probably inca-
pacitated 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 cam-
paign to achieve his object. The time drags in torturing
uncertainty. With each day the solitary grows more
THE WORKHOUSE , • 479
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 un-
successful 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 excommuni-
cated 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 ago-
nizing 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 sun-
shine, 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
48o PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 independ-
ence, 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 lY
THE RESURRECTION
THE RESURRECTION
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 i8th 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 unneces-
sary cruelty that has kept me in prison three months
over and above my time. It was sheer sophistry to con-
sider 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 oflF. The Super-
intendent 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
483
484 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
them. None ever came, and I had to serve the full ten
months.
Ah, well, it is almost over now I 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.
U
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
call«d. 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 re-
ceives 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 mechan-
ically, shutting the door in my face.
"Fm 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 : per-
THE RESURRECTION 4^5
haps they will not release me to-day; I may be losing
time. ... A feeling of nausea overcomes me, but by a
strong effort I throw off the dreadful fancy, and quicken
my step. I must not think — not think. . . .
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 im-
patiently, 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 Pitts-
burgh (the fare costing about thirty cents), and I am
conducted to the prison gate.
Ill
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, be-
yond 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.
486 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ar-
ranged to join the Girl in Detroit. I have no particular
reason to mask my movements, but I resent the sur-
veillance. 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, be-
wilder me. I am afraid to cross the street; the fly-
ing monsters pursue me on every side. The crowds
jostle me on the sidewalk, and I am constatitly running
into the passers-by. The turmoil, the ceaseless move-
ment, 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
THE RESURRECTION 487
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 real-
ity 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 recogni-
tion. 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 atten-
tion. I glance about me. No one wears summer head-
gear 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 ar-
rests 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 sev-
eral cars, and then walk again, till I find myself on a
deserted street. No one is following me now; the de-
tectives must have lost track of me. I feel worn and
tired. Where could I rest up, I wonder, when I sud-
denly 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.
488 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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
THE RESURRECTION 4^
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, j
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 I 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.
Detroit, Giicago, 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
t
I
490 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 emo-
tion stirs me at the sight of the monument, save a feel-
ing 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 un-
utterable 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 be-
neath my feet. Why are they dead? I wonder. Why
should I live? And a great desire to lie down with
THE RESURRECTION 49^
them is upon me. I clutch the iron post, to keep from
falHng.
Steps sound behind me, and I turn to see a girl
hastening toward us. She is radiant with young woman-
hood ; 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.
492 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 dif-
ferent, unsatisfactory. The Ghetto I had known has
also disappeared. Primitive Orchard Street, the scene
of our pioneer meetings, has conformed to business re-
spectability; 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 sponta-
neous comradeship in the common cause, the intoxica-
tion of world-liberating zeal — all are gone with the days
of my youth. I sense the spirit of cold deliberation in
THE RESURRECTION 493
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 per-
ception 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 un-
bridgeable; 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?"
8KH PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST [
"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 oflF 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.
THE RESURRECTION 495
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 com-
rades. 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 im-
mutable, 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 dun-
geon. 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.
49^ PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
At night I wake in cold terror. The agonized cry of
Crazy Smithy is in my ears, and again I hear the sicken-
ing 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 bene-
ficiary 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 em-
ployment 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 imme-
diate realization of my plans. Meanwhile some com-
rades 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
THE RESURRECTION 497
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. Meet-
ings 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 com-
rades, 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 'Tighting" Tom; Harry, Rus-
sell, Crazy Smithy — how many of my friends have
perished there! It was the vision of an ideal, the con-
sciousness that I suffered for a great Cause, that sus-
tained 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
498 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
maintain the manhood and self-respect my ideals signi-
fied. The example of the political prisoners in Russia
inspired me, and my stay in the penitentiary was a cm-
tinuous struggle that was the breath of life.
Was it the extreme self-consciousness of the idealist,
the power of revolutionary traditions, or simply the per-
sistent 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 au-
thorities 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. Some-
thing 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 commu-
tation 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 in-
terest 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."
THE RESURRECTION 499
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 prac-
tice of Anarchist lecturers. I decide to accept the hos-
pitality 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 where-
abouts. 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 em-
barrassing; 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 de-
pressed me in the new Ghetto. The abyss in our feeling
and thought appals me.
With failing heart I ascend the platform in the eve-
ning. 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
500 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
Crime and Prisons that so thrilled my Pittsburgh meet-
ing, 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 black-
ness; 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 con-
clude 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 con-
siders 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 exer-
tion, 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.
THE RESURRECTION 50I
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 hate-
ful 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 night-
mare— 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.
502 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
We sit in silence, watching the heavy downpour out-
doors. 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 sym-
pathetically.
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 ?"
THE RESURRECTION 503
"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
girl^ are bad, but we ain't all like that and — " she hesi-
tates.
"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."
504 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 ab-
sence, 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 signifi-
cance 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
THE RESURRECTION S^S
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 dishar-
mony 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 com-
pact will not be kept, for nothing will remain of my
"soul" when I am dead, as nothing remains of the sum
when its units are gone. Dear Carl, he will be dis-
So6 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
traught at my failure to come to Detroit. He had ar-
ranged a lecture there, following Cleveland. It is
peculiar that I should not have thought of wiring him
that I was iinable 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 disappear-
ance. 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 human-
ity. 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 irre-
sistible force attracts me to the house. Repeatedly I re-
turn 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.
THE RESURRECTION 507
"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 mes-
sage 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 sooth-
ing quiet pervades the place. The portieres part noise-
lessly, 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
508 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
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 philos-
opher," and his breadth of understanding and non-inva-
sive 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 prob-
lem," 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 use-
less 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
THE RESURRECTION 509
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 mani-
festations. 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 sufifering 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 in-
dividualizes 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 individual-
ization of the mass, the finding of a higher level, the
climbing over the fences that shut out life. Everywhere
5IO PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
you see this reaching out. The process is individual and
social at the same time, for the species lives in the indi-
vidual as much as the individual persists in the species.
The individual comes first; his clarified vision is multi-
plied in his immediate environment, and gradually per-
meates 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 be-
come a factor in the larger life of Society. You remem-
ber 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
THE RESURRECTION SHI
social movements, and finding interpretation in life.
Indeed, Aleck, we have not worked in vain. Through-
out the world there is a great awakening. Even in this
socially most backward country, the seeds sown are be-
ginning 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 condi-
tions, for instance, present a different aspect from those
of twenty years ago. It was then possible for the mas-
ters 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 inspira-
tion 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 in-
terested 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 wor-
512 PRISON MEMOIRS OF AN ANARCHIST
ried, 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 in-
sist.
"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 com-
rades."
"Is it serious, Philo?"
"I am afraid it is. They are going to make a test
case. Under the new ^Criminal Anarchy Law' our com-
rades 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."
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