As this concluding remark was made in the same monotone as the foregoing sentence, I was at some loss to determine whether or not it formed part of the title of that momentous work.

The Bleeding Lamb here cast me a knowing glance, which said as plainly as words that his unfortunate acquaintance was mad, but that it was as well to humour him, and so he magnanimously sat down on a stool facing his rival, while the latter proceeded to read out his book, which was destined soon to mount up the long list of Short's sins of typographical omissions. This was but the herald of a long series of readings from the "short treatise," which were carried on at intervals for some weeks. Minute after minute and hour after hour Gresham drawled on from one tedious reiteration to another, never raising his voice nor altering its key, till a sense of dizziness overcame his audience, and his voice became as the singing in one's ears which accompanies high fever or heralds a faint. Indeed I have never suffered from fever or faintness since that date without my sensations recalling Gresham's dreary, argumentative drawl; then gradually his voice would grow fainter and somewhat spasmodic, until at length it gave way to snores, as the weary Lamb and the atheist Lion, like the kid and the leopard of Isaiah, sank down together in a confused heap on the floor, and there slept out a miniature fulfilment of the word of the prophet.

Then there was a Polish count who found his way to the Tocsin—a most deplorable aristocratic debris, who might have stepped straight out of the pages of Dostoievsky. I never set eyes on a more depressed-looking mortal than Count Voblinsky. He looked as though he bore on his bent shoulders the weight of all the ill-spent lives in Christendom. He was a damp, unwholesome-looking man, whose appearance suggested long confinement in a cellar. He was pale and hollow-eyed, and almost mouldy; altogether a most cadaverous-looking person. He was always attired, even at eleven A.M., in an old dress suit, green and threadbare with age, and a furry tall hat, into which garments he seemed to have grown and taken root. But despite the decay of his person and his attire, there was a certain degree of aristocratic refinement about Voblinsky's features, last ghastly traces of his ancient nobility. He vaguely recalled to my mind a long-ago Continental trip of my childhood, and an unfortunate elephant in the Marseilles Jardin des Plantes who, from long inactivity in the corner of his cage, had become overgrown with moss. There was the same incongruous touch of erstwhile nobility, the same decay, the same earthy smell. By what shady and circuitous paths had the unfortunate count reached this unhappy pass? Perhaps his wife was responsible; for if ever woman was calculated not to lead her mate on to higher and better things it was the Countess Voblinska. The countess was worse than slovenly: she was downright dirty. Her tumbled, frowsy hair, with patches of golden dye in it, was surmounted by an appalling hat of incongruous dimensions and shape, trimmed with what appeared to be archaeological relics, thick in dust. To approach it brought on a perfect paroxysm of sneezing. Her clothes, which were very greasy and never brushed, hung together by strings, tatters, and safety-pins. Her hands and face were begrimed with several coats of dirt, and a top coat of poudre de riz. No ordinary imagination dared speculate on what lay hidden beneath those tattered rags she wore. She gesticulated much, and discoursed on the subject of some lecture she was to give, in the intervals of volleying forth abuse and swearing in Parisian argot at her long-suffering husband, who received it all with most ludicrous courtesy. Often a strong smell of gin mingled with the eloquent flow of the countess's language.

On the whole, however, the Anarchists and their queer associates might be regarded as a fairly temperate set. One of the most potent causes of drink is the monotony of the existences led by most people, the hopeless dreariness of their confined, narrow lives, the total lack of interest and excitement. This is not the case in revolutionary circles, where not only are there plenty of ideas afloat to occupy men's minds and distract them from the narrow circle of their dreary domestic lives, but where also the modern craving for excitement, factitious or otherwise, finds plenty of nourishment.

The office of the Tocsin, however, did not lack the occasional presence of the habitual drunkard. There was one queer fellow who frequently put in a dissipated appearance for the purpose of complaining of the ill-usage to which his wife's tongue subjected him. He looked forward to the Social Revolution as the only escape from this thraldom, and certainly no man ever made more strenuous, albeit ill-directed efforts, on its behalf.

Then there was a bibulous Welshman who at times would startle the unwashed denizens of the neighbouring slums by appearing in a tall hat and irreproachable shirt front. He was a doctor by profession, who succeeded in maintaining a certain reputation in polite circles, but an alcoholic soaker by inclination, one of those men who somehow contrive to keep ahead of ruin by sleeping out periods of financial distress in friends' houses.

Our proof-reader was a benevolent old gentleman of obsolete customs, who in an age of open-air cures still wore a mouth and nose respirator. He was such an eminently respectable person that I never could quite understand why he associated himself with anything so disreputable as the Tocsin. I always half suspected that he came there principally on my account, chivalrously determined that I should not be surrounded solely by scum. But besides this motive he had some pretensions to being a man of advanced views, and was a purchaser of "advanced" literature. The introduction of this into the precincts of his home was a great trial to his better half, who had no kind of sympathy with such leanings. New-fangled ideas of any description were tabooed by her, and all preachers and holders of such she unconditionally consigned to hell-fires. Her husband she regarded as a brand to be snatched from the burning, and she and a few select female relatives worked hard to snatch him. But although new-fangled ideas on social organisation and political economy were bad enough, one thing alone was beyond all human endurance to the mind of Mrs. Crawley, and that one thing was free-love.

One day Mr. Crawley brought home "The Woman Who Did," and neglected to conceal it. It was found by his wife lying on the dining-room sofa.

"My fingers itched to seize and burn the impudent huzzy, lying there as unconcerned as though she had been the 'Private Meditations and Prayers of the Rev. Bagge,'" Mrs. Crawley confided to her Aunt Elizabeth, "but it was a six-shilling book, and I knew how Crawley valued it, and for the life of me I did not dare touch it."

It was a sore trial indeed to Mrs. Crawley to live under the same roof with such a person, but she dared not so far outrage the feelings of one whom she had sworn to love, honour, and obey, as to execute the offending lady. She long meditated some revenge, some outlet for her outraged feelings; it was long in coming, but come it did at last. The "Man Who Didn't" followed in the footsteps of his irregular mate, and in a fourpenny-halfpenny edition. This was more than the worthy matron could stand, and either he or she herself must leave the house. She summoned Aunt Elizabeth, a lady of irreproachable moral standard, the whites of whose eyes had a habit of turning up spasmodically, and the corners of whose mouth down, and to her she unburdened her feelings.

"My dear Eliza," she said, "I have too long tolerated 'The Woman Who Did,' but when it comes to the 'Man Who Didn't,' that—er—well, that disgusting 'Man Who Didn't'—and how am I to know that he didn't, the brazen creature!—it is time I asserted my authority. I cannot and I will not stand him."

The offending and irresolute gentleman was then seized upon with a pair of tongs, carried in solemn procession to the remotest room in the house, and burnt. The sanctity of matrimony had reasserted its rights.

A young bank clerk who accompanied Crawley to the office was a type of what I might call the conscientiously unprincipled man. It being wrong to steal, he made a point of annexing small objects. Cleanliness is next to godliness, and he devoted himself heroically to dirt; it was not at all his natural tendency, and the more disagreeable he found it the more strenuous was he in its pursuit. Being by nature punctual, he made it an absolute point of honour never to keep an appointment; and, as a lover of domestic peace, he was for ever working his way into scrapes and rows. He was a comical object, with his limp yellow hair brushed ferociously on end, and his mild yellow eyes scowling defiance at mankind.

When the Cuban revolution broke out a wave of sympathy for the oppressed islanders passed over the whole civilised world, and nowhere did this find a warmer echo than in the Anarchist party and the Tocsin group. Many Anarchists were in favour of going out to the assistance of the insurgents. Opinion was divided on the question. Some said: "It is our duty to remain in Europe to carry on the work of Anarchist propaganda here. The Cuban revolution is a race struggle, and no concern of ours." Others said: "We Anarchists are internationalists, and in whatsoever part of the world there is revolt against oppression, and wherever the revolutionary forces are at work, there is our opportunity to step in and direct those forces into the proper course, towards Anarchism." These Anarchists saw in the uprising of this small and comparatively insignificant race against the Spanish throne the possible dawn of a wider, vaster struggle, in which the whole world would join hands to lay low thrones, altars, and judgment seats.

A small band of Italian comrades, led by an adventurous Sicilian, got up a subscription for the purpose, and left the office of the Tocsin, amid great revolutionary enthusiasm, to journey to the assistance of the insurgent island. Only one of their number ever returned alive to Europe to tell of the horrors and hardships of the fierce struggle there endured, of the cruelty of the Spaniards, and the uselessness of the fight from the Anarchist point of view.

The Cuban fever was very catching, and after the departure of this first band there was a regular epidemic of departure at the Tocsin. Carter and Simpkins turned up at the office one afternoon very much in earnest about it all and persuaded that a little British grit was what was needed in Cuba, "to keep things humming." Simpkins recalled his old army days and the valour he had several times displayed when under the influence of liquor. He waved an old belt appertaining to those times, and would, I believe, have sung something about the Union Jack and the beer of old England, had not his friend recalled him to a better sense of his duty as an Anarchist and Internationalist. It appeared that Carter had come into a small sum of money consequent on the death of an uncle, with which he was bent on paying their passage out to Cuba. "What is an Anarchist to do in this wretched country?" he asked. "I am tired of lying in bed waiting for the revolution. It's too slow coming." "Yah!" muttered Short under his breath to me, "the springs are out of order, and he finds it hard. That's about how much he cares for the revolution."

