STORIES OF THE 
 STRUGGLE 
 
 BY 
 MORRIS WINCHEVSKY 
 
 CHICAGO 
 CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 
 
 1908
 
 S 
 
 1-73 
 
 Copyright 1908 
 By LEOPOLD BENEDICT 
 
 All Rights Reserved
 
 TO 
 EUGENE V. DEBS
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 WHY HE DID IT i 
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 19 
 
 MARTINELLI S MARRIAGE 31 
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 44 
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 55 
 
 THE GROWLING EDITOR 66 
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 73 
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 82 
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 95 
 
 THE PRICE OF FREEDOM 106 
 
 THE MAN LAZY ON PRINCIPLE 113 
 
 ECK-KE 122 
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSER 129 
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS 139 
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 149
 
 NOTE 
 
 Of the stories included in this little vol 
 ume five were published in England. They 
 were: " Grishka s Romance " (in the Lon 
 don Sun), " The Knout and the Fog" and 
 " The Man Lazy on Principle " (in Justice), 
 and " Cranky Old Ike " and " He, She and 
 It " (in the Social Democrat). 
 
 Considerably altered and enlarged, the 
 first-named story was afterwards repub- 
 lished in the illustrated New York monthly, 
 The Comrade, while " Cranky Old Ike " 
 was in this country reprinted in the Worker. 
 
 " Why He Did It " and " The Blues vs. 
 the Reds " were specially written for The 
 Comrade. 
 
 The character sketch " Eliakum Zunser " 
 appeared in The Era, a magazine devoted to 
 Jewish life and literature, while " Eck-Ke," 
 also a sketch from life, is now published for 
 the first time. So, too, is " A Persevering 
 Woman."
 
 NOTE 
 
 " Martinelli s Marriage " and " The 
 Growling Editor " were first published in 
 The Social Democratic Herald, then in Chi 
 cago, and reprinted in the London Social 
 Democrat, the monthly magazine of the S. 
 D. F. mentioned above. 
 
 The New York " Worker " first printed 
 " Communism a Failure " and " Malek s 
 Friend." 
 
 The incidents in every one of the stories, 
 at least in those which are stories in the full 
 sense of the word, have really taken place, 
 and are, therefore, illustrative of the unwrit 
 ten history of the great struggle for free 
 dom and equality now going on all over the 
 world. " Behind the Scenes in the Socialist 
 Movement " would in a sense have aptly de 
 scribed them. 
 
 M. W. 
 
 NEW YORK, March 3, 1908.
 
 STORIES OF THE 
 STRUGGLE 
 
 WHY HE DID IT 
 (1901) 
 
 Dr. Binsky s spacious parlor on East 
 Broadway was the scene of a very animated 
 discussion one Sunday evening 1 a few 
 months ago. Besides several brother-phys 
 icians, attracted, I am afraid, less by the 
 fame of their confrere than by the really 
 charming personality of his youthful and 
 cultured spouse, there were on that occa 
 sion a couple of journalists off duty, some 
 married and unmarried ladies, all, needless 
 to say, as young as possible, and a fair 
 sprinkling of lawyers, successful and other 
 wise. As is always the case among what 
 you might call the Upper 400 on the Lower 
 East Side, everybody talked Russian, had
 
 2 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 Darwin and Spencer at his or her ringer s 
 tips, and a good deal to say about Gorki, the 
 last Grand Opera season, and the prospec 
 tive yacht-race, though in a much lesser 
 degree. 
 
 But nobody said it, like the rest of the 
 world, they had little or no thought for 
 anything except the Buffalo tragedy. The 
 gloom which pervaded the country was visi 
 ble more or less on every countenance, par 
 ticularly among those of the guests who 
 were either avowed anarchists or to some 
 extent in sympathy with the anarchist phi 
 losophy. Not even the appearance on the 
 table of the samovar, the genuine article, if 
 you please, the one thing every man and 
 woman born on Russian soil either loves or 
 affects to love, could do aught to mitigate 
 the prevailing depression. 
 
 For a moment, and for one only, was 
 there something like a mirthful breeze in 
 that evening s heavy atmosphere. It was 
 caused by an innocent remark of Mrs. Bin- 
 sky s pretty little daughter, a child about 
 four years old, who, upon hearing the name 
 of the dead president mentioned, wanted
 
 WHY HE DID IT 3 
 
 to know whether or not " Mr. Bryan did 
 it." 
 
 In the course of the conversation nearly 
 every case in history bearing some sort of 
 resemblance to the one in question was gone 
 through. The story of Sisera and Jael was 
 hinted at by a gentleman well versed in 
 Bible lore, and, not finding any acceptance, 
 owing to its palpable irrelevance, at once 
 gave way to a consideration of other inci 
 dents in the records of the past. But 
 neither the story of Tell, nor the tragic end 
 of Csesar, nor that of Marat, nor the assas 
 sination of Alexander II., of King Hum 
 bert, nor any other case of that nature 
 seemed analogous enough to throw the least 
 light on the matter under discussion. 
 
 " It s no use talking," said one of the 
 lawyers, laconically summing up the case, 
 " the thing is simply unaccountable." 
 
 " Yes, absolutely unaccountable ! " the 
 hostess chimed in, and the counsellor s opin 
 ion was accepted " nemine contradicente." 
 
 At this point an elderly man came into 
 the parlor from the adjoining room, where 
 lie had been sitting on the couch and smok-
 
 4 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ing and studying the ceiling, evidently un- 
 desirous to take any part in what he must 
 have considered a fruitless talk. As he 
 took a seat by the table, he looked like one 
 just arisen from a long sleep, who had 
 dreamed of something, and felt like telling 
 it. 
 
 " I am afraid, you are wrong," said he, 
 addressing the lady of the house, who, with 
 out consulting his wishes, had meanwhile 
 filled and placed before him a glass of tea 
 with lemon " the thing is perfectly ac 
 countable, provided you start from the 
 right premises. With you the only alter 
 native seems to be : crazy or criminal, and 
 that is where you are all wrong. Not that 
 the man may not be either the one or the 
 other, or both. But your theory besides be 
 ing purely hypothetical, is, from a psycho 
 logical point of view, entirely worthless. 
 Whether you call it crime or madness, the 
 question still remains, what was it that led 
 the man to do it? Now, to give a satis 
 factory answer, even to attempt to do so, 
 one would have to know a great deal more 
 about the perpetrator of that deed than
 
 WHY HE DID IT 5 
 
 what can be learned from the papers, and I 
 don t. How should I, seeing that even the 
 anarchists disclaim all knowledge of him. 
 However, I know of a parallel case which 
 might throw some light on this mystery. 
 It is a pretty long story. Would you have 
 the patience to hear it ? " 
 
 Most of those present now found they 
 had some very pressing engagements else 
 where. They anticipated a very long talk, 
 and our friend was by no means a popular 
 talker. Those, however, of us who stayed 
 to the end certainly had no reason to con 
 sider their attention ill bestowed. 
 
 Here is his story slightly boiled down. 
 
 As you all know, the beginning of the 
 terrorist movement in Russia coincided with 
 the increasing persecution of the socialists 
 in Germany as a result of the Coercion Act 
 passed by the Reichstag in the fall of 1878 
 at the instance of Prince Bismark. Italy 
 and Austria, anxious not to be behindhand 
 in this matter, naturally followed suit, with 
 out having recourse to any special legisla 
 tion, their existing laws proving severe 
 enough. As a consequence of such a state
 
 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 of affairs, France and Switzerland, and, 
 above all, England, were daily receiving 
 " reds " as fugitives from those other coun 
 tries. 
 
 I, at that time, lived in Paris, and there 
 frequently visited the international socialist 
 gathering-place on Rue d Arbre Sec. The 
 German element predominating, most of the 
 lectures were delivered in that language. 
 
