Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. Berkman Alexander

      A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy’s wizened face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if drumming stiffly on an imaginary board.

      “Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm, to commit suicide?”

      “With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor.”

      “Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave offence. I’ll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer. He will, hm, hm, cool off.”

      I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me. Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors, dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.

      The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending over me.

      “A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell.”

      “Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment.”

      “Not safe, Mr. McPane.”

      “We’ll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers.”

      “Git up.”

      My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a bed.

I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell that I could use. These iron bars—I could beat my head against them. But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the brains ooze out.… But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with one blow? I’m afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and quickest. I’ve always thought I’d prefer such a death—to be shot. The barrel close to the temple—one couldn’t miss. Some people have done it in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver, either.… Through the mouth it is also fatal.… That Moscow student—Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov—he shot himself through the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady, because—he wrote—after passing through his brain, the bullet might damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my brother’s study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: “Sasha, Ivan Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time.” My hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I was glad I didn’t cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little. “Rather energetic,” she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the favorable impression made by his college chum. “What did I tell you?” he cried, in glee; “Ivan Nikolaievitch molodetz!89 Think of it, he’s only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university. Molodetz!” But how red were Maxim’s eyes when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan Nikolaievitch’s room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the cotton, and showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma called Max a brute. “For a woman, an unworthy woman!” sister moaned. I thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly. They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno. She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to talk of such things. How shocked she would have been had she known that I was in love with Nadya, my sister’s chum. And I had kissed our chambermaid, too. Dear little Rosa,—I remember she threatened to tell mother. I was so frightened, I wouldn’t come to dinner. Mamma sent the maid to call me, but I refused to go till Rosa promised not to tell.… The sweet girl, with those red-apple cheeks. How kind she was! But the little imp couldn’t keep the secret. She told Tatanya, the cook of our neighbor, the Latin instructor at the gymnasium. Next day he teased me about the servant girl. Before the whole class, too. I wished the floor would open and swallow me. I was so mortified.

…How far off it all seems. Centuries away. I wonder what has become of her. Where is Rosa now? Why, she must be here, in America. I had almost forgotten,—I met her in New York. It was such a surprise. I was standing on the stoop of the tenement house where I boarded. I had then been only a few months in the country. A young lady passed by. She looked up at me, then turned and ascended the steps. “Don’t you know me, Mr. Berkman? Don’t you really recognize me?” Some mistake, I thought. I had never before seen this beautiful, stylish young woman. She invited me into the hallway. “Don’t tell these people here. I am Rosa. Don’t you remember? Why, you know, I was your mother’s—your mother’s maid.” She blushed violently. Those red cheeks—why, certainly, it’s Rosa! I thought of the stolen kiss. “Would I dare it now?” I wondered, suddenly conscious of my shabby clothes. She seemed so prosperous. How our positions were changed! She looked the very barishnya,90 like my sister. “Is your mother here?” she asked. “Mother? She died, just before I left.” I glanced apprehensively at her. Did she remember that terrible scene when mother struck her? “I didn’t know about your mother.” Her voice was husky; a tear glistened in her eye. The dear girl, always generous-hearted. I ought to make amends to her for mother’s insult. We looked at each other in embarrassment. Then she held out a gloved hand. Very large, I thought; red, too, probably. “Good-bye, Gospodin91 Berkman,” she said. I’ll see you again soon. Please don’t tell these people who I am.” I experienced a feeling of guilt and shame. Gospodin Berkman—somehow it echoed the servile barinya92 with which the domestics used to address my mother. For all her finery, Rosa had not gotten over it. Too much bred in, poor girl. She has not become emancipated. I never saw her at our meetings; she is conservative, no doubt. She was so ignorant, she could not even read. Perhaps she has learned in this country. Now she will read about me, and she’ll know how I died.… Oh, I haven’t the spoon! What shall I do, what shall I do? I can’t live. I couldn’t stand this torture. Perhaps if I had seven years, I would try to serve the sentence. But I couldn’t, anyhow. I might live here a year, or two. But twenty-two, twenty-two years! What is the use? No man could survive it. It’s terrible, twenty-two years! Their cursed justice—they always talk of law. Yet legally I shouldn’t have gotten more than seven years. Legally! As if they care about “legality.” They wanted to make an example of me. Of course, I knew it beforehand; but if I had seven years—perhaps I might live through it; I would try. But twenty-two—it’s a lifetime, a whole lifetime. Seventeen is no better. That man Jamestown got seventeen years. He celled next to me in the jail. He didn’t look like a highway robber, he was so small and puny. He must be here now. A fool, to think he could live here seventeen years. In this hell—what an imbecile he is! He should have committed suicide long ago. They sent him away before my trial; it’s about three weeks ago. Enough time; why hasn’t he done something? He will soon die here, anyway; it would be better to suicide. A strong man might live five years; I doubt it, though; perhaps a very strong man might. I couldn’t; no, I know I couldn’t; perhaps two or three years, at most. We had often spoken about this, the Girl, Fedya, and I. I had then such a peculiar idea of prison: I thought I would be sitting on the floor in a gruesome, black hole, with my hands and feet chained to the wall; and the worms would crawl over me, and slowly devour my face and my eyes, and I so helpless, chained to the wall. The Girl and Fedya had a similar idea. She said she might bear prison life a few weeks. I could for a year, I thought; but was doubtful. I pictured myself fighting the worms off with my feet; it would take the vermin that long to eat all my flesh, till they got to my heart; that would be fatal.… And the vermin here, those big, brown bedbugs,