After Carter and Simpkins had taken their leave of the staff of the Tocsin I watched a very moving scene from the window, when they bade good Mrs. Wattles farewell. The good lady was very deeply affected, and with tears in her eyes she begged them to think again before betaking themselves to "them furrin' parts" where she had heard "the drink was something awful and not fit for a Christian stomach." She was only half reassured when told that rum came from somewhere in that direction.

But Carter and Simpkins never reached Cuba. Some few minutes' walk from the office of the Tocsin, at the corner of Lysander Grove, stood an inviting house of call, the "Merry Mariners," where the valiant warriors dropped in on their way, to refresh themselves, perhaps in anticipation of the dreary prospect which Mrs. Wattles's words had opened before them. When several hours later Short returned from his accustomed evening stroll round the neighbourhood, he described with great relish the pitiable termination of their voyage. He had found Carter just sober enough to cart his incapacitated disciple home on a wheelbarrow, after which he painfully betook himself to his bed, there to bemoan the tardiness of the revolution, and the broken condition of the spring mattress.

"And won't his guv'nor just give Simpkins a ragging when he gets home. He'll give him Cuba," gloated the unsympathetic printer.

Another relief expedition from the Tocsin met with scarcely more brilliant success. Beppe and Meneghino set out under the guidance of old M'Dermott, on tramp to Cardiff, whence they hoped to work their way out to the insurgent island. They, too, set out full of brave hopes and generous enthusiasm, but with too confident a trust in the beneficence of Providence as caterer to their material needs on the journey. Before a fortnight had elapsed, they also were back at the office, Beppe bearing the poor old Irishman on his shoulders in a quite crippled and exhausted condition. He had to be put to bed, and remained there several weeks, before he was in a fit state to get about again. They all complained bitterly of the inhospitality of the country-folk to whom they had appealed for help, and of the uncourteous reception they had met with in the Cardiff docks. Poor Meneghino reached London barefooted, his faithful canvas bag hanging disconsolately over his shoulder—and all with woefully vacant stomachs. They formed a comically dismal group as they collapsed into the office in an exhausted heap.

* * * * *

Amid these many strange and dubious, ludicrous or pathetic characters, some few heroic figures appeared. From time to time there came into our midst Vera Marcel, the Red Virgin of the barricades, the heroine of the Commune of Paris—a woman of blood and smoke and of infinite mercies towards men and beasts. I can see her still, almost beautiful in her rugged ugliness, her eyes full of the fire of faith and insane fanaticism, her hair dishevelled, her clothes uncared for. I can hear the wonderful ring of her tragic voice as she pleaded the misery of the poor and suffering, of the oppressed, the outcast, the criminal, the rejected, and as it rose higher and higher to invoke fire and sword and bloodshed in expiation. Then I seem to hear its magic and inspired ring as her wonderful faith conjured up visions of the future when the whole of humanity shall live in peace and brotherhood, and the knife, which in time of revolution had shed the blood of the oppressors, shall "cut nothing deadlier than bread." A strange gaunt figure she was, a woman who had never hesitated at shedding blood in the good Cause, nor feared to face death for it; but with her friends, and especially with children and dumb animals, she was as gentle as the gentlest of her sex; and no words can describe the extreme sweetness of her voice.

As publication time approached, all-night sittings became necessary, when all this heterogeneous assembly met together, and amidst Anarchist song and Anarchist enthusiasm forwarded or hindered, each in his degree, the publication of the Tocsin. I can see in my mind's eye the much-littered, overcrowded office in all the confusion of those nights, with its dark corners hidden in shadow, where slept tired fighters weary of the fray, and its brightly-lighted patches, under the lamps, where the work of the night was being carried on. Some dozen voices, more or less musical, are chanting Anarchist war-songs, and the Inno di Caserio and the Marseillaise ring out through the open windows to the dormant or drunken denizens of Lysander Grove. The Reincarnation is patiently turning the wheel of the printing machine, and rolling out fresh Tocsins, thinking, no doubt, of that tocsin which, at no distant date, shall ring out from a loftier sphere to rouse the deluded inhabitants of this globe to a different millennium from that dreamed of by Anarchists. But, whatever his thoughts, he grinds away with much Christian endurance and fortitude. Wainwright, who is tired after a long turn at the wheel, subsequent to a hard day's work in the brick-yard, is relating to a few interested listeners the strange story of his life, or discussing points of Anarchist principle and propaganda.

Then, somehow, the Bleeding Lamb would find his way in, and looking over at his reincarnated rival at the wheel with undisguised contempt, he whispers: "I know what sort of a wheel his unhallowed hoof ought to be turning!"

Armitage and Kosinski at such times would be busy folding the papers, both absorbed in their work, happy to think that they were thus advancing the great Cause. And Short, shivering discontentedly at the cold, or swearing amid much perspiration at the heat, would smoke his pipe and eat his unattractive pastry, whilst crawling into his rugs and banners, until Beppe, in an outburst of indignation, drags him out by the scruff of the neck and compels him to lock up the forms.

One night there was a grand banquet, for Beppe had turned in, bearing under his long cloak a prime conditioned tom-cat, whose disconcerted mews were rapidly ended by a dexterous twist of the neck, and whose plump person was before long stewing in wine and vinegar in the Tocsin stockpot, after his liver had been previously fried for the private consumption of the ever-hungry Beppe.

When this succulent repast had been disposed of towards 3 A.M. (all the Tocsin workers had admirable digestions) a brief respite from work ensued, during which Beppe sang pieces of Italian opera, accompanied by Gnecco on his mandolin, and M'Dermott treated us to brief recitations from Shakespeare. Much stamping and gesticulation accompanied, I remember, the soliloquy of Hamlet, and our flesh crept at the witches' incantations from "Macbeth." The old cobbler delighted in Shakespeare and dictionaries, between the perusal of which he spent most of his time. "Like Autolycus in the 'Winter's Tale,'" he said to me one day, "I am a 'snapper-up of unconsidered trifles,' and during the riots of 18—I snapped up a sufficient number of these to enable me to set myself up with a small library, and I did no work during eighteen months, devoting my entire time to Shakespeare and Johnson's Dictionary."

Sometimes a phrenologist who had strayed into our midst would follow on with a brief phrenological seance, and nothing afforded the comrades more satisfaction than to be informed that their bumps showed undoubted criminal propensities.

Then again the heavy roll of the machine would drown all lesser noises with its monotonous grinding, as the most resolute and earnest among us returned undaunted to the fray, whilst others, less energetic, curled up on the floor in varying uncomfortable attitudes about the office—inside the dormitory shed and out, propped against posts and type-racks, or stretched on stacks of paper—and slumbered in blissful ignorance of the future fortunes of the Tocsin.



CHAPTER VIII

THE DYNAMITARD'S ESCAPE

May-Day was at hand, and we had been working all night at the office of the Tocsin in order to have the paper ready in time to distribute to the provincial groups. Since Friday morning I had hardly left the office at all—merely going home for dinner and returning at once to the fray—and by four o'clock Sunday morning we had rolled off the last of the five thousand copies of the Tocsin, which, along with two thousand leaflets drawn up by myself and Armitage, were ready for distribution. The 1st of May fell on the following Wednesday, and we had for once the satisfaction of knowing that we had taken Time by the forelock.

Short had retired to his shake-down in the dormitory about midnight, and the loud creaking of his boots against the boards was the only sign he gave of life. Kosinski, Armitage, and Giannoli, after making up and addressing the last parcel, had left for their respective abodes; Beppe and Meneghino, having turned the wheel the whole evening, had fallen to sleep exhausted, stretched on a bench in the machine-room; and I, after having partaken of a cup of tea and some hot buttered toast which old M'Dermott had provided for me, sat nodding and dozing on one side of the fire. The old cobbler had fallen fast asleep on the other side while poring over a dictionary, noting down sonorous and impressive-sounding words with which to embellish the oration he intended to deliver on May-day in Hyde Park.

About half-past five, just as the first cold rays of the chilly spring dawn cast a ghastly blue light on the dormant figures around me, deadening the yellow flame of the lamp which was burning itself out, I was roused from my torpor by a light rap at the outside door. In the office all was quiet, but for the heavy and rhythmic snores of the weary comrades, and wondering who could claim admittance at such an unearthly hour, I rose with a shiver and opened the door. To my surprise I found myself face to face with Bonafede.