 One Saturday night we had what you 
 might call a rare treat. A charming Rus 
 sian young lady, a medical student from the 
 Sorbonne, gave us in as good German as 
 could be desired a discourse on " Woman 
 under Socialism." In spite of her rather 
 faulty delivery she produced a great impres 
 sion, and was voted, with one dissentient 
 voice, a success by acclamation. That one 
 " non-content " was a young man, decid 
 edly good looking, well built, with a south 
 ern temper and a northen complexion. His 
 nationality was a mystery then as after 
 wards. The fair lecturer had no sooner sat 
 down than he rose, or rather jumped to his 
 feet, and in the guise of a question roundly 
 abused her. According to him she had been
 
 WHY HE DID IT 7 
 
 talking the rankest moonshine, was nothing 
 but one of those milk-and-water socialists, 
 who fooled themselves and others with the 
 absurd notion, that a social revolution could 
 be carried out by means of corrupt ballots. 
 The chairman being more or less in sym 
 pathy with the young " questioner s " views 
 (he had been expelled from his native Ber 
 lin under the " minor state of siege " then 
 recently proclaimed by the Fatherland) the 
 speaker went on in that strain for quite a 
 while, his fire and fury increasing in volume 
 all the time. Having most emphatically de 
 clared that the lecturer was nothing but a 
 mere woman after all, he resumed his seat 
 amid some applause. 
 
 A lively debate ensued. When all was 
 over, the two young people came danger 
 ously near quarreling, a contingency which 
 was only averted by the lady suddenly put 
 ting on her things, and leaving the hall, es 
 corted by one of the Russian male students 
 there present. 
 
 I would fain dwell a little longer on what 
 is to follow, but, not to try your patience too 
 much, I will just say that, as is not infre-
 
 8 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 quently the case, the altercation of that even 
 ing soon led to as romantic an " intrigue " 
 as ever was concocted by the impudent 
 winged little rascal we have all of us known, 
 mostly to our sorrow. 
 
 The day after the encounter the young 
 man felt he had been more than unduly 
 harsh in his attack on the young lady. He 
 had to go and apologise, he certainly could 
 do no less, oh, no! He made up his mind 
 to try and meet her at the entrance of the 
 Sorbonne as she was leaving, after her stud 
 ies, but more than a week passed by without 
 his succeeding in catching a glimpse of her. 
 One way or another he finally learned that 
 she was ill, and would not come back to col 
 lege very soon. 
 
 While Peter (that is what we shall call 
 him, though it was not his name) was in 
 this plight, Agnes (by which name I shall 
 henceforth let the young lady go) received 
 a letter from Russia containing a piece of 
 bad news. Her favorite brother, a student 
 at the Moscow university, had been arrested 
 in connection with some rather serious po 
 litical affairs, and . . . well, you can
 
 WHY HE DID IT 9 
 
 easily imagine the rest. It was this piece of 
 intelligence which had so upset her as to 
 render her too ill to go on with her studies. 
 
 After the lapse of some weeks, perhaps 
 months, I would not be certain, Peter at 
 last succeeded in rinding out her where 
 abouts, and one day timidly knocked at her 
 door. To his great surprise she received 
 him not only kindly, but even cordially, 
 and as he stammered his excuses she inter 
 rupted him with the remark: 
 
 " You were quite right. I talked like a 
 goose, and I know better now. The ruling 
 classes are bent on violence, and they shall 
 have all they want." 
 
 Peter was amazed. The girl was entirely 
 changed. The conversation which followed 
 revealed the reason for her transformation, 
 as he inwardly called it; the trouble into 
 which her brother had been plunged was at 
 the bottom of it all. 
 
 He went away from her elated. As a 
 full-fledged revolutionist, Agnes appeared 
 to him head and shoulders above all women 
 he had ever met. She was simply perfect, 
 and in spite of the unqualified forgiveness
 
 IO STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 she had just extended to him, he could have 
 torn his tongue out for the brutality he had 
 displayed toward her that night at the re 
 union. 
 
 As time wore on they met more and more 
 often. 
 
 Meanwhile his reputation in the socialist 
 circles grew. He often took part in the dis 
 cussions on Rue d Arbre Sec, where his 
 eloquence came to be universally recognized. 
 One day he delivered a lecture, taking for 
 his subject, " The Degeneracy of the Social 
 Democracy in Germany." He went for 
 Bebel and Liebknecht in a manner that 
 would have gladdened the heart of old 
 Bakunin himself. Nothing more violent was 
 heard from the platform of that meeting- 
 place. Nothing so violent was so splendidly 
 phrased. 
 
 All the time the speech was in progress 
 Agnes face was a study worthy the atten 
 tion of a great painter. It attracted, how 
 ever, only that of a single individual, a 
 dark-eyed, ill-favored man, about five years 
 her senior, who had evidently come to the 
 meeting with the set purpose of observing(
 
 WHY HE DID IT II 
 
 her. When the meeting was over, and he 
 saw Agnes going out of the hall on the arm 
 of Peter, his mind was made up. They 
 were in love with each other. 
 
 A few days after this, Peter s lecture came 
 up for discussion at the dinner table in Slav- 
 sky s Polish restaurant. Agnes, who was 
 present, made no attempt to conceal her 
 gratification at the praise so generously and 
 generally given to Peter s spirited discourse. 
 At the same time she could not help noticing 
 that the individual just mentioned was busy 
 whispering to a lady she did not know, while 
 occasionally glancing at herself in a mys 
 terious sort of way. 
 
 She was on the point of leaving the house, 
 having just settled her bill, when the fol 
 lowing phrase, venomously pronounced, 
 struck her ear: 
 
 " Not everybody who talks revolution is 
 a revolutionist. In France, more than any 
 where else, there is such a thing as an agent 
 provocateur." 
 
 Without knowing why, Agnes felt stung 
 to the quick. 
 
 In the evening Peter came to see her. She
 
 12 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 received him in a way that made him feel 
 very happy and at the same time a little 
 perplexed. There was an unusual amount 
 of ostentation about her manner, a kind of 
 exaggeration in her protestations of friend 
 ship in which he thought he could detect 
 something like a false note. She looked a 
 little pale, too. 
 
 "Is anything the matter with you?" he 
 asked her. 
 
 " Nothing," she said after a moment s 
 hesitation, " I have a slight headache." 
 
 He proposed a walk. The fresh air 
 would do her good. She thought so too, 
 and they went. 
 
 They reached the Rue de Rivoli, and 
 started to walk toward the Louvre along 
 that busy thoroughfare. 
 
 A number of things were discussed as 
 they strolled along, and Victor Hugo s 
 " History of a Crime " having been touched 
 upon by Agnes, the conversation which had 
 hitherto lacked spirit, became more like 
 what a talk n^urslly should be among true 
 dwell T ntin Ouarter. A t his 
 
 occurred >vhicli,
 
 WHY HE DID IT 13 
 
 while insignificant in itself, tended to put a 
 damper on the animated discussion of the 
 two young people. 
 
 A well-dressed man had passed -them by, 
 walking in the opposite direction, had raised 
 his hat, and exchanged a friendly nod with 
 Peter. Agnes stole a glance at her com 
 panion, and he appeared to her somewhat 
 confused. She was, of course, delicate 
 enough to ask no questions, and, as Peter 
 did not volunteer any explanation, she made 
 an effort to resume the " History of a 
 Crime," but without avail. A noise of some 
 kind, coming from a Cafe close by, en 
 gaged their attention for a while, and, that 
 over, they both agreed it was time they 
 crossed the river to the South, so that Ag 
 nes might go home. 
 
 " Strange ! He never told me who that 
 man was," she almost audibly said to her 
 self as she was getting ready for her night s 
 rest. 
 
 She tossed about in bed for a long time, 
 unable to go off to sleep. She recalled the 
 man s searching look, and military gait, and 
 the more she brooded over it all, the more
 
 14 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 she felt convinced that Peter was acquainted 
 with some queer people. 
 
