+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | +------------------------------------------------------------+

_An_Anarchist Woman

_By_HUTCHINS HAPGOOD

_Author of "The Autobiography of a Thief, ""The Spirit of Labor"_

_NEW YORK_DUFFIELD & COMPANY1909

COPYRIGHT, 1909, BYDUFFIELD AND COMPANY

 _"The best government is that which makes itself superfluous. "_

 GOETHE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. SCHOOL AND FACTORY 1

 II. DOMESTIC SERVICE 12

 III. DOMESTIC SERVICE (CONTINUED) 26

 IV. ADVENTURES IN SEX 48

 V. MARIE'S SALVATION 65

 VI. TERRY 73

 VII. THE MEETING 94

 VIII. THE ROGUES' GALLERY 120

 IX. THE SALON 147

 X. MORE OF THE SALON 186

 XI. THE END OF THE SALON 217

 XII. MARIE'S ATTEMPT 239

 XIII. MARIE'S FAILURE 261

 XIV. MARIE'S REVOLT 280

 XV. TERRY'S FINISH 299

PREFACE

It is possible that in fifty years people now called "anarchists" willhave in America as respectable a place as they now occupy in France. When we are more accustomed to social thought, we shall not regard thosewho radically differ from us, as mad dogs or malevolent idiots. We may, indeed, still look on them as mistaken, but what now seems to us theirinsanity or peculiar atrociousness will vanish with our growingunderstanding and experience. When we become less crude in civilisation, they will seem less crude to us. When, with growing culture, we seethings more nearly as they are, the things we see, including theanarchists, will seem more sympathetic. 

This book is not an attempt to justify any person or set of persons. Itis not a political or economic pamphlet. It represents an effort tothrow light on what may be called the temperament of revolt; byportraying the mental life of an individual, and incidentally of morethan one individual, I have hoped to make more clear the naturalhistory of the anarchist; to show under what conditions, in connectionwith what personal qualities, the anarchistic habit of mind arises, andto point out, suggestively, rather than explicitly, the nature, thevalue, and the tragic limitation of the social rebel. 

An Anarchist Woman

CHAPTER I

_School and Factory_

When I first met the heroine of this tale, Marie, she was twenty-threeyears old, yet had lived enough for a woman of more than twice her age;indeed, few women of any age ever acquire the amount of mentalexperience possessed by this factory hand and servant girl. She had morecompletely translated her life into terms of thought than any otherwoman of my acquaintance. She had been deeply helped to do this by a manof strange character, with whom she lived. She had also been deeplyhelped by vice and misery. The intensity of her nature showed in heranæmic body and her large eyes, dark and glowing, but more than all inthe way she had of making everything her own, no matter from what sourceit came. Everything she said, or wrote, or did, all fitted into herpersonality, had one note, her note. But perhaps the most intensequality of all was--and is--this never-failing though gracefullymanifested energy, resulting in unity of character and temperament inexpression. To keep everything in tone is a quality of art; it is also asign of great, though not always obvious, energy. 

Marie was born in a Chicago slum in 1884. Her mother, half French andhalf German, was endowed with cruelty truly international. Her fatherwas a drunken machinist of German extraction, generally out of a job. Both the parents beat the little girl, the mother because she was cruel, the father because he was a beast. 

Her earliest memories are connected with the smoky streets of the WestSide. The smell of the Stock Yards suggests her youth to her, as thesmell of walnuts brings back to the more fortunate country man the richbeauty of a natural childhood. The beatings she received from herparents and the joy of her escape to the street--these are the strongestimpressions derived from her tender years. To her the street wasparadise; her home, hell. She knew that when she returned to the houseshe would find a mother half crazy with poverty and unhappiness and afather half crazy with drink; and that, if for no other reason than fordiversion and relief, they would beat her. 

The authorities finally succeeded in forcing the little girl's parentsto send her to school, where she remained only two years. She was notquite ten years old at the time, and the memories she has of her schoollife are only a trifle less unpleasant than those of her home. The lastday in school especially lives in her recollection; and she thusdescribed it in a letter to me:

"It was a warm morning toward the end of May, and room seven in thePullman School was pervaded with an intense excitement. For soonexamination day would come and the pupils were being prepared for theoccasion. The children fidgeted uneasily in their seats and even theteacher became nervous and impatient, glancing often at the big clockwhich ticked so monotonously and slowly. Soon it would be twelve o'clockand teacher and pupils would have a respite for a few hours. If onlythose stupid children would solve those problems in arithmetic, the mostdifficult study, they would not have to stay after school. But ithappened just as the teacher had feared: A dozen children, of whom twowere boys, did not give correct answers. After the school was dismissedthe stupids were ordered to go to the blackboard, and stay there untilthey saw the light. 

"Meanwhile the teacher sat at her desk with a despairing look on herface and the general air of a martyr, as she noticed the futile effortsof those stupid children. But she was evidently determined not to helpthem out of their difficulty. After a while, one of the boys solved theproblem and was dismissed. The other children looked at his work andquickly copied it before the teacher could erase it from the blackboard. Not I, however, for I was at the other end of the room and my eyes wereweak. I enviously watched the other children leaving the room, until Iwas alone with the teacher. I tried the terrible, senseless problemagain and again and became so confused and nervous that I was on theverge of tears. All the little knowledge I had of mathematics left mecompletely. Finally the teacher lost her patience and showed me how toget the answer. 

"'You stupid girl!' she said, 'you will never pass the examination. '

"But I did not care. I ran from the school-house, and on my way homekept saying to myself: 'I don't have to pass, for I'm going to work nextweek, and I'm so glad. Then I'll never, never have to study arithmeticany more. Oh, how I wish next week were here already. ' I was not quitetwelve years old and I would have been working even then if myprospective employers had not instructed my parents to secure acertificate showing that I was fourteen years old. 

"The next Monday morning, bright and early, with this new certificate, which was sworn to by my mother and duly attested by a notary, Ipresented myself at the office of Messrs. Hardwin & Co. , in South WaterStreet. They were wholesale dealers in miscellaneous household supplies, from bird-seed and flavouring extracts to bluing and lye, the latter theprincipal article. Mr. Hardwin, a benevolent looking old gentleman witha white beard and a skull-cap, glanced at the certificate, and pattingstupid me kindly on the head, hired me for two dollars a week, and sentme upstairs where I was put to work washing old cans collected from theash barrels and alleys of the city. After being cleansed, they werefilled with lye, and new covers sealed on them. Then they were coveredwith neat white labels, and packed in cases and delivered to all partsof the United States. 

"This sort of work was not what I had expected to do. But I was told bymy mother that all people who worked for their living had to start inthat way, and gradually work themselves upwards. So I waited patientlyfor the time when I might, perhaps, secure the position of labelling. Then, too, I thought that great place would bring an increase of salary, for I had already learned that the lighter the work, the heavier thepay. 

"About this time the firm received large orders for lye, and all handswere put to work filling the cans with this corrosive material, forwhich purpose rubber gloves were used. As I was the latest addition tothe factory, and the greenest girl in the place, it was easy for theolder and more experienced girls to secure the best gloves for the work. The old, worn out ones, which were full of holes, fell to me, who wastoo young and timid to rebel against these conditions. After a week ofthis work my hands were all eaten by the lye and it was torturing agonyto move them in any way. At night my mother used to put salve andbandages on them, but this treatment was of little avail because thenext day my hands would be covered with that horrible stuff which atedeeper and deeper, until the pain became unbearable. 

"So, one morning, I went to Mr. Hardwin and begged him, with tears in myeyes, to let me work at something else until my hands were healed. Helooked at my swollen fingers and said: 'My poor girl, you certainlyshall work at something else. I will give you a nice easy job makingbird-seed boxes. '

"I was immediately put at my new work, which seemed really delightful tome, but I was rather lonely, as I was the only girl on that floor. Imade thousands and thousands of those boxes, which were stacked in heapsupon the shelves above my head. Directly behind me was a great belt, connected with the cutting machine up-stairs, which all day long cut outthe round pieces of tin needed to cover the cans of lye after they werefilled. This belt as it whirled round and round made a great noise. ButI soon grew quite used to it. I became like a machine myself. All aloneI sat there, day after day, while the great belt whirred out the samemonotonous song. I kept time to its monotony by a few movements of thehands endlessly repeated, turning out boxes and boxes and boxes, allalike. I saw, heard, and felt almost nothing. My hands movedunconsciously and instinctively. At this time, I think, the firstfeeling of profound ennui came to me, that feeling which to shake off Iwould at a later time do anything, anything, no matter how violent andextreme it was. Only at noon time when the whistle shrieked did I seemalive, and then I was dazed and trembling. 

"The great belt then stopped whirring for half an hour and I sat and atemy frugal meal, listening eagerly to the talk going on about me. Sometimes the girls made me the butt of their jests, for they wereenvious of me, because of my easy job, and hinted that I was not gettingthis snap for nothing. All of this I did not in the least understand, for I was not much more than twelve years old. 

"One morning I was surprised and delighted to see Mr. Hardwin come inand ask me how my hands were, and if I still suffered much pain. I wasso grateful that tears came to my eyes as I answered. That night I toldmy mother what an extremely kind and good man Mr. Hardwin was. Herepeated these visits several mornings in succession, always asking mehow I was getting along, and patting me on the head or shoulder as hewent away. I had been working perhaps two months at this job, when onemorning it happened that I was the first one of the employees to arriveat the factory. While I was in the dressing-room removing my wraps, aknock came on the door, and Mr. Hardwin entered. Quickly seizing me inhis arms, he covered my face with kisses, and did not quit until heheard someone approaching. He left hastily, saying 'Don't tell!' theonly words he uttered during the scene. I was so amazed that I did noteven scream. Nor did I understand, but I did feel troubled and ashamed. All that morning I was uneasy and nervous, and the following day Iwaited outside until some of the girls came, so that I should not haveto go into the factory alone. The day following I received an envelopewith my pay, and was told that my services were no longer required. 

"I got a beating at home as a result of my discharge, but as I soonfound another job, my parents became comparatively kind to me again. This new work was in a candy factory, where I was both startled andamazed at the way the beautiful, sweet candies were made. I remainedthere about six months, when I was discharged because I had been lateseveral times in one week. The next job was in a brewery, where Ilabelled beer bottles. This was the cleanest and most wholesome place Iever worked in. We had a whole hour for dinner, and the boys and girlswere all so jolly. Nearly every day after lunch we played on mouthorgans and danced on the smooth floor until the whistle blew for workagain. Oh, there, it was good to work! Three times a day each employeereceived a bottle of nice cold beer, which, after several hours of hardwork, tasted lovely. The people there seemed to think it was not evil tobe happy, and I naturally agreed with them against the good peopleoutside. But one ill-fated day my parents heard that a brewery was animmoral place for a young girl to work in, and that if I remained thereI might lose my character and reputation. So I was taken away and put towork in another place and then in another, but I am sure that I neveragain found a place that I liked half as well as the dear old bottledbeer shop. "

CHAPTER II

_Domestic Service_

When Marie was about fifteen years old, her mother took her away fromthe factories and put her into domestic service. Factory work wastelling on the girl's health, and the night freedom it involved did notplease her mother. The young woman for some time had felt the charms ofassociating with many boys and girls unchaperoned and untrammelled. Sheliked the streets at night better than her home. 

"When I got into the street, " said Marie, "I felt like a dog let loose. "Of course, she hated to go into domestic service, where the eveningswould no longer be all her own, but her mother was still strong enoughto have her way. 

"At that time, " Marie wrote me, "I was a poor, awkward girl, somewhatstupid, perhaps, but who would not be at my age and in the sameenvironment? I had received most of my education in the factories andstores down-town, which was perhaps beneficial to everybody but me. Even my mother, who in some ways was stupid and hard, noticed that thissort of education was likely to have what is called a demoralizingeffect on me. So she induced a kind-hearted, philanthropic woman, Mrs. Belshow, to take me as servant girl. Mrs. Belshow was high in affairs ofthe Hull House Settlement Workers, and generously paid my mother onedollar and a half a week for my services. 

"Mrs. Belshow had a beautiful house. At first these fine surroundings, to which I was entirely unused, made me more awkward than ever. But soonI got accustomed to the place and became very serviceable to myemployer. I was lady's maid as well as general housekeeper, and my finelady duly appreciated my work, for she never asked me to do serviceafter half-past nine at night or before half-past five in the morning. Besides, she allowed me Sunday afternoon free, but only to go to churchor Sunday School. For the honourable lady told me very kindly that shedid not wish to interfere with my religion in any way whatever. Thisadvice I accepted meekly, as I was greatly in awe of her, though Ishould have much preferred to spend my half holiday in my home localityand to dance there with other stupid boys and girls in Lammer's Hall, where the entrancing strains of the concertina were to be heard everySunday afternoon. The young folks out that way were not strong onreligion; or, if they were, they would receive all the soul's medicinenecessary by attending church in the morning, no doubt thereby feelingmore vigorous and fit for enjoying the dance afterwards. 

"But I, poor stupid, had learned from my mistress that dance-halls werevile and abominable. Of course, I believed all that Mrs. Belshow toldme. I had not the slightest idea that she did not know everything. Why, she belonged to Hull House, that big place in Halsted Street, which hadflowers and lace curtains in all the windows, and big looking-glassesand carpets and silver things on the inside; and many beautiful ladieswho wore grand silk dresses and big hats with feathers came to see mymistress nearly every day, and they all talked a great deal about theevils of dance-halls and saloons and theatres. I had always stupidlythought that those places were very nice, especially the dance-halls, because I always enjoyed myself there better than anywhere else. I hadnever been in a theatre, but I had often been in the saloons to rush thecan for my father, and I had noticed that people seemed to enjoythemselves there. There were long green tables in the saloons on whichmen played pool, and there were books scattered about in which werejokes and funny pictures. And the men played cards and told stories anddanced and sang and did about anything they wanted to. This seemed to megood, and I felt sure at the time that if I were a man I should like tobe there, too. 

"But now I learned that these were terrible places, dens of vice andcrime. What vice was, I did not know, but crime meant murdering somebodyor doing something else dreadful. I thought about what I heard the fineladies say until my poor little head became quite muddled. Left tomyself, I could not see anything so terrible about these places, but ifthese finely dressed ladies said they were terrible, why they must beso. They knew better than I did. But I wondered dreamily if all terribleplaces were as nice as dance-halls. 

"After the novelty of the situation wore away, life became ratherwearisome to me, and I sometimes wished I were again working in the oldfactory. I thought of the evenings, when my day's work in the factorywas done and I was walking in the streets with my chums, telling them, perhaps, of the small girls who worked with me in the factory, and ofthe guys who waited for them on Saturday nights and took them to theshow. And one of the girl's guys always used to give her a whole box ofthe swellest candy you ever tasted. 

"Dreaming thus one day of all the happy times I had known, I loiteredover my work, as I fear I often did, and was sharply reprimanded by mymistress, the honourable lady, who wanted to speak to me as soon aspossible on a matter of grave importance. I finished making the bed in ahurry and went into the presence of Mrs. Belshow, who said to me:

"'My dear child, how old are you?'

"'Past fifteen, ma'am. '

"'Fifteen! H'm, you're quite a big girl for your age. I'm astonishedthat you have no more self-respect, or your mother for you! How is itthat she allows you to go about with such short dresses? Why, it isshameful; I am surprised, for your mother seemed to me a sensible sortof a woman. I declare, I never would allow my daughter to expose herselfin such a shameless manner, and I certainly will not allow anyone in myemploy to do so. Only the other day my attention was called by some ofmy friends to your most careless condition. They said they could nothelp noticing it, it was so dreadful. It is this kind of thing whichcauses a great part of the vice and immorality with which we aresurrounded. Unless a mother has common decency enough to clothe herchild properly, it seems hopeless for us to accomplish anything. Now, mydear child, I want you to go home this very night and tell your motheryou must positively have some long dresses, or no self-respecting personwould care to associate with you. And you must try to have at least onerespectable garment by Sunday, for I am ashamed to have you seen goingout of my house in your present condition. Run along now and don't behome later than ten this evening. '

"During this long harangue I stood gazing on the floor, blushingpainfully. I wanted to tell my mistress why I had no longer dresses, but could only stammer 'yes, ma'am' and 'no, ma'am, ' and was very gladto escape from the room as soon as my lady had finished. 

"When my mother heard about the affair, she was very indignant, anddemanded why Mrs. Belshow did not buy the dresses for me. 'For my part, 'she said, 'I have no money to waste on such trash. I'm sure, what youare wearing now is all right. It's not so short, either, nearly down toyour shoe tops. But I suppose I must get you something, or she will fireyou. I'll give you a dress that'll be long enough all right--one thatgoes right down to the floor, and if Mrs. Belshow doesn't like it, she'll have to lump it. I can't afford to get you new dresses every yearand you not through growing yet. Gee, that Mrs. Belshow must think we'remillionaires!'

"When I made my appearance the next Sunday morning in a neat long skirt, the honourable lady praised me very highly, saying that now I lookedlike a respectable young woman. 'Why, you actually look pretty, mychild, ' she said. 'You must get a nice ribbon for your neck, and thenyou will be fine. ' This remark made me very happy, for I had beensecretly longing for a dress of this kind. Now, at last, I was a realgrown-up lady. Perhaps I might soon have a fellow, who would take me tothe show, just like the girls in the factory. I thrilled with joy. LaterI looked into the mirror a long while, admiring myself and dreaming ofthe afternoon, when I would be free. I decided that I would go to thedance, and pictured to myself how surprised and envious the other girlswould be, when they saw me looking so fine. I would certainly not missone single dance the whole afternoon, for I was sure the boys would befascinated and that the swellest among them would see me home in theevening. 

"These joys made the morning an unforgettable one; but soon it was timeto get ready to go. I went to my room and curled my hair, and then wasmore pleased with myself than ever. I really looked pretty! Oh, the joyof it! I do not need to explain, even to a man. Briefly, I lookedsweller than ever. The only thing needed to complete my toilet were somebright ribbons to fix in my hair and around my throat. I recollectedhaving seen some very pretty ribbons in my mistress's scrap-bag whichwould do admirably. So I brought the scrap bag from the store room anddumped the contents on my bed, and soon found just what I wanted--twobeautiful bits of silk. I hastily stitched them together, and was allready to go. I could return the silk to the bag the next morning and mymistress would never know they had been gone. I thought regretfully whata shame it was to throw such beautiful things into a scrap-bag. 

"Poor, vain little me! I came home later than usual, thatnever-to-be-forgotten night!--very tired, but very happy. And I had beenescorted all the way by the grandest young man I had ever known. I layawake for a long time, reviewing everything that had happened. I hadnever dreamed it was possible to be so happy. It was because I was now agrown-up lady! I should never forget that all my happiness was due to mymistress, for it was through her that I had my long dress. I decided tobe more serviceable than ever, not dream and dawdle over my work, andnever to be angry when my mistress scolded me. I would disobey her onlyin one thing--about going to Sunday School. At least, I would not goevery week, perhaps every other Sunday, so she would not notice. In themidst of these good and delightful thoughts I fell asleep, and slept sosoundly that the alarm bell in the clock did not awaken me at the usualhour. 

"It did awaken Mrs. Belshow, however, who was just about to drop off tosleep again, when it occurred to her that she had not heard me movingabout as usual, so she went to my room and aroused me in the midst of abeautiful dream about the handsomest boy you ever saw just as he waspaying me the greatest attention!

"Jumping out of bed, I was horrified to find it was six o'clock, fullyhalf an hour late. I rushed about my work, dreading the moment, yetwishing it were over, when my mistress should summon me for the scoldingI was sure would come, for if there was one thing Mrs. Belshow hatedmore than anything else, it was being late. All too soon came thedreaded moment. Breakfast was scarcely over, when I was requested to goto my room. That was rather surprising, for, as a rule, I received myscolding in the lady's room, while I was assisting her to pull on herstockings or comb her hair. 

"I had scarcely crossed the threshold of my room when my knees knockedtogether and I nearly fell over, for there, standing in the centre ofthe room, with a piece of silk in her hand and an ominous frown on herface, stood my mistress. She pointed an accusing finger at me and askedcoldly, 'Where did you get this?' Receiving no answer, she continued, 'Don't tell any lies, now, to add to your other crime. ' I stood there, as if glued to the floor and could only gaze at her dumbly andappealingly. I tried to speak in vain; but even if I had been able to, she would not have given me a chance. She brought all her eloquence tobear upon the stupid girl before her; she wanted to make me see what avery evil act I had committed. 

"'Oh, how sorry I am!' she cried, 'that this thing has happened. But youare very fortunate that it has occurred in my house, rather than insomebody else's, for I know what measures to take to cure you of thepropensity to crime which you have so clearly shown. I shall, of course, have to send you away immediately; for I could never again trust you inmy home, for although it is only a trifle that you have stolen, --yes, deliberately stolen, --yet anyone who takes only a pin that belongs toanother, will take more when the opportunity offers. So, in order tocure you of this tendency, I myself will conduct you to your mother andimpress upon her the necessity of guarding and watching you carefully, as a possible young criminal. I never should have expected this of you, for you have quite an honest look. Now, dress yourself quickly andbundle up whatever belongs to you. I will remain in the room while youare packing. Are you sure you have taken nothing else which does notbelong to you?'

"This question loosened my tongue, which hitherto had clung tightly tothe roof of my mouth. Dropping on my knees before my mistress, Ifervently swore that I had taken nothing, that I had not meant to takeanything. I had meant to wear the pieces of silk only once and then putthem back where I had found them. With tears rolling down my face, Ibegged her not to tell my mother. 

"'I will work for you all my life without pay, ' I cried, 'if you willonly not tell my mother. Indeed, I did not mean to steal, so pleasedon't tell my mother!'

"This I urged so vehemently and with such floods of tears that finallymy kind-hearted mistress said: 'My dear child, if you will promise mefaithfully never to do anything like this again, I will not tell yourmother. But let this be a lesson to you; never to take anything again, not even a pin, that does not belong to you. You can never again say, with perfect truthfulness, that you have not stolen. I am glad to seethat you have such respect for your mother that you do not want her toknow of this, and for your sake I will not tell her. I have a meeting atHull House to attend in half an hour, and before I leave I wish youwould scrub up the kitchen and your room and then you can go. '

"So saying, the honourable lady left the room quite satisfied withherself for having (perhaps) rescued another human being from the pathsof vice and crime. I went about my work with a heavy heart. Forgottenwere all the joys of yesterday! Now, just as I was becoming used to myplace, I must leave it. And I must tell my mother some reason for it. But I could not tell the truth. Ah! yes, I would say that my mistresswas about to close up the house and go South for the winter. That wouldbe a fine excuse. I had heard and read that many rich people go Southfor a time in the cold weather, so surely my mother would not doubt it. I went away, feeling easier in my mind, and never saw my honourablemistress again. 

"Many days have passed since then, and I have been serving severaldifferent ladies. I learned a lesson from each one of them; but I shallnever forget what I learned from the kind-hearted, philanthropic Mrs. Belshow, a prominent settlement worker in a large city. It's a lessonthat Mrs. Belshow will never learn, or could never understand. All ofwhich shows, perhaps, that I was simple at the time rather than stupid;for I find that I am still receiving my education--not from books, butfrom the way people treat me, and from what I see as I pass throughlife. "

CHAPTER III

_Domestic Service (Continued)_

"Nearly a year had passed, " continued Marie, "since I had began to workat service, and my experiences had not been of the sort that makes onelove one's fellow-creatures. For the most part I had worked for peoplewho were trying to make a good showing in society and had not the meansto do so. How often during those weary days of drudgery I looked back atthe dear old days when I used to work in the factories! Then I could goto the dance! Now, it was very difficult, even if my mother had not beenso strongly against it. I could not understand why my mother so sternlyforbade me to go. When I asked her why she objected, the only answer Ireceived was: 'It is improper for a girl of your age. ' 'Why is itimproper?' I asked myself, and could find no answer. So I disobeyed mymother and danced whenever I had the chance. Whenever I did succeed ingoing, my heart almost broke from sheer happiness. Oh, how supremely, wonderfully joyous I felt! How I forgot everything then--my mother, mydrudgery, everything that made life disagreeable! Whenever the musicstarted, I felt as if I were floating in the air, I could not feel myfeet touching the floor. All the lights merged into one dazzling glowand my heart kept time to the rhythm of the music. When the musicstopped, the glorious illumination seemed to go out and leave only alittle straggling light from a few badly smelling kerosene lamps. Thebeautiful, fantastic music had been in reality only a harsh hornaccompanied by a concertina or some other stupid instrument janglingvile music. The young boys and girls were all a common, stupid lot, andthe odour of the stock yards permeated the room. But when the mysticalmusic begins again, and the dance starts, presto! change, and I am againfloating in rhythmic space and the faces and dim lights have changedinto one glorious central flame. 

"I shall never forget one awful night, when my mother, who had heardthat I was at the dance, came into the hall, and there before all theboys and girls dragged me out and away to our home. I was so ashamedthat I did not show myself in that dance-hall again for months. Icannot help thinking my mother was wrong, for I needed some outlet to myenergy. Like many a poor working girl, I had developed into womanhoodearly and consequently was full of life. The dance satisfied this lifeinstinct, which, when that outlet was made difficult, sought some otherway. 

"At that time I had a position as nurse-maid, my duties being to takecare of two beautiful, but spoiled children, who had never receivedproper care, because their mother a wealthy woman, was too indolent, tomake any effort in that direction, spending most of her time lying inbed with some novel in her hand. The house was filled with sensational, sentimental books. They were to be found in every room, stacked away inall the corners. 

"At first I attempted to do what I thought was my duty, that is, to keepthe children neat and clean and try to train them to be more gentle andobedient, but I soon saw that what their mother wanted was for me tokeep them out of her way. My ambition about them faded away, and Isought only to fulfil my mistress's wishes. I used to take the twochildren up into the store-room, in which were all sorts ofmiscellaneous things, including stacks and stacks of paper-coverednovels, lock the door, and allow the children absolute liberty, while Isat down comfortably and examined the books. 

"Here a new life opened before me. I read these novels constantly everyday and half the night, and could hardly wait for the children to havetheir breakfast, so eager was I to get at my wonderful stories again. Even when it was necessary to take the children out for an airing, anovel was always hidden in my clothes, which I would eagerly devour assoon as I was out of sight of the house. During the four weeks spent atthis place I read more than forty novels. Even on Sunday, when I wasfree, I sprawled out on the bed and read these sensational books. Ithought no more of my beloved dances, for I was living in a new world. Here I was in a beautiful house, where I did almost nothing but loll inthe easiest chairs and feed my soul on stories about beautiful, innocentmaidens, who were wooed, and after almost insurmountable difficulties, won by gallant, devoted heroes. 

"But soon I became so absorbed that even the few duties I had, becamevery irksome to me, for they interfered somewhat with my reading. Everymorning I had to bathe and dress the little ones, who, not seeing thenecessity for these operations, struggled and screamed and bit andkicked. I had accepted this daily scene as a matter of course, but everynow and then it rather irritated me. One morning the hubbub wasunusually long and loud, so much so that the noise disturbed the mother, who was breakfasting and reading in bed. She came to the room in a stewand asked me what was the matter. When I told her, she angrily said:'When I engage a nurse girl for my children, I do not expect to hearthem squealing every morning. Remember that, and do not let me hear themagain. '

"The little boy, who was precocious for his age, heard what his motherhad said, and seeing that he had not been scolded for his ill behaviour, began to scream and struggle more than ever, and his little sisterimitated him, in a dutiful, feminine way. I then lost my patience, seized the little boy, dragged him to his mother and said: 'Here's yourboy. Tend to him yourself; I cannot. '

"I was, of course, told to bundle up my belongings at once and go. Idid not forget to pack away among my things some of the novels, feelingthat since they had all been read by Madame, they were only in the way. When I said 'good-bye' to the children, Madame came to me and said verykindly, 'Marie, I'm really sorry this has occurred, for you are one ofthe best nurse girls I have ever had, and the children seemed to getalong so nicely with you, too!' I was so surprised at this speech that Icould make no answer and so I lost my chance of remaining, for it isquite certain she wanted me to stay. But it was fated to be otherwise, and once more I returned to the home of my parents. 

"My mother was not overjoyed to see me. It was a mystery to her why Idid not keep my jobs longer. I promised to get another place as soon aspossible and begged her to allow me to stay at home the rest of theweek. To this she consented rather grudgingly, and I flew to my belovedbooks and read till supper time. I was beginning at it again in theevening when my mother rudely snatched the book from me saying, that itwas not good for young girls to read such stuff. I begged earnestly tobe allowed to finish just that one story and she finally said thatperhaps I might read it the next day. In the morning I could hardly curbmy impatience; it seemed as though my mother were inventing all sorts ofuseless things for me to do, just to keep me from the book. But at lastI was free and, hastening to my room, was soon absorbed in anotherworld. I was suddenly recalled to this earth by a sharp blow on my head, and the book was again snatched from me and thrown into the fire andburned. It seemed that mother had been calling me and that I had beentoo much absorbed to hear; that she had finally lost her temper anddecided to punish me. 

"'Don't ever again read such trash as this, ' she cried in a rage. 'Haveyou any more of them?'

"'No, ' I said, fearing to tell the truth, lest the rest of the booksmeet the same fate. 

"She then sent me on an errand. As I left the house I felt uneasy, thinking that my lie might be discovered. The moment I returned, I sawby the expression on my mother's face that my fears had been realised. The storm broke at once. 

"'Oh, what an unfortunate woman I am!' she cried, 'to be treated thus bymy own flesh and blood, by the child that I brought into the world withso much pain and suffering. O, God, what have I done to deserve this? OGod, what have I done to be cursed with such a child?--so young, yet sofull of lies. What will become of her? Have I not always done my duty byher and tried to raise her the best I knew how? Why did she not die whena baby? I like a fool, toiled and moiled for her night and day and thisis my reward. '

"I had heard these expressions often, for my mother was a hystericalwoman in whom the slightest thing would cause the most violent emotionswhich demanded relief in such lamentations. And yet, frequent as theywere, they never failed to arouse in me feelings of shame andrage--shame that I had caused my mother suffering, and rage that shereproached herself for having brought me into the world. That expressionof hers never failed to make me wish that I had never been born--borninto this miserable world where I had to toil as a child, and could notgo to dances or even read without receiving a torrent of abuse and anavalanche of blows. What harm had I done by my reading? True, I had notheard my mother calling, but how often had I spoken to her withoutbeing heard, when she was engrossed in some newspaper or book!

"So I remained quiet, when my mother railed at me for my lie, tooashamed and bitter to make defense or reply. This silence, as usual, made my mother still more angry and she shouted: 'You ungrateful wretch, I'll tell your father, and he'll fix you so you won't feel like lying toyour mother for some time to come. '

"That threat nearly paralysed me with dread, for my father was to me astrange man whom I had always feared; my mother, when she wanted tosubdue me, only needed to say: 'I'll tell your father. ' I remembered thelast time my father had whipped me. I was a big girl at the time, morethan fourteen years old, and working down town. I had to rise very earlyin the morning, and it often happened that I would fall asleep againafter my mother had called me. On that particular morning mother hadmore difficulty than usual in arousing me, scolding me severely, and Ireplied rather impudently, I suppose. She waited till I had got out ofbed and was standing in my bare arms and shoulders over the wash bowl, and then she told father, who came with a long leather strap, which Iknew well, as it was kept only for one purpose, and beat me so severelythat I carried the marks for a long time. The strap was about two inchesbroad, and with this in one hand, whilst he held me firmly with theother, he belaboured me in such a way that the end of the strap curledcunningly around my neck and under my arms and about my little breast, making big welts which swelled at once to about a fourth of an inch indiameter and were for a few days a most beautiful vivid scarlet incolour. Then they toned down and new and milder tints came, and finallythere was only a dull sort of green and blue effect. Finally even thesedisappeared from my body, but not from me. 

"Now, when I thought of the possible consequences of the lie I had told, I could feel those marks on my shoulders and arms. And, at my mother'sthreat, the thought that I might be beaten again made me flush withshame. A feeling of rebellion, of vivid revolt, came over me. Why notresist, why not defend myself? I remembered what a factory girl had oncetold me--how she had defended herself against her brother by strikinghim with a chair. 

"That is what I will do, I said to myself, trembling with excitement, ifmy father tries to beat me again. I am too old to be whipped any more. Idon't care if he kills me, I will do it. Perhaps when I die, and theysee my grave, they'll be sorry. 

"When father came home in the evening, he seemed to sense trouble atonce, for suddenly coming down on the table with his fist, he demanded:'What in hell is the matter? Here you both are going around with facesas if you were at a funeral. I'm working hard all day, and when I comehome at night, by God, I don't want to see such faces around me. What inhell is it, now tell me!'

"Mother told him, and he said: 'Very well, just wait till I've hadsupper, for I'm damned hungry, then we'll have a little understandingwith my lady, who's so mighty high-toned since she worked for thoseswells. I'll soon show her, though, she is no better than we are. '

"When the important task of supper was over he called me to him. I wastrembling in every limb, for I knew that my father was a man of fewwords and that he would without delay proceed to action. I managed toget a chair between him and me. He went to work deliberately, as if hewere a prize-fighter. First, he spat on his hands, and was about to giveme a knock-out-blow, when I, with the courage of desperation, raised thechair above my head, crying out, 'Father, if you strike me, I'll hit youwith this chair. ' He was so astonished at my audacity that his arms fellto his sides and he gazed at me as if he had lost his senses. I tookadvantage of this pause to make for the door, but before I could escape, he seized me by the arm and hurled me back into the room, and then withblood-shot eyes and bull-like voice he cursed and cursed. My mother, fearing the effect of his terrible rage, tried to intercede, but hepushed her aside, shouting, 'Oh, she's the daughter of her mother allright, and she'll turn out to be a damned ---- just like you!'

"He then came up to me, where I was standing really expecting my death, and to my surprise only pressed his fist gently against my head saying:'See how easily I could crush you. The next time I hear anything aboutyou, I will. ' Cursing me and mother, he left the house and he took himto a nearby saloon where he drank himself insensible. Toward morning hewas brought home. Poor man, he just couldn't bear to see long facesabout him, especially after a hard day's work!

"In a few days I secured another place, this time in a middle-classfamily. I remained there nearly a year and was considered by my mistressa model of willingness, patience, endurance, gentleness, and all theother slavish virtues. I never spoke except when spoken to and then Ianswered so respectfully! The children might kick and abuse me in anyway they chose without any show of resentment from me. This my mistressnoticed and duly commended. 'Those dear children, ' she said. 'You knowthey do not realise what they are about, and so one ought not to beharsh to the dear pets. '

"I gave up reading books and even newspapers; partly I suppose because Ihad for the time satiated myself, especially with sentimental and trashynovels, and had not yet learned to know real literature, and partlybecause, in my state of humility, I listened to my mistress when shesaid reading took too much time, that it was better to sew, dust, andthe like, when I was not busy with the children. Everything I do, I mustdo passionately, it seems, even to being a slave. I gave up dances, too, and on my days out dutifully visited my parents. I had no friends orcompanions and was in all respects what one calls a perfect servant--soperfect that the friends of my mistress quite envied her the possessionof so useful a slave. 