Since that bitter January day when Bonafede and his companions had emerged from the London fog and made their unexpected entrance on the scene of the Tocsin, I had not seen very much of him, though we had never quite lost sight of one another, and I frequently heard his news through mutual friends. As I have already stated, Gnecco and Bonafede had retired to lodgings in the Italian quarter in the unsavoury neighbourhood of Saffron Hill. They had a little money, but only enough to last for two or three weeks. Gnecco had a few valuables in the shape of a gold watch and chain, a pearl breast-pin, and a fur-lined coat, and he soon had recourse to my friendly help to dispose of these articles to the best advantage with a pawnbroker, and on the proceeds, eked out by some small help which he received from his family, he managed to rub along, and he and his mandolin were soon familiar features at the office. But with Bonafede the case was different. He was a man of too active and independent a character to be long idle. He was by profession an engineer, and in Italy, before his career had been interrupted by his political activity, he had held an important post on the Italian railways. But for many years his life had been a stirring one, and he had learned to turn his hand to whatever offered, and had in turn worked as a dock labourer, a sailor before the mast, a gilder employed in church decorations, a house-decorator in a lunatic asylum and a cutter-out of military trousers at Marseilles, a warehouse porter and a navvy. Whatever job turned up he accepted; if it was work at which he had no experience he would look up some comrade in that line and get from him a few hints, and this, supplemented by reading up particulars in some trade encyclopaedia at a public library, enabled him to accomplish his task satisfactorily. He had hardly been in London a fortnight when he looked about him for work, and, nothing better offering, he engaged himself as washer-up at one of Veglio's many restaurants. After six weeks he was rescued from the uncongenial drudgery of scullion by a comrade, a fellow-Calabrian, who earned a good living as decorator of West-end cafes, and who took on Bonafede to assist him in frescoing a ceiling at the Trocadero, not, however, before the latter had laid the foundations of a lega di resistenza between the Italians employed in restaurant kitchens. At the end of a month the ceiling was painted, and Bonafede parted company with his compatriot, pocketing L10, plus his keep whilst the job lasted. One of his first steps was to visit me at the office of the Tocsin and arrange for the printing of an Italian pamphlet and of a booklet of revolutionary songs, the production of Gnecco, which were to be smuggled into Italy for distribution. The cost of paper and carriage of these works ran into the better part of L3. With the remaining cash in his pocket, Bonafede went to look up old friends and comrades in the French and Italian quarters. A's wife was expecting her confinement, B needed an outfit in order to enter on a job as waiter which he had secured at a club; C had been out of work for three months and had five small mites to feed and clothe, and so forth. At the end of this expedition rather less than 15s. remained in his pocket, and once more he sought employment. This time he got taken on by a contractor who asphalted the London streets, a work done entirely by Italians. Here he remained for nearly two months, during which time he organised the men into a union and induced them to strike for better conditions. The men won their point, and returned to work on the condition that the agitator who had got up the strike should be dismissed, and Bonafede left of his own accord, unwilling to cause loss to the men by prolonging the struggle. After a few weeks' enforced idleness, during which he was lost sight of by the comrades, he reappeared one evening at a group meeting held at our office, and informed us that he was taken on as electrician at the Monico.

Ten days had now passed since I last saw him, and my expression was eloquent of my amazement at his unexpected appearance.

"You are surprised at my coming at such an unusual hour, Comrade," he began with his strong Calabrian accent; "but you will understand when I tell you that ever since yesterday evening I have been awaiting an opportunity to get round here without being followed by my guardian angels of Scotland Yard. Gnecco told me that you were passing the night in the office, and so I seized on a favourable moment and came." He stopped, glanced round the room, walked up to the bench on which the two Italians were sleeping the sleep of the just, and having satisfied himself that no one could overhear us he explained the motive of his visit to me.

"You doubtless know that Jean Matthieu, suspected of complicity in the P.... bomb explosions, has been hiding in London for some time past." I nodded assent: he had even been pointed out to me one evening by Giannoli at a meeting in the East End.

"Well, since yesterday we have the certainty that the police are on his track, that they are aware of his whereabouts. It has become absolutely necessary for him to leave London without further delay—within the next twenty-four hours. Everything is arranged. The police will be watching the Continental trains, so he will go for the present to Leicester, and stay with a comrade who has a French wife, and who will pass him off as his wife's uncle. From there we hope, within a week or so to get him off to America; but all this requires money: the least that we can give him is twenty pounds. I had five by me, left with me to make use of for the Cause, a few French comrades have handed me over another seven. But we are still in need of eight pounds to make up the necessary sum. Could you let us have it?"

The last days of the month always found me at the end of my resources. I had but two pounds in my purse. "What a pity," I exclaimed, "that you could not let me know yesterday! Today is Sunday; it will be impossible for me to get at any money. Raymond is certain only to have a pound or two on him, if he has as much; the Bank is closed. I have some jewellery by me on which I could easily raise ten or twelve pounds, but the pawn-shops are not open on Sundays. What am I to do? Can you not wait until tomorrow?"

Bonafede explained that every minute was of consequence: Matthieu must leave at once or he would inevitably be arrested. We both remained silent, hesitating, for a few minutes. At last he spoke: "Madame Combrisson has the money by her, I am sure, but she will never give it. You say, however, you have some jewellery that you would be willing to pledge: perhaps with that as security she would advance us the money. Anyhow we can but try."

It was arranged that I should go home for my valuables and repair to the house of the Combrissons, where, Bonafede informed me, Matthieu was at that moment concealed.

"But do you think he is safe there?" I inquired.

"Oh yes, perfectly. Jules is a good comrade, and both he and his wife have every reason to wish to remain on good terms with the Anarchists. They know on which side their bread is buttered. I shall go now and you will find me at the Combrissons'."

I knew the French couple well by reputation, though I had never yet crossed their threshold. Combrisson had come over to England some twelve years ago; he had been mixed up in the Anarchist propaganda, and had seen fit to expatriate himself; it was rumoured that he had been actively mixed up with a gang of coiners, amongst whom were several Anarchists who thought it good warfare to make the hated bourgeois pay for the propaganda by falsifying the currency. They had not been long in London when they took a large house in Grafton Street, letting out rooms to comrades. They also kept on the ground floor a small depot of foreign revolutionary literature, and received for a consideration the correspondence of the refugees. Combrisson, who worked as a carpenter and joiner, had the reputation of being a good comrade, and always set down to his wife's account all actions not strictly in accordance with the principles of solidarity, such as turning out comrades who did not pay their rent, refusing small loans and subscriptions, and such like.

By eight o'clock I was in Grafton Street. As I turned down the corner which leads from the Tottenham Court Road, I became aware that I was being followed. A young man with a sandy moustache, a celestial nose, and fishy blue eyes, got up to look like a counter-jumper on a holiday, whom I had long since learned to know as Detective Limpet, was walking a few steps behind me on the other side of the road. I stopped at Number 9, my destination, and I saw Limpet likewise stop outside a public-house which stood opposite, and exchange a few words with a hulking brute leaning against the wall, characterised by a heavy jaw, lowering brows, and a strong Irish brogue, in whom I recognised Detective O'Brien. They both turned their eyes on me as I stood on the door-step pulling the bell handle, and I saw a stupid grin overspread the countenance of the Limpet.

The door was opened by a little maid-of-all-work who seemed doubtful as to whether she should let me in or no, till a head adorned with curl-papers appeared above the kitchen steps, calling out in a shrill voice, "Jane, you fool, show the young lady in."

Next minute I was in the front kitchen, where Madame Combrisson, her husband, and Bonafede awaited me.

The house was a good-sized, solidly-built one, originally intended for a gentleman's residence, but fallen now on evil days. An odour of fried onions and sawdust pervaded the establishment, for Madame Combrisson boarded three or four of her lodgers, regaling them principally on "soupe a l'ognon," and Combrisson carried on in the back kitchen his carpentry business at which he kept these same lodgers employed, paying them in kind with food and house-room, and doling out a few shillings now and again as pocket-money. In this way he succeeded in combining philanthropy and business, and though, after a few months, his employees invariably left as soon as they had learned a little of the English language and English prices, still there were always new-comers willing, nay anxious, to replace them.

After a few preliminary words of introduction, I produced the jewellery for Madame Combrisson's inspection. She was a small wiry woman, with hard, covetous grey eyes, grizzled hair screwed up in a tight knot on the top of her head, a nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and thin blue lips. Her eyes lit up as her hands turned over the little diamond brooch and finely-chased gold bracelet which I submitted to her inspection.

"Of course I am not a judge," she said, "but I should think we could easily raise a little money on these. I wish I had it myself, I would willingly give it for the Cause, but, que voulez vous, mademoiselle? we are but poor folk; however, I know some one near here who might perhaps be able to oblige us; I will go and see."

Bonafede winked at me and I could see that he considered the matter settled. He and Combrisson left the kitchen and I remained alone with madame, who proceeded to take her fringe out of the curl-papers, and to exchange her petticoat and red flannel jacket for a somewhat rusty black dress. Whilst performing her toilette she eyed me carefully. I noticed that since she had inspected the jewellery she had involuntarily assumed a more respectful tone in addressing me. "I hear from the comrades that you are very active in the Cause, mademoiselle; have you been long in the movement?"

I replied that it was getting on for two years.

"And your family, are they Anarchists also?"

I explained that my parents were dead and that I was the only one of my family who worked in the movement. She seemed surprised at this information, "But you must be rich," she said: "that jewellery you have brought is very beautiful; you are young, you could enjoy yourself, mix with those of your own class; why do you work in a printing-office instead?"