 In the morning she got up greatly out of 
 
 sorts, having spent a very restless night. 
 % * * 
 
 In the spring of 1880 a free fight took 
 place in the hall in the Rue d Arbre Sec 
 after one of the usual weekly lectures. I 
 have never been able to ascertain the real 
 cause of it. There was a rumor to the 
 effect that an agent of the secret police, in 
 the guise of a red-hot revolutionist, had 
 started the whole affair. But whatever 
 the cause, the result was disastrous. Some 
 half-dozen of us were arrested on the spot, 
 and a week or so afterward expelled, as 
 foreigners, from France. Agnes and my 
 self, the most innocent of all. were among 
 the number. 
 
 Peter s absence on that occasion struck 
 all of us as, to say the least, very peculiar. 
 
 On the second of April we landed in Eng 
 land. In London we all joined the Com 
 munist Workingmen s Educational Club. 
 With a few exceptions the members were 
 all Germans, so that our ignorance of the
 
 WHY HE DID IT 15 
 
 English language hardly bothered us. Ag 
 nes became a general favorite. 
 
 Exactly what her relations with Peter 
 were at that time has never transpired. 
 When, however, he joined us in London, 
 and it was noticed that Agnes not only never 
 came to the Club or left it in his company, 
 but very rarely put in an appearance at all, 
 it became pretty evident that a " rupture " 
 must have taken place. 
 
 Not to weary you with too many details, 
 I will just say that the more people in Lon 
 don saw of Peter or heard of him in public, 
 the more Agnes was praised for keeping 
 aloof from him. And as his speeches grew 
 in violence just in proportion as the general 
 distrust toward him became more and more 
 palpable to him, that same violence of 
 language went on increasing in intensity 
 and volubility. Thus his desire to prove 
 himself sincere only tended to convince 
 everybody else of the contrary, and, then, 
 as he came to realize it more and more fully, 
 and, owing to that very fact his face and 
 manner with further effort betrayed more 
 and more a kind of uncomfortable feeling,
 
 1 6 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 the verdict : " guilty " was universally 
 agreed upon. It was deferred solely be 
 cause there was, after all, no direct evidence 
 to justify its promulgation. 
 
 To the chain of circumstantial evidence 
 the last and most important link was added. 
 In the fall of the same year a letter was re 
 ceived from Germany conveying the start 
 ling intelligence that a man who had been 
 the steward of the Club, and had left Eng 
 land to claim an inheritance in Hamburg, 
 was arrested in that city promptly on his 
 arrival. It being known that Peter lodged 
 with him, there no longer seemed to be any 
 room for doubt, and he was given to under 
 stand that his room was preferable to his 
 company in the Club and elsewhere. 
 
 Meanwhile his passion for Agnes fairly 
 devoured him. She now treated him with 
 open contempt, and, as time wore on he 
 became mentally and physically a ruined 
 man. 
 
 After a lapse of several months, during 
 which he almost seemed to avoid her, Peter 
 one evening madly rushed into her room.
 
 WHY HE DID IT 17 
 
 Without waiting for any explanation on his 
 part, Agnes told him to go. 
 
 " I am going," he said," " did not come 
 to stay - He stopped as if to regain his 
 breath, and then ejaculated in a manner that 
 horrified the girl : 
 
 " I will prove to you, Agnes, that I am 
 the only true man in your whole crowd." 
 Thereupon he slammed the door, and went 
 away. 
 
 For the space of a year or so he disap 
 peared from the surface, but our new stew 
 ard, having one day run across him on the 
 street, declared that he looked like a perfect 
 maniac. 
 
 All the time the Fenian outrages, as they 
 were called, were increasing in fury, terri 
 bly agitating the public mind, and finally 
 culminated in the assassination of Caven 
 dish and Burke in Dublin. Shortly after 
 ward a young man attempted to kill a mem 
 ber of the royal family, and was consigned 
 to a lunatic asylum without much ado. 
 
 " Tell her, I m not a spy ! " he muttered 
 as he was caught, which was all that was 
 ever got out of him.
 
 l8 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 Needless to say the young man was Peter. 
 * * * 
 
 Turning to Mrs. Binsky, our friend 
 added : 
 
 " Some day it will be found that this is 
 what was the matter with the assassin of 
 the President, this or something like it. 
 Anyway, unaccountable is a very foolish 
 word, Madam.
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 
 
 (1893) 
 
 It goes without saying that a genuine 
 Russian military uniform in an East End 
 Jewish " cookshop " in London was then, 
 and would probably be even now, a remark 
 able phenomenon. When, therefore, I 
 found on entering, one bleak, rainy evening 
 in the fall of 1883, Mr. Levey s Mansell 
 street establishment as famous, by the 
 way, for its pickled cucumbers as for its 
 chess devotees all eyes intently fixed on 
 Grishka, I was not at all surprised. 
 
 He was a tall, tanned-faced, gray-eyed, 
 shrewd-looking, clean-shaven specimen of 
 Russian-Jewish humanity. From time to 
 time there was on his face a kind of melan 
 choly smile which, accompanied by a ner 
 vous twitch of the lips, no sooner made its 
 appearance than it was subdued, as if cir 
 cumstances did not warrant it. A cursory 
 
 19
 
 2O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 glance sufficed to tell the least observant 
 that the heart of the late " Private of In 
 fantry " harbored a great sorrow. 
 
 The chess board was deserted. A black 
 king and a white bishop were afterward dis 
 covered in a mutilated condition under the 
 table. The cat had it all her own way in 
 the kitchen, while Solomon Fiddle, who had 
 the reputation of incessantly " smoking like 
 a chimney," had rolled a paper cigarette and 
 applied it to his nether lip, with the evident 
 intention of getting out his tongue, so as to 
 moisten the paper edge, but was too absorbed 
 in what was going on to finish the job in 
 hand. 
 
 Grishka had apparently been talking for 
 some time when I came into the old, dingy 
 dining-room. He seemed to have begun 
 his narrative in a reluctant, indolent manner, 
 for he was getting more and more animated 
 as he was proceeding. 
 
 Who was Grunya ? he said. You 
 will see presently. 
 
 Our regiment was transferred to Wilna. 
 We were billeted with the house-holders.
 
 GRISHKAS ROMANCE 21 
 
 They were either Poles or Lithuanians, or 
 Jews. Russians? Hardly any. It was 
 my good fortune to get into a house on Sa- 
 vitch street, a second-floor flat, the private 
 residence of a well-to-do Jewish shop 
 keeper. He was, as I subsequently learned, 
 a widower, whose son was in St. Peters 
 burg, studying medicine, while his daughter 
 was staying at home, keeping house for him. 
 She, at that time barely out of her teens, 
 was amiable, though not exactly beautiful, 
 brave enough to face Osman Pasha at 
 Plevna, and as kind-hearted as any sister of 
 mercy in Lithuania. Her name was 
 Grunya. 
 
 At first she fought shy of me. I noticed 
 she was always hiding the things she was 
 reading at my approach. I might have 
 been a spy, you know. But that did not last 
 long. By inadvertance she one evening left 
 on the table in the sitting-room a printed 
 sheet on which there was a little revolu 
 tionary song. I read it. It sent a thrill 
 right through me. I thought it the most 
 blood-thirsty thing ever written. This is 
 how it ran :
 
 22 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 "Hail the cutler, lads. 
 Who three knives made, lads 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 And the first good blade 
 Priests to kill he made 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 Then the sharks of trade 
 Slays the second blade 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 While, our prayers heard, 
 Lays low our Czar the third 
 
 Glory ! 
 
 As I read it for the second time, she 
 in. The brave little woman gazed at me 
 and said nothing. I, too, was silent. I 
 gave her the paper, which she hid. What 
 she read in my face I don t know, but she 
 evidently made up her mind that whatever 
 my opinions, I was not likely to betray her. 
 
 After this she never again distrusted me, 
 without exactly taking me into her confi 
 dence. I still was to her the soldier billeted 
 in the house, a sort of unbidden guest who, 
 as the saying goes, " is worse than a Tar 
 tar." 
 