"I got pleasure out of doing the thing so thoroughly; but yet it wouldnot have been so interesting to me if it had not been painful, too. Iwas enough of a sport to want as much depth of experience, while itlasted, in that direction as in any other--in spite of, perhaps partlybecause of, the pain. And what pain it was, at times! Who knows of thebitter hatred surging in my heart, of the long nights spent in tears, ofthe terrible mental tortures I endured! Sometimes it was as if an ironhand were squeezing my heart so that I almost died; sometimes as if agreat lump of stone lay on my chest. And my mistress seemed each daysomehow to make the iron hand squeeze tighter and tighter and the stoneweigh heavier and heavier. If she had only known what a deadly hatred Ibore her--a hatred that would not have been so severe if I had not beenso good a servant--had given myself rope, had satisfied my emotions! Ifshe had understood that my calm, modest bearing was only a mask whichhid a passionate soul keenly alive to the suffering inflicted on me, shewould have hesitated, I think, before she entrusted her preciousdarlings to my care. 

"This period of virtuous serving was the severest strain to which mynature, physical and moral, was ever put. I finally became very ill, andhad to be removed to my mother's house, as completely broken in body asI had apparently been in spirit. 

 * * * * *

"I sat near the window gazing vacantly at the scene below. All themorning I had sat there with that empty feeling in my soul. From time totime my mother spoke to me, but I answered without turning my head. Since my illness I seemed to have lost all interest in life, and this, although everybody was kind to me. My mother gave me novels to read andmoney to go to the dances. The books I scarcely glanced at, and what Idid read seemed so silly to me! And the dances had lost their charm. Iwent once or twice, but the music did not awaken any emotion in me, andI sat dully in a corner watching, without any desire to join in. Andthis, when I was hardly past sixteen years of age!

"The day before, I had been down town looking for a job in the stores, for my mother had told me that I might work in the shops or factoriesagain, if I wished. Although even this assurance failed to interest me, I had obediently tried to find a position, but oh! how weary I was andhow I longed for some quiet corner where I might sit for ever and everand ever without moving. This morning I was wearier than ever, my feetseemed weighted, and I could hardly drag them across the room. My motherasked me anxiously, if I were ill. 'No, no, ' I said. 'Then my child, 'she replied, 'you must positively find work. You father is getting oldand it would be a shame to have him support a big girl like you--bigenough to make her own living. Don't you want to go back to your lastplace? She would be very glad to have you, I am sure. '

"This last remark aroused me, and I replied that I would never go back, even if I had to starve. 'Don't worry, mother, ' I said, 'I'll go now, and if I don't find a place, I won't come back. ' 'Oh, what a torture itis to have children, ' moaned my mother. 'Don't you know your fatherwould kill me if you did not return?'

"Her words fell on heedless ears, for I was already half way down thestairs. I bought a paper and in it read this advertisement, 'Wanted: aneat girl to do second work in suburb near Chicago. Apply to No. --Wabash Avenue. ' Within an hour I presented myself at Mr. Eaton's office, was engaged by him, received a railroad ticket and instructions how togo to Kenilworth the following evening. On my way home I made up my mindto tell nobody where I was going. I packed my few belongings and told mymother that I had secured a place with a certain Mrs. So-and-so wholived in Such-and-such a street. I lied to the best of my ability andsatisfied my mother thoroughly. 

"The next morning I went away, and was soon speeding to Kenilworth, where I was met at the station by my future mistress and her mother, twoextremely aristocratic women, who received me kindly and walked with meto my new home, instructing me on the way in regard to my duties in thehousehold. These consisted mainly in being scrupulously neat, answeringthe door-bell and waiting on the table. I began at once to work verywillingly and obligingly, and also helped the other girl working in thehousehold, and everybody was kind to me in return. I did not, however, take this kindness to heart as I would have done a year or two earlier, for I had learned to my cost that kindness of this kind was generallyonly on the surface. 

"But my new mistress soon proved to be a true gentlewoman, who treatedher servants like human beings. To work for a mistress who did not tryto interfere with my private life or regulate my religion or my moralswas an unusual and pleasing experience for me. This lady was as tolerantand broad-minded toward her servants as she was toward herself, rathermore so, I think, for cares and age had removed from her desires andtemptations for which she still had sympathy when showing themselves inyounger people. I soon saw, to my astonishment, that things which mymother and my other employers had told me were evil, and which I hadlearned almost to think were so, did not seem evil to this sweet lady. I remember how kindly and sadly she said to me once, when I had spenthalf the night out with a young man: 'Little Marie, it is a sad thing inlife that what seems to us the sweetest and the best, and what indeed isthe sweetest and the best, often leads to our harm and the harm ofothers. It would be foolish of me to pretend to know which of youractions is good and which is bad; but remember that life is verydifficult and hard to lead right, and that you must be careful andalways thoughtful of what is good and what is evil. I myself have neverlearned to know for sure what is good or evil, but as I grow older I amcertain that we act always for the one or for the other. '

"Under these conditions, in the home of such a sweet and tolerant woman, all the throbbing joy of life and youth awoke again within me. Cut offfrom the old scenes and companions, I entered upon a new existence. Imade many friends with the young people in the neighbourhood, and forthe first time felt free and without the opposition of anybody. I hadnot written my mother or in any way let her know where I was, and nodisturbing word came from my past. I sang all day at my work, and inthe evening I joined my new companions and together we roamed andfrolicked to our hearts' content. I had many young men friends and couldsatisfy my desire to be in their society, talk to, dance with them, without arousing evil thoughts in others or, consequently, in ourselves. 

"Under these happy influences I grew healthier and more wholesome inevery way. People began to say I was pretty, and indeed I did grow to bevery good-looking. My figure had reached its fullest development and therosy bloom of youth and of health was in my cheeks. I was strong andvigorous, self-reliant and independent, and very happy. I became quite afavourite and the recognised leader in the mischievous frolics of theyoung people. Hardly an evening passed that did not bring a scene ofgaiety. It seemed to me that I had never lived before and that I wasmaking up for all the pleasures I had not known. There was, indeed, something heartless and cruel in my happiness, for I never once wrote tomy mother, selfishly fearing to have my present joy disturbed. 

"My fears had good reason, too, it seems, for I had lived in thosepleasant surroundings only a few months when one evening, while I wasenjoying myself at a moon-light picnic, I was approached by a sober, stern-looking man who drew me away from my friends and asked me my name. When I had told him, he showed me a newspaper clipping of an articlewith the head-lines, 'Mysterious Disappearance of a Young Girl. ' Forsome moments I stood as if turned to stone, gazing stupidly at thepaper. Then troubled thoughts took possession of me. 'What shall I do?What will become of me?' I remembered my mother so often saying that ifI ran away I would be put in the House of Correction. At this thought Ishuddered and exclaimed aloud, 'No, no. ' The man had been watching meclosely and he asked: 'Is it true, ' pointing to the article. I stared athim, for a moment too absorbed in my inner terror to be very consciousof him. When he repeated the question, I looked at him with a moreintelligent expression in my eyes, and he, seeing my condition, spoke tome kindly and persuasively. 

"'Tell me the truth, ' he said, 'And I will help and advise you. ' So Itold him the whole story, and he reassured me, saying, 'Don't beafraid, little girl, I have no doubt your mother will forgive you if youexplain to her in the way you have to me. It is hard for children tounderstand their parents. I know, for I have children of my own, andsometimes they think me unkind when I am trying to do my best for them. 'He was kind, but he was firm, too, and said that if I did not write mymother, he should do so himself. So I at last consented, and as a resultwent back to the city: for my mother, my unfortunate, cruel mother, wanted me for some strange reason, to be near her. "

CHAPTER IV

_Adventures In Sex_

When Marie returned to her home, she found that her father had died. Itmade little difference, practical or otherwise, to her or to her mother, except to make her stay in the house less dangerous, though quite asirksome, as formerly. Her mother had, of course, reproached her bitterlyfor her conduct in running away, and had kept up her complaint soconstantly that Marie could hardly endure her home even for the nightand early morning. So for that reason, as well as for the need of makingher living, Marie went again into service, going quickly from one job toanother in the city. 

And now there came for her a period of wildness, in the ordinary senseof the word. It was not the simple joys of her Kenilworth experience. She had returned to her mother's home in a kind of despair. It seemedto her as if the innocent pleasures of life were not for her. She hadbeen torn away from her happiness and had been compelled to go backto conditions she hated. Her passions were strong and herseventeen-year-old senses were highly developed by premature work andan irritating and ungenial home. So, in a kind of gloomy intensity, she let herself go in the ordinary way of unguarded young girlhood. She gave herself to a young fellow she met in the street one evening, without joy but with deep seriousness. She did not even explain to himthat it was her first experience. She wanted nothing from him but thepassionate illusion of sex. And she parted from him without tendernessand without explanations, to take up with other men and boys in thesame spirit of serious recklessness. She had for the time lost hope, and therefore, of course, care for herself, and her intense andpassionate nature strove to live itself out to the limit: an instinctfor life and at the same time for destruction. 

From this period of her life comes a story which she wrote for me, andwhich I quote as being typical of her attitude and as throwing light onher personality. 

"The Southwest corner of State and Madison Streets is the regularrendezvous of all sorts of men. They can be seen standing there everyafternoon and evening, gazing at the surging crowd which passes by. Onesees day after day the same faces, and one wonders why they are there, for what they are looking. Some of these men have brutal, sensual faces;others are cynical-looking and sneer. These, it seems, nothing can moveor surprise. They have a look which says: 'Oh, I know you, I have metyour kind before. You do not move me, nothing can. I have triedeverything, there is nothing new for me. ' And yet they cannot tearthemselves away from this corner, coming day after day and night afternight, hoping against hope for some new adventure. 

"Others stand there like owls, stupidly staring at the rushing tide offaces. They see nothing, and yet are seemingly hypnotised by thepanorama of life. Here, too, pass the girls with the blond hair and thepainted faces; they ogle the men, and as they cross the street raisetheir silken skirts a trifle, showing a bit of gay stocking. Here, too, is the secret meeting-place of lovers, who clasp hands furtively, glancing around with stealth. All this is seen by the sensual men, whoglance enviously at the lovers, and by the cynical men whose cold smilesseem to say: 'Bah! how tiresome! wait, and your silly meetings will notbe so charming!'

"On my evenings off I had sometimes stopped to gaze at this, to me, strangely moving sight. I saw in it then what I could not have seen afew months before; but not as much as I can see now. Then it excited mewith the sense of a possible adventure. Strange, but I never went therewhen I was happy, only when I was uncommonly depressed. 

"On a chilly Sunday evening in October I was waiting on this corner totake a car to the furnished room of a factory girl, named Alice, whom Iknew was out of town. As I was out of a job and did not want to go home, I had availed myself of her place for a few days. As I was waiting onthis corner, I saw a face in the crowd that attracted me. It was, as Iafterward learned, the face of a club man, who had, on this Sundayevening, drifted with the crowd and landed at this spot. He, too, hadstopped and gazed around him, idly. Several times he started as if tomove on, but he apparently thought this place as good as any other, andso remained. He seemed not to know what to do, to be tired of himself. His face was quite the ordinary American type, clean-cut features, rather thin and cold, with honest grey eyes, but, in his case, a mouthrather sensuous and a general air of curiosity and life which interestedme. 

"I was sufficiently interested to allow several cars to pass by, while Iwatched him. I noticed by the way he looked at the women who passed thathe was familiar with their kind. Several gay girls tried to attract hisattention, but he turned away, bored. Finally I began to walk away, andthen for the first time his face lighted up with interest. I wasapparently something new. I wore a straw hat, and a thin coat buttonedtightly about my chest. My thin little face was almost ghastly withpallor, and it made a strange contrast with my full red lips, which werealmost scarlet, and my big glowing black eyes. He probably saw that Iwas poor, dressed as I was at that season. Why is it that for many richmen a working girl half fed and badly dressed is so much more attractivethan a fine woman of the town or a nice lady?

"As I passed him, he said, 'Good evening, ' in a low and timid tone, asif he thought I surely would not answer. I think it surprised him when Ilooked him full in the face and replied, 'Good evening!' He stillhesitated, until he saw in my face what I knew to be almost an appealinglook. I knew that in the depths of my eyes a smile was lurking, and Iwanted to bring it forth! A moment later, I smiled indeed, when hestepped forward, lifted his hat, and asked with assurance: 'May I walkwith you? Are you going anywhere?'

"'Yes, I am going somewhere, ' I said, smiling. 'To a meeting place inAdams Street to hear a lecture. '

"'Oh, I say, girlie, ' he cried, 'You're jollying. That must be a verydull thing for you, a lecture. '

"'Sometimes it's funny, ' I said. But I did not say much about it, as Ihad never yet been to a lecture. I made up for that later in my life! Iof course had no intention of going to this. 

"'Come, ' he urged, 'let's go in somewhere and have something to eat anddrink. '

"'Yes, I will have something, not to eat, though, but let us go wherethere are lots of people and lights and all that sort of thing, ' Ifinished, vaguely. 

"Charley tucked my arm in his and we walked along State Street until wecame to a brilliantly lighted café. The place was crowded withwell-dressed men and beautiful women, eating and drinking, chatting andlaughing. Waiters were hastening to and fro. An orchestra was playinggay music, as we wound our way through the crowd to a table. I waspainfully conscious that my shabby coat and straw hat attractedattention. Some of the women stared at me with a look of conscioussuperiority in their eyes, others with a look of still more gallingpity. Charley, too, I thought, seemed nervous. Perhaps he did not relishbeing seen by some possible acquaintance with so dilapidated-looking aperson!

"But soon I lost consciousness of these things and gave myself up to thescene and the music. My sense of pleasure seemed to communicate itselfto my companion, who ordered some drinks; I don't know what they were, but they tasted good--some kind of cordial. I took longer and longersips: it was a new and very pleasant flavour. He ordered more of thesame kind and watched me with interest as I drank and looked about me. 

"'Oh, ' I said, 'what beautiful women, and how happy they are! look atthat one with the blond hair. Isn't she beautiful, a real dream?'

"Charley replied in a tone of contempt: 'Yes, she's beautiful, but Iwould not envy her, if I were you--neither her happiness nor her goodlooks. She needs those looks in her business. Nearly all the women herebelong to her class. '

"Charles looked at me intently as he said this. Perhaps he thought Iwould be angry because he had brought me to such a place. But I watchedthe girls with even greater interest and said: 'Ah, but they must behappy!'

"Charles shrugged his shoulders and said, with contempt and some pity inhis eyes, 'A queer sort of happiness!'

"I looked at him rather angrily. He did not seem just to me. 

"'You don't like them, ' I said, 'you think they are vile and low. Butyou men seem to need them, just the same. Oh! I think they are bravegirls!'

"Charles looked at me in apparent astonishment. But then a thoughtseemed to strike him. He was thinking that I might be one of that class, for he asked me questions which showed me plainly enough what he wasworrying about. He encouraged me to drink again, and said with aself-confident laugh, 'you're a cute one but you cannot fool me with anysuch tricks. '

"I paid no attention to his remarks, and did not answer any of hispersonal questions. He could find out nothing about me. I would onlysmile and say, 'I don't want to know anything about you, why can't youtreat me the same way?'

"I could see that the less he knew, the more interested he became. Heplied me with drinks, perhaps thinking that the sweet liquor wouldloosen my tongue. Soon I began to feel a little queer and the room beganto go round, taking with it the faces of the men and women. After thisdizziness passed, I felt very happy indeed, and smiled at everybody inthe room; and wanted to go and tell them all how much I liked them. ButI did not dare trust my legs, they felt so heavy. I thought I wouldlike to stay there always, listening to the music and watching thepeople. 

"I suppose my happiness heightened my colour, for Charles said, 'what abeautiful mouth you have, what red lips. One would almost believe theywere painted. How your upper lip lifts when you smile, Marie! Don't youwant to go out now?'

"'Yes, yes, ' I replied, hastily, 'I must go home now. '

"I sprang from my chair, I made for the door, but he, quickly seizinghis hat, followed me and took my arm. I went very slowly for my feetseemed weighted. They were inclined to go one way, while I went another. So when Charles led me I was quite thankful. As we went out into thestreet he asked me where I was living, what I did, and if I weremarried, all in one breath. This made me laugh merrily, as I assured himI was not married. I told him I lived away out on the West Side and thathe could see me home, if he wanted; but not to, if it was out of hisway, for I was used to going alone. He eagerly accepted, and we took acar. 

"I fell dreaming on the way, of all nice things. The days in Kenilworthcame back to me and I smiled to myself and wistfully hoped my presenthappiness would last. My companion eagerly devoured me with his eyes, and asked me many pressing questions. I answered only very vaguely, formy mind was full of other things. So finally Charles, too, was silent, and merely watched me. 

"Suddenly I woke to the fact that I was at Alice's room, so I hastilyarose and signalled to the car to stop. Turning to Charles I extended myhand in a good-bye and said: 'This is where I live. ' But he quickly gotoff with me saying he would see me to the house. 'I don't like to leaveyou alone this time of night, ' he said. As we stopped in front of thedilapidated-looking frame building where I was staying for a few days, he seemed much embarrassed and not to know what to say. Pointingupwards, I said, 'that's where I live. ' 'Do you live alone?' he asked. 'Yes, now, not always. Good night--Charles, ' I answered, mischievously, but with a real and disturbing feeling taking possession of me. 

"But he seized me by the hand: 'Don't leave me yet, girlie, ' he pleaded. 'Think how lonesome I'll be when you are gone!' He drew me to him inthe darkness, and I did not object, why should I? My lips seemed toprepare themselves and after one long kiss that sad intensity seized me;and I sighed or sobbed, I don't know which, as we went up the stairstogether. 

 * * * * *

"An hour later, as he was about to descend the stairs, I said: 'Charles, when will you come again?'

"'Oh, I can't tell, ' he replied 'but it will be soon. '

"'Well, ' I said, 'remember I shall be here only a few days. Alice willbe back within the week. Come Wednesday evening. '

"But he left with the remark that it might not be possible! I did notcare for him deeply, of course, it was only an adventure, but this stungme deeply. The light way he took what he wanted and then seemed to wantto have no tie remaining! I felt as he did, too, really, but I did notwant him to feel so! I imagined in what a self-satisfied mood he mustbe, how he walked off, with his lighted cigar! He probably wondered whatsort of a girl this was who had given herself so easily? Partly, too, no doubt, he laid it to his charm and masculine virtue: though he knewwomen were weak creatures, he also knew that men were strong! Ah! Icould almost hear him muse aloud, in my imagination. His reveries, perhaps, would run about like this:

"'I was rather lucky to happen along this evening! She was certainlyworth while, though pretty weak, I must say. She had fine eyes and, byjove, what a mouth! She said, "Wednesday. " I think I will go, though itis never good policy to let girls be too sure of you. Besides, how do Iknow she isn't playing me some game?'

"I didn't know as much then as I do now about man's nature, but now Imake no doubt that as the time passed between then and WednesdayCharles's desire grew: it began with indifference, but ended, I am sure, with intensity: for men are like that! Their fancy works in the absence, not in the presence, of the girl. I am sure the girl with the red lipsand the deep dark eyes haunted him more and more as time went on!

"At the time, I didn't know just why, but I did know that I wantednothing more of Charley. He had never been anything but a man to me--hewas a moment in my life, that was all. But I decided to meet him, foronly in that way could I really finish the affair. Otherwise, if Imerely broke the engagement, he could imagine whatever he wanted toaccount for it. No, he must be under no illusion. He must know that Idid not want him!

"I waited for him in front of the house, and on the appointed hour hearrived, looking very happy and eager. He greeted me with much warmth, to which I responded coldly. He suggested going inside, but I said: 'No, I am going away. I have been waiting here to tell you so, in case youcame to-night. '

"'But, ' he exclaimed in an aggrieved tone, 'Did not you ask me to come, and now you say you are going away. Is that fair to me?'

"I shrugged my shoulders and said, 'I don't know, but I'm going. Good-bye, ' and I turned from him and started to walk away. His tonechanged to anger, as he said: 'Now, see here, Marie, I won't stand forany nonsense of this kind. You can't treat me like this, you know. Whatright have you to act in this lying way?'

"I had been walking away and he following, and as he stopped talking, hetook my arm, which I jerked away and impatiently said: 'Well, to befrank, I don't want you to-night. Whether I have a right to act so, Idon't know or care. Why I asked you to come I don't know, unless it wasbecause I felt different from what I do now. '

"Charles adopted a more conciliating tone and asked me when he mightcome. His interest in me seemed to grow with my resistance. 

"'I guess you'd better not come at all, ' I said, coolly. 

"'But I want to, ' he said. 'Do name the night, any night you say. '

"Then I turned to him with angry eyes, and cried out, 'Oh, how stupidyou are! Don't you understand that I don't want you at all?'

"I again started to walk away, but he seized my arm and shouted angrily:'You cannot leave me like this without explaining some things to me. Inthe first place, why did you pull me on last Saturday night, and who areyou to turn me down like this?' I answered, with flashing eyes, 'I oweyou no explanation, but I will answer your questions. As to who the girlis who can dare to turn you down, you know very well she is not what youthink, or you wouldn't so much object to being turned down, as you callit. As to pulling you on, you were the first to speak or, at any rate, it was mutual, so you need not demand any explanation. What you reallywant to know is why I don't want you now. If I were a man like you, Isuppose I should never even think of explaining to anyone why I happenedto change in feeling toward some persons, but as I'm a woman, it'sdifferent. I must explain!'

"This speech I have no doubt made him angry, but his pride came to therescue and he said with a show of indifference: 'I was angry, it istrue, but only for a moment. It was irritating to me to have a girl likeyou show the nerve to throw me down; for I'm not accustomed to associatewith your sort. '

"At this insolence my face flushed hotly and I opened my mouth to makesome indignant reply, but I thought better of it and only walked away, laughing softly to myself. As I went away, I heard him mutter, 'What acat. '

"But, I imagine, he didn't forget me so easily. I have no doubt that thegirl with the red lips and deep dark eyes haunted him for a long time. Who was this girl who had given herself to him once and only once? It isthis kind of a mystery that makes a man dream and dream and cursehimself. 

"Probably for some time, as he joined the crowd at State and MadisonStreets, he hoped to see me as I passed, but all things come to an endand his passion for me did, no doubt, too. But, in the routine course ofhis club life, moments came, perhaps, when he thought of little Marie, her red lips, deep eyes, and pale, pale face. I doubt if he ever toldthis story to any of his boon companions. "

CHAPTER V

_Marie's Salvation_

On account of the irregularity of her life, Marie lost job after job. Her relations with her mother, never good, grew worse and worse. Herprofound need of experience, in which the demand of the senses and thecuriosity of the mind were equally represented, impelled her to actafter act of recklessness and abandon. But, as in almost all, perhapsall, human beings, there was in her soul a need of justification--ofsocial justification, no matter how few persons constituted theapproving group. 

The feeling that everybody was against her, that she was on the road tobeing what the world calls an outcast, gave to her life an element ofsullenness and of despair. Perhaps this added depth to her dissipation, but it took away from it all quality of joy as well as of peace. If hersensuality and her despair had been all there was in her, or if thesehad constituted her main characteristics, this story would never havebeen written. Perhaps another tale might have been told, but it wouldhave been the story of a submerged class, not prostitutes, white slaves;and then it would have been the story of a submerged class, not of anindividual temperament. 

What was it that kept Marie in all really essential ways out of thisclass of social victims? It was because, in the first place, of the factthat her nature demanded something better than what the life of theprostitute afforded. And it was natural that the greater quality ofpersonality that she possessed should attract the kind of love andsocial support needed essentially to justify to herself her instincts. When she was very young Marie secured the genuine love of two strong andremarkable personalities; and at a later time, there gathered aboutthese three, other people who enlarged the group, which gave to eachmember of it the social support needed to remove essential despair anddesperate self-disapproval. 

One of these two persons so necessary to Marie's larger life was a womanwhom she had met several years previous to this point in the story. 

This woman was a cook, Katie by name. She was born in Germany, and heryoung girlhood was spent in the old country. She had only a rudimentaryeducation, and even now speaks broken English. But she was endowed witha healthy, independent nature, a spontaneous wit, and a strong demand totake care of something and to love. 

As natural as a young dog, she never thought of resisting a normalimpulse. Her life as a girl in Germany was as free and untrammelled as ahappy breeze. She lived in a little garrison town in the South, and theGerman soldiers did no essential harm to her and the other young girlsof the place. These things were deemed laws of nature in her community. What would have been dreadful harm to a young American girl was only anoccasional moment of anxiety to her. It never occurred to her that itwas possible to resist a man. "I had to, " she said, very simply, and didnot seem to regret it any more than that she was compelled to eat. Sheis also very fond of her food. 

She came to America and worked as cook in private families. She wascapable and strong and was never out of a job. She never took any"sass" from her mistress; in this respect she was quite up to date amongAmerican "help. "

At the time she first met Marie she had been working for a familyseveral years, and had reduced her employer to a state of wholesome awe. She remained, like a queen, in the kitchen, whence she banished allobjectionable intruders. Her mistress had a married daughter, alsoliving in the house, who at first was wont to give orders to Katie, andto interfere with her generally. One day Katie drove her out of thekitchen with a volley of broken English. The daughter complained to themother, who took Katie's side. "You don't belong in the kitchen, " shesaid to her indignant daughter. 

This episode filled Katie with contempt for her mistress. 

"She ought to have taken her daughter's side against me, " she said, "youbet I would have, if I had been in her place. "

The daughter had two young children. It was to take care of them thatMarie came into the household. Marie's mistress liked to stay in bed andread novels, and this experience is the one described by Marie in anearlier chapter, how she locked herself and the children in thestore-room and read her mistress's books. 

Katie fell in love with Marie almost at once. She was fifteen yearsolder than the young girl and as she had never had any children, all theinstinctive love of an unusually instinctive nature seemed to be givento Marie. She saw that Marie was not practical or energetic, and thisprobably intensified the interest felt by the more active and capablewoman. She took the young girl under her wing, and has been, and is, asentirely devoted to her as mothers sometimes are to their children. 

The German cook was about thirty years old at that time and had neverloved a man, though she had had plenty of temporary and merelyinstinctive relations with the other sex. So it was her entire capacityfor love, maternal and other, that she gave to Marie. 

Almost at once Katie began to treat Marie as her ward. She took her sideagainst her mistress, when the latter scolded the girl on account of herindolence or slowness. "Marie is so young, " she would say, "almost achild; and we ought to go easy on her. " She also looked after Marie'smorals and tried to prevent her being out late at night. This kind ofcare had its amusing side, as Katie herself was none too strict aboutherself in this regard. 

For instance, Katie fancied the butcher's boy who used to come to thekitchen every day with meat. He was only sixteen, and quiteinexperienced in the ways of the world. 

"I did him no harm, " said Katie. "But I taught him everything there wasto know. My life was so monotonous and I worked so hard then that I hadto have him. I absolutely had to, but I think I did him no harm and hewas certainly my salvation. But I didn't let Marie know anything aboutit. She was too young. When she found out, years afterwards, she wasquite cross with me about it. "

This kind of relation existed between Katie and Marie for several years. About the time the girl went to Kenilworth and had her idyllicexperience, Katie married. Nick was a good sort of a man, easy andhappy, and a sober and constant labourer. Katie had saved some money, inher careful German way, had even a bank-account of several hundreddollars. It was not an exciting marriage; neither of them was very youngor very much in love, at least Katie was not, but it was a goodmarriage of convenience, so to speak, and it might have lasted if ithad not been, as we shall see, for Marie, and Katie's affection for her. 

When Marie started in on her career of wildness, Katie and Nick, herhusband, had a little home together. Into this home Marie was alwayswelcomed by Katie, but Nick was not so cordial. They knew about thegirl's looseness, and in their tolerant Southern German way, they didnot so much mind that, and Katie was distinctly sympathetic: Marie wasold enough now, she thought. But Nick did not like the hold the girl hadon Katie's affection. 

"You'll leave me for her, sometime, " he would say to his wife, ominously. Katie would laugh and call him an old fool. She couldn'tforesee the circumstances that would one day realise her husband'sfears. 

It was about this time that Marie met the man who has influenced hermore deeply than anyone else or anything else in her life, who gave hera social philosophy, though to be sure what would seem to most people athoroughly perverse and subversive social philosophy; but by means ofwhich she had a social background, and a saving justification--wassaved from being a mere outcast. 

Terry, at the time he and Marie met, was about thirty-five years old andan accomplished and confirmed social rebel. He had worked for many yearsat his trade, and was an expert tanner. But, deeply sensitive to theinjustice of organised society, he had quit work and had become what hecalled an anarchist. His character was at that time quite formed, whilethe young girl's was not. It was he who was to be the most importantfactor in the conscious part of her education. But to explain hisinfluence on Marie, it is necessary to explain him, --his character, anda part of his previous history. 

CHAPTER VI

_Terry_

Terry is a perfect type of the idealist. We shall see how, in the midstof what the world calls immorality and sordidness, this quality in himwas ever present; even when it led to harshness to persons or facts. Notfitting into the world, his attitude toward it, his actions in it, andhis judgment of it, are keen and impassioned, but, not fitting theactual facts, sometimes unjust and cruel. Tender and sensitive as achild, his indignation is so uncompromising that it often involvesinjustice and wrong. But the beauty in him is often startlingly pure, and reveals itself in unexpected conditions and environment. I cannot dobetter in an attempt to present him and his history than to quotevoluminously from his letters to me, adding only what is necessary forthe sake of clearness. He wrote for me the following poetic outline ofhis life:[1]

"The fate of the immigrant, sprung from peasant stock, is to grow up inthe slums and tenements of the great city. Such a fate was mine. Toexchange the rack-rented but limitless fields of Irish landlordism forthe rickety and equally rack-rented tenements, with the checkerboardstreets, where all must keep moving, is only adding sordidness to sparesadness. Surely, the birthday's injury is felt in a deep sense by thepoor. But the patient fatalism of the peasant (so fatal to himself) isequal to every calamity. 

"I came from an exceptionally well-to-do family of tenement-farmers, buta few generations of prolific birth rate, with the help of successivefamines and successful landlordism, reduced us to the point of eviction. Enough was saved from the wreck to pay for our passage in a sailingvessel to America. After being successfully landed, or stranded, on NewYork, my father, with the true instinct of the peasant, became asquatter on the prairies of Goose Island. Here we put up, in the year1864, a frame shanty of one room, in which the nine of us tried to live. My father, the only bread-winner, made from seven to eight dollars aweek. Absolute communism in the deepest and most harmonious faithfulnessprevailed. Truly, as Burns says:

 'We had nae wish, save to be glad, Nor want but when we thirsted; We hated naught but to be sad. '

"I rejoice to say that I never got over this first blessed lesson incommunism; even though it was on a small scale, the family contained theunity of a Greek tragedy. The heart that throbs with little things mayfinally throb for the world. And I learned nothing in these days exceptthe lessons of the heart. The only necessary thing of which we hadalmost enough was bread. The struggle for existence, began on onecontinent, has continued on the other, with the surviving members of thefamily standing shoulder to shoulder for lack of room. 

"Armed with a throbbing faith in everything but myself, I boldly andvoluntarily entered the arena of commercial activity at the pliable ageof eight. My first job away from home was in a mattress factory. Ah, that first job! I was a triumphant Archimedes who had found his fulcrum. I helped move the world, for twelve hours a day and for two dollars aweek. 

"Then and later, I, like all people who possess nothing, found that mybest visions have come to me while at work on something in which I hadwistful faith; and when I lost faith I blindly followed the economistsand philosophers who can never know the mystic power of work over theworker. And it may be that herein lies the secret of the philosopher'signorance and the worker's slavery. A man stands to his job because ofthe visions that come to him only when at work. 

"Though I helped move the world, I was not an Atlas, and at last, I grewtired, for I found the world moved me out of all proportion to mycapacity. Even at an early age, I found that I had not the heart for thefray. Stamped on my narrow forehead, on my whole being, perhaps, soclearly that every unsympathetic boss could understand at once, was themark of the visionary. My pitiable willingness to work was truly tragic. 

"We were an eccentric family, especially in our peculiar aloofness fromothers. We clung desperately to one another long after the necessity waspast. Neither eviction nor commerce could disband us. Only marriage ordeath could separate us. Though we were Catholics on the surface, wewere pagans at bottom. I had fed my fill on the fairy tales of Ireland. Fortunately, these fairy tales were told to me, not read, and told insuch a way that they led me to seek no individual foothold in a world atwar with my heart: they helped to take away what the world callspersonal ambition. They strengthened my natural quality as a dreamer, mytendency to care only for the welfare of the soul. If I could bringabout no change in this world, it should effect no alteration in me. This, as I grew older, became a conscious passion with me: not to allowmyself to be affected by the world, or its ideals. Such was, at an earlyage, my romantic resolution. Now, as the colour in my hair begins tomatch the grey in my eyes, and I look back over the changes of almosthalf a century, I detect in the wreck of my life almost a harmony, andsomething rises above the ruins. 

"On that frail foundation from fairy land my trembling imaginationrested, even amid the sordid developments of my experience. How oftendid I take my youthful oath that the day should never come when I wouldout-grow my feeling for all the world! I have been put to the test, and, I hope, not found wanting. 

"The end of my first ten years of life found me regretfully divestingmyself, one by one, of my beloved folk-lore tales, and reverentlyfolding them away, in preparation for the fray. I worked, during mysecond ten years, as a journeyman tanner and currier; knocked by fateand the boss from shop to shop and from town to town. I naturally soughtsolidarity with my fellows. Class feeling awoke in me, and voluntarilyand enthusiastically I joined the union of my craft. Though I strainedat its narrow confines, I was at one with my class. During the '70's and'80's the eight hour movement laid me off on several strikes, long andshort. This enforced leisure was not idleness for me, for in theseperiods the world of science, art and philosophy shot their stray gleamsinto my startled mind, and I found time to ponder on what leisure mightdo for the mob. What did it not do for me, and what has it not done forme since? And I in the very ecstasy of my being was one of this mob. 