"But I am an Anarchist. We must all do what we can to help the Cause, I do my best; not more, however, than other comrades."

She seemed by now to have summed me up, though I was evidently still somewhat of a mystery to her, and she merely said:—

"Oh, of course we are all Anarchists; we all do our best for the Cause."

As she was leaving, Bonafede came down and said that Matthieu would like to see me if I saw fit, and together we mounted to the back attic where the dynamitard was concealed.

Nobody could have guessed on sight that the puny little man before me could be the dreaded Anarchist for whom the police of Europe had been searching high and low during the past seven months. Matthieu was a tailor by trade, and his physique bore traces of the sedentary work and of the long hours passed in close unhealthy rooms. He was slightly hunchbacked, his chest narrow and hollow, his legs bowed; his pale blue eyes with their swollen red lids had the strained expression of one accustomed to make use of the last rays of daylight before lighting the lamp. His massive jaw and firm round chin, and high narrow forehead were the only features which revealed in him the man of action and the fanatic. Yet this was the man who, by a series of explosions culminating in the blowing up of a police station, had spread terror in the ranks of the French bourgeoisie.

We shook hands, and I told them how I had been followed by Detective Limpet and how he and O'Brien were stationed opposite the house.

"Yes," said Bonafede, "it is certain that they suspect Matthieu's presence here; we must try to get rid of them in some way for a short while; set them off on some false scent, so as to enable our comrade to leave the house."

"If you would only let me do as I wish," broke in Matthieu, "I would soon be out of this. I have a good revolver and I am not afraid to use it. I would make a rush for it, and ten to one I should get off scot-free; and anyhow better be taken fighting than caught like a rat in a hole."

We both tried to dissuade him, arguing that there was always time to take such a step, and that with a little patience and ingenuity it was almost certain that a means would be found for his safe escape.

In a few minutes Madame Combrisson entered the room. She handed me over L10 and a receipt for the pledges, adding that her friend would not be induced to lend more. I handed the sum over to Bonafede. He had now L22 in hand, so that the financial side of the difficulty was solved. Madame Combrisson, however, had news. A neighbour had informed her that Chief Inspector Deveril had been seen in the street, and that, after giving instructions to his two subordinates not to move from their post of observation, he had left, it was supposed, in order to procure a search-warrant. This news filled us with alarm. Almost any minute now the police might claim entrance to the house, and then Matthieu would inevitably be caught. What was to be done? I was told off to look out of a front window from behind a curtain and report on the situation, but only to return with the news that Limpet and O'Brien were both leaning airily on their sticks studying the heavens with imperturbable calm. Matthieu was growing restless. He walked up and down the small room like a caged beast, nervously clutching at the revolver which he kept in his trouser pocket. Madame Combrisson kept bemoaning her fate, saying that it would be the ruin of her house if the police entered. Bonafede alone remained calm and collected. At last he exclaimed, looking at his watch, "It is now past eleven, in another half-hour the public-houses will open, let us hope that our friends below may turn in to refresh themselves. In that minute Matthieu must escape; we must have everything ready; he had better change his clothes and disguise himself as much as possible. We will leave together; we are both armed, and if the worst comes to the worst we will sell our lives dearly."

"Oh, my poor house, my poor house!" moaned madame, "this business will be the death of us all."

Bonafede turned on her savagely. "This is no time for recriminations," he exclaimed. "Sharpen your wits and see if you cannot find some means of getting rid of those spies. You are clever enough when it is a question of serving your own interests."

Madame Combrisson seemed electrified by these words.

"I will try, Comrade, only give me time to think." Next minute, she exclaimed, "How would it do to send down two of the comrades to pick a quarrel in the street? They could start a fight, a crowd will assemble, the detectives will go to see what is up, and you and Matthieu can avail yourselves of the confusion to escape."

"Good!" replied Bonafede, "go and see about it at once. I will help Matthieu to get ready, and you, Isabel, be on the look-out, and let us know when the right moment has come."

I stationed myself behind the curtain at the front parlour window. In a few minutes I saw a young German who lodged in the house rush up the area steps into the street, followed by Combrisson. They were both shouting and gesticulating loudly, and Combrisson seemed to be demanding money which the other refused. A few passers-by stopped to listen to the two foreigners, who danced around, growing ever more noisy; but Limpet and O'Brien stood firm. They looked at the combatants, but seemed to consider the matter as a joke, and only crossed over to our side of the way when they saw a crowd begin to assemble. The quarrel between Combrisson and his lodger began to flag when they saw that their object had failed, and the German soon walked off in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. I watched the detectives cross over to their former post of observation, and was just going to inform the comrades of the negative result of this manoeuvre when I saw Inspector Deveril coming down the street. For a second I stood paralysed with apprehension: all was up with my friends! Next moment I had climbed the four flights, and given the dreaded news.

Matthieu rushed to the attic window. It gave on to a wide gutter which ran along several roofs. "This is my only means of escape. I will get into one of these other houses by the skylight, and escape at the front door whilst they are searching here."

"And if any one tries to stop you?" I exclaimed.

"So much the worse for them," he replied, clutching his revolver.

He was already outside the window when Bonafede spoke, advising him to wait a minute whilst we saw what was going on. As soon as the police knocked, he could carry out his plan. To be noticed by them on the roof would be fatal to its success.

At that moment Combrisson rushed in. "I cannot tell what has happened. Deveril spoke to those two spies and has walked off. The public-house has opened, Limpet has gone inside, and only O'Brien remains on guard."

We all three went downstairs to watch proceedings, leaving Matthieu by the window, ready at a moment's notice to put his desperate project into execution.

Sure enough, all was quiet in the street below; passers-by were hurrying home to their Sunday dinners, the smell of which pervaded the street and house, and O'Brien stood at the door of the opposite pub, leaning gracefully on his stick and gazing at the windows of our house. We stood watching for about a quarter of an hour, fully expecting to see the police appear; the room had gradually filled with the lodgers, all on the qui vive, and jabbering fluently in foreign tongues. As nobody came and all seemed quiet, Bonafede and I returned upstairs to reassure Matthieu.

In a few minutes we heard a ring at the door.

"It is they!" we exclaimed, and Matthieu leapt to the window, whilst Bonafede rushed to the door, which burst open, giving admittance to a strange-looking figure. The new-comer had the slight build and nervous carriage of a Frenchman, but was got up in the most aggressively British attire. Clean-shaven, with a short bulldog pipe in the corner of his mouth, a billycock hat set rather jauntily on his head, a short, drab-coloured overcoat of horsy cut, black and white check trousers, red-skin riding gloves, square-toed walking shoes, a light cane, and a rose in his buttonhole; you would have taken him at first sight for a sporting tipster. Matthieu, who had stopped short at this sudden apparition, and Bonafede, both stood staring in amazement. The new-comer looked at them with a wicked twinkle in his eye, and burst out into a hearty laugh.

"Why, it is you, Sylvestre," the Italian at last said, whilst Matthieu jumped down into the room. "But what on earth have you done to yourself? I should never have recognised you?"

"Ah! so I look in character, then? If you did not recognise me no wonder that I was able to take in those gaping clodhoppers, fresh from their turnip-fields, in the street below. I have news for you. Just listen," but here he broke off, for, looking round the room, he had caught sight of me (I had stood speechless in a corner whilst this scene was enacted). "First though, my dear fellow, I must beg you to introduce me to the lady. The emotions of the moment seem to have made you and Matthieu forget all manners."

Bonafede turned smilingly towards me, and introduced us: "Armand Sylvestre, a French comrade; Isabel Meredith, editor of the Tocsin"

The Frenchman made me an elegant and profound bow in strange contrast with his sporting appearance, removing his hat, which he had till then kept on.

"But what has happened to you, Sylvestre?" exclaimed Matthieu. "Your hair has turned purple."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake don't look at my hair. A most awful fate has befallen it. Yesterday I heard from Cotteaux that you intended leaving soon, so I settled to come down here this morning, and thought it would be as well to disguise myself; one never knows, one can sometimes get such a lot of fun out of those heavy-witted, pudding-eating police. So I asked Marie to go into a West End hairdresser's and procure some black hair-dye, as I know my gold locks are well known to our friends below. She asked for some, explaining that it was for theatricals, and last night I tried it. With what result you see!—and mind I only made up my mind to come out after washing it some dozen times. Now, with a hat on, it's not very noticeable, but if you could have seen it last night; it had turned the real imperial shade of purple! It was a sight for the gods!"

We all laughed heartily at his adventure, the humour of which was heightened by the mock pathos and tragedy with which he narrated it. But Matthieu, who was straining his ears to catch the slightest sound downstairs, asked him to proceed with his news.

"Oh, mais vous saves, mademoiselle, votre pays est tout-a-fait epatant," he began, turning to me. "As I came down the street I noticed Deveril speaking with those two satellites of his outside the 'Cat and Mouse.' I at once guessed something was up here, and thought I would try and pump them, so I walked into the bar and asked in my best English accent for a whisky and soda, throwing down a half-sovereign to pay for it, and began talking about racing bets with the barman. As I expected, after a few minutes, Limpet entered, asking for a glass of bitter; he soon got interested in our talk. I was giving tips with the air of a Newmarket jockey, and as he had finished his drink I offered to treat him. He hesitated, saying that he was in a hurry, and I then pumped the whole tale out of him, how he and his comrade were watching this house, where they had reason to know that a dangerous French Anarchist was concealed, and so forth and so on.