 This state of affairs one day underwent a
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 23 
 
 sudden change. It happened in the follow 
 ing- manner : 
 
 Pipe in mouth I had been sitting for an 
 hour or so by the window, looking out into 
 the street. All at once I jumped up, made 
 for her bedroom, where I was sure she had 
 some Socialist leaflets and booklets in a 
 bureau. Full of amazement she saw me 
 rush out of her room, all the while excitedly 
 stuffing the bosom pockets of my shinel* 
 with her " literature." Without giving her 
 time to recover from her astonishment I 
 snatched out of her hand a pamphlet she 
 had been reading. She was on the point of 
 making some angry remark when the door 
 was unceremoniously opened on the outside. 
 I had resumed my seat by the window, and 
 the District Police Commissioner walked in, 
 leaving the door ajar. In the hall there 
 were three desyatniks.t 
 
 He saluted Grunya with a few words of 
 mock politeness, and then proceeded to 
 search the house. With the bunch of keys 
 
 * Overcoat. 
 f Constables.
 
 24 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 in her hand, she followed him through 
 every part of the place, unlocking, at his 
 command, every drawer, box or closet, all 
 of which he could not have examined more 
 thoroughly had he been after some hidden 
 treasure. Presently I heard voices in her 
 bedroom. I got up and stationed myself 
 near the door. I was afraid I might not 
 have cleared out everything after all. The 
 wardrobe was first opened, then the bureau. 
 Every bit of clothing was minutely searched, 
 pockets being turned out, and the lining ex 
 amined. That done, he pulled the cases off 
 the pillows, felt all the matresses, lifted from 
 the floor carpets and rugs, and surveyed the 
 walls. Empty-handed he came into the sit 
 ting-room where I was. On a shelf there 
 were some books. He took them up one by 
 one, carefully turning the leaves, and in the 
 case of the books that were bound, looking 
 into the backs as he opened them in the mid 
 dle and flattened them out. Having raised 
 all the pictures on the walls, he satsified him 
 self that he had come on a fool s errand, 
 and looked rather sheepish. 
 
 At this point I could not help noticing a
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 25 
 
 change in his manner. His politeness 
 toward her had become perceptibly more 
 sincere, his face assuming a kinder expres 
 sion. After a while I saw Grunya turn 
 pale at something he whispered to her. She 
 stood aghast for a moment. Then she gave 
 him a curt reply which nearly upset him. 
 At once his face resumed its habitual of 
 ficially-rigorous expression and, as he turned 
 toward the constables in the doorway, he 
 gave them to understand that there was no 
 occasion for staying any longer in the house. 
 
 He was almost on the threshold when he 
 retraced his steps and came up to Grunya. 
 With an evil-portending smile he said he 
 had reason to suspect that she had some 
 papers concealed under her bodice. 
 
 " I am sorry," he said, " to be under the 
 necessity of asking you " 
 
 I flared up in an instant. 
 
 " She will do nothing of the kind," I 
 thundered, " not while I am here, at any 
 rate! Be off, sir! You may get me into 
 Catorgat for the remainder of my life, but 
 t!:is young lady will not be insulted if I can 
 
 \ Penal servitude in Siberian mines.
 
 26 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 prevent it. So make haste and be off ! " 
 
 I suppose he knew right well that the 
 dirty thing he suggested was illegal, so he 
 said nothing beyond asking for pen, ink and 
 paper, which I gave him myself. He then 
 took a seat at the table, drew up a protocol, 
 setting down my name, my regiment, and, 
 no doubt, my offence. As he got up and 
 was about to depart he said to me in a tone 
 of affected coolness: 
 
 " All this, my fine young man, will be 
 made known to the proper authorities. 
 Ye-es! Good-bye!" 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 Grunya and I stood facing one another. 
 Her gaze was too much for me. I have 
 faced death more than once in the war with 
 Turkey, but Grunya s look unnerved me. 
 But I no sooner sat down than I felt her 
 delicate arms around my neck and a hearty 
 kiss on my forehead. 
 
 Several days elapsed. One morning, as 
 I was amusing myself by scribbling some 
 thing on a scrap of paper Grunya took a 
 seat beside me.
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 27 
 
 " You must tell me something about your 
 life, Grisha/ she said. 
 
 So she called me Grisha ! Me, who never 
 was anything but Grishka* since I was en 
 listed in the army. 
 
 I tried to get out of it. What was there 
 in my life worth telling? But she insisted, 
 and I told her all I could think of in a ramb 
 ling sort of way. How she listened! 
 Everything I related seemed to have for her 
 an interest bordering on fascination. She 
 spoke very little on that as on subsequent oc 
 casions. When she did talk at all it was 
 for the purpose of imparting to me some 
 knowledge which she invariably did without 
 in the least displaying her intellectual su 
 periority. At times she would get me to 
 talk about the people and the way they lived, 
 and would prophesy great things to come. 
 
 While talking in this strain she once 
 abruptly asked me : 
 
 " Say, Grisha, supposing the people re 
 volted, and you were told to shoot them 
 down?" 
 
 The thought never occurred to me before. 
 
 * The contemptuous form for Grigori.
 
 28 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 I did not, however, hesitate in my answer, 
 and it seemed to make her very happy. 
 
 One evening we went out together for a 
 stroll. On German street Grunya met 
 lots of young men of her acquaintance. 
 She hardly noticed them. After a while 
 she said she felt very tired. She took my 
 arm. As she leant on it she trembled all 
 over. I glanced at her from aside. What 
 may be the matter with the darling? I 
 thought. 
 
 " I am all right, my friend," she said, as 
 if she had heard me ask the question. 
 
 The following morning she got up later 
 than usual. I felt very restless on that ac 
 count. The time seemed to drag on in a 
 dreadful manner. At length she came into 
 the dining-room. As she greeted me I 
 thought I had a different person before me. 
 She was coldly polite, and there was not a 
 vestige of friendliness in her demeanor 
 toward me. 
 
 She sent out the housemaid to make some 
 purchases, and then turned to me. 
 
 " Grigori Abramovitch," she said. 
 
 I was stung to the quick. It was the first
 
 GRISHKA S ROMANCE 29 
 
 time she had addressed me in that formal 
 way. How could I have offended her? I 
 thought. 
 
 " You said last night," she went on, 
 " your regiment was about to start from here 
 in a few days 
 
 She stopped short as if out of breath, and 
 then continued : 
 
 " When you will be gone I shall heed no 
 dangers If they come again I wouldn t 
 care whether they took me or not We 
 may meet again. If we do, you must 
 promise to be " 
 
 " Your faithful servant, Grushenka," I 
 said, " ready to go through flames and tor 
 rents for your sake, dear soul ! You are so 
 delicate, child, so sensitive, brave though 
 you be. You want a fellow like me to 
 serve and follow you like a " 
 
 " Don t, Grisha, don t say that," she in 
 terrupted me. " I need no servant 
 Here, take this to remember me by." 
 
 With that she pulled a ring off the fore 
 finger of her right hand and put it on my 
 smallest finger. She embraced me, and as 
 our lips met for the first and last time, she
 
 3O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 sobbed in a way to break the stoutest 
 
 heart. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Grishka stopped. Somebody reached 
 him a tumblerful of water, and he took a 
 sip. He then proceeded with his story in 
 short, crude sentences, as one who being ex 
 hausted, is anxious to be through with his 
 tale. 
 
 In Toula, he said, I learned that she had 
 got arrested a few weeks after I left Wilna. 
 I procured civilian clothes. They did not 
 fit, but served my purpose. I packed up my 
 uniform and bolted. She once said she 
 might come to this free country. So here 
 am I. Have been for some time. \Yho 
 knows? She may escape and come here. 
 Am studying and reading all I can for 
 her sake. I always go to the Hamburgh 
 docks whenever a steamer is due. May 
 meet her some day. Yesterday I got 
 drenched in the rain. Had to wait five 
 hours. Never mind that. Would any of 
 you like to see her ring? Here it is. 
 