"Whole hours, whole nights, I stole from my needed rest to read andponder on our human fate. Sundays! Things after a day's labourincomprehensible to my stunned brain were easily grasped on a gloriousmorning of religious leisure. The apathy of my fellows--how well Iunderstood it when, with nerves unstrung and muscles relaxed, after atense twelve hours of toil, I fell asleep over my beloved books! And howwell, too, I understood their amusement--the appeal of the poor man'sclub!--when in gay carousal we tried to forget what we were. Even in thesaloon and dance-hall we told tales of the shop! Oh, the irony of it!Was there no escape from the madness of the mart, no surcease from thefrenzy of the factory or the shibboleth of the shop!

"Yes! How well I recall the gay transformation in my shop-mates when thewhistle blew on Saturday night. The dullest and most morose showedintelligence then. The prospect of rest, be it ever so remote--even inthe hereafter--roused them from their lethargy. How alert and cheerfulwe were on holidays, even the prolonged holiday of a strike brought itspinched joys. Quite a number of my ancient comrades of industry lookedforward to the Poor House with a hopefulness born of thwarted toil. Theluckiest ones out of the thousands whom I knew were those few who, overcome at last, could find some sheltering fireside and keep out ofthe way until nature laid them off for good; the living envied the dead. 

"I took part in the famous bread riots of '77, when I had to fly fromthe shop, before an infuriated mob armed with sticks, stones, pikes, andpitchforks. In the same year I saw from a distance the great battle ofthe viaduct, when the mob, armed as in the bread riots, faced thefederal troops and were shot down and dispersed. It was about this time, too, that I stood by as the 'Lehr und Wehr Verein' in their blue blousesof toil and shouldered rifles strode ominously onward. These men werethe first fruits in America of Bakunin's ideals and work in Europe. They, too, were put down, by an act of legislature. 

"These proletarian protagonists whipped me into a fury. My father, too, had his rifle, and when drunk he invoked it, as it hung on the wall, thus: 'Come down, my sweet rifle, how brightly you shine! What tyrantdare stifle that sweet voice of thine. ' But my father was only a Fenianrevolutionist; and as it was only a step for me from Ireland toInternationalism, I was soon beyond his creed. 

"We had come to America during war times, with the spirit of revoltalready germinating within us; and although we were against slavery, oursympathies were with the South. We were natural as well as politicaldemocrats, and even when the mob was in the wrong, I always became oneof it. How finely elemental, how responsive to the best and the worst, is the mob when the crisis comes!

"Although my thoughts were forming through my readings and the largerevents about me, the everyday life in the shop was perhaps the deepestcause of my growing revolt. The atmosphere of the frenzied factory iswell calculated to produce a spirit of sullen and smouldering rebellionin the minds of its less hardened inmates. From the domineering bossdown to the smallest understrapper, the spirit of the jailer and turnkeyis dominant. Much worse than solitary confinement is it to be sentencedto ten hours of silence and drudgery. The temptation to speak to the manat your side is well nigh irresistible. But to speak means to bemarked, to have hurled at you a humiliating reprimand, or, as a lastresort, to be discharged. 

"No lunching between meals is allowed, although it is a well-known factthat few workers have the appetite at dawn to eat sufficient food tolast them till their cold lunch at noon. From this comes the terriblehabit, among the older toilers, of the eye-opener, a gulp of rot-gutwhiskey, taken to arouse the sleeping stomach and force sufficient foodon it to last till noon. As a convalescent victim of this proletarianpractice I am well aware of its ravages on body and mind. It is thewill-of-the-wisp of false whiskey followed by false hope, leading intothe fogs and bogs of the bourgeois and the quicksands of the capitalist. 

"To be a moment late, means to be docked and to have it rubbed in by aninsult. To take a day off, well--death is taken as an excuse. There isno such thing in a shop as social equality between boss and men. In mylast position as foreman I had charge of three hundred men. Many of themwere faithful comrades in many a brave strike, where starvation pressedhard, whence they had emerged with hollow cheeks and undaunted hearts. I soon came to know them all, personally, intimately, and liked themall, though I felt most strangely drawn to those who worked for onedollar a day. They all did their work faithfully, and there was nocomplaint from the front office. One day, however, the owner charged mewith treating the hands as if they were my equals. I tried to make himsee the human justification of it, but he would have none of it. He wasa typical boss and also a millionaire banker. 

"It was about this time that I discovered the deepest tonic my nerveshave ever known. The explosion of the Haymarket bomb found a responsivechord, the vibrations of which will never cease in me, I hope. Theunconscious in me was at last released, and I held my mad balance on thecrater's edge and gazed into it. Hereafter, I was to live on dangerousground, at least in thought. No more doubt, no more shuffling now. Imust try the chords of my heart, the sympathy of my soul, in openrebellion. The iniquities of civilisation had ruined a fine barbarian inme, and almost made of me a maudlin miscreant, willing to hang upon theskirts of a false society. The Haymarket bomb made me strip again andfor a nobler fray. 

"Of what avail was it, I reflected, to raise one's voice in thewilderness of theories? How do any good by a social enthusiasm merelyexpressed in theory? Such thin cerebral structures are shattered topieces in the ordeal of life. Ah, but this anonymous Avatar, this manwith the bomb! His instinct was right, but how far short it fell, andmust always fall. He had settled the strife within him and becomedefinite to himself: that was all he had done. I too must settle thestrife within me. I was plunged into prolonged dreams from which I wasaroused by hunger, hunger of many kinds, and driven into my formerhaunt, the shop. 

"But now, when I stripped for work in the factory and donned myvestments of toil, I stood forth without falsehood. I knew, if not whatI was, at least what I wanted, rather what I did not want. I did notwant this, this society!

"Each morning as I took my place in the shop I had the feeling of myboyhood--as if I were celebrating a High Mass before the sacrifice ofanother day. There was much of the Pontifical in me, for I was a raptradical. Each morning on my way to Commercial Calvary I saw anothersacrifice; I overtook small shrivelled forms, children they were, by thedim dawn. How their immature coughings racked my heart and gave me thatstrange tightening of the chest! I could not keep my eyes from theground whence came the sound of small telltale splashes, after eachcough. Many times I stopped to hold a child who was vomiting. 

"Here was a woe too deep for tears; and I must look with dry eyes or Ishould fail to see. Have you ever noticed the searching dry gaze of thepoor? It is like the seeing, wistful look of a child--which few can bearwithout flinching. I had no need to read Dante's imaginary 'Inferno. ' Iwas living in a real one which made all imagination seem trivial. 'Theshort and simple annals of the poor' seems like poetry, but onlysuperficially, for it is not truth, but a fiction. It is false, for theannals of the aristocracy are not so long, neither are they so complex. 

"I am not trying to plead for anything. I am trying merely to express. Prepared for everything, I have forgiven everything, even myself. Everything that could happen has happened to me, perhaps the worst thathappened did not come from without, but from within. My family came offsafely enough from the fray of the factory. Only two of us were maimedfor life and five claimed for death--out of a family of eleven. Thatleft half a dozen for the statistician to figure on. "

Terry, a transcendental poet, who worked in the shop for many years, hadquit it some time before he met Marie. The above letter shows, in ageneral way, the mood which finally brought about his social self-exile, so to speak. The letter which follows gives a specific instance of thekind of experience which disgusted the idealist with the imperfectworld. He had been living against society, had foregathered withoutcasts and had thrown down the gauntlet generally to organisedsociety, for some years, but he still from time to time worked at somejob or other. An incident happening some years after the meeting withMarie, which is still to be described, is sufficiently typical of whatfinally threw him entirely out from society to be truthfullyillustrative at this point. 

"I was keeping open house for all comers, regardless of law or order, morality or money. I wished to hurl myself and my theories to the test, and gauntlet my defiance to a withered world. It was a happy time, looked back on now as a dream, in which, however, there was an undertoneof nightmare. We had three little rooms up many mild flights ofunbalustered stairs. Our main furniture consisted of mattresses which, like morning clouds, were rolled away when the sun arose. 

"For the shocking salary of six dollars a week I was collector for thePrudential Insurance company. One rent day I lacked the necessary fourdollars and a half. I telegraphed my other ego, my dear brother Jim, inPittsburg. The same day brought from him a telegraph money-order fortwenty-five dollars, and soon afterward a letter asking me to go toPittsburg and help him out. I had always been deemed an expert in theleather line, especially in locating anything wrong in the variousprocesses. My brother was a member of a new millionaire leather firm, which was losing thousands of dollars every week because they wereunable to locate the weakness in the process. Jim wanted me to find theflaw. 

"It was with the utmost repugnance that I quit my happy slum life, but Iloved Jim, and it was the call of the ancient clan in my blood. When Iarrived in Pittsburg, without a trunk, and with other marks of theproletarian on me, Mr. Kirkman, the millionaire tanner, showered me withevery luxury--every luxury except that of thought and true emotion. Never before did I realise so intensely my indifference to what moneycan buy. My private office in the shop was stocked with wines andimported cigarettes: but I was not so well off as in my happy slum. 

"I toiled like a sleepless sisyphus, and one day, in a flash ofintuition, I located and showed the flaw in an obscure process; I wascompletely successful. 

"I had put no price on my services. For Jim's sake, I had worked like aTrojan, physically and mentally, for a month. With unlimited money at mydisposal, I had drawn only twenty dollars altogether, and this I sent toMarie, to keep the wolf away from the Rogues' Gallery, our flat. 

"When the factory was running smoothly, I told Mr. Kirkman that I wouldbreak in a man for my place. He made me a tempting offer to take fullcharge of the shop. I told him I would not be a participant inexploiting his 'hands, ' who were getting only $7 to $8 a week. Furthermore, I said I would not stand for the discharge of any man forincompetency. I had never in the shop met any man I could not teach andlearn something from in return; I had never discharged a man, and neverwould. The millionaire boss nevertheless continued to urge me to takethe position, and my brother Jim offered me two thousand dollars' worthof stock at par and a large yearly salary. Well, I suppose, there's nouse of anybody's trying to move me when Jim has failed. 

"I quit Pittsburg with nothing but the price of a ticket to Chicago, though my brother told me the firm would send me a check for $500 or$1, 000 for my services as an expert. When, with a beating heart, Ireturned to my dear Rogues' Gallery, all was change and dispersion. Nomore happy times in our little balcony of fellowship, which hadoverlooked in its irresponsibility the jarring sects and insects of thisworld: the most delightful place in this world to me is a home without aboss, and this home was for the time gone. The possibility of beingunfair to Marie makes me draw a veil over the cause of the breaking-upof the Rogues' Gallery. 

"Poor Jim found that the firm would not pay me a cent for my reallybrilliant month's work, for the reason that I had refused to be aconventional boss and had no written or verbal contract or agreement. Jim therefore resigned, forfeiting fifty dollars of weekly salary andtwenty-five thousand dollars in stock, ten thousand of which he hadoffered me to stay. Mr. Kirkman thought all the world of Jim and couldnot run the shop without him. Nor could he recover from the blow, for heloved my brother, as everybody did. Mr. Kirkman died a few weeksafterward, and after a year or two the firm went into the hands of areceiver. All this happened because of a few paltry dollars, which I didnot ask for, for which I did not care a damn--and this is business! Iheartily rejoice, if not in Mr. Kirkman's death, at least in thedispersion of his family and their being forced into our ranks, wherethere is some hope for them. 

"My brother Jim was one of the maimed ones in my family. Twenty yearsago, defective machinery and a surgeon's malpractice made one armuseless. The Pittsburg affair broke up his beautiful home. He and hiswhole-souled wife and charming children, into whose eyes it was anentrancing rapture for me to look, were a family without a boss; theyneeded none, for they loved one another perfectly. Jim is dead now, andthe best I can do is to send you his last letter; it has the brevity ofgrief:

"'I have no explanation to offer for my silence, more than a feelingwhich possessed me shortly after my arrival here--a desire to beconsidered a dead one, and am doing all but the one thing that will makemy wish a reality. I am long tired of the game, and only continue toplay because of the hardships my taking off would cause those who atpresent are not able to care for themselves. A way out of it would be totake them along, but I think if the matter were put before them, theywould decline my proffered service; and take a chance as half-orphans. You calling up our boyhood days in "Little Hell" makes me question stillfurther if I have any right to deny those dear to me the delights thatonly the young can feel and enjoy. I made a great mistake in coming tothis Ohio town. The chase for dollars which I am performing here sevendays every week is very disgusting to me, and every day only adds to thepangs. I am out all day selling goods, pleading for trade and collectingfor former weeks' business; and in the evening I must do the necessaryoffice work. Every day is the same, except Sunday, when I make up thebook-keeping for the whole week and prepare statements and the like, tobegin the usual round on Monday morning. It is a hell of a life and Iwish it were done. I have some consolation in being able to call up atwill those that I love. I have many a waking dream, while tramping thehills, about the comrades that have added to the joys of my formerexistence. Let me hear from you occasionally, because a letter from youseems to revive some of the old feeling that formerly made lifepassable. '

 * * * * *

"I suppose I shall recover in time from Jim's death. I wish I could havebeen with him when he died. During his last half-unconscious moments thenurse proposed to send for a priest. Jim's soul must have made a lasteffort, for raising himself erect, he flung these words: 'I hire nospiritual nurse, ' and then asked his daughter of fourteen to bring hima volume of Emerson and read to him. When she returned with the book, hewas gone. 

"Of course, the doctor and all the wise ones have diagnosed Jim's case. But I think he sized up his case in that letter I sent you. He died ofthat great loneliness of soul which made of his wasted body a batteredbarricade against the stupidity which finally engulphed him. The soul ofsocial and individual honour and commercial integrity, he had themisfortune to find few like himself. He yearned for the ideal; and I amsure he went down with that hope for humanity. Let us trust that thereis an ever increasing number of human beings who have Jim'smalady--'seekers after something in this world, that is there in nosatisfying measure, or not at all. ' If this letter seems boisterouslyblue, remember it is only the sullen marching of the black sap precedingthe unfurling of the emerald banners of spring, when all things breakinto a 'shrill green. '"

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Terry's letter, like Marie's, I give verbatim. --H. H. 

CHAPTER VII

_The Meeting_

The mood of rebellious idealism sometimes expresses itself in actualanti-social conduct and life. So it was with Terry. He is the mostconsistent anarchist I have known, in the sense that he more nearlyrejects, practically, all social institutions and forms of conduct andmorality. He is very sweet, and very gentle, loves children and istender to every felt relation. There is a wistful look always in hiseyes. He is tall, thin, and gaunt, his hair is turning grey; but thereis nothing of the let-down of middle age in his nature, always tense, intense; scrupulously, deeply rebellious. 

Even before his meeting with Marie, his open acts of sympathy with whatis rejected by society had put him more and more in the position of anoutcast. Some of the members of his family had become fairly successfulin the ways of the world. Terry might easily have taken his place incomfortable bourgeois society. But his temperament and his idealism ledhim to the disturbed life of the radical rejector. And he was rejected, in turn, by all, even by his family. 

Between him and his mother there was perhaps an uncommon bond, but evenshe in the end cast him out. He wrote of her:

"She taught me that I did not belong in this world; she did not know howdeeply she was right. When she crossed my arms over my childish breastat night and bade me be prepared, she gave me the motive of my life. Shetold me I would weep salt tears in this world, and they have run into mymouth. She loved me, as I never have been loved before or since, even upto the hour of my social crucifixion: then she basely deserted me. But Irallied, and the motive she implanted in me remains. Though a childwithout any childhood, I had my reason for existence, just the same. Everything is meaningless and transitory, except to be prepared. And Ifinally became prepared for anything and everything. My life was and isa preparation--for what? For social crucifixion, I suppose, for I belongto those baffled beings who are compelled to unfold within because thereis no place for them without. I am a remaining product of the slums, consciously desiring to be there. I know its few heights and manydepths. There have I seen unsurpassed devotion and unbelievableatrocities, which I would not dare, even if I could, make known. Thetruth, how can we stand it, or stand for it? I think a sudden revelationhas wofully unbalanced many a fine mind. Hamlet, revealing himself toOphelia, drives distraught one of the sweetest of souls. Fortunately wenever know the whole truth, which may account for man being gregarious. One cannot help noticing that they who have a hopeless passion for truthare left largely alone--when nothing worse can be inflicted upon them. "

Terry's experience in the slums was no other than many another's, butthe effect it made upon his great sensibility was far from ordinary. Inanother letter, speaking of what he calls his "crucifixion, " he wrote:

"Only great sorrow keeps us close, and that is why, the first nightafter one of my deepest quarrels with my mother, I picked out afive-cent lodging-house, overlooking my home, to pass the night of mydamnation in sight of the lost paradise. I never had any reason, or Iwould have lost it. Let me hope that I am guided by something deeperthan that. All my life I have felt the undertone of society; it hasswept me to the depths, which I touched lovingly and fearfully with mylips. 

"Whenever and wherever I have touched the depths, and it has beenfrequent and prolonged, and have seen the proletarian face to face, naked spiritually and physically, the appeal in his eyes is irresistibleand irrefutable. I must do something for him or else I am lost tomyself. If I should ever let an occasion go by I am sure I never couldrecover from the feeling that something irreparable had happened to me. I should not mind failure, but to fail here and in my own eyes is to beforever lost and eternally damned. This looks like the religion of myyouth under another guise, but I must find imperishable harmonysomewhere. The apathy of the mass oppresses me into a hopelesshelplessness which may account for my stagnation, my ineffectiveness, myimpotence, my stupidity, my crudeness, and my despair. I have alwaysfelt lop-sided, physically, especially in youth. My awkwardness became, too, a state of mind at the mercy of any spark of suggestion. Mysubjectively big head I tried to compress into a little hat, myobjectively large hands concealed themselves in subjective pockets, mypoor generous feet went the way of the author of _Pilgrim's Progress_. The result is a lop-sided mind, developed monstrously in certainsensitive directions, otherwise not at all. A born stumbler in thisworld, I naturally lurched up against society--but, as often happens Ihave lost the thread of my thought: my thoughts, at the critical moment, frequently desert me, as my family did; they seem to carry on analluring flirtation, and when I think them near they suddenly wave mefrom the distance. But, like a lover, I will follow on--follow on toplatonic intercourse with my real mistress, the proletarian. And soulthere is there. I have met as fathomless spirits among the workers asone will meet with anywhere. Art never has fathomed them, and may neverbe able to do so. Often have I stood dumbfounded before some simpleday-labourer with whom I worked. Art does not affect me, as this kind ofgrand simplicity in life does. I keep muttering to myself: there must bea meaning to our lives somewhere, or else we must sunder this socialfabrication and create a meaning; and so my incantations go onendlessly. 

"The proletarian is that modern sphinx whose thundering interrogativesociety will be called upon to answer. You and I know too well thatsociety hitherto has answered only with belching cannon and vainvapourings of law, religion, and duty. But the toiling sphinx, who hastime only to ask terrible questions, will some day formulate anarticulate reply to its own question, and then once more we shall seethat our foundations are of sand--sand that will be washed away, byblood, if need be. Some there are who will weep tears over the sand: thepleasures and the joy may die, for to me they are cold and false. My joycannot find place within the four walls which shut out the misery andbrutality of the world. 

"How be a mouthpiece for the poor? How can art master themaster-problem? They who have nothing much to say, often say it well andin a popular form; they are unhampered by weighty matters. It takes aneagle to soar with a heavy weight in its grasp. The human being, rockingto and fro with his little grief, must give way in depth of meaning tohim who is rocked with the grief of generations past, present, and tocome. It is then that love might rise, love so close to agony that agonycannot last: the love that will search ceaselessly, in the slums, in thedives, throughout all life, for the inevitable, and will accept noalternative and no compromise. "

This was the man who met Marie at a critical time of her life. He wasabout thirty-five years old, had experienced much, had become formed, had rejected society, but not the ideal. Rather, as he dropped the one, he embraced more fervently the other. He had consorted with thieves, prostitutes, with all low human types; and for their failures and theirweaknesses, their ideas and their instincts, he felt deep sympathy andeven an æsthetic appreciation. 

Marie, as we have seen, was only seventeen, unformed and wild, full ofyouthful passion and social despair, on the verge of what we callprostitution; reckless, hopeless, with a deep touch of sullenness andhatred. She was working at the time in the house of one of Terry'sbrothers. Katie, too, was employed there; although she lived with Nick, her husband, she still occupied herself at times with her oldoccupation; and, as ever, she watched Marie with a careful eye, rathervainly so just then, for this girl was as wild as a girl well could be. 

One day Terry paid one of his infrequent visits to his brother's home, and saw the plump and pretty Marie hanging clothes in the yard. He wasat once attracted to her, and entered into conversation. He was deeplypleased; so was the girl; and they made an appointment. He soon saw whather character was, and this was to him an added attraction. 

"I had been looking for a girl like Marie, " he said, "for several years. I had made one or two trials, and they always got me into trouble withmy family. But the other girls did not make good. They were too weak andconventional and could not stand the pace of life with me. I had earlyformed a contempt for the matrimonial relation. Five years I had nursedmy rebellion and waited for a chance to use it. As soon as I met Marie Ifelt I had met one of my own kind. It was partly the fierce charm of asocial experiment, the love for the proletarian and the outcast; for Ifelt Marie was essentially that. This element of my interest in herMarie never understood--this unconscious propaganda, as it were. Shethought it was all sex and wanted it so. "

Katie saw that Terry was making up to her beloved Marie, and tried toprevent their meetings; but in vain; the attraction was too strong. Katie blackguarded Terry on every occasion, until she finally saw it washopeless, and then invited him into her house to meet the girl. There hebegan to go frequently and the intimacy grew. Nick warned Terry againstthe girl on account of her loose character. "I have often found her, " hesaid, "misconducting herself with some fellow or other. Why, she does sowith everybody. Only this evening I found her on the front door-stepwith young Bladen. She is not the kind for you to be serious about. Everybody knows how common she is. "

Nick did not understand that an argument of that kind tended only toconfirm Terry in his interest in Marie. Terry answered him laconically:"That's all right, Nick. When you don't want her, just send her to me. "

Nick, as we have seen, was jealous of Marie, because of Katie's love forher; so he fomented trouble between the two women. Katie, too, was atthis time more exasperated with the girl's conduct than she had everbeen before; and they had frequent quarrels. As the result of one ofthem, Marie went off with Terry to his family flat, where he was livingalone at the time--to "have a fish dinner, " telling the relenting Katiethat she would return in the evening. But she stayed there with Terryall that night, for the first time. In the morning Katie turned upbright and early, burst into the flat, and reproached Terry so bitterlythat they almost came to blows. But when Marie took Terry's side, Katie, terribly disappointed and hurt, yet made up her mind that it wasinevitable; and Terry and Marie began to live together. 

How did Marie feel about all this? What was her condition at the time, and her attitude toward this strange man, so different from every othershe had met? In a long letter to me she has given an account of it all. 

"I wrote you about my adventure with the club man. Well that was only asingle instance of what finally became frequent with me. I had grown sofearfully tired of the life I was leading in domestic service that theonly problem for me was how to get away from it all. For a time, I hadthought I could get away only by marriage. I was ready to marry anybodywho offered me food and shelter, and I had even thought of prostitutionas a means of escape from domestic drudgery. I had not the slightestidea of what prostitution in its accepted sense meant. I knew in a vagueway that women sold their bodies to men for money, that they livedluxurious lives, went to theatres and balls, wore beautiful gowns andseemed to be gay and happy. I was willing to marry any man who offeredme a home, without the least suspicion that in that way, too, I shouldprostitute myself. But no one at that time offered me this means ofescape, so I was quite ready to take the only other way, as I thought, left to me. 

"About this time I met an old girl-friend whom I had not seen forseveral years; she was a domestic servant, too, but was in advance of mein her recklessness. When I met her again she was in the mood to loseall the little virtue left to her. She was quite willing to sellherself: she had done enough for love, she said, marriage was now animpossibility, and she might as well realise on her commercial value. Tothese ideas I agreed, and we arranged to meet in two weeks from that dayand try an experiment. Meanwhile she was to go back to her home, get herbelongings, and tell her parents she had secured a place as aservant-girl in Chicago. 

"I left my position, and finding things too disagreeable at home where Icontinually quarrelled with my mother, I went to visit Kate, until myfriend should return. 

"How my ideas and ideals had changed! When I first began to dislike thework I was forced to do, I dreamed that some charming fairy would comeand release me: I had been taught such a view of life from the novels ofBertha M. Clay and E. D. E. N. Southworth. Some rich man, young andcharming, possibly the owner of the factory I was working in, would fallpassionately in love with me, marry me and carry me away to his palace!Gradually, my ideas came down. I should have been glad to marry aforeman, then some good mechanic, and finally, some workman, howeverhumble, whom I would love dearly. And now I was deliberately preparingfor a life of prostitution!

"It was then, while living with my dear friend Kate, whom I sometimeshelped in the work she did out, that I met my first, my last, my truestlover and friend, Terry. We met just at the right moment. I was filledwith rebellion at the powers that were crushing me, breaking me, withoutrealising why, or how, or what I might make of myself, when he camealong and taught me in his own quiet and gentle convincing way how crueland unjust is this scheme of things, and pointed out to me the crueltyand tyranny of my parents and of all society. He showed me that marriagesuch as I had contemplated was a bad form of prostitution, and he toldme why. Of course, I did not grasp all the things he told me at once, but I listened and felt comforted; I began to feel that perhaps I mightamount to something, might have some life of my own, and that myrebellion was perhaps justifiable. I began to understand why work was soobjectionable to me and why I rebelled against the authority of myparents. My conceptions of freedom were crude, but I began to feel thatmy revolt was just, and was based upon the terrible injustice wherebythe many must toil so that the few may live in splendour. I will notweary you with all the details of the things I learned at that time fromTerry. To you it might seem very raw and crude, and you no doubt haveread some of the pamphlets written by socialists and anarchists dealingwith the labour question in all of its aspects. But to me these ideaswere quite new and they seemed grand and noble. 

"And Terry revealed to me, too, almost at once, the great inspiring factthat there is such a thing as beauty of thought--that there is poetryand art and literature. This, too, of course, came little by little, butdo you wonder I loved a man who showed me a new world and who taught meI was not bad? He put good books into my hands, and to my grateful joy Ifound I liked these books better than the trash I had hitherto read. 

"I felt so much better, after seeing so much of Terry, that I decided togo to work again. Terry was against this. 'Try it, ' he said, 'But Iassure you you don't need to work. I have tried doing without work formany years, it is much easier than it seems. ' Nevertheless I got a jobin a bicycle factory, but I only stayed a few days. It seemed like astale existence to me! And besides, I was in love and wanted to be withTerry all the time. 'By God, ' I said to him that night, 'you are right!I'll never work again. '

"My friend Gertrude, the girl with whom I had intended to go in the lastreckless experiment, came to Terry's flat to see me, and get me to gowith her. I had thought, after I gave up work, that Terry might offer memarriage, but he told me quite frankly that it was against hisprinciples to marry anybody. I was a little hurt and astonished at this, but as I was very much in love and was already beginning to imbibe hisideas, it did not matter so very much to me. 

"So, when Gertrude came, I led her to Terry and asked him what hethought about her plan. He said to us: 'The kind of prostitution youcontemplate is no worse than the kind often called marriage. Sellingyour body for a lifetime is perhaps worse than selling it for an hour orfor a day. But the immediate result of this kind of prostitution whichyou plan is very terrible practically. It generally leads to frightfuldiseases which will waste your bodies and perhaps injure your minds. Thegirls you envy are not always as happy, gay, and careless as they seem. It is part of their business to seem so, but they are not, or only sofor a very short time. Perhaps you will be better off so than indomestic drudgery. It is a choice of evils, but if you are very braveand courageous you may perhaps get along without either. But if forcedto one or the other, I recommend prostitution. It may be worse for youbut, as a protest, it is better for society, in the long run. '

"He pictured to us as truly as he could the life of the street-walker;he did not seem to think that morally it was worse than any other lifeunder our social organisation, but he did not make it seem attractive;nor did he make the life of the domestic servant or factory-girl seemattractive. He seemed to feel that one might look on prostitution as, under the circumstances, a grim duty--but it was certainly grim. 

"We were rather incredulous at the picture Terry had drawn of the lifewe had resolved to lead. Gertrude turned up her pretty little nose andsaid it would not be like that with her. We talked about it all thatday and night; and Gertrude decided to have a try at it, while I wasundecided. I was somewhat piqued at Terry's attitude. I had expected himto oppose my plan, to do all in his power to prevent it. But I did notunderstand him. He knew that if I were determined, nothing would preventme, and all he could do was to give us a faithful picture of what such alife would be. 

"Things were happening of which we were ignorant for a time, but whichhelped to settle our immediate problem. I had often been seen going intoTerry's flat, and this was food for gossip. It was said that Terry hadstarted a bad house, and had done so in the flat belonging to hisfamily, who were in the country at the time. These stories reached mymother's ears, and also were told to Terry's mother and sisters, and themischief began. I was forbidden ever to cross my mother's thresholdagain, and he was requested to leave the home of his virtuous sisterswhich he had polluted and contaminated by his debaucheries with thatimmoral person, myself. "

Marie omitted, in the above letter, the details of the split with thetwo families. It seems that Terry had, on hearing about the "rumours, "gone to his family, then near Chicago, and presented to them hisphilosophy of life; also his determination not to give up Marie, and notto marry her. It was then that the last rung was put in the ladder ofhis family crucifixion, as he would call it. It was then that his mother"basely deserted him;" and Terry left for good, rejecting the moneyoffered him. 

"I passed them up, " he said, scornfully, "and after spending the nightin the lodging-house, I beat my way back to Chicago. I had been goneseveral days, and when I got back to the flat, where I went only to getMarie and clear out for God knows where, I found her gone, and noapparent way of finding her address. I went to see her mother, and hadan awful scene with her. The violent woman was in hysterics and, after along dispute, implored me to find her daughter. 'I'll find her, ' Ireplied, 'for myself, ' and left. 

"Marie afterwards told me that she and Gertrude had gone to see hermother, when I was in the country with my family, and that her motherhad driven them away. Perhaps, the mother realised the change in thegirl. Perhaps, too, she realised what must happen, if she drove heraway. Yet she did drive her daughter away. From her own point of view, it was diabolical to do so. Her anger, her exasperation and her outrageddesire to rule drove her to doing what she must have felt was the worstthing she could do. And she did it in the name of virtue! Perhaps it wasfor the best: I believe it was, but she did not and I cannot see whereher spiritual salvation comes in. "

Terry finally found Marie--found her in the midst of a short experiment, in company with Gertrude, "in one of the social extremes, "--to be plain, leading the life of a prostitute. 

I ask the reader to pause here and reflect. Pause, before you concludethat this book is an indecent and immoral book. Reflect before youconclude that this woman is an immoral woman. I am engaged in telling aplain tale in such a way that certain social conditions and certainsocial considerations and individual truths may be illustrated thereby. Consequently, I shall not pause, though I ask the reader to do so, inorder to point a moral in any extended way. In return for the readers'courtesy and tolerance, I will here reassuringly assert that there willbe found in these pages no detailed description of Marie's life duringher few months of prostitution; and nothing whatever, from cover tocover, of anything that in my judgment is either immoral or indecent. 

Well, Terry found her, and Terry did not try to "reform" her. But hestood by her, and was more interested, more in love with her than ever. In addition to his personal interest, he felt an even stronger socialinterest in her. To live with a girl like that was unconsciouspropaganda. This passion, as he calls it, was now more deeply stirredthan when he first met her. This deeply aroused his imagination and hiskeen desire to see what the naked constitution of the soul is, after itis stripped of all social prestige. 

If Marie had been simply a low, commercial grafter, Terry, the idealist, would not have been interested. But Terry knew that Marie cared nothingwhatever for money. He regarded her as a social victim and in addition avigorous and life-loving personality, an excellent companion for alife-long protest against things as they are. He saw she had thecapacity for deep and excited interest in truth, an emotional love forideated experience. These two human beings were wonderfully fitted toeach other: no wonder they loved!

Terry, telling me about the girl's experience during the two weeks or sobefore he found her, dwelt especially upon how well she was treated. 

"She has a way of getting the interest, almost the deference, of manypeople. She and Gertrude were often reduced to the proverbial thirtycents, but they had little difficulty in getting along. For instance, one day, almost broke, they went to a restaurant and ordered two cups ofcoffee. The negro waiter knew what they were, and offered them a nicesteak, at his expense. Nor did he try to 'ring in, ' to make theiracquaintance. He treated them with great respect. They went thereseveral times afterward, and always found the negro waiter beaming withthe desire to help them for quite disinterested reasons, and he nevertried to meet them outside. Marie always appreciated a thing like that. She took a delight in thinking about the fine qualities in humannature. "

Marie is a frank woman, but it is natural that she could never bringherself to talk about this period of her life with entire openness. Shehas, however, written me a letter in which she tells the essentialtruth, although clothing it with a certain pathetic attempt to concealthe one episode in her life about which, to me, she was perhapsunreasonably reticent. She did not say that she and Gertrude wereseparated from Terry for a time, but she wanted to convey the impressionthat she and Terry, from the start, struggled along together, which wasessentially, though not literally, true. Continuing her account, fromthe time the two families cast her and Terry out, she wrote:

"So there we were, thrown out into the harsh world, shelterless andalmost moneyless. But we all three put our little capital together, amounting to about eleven dollars, went down town, and hired a furnishedroom. We managed to live a week on this capital, and then Terry pawnedhis watch, which gave us five dollars. Gertrude soon disappeared with anold rouê and went out of our lives. Terry and I kept along as best wecould. Kate helped us as much as we would allow her to, and sometimespaid for our room, and I would sometimes eat at her house. 

"During this period I was in a curious state of mind and body. Living inthe midst of so-called vice, I was at first both attracted and repelled. Yet my strongest feeling was a hatred of the life I had formerly led, and I was determined not to go back to it, happen what might. I shouldprobably have gone much farther than I did, had it not been for my lovefor Terry, which made me feel that I did not want to throw myselfentirely away. So I did not know whether to go into the game entirely orkeep out of it. Terry did not try to influence me, but seemed to watchme, to make me feel that he would stand by me in any event. 

"For a time we were both of us dazed and stunned by our sudden change inlife. The change was much greater for Terry than for me. I don't knowwhat his thoughts and feelings at that time were. They must have beenterrible. For years he had lived, for the most part with his family, aquiet, studious life, the life of contemplation; and now he wassuddenly plunged into the roar and din, with an ignorant anddisreputable girl on his hands whom he would not desert. We werecertainly on the verge of destruction. The inevitable would havehappened, for no other choice was left me, and I should have driftedwith the current and Terry would do and could do nothing. 