"'But,' I said, 'if this is so, why do you not get a warrant to search the house?' And he then explained to me that the inspector had wished so to do, but that the magistrate, spite of his entreaties, had refused to sign the warrant because it was Sunday!! Yes, this is an extraordinary country. Society must be saved, but before everything the Sabbath must not be broken. C'est delicieux! Having gained this information, I politely wished him good day, and walked over to this house. You should have seen the faces of those two men. I expect their mouths are open still."

We all stared at each other at this information. This, then, was the secret of the situation. The English Sunday had saved our comrade! Bonafede went downstairs to summon the Combrissons and relieve their minds. We had now nearly twenty-four hours before us; it was certain that till nine o'clock on Monday morning the search-warrant would not be signed. In this interval Matthieu must leave the house, but how?

Sylvestre, who evidently looked upon the whole question as a good joke —une bonne blague—suggested that the dynamitard should dress up in his sporting attire; he urged that the detectives had seen him enter and could not be surprised at his leaving, and that this would be the best solution of the difficulty. The idea seemed feasible, and it was tried on. Matthieu got into the check trousers and horsy overcoat, but the effect was too ludicrous, and he was the first to laugh at the figure he cut in the looking-glass. Something else must be found. Madame Combrisson came to the rescue. She reminded us of a Jewish comrade, also a tailor by trade, who was not unlike Matthieu, being slightly hunchbacked. Her idea was to get him round, dress him in the fugitive's clothes, let Bonafede call a cab in an ostentatious style, into which the false Matthieu was to jump and drive off; the detectives would probably follow on their bicycles, and then was our opportunity. Only, how to get this man on to the scene without his advent being noticed by them? For if he were seen to enter, the game was up; his exit would not cause surprise. We were still face to face with the same difficulty, and Matthieu once more began to pace the room like a wild beast in a cage.

Sylvestre broke the silence. "The only way out of the difficulty is to disguise our man. Dress him up as a woman; he will then enter without causing observation."

In a few minutes all was settled. I was to leave with the hand-bag in which I had brought in the jewellery to be pawned; but this time it was to contain a dress belonging to Madame Combrisson. With this I was to proceed to the lodging of the Jewish comrade, Yoski, taking care to lose on the way any detective who might be following me. Yoski was to dress himself in the woman's clothes, and return with me to Grafton Street, care being taken that the detectives should notice his entry. He was then to exchange his female attire for Matthieu's clothes and drive off in a cab, as previously arranged, and then Matthieu, in his turn donning the skirt and blouse, was to leave the house on my arm, whilst the police would be rushing after a red-herring. Sylvestre turned a somersault to express his joy, and, slapping Matthieu on the shoulder, said, "Why, before long, mon vieux, you will again be treading the flags of Paris, and, let us hope, frightening the bourgeois out of their wits."

By two o'clock I was on my way. When I left the house Deveril was talking with O'Brien over the way; Limpet had disappeared for the time being. The inspector at once noticed my presence, and, calling to a corner-boy lounging at the public-house door, he spoke to him, pointing me out, and this "copper's nark" followed doggedly in my steps. Yoski lived in a turning off the Mile-End Road, but anxious to give no inkling as to my destination, I turned in the opposite direction, and after a lengthy detour stopped at my own door. I stayed indoors nearly an hour, hoping that my attendant's patience would give out, but he showed no signs of moving, time was precious, and I decided to set out once more. This time I walked down the Euston Road to the beginning of Marylebone Road, where I jumped on to a bus going towards Maida Vale. The youth did likewise, and at the beginning of the Kilburn High Street I descended, making my way up that dreary road. I began to despair of ridding myself of my pursuer. I was miles out of my way, the hours were passing, and he still dogged my steps. I trudged along, weary and worried, weighed down with the responsibility of my position. Suddenly my eyes caught sight of a solitary hansom coming slowly towards me, I hurried forward, the youth was some paces behind me on the other side of the road, and before he had time to realise what I was up to I had boarded that hansom and shouted to the cabman, "Five shillings, if you set me down at Baker Street Station in ten minutes," and away we went. I looked out of the spy window in the back of the cab and saw my "nark" standing staring in the middle of the road. At Baker Street I took a ticket for the Edgeware Road and there I jumped into a train for Aldgate Station. When I once more found myself in the streets I looked carefully around me and to my relief was able to assure myself that no one was following me. Taking a circuitous route, for greater precaution, I at last reached my destination.

I seemed to be in a foreign country. Dark-eyed comely women and pretty children, dressed in gay colours, were walking up and down. The shop-signs and advertisements were mostly written in Hebrew characters, loud conversation in a foreign language accompanied by vivacious gesticulation, caught the ear. The narrow, dirty street was swarming with inhabitants, the front doors were mostly open, and many people had placed chairs on the doorsteps and pavement and were sitting out, though it would be an euphemism to speak of enjoying the fresh air in such a neighbourhood. The house at which I stopped was a six-roomed "cottage," but whilst I stood on the doorstep, waiting to gain admittance, at least fourteen persons passed in and out. At last a wizened old woman, scrutinising me suspiciously, answered my inquiries.

"Yoski! yes, he live on the tird floor back, vis his vife and schwester. Yes, you will find him in."

Yoski was a small, unhealthy-looking man, not much unlike Matthieu, though darker in colouring, and of a weaker type of face. He was a serious, silent, earnest man, a model of solidarity, regularly setting aside his weekly contribution to the Cause out of his meagre earning on which he had to maintain a wife and four children and a young sister. They all lived in the one room, but one felt that this did not cause them any suffering; they were evidently used to it. The three grown-ups were all at work when I entered, and the children clustered round like inquisitive little animals. I explained briefly my identity and the object of my visit, talking English, which was not understood by his female relatives. He nodded gravely, and said: "But I cannot change here; it would cause too much curiosity. I will tell my wife that I must go with you for some work, and I will go into the room of a friend of mine who is out and dress there." He did as he said and we left the room together.

On the landing I handed him the bag. "Is everything here?" he inquired, "hat and all?"

The hat! Who had thought of it? And yet without that it was impossible to go out.

"Cannot you get at your wife's or your sister's?" I inquired.

"Impossible," he replied, "they would never give me a moment's peace till they knew why I wanted it. You might, however, try with Rebecca Wiesmann; she is a comrade and lives two streets farther down. Do not, however, tell her all this matter; make up some story and see if you can manage."

Much doubting my success, I went round to Rebecca's. I had seen her sometimes at meetings, but I felt that she would be surprised at my appearance, and still more at my errand. Still there was nothing for it, the shops were all shut, and so I went round to her. This girl lived alone, having separated from her parents, who were strictly orthodox and intolerant Jews. She was indeed taken aback at seeing me, but did not like to refuse my request. I told her that I was expected at a comrade's house, that I had been followed by detectives and wished to lose sight of them, and she, with the foreign Jews' dread of policemen as omnipotent beings, swallowed the tale and provided me with a showy best hat quite unlike my own. This I donned and left with my own in a paper under my arm, in spite of her pressing offer to keep it for me.

In a few minutes I was knocking at the door Yoski had pointed out to me. I found him ready, carefully shaved of his moustache, and quite transformed in appearance. The hat and veil completed the disguise. By six o'clock we were in Grafton Street. I was relieved to find that Deveril had left, and that only Limpet and O'Brien were on guard. They took a good stare at us as we passed them by.

Combrisson himself opened to us. "Oh, here you are at last. We began to fear you would never come. It has been as much as we could do to prevent Matthieu from spoiling everything by making a rush for it. Come in, there is not a moment to lose. Deveril may be back any minute, and he's not so easily gulled as those two mugs."

We found Matthieu in a state of great nervous excitement. The long, anxious hours of waiting had told on him. A nervous twitch convulsed his mouth. He jumped spasmodically to his feet as we entered the room. "At last," exclaimed Bonafede, with a sigh of relief on seeing us. "Now, Matthieu," he said, laying a hand encouragingly on the man's shoulder, "there is no time to be lost. Isabel will go downstairs whilst you two exchange clothes. As soon as you are ready I will fetch the cabs. Be courageous, and, above all, calm, and in half-an-hour all will be over."

I went downstairs with Madame Combrisson, and we paced nervously up and down the front parlour. Every other minute one of us went to look out of the window. It was nearly dark. The street lamps were lighting up, and still the two detectives watched on the other side of the road.

"Where is Sylvestre?" I at last inquired, to break the tense silence.

"Who knows? He left about half-an-hour ago, saying he would soon be back. He is off on some madcap expedition, you may be sure. He is a dreadful farceur."

At that moment no fewer than three barrel-organs came up the street, stopped nearly opposite the house, and started playing "The man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo," and other similar classics. I was at the window and saw Sylvestre go gravely up to the detectives, bow, say a few words, and cross over to our door. Madame rushed out to open to him.

"So here you are, Mademoiselle. All is well, I hope?" he inquired.