 As he showed it to us two big tears stood 
 in his eyes, and not in his alone.
 
 MARTINELLFS MARRIAGE 
 (1899) 
 
 Everybody in our circle knew Martinelli, 
 but very few knew the great event of his 
 life. That is why only those few under 
 stood him. There being no longer any 
 harm in divulging his secret, I propose to 
 let you all into it without much further ado. 
 
 As his name would sufficiently indicate, 
 Martinelli was an Italian. Towards the 
 beginning of the eighties he had settled in 
 the northwestern part of that monster town 
 which is so fatal to despotism, weak lungs 
 and architectural symmetry, under the name 
 of London. 
 
 It was in the old Communist Working- 
 men s Educational Club, then located in 
 Rose Street, Soho Square, and founded in 
 1849 by Marx and Engels, that I made his 
 acquaintance. He was a tall, broad-shoul 
 dered, well-proportioned man, 32 years old, 
 31
 
 32 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 the owner of the most expressive black eyes, 
 in the Club, and of a moustache which could 
 not be duplicated very easily anywhere out 
 side a French military haunt. 
 
 He came to London from Switzerland, 
 where he had studied medicine, practised 
 Socialism, offended against the law, and was 
 expelled nominally on account of a row in 
 which he had got involved, but in reality be 
 cause he was a Socialist who obtruded his 
 ideas on the people, much to the chagrin of 
 the peace-loving philistine. 
 
 Thanks to his great linguistic attain 
 ments, he soon succeeded in getting, or 
 rather in giving, a good many lessons. 
 Were it not for his love of luxuries which 
 went to the length of actually possessing a 
 piano an unheard of thing among bach 
 elors in our midst in those days he would 
 have been able to live pretty comfortably, 
 and to present a respectable appearance in 
 the matter of dress. As it was, he was al 
 ways hard up, and sartorially what a fem 
 inine cockney of the leisured class would 
 have called a " fright." His overcoat, a 
 garment ever on duty during all the four
 
 MARTINELLI S MARRIAGE 33 
 
 seasons of the year, looked as if it had never 
 known better days, was several inches 
 shorter than his frock-coat, and just a shade 
 less shabby; while his trousers, undersized, 
 threadbare and terribly baggy at the knees, 
 seemed to be longing for the cast-off clothes 
 heap, their last resting place, and possibly, 
 also, their original home. 
 
 I feel greatly tempted to describe his other 
 articles of apparel, but space and a sense of 
 proportion forbid it. The truth is that I 
 only mention them on account of their close 
 association to a fact, soon to be stated, which 
 forms the key-note of the whole narrative. 
 
 Martinelli s negligence in dressing was 
 due not so much to atrophy of the purse, as 
 to the circumstance that he had gradually 
 developed into a confirmed woman-hater. 
 A persistent rumor was current among us 
 to the effect that the Italian, while still in 
 his native country, had fallen in love with a 
 charming young lady, had been rejected, 
 ard, like many others, in a similar plight, 
 had resolved never, never again to have any 
 thing more to do with the fair but cruel 
 sex.
 
 34 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 One summer evening in 1881 or 1882, I 
 forget which, a miracle occurred. On the 
 lounge in Martinelli s " parlor " he occu 
 pied a suite of two rooms, the other one 
 serving as a combined library and bed-room 
 was seated a real woman, and a young 
 one, to boot. It is true she was there in the 
 company of her brother; all the same the 
 thing was unprecedented in the annals of 
 the Italian s domestic establishment, and 
 would probably not have been credited on 
 anything short of an affidavit by a trusted 
 eye-witness. 
 
 And yet there she was, as large as life, an 
 unmistakable daughter of Eve, flaxen-haired, 
 blue-eyed, as pretty as any girl with a pro 
 pensity to higher mental culture ordinarily 
 need be, and distinguished by that kind of 
 sad, shrewd expression in the face which 
 you may have met with in the " better 
 class " of Irish womanhood. 
 
 Olga, however, did not hail from the 
 Emerald Isle. She was a Russian, a native 
 of the South of that country, as was, need 
 less to say, her big, rather plain-faced, 
 strongly-built elder brother, who had chap-
 
 MARTINELLI S MARRIAGE 35 
 
 eroned her into the enemy s dominions. 
 
 On the table, which looked unusually tidy 
 and almost clean on that occasion, there 
 stood a bottle containing- some liquor, which 
 I will not presume to specify, being, as a 
 temperance man, seldom able to tell with 
 any degree of certainty, cider from cham 
 pagne. In the vicinity of the bottle there 
 was an oblong half-empty paper box of 
 cigarettes to which the two young- men ap 
 plied themselves at very frequent intervals. 
 
 After a pretty long talk embracing a great 
 variety of subjects a talk which every 
 now and then became so very animated, that 
 the two young men spoke against time and 
 each other they reached the question of 
 matrimony. That seemed to have re 
 minded Belsky, Olga s brother, of some 
 thing, and he suddenly jumped up from his 
 seat, and said : 
 
 " I say, Martinelli ! Come with me into 
 your bed-room. I d like to have a word 
 with you in private." 
 
 And turning to his sister, he added : 
 
 " Olga, my soul, sit down at the piano, 
 and while away as best you can, the next
 
 36 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ten minutes. But, say! Don t go in for 
 anything Wagnerian; we shall want to 
 hear each other speak." 
 
 As she answered, saying something which 
 Martinelli took to be the nearest approach 
 to the English " All right! " in Russian, he 
 realised that he had for the first time prop 
 erly looked at her, as well as heard her not 
 at all unmelodious voice. 
 
 When the two young men were alone in 
 the book-lined bed-room, Belsky lit a fresh 
 cigarette, and sitting down opposite the 
 Italian, he blurted out the question : 
 
 " How old are you, Martinelli ? " 
 
 The Italian was somewhat taken aback by 
 the interrogation. 
 
 "Thirty-two," he said. "Why?" 
 
 " Never mind why," said the Russian, 
 " just tell me something else. Are you still 
 as firmly as ever resolved to remain single 
 all your life?" 
 
 "What makes you ask me? But of 
 course I am.", 
 
 " Listen. Do you mean to say that you 
 will never, absolutely never marry?" 
 
 " You are getting tiresome, my friend.
 
 MARTINELLTS MARRIAGE 37 
 
 You ought to know me by this time, and I 
 should not have to inform you. of all men i:i 
 the world, that I shun petticoats as I would 
 the devil " 
 
 " Not so loud," Belsky interrupted him. 
 " My sister can hear you." The Italian 
 looked annoyed, and said in an undertone: 
 
 " I could almost hate you for bringing 
 her here. You might have known better." 
 
 " I trust you will have patience with me, 
 for I mean to go a little further in my ques 
 tioning." 
 
 " Then do it quick, and let us change the 
 subject." 
 
 " Listen. What guarantee have you 
 against meeting one of these fine days a 
 woman who will by force of who will, 
 in short, set to naught all your resolutions? " 
 
 " I am love-proof, my lad," said Marti- 
 nelli, a smile playing on his lips for the first 
 time that evening. 
 
 " I think, I understand," said Belsky, also 
 smiling, " but I would not be prying into 
 your secrets. Anyhow, you are certain that 
 the blind little trickster will never come near 
 your heart? Are you?"
 
 38 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 " You are becoming a most intolerable 
 nuisance ! How many times shall I tell you 
 that such a thing as marriage, or love, is ut 
 terly out of the question in my case! " 
 
 "Keep your wool on, my boy! I am 
 glad to hear you say so. It proves to me 
 that I really knocked at the right door." 
 
 Belsky took a puff at his cigarette, and 
 then said in measured tones, pronouncing 
 with studied distinctness each and every 
 syllable : 
 
 " Now, then, since you are so very cer 
 tain that you will forever remain a bachelor, 
 do me a favor and marry my sister." 
 
 Martinelli burst out laughing; his whole 
 body was convulsed, and one of the last 
 three buttons on his waistcoat jumped off 
 with a bound, and vanished behind a volume 
 of history on the opposite shelf. He had 
 not laughed like that for years. He was 
 almost hysterical. 
 