"Just at the crucial moment, Terry met an old friend who offered him apolitical job, organising republican workingmen's clubs, and Terryaccepted it. No one can understand how bitter this was to Terry. To workfor a political organisation was to him great degradation. He did it formy sake, for the thirty-five dollars a week, so that I could be free tolive as I wanted. I did not realise at the time how much his sensitivenature suffered, and I took poor advantage of the freedom his money andcharacter gave me. What an intolerable burden I must have been to him, and yet he never even intimated a desire to leave me!

"I had an opportunity now to satisfy my desire for pleasure. Terry putno obstacles in my way. Yet the cup already tasted bitter. I tried todeny to myself that this life of pleasure was an illusion, and so Iplunged into the most reckless debaucheries: I really would be ashamedto tell you of the things I did. I had affairs with all sorts of men, many of whom I did not know whether I liked or hated--seeking alwaysexcitement, oblivion. I frequented cafés where the women and men of thetown were to be found, and made many acquaintances. Two or three of themproposed marriage to me. They no doubt wanted to 'save' me, and thoughtI was a prostitute. I did not care to disabuse them on the subject: infact I don't know whether I was what they called me or not. 

"This life lasted only two or three months, but it seems like so manyyears to me. At the end of that time Terry's work was over, and we leftdown town and roomed with a respectable radical family. My health hadbroken down. I weighed only a hundred pounds, although three monthsearlier I had weighed one hundred and forty. My beautiful, healthy bodyhad wasted away. Ah! how proud I used to be of this body of mine! how Iused to glory in the vigorous, shapely limbs, the well-moulded breastsand throat. But all this passed away before my youth had passed away. "

Marie here pathetically omits to state the immediate cause of her illhealth--a long and terrible experience in the hospital, the result ofher excesses, during which time Terry was the only one to care for her, from which place she came broken in health, thin and pale, with large, dark, sad eyes, looking as she did when I first met her. 

CHAPTER VIII

_The Rogues' Gallery_

"My terrible experiences during these months, " continued Marie, "had atleast the advantage of bringing me nearer to him who was and is theinspirer of whatever is worthy or good in me. It helped me to appreciatehim, and surely everything I suffered, everything I may still suffer, isnot too much to pay for that. He has made for me an ideal, and, withoutthat, life is but a sorry, sorry thing. During those wild months I, ofcourse, thought little of those things, those wonderful new things whichI had heard of from him, but now, when we were living quietly with ouranarchist friends, and the surroundings were in harmony with the moodfor thought, my interest awakened. I read a great deal and listenedattentively to the talk of the people around me, and slowly my ideasbecame more and more clear. 

"It took a long time for me to learn, to really understand what theothers were interested in. I did not dare to ask Terry too manyquestions, especially there, where everybody admired him and looked upto him so. A new shyness came over me when I began to see him in thelight of a philosopher and a poet. He seemed so far above me and I feltmyself so small and unworthy. But it was not long before I really beganto feel a strong interest in all that was said, in all these socialtheories, in these ideas about the proletaire, about art and literature;and I began to read books in a far different spirit from what I used--Ibegan to see in them truth about life, and to love this truth, whateverit was. And I loved the freedom of the talk, and, above all, I loved thefeeling that from the highest point of view I was not an outcast, andthat the people who seemed to me the best did not so regard me. Ithelped to give me the self-respect which every human being needs, Ithink. 

"I thought for a long time that I was very lucky indeed to get admittedinto this atmosphere. And, indeed, I know I _was_ lucky, but there camea time when, for a while, I was very unhappy, not in the society of theradicals--I always loved that--but among these particular people, because they could not, after all, rid themselves of some conservativeprejudices. After a while I began to see that even those enlightenedpeople really had contempt for what I had been, or for my ignorance, perhaps for both. 

"This family, with whom we were staying, was supposed to have broad andliberal ideas, and its members prided themselves on the fact that theyreally put their theories into practice. Their home was run on a sort ofcommunistic basis, and the men and women who lived there were not tiedto each other by any legal bonds, for they believed in freedom of love. They never made much noise about their ideas, or rather their practice, and were what you might call refined or cultured anarchists. 

"Terry and I had nothing in a worldly way, and we lived there on'charity, ' so to speak, though that word was, of course, never used. Wedid, however, what work there was to be done in the household, trying inthis way to give some compensation in return for a bed to sleep on andthe simple food necessary to keep our bodies alive. 

"Now, after a while, I began to feel crushed, oppressed in this home, among these cold, cold, refined people, although they were anarchists. They could not help showing me their contempt: they made me feelinferior. They never said one word that indicated such a feeling, but Icould feel it by their attitude, by the attitude even of the littlechild in the house. They looked upon me much in the same way as myformer mistress used, when I was the servant in the house, except thatthey were bound by their theories to give me a nominal respect and totry charitably to improve my mind and make of me a philosophicalanarchist. 

"It was painful to me to see these people, who were so humane, who couldnot bear to see the lowly oppressed, who could not bear to haveinjustice done, to see these people pass me by in insulting silence, look at me with cold, unsympathetic eyes! How it hurt me, not to receivethe word of encouragement from the kind look of people I looked up to!So I crawled into my shell and did not go about much with the others. Ithink I was forgotten by nearly everybody for days at a time. Terryshared the room with me, and brought me food, as I grew more and moreunable to eat with the cold superior ones. He brought me tobacco, too, and here it was, sitting all day alone, that I began the cigarettehabit: if it had not been for that, I think I should have gone mad. 

"I never ceased to love Terry, but I had a bitter feeling against him, too. He was always kind and good to me, but he spent most of his timewith his intellectual friends, and I began to feel that even he wasbeing 'charitable' to me. So after much misery and despair, I accepted aproposal of marriage from a friend of my wild days and fled with him toSt. Louis. He took me to the home of his sisters and parents, where Ilived in peace and quiet for three weeks, recovered some of my healthand strength, and was able to review my past and think of my future; andreflect on my coming marriage. 

"The people I was with now were kind and sympathetic. They did not knowabout my past life--only my prospective husband knew--he, of course, knew all. The others thought I was a poor shop-girl, tired andoverworked. They were refined people, fairly well-to-do, ratherbourgeois, but with good hearts, and so innocent that they believedeverything their son told them, and received me as a daughter andsister. 

"Perhaps my nature is perverse, I don't know; but as soon as I got alittle rest and peace, I began to think of what I had left andespecially of Terry. It was not only my love for him that called, butwhat my life with him had been and would be if I returned--a life thatwas not a commonplace life, a life of intelligence and freedom. AlreadyI was bored by the quiet goodness of the people I was with, and I wanted'something doing'!

"I saw Terry again as I had seen him first, with the glamour of ardentlove, the love that overleaps all barriers and, if only for an instant, stands face to face with love, unhesitating, tumultuous, and triumphant. The memory of even one perfect moment can never leave us, even if lifebe ever so dark and harsh and bitter, there will always be that singleray of light to illumine the darkness, and keep our steps from utter andcomplete stumbling. 

"I thought of Terry day and night, and grew so melancholy that my newfound friends were alarmed and suggested hastening the marriage, inorder to let me go South with my husband. This alarmed me terribly andI begged that no such step should be taken. With much inward trembling, I proposed that the marriage should be postponed and that I return toChicago. They would not listen to this, and I could see in their honestfaces the deepest amazement and a kind of suspicion. So I took refuge intears, pleading ill-health and offering no more suggestions. 

"That same day I wrote Terry a long letter, in which I told him that Istill loved him, could not forget him, but had taken this step indesperation because I could no longer endure living among these peoplein Chicago, his friends, but not mine; that here in St. Louis I hadfound a certain measure of peace and quiet which had lately beendisturbed by the realisation that soon I must decide to take a stepwhich would perhaps separate us two irrevocably, that I longed more thanwords could tell to see him, to look into his face. I could never goback, I wrote, to that life I had been living, because what I hadlearned from him of what life is and what makes it worth living, hadmade that thing impossible for me. So, I wrote, I could not go back, and how, without him, could I go forward? So here I was, weak, perplexed, and I begged him to write me, to advise me what to do. 

"Very soon his reply came--the truest, kindest reply that I could havereceived. He too had suffered since I left him, and comprehended onlytoo well why I had done as I did. Our suffering would help us to gain amore comprehensive knowledge of life and of each other. And if I stillloved him, I should follow the inclination of my heart and return tohim. We two might start out again, wiser and surer for what had passed. He assured me of his love, but warned me not to expect too much fromhim, that our material comforts would be few, for he was as poor as I, and however much he might wish to provide better, he knew that, for onereason or another, he could not. But if I would be content to share hiscrust and his love, much happiness and joy might be in store for us. Hefinished his letter with a quotation from Browning's 'Lost Leader':

 'Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to tie in his coat. '

"My hesitation disappeared at once, although it hurt me greatly tocarry out my resolution to return to Chicago. It cost me many a pang toshock and hurt the dear good people, to seem so ungrateful for all theirlove and kindness. But it had to be. I could not do otherwise. Ireturned to Chicago two days after receiving the letter, and my loverand I met and clasped hands and gazed into one another's eyes. We werereunited, or rather united truly, for the first time, with betterunderstanding on both sides. 

"Since that day, now six years ago, we have travelled the rough roadtogether, assisting one another as best we could, often stumbling andmisunderstanding and hurting one another, for we continually tried toget deeper and deeper into real knowledge, real life, and it is hard toreconcile all things. Generally to gain much, one must compromise, butTerry and I did not wish to compromise. His and mine has been adifficult and dangerous relation, but an interesting one. Very soonafter my return to Chicago, I felt much more at ease, no longer astumbling-block in his way; and I gained confidence, strength, andknowledge. I met many people of the true communistic spirit, and bysocial intercourse with them developed in every way. I continued to readgood books and attended lectures on the social problems of the day. Soafter a time I became what is called an anarchist, just as Terry was. 

"The reasons my books and companions brought forward for thejustification of anarchism were like meat and drink to me. I was filledwith enthusiasm for the ideas of a freedom which I now think is perhapsimpossible in our society. But I thought that the 'downtrodden, ' the'working classes, ' held the fate of the world in their hands, if theycould but realise it. As time passed, my enthusiasm waned, for I beganto see many difficulties in the way of this beautiful idealism. Attimes, I even doubted if the 'mob' were worthy of liberty at all. Suchthoughts, however, passed away whenever I saw the crowds of workersstreaming from the factories and stores, and looked upon their loutish, brutal faces, wherein there was never a gleam of pride, of the joy ofcreation, of intelligent effort. Then I would think, surely, surely, humankind is not meant to be thus. Why, even the little birds, the tinylittle ants, what intelligence they display in their work; littlekittens and dogs playing in the streets, what unrestrained joy istheirs! Work ought to be a pleasure and a blessing: and it would be soif we could only choose our labour, if we could create, do those thingsfor which we are fitted, voluntarily, because of the need within us, forthe outward expression of our life, our hope and joy. So, work wouldcease to be the curse it is to-day. 

"And surely if we were free men and women, we would find our place inthe scheme of things, surely each one of us would seek the place suitedto his individual nature, and so perhaps at last everything would be apart of the harmonious whole. 

"When I think of things as they are and as they might be, I grow dizzyand sick at heart, that mankind can be so blind, so hopelessly ignorant, so unspeakably cruel, so weak and cowardly. I am only a novice, I know, and there is so much for me to know, to learn, to strive for--much thatI, and hundreds and thousands of others, will never reach, for we areburdened with heavy chains which we cannot break. Yet, there must besomewhere on this big earth, some little place fitted for me, somesmall corner where I must be of some value to myself. 

"To you, no doubt, my sufferings and struggles will seem petty and myideas crude and commonplace; but, if so, the pity is all the greater. After the agony I went through, freedom seemed to me the noblest thingin the world, and I thought it the solution of everything. Since then myideas, perhaps, have become somewhat less 'crude, ' but I have never fora moment lost faith in the thought that freedom is the most essential, the most necessary condition for us, if we are to endure life. "

It is certainly what Marie calls "crude" to talk of liberty withoutcareful definition. Absolute freedom is inconceivable. But I am notinterested in presenting an argument: I am interested in the descriptionof a state of mind, of a section of society, of a certain emotional viewof things. The value, however, of these general ideas is undoubted, inthe spiritual improvement and moral comfort of thousands of people. Ithink that Marie and Terry and the other characters that will appear inthis book are decidedly better off for the ideas they hold: that aboutthese ideas, or rather ideals, perhaps, they have grouped a society inwhich they are not outcasts, in which their lives seem from some pointsof view justified. And even in my opinion, though I live in differentcircumstances, and see greater difficulties in the way of therealisation of any social ideal than they do, yet I feel that their wayof looking at things is useful to the larger society of men, ultimately. And, I, like other people, have deep respect for a consistent andcourageous life, based upon a principle or principles which I may nothold myself. 

The next scene in the life of Marie and Terry took place in what theycalled "The Rogues' Gallery. " This was during the time that Terry held aposition in the Prudential Insurance Company, whose employ he left, aswe have seen, in order to go to Pittsburg, to find the flaw in thetannery process, at his brother Jim's request. He hired three littlerooms, and up to the time he went to Pittsburg, he welcomed to his homeeverybody who was "against" things. Later on, he became more particularin his associates--that is to say, he demanded of them something morethan mere disreputability, to use the conventional word. But at thattime he loved everything that the world hated or cast out. That was hisprinciple of action, his norm of judgment. Seeking the truth withundivided passion, he rid himself at a later time, at least partially, of this prejudice, and became quite able to "pass up, " as he calls it, that is reject, a human being even though he might be a thief, apractical anarchist, a prostitute, or a souteneur. But at the time ofthe existence of the Rogues' Gallery he loved everything rejected bysociety, without making too nice a use of his natural taste. 

There, in those three little slum rooms, gathered a strange society--asociety held together on the basis of its utter rejection of the largersociety of men. To be an acceptable member of this society, theindividual must in some way be a social rebel--either practically ortheoretically, or both. When Terry saw in some being rejected by societya spark of thought or of feeling, he was excited and happy. It wasobvious to him, as to all persons who think and have practical contactwith many different kinds of people, that there are in life no heroesand no villains; it was obvious that in the lowest thief or prostitutethere was that possibility of light and spiritual grace which all truesouls desire. Terry's function was to make them conscious of this; toorganise, so to speak, the outcasts upon a philosophic and æstheticbasis and so save them to themselves, at least. 

This was his great experiment with Marie, about which a large part ofthis book is to be concerned. But this interest, this effort, extendeditself to many other individuals, and whenever Terry could feel himselfin contact with what he felt was essentially human, and, at the sametime, to his sense beautiful, he was filled, as I have said, with thatdeep excitement of pleasure, which was both intellectual and moral. Iremember, one day, he said to me: "How often, during the lifetime of theRogues' Gallery, did I saunter down State Street with the pleasingknowledge that I would find some 'low' person, girl or man, whom I knewI could get at, who would strip himself or herself bare to me in aspiritual sense, and would be revealed disinterestedly, would have noaxe to grind and no contemptible small ends to gain, and no tradesman'scommercial morality and no grafting conventionality, no moral cant basedon self-interest--some being so near the 'limit' that he wasintellectually and morally fearless and did not need to pose, from whomsome truth could be derived, whose sincerity and power ofstraight-seeing was not warped and concealed by any bourgeois ambitions, by any respectability. "

From time to time Terry would take one of these beings home with him--tohis Rogues' Gallery and to Marie and to the other intimates, mainly moreor less self-conscious anarchists, all or nearly all derelicts of thelabouring class. There they could stay as long as they æstheticallyfitted, could share the communal cigarette, beds, beer, and food. AndTerry and Marie and their friends would talk and read aloud--Terry theteacher, giving transcendental light into the nature of the good, thebeautiful, and the true. Many an outcast here came first to a pleasingsense that from some points of view he was not altogether bad, nay, thathe had unexpectedly good points. Many of them to some philosophicintensity; conversation became a joy, strangely unknown hitherto. Theeducational character of this meeting place was marked, but, as I havesaid, Terry's indiscriminating passion for the outcasts of theproletaire limited the intellectual development of his little society. At a later time, a much more developed society grew around Terry andMarie, as we shall see, when we get to the Anarchist salon, or theintellectual drawing room of the Anarchist Proletaire. 

Terry's main effort was, at this time, and for years afterwards, naturally directed toward Marie's spiritual education. Hitherto Mariehas revealed herself to the reader as a rather commonplace, veryphysical, rather lazy, and quite egoistic person, one of many, with nodistinguished characteristics. But she was unusually endowed in someways. Eminently plastic, up to a certain point she rapidly assumed formssuggested by Terry's spiritual touch. She derived from him her interestin all high things, in philosophy, art and literature, but there alwaysremained an interesting distinction in the way she reacted to hereducation. Terry remained always the rather transcendental philosopher, with a predominant ethical sense. Marie, as she developed, showed adeeper and subtler feeling for expression and a surer sensing of humancharacter, a juster psychology. Her nature is essentially lessbeautiful, by far, than that of Terry, but more real, in a way, morerobust, and so constituted that in a long spiritual conflict she wouldwear out the finer qualities of her lover. But this is anticipating, except in so far as it is true that from the start Marie's psychologicalvividness showed itself, often, of course, with base and physicalconcomitants. In this connection I will quote a letter which wellillustrates this side of her character, and which also shows a contrastto some of her loftier but more conventional and less true qualities. She had been attending an anarchists' ball and she wrote:

"I danced a great deal and felt very happy, without the aid of anystimulant either. I did not have any feeling of irritation or evenindifference toward anybody, not even toward Rose. I am fascinated byRose, and I sometimes think I hate her. I always like to be near herwhen there is no one else around. She reveals herself to me then; infact quite throws off the mask which all women wear. In order toencourage her to do this, I apparently throw down my own mask. Oh, how Igloat over her then, when she shows me a side of her life and betrayssecret thoughts and feelings to me half unconsciously! Sometimes Isucceed in having her do this when there is a third person present, andthe look of hatred which passes across her face when she perceives shehas made a mistake, is a most interesting thing to see. But sheimmediately comes to my side and we kiss each other and call each other'angel girls' and 'darlings. ' Thus we play with each other, and it is astand-off which is cleverest. She is quite puzzled sometimes by myfrankness about some things, for instance, about her looks. I notice shecompliments me on my looks whenever I am decidedly off colour, when Iwear a green ribbon, or a dowdy dress, or big shoes. But I am honestwith her in these things, and I like to see her look well. The game ismore interesting then. 

"Well, at this ball, I wanted to dance with a certain man, but I did notwish to ask him myself. So I requested Rose to do so, and she consented, and I was soon whirling around in his arms. I had felt curious about himfor a long time: I did not know just what the state of my feeling towardhim was. I did not know whether I liked or disliked him, but I hadoften experienced a sort of thrilling sensation when he happened to passby or touch me, or even when he mentioned my name, which had occurredonly once since I knew him. 'Good evening, Marie, ' was all he said. Butthe name and the way he said it seemed new, and it kept recurring to meat unexpected times and always troubled me. When I fancy I hear thatname in his voice I feel sad and lonely, and my heart aches. I see himoften, mostly at our Sunday evening lectures. We are very distant, and Iam often rude to him, not answering when he speaks to me. 

"So when I danced with him the other night, I was agreeably surprised tofind that I did not experience any unusual sensation at all. And I wasrelieved, too, for I had a sort of instinctive feeling that he was notworthy of any strong interest. After the dance was over, we wentdown-stairs together and he kissed me. You know, the radicals all kissone another freely and it does not mean anything special, as a rule:often it is done without any feeling at all, just a common habit. Butthis time I was astonished to find that the moment he touched me I hadthe same thrilling sensation, only more intense, as when I heard himspeak my name. I resisted however, and just then I heard Rose's voicering out exultantly, 'Oh, if you knew how crazy Marie is about you, howshe raved when she first met you and so on. ' You can imagine how I feltthen. I managed to get away and drank and smoked and danced all theevening and never looked at him again. When we all went away Rose and Ikissed each other and called each other 'darling girl. '

"In some moods I would like to be a big, beautiful, heartless woman likeone or two I know. In such moods, how I would make men suffer! I wastalking about this to little Sadie the other day, and she assured mesolemnly that she would do that when she was thirty, but not merely tomake men suffer, but to develop them. "

As Terry continued to read aloud and talk in his Rogues' Gallery, Mariegrew to reflect more and more the results of the reading of good things, and of the thinking and talking about these things. It shows how sometemperaments are able to connect literature and philosophy with life, and thereby see their real meaning, quite independently of any merelyconventional culture or education. One of the greatest prejudices of ourtime (and of all times) is the belief that intellectual culture, whichis merely the perception in detail of how life and thought is expressedin form, is peculiarly dependent upon academic or conventionaleducation. And yet, of course, somewhere or other, the nature capable ofunderstanding form must come in contact with it, before the meaning ofthe whole thing is incorporated into its daily habit. Terry was Marie'spoint of contact with form, in its deep relation to life. Marie feltthis and loved him and was grateful, to the depths of her nature, sodifferent from his, so animal, so unideal, in comparison! She wrote:

"Terry gave me a new way to express myself, and that, after all, is theonly thing worth living for. And he gave me this new way without tryingto make me give up any other way of self expression, my sensuality, forexample. This sensuality I have sometimes regretted, but not directlythrough Terry's influence, except that he has shown me the beauty ofsomething else. He is a winged thing in comparison with me, but he isso wonderfully tolerant that he can see beauty in even the baser partof my nature. Why should I regret what I am, anyway? I believe that theonly purity that means anything is that which results from working one'snature out harmoniously, not suppressing it. Terry must be a wonderfulman, to have been able to encourage me in many new directions, and totake away the maiming sting of regret for what I inevitably was andcould not help being. 

"I do not think an ordinary person could have made me see the beauty ofanarchism. I know that the anarchistic ideas are rather shocking, evenat their best, and of course they naturally appeal most to the man withthe hoe, inciting him to rebel, while the man behind the idea is usuallyendowed with so much sensitiveness that he shrinks from the rebellionpart of the programme himself; he is not a man of action, only a man ofideas. It is shameful, some think, to disturb the blissful ignorance ofthe man with the hoe, for when the gleam of intelligence shines in hiseye and he is aroused to the knowledge of his degrading position, he islikely to rebel in the most healthy but brutal manner, so much so thatthe æsthetic reformer shrinks back from the consequences of thepropagation of his own ideas. Of course, the brutality of theproletariat is not nearly so subtle as that of the aristocracy, and ittakes some cleverness to discover that the latter is brutality at all. It requires time and patience to drive into the thick heads of theworkers that they are downtrodden, and that their oppressors areworthless parasites. When they finally do awaken to this idea and rebel, how terribly shocked the world is because these brutes have not thecleverness or delicacy to be more subtle in their brutalities. 

"In your last letter you wrote of the crudeness of most propagandists ofanarchism, naming Anatole France as one of the rare anarchists whoexpress themselves otherwise than crudely. He rarely or never, you say, ever mentions the word 'anarchism, ' although much of his writing iscalculated to destroy belief in the value of organised society as it nowexists. Don't you think you are perhaps prejudiced too much againstcertain words because of their associations? I know that many words areobjectionable to refined, cultured people because they have been solong associated with the coarse and brutal mob, the working class, asthe socialists would say. But you must remember that anarchism isintended to appeal to this 'mob' especially; that its doctrines mightnot be needed by refined people who ought to have enough sensibility notto enjoy 'freedom' unless it is shared by the coarse and brutal workers. Believe me, there is nothing so degrading as poverty. It makes the slavemore slavish and the brute more brutal. It acts like a goad, spurringpeople on to do things which make them seem to themselves and otherslower and lower, until they are truly no longer human beings butanimals. 

"Therefore it is that the propaganda of anarchism is generally crude. Itis true that much good literature is permeated with the ideals ofanarchism, for instance, Shelley, Whitman, Thoreau, and Emerson. Suchreading is excellent as a means of humanising and making anarchists ofrefined people, but how could you appeal to the rebellious workers withsuch books as these? For instance, my father, do you think he could readIbsen or any of the others? Indeed not; but let him go to a meetingwhere he can hear Emma Goldman speak, or let him read Jean Grave, orBakunin, or some other writer of 'crude' pamphlets, and he might becomeinterested, he might be able to understand. But since it seems thattruly refined people cannot enjoy the pleasures of freedom withoutbeing, at any rate at times, worried because of the condition of the'mass, ' what is to be done? This objectionable crudity must remain untilthere is a demand for something more subtle on the part of the workersfor whom is intended all propaganda. The rich and cultured presumablyhave brains which they can use to solve the problems for themselves orto digest the things written by Anatole France and others. But how doyou suppose that I, for instance, could a few years ago have relishedAnatole France? Wouldn't you think it idiotic for anyone to have givenme such books, at that time, with any expectation of my appreciatingtheir refined and evanescent anarchism?"

It must have been a strange sight that of Terry sitting on hisdilapidated bed in the Rogues' Gallery, with his eternal cigarette inhis mouth, talking to Marie and perhaps to some prostitute orpickpocket! We begin already to see the result on Marie's education:that will appear complex and manifold, but it is likely that on many ahalf-formed creature who afterward passed out of Terry's life, his wordsyet made an impression which perhaps in some later darkness revived anidea which explained and justified his miserable existence. 

CHAPTER IX

_The Salon_

The Rogues' Gallery went the way of all good things: it ceased to existwhen the creative spirit was gone. Terry went to Pittsburg, as we haveseen, to find the flaw in the tanning process, and while he was awayMarie attempted to conduct the academy of anarchism. But she was toomuch interested in what is called "life" to make a sustained mental ormoral effort without the inspiring presence of a man whose centralpassionate ideas never changed. The personal jealousies which Terry'sphilosophic attitude and idealism tended to dissipate became, during hisabsence, too strong for the bond uniting the "rogues, " and when Terryreturned he found that his little colony had dispersed and that Marie, unable any longer to pay the rent, was living with her old friend Katie. 

This was, to our idealist, a deep disappointment. On the heels of hisfinal break in Pittsburg with society came this sign of woman'sweakness. Terry might easily have expected it, but one of thelimitations of an idealist is an insufficient knowledge of realities. Tomen of his temperament there is always a distinct shock envolved incoming face to face with an actuality. Truth is the element of theidealist, but an abstract truth into which concrete realities seldomfit. Terry did not, or tried not to, mind, at this time, this continuedsexual freedom, or rather vagaries, of Marie's life; for that fittedinto his scheme of personal freedom: he zealously strove to respect theprivate inclinations of every human being. But the least sign, in any ofhis acquaintances, of a compromise with the integrity of the soul, ofany essential weakness, met with no tolerance from him. "He passed himup, " on the spot, with a scornful wafture of his hand. That Marie hadyielded to the stress of circumstances, had been unable to hold out inthe Rogues' Gallery, galled the relatively uncompromising, exigentidealist. If she had resorted to temporary prostitution to hold thesociety together he would have admired her. But, instead, she weaklysought, like any merely conservative woman, the shelter of Katie's roof. The first seed of the essential discord which finally resulted, at amuch later time, in their relations was planted thus in this deepirritation of Terry's soul; it did not, however, affect seriously hislove for Marie as a person or his interest in her as a socialexperiment. But it tended to make him feel more lonely and to render himmore hopeless of any realisation of the ideal, as he saw it. 

When Terry returned, without a job, and with no intention of trying forone, and found Marie living with Katie, he had a long talk with the twowomen. Katie was still with her husband, Nick, but she was willing toquit him in order to live with and take care of, her darling Marie. Sheproposed to Marie and Terry to hire some rooms and all live together. She would work as cook in a restaurant and thus support the three ofthem. 

To this eager desire of Katie's Terry refused to consent; but he alsorefused to work. What was to be done? He was too proud willingly to liveon Katie, and he was principled against labour. Katie wanted the luxuryof her proposed arrangement. She quarrelled with Terry, but heinterested her. Already she began to look on these two as her superiorcultivated ones, aristocrats, with whom it was a joy to live and forwhom it was a pleasure to work. To work for them, especially for Marie, she would drop her old Nick, good dull man, in a moment. 

An event which happened just at the right moment to decide things, finally brought about the union of the three. One night Terry wasdrinking in a saloon, talking philosophy, and quoting literature. Somerapid lines from Swinburne had just left his lips when an elderly man, who had been listening to Terry's talk approached him and said: "You arethe man I'm looking for, won't you have a drink?"

As he spoke, he flashed a fifty dollar bill over the bar and repeatedlytreated the crowd, all in Terry's honour. 

"Before we separated that night, " said Terry, telling me the story, "Ilearned that the old guy had fifty thousand dollars and that he wouldsoon go down and out, for he had all sorts of bad diseases. He knew ithimself, but he was an old sport and he wanted his fling before he died. He liked me and wanted me to be bar-tender in a saloon he owned. Helived above the saloon and wanted a housekeeper to take care of therooms. So I told Kate here was her chance. The next day Marie, Katie, and I moved into the rooms, where the old man lived, too, and I began mywork as a bar-tender. 

"I did not regard this job as work: it was really graft, for I haddecided that my old friend, not long for this world, did not need all ofhis money and that I might as well turn part of it toward Katie, to helpmaintain a common house for us all. So, every night, after the day'swork, I turned the roll that I received behind the bar over to Katie, who tucked it away in the bank. I don't know whether the old guy knewabout it or not, if he did, he did not care. He died after two or threemonths, but Katie had increased her bank account by three or fourhundred dollars. "

Terry is strenuous about this story. He is evidently anxious lest it bethought that he later became a mere parasite on Katie. He prides himselfon having taught her to steal from an unkind world, but he does not likethe idea that she has slaved for him without any help in return. Katiedid not prove to be a good pupil. She was not naturally "wise, " in theslang sense, but gained what she gained by hard labour. Even while shewas housekeeper for the old guy she felt she earned all the money shetucked away. 

"I worked hard for the old man, " she said, "and I only got about onehundred and thirty dollars for all my work. I thought I made that much. "

There is a slight difference in the amount received, in Terry's accountand in Katie's, but it is clear that it was not very much. It isinteresting and characteristic that Terry wants it to appear to havebeen "graft, " while Katie looks upon the money as honest wages, receivedin an unconventional way. 

Nick was definitely deserted, and the new "salon" formed, with Terry andMarie as the bright particular stars and Katie as the happy means ofliving, if not in luxury at least in independence. They lived on hereight or nine dollars a week with the comfortable feeling that therewere several hundred dollars tucked away in the bank, the result ofKatie's savings and Terry's ideas. 

The salon was of a more select and higher order intellectually than hadbeen the Rogues' Gallery. The people who frequented the three littleslummy rooms on the West Side where Terry, Marie, and Katie lived weremainly anarchists in theory, and occasionally one or another of them wasso in practice. They mainly consisted of rebellious labourers who hadeducated themselves in the philosophy of anarchism. [2] They had ideasabout politics and government and the relation between the sexes. Theywere indeed all "free lovers, " and quite naturally so; the rebellioustemperament instinctively takes as its object of attack the strongestconvention in society. Anarchism in Europe is mainly political; inAmerica it is mainly sexual; for the reason that there is less freedomof expression about sex in America than in Europe: so there is astronger protest here against the conventions in this field--as the yokeis more severely felt. While I was in Italy and France I met a number ofanarchists who on the sex side were not ostentatiously rebellious. Theywere like the free sort of conservative people everywhere. But inpolitical ideas they were more logical, sophisticated, and deeplyrevolutionary than is the case with the American anarchists, who, on theother hand both in their lives and their opinions, are extreme rebelsagainst sex conventions. It is only another instance of how unreason inone extreme tends to bring about unreason in the other. Our prudishness, hypocrisy and stupid conventionality in all sex matters is responsiblefor the unbalanced license of many a protesting spirit. 

So there was many an "orgie" in the salon--sexual and alcoholic: andmany wild words were spoken and many wild things done. But these sameextreme people were gentle and sensitive, too, and emotionallyinterested in ideas. They went to lectures on all sorts of socialsubjects, they read good books of literature and crude books onpolitics, they grouped together and enjoyed to a certain extent theircommunistic ideas. They published their anarchistic newspapers and theywelcomed into their ranks people who otherwise could have attained to noconsolatory philosophy--who would have had no society and no hope. Andthey did not do it for the sake of charity--hollow word!--but from afeeling of fellowship and love. You, reader, who may think ill ofthieves and prostitutes--too ill of them, perhaps: if you can come tosee that social differences are of slight value in comparison with thegreat primal things and the universal qualities of human nature, youwill perhaps be better if not more "virtuous" than before, and may bekinder, less self-righteous, and do far more good, no matter how"charitable" you are now inclined to be. You have never been able toarouse the real interest of the proletariat, for the simple reason thatyou have never been really interested in them. But you do arouse theirhatred and their contempt. They ought not, of course, to hate anddespise anything, especially anything that means as well as you do. Butthey, though they are anarchists, are human, all too human, sometimes, like the rest of us. Here are some of the ideas of the salon about you, about us, let me say, as voiced by Terry and Marie. To begin with, Terry: about our "culture" he writes:

"There is not much doubt about the sapping influence of culture. Itseems that narrowness of range means intensity of emotion. This is seenin the savage, the child, and uncultivated men as well as other animals. I might even go farther and say we see it in such titans as Balzac andWagner, who seek to compress all the arts into their own particular art. The mind that finds many outlets generally overflows in dissipation ofenergy instead of digging a deep single channel of its own. And yet tofocus our feelings to one point may be a dangerous accomplishment. Forinstance, the fulminating fire of Swinburne's radium rhymes, whileharmless to himself, may become dangerous through me or some other'conductor. ' Unfortunately, the inability to foretell the ultimateeffect of any given idea produces that form of inhibition calledconservatism, and to this vice people of so-called culture areespecially prone. It takes recklessness to be a social experimentalistor really to get in touch with humanity. Our careful humanitarians, ourcharitable ones, never do, for they stick to their conservatism. How wedo fashion our own fetters, from chains to corsets, and from gods togovernments. Oh, how I wish I were a fine lean satirist!--with a greatblack-snake whip of sarcasm to scourge the smug and genial ones, theself-righteous, charitable, and respectable ones! How I would lay thelash on corpulent content and fat faith with folds in its belly; chinand hands[3]; those who try to beat their breast-bone through layers offat! Oh, this rotund reverence of morality! 'Meagre minds, ' muttersGeorge Moore, and my gorge rises in stuttering rage to get action onthem. Verily such morality as your ordinary conservative personprofesses has an organic basis: it has its seat in those vestiges ofmuscles that would still wag our abortive tails, and often do wag ourabortive tongues. 

"To arouse such fat ones to any onward flight it may take the tremendousimpact of a revolution. It may take many upheavals of the seismic soulof man before the hobgoblins of authority are finally laid in thevalley. 