I nodded assent.

"Oh, what a game it will be to see their faces to-morrow when Deveril comes round with his warrant! Meanwhile, I was sure those poor devils were boring themselves to death, so I went down to the Italian quarter and brought back these musicians. I have just told them that I hope the music will help them to pass a pleasant half-hour."

Just then Bonafede came down, followed by the false Matthieu. The lower part of his face was concealed in a muffler, and the illusion was really very deceptive.

"I am going now for the cab," said the Italian. As soon as I return Yoski must hurry out, jump in rapidly, and drive off. I shall be waiting for you, Isabel, and Matthieu with a cab just by Shoolbred's; time to leave the house five minutes after the departure of Yoski. Here is Matthieu; you, Madame Combrisson, see if his dress is right; now I am going."

"Wait a minute," exclaimed Sylvestre, "give me a bottle of whisky and two glasses, I will go over and offer some to the 'tecs; it will look as if I am trying to distract their attention from Bonafede and the cab, and will lend truth to the scene."

All passed off to perfection. As the hansom drew up, Sylvestre, with a polite bow, offered a drink to Limpet and O'Brien. The latter caught sight of the cab, just as the false Matthieu hurriedly jumped in, and, pushing the Frenchman roughly aside, he leapt on his bicycle and rushed off in pursuit just as the cab disappeared round the street corner. Bonafede had quietly slipped off down the Tottenham Court Road. Limpet was pacing up and down distractedly, uncertain whether to stick to his post or join his comrade in pursuit. In five minutes' time I quietly walked out, arm in arm with Matthieu, turning round on the doorstep to shake hands with Madame Combrisson. We walked boldly past Limpet, and were soon at Shoolbred's, where I left the dynamitard with Bonafede, and, taking a roundabout walk, returned within half-an-hour to Grafton Street. In an hour's time Bonafede joined us. "All is well!" he exclaimed; "within a couple of hours our comrade will be safe in Leicester. It has been an anxious day, but it has ended better than I had dared hope for."

"And now let us get some dinner," broke in Sylvestre, "I am just fainting with hunger. Here is a sovereign, Madame; see if you can get us something fit to eat, though I fear that, with this hateful English Sunday, everything will be shut."

"Do not abuse the English Sunday," rejoined Bonafede, "to its sanctity we owe our friend's escape."

We were soon enjoying a supper which Madame Combrisson got in from the neighbouring Italian restaurant. We were all in high spirits, and laughed and chatted freely. Limpet, and O'Brien who had returned after satisfying himself as to the true identity of the false Matthieu, who had driven straight home, kept pacing up and down in front of the area railings, evidently half suspecting that we had played them a trick.

All that night we sat round the kitchen fire, chatting and dozing alternately. At midnight Deveril came, accompanied by two other officers, who relieved Limpet and O'Brien. The next morning, as the clock hands pointed to 9.15, a loud rat-tat resounded through the house. Deveril, with our two friends of the previous day, accompanied by three uniformed policemen, were on the doorstep. Combrisson opened to them with his most engaging smile. He politely read the warrant which the inspector handed him, and bowed him in, saying that he was happy that he should persuade himself that Matthieu was not, and never had been, on the premises. Deveril seemed rather taken aback by this reception, but was too sure of his case to feel much doubt.

Never shall I forget that man's face when, after a three hours' hunt in every hole and corner of the building he had to come down persuaded that his victim had escaped him.

He was perfectly green with rage. Turning to Bonafede who, with us others, was sitting in the front parlour, he said, "Well, Signore, you have been one too much for me on this occasion, but remember, he laughs best who laughs last. We shall doubtless meet again soon."

Bonafede merely shrugged his shoulders and turned aside, whilst the crestfallen Limpet, who had evidently received a severe wigging from his superior for allowing his quarry to escape, turned on me a look of intense hatred and hissed out,

"Remember, miss, you may not always be in London; you will yet pay me for this!" and with this melodramatic threat he and his comrades departed amidst the jeers of the assembled lodgers.

In the street they were met by deafening shouts of "Vive Deveril! Hurrah for the detective force!" Sylvestre, who had slipped out a few minutes before the arrival of the police, had assembled in the road all the Italian comrades of the Tocsin group, several Frenchmen of his own acquaintance, and four or five organ-grinders, and amidst the ironic cheers of their enemies, the dejected guardians of law and order made their shamefaced exit from the scene.



CHAPTER IX

SOME ANARCHIST PERSONALITIES

There has been of late years a remarkable, and, on the whole, a very futile tendency among certain men of science to dissect and classify abnormal people and abnormal ideas, to discover that geniuses are mad, and that all manner of well-intentioned fanatics are born criminals.

But there were elements in the Anarchist party which defied the science of the psychological analyst, so strangely and intricately were the most heterogeneous qualities blended in certain of their number—fanaticism, heroism, criminality, and not unfrequently a spicing of genius.

The primary difference between the ordinary normal man and the fanatic —as between the normal man and the madman or the genius—is the totally different standpoint whence each views life. This it is which renders it impossible for the normal man really to understand or judge fanatics. He cannot grasp their motive, their point of view, and is therefore morally incapable of judging them.

Among the Anarchists, who may be said to represent the intellectual rather than the material side of the Socialist movement—there were many fanatics. This fanaticism showed itself in different ways—sometimes in the most admirable self-abnegation, in the sacrifice of wealth, position, and happiness; frequently in abnormal actions of other kinds, and most noticeably in deeds of violence.

Very diverse in nature were the motives which prompted the committal of these acts of violence—these assassinations and dynamite explosions—in different men. With some it was an act of personal revolt, the outcome of personal sufferings and wrongs endured by the rebel himself, by his family or his class. In others violence was rather the offspring of ideas, the logical result of speculation upon the social evil and the causes thereof. These Anarchists referred to their actions as Propaganda by Deed.

Emile Henry, the dynamitard of the Cafe Terminus, belonged to the number of what I may call the theoretical dynamitard. His terrible acts were the outcome of long and earnest thought; they were born of his mental analysis of the social canker. He committed them not in moments of passion, but with all the sang froid of a man governed by reason. His defence when on trial was a masterpiece of logical deduction and eloquent reasoning.

To the average man it is no doubt very difficult to conceive that when he threw his bomb among the crowd in the Cafe Terminus, maiming and killing indiscriminately, Emile Henry was performing his duty according to his own lights just as much as a soldier when he obeys orders and fires on the enemy, a city man when he embarks on the day's business, or a parson when he preaches a sermon against prevailing vices. It was his sermon—however vigorously preached—against the prevailing vices and injustices of Society, and against the indifference which all classes displayed towards these. He took upon himself to strike a blow against this indifference on behalf of all the weaker and more unfortunate members of society. Being a man of intellect and some culture, he could not, like his more ignorant confreres, imagine that one man or one small group of men, was responsible for these. Earnest thought and reflection told him that if any section of society suffered, then society at large was guilty: all the thoughtless, all the indifferent members of society were equally responsible for its abuses. Now this may be true enough theoretically, but no one but a fanatic or a madman would carry the reasoning farther to the point of saying: "Society at large is guilty; society at large must suffer. Society is fairly well represented by the mixed crowd in a cafe. I will attack this crowd indiscriminately, and kill as many of their number as I can. I will unreluctantly end my days on the scaffold in order to accomplish this very obvious duty;" and proceed from words to deeds.

There is something terribly, if pervertedly logical in this reasoning, and although nothing could be farther from the attitude of the ordinary delinquent, it is no doubt more dangerous to the peace and continuance of society; and such was the attitude and the reasoning which rendered the Anarchists so formidable, and which led up to many of their most terrible outrages. Emile Henry was in his own way a well-meaning youth; kindly in private life, frugal in his habits; studious, industrious, and free from vice, he lived with his old mother and mixed little with his fellows, and no one who knew him could have suspected that this quiet, studious boy would have developed into the terrible assassin whose act sent a thrill of horror through the world.

To Anarchists of this order, abstract ideas and opinions replaced all the ordinary forces of life. Their every action was prompted by some theory, and they fashioned their lives to fit their peculiar views of what it ought to be. Emile Henry belonged to this number no less than Kosinski, Bonafede, and certain so-called Christian Anarchists. For in some fanatics the Anarchist ideas, instead of leading to violence, led to the absolute negation and rejection of it.

Among the many frequenters of our office and of the weekly discussion meetings held there, was a Christian Anarchist, one of those holding what was known as the "non-resistance to evil" creed. He, too, was a man who fitted his life to his ideas, who lived in ideas, whose whole being centred round his ideas. He was a religious fanatic whose course had deviated into strange paths.

Norbery was a pale, anxious-looking Lancashire man, with weak, restless eyes and a resolute mouth, who did not lack a certain dignity of bearing.

Both the organisationists and the individualists united in abusing and despising the Christian Norbery, but no amount of insults or invective ruffled his temper or aroused his wrath. "When you preach force or use force," he said to his opponents, "you imitate the very methods used by Governments. You will never attain universal peace and brotherhood by such means. As Anarchists we have no right to use other than passive resistance, for by using coercion we are defeating our own ends and justifying the actions of our persecutors."