 When Belsky at last saw his friend in his 
 normal state again, he turned to him and 
 said : 
 
 " Come, come ! I beg of you, don t 
 laugh. The matter is very serious. Be-
 
 MARTINELLI S MARRIAGE 39 
 
 sides you misunderstand me entirely. I do 
 not wish to saddle you with a wife ." 
 
 " No one can, my dear boy." 
 
 " Don t interrupt me. I am not such a 
 fool Drunk ? No. Not that either. 
 All I want you to do is to marry my sister 
 both at the Italian consul s, and in church. 
 Keep quiet, will you? We can procure a 
 special licence which will enable you to be 
 come her legal husband in three days. At 
 the consul s things may get protracted a few 
 days more, but everything could be settled 
 inside of a week. Now, don t stare at me 
 as if I were mad. I will explain it to you." 
 
 Belsky tried to take another whiff, but his 
 cigarette being extinguished, he gave it up, 
 and proceeded as follows : 
 
 " Listen. Eight years ago Olga left 
 Russia to avoid certain deportation to Si 
 beria. She, then sixteen years old, had 
 committed the terrible crime of allowing a 
 locally well-known Nihilist to use her 
 address for receiving letters by mail from 
 St. Petersburg. She came to Switzerland, 
 studied at Berne, while you were at Zurich, 
 and is now a full-fledged M. D. She must
 
 4O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 go back to Russia where she will have to 
 pass another examination and settle down 
 somewhere as a physician. She may not do 
 that either. It all depends Give us a 
 light, will you? So. Thanks. It all de 
 pends. Anyhow, go she must, and for a 
 reason which I am not at liberty to state, 
 apart from her old offence, she cannot go to 
 Russia under her own name, and will only 
 be safe as Signora Martinelli. As such she 
 can in case of need appeal to the Italian 
 Ambassador. In short, you must go 
 through the ceremony of marriage for the 
 sake of I must say no more. Well ? 
 
 Martinelli walked silently up and down 
 the room a few times, then he said : 
 
 " But supposing she wishes to get mar 
 ried, what then? " 
 
 " Why, she destroys the marriage cer 
 tificate, and becomes Miss Olga Belsky once 
 more." 
 
 " And further, supposing " Martinelli, 
 went on half grinning, half smiling "I 
 come and assert my rights? " 
 
 " You will never know where she is as
 
 MARTINELLI S MARRIAGE 4! 
 
 long as you live. You won t see me again, 
 either." 
 
 After a few moments pause the Italian 
 came up to Belsky and said : 
 
 " I think I will do it." 
 
 And he did. 
 
 About a week elapsed since the conver 
 sation above recorded had taken place. 
 At Liverpool Street Station in London a 
 small group of people had assembled 
 around Olga Belsky and her brother. The 
 train was to leave for Harwich at 8 o clock. 
 It was about half past 7. 
 
 " Do you think Martinelli will come to 
 say good-bye to me ? " said Olga, turning 
 to her brother. 
 
 The young man shook his head, and she 
 went on : 
 
 " I never saw such a bear in all my born 
 days. He was as kind to me as possible. 
 He provided me with every comfort dur 
 ing the whole week. He put both his 
 rooms at my disposal, himself sleeping out. 
 He never came to the house but to bring
 
 42 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 something he fancied I might need. And 
 all the time he hardly looked at me, and 
 only once wished me good-morning." 
 
 Belsky was on the point of making some 
 remarks when Martinelli appeared on the 
 scene. He, however, no sooner espied Olga 
 than he found he wanted an evening paper. 
 The newstand was close at hand, but it 
 took him quite a while to get what he 
 needed, and when he at last came back, 
 Olga was already on the train, taking leave 
 of her friends, and shaking hands with them 
 through the open window of the compart 
 ment. 
 
 The train was to start in a few minutes 
 and the guard locked the door. At that 
 moment Martinelli. looking like one just 
 aroused from his sleep, hurried up to Olga, 
 took her hand, bowed, and before she could 
 utter a word, disappeared. 
 
 Then the train went off, and the little 
 group dispersed. . . . 
 
 I met him again some four or five years 
 later, in the fall of 1886. 
 
 The man had undergone a complete
 
 MARTINELLl s MARRIAGE 43 
 
 transformation. He looked ghastly pale, 
 the lustre had gone from his eyes, his tall 
 figure was bent, and his outward appear 
 ance even more neglected than years ago. 
 
 It was at his house that I saw him. We 
 spent a few hours together, had a long con 
 versation, in which he participated only to 
 the extent of saying " yes " or " no." 
 
 I was on the point of going. He beck 
 oned me to a chair, sat down at the piano 
 and played a mournful Russian tune. His 
 rendering was so peculiarly touching, that 
 I was moved to tears. 
 
 I opened the door to go. 
 
 " Stay a minute ! " said he. " Do you 
 remember that little meeting at Liverpool 
 Street Station, when she left?" 
 
 " By the way," said I, " did you ever 
 hear from her? " 
 
 "No," said he, "and just fancy! I 
 have loved her madly ever since." And he 
 sobbed like a child.
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 
 (1905) 
 
 He was leaning against It. 
 
 He was an old scavenger, a kind of super 
 annuated biped. It was an old apple-tree. 
 
 Who was She? 
 
 Never mind. 
 
 The dense, murky, smoky, suffocating 
 fog that had darkened the sky, and poisoned 
 the air, and saddened every human heart, 
 was gone at last. 
 
 Good riddance. Men, women, and chil 
 dren, now breathed a little more freely in 
 modern Babylon. The London autumn re 
 sumed its ordinary dismal look. Cabs, car 
 riages and omnibuses, or rather, since you 
 insist on precision of nomenclature, ansoms, 
 four-wheelers, and busses, \vere again circu 
 lating in all directions as freely and unham- 
 44
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 45 
 
 peredly as if they had been newspapers lies. 
 The setting sun just peeped through the 
 clouds once or twice, preparatory to bid 
 ding the world good-bye, and retiring for 
 the night. 
 
 St. John s Wood, a part of London with 
 trees and actors enough to justify the last 
 and to belie the first portion of its name, 
 was now quiet. The ragged torch-bearers 
 who had been piloting timid pedestrians 
 across the streets, thereby earning a cap 
 of coppers during the short but, for them, 
 beneficient reign of King Fog, had now 
 disappeared from the surface. Neatly and 
 conventionally dressed, aproned and bon 
 neted young " slavies " were walking, jug 
 in hand, toward the " pubs " for the pur 
 pose of obtaining beer in one or the other 
 of its many varieties, eliciting in passing 
 a flattering remark or so from some 
 " swell " on his way to his club, the theatre, 
 or the music-hall. The neighborhood be 
 ing of the shabby-genteel (less genteel than 
 shabby) persuasion, had settled down to 
 feed the inner man. either at supper or at 
 dinner, according to its " station in life."
 
 46 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 On the whole, then, everybody and every 
 thing out of doors was now at rest. 
 
 So, too, was the scavenger. For the 
 first time since the lifting of the fog he had 
 just once more swept away the lifeless yel 
 low leaves which the wind had scattered 
 all around him on the sidewalk. While 
 the darkness lasts a man literally cannot 
 see his duty; no, not even a p liceman, let 
 alone a mere legalized beggar in the shape 
 of a street-cleaner, who, unlike the other, 
 gets neither regular pay nor irregular six 
 pences from such " unfortunates " as may 
 be fortunate enough to possess that popular 
 coin of the realm. 
 
 The old scavenger was now resting, 
 his back against the barren apple-tree, his 
 emaciated, not very cleanly shaven, and 
 self-assertedly projecting chin on his right 
 fist, while the left, which supported its fel 
 low, was in its turn leaning on the old 
 broomstick, an honest time-worn imple 
 ment of the road-sweeping industry, now an 
 integral part of the old man s being. 
 