"How many free spirits have been caught and hampered in the quagmire ofconservatism. Yet they have the homing instinct of all winged things:they return to the soul and seek to throw off the fat and heavy flesh ofsocial stupidity. Many great free spirits there have been who possessthis orientation of the race and have brought us tidings of thepromised land. How many thundering spirits have commanded us to march bythe tongued and livid lightning of their prophetic souls, but how few ofus have done so! Why, to me, this world is a halting hell ofhitching-posts and of truculent troughs for belching swineherds. Theuniverse has no goal that we know of unless Eternity be the aim; let usthen have the modesty of the Cosmos, and no other modesty, and becontent to know our course, and be sure to run it. 

"I have tried for freedom, indeed, everywhere, but I find the 'goodones' always in my way. How well I know the cost of my attempt! My heavyheart and my parched and choking throat, they know! I may indeed beat mybreast alone in the darkness in a silent prayer for freedom and hear noresponse from the haunting hollows of the night. Such hungry freedom Ihad and have; and I could share it only with the outcasts of the world:the fat and rotund charitable ones would none of it. This freedom ispossessed only by him who is afflicted over much with himself because hehas been crazed by others and made mad by his escape from them. Isuppose I am mad, for to believe myself perfectly sane in a greatly madworld is surely a subtle species of lunacy. And yet I am compelled toact towards others as if they were more sane than I. To feel as if onewere eternally in a court-room trial, with lean lunatics for lawyers andfat philistines for judges, this is life. 

"I am only one of the human victims who studies his own malady becausehe likes universal history. The world has thrown me back upon myself andmade me at times what is called mad. After being down-hearted for sometime, I grow superstitious and imagine that some strange and fatal spellis hanging over us all. Even my own acts and thoughts take on thefutility of nightmare, and Nirvana is very welcome, if I could be sureof it, but I had rather stay what I am than start life all over again insome other shape, with a possible creeping recollection of my formerexistence. I have at times startled intimations that I lived in vain insome former unhappy time; so I shall try to postpone the eternalrecurrence as best I may. "

Thus Terry tries not only to reject the laws of "fat" society, but attimes he strives against what he imagines to be the deep laws of theuniverse: he tries to stem the tide of fate, and this in the name ofTruth! It shows how far remote from reality is the truth of theidealist; and yet such an attitude is often forced upon a sensitivespirit by rough contact with imperfect society. Although Terry is themost perfect specimen of the anarchists I have known, yet they all havemore or less the quality of idealism so marked in him. 

Marie's letters teem with the spirit of revolt, which of course was theatmosphere of the salon. With her it is always less ideal, morepersonal, more egotistic than with Terry. In one of her letters she told"how she was led to try to get a job again, in order to buy some prettythings. " A few days' search, however, disgusted her and brought her backcompletely to the mood of the salon, and led her deeply to appreciate_Hedda Gabler_, and to condemn American morality and the "good" people. Of Hedda she wrote:

"Her character always did appeal to me, but last night I was in the moodespecially to understand and sympathise with Hedda, to be Hedda, infact. For a few hours I was as brave and wonderful in thought andfeeling as she. It was the reaction from my stupid days in hunting ajob. Her disgust with everything, her search for something new anddifferent, the fascination she felt for saying and doing dangerous andreckless things--this I could understand so thoroughly! I was in a veryreckless and discontented mood, but I was able to get away from myselfand become Hedda for awhile; and this made me think of what a wonderfulthing it is, what a power Ibsen has, to produce such emotions by merelystringing a few words together. Why, the very name Hedda, Hedda Gabler!When Eilert says it, what does it not convey! Terry and I had a longtalk about it, and about literature in general, so the result was that Ibecame calm, quiet, and reflective--as I love to be, but which I can beonly very seldom. I have an almost continuous craving for something newand strange, like Hedda. But somehow reading and thinking about hercalmed me. I can find new emotions in books, and this satisfies me for atime, but they are never vital enough to last me long. It is onlysterile emotions we derive from literature, and so I turn againrestlessly to life. 

"But when I turn to life I find for the most part people who areunwilling to give themselves up to life, who will not follow out theirmoods, or have none. When I am no longer capable of abandoning myself, why continue? Most people seem to me to be dried up. They look as ifthey never felt anything, so expressionless, so automatic are they, asif they had been wound up to walk and talk, and eat and sleep inprecisely the same way for a certain number of years. This seems to bethe American type. I suppose you have read of the Caruso affair--how hekissed a woman in Central Park, or wanted to, and the howl it made? Theway they all jumped on him, in the name of morality! And you rememberwhat happened to Gorky, when he was here? Why, these American stiffs, what do they mean by morality? Since they are much too cold-blooded forimmortality, what do they know about it? This country is composed ofpie-eating, ice-water drinking, sour-faced business people. If one withemotions comes to this country, he is of course immoral. If there wereno foreigners here, this country would resemble the North Pole. 

"I'm glad I am not an American in blood, for then I would not be asinteresting to myself as I am now. Sometimes I stand before my mirrorand look at myself for a long, long time; it always surprises me that Ilook so commonplace. Surely, something of what I have in me ought toshow in my face. But I know it's there, anyway. I know I'm altogetherdifferent from anyone else, I know it with a kind of fierce joy; notbetter, of course, but different. 

"For instance, this regularity and system they talk about! You wrote meto be more regular and the like of that, if I wanted to sleep better. You, too, are a typical American! Just imagine me drinking milk to makeme sleep or grow fat! The thought of such a thing makes me shudder. Yourremark about amorous sport being a soporific if performed regularly andwithout excitement made me double up with laughter. But I am quite surethat the performance of such a 'duty' would not induce sleep. I am onlymoved to such things by new lovers, and then I desire not sleep butwakefulness. And then, too, usually such desires come to me at noon, notat night, and who ever heard of sleeping at noon!

"As for the other physical exercises that you recommend, I do walk alongmuddy, prosaic streets and work in our household until I grow weary andask the gods what sins I have committed. My beloved cigarettes, whichare as dear to me as sleep itself, my solace when sleep flies, mycomfort, you would take these away from me! What would I do withoutthem? I am without them sometimes, when Terry takes some of my tobacco, and then I am angry at him! The only plan I have is to have enoughtobacco. Otherwise, I have nothing arranged, no plan. You think there issomething fine in having logical arrangements for all things. I havenever felt that way. I am only a poor creature of an hour, of a moment, and have never had plans. I would love to be where you are now, inParis, that home of the planless, the free and joyous and emotionalpeople. "

What most people think is good, is worth while, is in good taste, thesalon rejected; partly, of course, in the spirit of mere rejection, ofrevolt, but based nevertheless on a higher ideal of human love thanobtains in our society. These anarchists are not historians or practicalpeople and they are not as much interested in what society must be asin what society ought to be; and because they see that society is notwhat it ought to be, because they as unfortunate members of thelabouring class feel that the origin of our society is the root ofinjustice, they rebel totally against that society, rejecting the goodwith the evil. They passionately believe that the real and radical evilin our social world is partly kept there by our very justice, by ourvery morality, our very religion--kept there not so much by what iscalled evil in our society as by what is called good. They see that muchlarge kindness is prevented by the morality which is expressed in theidea of private property, that much large virtue is denied by theinstitution of marriage, that psychological truth and Christian kindnessat once are not considered by the social court, which looks only to thelaw--to the complex, historical law, so often meaningless and unjust tohuman feeling, so often based upon special "interests" and ancientprejudices. 

Their situation, as proletarian interpreters of the working class, enables them to see whatever is true in this view with peculiarvividness. For, of course, it is to their interest to see this truth;for truth is only an impassioned statement of our fundamental needs. 

The salon was composed of the poor and the criminal, and what kept ittogether was the human desire to form a society, the norms of judgmentof which should give value to the individual members--the deep need ofjustification. 

There were fakirs in the salon, unkind people, unjust people, viciouspeople; there were mere "climbers, " persons who saw their only chancefor recognition and livelihood in the espousal of anarchistic ideas. Butthere were also kind people, relatively just people, and moderate ones, honest and strenuous with themselves. There were none perfect, as thereare none perfect in any society. We shall see how Terry became disgustedfinally with the anarchists themselves, preferring even insanity andprobable death to them. 

And Marie's letters are full of satire of her companions, of theperception of their weaknesses and inconsistencies. She never embracesor rejects them so completely as Terry does, for she sees them moreclearly; therefore she sees them more humorously, understands thembetter. Her letters teem with "psychological gossip, " so to speak, inwhich some of her companions seem portrayed with relative truth. One shewrote me, while I was seeing something in London, of an anarchist namedNicoll, who was a friend of William Morris and still edits Morris's oldpaper, is full of both appreciation and satire of a number of"radicals":

"An old friend of Nicoll's used to talk to me by the hour about him. He, the friend, an ordinary, rather stupid fellow, once helped poor Nicoll, got a room for him and gave him money, after he was released fromprison. He felt proud to think that a man like Nicoll would accepthospitality 'from a poor bloke like me, ' as he put it. His friendshipwith Nicoll has been the great event of his life. Whenever anythingoccurs in the radical movement which recalls ever so slightly the affairof which Nicoll was the scapegoat, his old friend will say, in his funnyJewish Cockney, 'That's always the wey, like Nicoll's kise, forexample. ' Then he launches forth into eloquent streams of denunciation, for he does not regard Nicoll as at all insane, but on the contrary, 'the finest man ever downed' by aristocrats like Turner and Kropotkin. 

"This affair has made our friend pessimistic about anarchism, at times, and inclined to join the socialist party. His life is made miserable bythe ceaseless debate of his mind and soul over which of these twophilosophies is the best one for the race. He, suspiciously, is alwayslooking for another case like Nicoll's, and is doubtful about allmovements, not only anarchism and socialism, but all which preachliberty, justice, and the like, such as Theosophy, Single Tax, SunWorshippers, Spirit Fruiters, Holy Rollers, Upton Sinclair's HelicotColony, and Parker Sercombe's Spencer-Whitman Centre. All these he hastested and found more or less wanting. Life grows daily more melancholyfor him, as he continues, on account of 'Nicoll's Kise, ' to probebeneath the surface of all the cults and movements which professboundless love for humanity, truth, justice and freedom. 

"P. R. , whom you have also met in London, has got himself into troubleby making inflammatory speeches in Germany. When they talked ofarresting him, he immediately claimed American citizenship. But if heever turned up in America again they would clap him in jail so quick itwould make his head swim. He, together with McQueen, was arrested heresome years ago for helping start the New Jersey riots, but he skippedhis bonds, to the great disgust of the bondsmen, who were comrades inthe movement. The movement in the whole United States, Canada, Europe, and Asia was divided into factions over this affair, and very nearlywent to pieces. But it was ridiculous to arrest him in the first place, for he could not incite a feather to riot. He is one of those flamboyantwind-bags, with a terrific command of high-sounding phrases, eloquentgestures, and fine eyes--the kind sixteen-year-old girls admire--tothink I once loved him, or thought I did! He is a big little physicalcoward and prides himself on being the realisation of Nietzsche'sUebermensch. 

"The movement in Chicago is about to resume its usual winter activity bythe opening of the Social Science League this Sunday evening. There aremany cultured people in this city who think the Social Science League istoo crude and vulgar to grace with their presence, therefore it has beenresolved to establish another society of a more exclusive order, inwhich may be discussed important questions in a more subdued, rational, and artistic way. It is especially desired that only the 'artistic'anarchist be admitted to this new society. The crude element ofanarchism is to be excluded as much as possible, but what cannot beexcluded is to be subdued. If this is impossible, it shall be expelled. All illustrious lights will speak there. Terry has been invited, but hasrefused on democratic grounds, and sticks to that 'bum' society, the S. S. League. 

"One of the girls who has gone over to the 'swells' is Mary. She is afactory girl and an important little person, who prides herself on theamount of culture she possesses, and the famous people she has met andtalked with. I introduced her once to a literary man, but she did notknow he was so, at the time, and only nodded coldly. But when she foundhe was the famous Mr. F---- she was angry at me for not putting her'next' and was much distressed, for here was another famous man whom shehad nearly talked with. 

"Another girl whom I know has done a wonderful thing with a certain man. He is a great, strong German, who guzzles beer and bullies the otherfellow in his arguments about anarchism. When I first knew him, severalyears ago, he was married to a nice non-resistant sort of a girl, whomhe treated awfully bad--without intending to. For he is really generousand good-hearted, but is firmly imbued with the idea, which he thoughtwas the beginning of anarchism, that one must be firm and have one's ownway and do all that one wants to do, without allowing any scruple ofconscience or morals or delicacy to interfere; that to be a man and ananarchist one must never allow a petticoat to come between you and yourdesire. So he did what he wanted, regardless of anybody. He was a sortof brutal Overman; one could not help admiring the kind of barbaricsplendour there was about him. And his poor wife idolised him and wouldstand everything from him. 

"Now he is here with another girl. Talk about a change! He has turnedfrom a lion to a mouse. She is a little bit of a thing, only nineteen, rather silly and not very attractive. She is pretty in an outward way, but her features are unlit by any glimmer of feeling or thought, or evengood nature--a slothful, empty sort of prettiness. She makes him walk achalk-line, and it is contemptible and ridiculous and pitiful to seethat big man cringe before this poor, pretty, empty little thing. Oncein a while he tears himself away, and a glimmer of his old self returns;for an hour or two he plays his old rôle again, but if she finds outabout it, it is very unpleasant for him. It is strange how weak womencan subdue at times these big, husky creatures. But the more theysucceed, the more dissatisfied they grow, until at last they feelcontempt for the man they have subdued. The girl in this case feels thatway about this big, powerful man. If he would assert himself, she wouldlove him, as she did when she saw how he bullied his wife and allothers. But at bottom we women are pleased, for it is a triumph for oursex, though we feel a little jealous because not one of us could havebeen the lion-tamer, instead of this weak little creature. Terry is wildabout it, and tries to lead the enslaved Hercules into evil ways andkeep him out at night, but all these things have lost their charm forthe big man, who now would rather stay at home with the little girl. She, however, finds things very tedious, particularly in the day time, when her big man is at the factory, for she has nothing to do. So shepasses her time at Esther's house. 

"I would go crazy were I in Esther's place. Poor Esther, she doesn'tknow what to do, either, for she cannot be always ill. She takespleasure in being an invalid, but she can't use this plea for sympathyall the time, people get tired of it. But Esther is fortunate in havingsomebody to whom she can tell all her aches and pains and their history. She has found a unique occupation, in scrubbing. She starts Mondaymornings and finishes Saturday afternoons, and then on Monday startsagain. I was with her a week, and that's the way she spent the days. Perhaps she is like Mary Maclain and finds a peculiar inspiration inthis fascinating task. If you were a woman I would write more aboutEsther's scrubbing, which is very wonderful, but you probably would notunderstand. Jay, her lover, comes home from work every evening, and, after eating the chaste evening meal of rice and beans, lights hiscorncob pipe, settles himself comfortably in his chair and listenscarefully to the description of the aches and pains which have afflictedEsther that day. These pains continue in spite of all the beautifulscrubbing. He suggests different remedies until his pipe is finished, then he calmly retires to his library and reviews a book and readsseveral pamphlets, writes an article for '_The Demonstrator_' or '_TheAppeal to Reason_' or some other radical paper and attends to hisvoluminous correspondence with the leading radicals of the day. Then heretires for the night, also Esther, after the farewell scrub of thedishes, table, and the rest, and the kids, too, go to roost. When I wasthere, I also went to bed, though it was only about half past eight. 

"About half past five in the morning a most infernal alarm clock emits amost hellish noise. Jay and Esther tumble from their couch, light thelamp, and resume their occupations. After a very chaste breakfast Esthercontinues her scrubbing and Jay finishes his correspondence and puts inthe rest of the time until seven o'clock, when his work in the factorybegins, in studying the new language, Esperanto. Oh, I spent a mostcharming and delightful week there; I could hardly tear myself away. "

One of Marie's amorous episodes led her to Detroit, with a "fake"anarchist, of whom there are many. After a week or two of dissipationand disillusionment, Marie returned, very ill, to the "Salon, " whereTerry received her with his usual stoicism, and acted as trained nurse. Repentant and disgusted, Marie wrote me from her convalescent bed:

"I am still far from well, but am much better. My illness was caused bytoo much dissipation, which I plunged into for relaxation. For someweeks previously I had got a particularly large dose of my environment. Terry and I live in surroundings which would kill an ordinary person. Our little home is not as bad in the summer time. We can have thewindows and doors open, but now in this cold winter we must all live inone room, a very small room, where there is a stove. The dampnesspenetrates right through the walls and the wind comes through the holesin the window panes. Sundays are the hardest days for me. Then Kate, queen of the kitchen, is here, and she delights in cooking all sorts ofthings on that day, so for the remaining six days our home smells of herculinary operations--most abominable, this odour of stale cookery! Andwhat a mess our rooms are in on Monday morning! You wouldn'tcomprehend, even if I told you. I have to clean up all this, and I wishI could fly away every Sunday. At times I get so tired of this way ofliving. I hope some day I may find a large barn with a hay loft: I wouldimmediately abolish Kate and her cookery and would be comfortable foronce in my life. 

"So I ran away, for a time, partly for relief, partly because I wasrather taken with a Detroit anarchist who was visiting us. Though he wasa comrade, he was really a Philistine, which I did not see tillafterwards. I saw only that he was young and lusty and wanted a lark, asI did, so I went with him on an awful tear, and returned terribly doneup, as you know. 

"I have been lying here in this little room for three weeks. I thoughtsurely I should die, and I was neither glad nor sorry. It was curious, this sensation of approaching death. All these days Terry sat oppositeme at a table reading or writing. I could see him distinctly at times, at other times everything was misty or completely dark, only his voicereached me from such a long, long distance. He sat there like animplacable fate, with calm, cold eyes, gazing above and beyond me. Between two slow heart beats I felt it was almost a duty to call himand bid him farewell, but some strange sense of shyness held me back. Itried so hard to think of what I might do, and the most grotesque andcomical things suggested themselves. At one lucid moment I had thebrilliant idea of becoming a jockey!

"Other ways of passing my life revolved ceaselessly in my brain, and nowat last perhaps I have found it. Now that I am better I am readingSwinburne aloud, in bed. The sound of my voice carried along with themusic of his matchless rhythms is to me a delight and a wonder. I havediscovered that the Garden of Proserpine should be read only when one isin a reclining position. Then one's voice conveys more perfectly theweariness of all things mortal and the sweet delight of rest. I find Imust practice breathing more deeply, if I wish to render the voluptuous, sinuous lines. Don't you think this is a great ambition, to readSwinburne well? I am so glad to find something to do, something I loveto do. Perhaps I may escape from all by this. 

"It is now five days since I started to write to you, but I still lie onmy back and dream and have not found my place, and never shall. Swinburne's never-ceasing, monotonous rhymes have palled upon me. Eventhis is sordid, and then, if so, what is the rest?--the daily lifefilled with brutish and shallow men and women? When I can no longerendure poetry and daily life--it is then that I rush into brutaldissipation, from which I awake sick in mind and body, without hope ordesire for anything but sleep: and then, once more, the Garden ofProserpine reveals itself to me, or some other thing of beauty. It is aneternal round. 

"I often think that the only way for me to be in harmony with the schemeof things would be to go down into the gutter. Some years ago during mybrief period of--prostitution, I suppose--I felt a strange importance. It was death to me, but something real, too. I was fulfilling a need ofsociety, a horrible need, but a need. And then, too, all my men friendsoften go to these houses. All the nice, intellectual men are to be metthere--men from all ranks of life--men a girl like me could never meetin any other way. During that brief time, at moments between a sleep anda drink, I used to have this fancy, which sometimes makes me shuddernow, as I think of it, and yet somehow seems such a fine satisfyingprotest--a feeling that some day I would be seen waddling about thestreets of Chicago, known to all the denizens of the under world asDrunken Mary! I saw myself fat and repulsive, begging nickels from thepassers-by and perhaps strangled at the end by some passing hobo for thefew nickels in my stocking. And am I essentially worse than you, or mylady, or anyone whom Society protects and honours? To me poet and pimp, politician, reformer, thief, aristocrat, prostitute are one. Caste andclass distinctions are too subtle for my poor brain and too outrageousfor my heart, which still tries to beat with and for humanity. "

Terry refers only in a line or two, characteristically, to thisadventure and illness of Marie. 

"She is seriously ill, the result of a mad adventure. As I exist forothers when they are in pain, I am her trained nurse. She is nowrecovering from the drugs, the debauching, and the raving madness ofsleepless nights. I will give you an account sometime of a strange pieceof magic charlatanism, practiced under the guise of beautiful art!. .. 

"I think her growing recovery is largely due to the inability to securea doctor to christen her disease. I feel rather worn with domesticdrudgery, cooking, laundering, wrestling with disease without and demonswithin. Still, as a trained nurse who can go sleepless for three weeks, I do not look upon myself as a failure. "

Marie's health improved slowly, due in part to the unsanitary conditionsof her home. She wrote:

"The roof of this miserable shack leaks all the time. The other day theowner came around in his automobile. I was speechless. It made me mad tothink of that hound, riding in his car which we had paid for. Oh, themiserable people who live in these two houses: old, decrepit women whoearn their living by washing clothes for others. It would make yourblood boil to see them. And then to see that fat dog in his auto, accepting money from them and not ever giving them a whole roof inreturn. When I saw him I wanted to say so much. I could only choke. Oh, when you hear of the brutality of the mob, don't believe it. The mob mayindeed, under the impulse of the moment, burn and destroy; but think ofthe cold brutality of a judge sitting on his bench and calmly condemningsome poor wretch to be killed, and this with no emotion. How can thisbe? The revolutionists in France were the kindest beings, in comparison. They had personal injuries to avenge, and all they did was to strike offan enemy's head and that was the end. There was even a chance of beingsaved, if the doomed one could find the right expression, some littlesentence that would affect the brutal (?) people. But this could nothappen before a judge!

"The trouble with the poor is, they have not enough imagination. Theyare not refined in their cruelties. They could never invent the BullPen, but would only quickly destroy. It is raining to-day, and I havebeen moving about trying to find a dry spot where I can continue writingwithout having a large splash come down on my nose. But I guess I'llhave to give it up. Oh, that cursed landlord! I'd like to do somethingto him, not so much for myself as for those poor old things, they areall rheumatic and stiff, but continue to live here because, poor souls, they think the rent is low. Ye gods, the place is not fit for dogs tolive in, and yet he charges all the way from five dollars up for thesefilthy, worm-eaten, rotten holes. And yet the old decrepit inhabitantsof this rich man's house unbend their stiff knees in profound salaamswhenever he appears. "

But in these leaky rooms of Kate's there was often much jollity andgaiety, when the "Salon" had its sessions, and proletarians of the palecast of thought sat and smoked their cigarettes, drank their beer, kissed their girls, and talked of philosophy and literature and socialevil and possible regeneration. Then they were always happy, whateverthe subject of their talk. Marie wrote me to my villa in Italy:

"You write of your beautiful gardens and seem quite happy. We too arewell and happy in our little old joint; you are the only one missing tomake our circle complete. But perhaps sometime you can be with us, witha can on the table and good talk going round, and then I'm sure you willnot miss your Italian garden. Emma Goldman and Berkman have beenvisiting Chicago, and we had some jolly good times while they were here. She is a good fellow, when she is alone with a few choice friends. Thenshe lets herself out. The other day we gave a social for these twocelebrated ones. Positively, no police, reporters, or strangers wereadmitted. Next day there was a hue and cry in all the papers, darkconspiracy, and so on! But all we did was to have a great time:everybody was drunk before morning, and everybody felt kindly toward thewhole world, and would not have cursed even the greatest 'exploiter. ' Wefinished the evening or rather the morning by an orgy of kissing. It wasquite interesting and innocent. Smith has at last begun to return myaffection. I think he likes me a little now. At least, he calls herefrequently, and he told me once he would like to tear me limb from limb!This remark made me shudder, not unpleasantly. It must be good to betorn in that way by such a nice man. 

"The rose-leaves you sent from Italy retained some of their sweet smell. The rose is my favourite flower, and I like to imagine that perhaps someday my dust will be soil for roses. Last summer I found a poor littlestillborn thing which had been hastily thrown aside, near a place whereTerry and I were camping. Some poor little 'fleur de mal' which Icovered from sight, in the sand, and marked the place with some stonesand flowers. The next year I found some wild white daisies growingthere. This made a deep impression on me and strengthened my hope thatI, too, might become soil for roses, flowers of love. 

"Henry is a rose, too, in his way. He is getting more picturesque everyday. At the Emma Goldman social he was ornamented with a new straw hat, which had a very high crown and narrow brim with little black ribbonsfor the side. Also, an enormous tie, the ends of which fluttered gailyand coquettishly in the wind. His curling black locks nearly reached hisshoulders, and he has vowed never again to cut his hair, as a protestagainst the conventions of society. I left the social with him, and aswe walked down the street in the morning he was a target for all eyes. He was talking philosophy and love to me, but this changed to fury. Heflung his arms about, and shouted to the crowd: 'Oh, you monkeys, sheep, dogs, ' and several other kinds of quadrupeds and birds. Henry is apeculiar man, but he is as sincere as anybody living and is a friend ofthat wonderful man, Kropotkin. When Kropotkin was in Chicago some yearsago a reception was given him at Hull House. Poor Henry eagerly hastenedthere to see his friend--dressed in unbecoming and informal attire. Hehad not seen Kropotkin for years, and so anxious was he to meet himagain that he forgot his raggedness. But the dear, sympatheticsettlement workers were decidedly polite in showing Henry the door. But, at the psychological moment, Kropotkin appeared, threw his arms aroundHenry, kissed him, and carried on like an emigrant who runs across anexile. "

FOOTNOTES:

[2] See "The Spirit of Labour, " Chapter 4, called "An Anarchist Salon, "for a description of some of the principal members of this society. --H. H. 

[3] This is worthy of some of the mythological-Christian paintings ofMantegna, where the vices are being scourged by the indignantvirtues. --H. H. 

CHAPTER X

_More of the Salon_

"I have been imagining you in Paris, " wrote Marie, "having a delightful, bohemian time. My ideas of Paris are all derived from reading Balzac, who has certainly created the most delightful, gay and mysterious, sad, mystic, sordid, everything one could wish in a city of dreams andrealities. 

"When Terry brought me 'Evelyn Innes, ' by George Moore, the other day, Idug into it with zeal and delight, and was surprised and pleased withhis subtle psychology, during the first part of the story; butpsychology can be carried to the point where it becomesincomprehensible, stupefying and monotonous. I finally grewindescribably weary of the problems of Evelyn's soul, but I kept on tothe end, and then sank back on my pillow exhausted. I think I shall stopreading for a while, lest I have literary indigestion. I'll try to besatisfied for the time with Swinburne and Shelley. Our anarchistic poetlectured on Shelley, the Poet of Revolution, the other night, and I wasdisappointed. He did not do justice to Shelley either as a revolutionarypoet or as a poet of beauty. I think Shelley should be spoken of with adelicate passion, which our anarchist poet lacks. He tried hard to speakwith fervour, but there is no fire in him, and what is a poet withoutfire? Perhaps it was as well, for what's the use in casting pearlsbefore swine? For the critics in the audience arose and condemnedShelley because he was a socialist, or because he was not one. Some ofthese critics seized upon the word libidinous. Oh! there was their clue!The lecturer arose like an outraged moralist to repudiate the scandalouscharge of libidinousness. I was so disgusted I vowed I would never go toanother meeting. 

"I have indeed been going to so many 'humanity lectures, ' and clubs, such as the Shelley Club, where the divine anarchist B----misinterpretsthe great bard every week to his flock of female admirers, and had beenreading so much Swinburne and other sublime things that recently I havehad a reaction, and there is nothing now at the Salon except Nietzsche. He is a relief, although I feel that if I were to keep on with him Ishould go mad. When I feel my brain begin to turn, I start scrubbing orsome other stupid thing. 

"Though Nietzsche says some very bitter things about women, who have noplace whatever in his scheme of things, except perhaps for therelaxation of the warriors, yet there is something dignified in his verydenunciation. His attitude toward our sex is so different from that ofSchopenhauer, and many other philosophers. They usually take the 'ragand a bone and a hank of hair' attitude, and are disgusting. ButNietzsche warns men that women are dangerous, and danger, in Nietzsche'sphilosophy, is a sublime thing. Also, we must become the mothers of hisOvermen. 

"Terry, too, is much interested just now in Nietzsche; quite naturally, for Terry is one of those 'men of resolute indolence' who will not workwithout delight in his labour. He talks a great deal just now of a planto seek some cave and there try to become an 'Overman. ' I pointed out tohim that that was difficult, for to become an Overman he must of course'keep holy his highest thought, ' without being disturbed by the strugglefor existence, and that, like Zarathustra, he must have an eagle and aserpent to minister to his wants. And I suggested that I might be hiseagle, for Zarathustra says that woman is still either a cat or a birdor at best a cow. I prefer to believe that I am a bird, and as suchcould minister to my sweet Overman. But Terry wouldn't have it so, andreplied that of course I was a bird, in a way, but he would rather haveme as a pussy, or as a combination of cat, bird, and cow. I thought thattoo cruel, so now I am determined to be none of them, but to become anOverwoman, and so be a fitting relaxation for my warrior, my Overman. 'Tis but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous, and I think, in thisletter, I have made that step. "

Marie's moods are many, and in her next letter she wrote in quite adifferent vein:

"I almost wept when reading your letter about the baby. Perhaps it wasbecause of the line, 'A little daughter was born to me. ' It recalled tome this Christmas time many years ago when I was a little child and Iheard the story of the little Jesus. 'And unto us a child was born. ' Howthose words ring in my ears! So vividly come back to me the pity I feltwhen I heard the story of the poor little infant born to be crucified. It always made me cry--out of pity, the pity of it all! And I wonder ifwe are not all, all of us, born to be crucified. 

"But I suppose I must congratulate you on assuming the responsibility offatherhood for the third time. You might long ago have studied pre-natalinfluences and the rights of the unborn. I hope you have not neglectedthese sacred duties. It surprised me that you wished for a girl, for notlong ago you expressed the opinion that women were soulless creatureswithout memory! Suppose your daughter should not be an exception, howwould you feel then?. .. You have been very active. As for me, I fear myonly activity will be that of a dreamer. I differ from the dreamingclass only in one respect and that is, in making confidences, whichdreamers never do. They shrivel up into themselves. They usually createtheir own sorrows, which have no remedy except the joys they alsoinvent. They are natural only when alone, and talk well only tothemselves. "

In the same letter she plunges into the gossip of the Salon:

"I don't blame Scott for his carelessness. The poor fellow has beensuffering terribly because of his wife, who has left him and gone offwith a new love to a new home. Scott has been quite heroic about it, buthe suffers. You know how in our radical society men and women try todeny that they are jealous, try to give freedom to each other. Butwhatever our ideas may be, we cannot control our fundamental instincts, and poor Scott is now a wounded thing, I can assure you. But he speaksbeautifully of his wife--even packed up her things for her and escortedher to the new place. 

"Scott came here the other night with your friend the journalist, Fiske, who has become quite a part of our little society. I am sorry to saythat he is quite sad, too, but for a different reason. The poor fellowseems to be suffering from lack of literary inspirations. He has a habitof asking people what shall he write about. He asks Terry, and even me, and in pity I am trying to write up the old women in our tenement forhim. .. . 

"I see a good deal of Thompson and his wife Minna. Now that Thompson, who was a famous radical, is more prosperous, he is growing careful andconservative. The glory of her husband is reflected in Minna. I don'tcall at their home so much as I did, because I made what they call abreak there the other day. I thoughtlessly introduced myself as _MissL----_ to someone of his relatives or relatives' friends, after she hadalready introduced me as _Mrs. C----_. And Thompson informed me next daythat it was inconvenient to explain such things to conservative people, and that I ought to be more careful in dealing with the unenlightenedones. I suppose I ought to think more of the reputation of my friends. "

Marie likes the Jews of the Salon, many of them, very much, but thereare some she doesn't, as the following shows:

"Things are rather dead in the 'movement, ' just now. But there issomething doing among the Jewish radicals, who, you know, are veryimportant in any radical movement here in Chicago. No wonder things arelively when the Jews have such a leader as Mr. Kohen, whom one mightbelieve to be the long wanted Messiah, destined to lead his race intothe promised land, which is evidently Chicago. There was a hot timeabout three weeks ago in the Masonic Temple meeting when this modernprophet demonstrated to us who were not Jews that they (he and hisfriends) were the chosen people who would not only liberate themselvesbut also us from the yoke of capitalist oppression; and contrary to allprevious rules, they would do this without any consideration of moneys;all that Mr. Kohen expected in return was due appreciation. I suppose Iought to be grateful to Mr. Kohen, but somehow I am not. I ought, too, to be grateful to our Jewish Madonna, Esther, but there again I am not. Poor girl! she is really the Madonna of the Chicago movement. All thesorrows and troubles of the Salon rest upon her poor shoulders, and shesilently suffers, sacrifices and redeems. Then there is little Sara, another chosen one. It is she who is chosen to make men miserable forthe good of their souls. She has been very pensive since the great poetB---- left, for now she has no one to worry about. I suggested to herthat she might worry about Terry, if she liked, and she said she wouldtry, with a weary little sigh. It was she who one day explained to me atgreat length that all love except sensual love was of a transientcharacter. If, she said, man swears he loves you, but does not show anyphysical interest in you, you can bet that his passion is of thatintangible sort that has the radiant tints but also the evanescence ofdew!. .. 

"I am going to a ball next Sunday night. It's on the Jewish holiday inmemory of the time when poor Moses led the Jews from Egypt and they hadto eat unleavened bread. All the orthodox Jews will spend the daypraying in the synagogue, without tasting food or drink. They make upfor it the next day, though, you bet. The ball is given every year bythe radical Jews, usually right in the Ghetto, and nearly always thefollowers of holy Moses jump on those who no longer follow, and there'sa hot time. Last year the radical Jews, mostly anarchists, had to havepolice protection! The police are good for something, after all! Whatshould we do without them? We would exterminate each other withoutdelay!"

Perhaps Marie's temporary "grouch" against the Jews was partly due tothe irruption into her Society of three new and attractive Israelites ofher own sex--an event happening about that time. In one of thesenewcomers, Terry, it appears, was somewhat interested, and Marie hasoften admitted that her philosophy of freedom is powerless to overcomeher "fundamental emotions. " Writing of Miss B---- she said: "She is aregular little Becky Sharp, very demure and quiet, and proper anddistinguished. All the women hate her, and the men flock about her, forshe is pretty and a free lover, of course. She comes once or twice aweek to our salon, and then Terry is always present, and they get alongfamously. She talks of 'the realm of physics, ' or 'of biology, ' and Iadmit it bores me, her voice is so monotonous. She takes evidentpleasure in Terry's society. Perhaps I am a little jealous, but it doesnot make me feel any different toward him, and that is the main thing, the only thing I really care about. .. . 

