Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

Читать онлайн.
Название Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist
Автор произведения Berkman Alexander
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Серия
Издательство Биографии и Мемуары
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781849352536



Скачать книгу

damn ’em! What do I care about ’em! Will they hang me, that’s what I want to know.”

      “May be they will,” I reply, irritated at the profanation of my ideal. A look of terror spreads over his face. His eyes are fastened upon me, his lips parted. “Yes,” I continue, “perhaps they will hang you. Many innocent men have suffered such a fate. I don’t think you are innocent, either; nor blind. You don’t need those glasses; there is nothing the matter with your eyes. Now understand, Billy, I don’t want them to hang you. I don’t believe in hanging. But I must tell you the truth, and you’d better be ready for the worst.”

      Gradually the look of fear fades from his face. Rage suffuses his cheeks with spots of dark red.

      “You’re crazy! What’s the use talkin’ to you, anyhow? You are a damn Anarchist. I’m a good Catholic, I want you to know that! I haven’t always did right, but the good father confessed me last week. I’m no damn murderer like you, see? It was an accident. I’m pretty near blind, and this is a Christian country, thank God! They won’t hang a blind man. Don’t you ever talk to me again!”

      XI

      The days and weeks pass in wearying monotony, broken only by my anxiety about the approaching trial. It is part of the designed cruelty to keep me ignorant of the precise date. “Hold yourself ready. You may be called any time,” the Warden had said. But the shadows are lengthening, the days come and go, and still my name has not appeared on the court calendar. Why this torture? Let me have over with it. My mission is almost accomplished,—the explanation in court, and then my life is done. I shall never again have an opportunity to work for the Cause. I may therefore leave the world. I should die content, but for the partial failure of my plans. The bitterness of disappointment is gnawing at my heart. Yet why? The physical results of my act cannot affect its propagandistic value. Why, then, these regrets? I should rise above them. But the gibes of officers and prisoners wound me. “Bad shot, ain’t you?” They do not dream how keen their thoughtless thrusts. I smile and try to appear indifferent, while my heart bleeds. Why should I, the revolutionist, be moved by such remarks? It is weakness. They are so far beneath me; they live in the swamp of their narrow personal interests; they cannot understand. And yet the croaking of the frogs may reach the eagle’s aerie, and disturb the peace of the heights.

      The “trusty” passes along the gallery. He walks slowly, dusting the iron railing, then turns to give my door a few light strokes with the cat-o’-many-tails. Leaning against the outer wall, he stoops low, pretending to wipe the doorsill,—there is a quick movement of his hand, and a little roll of white is shot between the lower bars, falling at my feet. “A stiff,” he whispers.

      The gong tolls the exercise hour. With difficulty I walk to the gallery. I feel feverish: my feet drag heavily, and I stumble against the railing.

      “Is yo sick, Ahlick?” It must be the negro’s voice. My throat is dry; my lips refuse to move. Hazily I see the guard approach. He walks me to the cell, and lowers the berth. “You may lie down.” The lock clicks, and I’m alone.

      The line marches past, up and down, up and down. The regular footfall beats against my brain like hammer strokes. When will they stop? My head aches dreadfully—I am glad I don’t have to walk—it was good of the negro to call the guard—I felt so sick. What was it? Oh, the note! Where is it?

      The possibility of loss dismays me. Hastily I pick the newspaper up from the floor. With trembling hands I turn the leaves. Ah, it’s here! If I had not found it, I vaguely wonder, were the thing mere fancy?

      My soul is in the throes of agonizing doubt. Despair grips my heart, as I hesitatingly admit to myself the probable truth. But it cannot be; Nold has made a mistake. May be the letter is a trap; it was not written by Carl. But I know his hand so well. It is his, his! Perhaps I’ll have a letter in the morning. The Girl—she is the only one I can trust—she’ll tell me—

      My head feels heavy. Wearily I lie on the bed. Perhaps to-­morrow… a letter…

      XII

      “Your pards are here. Do you want to see them?” the Warden asks.

      “What ‘pards’?”

      “Your partners, Bauer and Nold.”

      “My comrades, you mean. I have no partners.”

      “Same thing. Want to see them? Their lawyers are here.”

      “Yes, I’ll see them.”

      Of course, I myself need no defence. I will conduct my own case, and explain my act. But I shall be glad to