 Thus propped up and " backed " by the 
 tree, he stood there gazing at the stones of
 
 HE_, SHE AND IT 47 
 
 the pavement, holding, one would have 
 thought, communion with them. 
 
 For the brief space of one moment he 
 dozed off. 
 
 ii 
 
 His whole past suddenly arose before his 
 mental eye. 
 
 By Jingo, this is queer. Dashed if it 
 ain t! 
 
 Here he is young again, young and vig 
 orous, and as good-looking a chap as any 
 in the whole timber-yard. 
 
 Hark! What the deuce is this? What 
 a bloomin noise ? Music, by gosh ! 
 
 " Say, gov ner, where may them red- jack 
 ets be going to? To embark for the Cri- 
 mear, eh? Well, I am damned! " 
 
 This? Why, Soho Square, of course. 
 Any fool knows that. Feels nice to be out 
 of that infernal timber-yard. He is now 
 on his way home. Washed, and kempt, as 
 bright as a new brass button, a regular 
 dandy. But what makes him carry a 
 broom across his shoulder? Queer, ain t 
 it?
 
 48 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 And now he is in Regent s Park, 
 among lofty trees and fragrant flowers, 
 beneath a clear summer s sky. Foggy? 
 Well, it was foggy a while ago, but it seems 
 to be July again. 
 
 There is Minnie, emerging from behind 
 a cluster of foliage. The glass roof? 
 Oh, yes, it is that funny old florist s hot 
 house. Kindest man out; never passes 
 you by without giving a poor man a copper. 
 Thank ee, sir, thanks! 
 
 Minnie has come to meet him. He knew 
 she would come, and that is why he made 
 himself look so spruce. Everybody is fond 
 of Minnie. At the dressmaker s where she 
 works they call her " Queen of Hearts." 
 They say the yard superintendent cheats at 
 cards. What a beast! 
 
 " Take me home, Jack ? " 
 
 Should rather think so. He takes her 
 hand. She blushes. Girls will blush any 
 how; they are built that way. 
 
 Suddenly it has got very dark, and they 
 are in Bethnal Green. What, already? 
 They didn t ride, though; he is quite sure
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 49 
 
 of that. Here they are, in front of her 
 house, on the doorstep. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 "Good-bye!" 
 
 She fumbles in her little bag, gets out her 
 latch-key, opens the street door, looks 
 around to make sure . . . and kisses 
 him, sobbing all the while. 
 
 "Oh, you silly, little goose!" 
 
 He notices some egg-shells. He sweeps 
 them away; that s soon done. Somebody 
 gives him a penny. Confound the man, 
 now Minnie is gone! 
 
 Damn that policeman! He catches you 
 by the scruff of the neck and drags you 
 along. 
 
 " Say, old fellow, you are choking me ! " 
 He digs his iron knuckles into a bloke s 
 neck. . . 
 
 That jail is a dreary place, and no mis 
 take about it. Serves him right, though. 
 If she got into trouble through such a 
 mean skunk as that lanky, milk-and-water 
 clerk it was her own lookout. Still any-
 
 5O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 body would have knocked down a miserable, 
 blooming wretch who fooled a. girl like 
 Minnie, and then threw her up like a 
 squeezed-out orange. 
 
 Hang the little rascals! They will mess 
 up the street with orange-peel and the like! 
 He sweeps it away. 
 
 " Sorry, but you can t get your job 
 again," says Plank, Timber, and Co., Lim 
 ited. Don t want no jail-birds, not they. 
 
 The work on the underground railway is 
 downright beastly. Tunnelling don t agree 
 with him. Makes a chap drink, too ; lie 
 does not booze, not exactly; but he drinks 
 more than what is good for him. 
 
 My! How she is rigged out nowadays! 
 And she grins all the time; every customer 
 gets a smile with his gin-and-water. 
 Fancy, Minnie a barmaid ! 
 
 Is this Le ster Square? Where, then, 
 would the underground be? It s all bloom 
 ing well mixed up, by gosh! It must be 
 Le ster Square, for there is the Alhambra, 
 and . . . well. Jack may be a trifle 
 tipsy, but, dash it all, he can see all right. 
 There is Minnie coming out of the Alham-
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 51 
 
 bra on the arm of a swell. He s got a 
 Scotch plaid over his shoulder. They got 
 into a hansom. . . . Poor Minnie! 
 Her eyebrows are so very black. He won 
 ders if she paints. 
 
 " Look, alive, my friend ; give us a whis 
 key, will ye?" Here in New York they 
 call their barmen " bar-tenders," and every 
 thing is upside down. Seems an age since 
 he crossed the water. Good pay ; but, damn 
 it all, they work the guts out of a chap. 
 
 " Hextra-a-a ! Hextry spesh-o-ol !" 
 That s the Freenchies and the Prooshians 
 coming to blows. Well, it is none of his 
 business. 
 
 Minnie is a ... Confound her! 
 Still, he would never have come back to 
 England but for her. . . . There, 
 just look, there is a well-dressed, half- 
 drunken woman walking up Piccadadilly, 
 who. . . . He could almost swear it 
 was Minnie. Drunk, eh? Well, he s a bit 
 shaky himself. 
 
 Days seem ages in Guy s hospital. The 
 nurses are fine girls only they don t sell 
 liquor. What a beast to run his infernal
 
 52 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 bike into a bloke s ribs ! Might have 
 worked to this day. . . . 
 
 " Eh, stop, will yer? Don t ye run away 
 with my broom, don t! ye, blooming idiot! 
 My broom, my broom, help ! " 
 
 He opened his eyes. 
 
 There is really no telling how much a fel 
 low can dream in the short space of one sec 
 ond. Talk about electricity, it isn t in it. 
 
 The old scavenger looked down at the 
 pavement stones. An impudent north 
 easterly wind tried to put the tree in a 
 flutter. It shook derisively its branches, 
 as much to say : " try again, old whirl- 
 puff! " 
 
 It was getting very dark. An actress 
 came up the road. He knew her. At the 
 corner where he acted the last chapter of 
 his life she used to take the bus on her 
 way to the Adelphi, invariably putting a 
 penny into his hand. Actresses always are 
 kind-hearted, the kindest creatures out.
 
 HE, SHE AND IT 53 
 
 III 
 
 I stop and look at him as he stands 
 there, leaning against the tree. It seems to 
 have a fellow-feeling for the old man. 
 Just now they are both in the same plight. 
 
 The autumn has come for both man and 
 tree. Whatever fruit the summer of their 
 lives had ripened has gone into strangers 
 hands. Now they are both barren of every 
 thing; both looking forward to a long, 
 cold, all-devastating winter, with the only 
 difference that while the tree may live to 
 see another spring, the scavenger s winter 
 will have no springtide to follow in its 
 wake. 
 
 Presently he shudders at some thought 
 that has just flashed across his mind. Was 
 it the north-easterly that has, perchance, 
 tickled the terrible wound in his heart 
 the wound which time has been unable to 
 heal? 
 
 Nobody knows. The street-lamp has, no 
 doubt, seen a great deal of him. His 
 friend, the apple-tree, may know a thing or 
 two about him. As to the stones beneath 
 him, he was certainly whispering to them
 
 54 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 all the time. But then, you see, a tree in 
 the fall is too dead to tell any tales. The 
 lamp, again, is like some learned men I 
 knew; it lights everybody s path, and is at 
 the same time a very poor observer. While 
 the stones, low and down-trodden as they 
 are, have, as in the case of the poor, long 
 had their senses deadened. 
 
 And so it is all a mystery. 
 
 I wonder whether he is dead now that 
 is, whether he is done dying yet. He prob 
 ably is by this. time.
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 
 (1901) 
 
 The celebration of the Paris Commune 
 held under the auspices of the Socialist 
 League, in the South Place Institute, in 
 London, was a remarkable success. The 
 crowded hall contained a gathering almost 
 picturesque in its composition. Among the 
 speakers were Eleanor Marx Aveling, Peter 
 Kropotkin, \Yilliam Morris, and Malta- 
 tesa. The Hammersmith Choir, accom 
 panied on the piano by May Morris, the 
 poet s daughter, supplied the songs of the 
 evening. 
 