"I must admit that I grow tired at times of the 'movement. ' Kate saysshe has cut it out altogether, and Terry goes to the meetings veryseldom. I dutifully attend the lectures, where they talk about the sameold things in the same old way, and also the socials and visit thecomrades once in a while. But they do get on my nerves sometimes. Iprefer to stay at home, in the inner circle of the salon, reading andsucking at my cigarette when I have one. I scrub the floor once in awhile, just because of sheer weariness from not doing anything. 

"Terry has been writing an article on 'the general strike, ' but did notfinish it. He is like me in lacking energy enough to carry out any planor purpose unless great pressure is brought to bear upon him either fromwithin or without. I am sure that if he continued to feel strongly aboutthe general strike he would go on to finish it. But he has a greatdistrust, really, of the 'labour' movement and of labour leaders. Hebelieves that all social improvement must come from the workers, but howmany difficulties there are! One of the greatest is the lack of goodleaders. I myself have not much hope for the workers as long as theyremain sheep who are lost without leaders, are dependent and led eitherby honest men who know not clearly how, where, or why, or by intelligentmen, whose intelligence usually takes the form of trickery andself-interest. The intelligent honest ones seem not to be cut out to beleaders, or successful in any way. Sheep are led or driven most easilyby those who can make the most noise, and they follow as readily overthe precipice as over the road. The slightest thing serves to frightenand scatter them in all directions, in outward confusion andhelplessness, unless the burly insistent watchers are for ever at theirheels. Leaders of such a herd must often be unscrupulous to have anysuccess, must use their intelligence for all sorts of devices, oftencruel and unjust, to keep their flocks from wandering: any meansjustifies the end, which is the good of the cause. 

"Perhaps it is a good sign that people from the higher walks of life arebeginning to take notice of the workingman's problem, and maybe theideal leader will come from above, but even so I doubt if that will helpmuch. I have a feeling that all movements dependent on leaders mustnecessarily fail. Of course, I know that the people of the 'higher life'fear the stupidity and brutality of the mass of workers, and argue thatleaders are necessary to guide and restrain them. This is only partlytrue; there is hardly any doubt about the stupidity of the mob, but theyare not at all so brutal. True, during times of strike they will throwstones and slug strike-breakers, but they are not nearly as brutal asthe 'scabs, ' who are incited, aided, and protected by the employers andpolice, and who lack the emotional exaltation which often inspires theworkers to this violence. 

"During the teamsters' strike I witnessed a scene where the strikershustled the scabs, overturned several huge wagons loaded with beef, inthe centre of one of the poorest districts of Chicago, where the peoplewere suffering from want of meat, but the wretches did not even havesense enough to help themselves from this plentiful store which was lefton the street guarded only by one or two policemen. And there would havebeen no danger of arrest, for the policemen could easily have been sweptaside by the rest of the mob. It made me mad. I felt like shouting atthem, 'you fools, why don't you help yourselves?' How differently ahungry bunch of kids would have acted!"

Terry, in his very different way, wrote on the same subject:

"I never knew a sincere, not to say honest, labour leader, from businessagent up. Poor proletaire! forever crucified between two sets ofthieves--one rioting on his rights, the other carousing on his wrongs. Labour plods while plunder plays, thus runs the world away. But if heshould take it into his thick head to be his own walking delegate someday!"

This strange master of the "salon, " this poetic interpreter of thephilosophy of the man who has nothing, has, in spite of his pessimisms, a profound mystic hope. He wrote:

"That toiling humanity--the labour movement--to me is a thing so vast, that whatever other movements try to exclude themselves from it, theymust be swallowed up in it. All other things are but the shadows castbehind or before the ever-marching phalanx of the unconquerable, theimperishable proletaire. This is the hope which sends its thrill throughus when nothing else can. At the bottom of my heart I know I am livingbut for one thing, and my life has been nothing but a preparation forthis. Of and for myself I have accomplished nothing: for to be everready and alert is not accomplishment. .. . I see a profound hope in theproletaire, for to him is granted that intense, wistful awareness of hiscommon lot and life with his fellows. His very crowding in factoriesand tenements, salons, unions, and brothels, brings it home to him. Yes, this very lack of space must remorselessly rub it in, even by dumb, physical close contact. The friction resulting from ten living in oneroom must make one of them phosphorescent--and capable of giving lightto humanity. The tenement houses are harmless boxes of lucifers as longas none is ignited. The inhabitants are wofully benighted, but theypossess wonderfully the quality of brotherhood, of oneness, hence arisestheir wonderful psychology and their æsthetics, so full and overflowingwith pathos, so piercing, it carries one to that borderland where comicand tragic make marriage. 

"This strange crowding in our consciousness of things that do not seemto come from us and yet are of us--this clamouring consciousness is whatdrives me to despair and makes me feel I have not the form or shadow ofthings, though I may have the substance. Yet I am determined to strainmy self-consciousness even to the breaking point; for though I knowmadness lies that way, there stands my Ideal, beckoning. I must graspthis great common thing which comes from all of us, from us crowdedproletarians, and yet is not in any one of us. Together we enjoy andsuffer more than any one of us alone. There is, I believe, somethingdeeper than the deepest woe: our racial consciousness is there and wemust find it. At moments of great insight we are suddenly made aware ofthis, the mysterious unity of the Race, but it is flashed and gone andwe must await another crisis. It is only in moments of sublime sorrowthat the depths of the racial consciousness is heaved up to us. Joycannot do this, for joy is narrow and wants us to do away with sorrow;but sorrow never wants us to do away with joy. Keats always beheld joyin an external attitude of farewell and this is profoundly and perfectlymystical and real: joy is swallowed up in something deeper, away down inthe common racial consciousness. We must all strive to be men beyondessential harm; else, standing blindly before the meaning and destiny ofthe race, we should go mad. Most of us try to think, intellectuals; fearto abandon ourselves to alarming states of feeling where reason iscrowded to the wall. And yet I feel that by abandoning ourselvescompletely to mere feeling lies our only hope to find the logic of therace that no individual reason can master. 

"Let me tell you of something that recently happened to me which showshow strong this race feeling is, as opposed to merely individual orfamily feeling. I heard that my mother was dying. I had becomereconciled long ago, had seen many things more clearly; for if joy is ofthe heart, sorrow is of the soul, by which we see. I wonder if woman hasa 'lake' in her heart. I used to think my mother had, and when I calledto see her once more, the old love-longing caught me by the throat. Mypresence seemed to help her some, but, though moved, I had passed beyondthe family boundary-line, and was engaged in stripping myself ofeverything not belonging to the soul. If I wish to be something morethan myself, I must be prepared to lose all, even myself. And what is myfamily and my mother?"

Terry does not like to use the word "religion. " But he certainly belongsto the type of the religious man. One of the most marked characteristicsof the religious temperament is this abandonment of personal and familyties, this indifference and often hostility to social law, "thisemotional devotion to something intangible. " All the anarchists andsocial rebels I have known have, more or less, the religioustemperament, although a large part of their activity is employed inscoffing at and reviling religion--as they think the God of theology hasbeen largely responsible for the organisation of social and politicalinjustice. But the deeply religious spirits have often been hostile totheology, as well as to all other complicated forms of society. Here aresome religious words:

"There must be some meaning, " wrote Terry, "for all this ancient agony. Oh, that I might expand my written words into an Epic of the Slums, intoan Iliad of the Proletaire! If an oyster can turn its pain into a pearl, then, verily, when we have suffered enough, something must arise out ofour torture--else the world has no meaning. On this theory, all my pangsare still to come. I too will arise out of my sacrificial self and lookback on my former bondage in amaze, even as I now look down on the dizzyslums where I am and yet am not! It cannot be that I came up out of thedepths for nothing. If I could pierce my heart and write red lines, Imight perhaps tell the truth. But only a High Silence meets me, and I donot understand. In letting myself down to the bottomless, I discovered Icould not stand it long enough. I am dumbly dissatisfied. I feel like adiver who has nigh strangled himself to bring up a handful of seaweed, and so feels he must down again--and again--until he attains somewherethe holy meaning of Life. "

Terry feels that somehow deep in his life he has been crucified, thatsociety has nailed him to the cross:

"I was alone on the cross and with bloodshot, beseeching eyes beheldthe world objectively. Yet I was aware of a harmony beyond me, thoughnot in me or around me. "

It is this "harmony beyond, " this religious sense of "something far moredeeply interfused" which, ever conscious in the idealist's mind, makesthe concrete vision of everyday fact so ugly, leads to anarchism offeeling profound and constant. 

But in this world, which as a whole the heart rejects--"my heart, " saidTerry, "is the last analysis of all things"--the idealist sees things ofbeauty which constitute for him the elements of perfection, elementswhich in some future state he dreams may be fully realised in a socialwhole. 

"I saw a fine thing from the window to-day, " Terry wrote, "a thing ofsheer delight, the complete transfiguration of a human being. An Italianstreet labourer came into the yard and sprawled on the grass to eat hisown lunch. He was bandy-legged from being coaxed to stand alone toosoon. But he had a most wonderful face; all the mobility which toil hadbanished from his form must have sought refuge in his eyes and hiscaressing countenance. Catching sight of some children playing 'house, 'he jumped up and in a most charming way offered them all of his cakesand went back to his luncheon. The children instinctively brought himback some of the cakes, which he not only refused, but offered them therest of his food. They gathered in a semicircle while he spoke to them. There came something in his face and attitude which I have seen many'cultured' people vainly attempt. He absolutely was one of them; thechildren stood spell-bound, dazed at the sudden transformation of a maninto a child. The imagination that can become one with its object is ahigh form of unconscious art and rests upon the heart and the massfeeling of the race. The ancient folk-lore and ballads must have arisenfrom some such fusion as this. How unfair, at least unwise, it is tojudge the individual action of the proletaire, when he is made foraction in the mass. "

This vague philosophy and transcendental ethics pass naturally enough, at times, into the feeling of violent revolution, where bomb-throwing, if not advocated, is emotionally sympathetic. 

"Just now, " wrote Terry, "there is strong predisposition among the'reds' to resort to Russian methods. It needs only the occasion, whichmust be waited for, and cannot be created. When the 'error' is greatenough, the 'Terror' will surely rise to the occasion. Were it not formy faith in this, I should be glad to see Humanity lapse back to whenceit came. "

In the idealist there is a growing impatience with the world; in hisattempt to react even against Nature and some of the necessary qualitiesof men there is such inevitable failure that no moral revolutionist oranarchist can indefinitely endure the struggle. He is destroyed by hisfundamental opposition to the world which he seeks to destroy. Therefore, impatiently, weakly, he sometimes breaks out--with abomb--even against his philosophy and his temperament. 

He is led into contradictions. One of them touches upon his feeling of"class consciousness. " Terry at times, as a transcendental moralist, rises above this feeling, but his special instinct as a "labour" manoften asserts itself against and in contradiction to his passion for theoneness of the race. In my intimate association with him I sometimes sawthat, much as he liked me, he felt that I was of another "class. " In thework which resulted in my book, _The Spirit of Labour_, I frequentlycame in discouraging contact with this "class" distrust of me--in himand in others. Marie alone seemed free of it, in her relation to me, andyet she wrote:

"I think we have a peculiar sympathy for each other, and yet I realisethat in some subtle way there is not that perfect understanding thereought to be. Just think of what extremes we two come from--how differentour social environment! I know you understand as nearly as is possiblefor one of your class, and yet I doubt if you can really sympathisewith the ideas of anarchism which springs naturally from only oneclass--the labour class. Do you not hesitate sometimes and doubt thatall men are worthy of the better things of life, the coalheaver as wellas the banker and artist? Even I hesitate sometimes, when I see thecoarseness and ignorance of these poor plodders of earth, and when Ithink of all the really great things that slavery has accomplished. Butwho knows how much greater things might be, if done freely by free men?When I remember that these poor plodders have never had a chance, Irelent and feel so sorry and so hopeless. How often Terry and I havewalked along the boulevards, admiring the beautiful homes of the rich. Oh, it used to make me wild! I felt that I belonged to humanity, and yetI could only enter these beautiful homes as a servant, an object ofcontempt--an object of contempt supposed, moreover, to have morals, andreligion, too!"

Of "class consciousness, " Terry wrote: "Class feeling has always been adeep problem to me: it emanates from profound depths. This reflectionconcerns you. Many of your 'labour' friends here seem to regret thatthere were many things they could not tell you; not that they had anyconscious lack of faith in you as an individual; indeed, they had greatfaith in you as a person. Their distrust of you was a class distrust;they dreaded to betray the interests of their class. They felt afundamental antagonism, not to you as an individual, but to you as amember of your class. From their Social Sinai they enunciate theeleventh commandment, 'Thou shalt not be a Scab!', and the other tencommandments do not seem to them so important. But you, they think, cannot feel this commandment as they do, so passionately, so fully. Tothem, it is the keynote of solidarity; to you, partly at least, aprinciple of division, of separation. 

"No wonder our class--the thinkers among them--rejects the morality ofyour class--property morality, and the rest meant only to make propertymorality as strong as a law of God. I made at one time the fatal mistakeof the many simple labourers who are organically honest. I spent most ofmy best life in seeking a solution of our hard lot from those above me. After a loss of many feathers and some brave plumage, but no down, Imust in all humility beat my way back to the traditional lost ideals ofour organically incorporated class. .. . Perhaps the most consciencelessclass who seek to solve the insoluble is the 'cultured' class. But mostof them seem to me like artistic undertakers officiating at the 'wake'of Life. With their platitudes, their prudery, and their chastity, theymake for death. These languid ones desire to have life served up to themin many courses. Greed lies at the bottom of their being, and so theypreach content to the masses, though for the workers they have nothingin their shallow souls but contempt. This cultured leisure class has hadthe time and cunning to perpetrate one great and tragic trick. They havemade social falsehoods so complicated that they themselves neitherunderstand nor wish to understand. .. . Why is it that in all the greatauthors I detect an air of condescension, marking their contempt forthose who make and keep them what they are? With what fine contempt the'rube' is surveyed by the faker who has plucked him! Must I put theseclassic souls of art in the same category? The art for art's sakepeople--these make me sick. It is at best an argumentative confusionspringing from the fact that in the perfect work of art there is such afusion of form and substance as to resist dissociation and defyanalysis. Perhaps this fact accounts for Tolstoi's contempt for some ofthe classic art. It seems to me that most classic art is one of twothings: either it smacks of smug content and over-fed geniality or it ispermeated with a profound pessimism. The philosophers are worse than theartists; they are the ringleaders of the betrayers of humanity. Art atleast makes the atonement of beauty for its mistakes, but this cannot besaid of philosophy. 

"Herbert Spencer, for instance, who represents the high-water mark of aphilosophy that will not hold water, pours out the vials of hisbottled-up wrath on the poor unfortunates of London who are compelled'to make a living' by tips in opening the carriage doors or holding thehorses of the wealthy. He had nothing but loathing for the pregnant girlwho tries to break her 'fall' by taking advantage of the 'poor laws. 'For the workingman, who sincerely tries, at least, to settle the'affairs of State' in the pot-house over a mug of ale, Spencer hadnothing but contempt; but to the parliamentary people who settle thesame 'affairs' over champagne and prostitutes, he played thelick-spittle. .. . The recantation of his 'Social Statics' is the worstcase of intellectual cowardice on record. .. . He went down with finalcontempt for the workers who served him, gave him his daily bread, madehis ink, pen, and paper and bound the twenty volumes of his philosophyof falsehood! May his 'works' rest in oblivion!. .. 

"In dismissing Spencer, it is worthy of note that the very thing whichmade him pause in the righting of social wrongs is the thing which willcause the Revolution, namely, the complicated nature of socialfalsehoods. In recanting his published truth on the land question, headmitted that, although the legal title to land was obtained by murderand dispossession of original occupants, the matter was now toocomplicated to be dealt with. If this be so, if justice cannot be donebecause of the difficulties in the way, then all hail to the simplicityand elemental justice of a Red Revolution!. .. 

"Yes, sometimes I feel like the crudest of the revolutionists, althoughI call myself a philosophical anarchist. Sometimes the jails seem toyearn for my reception, and I question my right to be at large. Nothingbut a decreasing cowardice leaves me at liberty. And if I could not domore for my soul behind the bars than I have done in front of them, thenI am fit only for durance vile. I, who have out-fasted the very fliestill they fled my room, dread but one thing in the life of aprison--that I should have no time for reflection and repose! but out ofa born anarchist it would make of me a compulsory Socialist, condemnedto work for the State--a veritable dungeon of disgrace. 

"It is not so much that I love life, though as a rule the poor, who areso close to life, worship it in a way that puts all other things toscorn. I know nothing that reaches farther up or deeper down than this. It is only in the gutter that life is truly worshipped. And that is whyI search for my last faith there--in the gutter, whence all faith reallysprings. 

"And yet to have faith even in the gutter is an act of deep imagination. In the rotting rooms beneath me lives a worker with a family of sixgirls and one boy. Capitalism has crucified his carcass for fifty yearsand now 'laid him off. ' He has been looking for work for the last month. I watch the insanity in his restless, aimless movements, and I feeldesperate enough to try to get him a job. Unfortunately, he does notdrink; so his pipe, ever in his mouth, is the only obstacle between himand the mad-house, or the poor-house. Every morning at six o'clock, hissandwich dinner concealed in his pocket, he makes a brave show ofwalking away briskly in his hopeless search for work; for there are toomany younger men. His assumed activity is only put on till he turns thefirst corner, for he tries to conceal his lameness and decrepitude, especially from his wife, who strains her gaze after him. Just beforestarting off he takes the superfluous precaution to put someshoe-blacking on his hair which shows white about the temples. He comesback after a six hours' search, about noon, his neglected dinner stillin his pocket. He has tramped ten or twelve miles with no open shop forhim. He does not blame anyone, but regards it all as an accident thathas happened to him in some unfortunate way. He broods over this till Ican see it in his eyes; but I don't dare say anything to him. He is tooold, and I might only make his trouble worse. If I were a sculptor Iwould put him before the world in a material almost as hard and I hopemore enduring than itself. His arms never hang down by his side, butseem to be set in the position required by his last job, shovelling. Itreminds me of the time, thirty years ago, when I was laid off, and themadness first got in and crouched behind my eyes. .. . 

"Yes, I suppose I am mad. It is true that if I cannot have theintellectual red that heralds the approach of Dawn, then I want the redlight of Terror that ushers in the Night. My feelings have beenclamouring for many years against my cowardly better judgment. I believesome day they will break loose and throw me, as from a catapult, even upagainst the stone wall of atrocity we call Society. "

Thus the idealist becomes frenzied at times at the incredibledifficulties in the way of a total revolt against society, even againstnature. We shall see how the absolute nature of his anarchism led Terryfurther and further along the path of rejection, "passing up" one thingafter another, even letting anarchism as a social enthusiasm go by theboard and making his continued relation with a human being, even withMarie, a practical impossibility. 

CHAPTER XI

_The End of the Salon_

Terry's love for Marie was partly due, as we have seen, to his passionfor social propaganda: that she represented the "social limit" was astrong charm to him. She, woman-like, always insisted on the personalrelation, and for a long time his interest in her personality as such, combined with his social enthusiasm, was strong enough to keep the bondintact. When, however, his social enthusiasm paled, and his merelyindividualistic anarchism became stronger, his interest in Marieweakened. The times grew more frequent with him when he doubted thesocial side of anarchism itself--when this social propaganda seemed ashollow and as unlovely as society itself; and when he saw the weaknessesand vanities of his associates, how far they were from realising anyideal. Then, more and more, he was thrown back upon himself, for as hishope in the new society weakened, his hope in Marie as an embodiment ofit weakened also. 

Marie's sex interests, always freely and boldly expressed, played, atfirst, no part in the growing irritability of their relations. Marie'soccasional "affairs" with other men, sometimes taking her away from thesalon for a time, were taken by Terry in silence. Even when he came faceto face with the fact of Marie's absence of restraint in this respect, lack of delicacy and feeling for him, he did not complain. To do so wasagainst his principles of personal freedom; and the fling in the face ofsociety envolved in Marie's conduct pleased him rather than otherwise;also there was in him a subtle feeling of superiority over other men, inthe fact that he was without physiological jealousy, or if not, that hecould at least control it. 

Even Marie's jealousy of him, whenever he was in the society of anotherwoman, he took with a patient shrug. Terry's interest in other women wasnot a passionate one: in it was always an element of the pale cast ofthought, and Marie had no real cause for jealousy. But Terry tolerantlytook it as a feminine weakness and tried to shield Marie from thisunreasonable unhappiness. On her account he gave up many a desire totalk intimately with some female comrade. But Marie had no suchtolerance for him. Not only was she quite free with other men and to thelimit, but she often went into a real tantrum of jealousy. One day shefollowed Terry all over town, fearing that he had an appointment with awell-known radical woman. Marie often acknowledged to me herinconsistency. "But, you know, " she would say, "our principles and ideasdo not count much when our fundamental emotions are concerned. "

This was a true remark of Marie's, and I have often had occasion toperceive the great degree of it throughout the radical world. Men andwomen often try in that society to be tolerant; they give one anotherfree rein sometimes for years, but generally in the end, the resistanceof one or the other weakens; human nature or prejudice, whichever it is, asserts itself, and tragedy results. This I had occasion to see over andover again: how nature triumphed over the most resolute idealism andbrought about in the end either ugly passion or pathetic unhappiness. 

As Terry began to doubt his deepest hope, as he began to turn away fromthe ideas about which his salon was formed, he saw and felt moreclearly the limitations of Marie's personal character; and her actsbegan to hurt him. Perhaps he began to lose faith in both--Marie and theSalon--at the same time. 

"I am afraid, " he wrote, "that the days of the salon are numbered. I amof the opinion that most of our latter-day radicals are on a par withour latter-day Christians. They have grown weary, or wary, of theiroriginal purpose. They seem to think Liberty a beautiful goddess whowill never come: they willingly believe in her as long as there is nodanger of or in her 'coming. ' How frantically most of the radicalssignal back the 'waiting' reply: the track is not clear for the comingof Liberty!--and they do not want to have it cleared!. .. 

"You will be surprised to know that I have dropped the radicals, withthe exception of Thomson, and I fear he too must walk the plank and goby the board. I am becoming quite implacable toward these intelligentpeople, and the salon will soon be void of my presence. The spirit of ithas gone already and cannot be revived. That is why I left my mother'shome--because the spirit of home had gone--and why I must leave thesalon. I cannot submit to being a discordant spirit; therefore I must bea wandering one. 

"So I must leave Katie and Marie. If I could make a living I would workfor it, as I did when I thought so. But I shall never work--or toilrather--for sheer subsistence except behind the bars. I am driven to bea parasite, for honest living there is none. The time is up, and I mustleave. Several years ago I ruined whatever robustness I had by tendingbar so that Katie might knock down some three hundred dollars. At onemeal a day and a place to try to sleep, I think that she and I are abouteven; she also thinks so, though she never says so, to me. She iswilling and able to take care of Marie, for she has five hundred dollarsin the bank and a great love for the girl. "

Terry, sometimes terribly frank, is extremely reticent about Marie; andthe account of their misunderstanding comes mainly from her letters:

"I have had such a bad misunderstanding with Terry, or he with me, Idon't know which it is. My God, but women can be brutal, though! Youought to read Jack London's 'The Call of the Wild. ' You mightsubstitute women for dogs. Some years ago I was a feast for the dogs(women), and now I see much of this same fierce brutality in myself, andpoor Terry is feeling it. I have been away with a man, and Terry somehowfeels it much more keenly than ever before. 

"And yet I love Terry: surely if I ever knew what love means, I love himand have loved him always. Though I am the most brutal person on earth, I am so without intention, without knowing it even, at times. And I amso tired that sometimes I have no feeling for anything, not even forTerry, and he does not understand that. I feel out of harmony with everyone just now. It is hardly indifference, rather a terrible weariness. Perhaps my recent reading of Nietzsche has helped to give me a feelingof weary hopelessness. And then, too, the spirit of our salon is gone; Idon't know exactly why. Even Terry has changed very much in his feelingsand ideas. He is not much interested in the things he used to beabsorbed in. He is more cynical, especially of social science, and yethe seems to me to be making a very science of looking at thingsunscientifically. He seems to be holding his emotions in check, is lessimpulsive than ever, and is losing much of that delicacy of feeling andexpression which was so admirable in him. 

"I too am growing cynical, and I hate to do so. I should like to acceptpeople at their apparent value and not always look for motives, as I amgetting more and more to do. I should like to approach everything andeverybody with a perfectly open heart, as a child does, but I find thatI no longer do that, that I am always prejudiced. I am sure that this isdue to Terry's influence, for he more and more excludes everything:nothing is good enough for him. He passes up one person after anotherand he has no joy in life. His personality is so much stronger than minethat I am like a little thin shadow, weaker than water, and he canalways bring me around to see his way of looking at people and things. "

This note in Marie--protest against Terry's tendency to cut out thesimple joy of life--grew very strong at a later time; now, however, itwas only suggested, and played no important part. 

Indeed, the idea of his leaving her was to her an intolerable thought;and yet there is many a letter which suggests the approachingdissolution of the salon and of their relation. They were both, attimes, terribly tired of life: with no strenuous occupation, the word ofNietzsche and of world pessimism, of excessive individuality, torturedtheir nerves and made everything seem of no avail. 

Work takes one away from life, is a buffer between sensitive nerves andintensest experience. Strong natures who for some reason are dislocatedand therefore do not work, or work only fragmentarily, come too much incontact with life and often cannot bear it; it burns and palls at once. So it was with Terry and Marie. Without either work or children, theywere forced into strenuous personal relations with one another and intoa feverish relation with "life. "

"I feel so depressed, " she wrote; "so many things have happened thislast year which seemed trivial at the time, but have had big results, while other things which seemed events have turned out to be onlyincidents, and very small ones. Thus, a careless remark of mineresulted in a quarrel between Terry and me which did not lessen withtime, but grew larger and larger, until now the relations of us twoidyllic lovers are anything but pleasant. And a very serious attack oflove from which I suffered last summer has passed as quickly and lightlyas a breath of wind, while another light love of mine, which came to melast February, has assumed large proportions simply because I have beenabused for it by Terry, whom no one could ever displace in my heart. Iwas bound to defend my lover from the attacks of Terry, whom I hadalways regarded as above such a common display of irritation in suchmatters. So this other man became a sort of ideal lover in my mind, andall because of Terry's opposition. This man had wooed me in a great, glorious, godless fashion. He was a big man in the labour world, and heflattered me immensely, but I should never have cared for him, ifTerry's nature had not suddenly seemed to weaken. .. . 

"I have been so uneasy about Terry lately. He has been talking so muchabout joining the criminal class. He seems to be losing his interest inour movement and to be looking for some other way of escape, as hecalls it. He says his liberty is only a figment of his mind, that he hasnow reached the time for which he had all along been unconsciouslypreparing himself. I am, of course, used to this kind of talk fromTerry. He has been in the depths of despondency often enough, butnothing ever came of it except a saloon brawl. He would usually seekHarris; they would break a mirror or a few glasses in some saloon, andthe next day Terry would have a headache, after which he was usuallycontent to browse around his philosophy in that mild and subtle way ofhis, for a week or so. 

"But now Harris is gone, and Terry does not know any other person quiteso strenuous in the fine art of breaking glasses and barroom fixtures ingeneral, so, finding no vent for his accumulated despondency, he maypossibly do real things. I feel so sadly for him and wish I could helphim. The Lord knows I would be willing to break any amount of glasswarewith him, but he has not much confidence in my aim, I guess; women nevercan throw straight. In fact, he has little confidence in me in any waylately, for he never tells me the details of his schemes, but onlythrows out dark and terrible hints. .. . 

"Truly, something may indeed happen this time. He is so anti-social. Hepositively won't go out anywhere to meet people, won't go to our picnicsor socials, and in manner is very strange, distant, cold, and polite toKatie and me. One would think he had been introduced to us just fiveminutes before. Perhaps he thinks that Katie and I want him to go towork--common, vulgar work, I mean, for Katie has lost her job and we areliving in the most economical way, for we don't know when anotherdesirable job can be found. Now, Terry really ought to know that Ishouldn't have him work for anything in the world. I know that Katie hasnot said the least word to him, but he is so terribly sensitive thatperhaps he suspects what she may be thinking. 

"Katie is despondent, too, and nearly makes me crazy talking of herlife, past, present, and future, in the most doleful way. Last night, after talking to me for two hours about the misery of life, she made thestartling proposal that she and I commit suicide. 'For, ' said she, 'Icannot see anything ahead of me but work, work, like a cart-horse, untilI am dead. I'd rather die now and be done with everything, and you hadbetter come with me, for you haven't anything, and if I went alone, whatwould become of you, such a poor helpless creature; see how thin youare, I can almost look through your bones! Who would take care of you?'

"After talking in this strain for what seemed to me hours and hours, Katie went to bed and to sleep, and then came Terry from his solitarywalk--he usually goes for a walk if there are any indications that Katiewill do any talking--and entertained me by carelessly, carefully hintingat one of his dark, mysterious plots. Then he, too, went to bed, and I, too, had forty winks and seventy thousand nightmares. "

But Marie, even in this growing strain, never failed in her love andadmiration for the strange man with whom she lived. On the heels of theabove came the following:

"Terry is one of those characters who has not lost any of his distinctindividuality. His is a nature which will never become confounded orobliterated in one's memory. The instantaneous impression of largesoul, sincerity, and truthfulness he made upon me at our first meetinghas never left me. This impression must have been very strong, forgenerally these impressions grow weaker, if people live together soclosely as poor people must. All his faults, as well as perhaps hisvirtues, come from the fact that he is not at all practical. In spite ofhis experience, he does not know the world, and is a dreamer of dreams. His wild outbursts are the result, I think, of his sedentary life. Sometimes we two remain at our home for weeks without venturing out, without hardly speaking to each other, and then suddenly we burst outinto the wildest extravagances of speech!"

A few days later there was a wilder burst than ever, and Terry left thesalon. Marie wrote:

"Last week we all had a row, and Terry has not been seen or heard ofsince. The last words he uttered were that he should return for hisbelongings in a few days. I am dreadfully sorry about it, especiallythat we could not have parted good friends. I realise and always shallbe sensible of the great good I had from him and shall always think ofhim with the best feeling and greatest respect. The parting has notbeen a great surprise to me, for it really has been taking place for along time, ever since he withdrew his confidence from me, now monthspast, and I have been acting with other men without his knowledge. Nothing mattered in our relation but mutual confidence, but when thatwent, it was, I suppose, only a question of time. And, at the same timethat he withdrew spiritually from me, he seemed to lose his interest inthe movement, and grew more and more solitary and hopeless. 

"I don't know what Terry is doing, or where he has gone, and I amuneasy. I would not fancy this beautiful bohemian life alone with Katie, and I don't know what to do. "

"Terry is still away, " she wrote a few days later, "and my horizon looksbleak and lonely. I want to be alone where I can collect my thoughts, but, even when Katie is out, I cannot think, but sit by the windowstaring at the old women hanging up the clothes which everlastingly flapon the lines tied between the poor old gnarled willow trees. Poor oldtrees, their fate has been very like that of the old women. They beartheir burden uncomplainingly, groan dolefully in the wind, and shaketheir old palsied heads. Even the sparrows, true hoboes of the air, disdain to seek shelter in their twisted arms. They will die as theyhave lived, withering away. 

"I try to interest myself in household affairs, but that is so stale andunprofitable. Neither can I read: my thoughts wander away and Terryintrudes himself constantly on my mind. I may get so desperate that Iwill seek a job as a possible remedy: perhaps in that way I could gettired enough to sleep. .. . 

"I have been trying to meet Terry, but he is as elusive as any vagrantsunbeam. I feel it would do me a world of good to have a longheart-to-heart talk with him. If I could only see him once a week andhave him sympathise with me in a brotherly fashion and hear him say, inhis old way: 'Cheer up, Marie, the worst is yet to come, ' I should becomparatively happy and satisfied. "

Several more days passed, and with the lapse of time Marie's mood grewblacker. Her next letter to me had a deep note of sorrow and regret andremorse:

"Terry has been away since August thirteenth. He came, while I was out, for his things. I fear it is his farewell visit; for he has not shownthe slightest disposition to meet me and talk things over. I have triedin every way to see him again, but he has thus far ignored my existence. I had an idea that we two were made for each other, but I have been anawful fool. Last February, as you know, I had an affair, if it may bedignified by even that name, and just for the fun of the thing I wentwith this light love to Detroit, and came home ill, as you already know. I returned to Terry full of love and regret and most properly chastenedby my illness and disappointment; for other men almost always disappointme. But I found him positively beastly. The way he abused that poor manwas terrible, and I had to defend him, for I know that Terry was unjustto him. I begged him to blame me, not the other man, for it was all mydoing, but that only made matters worse. 

"I know that some people can conceal their obnoxious qualities and showonly the sweet and lovely side of themselves. I sometimes like to seethe reverse side of the medal, and I expected Terry, as a student ofhumanity and an anarchist, to welcome any phase of character which mightenable him to understand me more completely. 

"I must hesitate in attributing Terry's attitude to jealousy, for I havehad some affairs before, and he never seemed to care about them in theleast; indeed, I often felt piqued, and thought he did not mind becausehe did not care about me enough. The following two weeks were, I cantruly say, the most infernal and awful that ever happened to me, and Iwished thousands of times that I might die, and I did come very close toit. I cannot describe that hellish time or give you any idea of Terry'sconduct during those weeks. He was no longer the calm, philosophicalTerry that you know, but the most terribly cruel thing the mind of mancan conceive. 

"Now, I know these are strong words, and I don't know if you can imagineTerry that way, or if you can believe me when I say it is so. I havethought of it so many times, and I have come to the conclusion thatperhaps while I was away, he and Harris had a great debauch together andthat Terry must have taken some dope which unbalanced him for a while. "

I do not think it needs "dope" to explain Terry's conduct. Marie, perhaps, could not understand the possible cruelty of a disappointedidealist. When Terry began to see that neither the anarchists nor Mariewould ultimately fit into his scheme of things, when his idealistic hopebegan to break against the hard rocks of reality, he was capable, in hisdespair, of any hard, desperate, and cruel act. 

Marie continued:

"During this awful time I did not blame Terry, dope or no dope. Iconsidered it all coming to me, and even wished it would keep on cominguntil it killed. But I made up my mind right then and there that if itwas fated that I should keep in the game, there should be no more'affairs' for me. And so help me God I have not had any from thattime--six months ago--till the day Terry left me. And that other man'sname has not once passed my lips in Terry's presence, and when it wasmentioned by others when he and I were there, I grew dizzy and sick. 