The more indignant his Anarchist opponents became in the course of debate, the calmer and more complacent grew Norbery. "Abuse me," he would say, "insult me, use violence towards me, if you will; I shall turn the other cheek." Once a hot-headed Italian Anarchist lost patience with him and threw him downstairs. He lay where he fell with a sprained ankle, repeating good words from the Sermon on the Mount, until his adversary, overcome with shame and remorse, picked him up and bandaged his injured limb. Once during certain strike riots in the North of England, Norbery journeyed to the scene of trouble to preach passive measures and the Anarchist principles to the rioters. He was dragged from his platform by the police and badly hustled and knocked about. But Norbery was determined on having his say; he procured a chain and padlock, chained himself to a lamppost, threw away the key, and resumed the interrupted course of his harangue. A large crowd gathered round the persistent orator, attracted partly by his eloquence and partly by the novelty of his situation. The police hurried to the scene and tried to drag him down; his coat and shirt, torn to shreds, remained in their hands, while the semi-naked Anarchist preached away to the constantly increasing crowd. The officers of the law foamed with rage, and threatened and pommelled the enchained and defenceless Norbery. Norbery grew more eloquent and more argumentative under this treatment. Nearly an hour passed before a file could be procured and the chain severed, and by that time Norbery had ample opportunity to finish his discourse, and was conveyed to the police station in a fainting and exhausted condition.

Armitage and I engaged in endless discussions with Norbery on the question of violence, maintaining on our side that violence could only be overcome by violence, and that, however peaceful our ultimate aims might be, force must inevitably be used towards their attainment. We argued and adduced reasons in support of our views, and Norbery argued and adduced counter-reasons in support of his views, but neither the one nor the other of us was ever in the least affected by his opponent's eloquence, and at the end of the discussion we were all, if anything, more staunchly persuaded of the sense and justice of our own case than at the start. So much for the profitableness of debate between confirmed partisans.

Emile Henry was representative of the theoretical dynamitard; Matthieu, like Ravachol, of the dynamitard by passion. A——, who belonged rather to the Ravachol type, and ended by killing one of the crowned heads of Europe, was during a few weeks a frequenter of the Tocsin. He had turned Anarchist in revolt against the society which had cramped his life, starved him in childhood, overworked his body, underfed his mind, where he had found neither place nor welcome. Born into the lowest depths of society, dragged up amid criminals and drunkards, he had spent his early years between the streets and the jail-house, at times working his undeveloped muscles, at other times begging or picking pockets.

"It is all very well," he said to me one day, "for those on the top rungs of the ladder to talk of the unrelenting laws of nature and the survival of the fittest. For my part I have felt very forcibly one great law of nature, the law of self-preservation: the right to live when you have once been born, the right to food and to the pleasures of life, and I determined to survive at all costs. When my stomach is empty and my boots let in water, the mere sight of a replete and well-clothed man makes me feel like murder. It may be true that it is natural for the strongest and the best men to rise above their fellows, but even this is not the case in our society of to-day. The weakest and the worst have somehow got to the top, and giants are bolstering up the impotence of dwarfs. These dwarfs are crushing the life-blood out of us. We must pull them down, exterminate them; we must turn the whole world upside down before we can create a new and better order of things."

His action was not a theoretical protest translated into deeds; it was an act of vengeance, of personal and class revenge.

Giannoli was a type apart. His desires and actions were responsible for his views. They coloured and distorted his opinions and destroyed all sense of proportion. An incident in his private life would stand up giant-like in the way of all the doctrines in the world, dwarfing opinions and creeds. He was a physically active man and his ideas grew out of his life, whereas men like Kosinski might be said to abandon the material life in the pursuit of an ideal.

Giacomo Giannoli was a man of some education, and no ordinary degree of natural refinement and culture, one whom you would pronounce at first sight to be a gentleman. He was the son of a fairly well-to-do builder in a provincial town of Lombardy, and had received a good general education in boyhood. Early left an orphan by his father's death, he had inherited his business, and for some years he carried it on prosperously, living with his mother and sisters. But before he was two-and-twenty his naturally erratic disposition asserted itself, and he chafed under the restraints and monotony of life in a small provincial town. He sold up his business at a great loss, well-nigh ruining his family, had it not been for his mother's small private means; and with his share of the proceeds of the sale he travelled about for some years, leading a roving life, and devoting most of his time and cash to the Anarchist propaganda, constantly getting into troubles and bothers, at times in hiding, at others in prison, always in difficulties, growing harder and harder up as the months went by, and his moderate means slipped through his untenacious fingers.

Two convergent factors had led up to this sudden change in his life. Firstly, an incident of a private nature which revolutionised his notions of individual morality, and secondly, the discovery of the Anarchist doctrines which gave form to his new views. The incident which was primarily responsible for his new views of life, he recounted to me not long after his arrival in London.

"It was a woman," he said, "who completely altered my views of life, and made me see how perverted and unnatural are our ideas of sex and love and morals, and, in short, of everything. She was an ignorant peasant girl who lived in a neighbouring village, but a woman of rare mind and character. I shall never forget her, nor what I owe her. I was a young fellow of some twenty-one years at the time, and I loved this girl with all the passion and faith of a youth of those years. Teresina loved me in return, and for some two years we lived on happily till one day it was brought to my knowledge that she was unfaithful to me. I was beside myself with grief and mortification and jealous fury. For some hours I just raged up and down my room like one demented, crying like a child one minute, cursing and meditating revenge the next. I felt that I must have blood at all costs to appease my passion—Teresina's or her lover's, or somebody's. I was to meet Teresina that evening as usual towards nine o'clock, and I thought the intervening hours would never go by. One hope suddenly suggested itself to me, and I clung desperately to it. 'Perhaps it is false!' I said to myself. 'I will ask Teresina. It is all a lie,' and then 'Proofs, proofs, I must have proofs!' I cried, and once more my thoughts turned back to murder. Thus I went through the long hours, and at last evening came—a beautiful warm May evening, and long before the appointed hour I was at our rendezvous in a deserted podere on the mountain-side, overgrown with flags and other spring flowers, among which the fireflies were flitting noiselessly. I had no eyes for the beauty of the scene, however. I paced up and down waiting for my sweetheart, cursing the treachery of women and the blindness of men. Suddenly she appeared, dark against the clear evening sky, graceful, gay, and unconscious as ever. Without a word of welcome I rushed at her, seized her by the arm, and hurled forth all my accusations and all my reproaches.

"'Tell me it is not true,' I cried at last, 'tell me it is not true, or I will kill you where you stand!'

"I expected the usual routine of tears and protestations of innocence, all the lies and subterfuges with which women are wont to defend themselves against the unreasoning savagery of their mates. I was disappointed. Teresina stood perfectly silent till I had finished speaking; then without flinching, without one instant's hesitation, she answered, 'It is true. Every word of it is true.'

"If the moon and the stars had all dropped simultaneously out of heaven at my feet I should not have been more astonished. The calmness of her answer, the steady earnestness of her gaze as she looked back fearlessly into my eyes, her utter lack of subterfuge, took away my breath. I dropped her arm and stood staring at her, bereft of speech and understanding. At last I blurted out stupidly that I did not understand her, that I must be going mad, and entreated her to explain.

"'I said it was true; that I love Giordano, and have accepted his love,' she answered. Still I did not fully grasp her meaning.

"'But, Teresina, I thought that you loved me; have you lied to me then?' I exclaimed.

"'No, I have not lied,' she answered me. 'I have never lied to you,' and she took my hand in her strong little hand, and led me like one blind or intoxicated to the projecting root of a tree close by, and there sat down by my side.

"'Listen,' she said, still holding my hand in hers, 'I ought to have told you what I have to say before now. I only hesitated because I knew it would cause you acute suffering at first ... until you could understand. Believe me, I do love you as much as ever I did, and I could not bear even the thought of living without you. I love Giordano too, in a different way it is true, but still I love him. He has not got your mind or your heart, or your wonderful knowledge' (she was a very ignorant girl, so far as learning was concerned, and my small knowledge of books appeared to her little short of miraculous, poor child!), 'but then he has some qualities you do not possess. Well, I love him for these, and I enjoy being with him in a quite different way from what I experience with you.'

"I was silent, and she continued after a short pause:—

"'Nothing is more brutish or more selfish than jealousy, my friend. If I thought another woman could give you a moment's happiness, I should say: "Take it, enjoy it!" We do not grudge our friends every moment of enjoyment not enjoyed in our company. We wish them other friendships and other joys. What is there in the love between man and woman which should make us so selfish and so unreasonable? For my part, I must have freedom at all costs, absolutely at all costs. It is dearer to me than anything else in life, and I had sooner sacrifice even love and happiness; indeed, I cannot love or be happy without it. For God's sake grant me this liberty as I grant it to you! Take my love as I can give it to you, but do not ask me to be your slave on its account! Be sure you have my heart, and little of it remains to be squandered in other directions. What does the rest matter? I do not grudge you your loves, your pleasures, your caprices! Do not grudge me mine. Life is necessarily full of sorrows; do not let us embitter it unnecessarily.'

"She ceased speaking. She had risen to her feet and stood in front of me as she spoke, then as she finished she sank down on her knees by my side.