"In time, these dreadful things were thought of as little as might be, and Terry and I became excellent, though platonic friends, a novel andfascinating relation, wherein sex had no part. Night after night have wesat around this table, discussing books and people, trying to penetratethe mystery of things strange and new to us. I should rather say that hetalked, and I was his eager listener. Often, after tossing restlessly onour pillows, when no sleep would come 'to weight our eyelids down, ' therest of the night would be spent in reciting poetry, the inevitablecigarette in one hand, the other gesticulating in the most fanciful andfervid manner. He would recite in passionate whispers--so as not toawaken Katie--for hours at a time, poems from Shakespeare to Shelley, and Verlaine to Whitman, poems tender and sweet, bitter and ironical andrevolutionary, just as the mood suited him. His feeling for poetry andnature seemed to grow as his hope for human society grew less. 

"So our relations were ideally platonic--the kind you read about inbooks. Nevertheless, some of the old bitterness remained in Terry'sheart, for at times he became depressed and melancholy and so sensitiveabout the least little thing that I was nervous and in hot water allthe time for fear I might inadvertently say or do something to hurt himor make him angry. I admit I am not as placid as I look, and Katie, too, is very inflammable, so you can understand how tense the atmosphere wasat times. 

"Not very long ago, at the breakfast table one Sunday morning, I urgedTerry to come to a meeting of the 'radicals, ' adding that he wasbecoming a regular hermit and that it would do him good to have moresocial pleasure. He turned on me savagely, called me a hypocrite, and acontemptible one at that, and made a few more remarks of the kind. Aftera few days of strained politeness on both sides I made bold to ask himfor some explanation--and I have got it coming yet!

"These are just the facts. I don't go into all the little details of ourmany little vulgar rows, about the most trivial things. I am sure, ifTerry writes you about this, that his innate delicacy would never permithim to go into these sordid details, too many of which I have perhapstold you. But I am made of rougher stuff than he. I am never quite asunreasonable as he can be at times, but I am commoner. "

Terry did, indeed, express himself in a much more laconic way about thequarrel, than Marie. On the day he left, August thirteenth, he wrote methe following note:

"The premonition in my last letter is fulfilled: the salon knows me nomore. "

A later talk I had with both Katie and Terry throws light upon theprecipitating cause of Terry's departure on the thirteenth of August. Itwas due to Terry's sensitiveness about his money relationship to Katie. On that morning Terry was asleep on the couch, when Katie got up, madebreakfast, and she and Marie asked Terry to join them. 

"Not me, " said he. 

"I think you have been eating on me long enough, " rejoined Katie. "It'stime you got out. "

Katie had never allowed herself a remark of this kind before. But shehad not found another job and the three had been on edge for some time. 

The remark brought about the climax so long preparing. 

"I'll go, " he replied, "as soon as I have finished this cigarette. "

"In the wordy war that followed, " said Terry, "we all three went thelimit in throwing things up to each other. I told Katie that if it hadnot been for me and Marie she would not have had anybody to steal for;that I was eating on her stealings and mine, too. And then I left. "

Although, as we shall see, this was not the end of the relation betweenTerry and Marie, it was in reality the sordid end of the idealisticSalon. 

CHAPTER XII

_Marie's Attempt_

While Marie was trying to find some trace of Terry, the latter waswandering about the country. 

"I have been tramping about the country, " he wrote me, "living most ofthe time in the parks. This life, where you 'travel by hand, ' crowds outconsecutive meditation, but I like it because I can go away at the firstshadow of uneasiness betrayed on either side. My existence now is soresponsive and irresponsible that it comes very close to my heart. I amliving a life of contrasts: one week I spent with a rare friend who hasmany good books and admires me for the thing for which all otherscondemn me. Strange, is it not, that the one thing which redeems me inhis far-seeing eyes is what places me beyond redemption in the minds ofothers. I have spent some sleepless nights in his fine home, kept awakeby the seductions of social life tugging at my heart-strings. So onenight I stole away from this seduction and slept with some drunkenhoboes in the tall soft grass, where I could have no doubt about beingwelcome. I might as well doubt the grass as those pals, who withoutquestion hailed me as an equal. I, having the only swell 'front, 'tackled a mansion, and the Irish servant-girl, to whom I told the truth, gave me a whole hand-out in a basket, enough for all of us. My brotherhoboes swore I should be the travelling agent of the gang. But a coppergave me the 'hot foot, ' while I was 'pounding my ear' in the woods withthe other 'boes, so I straightened and hiked to the stock yards, where Ifeel more at home with the Hibernians. 

"Never have I seen Life more triumphant and rampant, more brimming overwith hope and defiant of all conditions, hygienic and otherwise. I amrooming with an Irish family whose floor space is limited, so we allhave shake-downs, and in the morning can clear the decks for action withno bedsteads in the way. I am very 'crummy, ' badly flea-bitten, overrunwith bed bugs, somewhat fly-blown, but, redemption of it all, I am freeand always drunk. Still, I am really getting tired of playing theknock-about comedian and shall soon 'hit the road. '

"I am willing to do anything for Marie I can, except to love her as Ionce did, but never shall again. Even spirits die, and the spirit of thesalon is so dead that it is beyond resurrection. "

Marie, however, would not believe that the spirit of the salon, or atany rate, as much of that spirit as depended on the relation between herand Terry, was dead; she was more conscious than Terry of the ups anddowns of the human nerves and heart and the ever-present possibility ofchange, and she went to work in a wilful attempt to get back her lover. Her next letter was a triumphant one:

"I am a very happy girl to-day, and I must write to tell you so beforethe mood vanishes, for I have learned that good moods are veryfleeting. .. . The cause of my happiness is, of course, that I have atlast met Terry and we have had a long, delightful talk together, and Ihope our misunderstanding is all cleared up. Only, now I am afraid Ishall begin to pine and fret because we cannot be together always, though reason and philosophy and logic all tell me that the new relationbetween us two is the very best, noblest, most ideal--or at least theytry to tell me so. It very nearly approaches the anarchistic standard, too. 

"There is something fascinating in this new state of affairs. It is justlike falling in love all over again: the clandestine meetings, with theone little tremulous caress at parting--which is all we are bold enoughto exchange--thrill me; it is the mysterious charm of the firstlove-affair! It makes my blood sing and dance. I lie awake the wholenight thinking of our meetings and trying to bring them vividly back tome. 

"And, do you know, what makes me supremely glad is the feeling thatTerry is going to love me again, that I am going to win him back. Hethinks that love is an enslaving thing and harmful to the soul, but mydear lovely idealist and dreamer has loved me once and he must love meagain. I am so in love with love and almost as fanatical about it as theecstatic artist is about art: love for love's sake, art for art's sake. I never did--and hope I never shall--get over that feeling of awe at themystery and beauty and elusiveness of that great force in life--love. And I have always felt so sorry for people, sincere people, who told mehonestly that they have felt that wonder-in-spring sensation only oncein all their lives. It made me think that I had at least one thing to bevery thankful for, that I was different from them, that I couldexperience the divine flame, and experience it continually. If you knewhow often I have fallen in love with Terry!

"Poor Terry, I feel so sorry for him, too; he has no place to stay, though he could stay indefinitely at three or four houses that I knowof, where his friends would feel only too glad to have him. But he sayshe does not want again to attach himself to any person, place, or cause, because the time would come when he should have to break away, and thenhe should have to experience death again. So he intends to move aboutwhenever and wherever the whim suits. But I am sure this life will notsatisfy Terry for long, for there is really very much of the hermit inhim. .. . 

"I am going to see him again in a few days, so I have the pleasantestthings to dream of. If I am to win Terry back, I must be extremelycareful: one false move would be likely to queer the whole thing. Oh, Iam tremendously happy, for I am sure I shall win my dear Terry backagain!"

The next letter, written about a month later, has a note ofdiscouragement, and also a slight suggestion of an effort to steelherself against possible developments in the future:

"When I go among the comrades and friends, I must keep such carefulwatch over myself. I don't want to show them how I feel about ourseparation. The movement had the strongest conviction that I was sowrapped up in Terry--I was always so frantically jealous of him, youknow--that I would surely die, or go crazy, if I were ever separatedfrom him. So they are all guessing at present, and don't know just whatto think of me. Apparently I am just the same, in fact some better, forI laugh and talk more, much more than I ever did. 

"Terry and I have met several times since I wrote you, and I am almostdiscouraged, and think at times it would be better for me not to see himat all. I have to be so careful, and it is awfully hard to control myimpulses to tell him what I feel! But I dare not do that or he wouldnever see me again, and I hardly think I could stand that. He is sovery cold and friendly; of course, he does kiss me when we meet and atparting, but in such an indifferent way, and if I allow my lips tolinger or cling to his for just the least part of a second, you ought tosee how abruptly, almost roughly, he turns away. And I must not evennotice it, and it hurts terribly. I don't understand how anyone can beso dreadfully cold. It makes me thrill all over when I see him bend hishead toward me for the customary kiss, and I close my eyes so that I mayenjoy more intensely that blissful eternity which I expect, and alas!only one short, perfunctory little peck, and it is all over--before myeyes are hardly closed. 

"However, hope has not entirely left me. After being so intimate withTerry for seven years I ought surely to know something of his moods anddisposition; and I do hope and expect that he will in time grow weary ofroaming about and living the way he does now and that he will begin toyearn for feminine influences and caprices and tyrannies, and I hope, for mine in particular!. .. 

"I should be much happier if I did not care for him so much, and I hopethat in time I may have only a strong friendly interest in him. Attimes I envy him: he is so care-free, without the slightestresponsibility toward anything or anybody; he can break from oldassociations and habits so easily and light-heartedly. I never couldhave done that. .. . 

"I am awfully absent-minded these days; you would laugh at some of thefunny things I do. I ride on the cars miles past my street, and wanderabout and forget where I am going. Sometimes I think of things and thenforget I was thinking. "

In another six weeks' time came still more gloomy news:

"Our meetings are as uncertain, unpremeditated, and unarranged as hiswanderings about the city are. It happened that I was all alone for thewhole of last week, eight precious days of freedom, especially fromKatie and her woes. I love her, as you know, but she does get on mynerves, at times. So I wrote Terry, asking him to come and visit with mefor several days. It must have been my Jonah day, for the letter reachedhim, and he came and stayed here with me for the whole seven days. During this time we talked a great deal of our life together and of ourlife since we have not been together, and with his most calm andphilosophical air he spoke of our circumstances, past and present. Itseemed so pleasant and homelike, so much like the old days, to have dearTerry here with me, and I felt such lazy content to see and hear him, that at times I awoke with a start, for I could not keep myself from theidea that our separation was only a horrid dream. 

"So, when he said things that ought to have hurt me dreadfully, Ipositively couldn't feel hurt. Somehow, the sound of his voice was sopleasing that I missed the sting of some of his pessimistic reflectionsabout our love; it seemed to me that he spoke of others, surely not ofour two selves! But now, since he has gone, and I have been forced tothink of the things he said, many of the easily accepted but only halfunderstood reflections on our love have come back to me with all theirsting. And I must now believe that I have passed out from Terry's lifeutterly, and that there is no return, nor hope of return. The most Icould possibly hope for is an indifferent friendship, for so he haswilled it, or perhaps fate, rather, has so willed it. 'Dead love cannever return, ' he said. And I am now only one of the people he knows! Itis so terrible that I must avoid the blow, must seek an independence ofmy own. 

"And I had such high hopes, such dreams of pillowing his dear head on mybosom, and, alas! he would consider that intolerable. And, uponreflection, his head would, in fact, rest very uneasily on my scrawnybreast!

"So I am trying to resign myself and to readjust what is left of mylife. It seems pitiful, though, that my life has been so commonplace allthrough. Not one single exception, not one thing that ever happened tome, or that I ever did, has been different from the experiences of allthe world. My life with Terry, which I surely expected would bedifferent, would be an exception to the commonplace love affairs of allpeople, has now ended the same way as everyone else's. 

"Well, I have had seven years of life, that is perhaps a little morethan some people have, and I ought to be satisfied with that. Thebiggest chapter of my life is over and done and closed for ever and Iwill try not to look back or think of it too much. And I shall tell youthe same as if I were making some solemn vow, that I will not try anymore to regain the love I have lost. "

This resolution of Marie's seemed to have helped her considerably, forher later letters are not quite so exclusively concerned with theunhappy aspect of her relations with Terry. The strong vitality of mindand temperament which enabled this factory girl and prostitute to adjustherself to a relatively intellectual and distinguished existence stillstood her in good stead, and enabled her to meet the present deeplytragic situation step by step and not go under: her youth and vitalityand her love of life triumphed, as we shall see, over even this terriblerupture; the consolatory philosophy of anarchism, which had educatedher, largely fell away, with the love of the man who had created it forher. But the work of the social propagandist has been done on Marie: thewoman is a thoroughly self-conscious individual, as capable of leadingher life as only are very few really distinguished personalities. Hernext letter shows again a more general interest, though still largelyconcerned with Terry:

"The other night Terry spoke for the Social Science League on 'TheLesson of the Haymarket'--referring, as you know, to the hanging of theanarchists in 1886. _The Saturday Evening Post_ had quite a lengthynotice about it the day before the lecture, and nearly all the morningpapers spoke of it the day after. The lecture hall was well filled withpeople who do not usually attend the S. S. League. And I think thesepeople, who were not radical, were much shocked and disappointed, forTerry was not a bit gentle and well-mannered, nor as philosophical as henearly always is. I thought his lecture good, though there was somethingforced about it. Perhaps because he no longer has so much faith was thecause of his greater violence. It was as if he was trying to rememberwhat he had once felt; and that made the expression rougher than if ithad been more spontaneous. I really do not believe that he is, atbottom, at all violent. But he tried to be so in this lecture. Headvocated assassination and regicide and other most violent andblood-curdling things. His voice and manner, however, in saying theseterrible things were not at all convincing. When replying to thecritics, he was most violent, and was hissed and shamed, over half ofthe audience leaving the hall, very angry and indignant. I thought, fora while, that a regular free fist-fight would follow, and it very nearlydid, but Terry had a few friends with him, among them a Germanhen-pecked anarchist I must write you about, and your friend Jimmy, bothof whom were ready to stand by Terry. 

"Needless to say, Terry was gloriously drunk, and utterly reckless, andafter the meeting was over quite a bunch of us became as drunk as he, though not quite so gloriously. He was quite helpless toward the smallhours, when our party broke up, and I took Terry home with me, as Katiewas not there, and on the way I had the pleasure of acting as a refereewhen he and a stranger, who Terry fancied had insulted him, did reallyhave a fist-fight; I gathered up their hats and neck-ties and kept outof the way, ready to call assistance if need be, which fortunately wasnot necessary, for they only rolled around in the dirt a little, andTerry only had his chin smashed slightly by the fall. 

"Drunk as he was, he did not strike the other man, though being strongerhe could have pounded the life out of him; he only tripped him up androlled him on the ground. Terry is certainly instinctively andnaturally gentle and chivalrous, and I loved him as much as ever as Itook him home and put him to bed. 

"I am beginning to think I am a genius in taking care of drunken men, for I have managed in some way to take home and care for quite a numberof them, for instance, Harris, who is the most unmanageable and perversecreature when drunk. I had an experience taking him home which I wouldnot dare write you; and I can hardly realise to this day how I evensucceeded in half carrying and half dragging him to our home from awaydown town. He certainly was the limit. 

"On Monday the papers were all shrieking for Terry's head--wanted himdeported or persecuted or prosecuted. But Terry has a good many friendsand too much of a reputation as a philosopher; and his friends and hisreputation prevented his becoming a martyr. Two friends, both newspapermen, managed to eliminate the most objectionable parts of Terry'sterroristic utterances from their respective papers, and Terry's sister, the lawyer, one sergeant of police, and the ferocious but humane TimQuinn did the rest. For the present, therefore, Terry's desire to beacquainted with the inside of a prison, or otherwise to suffer for thecause which he still half-heartedly believes in, is frustrated. 

"To me the most important aspect of the lecture was that he prepared itin our home. So, for another week, we enjoyed one another's company; andafter the lecture he not only went home with me, as I have said, but hehas remained ever since. I am trying not to build up any more hopes onthis, because I know that Terry has been in a particularly recklessmood, and does not care much where he is. I am sorry that he could notfind a better outlet for his mood than lecturing for the Social ScienceLeague, but that perhaps is a better and more harmless way than gettingin with the criminals, as he has wanted to do so often of late. You maybe sure, however, that his talk on the platform will not be forgotten, and should anything happen, in any way like the McKinley affair, forinstance, I am sure things would be made very unpleasant for him. So Ihope nothing will happen. 

"Terry is really harmless. He expends all of his energy in desiring andthinking and talking, and has nothing left over for action. Whenever hehad any scheme in mind I did not like, I used to encourage him to talkabout it, knowing that he thus would be satisfied, without acting. Helives almost altogether in the head and in the imagination, and isreally a teacher, in his own peculiar way, rather than an actor orpractical man. That is why he takes offence at what seems to me suchlittle things: they are not little to him, in his scheme of things, which is not the scheme of the world, and, alas! not even mine, I fear. He is so terribly alone, and growing more so, and I feel so awfullysorry for him. 

"Especially since our rupture I have been compelled to be so careful notto hurt his feelings or trespass on his ideas of right and wrong; for heimagines he can feel what I am thinking and feeling, even if no wordsare said. He says words only conceal thought and do not express it. Attimes I feel so oppressed and depressed that I should experience thekeenest ecstasy if I could hurt him in some physical way, use my muscleson him until I were exhausted. In imagination I sometimes know thefierce delight and exaltation of my flesh and spirit in hurting thisman whom I love, in hurting him morally and physically--and I feel thelightness of my heart as the accumulated burden of my repression rollsaway in the wildest, freest sensations. 

"Of course, I have only felt this way at times; and at those times Iknow I was very passionate and unreasonable. I had regular fits ofjealousy and anger, but at other times I had a boundless pity for him, there was something so pathetic about his gestures and his voice when hetold me he knows just how I feel about him, that I could have cried outwith the ache of my heart. It was so terrible to see how he suffered inhis heroic attempt to suffice unto himself, to defy the world. He triesto think and feel deeper and higher than anyone else, but this is aterrible, terrible strain. It is all fearfully sad, and sometimes I wishI had never known him. "

About his speech, Terry wrote:

"I am one of the by-products that do not pay just now, until someprocess comes along and sets the seal of its approval on me. Just now Iam deemed worse than useless, and since my speech on 'The Lesson of theHaymarket Riot' the authorities are looking for a law that will deportme. This will suit me, as I will swear that I am a citizen of no man'sland. What I really need is not deportation, but solitary confinement, for the sake of my meditations. For even with my scant companionship Ifeel as if I were a circus animal. I still clutch convulsively to theidea that thought is the only reality and all expression of it merely agrading down of what was most high. If I am shut up I must cease talkingand may think about real things, that is, ideal things. That would helpme to put up with the world, which cannot put up with me unless I am incold storage. There is a mental peace which passeth all understanding, and perhaps I might find that peace in prison. I have been insidiouslypoisoning my own mind for some time, and unless I can stop this I hadbetter cease from talking, which does not seem to purge me of myunconscious pose, and retire to solitude behind the prison bars. There, undisturbed, I can meditate and often remember peacefully the beautifulthings I have known in literature and nature. Beauty is like rain to thedesert, it is rare, but it vanishes only from the surface of things, anddeep down who knows what secret springs it feeds? As my sands run out, the remembrance of the brief beauty I have known will break over me likethe pleasant noise of far-off Niagara waters on the stony desert of mylife. 

"I once thought that I could help the mob to organise its own freedom. But now I see that we are all the mob, that all human beings are alike, and that all I or anyone can do is to save his own soul, to win his ownfreedom, and perhaps to teach others to do the same, not so much throughsocial propaganda as by digging down to a deeper personal culture. Though I sometimes think that just now the prison would help me, yet Ialso long at times to talk to the crowd. I wish to tell the smug onesthat we waste our lives in holding on to things that in our hearts wehold contemptible. I wish to tell the mob just why there are thirtythousand steady men out of work in this city: to do this I may take tothe curbstone. "

After his speech Terry returned to the home of Katie and Marie, as hasbeen described by Marie, but on no basis of permanence. He thus speaksof it:

"You may think that I, too, have 'cashed in' my ideals; for I am back atthe Salon--for how long nobody knows--by special proxy request ofKatie. I will spare myself and you any moralising on my relapse. "

Katie, explaining Terry's return, said: "When he went away, Marie wassad all the time. She could not eat nor sleep and was looking for herlover every day. After weeks had passed I said to her: 'When you seeTerry at the Social Science League, bring him home. ' 'Do you mean it, Katie?' asked Marie, her eyes sparkling. She did so, and Terry wentquietly into his room, and the next morning I made coffee as usual andTerry came out, and it was all right; it might have been all right forgood, if this damned Nietzsche business had not come up. " But that isanticipating. 

It was after Terry's return that the famous miner Haywood, just afterhis acquittal from the charge of murder in connection with the Idaholabour troubles, visited Chicago, and spent most of his time at theSalon with Terry and Marie and several of their friends. The Salon wastemporarily revived, like the flash in the pan, under Haywood'sstimulating influence. Terry wrote of him:

"Haywood has the stern pioneer pride of the West. There is a mightysimplicity about him. He is Walt Whitman's works bound in flesh andblood. He is a man of few words, and of instinctive psychic force, andis the big blond beast of Nietzsche. He knows just what he is doing andwhy, and has a great influence on the crowd: the mob went wild at hismere presence, and after his brief speech he came absolutely to be oneof them. The swaying mass becomes, at his touch, in close contact withtheir instinctive leader. He is too much in touch with the people toagree with narrow trades-union policies. At a secret meeting in thiscity with Mitchell and Gompers he hinted that the Western Federation ofMiners would amalgamate with the American Federation of Labour on theground of no trade agreements and the open shop, and warned them that noman and no organisation was strong enough to stand in the way of thisdevelopment. The Socialist party made him a big offer, but he repliedthat the Labour movement was big enough for him. "

Of Haywood, Marie wrote: "He is a giant in size, but as gentle as themost delicate woman. He has only one eye, but that a very good one whichdoes not miss things. He has been made into a regular hero by thepeople here, but he is the most modest man I have ever met. He issincere and unassuming, so calm, with no heroic bluster about him. Hisvoice is quiet and gentle. We had a blow-out for him, and all thosepresent were very discreet. We all forgot our years and our troubles andwe showed him a good time. I hardly think that even you, with all yourdemocracy, could have stood for all the things that happened. Haywood isa big, good-natured boy, but quite sentimental, too. I think he liked mepretty well. I am sure he could have won many much more attractive girlsthan I, but somehow he took to me right from the start. I was introducedto him along with a whole bunch of girls, all good-lookers, too, but Isat back quietly and was the only one who did not say nice things to thehero. "

CHAPTER XIII

_Marie's Failure_

Though Terry was back in what was formerly the Salon, and though the oldspirit seemed at times to be still alive, yet it was more in appearancethan in reality. It is difficult to regain an emotional atmosphere oncelost; and it is especially difficult to live by the gospel of freedom, when once the eloquence of that gospel is no longer deeply felt. Thenthere is nothing left to take its place--no prosaic sense of duty, nosteady habit, no enduring interest in work. As these two human beingsdrifted further and further apart from their common love and theircommon interest, the idealistic man became more self-centred, moreunsocial, more fiercely individual, and the emotional and sensual womanbecame more self-indulgent, more hostile to any philosophy--anarchismsuch as Terry's, with its blighting idealism--which limited her simplejoy in life and in mere existence. 

So their quarrels became more brutal, more abrupt. Both intenselynervous, both highly individualised, their characters conflicted withthe intensity of two real and opposing forces. A tragic aspect of it allwas that it was due to Terry's teaching that Marie attained to thehighly individualised character which was destined to rebel against thefinally sterilising influence of her master. Even physical violencebecame part of their life, and words that were worse than blows. Thestrong bond which still lingered held them for a time together, notwithstanding what was becoming the brutality of their relations. Oneday Marie called Terry to his coffee and he refused. A quarrel followed, in the course of which she hit Terry on the head with a pitcher, and theresulting blood was smeared over them both. When calm came again shesaid to him:

"Terry, how can we live together?"

"Ain't we living together? Doesn't this prove it?" he replied, grimly. 

And this man would use violence in return--and this was the delicateidealist, the idealist whose love for Marie had at one time been partand parcel of his high dreams for humanity and perfection, a part of hispropaganda, a part of his hope: during which period he had beenscrupulous not to use force of any kind, spiritual or physical, on thegirl whom he doubly loved--the girl whom he held in his arms every nightfor years with a passionate tenderness due to his feeling of herphysical fragility and her social unhappiness, rather than to any otherinstinct. 

"Marie, " he said, "did not fully understand the character of my love forher. She loved me intellectually and sensually, but not with the soul. She wanted my ideas, and sex, and more sex, but not the invisiblereality, the harmony of our spirits. From the day that I fullyunderstood this, my confidence in her and in all things seemed to go. She felt that I had withdrawn something from her, and it made herharder. She began cruelly to fling the amours that I had tolerated aslong as I hoped for the spiritual best in my face. It was a kind ofrevenge on her part. "

Practical troubles, too, lent their disturbing element to the littleremaining harmony of the three. 

"We shall probably be forced to leave our rooms in a short time, " wroteMarie. "Our landlord has asked us to leave, without giving any otherreasons than that he wanted a smaller family in these most desirablerooms! Terry is indignant, for we have been quiet and orderly, and Katiehas always paid the rent in advance. We shall certainly stay until thepolice come and carry us out and our household goods with us. 

"It is true that we have had unusual difficulty in paying the rent andin getting enough to eat and smoke; and this has not added to ourgood-nature. You have no doubt read about the 'money stringency' in thiscountry. Times are indeed very hard, thousands of men are out of a job, and the so-called criminals are very much in evidence. For a long timeKatie could not find work to do and could not get any of her money fromthe bank, so that things looked very 'bohemian' around here for a while. She could not get anything to do in her own line, and finally had to goout to 'service. ' But this she could not stand more than a week, forKatie has fine qualities and is used to a certain amount of freedom, soshe couldn't stand the slavishness of the servant life, though she hadgood wages and nice things to eat, which Katie likes very much. 

"When Katie started in on this venture she had the proverbial thirtycents, which she divided up with me--Terry had not returned from hiswanderings at that time--and I recklessly squandered ten cents of thisgoing to and returning from the Social Science League. In a day or twothere was nothing edible in our house but salt, so I squandered myremaining nickel for bread. I made that loaf last me nearly four days: Iate only when I was ravenously hungry, so that it would taste good, forI hate rye bread. I slept a good deal of the time. I suffered terribly, though, when my tobacco gave out, and I spent most of my time and energyhunting old stumps, and I found several very good ones in the unsweptcorners and under the beds. I even picked some out of the ashcan. TheseI carefully collected, picked out the tobacco and rolled it in freshpapers, as carefully as any professional hobo. "

When Katie was temporarily hard up, that naturally put Terry and Marie"on the bum. " But they remained "true blue" and did not go to work, Marie being willing to put up with all sorts of discomfort rather thantry for a job. She continued:

"It is a strange thing that nobody came to our house during these sixdays. But on the sixth day, Terry came, and then I had a good squaremeal, and he even left me carfare and some of the horrible stuff hecalls tobacco. Two more days elapsed before Katie returned. Until then Ilived on that square meal. I had ten cents from Terry, but I was sick ofrye bread. On the day that Katie returned, in fact only a few hoursbefore, I was foolish enough to visit an anarchist friend, Marna. I wasawfully lonely and thought a little change would do me good. So I wentto Marna, but got there a little too late for supper. I must admit I washungry. I hinted to Marna that I was, said I'd been in town all day, andthings like that, but she did not catch on and I was stubborn andwouldn't ask. Stephen was there, and for a moment I thought I might eat. He had not had his supper, and he said that if Marna was not too tiredto cook, he would go and buy a steak. I tell you, the thought of thatsteak was awfully nice and I had to put my handkerchief to my mouth tokeep the water from flowing over. I offered to cook it for him, but hepassed it up. I made one more desperate bluff and asked him if he wouldget some beer for us! And I reached for my purse, and for one wildmoment I thought sure he had called my bluff and would really take myonly nickel, my carfare home. I nearly fell over with suspense, but inthe nick of time he went out, refusing my money. And I even taunted him, asked him if he thought it was tainted!

"When the beer came, I drank most of it. Beer is a great filler, but ofcourse it went straight to my head and feet--that is, my head got lightand my feet heavy. But I managed to navigate to the street car and so onhome, where I found Katie, a cheerful fire and a delicious smell ofcookery and coffee. 

"Now, I must make you a confession. During these six days I had somethoughts of working, the only thing I could think of being a job as awaitress. But when a vision of ham and pert females and more impertinentmales came to me my courage oozed away, and I did not even try. I don'tthink I'll ever work again. Did you ever read Yeats' story 'Where Thereis Nothing?'

"I love Marna, as you know, but when she talks to me about 'work, ''health, ' and the like, I feel like becoming even more solitary than Iam. She says I am not ambitious! Ye gods, I think I am ever so much moreambitious than she! I am more ambitious to live in these little squalidrooms than in the mansions of the rich. My kind of happiness--I meanideally--is not Marna's kind; and I am sure now that if I ever find it, it will be in the slums. Here I can sit and muse, undisturbed by theambition of the world. Blake comes to me as an indulgent father to histired and fretful child and sings to me his sunflower song. If I were ina castle I don't think even Blake could soothe my restless spirit. 

"But, unfortunately, even in the slums one needs to eat. Without warningI tumble from my air castles because some horrible monster gnaws at me, and will not let me be, however much I try to ignore him. That mean, sneaking thing is hunger. And because I am only mortal, and because thewill to live is stronger than I, I must eat my bread. I often cry when Ithink of this contemptible weakness. I have often tried to overcome thisannoying healthiness of my body. How can people be gourmands? EvenShelley and Keats had to eat. What a repulsive word 'eat' is! I would Icould eat my heart and drink my tears. The world is what it is becausewe must eat. See the whole universe eating and eating itself, over andover! If it were not for this fearful necessity, Terry and I shouldnot, perhaps, have failed in our high attempt!

"'The chief thing, ' said Oscar Wilde, 'that makes life a failure, fromthe artistic point of view, is the thing which lends to life its sordidsecurity. '

"But alas! to this sordid security, or to the care for it, we are drivenby our need of bread. If Terry and Katie and I had never had this need, we might have become angels of virtue and insight. But on account ofthis we never could really attain freedom; that embittered our souls andturned us at times viciously against each other. "

Terry's growing jealousy, which seemed to surprise Marie, was a sign ofthe weakening of his philosophy, as far as it was social and not purelyindividual. It may seem strange that after his real love for herappeared to pass, his jealousy increased; but this was due to severalcauses: if his social interest in her--his propagandist interest--hadcontinued, her sexual license would have continued to feed his passionfor social protest. But when Marie had ceased to interest him as a"case, " or a "type, " or a "victim, " the only bond remaining must be thatof the pure individual soul or of the body. Terry's lack ofsensuality--his predominating spiritual and mental character--precludedany strong tie of the physical kind. So there remained, as a possibletie, only a close spiritual relation between two individuals, a soulbond--and this Marie's character and conduct tended to prevent. Terry, if they were to be together, saw that the deeper personal relation mustexist, now that there was no other--and so he was jealous of any conductwhich showed in Marie a lack of sensibility for the deeper spirituallife; hence the physiological jealousy, which he had not felt, or hadcontrolled at one time, showed itself. No doubt his increasingnervousness was an added reason--nervousness due to the long strain, physical and mental, which his life and social experiment had involved. 

During these last weeks Marie had another lover, and was especiallycareless in not concealing any of its manifestations. She, too, on herside, was subject to greater and greater strain. Terry's growingloneliness and austerity, his melancholy and unsociability, his negativephilosophy, all this tended more and more to inhibit her natural youngjoy in life and to give it violent expression. The philosophy ofanarchism had increased her natural leaning to the free expression ofher moods and passions, and now, with weakened nervous resources, shehardly cared to make any effort to restrain what she called hertemperament. 

"Yes, he became my lover, " she wrote, "and we disappeared for a fewdays. Did you ever read George Moore's Leaves From My Lost Life? In itis a story called 'The Lovers of Orelay. ' My lover and I spent our fewdays together in much the same way as did the lovers in the story. Wehad our nice secluded cool rooms and beautiful flowers. I threw mypetticoats over the chairs and scattered ribbons and things on thedressing table just like the girl in the story. And we had nice thingsto drink and good cigarettes, and had all our breakfasts and suppersserved in our rooms. The little adventure turned out better than suchthings usually do; nothing awkward happened to mar our pleasure in anyway, and I'm glad it happened--and is over and done with. 

"You may think me a very light-headed and heartless and altogetherfrivolous person from my actions. But I felt so humiliated and so sorryand so desperate about Terry that I was ready to embrace any excitement, just to forget that our great relation had gone. This time it was to getaway from myself, not in the old physically joyous mood--and to get awayfrom Terry's poisonous philosophy of life. 

"This lover of mine was so joyous, so healthy, so vigorous, so full oflife! He was very different from Terry, and I really needed him as akind of tonic. And yet, of course, I did not care for him deeply at all. In fact, I want never again to have a deep relation to anybody, if thisbetween Terry and me must go. 

"This profound failure has made me reckless; Terry is sensitive now, andknows from my manner and face and the way I express myself just how I amfeeling toward any other man. The other day an old lover of mine turnedup in Chicago, and this brought about a scene with Terry. 

"To explain this episode I must go back several years. I once knew aSwiss boy, a typical Tyrolean. The day I met him in Chicago he had justarrived from his native land, and seemed so forlorn and lonely andmiserable that my heart went right out to him. He was such a big, handsome child, too, about twenty years old. He could not understand aword of English, and no one talked to him, but me, who, as you know, hadparents who spoke German. He was delighted and told me his whole lifestory, how he became emancipated and one of the Comrades. His eyessparkled so and his cute little blond curls jumped all over his headwith the enthusiasm and joy of having found some one to talk to, that Iwas quite content to sit and watch and listen. And he thought me themost sympathetic person in the world. 

"Had I only known the result of my impulse to say a few words to alonely boy! For he did fall in love with me, and in such sturdymountaineer fashion that I very nearly had nervous prostration--and hetoo--in trying to get away from his strenuous wooing. For he started outto win me in the same style that he would have used toward one of thecow-girls in his native Alps. He waylaid me and followed me aroundeverywhere, just camped on my trail; wanted to carry me away to someplace out West, where there were mountains. The more I discouraged him, the more lovesick and forlorn he became, until finally he became thelaughing-stock of the 'movement, ' and I was chaffed about itunmercifully. He knew I had a lover, but that was no obstacle; and hetold me several times with fine enthusiasm that he would not object tosharing his love with another man! He had read something about freelove, and thought he should like to be an Overman and superior to pettyjealousies. 

"Strange to say, my curly-headed Swiss lover did not 'insult' me, asthey call it, though I naturally enough supposed that he wanted to, butdidn't have enough courage. But I was wrong, as I discovered later, whenI grossly insulted him! Perhaps a girl is loved only once in a lifetimein just that way, perhaps not at all, and I often think I made a mistakein being so cruel to my boy lover. I might in time have learned to lovehim in the right way, but I couldn't at that time, perhaps because I wasso much occupied with Terry, my own lover, and with the movement, whichwas new to me and very charming, for I had just discovered it. 

"At times I had an immense pity for the poor boy and would have doneanything to help him feel better. I had not the slightest physicalfeeling for him, but I should have been quite willing to indulge him, ifhe had asked me. That was part of our philosophy and my kindness. But hedid not ask me, though he often had the opportunity. He was quitecontent to be with me and kiss my hands, and beg me to love him alittle. When he saw I did not like to have him kiss me so much, he wouldgrow so sad and forlorn and tiresome. One day he was at the Salon withothers and annoyed me by hanging about me all the time, until I couldn'tstand it any longer. I called him into another room and told him bluntlythat I would indulge him, if that would help him, only he must forheaven's sake leave me alone!

"Now, this was a most indelicate thing for me to do, and I blush as Iwrite of it, but I was so desperate and possibly a little under theinfluence of whiskey--a most convenient and universal excuse--and hadtried all other means of ridding myself of this annoyance, even toslapping his face and forbidding him to come to the house! When Islapped him, he simply kissed the hand that smote him, and when Iforbade him to return to the house, he followed me about the streets. If I told you all the silly and ridiculous things the youth did or allthe mean, brutal things I did to cure him, you would scarcely believeme. 

"Now when I made that abrupt proposal to him, he blushed to the tip ofhis ears, and then grew very angry, and called me an animal and a beastand said he had loved me because he thought I was different from that;that he did not want that kind of love from me. After a while hisvehemence and anger turned to tears, and he kissed my hands and sobbedout his intention of going away. I was repentant and very sweet and kindto him while he stayed, but soon he did go West and I did not see himagain till a few weeks ago, when, one Saturday night, I found himwaiting for me at our rooms. I was astonished and not too glad to seehim, especially now that Terry is so sensitive. 

"When Terry came home, he looked suspiciously at me and at the poorSwiss, but though I was quite innocent, I could not turn the poor fellowaway, after he had come so far to see me. But I did not feel at allfriendly to him, and I did not speak to him the next day, especially asTerry went away for several days, to give me a chance, as he put it, toenjoy my love. Then I told the Swiss with heat that I never wanted tosee him again, and he went away for good. "

Marie, however, seemed about this time to have lost any sensibilityabout Terry's emotion that she may have possessed. Perhaps it wasbecause, as I have said, she felt that the relation of mutual confidencewas really broken and nothing very much mattered. Anyway, she went sofar in her carelessness that Terry could not help coming in disagreeablecontact with what was growing painful to him, though he would be farfrom admitting it. 

Katie, describing these last weeks, said that Terry grew more and morejealous and inclined to violence. He was very imaginative, and saw inMarie's eyes "something wrong, " as Katie put it. Marie could not beexpressive to Terry after an "affair, " and Katie saw that Terryunderstood the meaning of this inexpressiveness. Also, when Terry wentaway for a day or two, without an explanation, Marie was equally"imaginative. " Both were intensely proud, both intensely interested intheir "individuality. " One day Terry went away, without an explanation, and returned, after a few days, "pleasantly piped, " as he put it, satdown and began to undress. It was dark, and he had no idea that somebodyelse was there. But Marie called out harshly, "You can't sleep here. "

"I understood, " said Terry. But Katie replied, "That's all right, " andshe slept on the couch. 

"This kind of thing, " said Katie, "put them further and further apart. Terry couldn't help feeling the sting there was in it. Marie had donethe same before, but it was in a different spirit. One of the lastscenes was when H---- was visiting us. He and Marie were having coffeein her room, and Terry was in the other room. Marie and H---- calledKatie to come and have coffee with them. Terry was not invited and thislater brought about a terrible quarrel. 

"But, " said Katie, "it was not really jealousy, though that was part ofit, that brought about the last break. They calmed down, but then beganto read Nietzsche again, and I think went daffy over him. Terry triedthe Overman theory on me and Marie. Americans cannot understand Germanphilosophy. "

Nietzsche's doctrine of the distinguished individual being "beyond goodand evil, " a man superior to the morality of society, his hatred ofChristian civilisation and Christian ethics, his love of the bigforcible blonde who takes his right by his strength only, all this wascongenial to Terry's character, and especially so after the weakening ofhis social philosophy. The aloofness of the Overman, the individualisticteachings of Zarathustra, appealed to the anti-social Terry, to the manwho more and more went back to his egotistic personality, to whom moreand more the "communist" Christian anarchists made little appeal, whomore and more became what is called an individualist anarchist, withwhom there is little possibility of relationship, who is essentiallyanti-social, whose philosophy is really that of social destruction. Thisindeed is the anarchist who lives in the public mind--a destroyer. Butwhat the public mind does not see is that this destructive anarchist isthe result of a lost hope in anarchistic communism, a lost hope ofradical extension of social love, in absolute solidarity. 

CHAPTER XIV

_Marie's Revolt_

"The winners fall by the wayside, " wrote Terry, "while the losers mustever on--hearkening to some high request, hastening toward a namelessgoal. I am loser, for my motives are large and my actions small. In mydesire to embrace the universe I may neglect a comrade. I can be as hardas my life and as cruel as its finish. I have only an ideal, andwhenever anything or anybody gets in the way of it I am ruthless infeeling. I must not give up all that I have--what is in my imagination:I have nothing else. "

Yes, Terry is hard. He "passes up" remorselessly not only theindividual, but all society; but it is the hardness of the idealist, ofthe man who is still religious in the sense that he sees a beyond-worldwith which to compare this world and find it totally lacking. So, moreand more he "passed up" Marie, found her more and more lacking, more andmore human. The fact of her being a social outcast no longer had itsstrong appeal. He became hard and cruel to her through idealism, just asshe had been hard and cruel to him through sensuality and falsephilosophy. But her hardness never equalled his fine scorn. 

For a year or two preceding this point in the situation I had beenliving in Europe, and had met a good many men and women who had given alarger part of their lives to the making of a social experiment. Some ofthem, discouraged, had returned to a "bourgeois" manner of life, someeven to a "bourgeois" philosophy. Almost all of the anarchists I haveknown lost their philosophy and enthusiasm with middle age, andexperience with the actual constitution of things, combined withdisillusion regarding the ideal. Most of them had been hurt or broken bytheir attempt, but they all retained a certain something, a certainremaining dignity of having struggled against the inevitable, and hadacquired insight into some of the deeper things in life, though havinglost some of the childlike simplicity which is a characteristic of thesocial rebel. 

I saw a great deal of an old Frenchman, who had known Bakunin, and hadbeen astute in the dangerous work of the "International" in England andGermany. An associate of William Morris and the other English anarchistswho at that time called themselves socialists, my friend came in contactwith much that was distinguished in mind and energy; he afterwardcarried the propaganda of revolutionary socialism to Germany, where hewas arrested and imprisoned for five years. He is now a handsome, white-haired, well-preserved old man, with fine simple manners and joyin simple things, love of children and of long conversations withfriends, good will and peace. He has retained a certain mild contemptfor the "bourgeois, " for people who prefer an easy time in this world toan attempt, even a foolish one, for radical improvement. But he knowsthe world now, and I fancy many of his illusions are gone. 

Another of my radical friends is now only thirty-six years old; butalready he is tired and discouraged, socially speaking. He is aFrenchman, too, with all the easy mental grace and intellectual cultureof his race. Soon after his student days at the Sorbonne, the socialfever of our day, which burns in the blood of all who are sensitive, took possession of him. Like Terry, he was drawn emotionally to aninterest in the social outcast; like Terry, a girl in that classinterested him, and he took up the cause of the girls, and led an attackagainst the _policiers des moeurs_, the special police who attempt toregulate prostitution in Paris. He spent all the money he had in theattempt, lost his respectable friends, and, after several years offruitless effort, hope left him. When I met him he was living quietly, in bohemian fashion, drawing a very small salary and devoting himself toabstract philosophy, to science, and to pessimistic memories of the daysof his social enthusiasm, or what he now calls his social illusions. 

One of the most pathetic social experiments I have known was made by ayoung girl, whom I also knew at Paris. She generously determined thatshe would have no sex prejudices; and for several years she stroveagainst the terribly strong social feeling in that regard. Not onlytheoretically but practically she persisted in thinking and acting in away which the world calls immoral. She wanted to show that a girl couldbe good and yet not what the world calls chaste. She did not believethat sex-relations had anything to do with real morality. In one way, she has been successful. She is as good now--better--as when she beganher experiment. She is broader and finer and bigger; but she hassuffered. She has been disappointed in her idealism, disappointed in theway men have met her frank generosity, she has been injured in a worldlyway. Her strongest desires are those of all good women--she deeply wantsthe necessary shelter for children and social quiet and pleasure, andthese essentials are denied her because of her idealism. She half feelsthis now and is tired and discouraged. 

Another woman who has paid heavily for her "social" interests is inquite a different position. She is married to a man who is also a socialidealist. He is so emotionally occupied with "society" that nature andlife in its more eternal and necessary aspects touch him lightly. Hehardly realises their existence. She tries to follow him in thisdirection; strains her woman's nature, which is a large one, to theuttermost. It is probable that the loss of his child was due to thisidealistic contempt for old wisdom. Not a moment must be lost, not athought devoted to anything but the revolution; this necessitatedsocial activity, and that exclusively. Where was the opportunity forthe quiet development and care of an infant? The children of the"radicals" are few, and as a rule do not grow up in the best conditions. This certainly is a terrible sacrifice entailed upon the socialidealist. 

Writers in France and in Europe generally are much more interested inradical ideas of society and politics than they are in this country. Themost distinguished among them are from the American point of viewradical, at least. There is hardly a play of note produced in France orGermany that does not in some way trench upon modern social problems. Anatole France is a philosophical anarchist, and so is Octave Misbeau. It is not a disreputable thing to be so in France. An Emma Goldman therewould be an object of respect. The prime minister of France wasgenerally regarded as an anarchist before he went into office. A man ofthe type of Hervê would be deemed a madman here. Even a man as littleradical as Jaurès would be considered a terrible social danger inAmerica and could not conceivably have the power he exerts in France, where they have a respect for ideas as such. 

But, combined with this interest in social things and this willingnessto entertain the most radical ideas, there is a note of pessimism anddisillusionment. Anatole France's work shows this double tendency well. He reflects the social revolt and lack of respect for the old society ina most subtle way, but also he mirrors the failing hope of the socialenthusiast. He has a deep sympathy for the social idealist, but nearlyevery book suggests the inevitable wreckage of enthusiasm on the rocksof actuality. 

When, after an absence of several years, I returned from Europe and wentagain to Chicago, I found Terry alone, disheartened, and different fromthe Terry I had known. Soon I saw that in him had taken place a processnot unlike that which had happened to my friends abroad and which wasreflected in European literature. His letters and Marie's had alreadyindicated, as we have seen, his social disappointment. But I found himmore bitter even than I had expected; cut off even from the anarchists, nourishing almost insanely his individuality, full of Nietzsche'sphilosophy of egotism, rejecting everything passionately, turning fromhis friends, turning from himself. Old society had long been dead forhim and now he had no hope for the new!

Besides, Marie was not with him: she had revolted and run away. I hadexpected to see her in Chicago; she had written me that she would bethere, but when I arrived I learned from Terry and Katie that she hadgone away. During the few weeks preceding my return to Chicago, thequarrels between the three had grown in poignancy. Terry, unlike some ofthe disappointed anarchists I have known, could not settle back into aneasy acceptance of life. With him it was all or nothing. More and morefiercely he rejected all society, even, as we have seen anarchistsociety. Of course, Marie came more and more in the way of this generalanathema. She was young and pleasure-loving, and at last her naturecould no longer stand this general rejection, the absence of the simplepleasures of life. It was not their quarrels, even when they came toblows, that determined her action. It was a revolt from the radicalsterility of Terry's philosophy. Katie furnished her with the necessarymoney, and she went away to California. There this tired creature, thiscivilised product of the slums, this thoughtful prostitute, thisstriving human being full of the desire for life and as eager forexcellence as is the moth for the star, went into camp, and there, inthe bosom of nature, her terrible fatigue was well expressed in thegreat sense of relief that resulted: a new birth, as it were, arefreshing reaction from slum life and overstrained mental intensity. This new birth and this reaction from Terry's philosophy are wellexpressed in her letters to Terry and to me. To me she wrote:

"I have not dared to write you before for fear of your anger toward mefor my abrupt dismissal of our plans of meeting, but I could not helpit. The life instinct in me would not be doomed, but was insistent inits demands and made me flee from insanity and death. So here I am, faraway from civilisation, from the madding crowd, away up in themountains, making a last effort to live the straight free life ofNature's children, a suckling at the breasts of Mother Earth. And trulyher milk is passing sweet and goes to the head like wine, for I feelintoxicated with the beauty and joy of all things here in this new, wonderful world. I did not know that such beauty existed, and myappreciation of it is so intense that it produces sensations of physicalpain. I live much as the birds do, or at least try to--no thought of themorrow, or of the past, except when I receive a letter from dear oldKatie or from Terry. Katie asks me if I have found a job yet, and Terryhas some sweet reflections about death or dead things. But I recover inan amazingly short time from these blows, climb to the mountain-top, extend my arms to the heavens, and embrace passionately the great, grand, throbbing stillness. 

"I have been here now a whole month and have not yet wearied of it for amoment. Each day brings a new, wonderful experience; and each day I feela real part of the great wonderful scheme of things. Indeed, I ambecoming a part of nature. I have grown so straight and tall, and sobeautifully thin and supple that I can dart in and out of the streamwithout bumping myself against the rocks, can climb steep hills, and letthe winds blow me where they will. I should not be at all surprised toawaken some morning and find that I had become one of the tall reedsthat sway to and fro along the banks of our mountain stream. 

"In one of my brief periods of returning civilisation, just afterreceiving a terrible letter from Terry, I had myself weighed at thestore and post-office of the town not far away from our camp; my weightwas exactly eighty pounds! It seemed to me that I was fading away intosomething wild and strange. But I have never felt such physical andmental well-being since I can remember. I hardly need to eat, but ourcamp cook actually forces me to swallow something. He is a German'radical' of the old school. Frightfully tired of the radical bunch as Iam, I like this simple old man. He is like a part of Nature, has livedon her bosom all his life, and loves her and no other. We have visitorsat our camp occasionally, and they bring things to eat and drink. Whenthey are gone, the cook and I live on what is left and get along as bestwe may. There are lots of wild fruits and nuts growing about here andthey are delicious. Neither of us has any money nor care for the morrow. 

"After I arrived here, all the bitterness of life vanished. I thoughtand felt very beautifully of Terry, and always shall, for I have made anideal of him, and his grand, noble head, like a blazing tiger-lilyperched upon a delicate and slender stem, will always be for me thegreatest, most wonderful recollection of all the years. But I have nolonger any desire to be with him, yet I do love and adore him, my ownwonderful, sweet, great Terry!"

To Terry she wrote: "I am intoxicated by all this beauty and love thevery air and earth. I feel the ecstasy of the æsthetic fanatic. Were Inot disturbed by thoughts of you, I would indeed become another Evebefore the fall, though I have strange desires and my blood beats as inthe veins of married women. But no lovers can quench my fever. All thetiresome males are far away and I feel new-born and free. The air isscented with balsam and bey, and a pure crystal stream flows throughthis valley between two hills covered with giant redwood trees, and rareorchids of the most curious shape and colour toss wantonly in the breezeon the tree and hilltops. Birds and fishes and reptiles disportthemselves in the sunshine, and giant butterflies of the most marvellouscolours flutter so bravely among the ferns and flowers. There are notents here in our camp, but we are covered with the fragrant branches ofthe spicy pines and nutmeg trees. It is a Paradise, and I think of youalways when I am in the midst of beauty. 

"My trip here included an eighteen-mile walk--in one day--think of that!I am getting as thin and strong as a greyhound. I don't wear clothes atall, but when I do, it is the old man's overalls, which I put on to goto town to get groceries or call for the mail. At night, our old cookbuilds a huge fire of redwood logs, and then his tongue loosens and hequotes poetry by the column or talks of his experience as a preacher, actor, village schoolmaster, and vagabond. Without a cent he travels allover California, as strong and rugged as any redwood tree that grows inthis wonderful valley. 

"It is so secluded here that no one would suspect campers were about. The trail leads down a steep descent. How stately it is between the hugestems of the trees, along our beautiful creek, cool and clear ascrystal, and filled with trout and other fishes. There I sit in the sunand allow the water to pour over my shoulders. "

In another letter to Terry she writes:

"Our sylvan retreat has been somewhat disturbed by the advent of Mrs. Johns, her children and her dog. Annie is also here, but they will notremain long, it is too quiet, too lonely, and the nights are toomysterious and uncanny, strange noises to disturb the slumbers of thetimid. And besides there is nothing to do, no hurry or bustle oractivity. The spirit of repose, of rest, of sweet laziness broods overthis spot, inviting us to dream away the hours among the spicy pinetrees. And for two such active ladies it is very dull here. Even whenthey go to town they return disgusted and weary in spirit because of theslowness of the natives, who are half Spanish, half Mexican. Even thebeautiful trail winding in and out among the mountains does notcompensate them for the dreadful slowness of the natives. I, however, love this slowness and converse amicably with the natives. And when I ama little active I go fishing, or climb about, or take a lesson inSpanish from my old philosopher-cook. I am now learning a little peasantsong, the refrain being, 'Hula, tula, Palomita, ' and it does sound sobeautiful that I repeat it over and over. It means, 'Fly, fly, littledove!'

"The fishing I do not care for much. It is exciting for a time, butsoon grows a bit too strenuous for my lazy temper. The little stream isfilled with trout; one has flies for bait which have to be kept on themove continually. Walking and jerking the lines out of the watercontinually soon makes my arms and legs tired. I like best of all to liein a bed of fragrant leaves, my head in the shade and the rest of me inthe sun, the murmur of the brook in my ears, the skies mirrored in myeyes, fantastic dreams in my mind--in these you are seldom absent. Atnight I sleep as I have never slept--a deep, dreamless slumber. I awaketo a cold plunge in the stream. Oh, it just suits me! I am tired ofpeople, tired of tears and laughter, of men that 'laugh and weep, ' and'of what may come hereafter, for men that sow to reap. '"

A letter from Terry came like a dart into her solitude and for a momentdisturbed her mood--her deeply hygienic, fruitful mood. She wrote tohim:

"Your letter was a dreadful, an overwhelming shock. It aroused passionsin me which I thought were laid to rest. But, after getting very drunk, I had sense enough to sleep over it, so that this morning I am almostmy new self again. Last night I felt like cursing you with all thewrath of the earth and heaven. The last three weeks I have been campinghere, caught in the spell of the wonder and beauty of nature. I havewritten you the half crazy rhapsodies of a girl intoxicated with the joyof life and health. Now I do indeed think that life is beautiful andworth the living. No, I do not worry about you. I am as happy andcare-free as the birds, and live in and for the moment. Everything inthe past is dead. Only when your letter came, these old things of my oldself raised their heads for a little time, but they too shall diespeedily, if I mistake not. Life is too wonderful, too beautiful to bemarred thus by the ends of frayed and worn-out passions, by memories orregrets of you. I have become happy, healthy, and free, free withouthardness, and in my freedom and joy I have found my love, my beautifulTerry, whom I may love passionately, tenderly and for ever, the dearideal one. Is it not wonderful? I crown myself with flowers and go forthto meet him every day. I kneel at his feet and caress his dear hands. For I love him dearly, this very new Terry. Yet, my dear, if you shouldcome near me, I mean, you, my old poisonous Terry, I would flee from youas from a pest. I would loath myself and the sun and flowers and all theother beautiful things of earth. I do not think of you at all, my oldTerry, but I think of you and love and adore you, my new, wonderfulTerry, and I make myself beautiful for you. So, my dear old Terry, Iwill leave you to 'lice and liberty, ' to your 'hard free life, ' and Iwill now lave myself with the pure crystal waters and make myself cleanagain, and then look on the sun once more and dream again of my ownadorable Terry. "

In this letter, Marie said, by implication, a deep truth about socialrevolt. She could never have lived her life without him, this strange, poetic man. He awoke in this outcast, rather vicious girl, a keenlonging for the excellent, for the pleasures of the intelligence and thetemperament; he gave her an assured sense of her own essential dignityand worth; defended her against the society that rejected her. This wasa truly Christ-like thing to do, and this she could never forget or dowithout. So, in her wilderness, she holds fast to her ideal Terry. Butwith this idealist she could not live, practically. The growingirritation felt by him because of his radical mal-adjustment to thisworld rendered him step by step more impossible to live with. Harshness, injustice, became forced upon him as qualities of his acts. How could hebe fair when he had no understanding of the nature of actuality? It isprobable that no woman can ever get so far away from actuality as a fewrare idealists of the male sex. Marie's relative good sense, hervitality and love of life, finally rebelled against an idealism soexquisite that it became cruelty and almost madness. And this is the waywith the world. The world cannot, in the end, endure the idealist, though it has great need of him. The world can endure a certain amountof irritation, a certain amount of fundamental revolt, but when thatrevolt reaches the point of absolute rejection, the world rebels, theworm turns. Marie represents the world and the worm. 

Plato said there should be no poets in his Republic. Poets are toodisturbing, they fit into no social organisation, for the truth they seeis larger and often other than the truth of mankind's housekeeping, ofhuman society. So they are against society. They are for nature, bothGod's nature and man's nature, but man's organisation arouses theirpassionate hostility. Therefore, said Plato, let us have no poets in ourRepublic. But Plato was a poet, and he probably knew that poets, thoughinimical to the actual working of any actual society, yet are necessaryto keep alive the deeper ideals of humankind, to arouse perpetually theinstinct for something better than what we have, something deeplybetter, something radically better, not the mere improvements, palliatives, of the practical man and the conservative, bourgeoisreformer. 

CHAPTER XV

_Terry's Finish_

Terry had given Marie life, and she had finally used this vitality tofree herself from him and his too exigent idealism. The result of hisrelation to her seems from this point of view pathetically ironical; butit is only a symbol of the ironical pathos of his relation to society ingeneral; he and his kind act as a stimulant and a tonic to the societywhich rejects and crushes them. The anarchist is in a double sense thevictim of society. He is, in the first place, generally a "labour"victim, is generally the maimed result of our factory system; and, inthe second place, his philosophy, needed by society, reacts againsthimself and turns the world against him. So he is a double victim, areiterated social sacrifice. 

When I went to Chicago this last time I found Terry, as I have said, despondent and disillusioned; and intensely savage in his rejection, notonly of capitalistic society, but apparently of all society. In a way, he had left his old moorings, the "proletariat" no longer appealed tohim. This mood was not a part of his philosophy: it was an expression ofhis disappointment, of his disillusionment. He talked about his own lifeand Marie's with an almost brutal frankness. He seemed to take a sadpleasure in stripping the illusion of human worth and beauty to the barebones. In spite of his words, in spite of his previous letters, itseemed clear to me that Marie had not lost her hold on him entirely, andthat he deeply felt her defection. Through her he had failed sociallyand personally. Around her much of his life, intellectual and personal, had been wound. Lingeringly he talked of her, of her qualities; heseemed to try to steel himself against all need of human relation;incidentally he rejected me and other friends, finding us wanting. Marie, too, was not perfect, and must be "passed up"; but his mindrested, in spite of himself, on this woman and his life with her. Someof the things he said and wrote to me about this time indicate hispresent mood toward me, Marie, the anarchists, proletariat, and theworld in general. 

A year or two ago he wrote me: "No one, very close to me geographically, can ever get much out of me. This is a family trait and is too deep forme. So don't be downcast if we should ever meet again and you shouldfind me as stoical as some crustacean of the past. Some suchantediluvian feeling animates me to take advantage of your distance andclamour up out of the depths. "

He did, indeed, "clamour up out of the depths" very eloquently, but whenI saw him in Chicago I found that I had somehow "lost touch, " like therest of the world, with him. He felt it and wrote me:

"While you were in Italy, I sent you a letter in which I representedmyself as one clamouring up out of the depths of his being to you whomight understand. Now I sincerely and deeply regret having made thisattempt with you. In the same letter I predicted that your return mightfind me back in the depths of my being, where I belong. I regret I didnot stay there when you came along. This feeling is due to no fault ofyours or mine; but points to the fact that I must become still moreexclusive and circumspect. "

Of Marie he wrote: "This attachment between two human beings is in allcircumstances very terrible. The bond between Marie and myself was asstrong as death, and partly so because of our great and essentialdifferences. The first night we spent together struck one of the deepthings in our discord. I was too nervous and sensitive to touch her thatnight, and in the morning she bitterly reproached me. The first bookthat really aroused her to the meaning of life was '_Mademoiselle deMaupin_. ' Deeper than this difference was her galling interference in myaffairs which never prompted me to meddle in hers. And her failure toappreciate or reciprocate my respect for the integrity of herpersonality is the hardest blow she can ever give to me. I have the samefatal charge to make against almost all men; the exceptions are so fewand doubtful that I doubt whether I can ever gain from another thatintense receptive attitude which I am willing to bestow. Fortunately forme, this illusion that there are such intense perceivers re-createsitself out of the veriest dust and dross of humanity. Like Shelley's'Cloud, ' my illusion may change, but it cannot die. Now I am in a stateof mind when I am willing to let everything go by default--everythingexcept my last illusion, that I can never let myself out to anyone. ToMarie--and to you--and one or two others--I have been sorely tempted tolay myself out--but not even the moon can seduce me to reveal myself. Mydead and buried self is my first and last seduction. This is crazy, ofcourse, but I am heartily sick of all the 'sense' I know or can know. Ibelieve, however, that I have lived so close to the 'truth' that itsshadow has been cast over all my life. If, in the last analysis, all isillusion, I shall stick to the most powerful one--myself. My feeling forMarie arises largely from the fact that she is an expression of theirreparable part of my life--of its deepest essence. 

"A year ago to-day, on the thirteenth of August, " he wrote, "occurred myfirst, last, and only breakaway from the best pal I have ever hoped tohave, Marie. Now that it has passed, I see it in its proper proportions, just as if it had happened to someone else, but to one as near and dearto me as myself. I have broken away from the Mob, too. My sympathy forwhat is called the People has been worn down to a mere thread that mighteasily be broken and turn me against them. When one has been stonedlong enough, one may easily turn into something as hard as stone itself. I am like the knight of old, turned inside out. I am developing acoating of internal mail, as so many of the attacks come from within. But worse than attacks from within or without is the sordid security andmental inertia of all the people about me: they are strangling me justas surely as if they put a rope around my neck. By day they hurry onlike ghosts about their business, and by night they gather in the littletombs of many rooms they call their homes. 

"You may call it madness, this my cutting off of all things. I know thatI have kept off madness a long while now. I have shrunk from 'business'to social anarchy and pure beings, from these again I have shrunk tobooks and poetry, from these again into the solitude of myself whereonly I am really at home. Though I have lost my general bearings, Istill stand at the helm of myself. I am going to pieces on the rocks ofthe world, but I still inhabit the realm of the soul. 

"When I could no longer see my ideals rise out of my work, I quit thatwork; for then the work was no longer an expression of myself. This isthe origin of all modern problems. A man stands to his job because ofthe visions that come to him only when at work. He sees in imagery hisown possibilities arise out of the thing on which he is at work, andeasily links himself to his fellows. Thus does the worker make of hiseternal cerebral rehearsals an endless chain of imaged solidaritybinding him in a maze from which he can never think his way out. Thefixed gaze of those who try to grasp the abstract is proof of this. 

"When I could no longer see my ideals arise out of human solidarity, Iquit my fanatical belief in the possibility of a Utopia. So that now Iam not even an anarchist. I am ready to pass it all up. "

When I saw Terry for the last time, and found him in this almost crazycrisis of extreme individualism, where he hopelessly "passed up"everything--human society, love and friendship, all the things his warmand loving Irish heart really desired, I felt that here indeed was acomplete expression of the spirit of revolt. It was so extreme that Iand no one else could follow him in it. It had passed beyond the pointwhere social rebellion may be useful or stimulating or suggestivepoetically and had reached the sad absurdity of all extreme attitudes. One lesson Terry's proud and strenuous soul has never learned: that thedeeper and simpler things in social growth we must take on faith. Wecannot demand an ideal reason or justification for all socialorganisation, for the ways that human beings have of living together. The elementary social forms at least must be instinctively and blindlyaccepted. To go beyond in one's rejection the anarchism of the socialcommunist into what is called individualistic anarchism is mereegotistic madness and has as its only value the possible poetry of aunified personal expression. Into this it was that Terry fell, and ofcourse he could find no support for it except in his own soul, whichcould not bear the strain. No soul could, for, struggle as we may, weare largely social and cannot stand alone. Terry's life well shows thesympathetic source of social rebellion and its justification, but italso shows the ultimate sterility of its extreme expression. 

The latest word I have about Marie is that she is at work "keepinghouse for a respectable family" in San Francisco. Her experience incamping-out seems to have rendered her normal to, for her, an extremedegree. Going to work certainly represented as radical a reaction fromTerry and his philosophy as well could be imagined. A friend of mine inSan Francisco writes of her: "She is now to all appearances a good, respectable girl. She wants to live a new life, is working hard, and istrying to break away from smoking. Sometimes she feels the restraintseverely, and comes to our house where she knows she can smoke andexpress herself. She is in better health, and I think now is in closeenough touch with nature not to want to go back for nourishment to ideasand the slum. "

The latest word I have from Terry shows him faithful to theend--faithful to his character and his mood:

"There is a rumour that Marie has got a job at general housework. Thisgave me the blues--after all our life together, this the end! I'd ratherhave her do general prostitution, with the chance of having anoccasional rest in the hospital. But perhaps her drudgery will kill herenthusiasm for 'vita nuova!'

"I should have answered your letter had I not been suffering from an oldmalady of mine which is accompanied by such mental depression that Icould not answer the communication of even a lost soul. I had to seeksurcease in my old remedy of hasheesh and chloroform, which was a changefrom suffering to stupidity. But I shall not swell the cosmic chorus ofwoe by raising my cracked voice against impending fate. I am more andmore alone, more and more conscious of a growing something that iskeeping me apart from all whom I can possibly avoid. "

Terry is nearing his logical end, while Marie is still struggling forlife, life given her in the beginning by this strange man, whoseinfluence was then to take it away from her; and from this, like theworld, she rebelled. "Anarchism" she embraced as long as it enhanced herbeing; as long as this deeply emotional philosophy added to the fulnessof her life, she saw its meaning and its use; when it finally tended tosterilise her new existence, its "pragmatic" value was nothing. 

This is the test of all social theory: How It Works Out. In Marie'scase, as in the case of many proletarians, it worked out well, as ageneral civilising and consoling philosophy, for a time, but whencarried to an "idealistic" extreme, it tended rapidly towards generaldeath--from which all live things react. So it was with Marie: she lefther "poisonous" Terry and sought for another vitalising experience. Goethe said that the best government is that which makes itselfsuperfluous. Terry's spiritual influence on Marie, important for her inthe beginning as rendering her self-respecting and mentally ambitious, had become superfluous. But it had been of great value to the girl. So, too, with our society. The extreme rebellious attitude educatesus--sometimes to the point where rebellion is superfluous. 

THE END

_The_Autobiography _of a_ Thief

A true story of the life of a criminaltaken down and edited by Mr. Hapgood. 

_Cloth. 349 pp. $1. 25 postpaid. _

COMMENTS OF THE CRITICS

 "The book as a whole impresses the reader as an accurate presentation of the thief's personal point of view, a vivid picture of the society in which he lived and robbed and of the influences, moral and political, by which he was surrounded. The story indeed has something of the quality of Defoe's 'Colonel Jacque'; it is filled with convincing details. "--_New York Evening Post. _

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 "The manner and style of 'The Autobiography of a Thief' is that which attracts even the fastidious lovers of literature. It is the life-story of a real thief unmistakably impressive in its force and truth. As a matter of course, the book is on the hinge of a novel, but it contains the gem and sparkle of genuineness and its complication has the flavor of accuracy. "--_New Orleans Item. _

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 "As a contribution to the study of sociology as illustrated from life and not from mere text-books, the story recorded by Mr. Hapgood will be welcomed by all philanthropic people. "--_New York Observer. _

 "It is an absorbing story of the making of a criminal, and is rightly classed by the publishers as a 'human document. ' It is absorbing alike to the reader who reads for the diversion of reading and to those who are really thoughtful students of the forces which are working in the life round about them. "--_Brooklyn Life. _

 "Those in whom the sense of human oneness and social responsibility is strong will be intensely interested in these genuine experiences and in the naïve, if perverted, viewpoint of a pick-pocket, thief and burglar who has served three terms in State's prison. "--_Booklovers' Library. _

 "It may be that 'Jim' puts things strongly sometimes, but the spirit of truth at least is plain in every chapter of the book. That, in general, it is the real thing is the feeling the reader has after he has finished with 'The Autobiography of a Thief. ' It is not a pleasant book; it is anything but a book such as the young person should receive as a birthday gift. It is a book however which the man anxious to keep track of life in this country should read and ponder over. "--JOSIAH FLYNT, _in the Bookman_. 

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 "A straightforward narrative which has the tremendous advantage of disclosing more things about the greater life of Chicago--and more which are not generally known to the more sheltered classes--than any book of its size ever written. Those who wish to be written down as loving their fellow-men should read this volume with care. It is a real book, and worth anybody's while. "--_The Interior, Chicago. _

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 +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes: | | | | Page 54: woman amended to women | | Page 97: acount amended to account | | Page 102: interst amended to interest | | Page 145: pamplets amended to pamphlets | | Page 148: envolved _sic_ | | Page 154: senstive amended to sensitive | | Page 166: inconsistences amended to inconsistencies | | Page 172: beause amended to because | | Page 241: concious amended to conscious | | | | Punctuation has been standardised. | | | | Where a word is hyphenated and unhyphenated an equal number | | of times, both versions have been retained: pickpocket/ | | pick-pocket; upstairs/up-stairs. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+