"'Do you understand?' she asked me. 'Can you love me on these terms? liberty—absolute liberty for us both?'

"I answered 'Yes,' nor did I ever regret the answer.

"I think that was the most momentous day in my life, for it wrought the greatest change in me. My eyes were opened by the peasant girl's words, and from that evening forward I regarded life quite differently. For the first time I realised the necessity to the individual to enjoy absolute personal freedom in love as in all else in life. All my previous ideas and prejudices appeared to me monstrous and iniquitous. I saw the falseness of all our ideas of morality, the absurdity of placing conventions before nature and the detestable character of our dealings with women and of our attitude in such matters. And with this suddenly awakened vision I looked anew on life, and it seemed to me that till then I had never lived. All that which I had before taken for granted I now began to question. I found that instead of thinking out life's problems for myself I had allowed myself to grow into other peoples' ideas, that I had tacitly taken for right what they had pronounced right, and for wrong what they had stigmatised as wrong. My spiritual world now turned, as it were, a complete somersault, and I was re-born a new man—an Anarchist.

"I and Teresina and Giordano lived very happily for some months, much to the scandal of the narrow-minded, bigoted village folk, until I was compelled to absent myself from the country owing to some little disturbances in the neighbourhood in which I had got implicated.

"Teresina followed me into exile, and with little intermission remained with me during all those early years of wanderings and adventure. She cared little about Anarchist doctrines, though herself a born rebel and an innate Anarchist. She did more for me than all the doctrines in the world. Poor child! When at last I got through all my money, and life from day to day grew harder and more precarious, food scantier, clothes raggeder, and surroundings more dangerous, she still remained faithful to me in her own way, but the life was too hard for her. We had spent the summer in Paris, and there I had got seriously implicated in a little Anarchist venture and found it necessary to flee the country with all haste. Teresina followed me into Belgium in the bitter winter weather. She died of consumption in a Brussels hospital shortly after our arrival."

Such, in his own words, were the influences and the circumstances which revolutionised Giannoli's entire life and his outlook on things. He became one of the leaders of the most advanced section of the "Individualist Anarchists," who maintain that not only is government of man by man wrong and objectionable, but that no ties or obligations of any sort bind men together. The ethics of "humanity" and "brotherhood" are unknown to these Anarchists. They recognise no laws, social or moral, no obligations or duties towards their fellows, no organisation or association of any sort. They claim absolute freedom for the individual, freedom to live, die, love, enjoy, think, work, or take—this freedom in each individual only curtailed by others claiming equal rights. And I am bound to admit that the question whether such individual freedom would not tend to individual licence and domination by the stronger and cleverer or more unscrupulous man in the future, met with little consideration.

That it led to such licence in the present among themselves was an indubitable fact. All the individualist Anarchists agreed that, being at war with existing society, which interfered with, coerced, and used violence towards them, they were at liberty to use all means against society in retaliation—force and even fraud if expedient. But the less intelligent and more ignorant men who came in contact with these principles considered themselves not only at liberty to use all means against society, the enemy; but honour or scruples of any sort among themselves were tabooed. A naturally honourable man like Giannoli was, of course, free from the danger of falling victim to such perverted sophistry. But the manner in which these doctrines succeeded in perverting the minds of fairly intelligent and well-meaning men is illustrated by the following incident.

One evening, some months after the advent of Giannoli and his friends, there arrived at the office of the Tocsin a small party of three men and one woman—all of them Spaniards. They requested me to help them to procure lodgings for the night, and, as they knew nothing of the English language, to assist them the following morning in procuring tickets, etc., with a view to their immediate re-departure for the States. Giannoli, who knew the men, having spent some years in Spain, explained to me that the leader of the party, a handsome, well-spoken young man, was an engineer belonging to a good Barcelona family. The second one, a good-natured giant, was his brother and an engineer like himself. The third male member of the party was a lanky, scrofulous journalist, a man of many words and few wits. The lady, a pretty brunette, was their "compagna." She had escaped from her family and eloped with Fernandez, the engineer, but was apparently shared on communistic principles.

I settled the party for the night in a small hotel and procured their tickets for the morrow's journey, after which they proceeded to hand over to Giannoli, with many cautions and precautions, a mysterious linen bag which, it was whispered, contained some twelve thousand lire in bank-notes (about five hundred pounds sterling). Then, having been assured by Giannoli that I was to be trusted, they told me their story.

The two brothers, the engineers, had till quite recently been employed by a large electrical engineering firm in Barcelona, of which an elder brother, some years their senior, was the manager. For some time the two younger men had been engaged, unknown to their family, in Anarchist propaganda, and had fallen in with the section of the individualisti. Fernandez was in love with Adolfa, the daughter of a well-to-do merchant, and had secretly talked her over to his own ideas. The girl's parents objected to the match on account of the extreme youth of the couple—the girl was not quite eighteen and the young man still considerably under age. Therefore they settled to elope, and Fernandez's brother and Vanni, their journalist friend, expressed a desire to form an addition to the elopement. This Fernandez had at first objected to, but the girl, who had made rapid strides into the Giannolian free-love theories, insisted. Lack of money formed the only obstacle to this scheme, but an unforeseen circumstance enabled them to remove it.

The eldest brother, who had charge of the finances of the establishment, and whose business it was to pay the men their wages, wished to absent himself from the works for a few days, and, without the knowledge of his employers, he broke rules to the extent of handing over to his brother Fernandez, as to one beyond suspicion, the men's wages—the five hundred pounds now contained in the mysterious linen bag.

"Now," argued Fernandez to himself, "I, as an Anarchist, do not recognise private property, nor any set moral laws. The company's money is the result of plunder; they can afford to lose it and have no right to it; I stand desperately in need of it—and it is in my hands.... My brother?... oh, my brother, he is after all nothing but a bourgeois, and I, as an Anarchist, admit of no family ties."

Thus when, two days later, the unfortunate manager returned, he found his brothers gone, the money nowhere to be found, and disgrace and ruin ahead. Driven to despair, and not knowing in what direction to turn for the necessary sum, the wretched man ended his perplexities with a bullet. This was the first news which greeted the runaways on their arrival in the States.

Now the younger brothers who had perpetrated this cruel thing were not hardened criminals. From what little I saw of them, they appeared to be kindly, courteous, and, by nature, fairly honourable men. What they lacked was moral strength. Under ordinarily good influences they would have acted in an ordinarily proper way. They had not the force of character necessary for handling the Anarchist individualist doctrines, which, excellently as they may work with men of character, are fatal to weaker men. The man who recognises no law outside himself must be capable of governing himself.

The office of the Tocsin was the constant scene of debate and dispute between the two rival camps in the Anarchist party—the organisationists and the individualists. Bonafede and Gnecco belonged to the former, while most of the active staff of the Tocsin—myself among others—adhered to the latter section. A curious feature of the matter—and I fancy it is not exclusively characteristic of the Anarchist party—was the amount of invective and hatred, which both factions ought properly to have expended on the common enemy, but which instead they spent most of their time in levelling at one another. A casual witness of these internal strifes might have imagined that the two parties were at the antipodes in their ideas and objects, rather than comrades and participators in a common belief. Their dissensions were alone forgotten in a common hatred of government and existing society. And even in their efforts to upraise the social revolution—the great upheaval to which all Anarchists aspired—I doubt whether there lurked not some secret hope that the detested rival faction might be demolished in the fray. Bonafede and Giannoli were warm friends personally, and held one another in great esteem. Yet I can clearly recollect Giannoli one evening, with tears in his eyes, assuring me that his first duty when the Revolution broke out would be to disembowel his dear friend.

"He is my friend," Giannoli said to me, "and I love him as such, and as a man I admire him. But his doctrines are noxious; in time of Revolution they would prove fatal to our Cause; they would be the undoing of all the work for which we have suffered and fought. Organise a Revolution, indeed! You might as well attempt to organise a tempest and to marshal the elements into order! I know Bonafede to be above personal ambition, but, take my word for it, most of these organisationists hope to organise themselves into comfortable places when their time comes! It is our duty to destroy them."



CHAPTER X

A FLIGHT

No man, having once thrown himself into an idea, was ever more sincerely convinced of the truth of his beliefs or more strenuous in his efforts to propagandise them than Giannoli. To destroy utterly the fabric of existing society by all possible means, by acts of violence and terrorism, by expropriation, by undermining the prevailing ideas of morality, by breaking up the organisations of those Anarchists and Socialists who believed in association, by denouncing such persons and such attempts, by preaching revolution wherever and whenever an opportunity occurred or could be improvised, to these objects he had blindly devoted the best years of his life. His was a gospel of destruction and negation, and he was occupied rather in the undoing of what he had come to regard as bad than with any constructive doctrines.

All existing and established things were alike under his ban: art no less than morals and religion. He nourished a peculiar hatred for all those links which bind the present to the past, for ancient customs and superstitions, for all tradition. Had it been in his power he would have destroyed history itself. "We shall never be free," he used to say, "so long as one prejudice, one single ingrained belief, remains with us. We are the slaves of heredity, and of all manner of notions of duties, of the licit and the illicit."