 With one exception the speeches were lis 
 tened to attentively, at times almost breath 
 lessly. The exception was in the case of 
 Malatesta. He spoke, of course, with all 
 the fire of the southern branch of the Latin 
 race, but as he did so in his native tongue, 
 and very few people in the audience could 
 55
 
 56 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 follow an Italian speech, it naturally fell on 
 deaf ears. Deaf ears beget wagging 
 tongues. 
 
 It was, then, during the delivery of that 
 oration that in a corner of the gallery a 
 colloquy in whispers, to be sure was 
 carried on between two young people of the 
 fair and unfair sex respectively. They 
 hailed both of them, from Russia, the coun 
 try, let me add in passing, that derived its 
 name from the blackness (implying fertil 
 ity) of its soil, and might now be so named 
 on account of the darkness of its fate. The 
 man, who was clearly the lady s senior by a 
 few years, could not have been more than 
 thirty. He was tall and slender, with a 
 beard that would have made him the target 
 of jokes among a normally constituted 
 crowd of down-town office boys, and he 
 wore a suit of clothes which rendered him 
 anomalous in a gathering of London work- 
 ingmen, whose knowledge of custom-tailor 
 garments was purely theoretical. The 
 lady I prefer not to describe as she might 
 be among my readers, and would proba 
 bly rather pass incognita through this story.
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 57 
 
 The two must have met there by acci 
 dent. 
 
 "You don t understand Italian?" she 
 asked her companion, her glance fixed on 
 Malatesta. 
 
 " No," he said, and smiled as he added : 
 " Except such hackneyed expressions as 
 sotto voice, which the mode of our present 
 conversation would seem to suggest." 
 
 A short pause ensued, then the lady said: 
 
 " It s quite an age since we two met for 
 the last time, isn t it?" 
 
 " Fully nine years now, I think." 
 
 "Yes, she said, and it was, as you doubt 
 less remember, in that rickety old restaurant 
 on Rue Glaciere in Paris. By the way. 
 There was precious little quiet talk in those 
 days, as far as I can remember. Our dis 
 cussions were always very heated, and some 
 times reached the boiling point " 
 
 " Particularly," he interrupted her, " that 
 memorable one which nearly led to a fight 
 in single combat between Gradsky and my 
 self. All about Marx s theory of surplus 
 value, too." 
 
 About that only?" she said, at once
 
 58 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 regretting the query, and still more the tone 
 of voice in which it escaped her. 
 
 "Well," said Valdimir, "a great deal 
 has, no doubt, happened since then, but I 
 I may as well tell you, now that we can dis 
 cuss the matter as dispassionately as if it 
 were the third Punic war, that I disliked 
 Gradsky then in a general way." 
 
 " Not because of " 
 
 "Your liking for him? Perhaps not. I 
 can t tell." 
 
 " I hope not." She busied herself dand 
 ling her eyeglass cord, and supplemented 
 that remark by saying epigrarnmatically : 
 " That is, however, how it generally hap 
 pens, for when hostilities break out the 
 casus belli that is what you call it, isn t 
 it ? is always found to be some exalted 
 principle? " 
 
 " You are severe, So " 
 
 " Yes, Sophy, by all means. My hus 
 band does not hear you, and would not 
 mind it if he did." 
 
 " You have fine children, I am told." 
 He was anxious to change the subject,
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 59 
 
 which was evidently becoming painful to 
 him. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, " and as they grow 
 older I gradually realize more and more 
 clearly how inefficient moral precepts are 
 in comparison with surrounding influences. 
 All my plans for the children s education 
 seem to go to pieces one by one. The 
 school will probably ruin them altogether. 
 As it is they all get crushed between the side 
 walk acquaintances and the servant girl." 
 
 He involuntarily glanced at her as he 
 muttered : 
 
 " So you keep 
 
 " A servant ? Why, of course. One 
 cannot help it, though it certainly does seem 
 queer when the past is recalled. And while 
 I am at it, let me tell you a peculiar experi 
 ence of mine. When I first married " 
 
 Valdimir slightly coughed, but she un- 
 heedingly went on : " I for some time 
 could not reconcile myself to the idea of em 
 ploying any - 
 
 " Help, as they hypocritically call it in 
 the States," he chimed in.
 
 60 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 " Exactly," she said, " but then Vladimir 
 came " 
 
 " That is your first born, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Was it your husband who chose the 
 name? " 
 
 " It is immaterial. Anyway, when he 
 was born, and as we were already tolerably 
 well off, my husband insisted on my taking 
 a servant into the house. Well, I had no 
 less than three girls in the space of three 
 months. They simply would not stay with 
 me, though I treated them as well, as only a 
 woman imbued with socialist principles 
 could have done. When I went to the 
 Register office for the fourth, I mentioned 
 the circumstance to the woman at the desk, 
 and what do you think did she tell me ? " 
 
 " Give it up." 
 
 " Why, that I would never keep a girl in 
 the house as long as I made them take their 
 meals at the family table, instead of letting 
 them eat by themselves in the kitchen. The 
 poor creatures, it appears, could account for 
 my * strange conduct in no other way than
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 6 1 
 
 that I was trying- to see that they did not 
 eat too much." 
 
 " No ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 " It is a fact, and it just goes to show " 
 She was on the point of launching some 
 elaborate theory in relation to that episode, 
 when an outburst of cheering in the hall, 
 followed by another more vigorous and 
 more prolonged, put a stop to their conver 
 sation. Malatesta was through, and the 
 chairman, in a stentorian voice, had an 
 nounced " our comrade, William Morris/ 
 
 When the meeting was over, Vladimir 
 consented to escort her home, which was at 
 Enfield, in the north of London. Taking the 
 train at the Broad Street station, they got 
 into a second class compartment, which they 
 had most of the time all to themselves. 
 
 It was she who broke the silence. 
 
 "So you have decided to go back to 
 America? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; he bent his head a lit 
 tle forward, and said with a slight tremor 
 in his voice: 
 
 " And since I may not have another
 
 62 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 chance to speak to you, permit me to ask 
 just one question." 
 
 " Do," she said, and, somehow or other, 
 the matting of the carriage floor suddenly 
 developed into a most fascinating sight for 
 her. 
 
 " At one time," the young man said with 
 a visible effort, " I was under the impres 
 sion that you favored my advances. That 
 was some time before I had that row with 
 Gradsky. Now was it pure imagination on 
 my part ? " 
 
 She made no answer, and gazed still 
 more fixedly at the floor. A minute or so 
 elapsed in silence, and then he spoke again : 
 
 " Was it, Sophy? " he asked. 
 
 " No," she replied. 
 
 " Then what was it that brought about 
 your sudden change of manner toward me? 
 So soon, too, after Gradsky s last visit to 
 you?" 
 
 " It was," she said, with a badly sup 
 pressed sigh, " that I invited both of you, 
 and he alone came. You then lived to 
 gether, and seemed as inseparable as the " 
 
 " Siamese twins," he helped her out, as
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 63 
 
 she got somewhat mixed on the time-hon 
 ored simile. 
 
 " For politeness sake," she went on, " I 
 invited him, too, but it was you " 
 
 " It was me that you " 
 
 " That I wished to see." 
 
 Vladimir s face mirrored all the colors of 
 the rainbow as he muttered : 
 
 " Well that is extraordinary. I thought 
 just the reverse, judging from a remark 
 that Gradsky made on that occasion." 
 
 " You were wrong, Vladimir. I I 
 longed to see you. I did not think there 
 was any room for a misunderstanding. At 
 the supreme moment you failed me. He 
 came. You didn t. The rest is now of no 
 consequence." 
 
 Valdimir seemed to turn over those 
 events in his mind. 
 
 Suddenly, as if seized with a fit, he ut 
 tered a short, convulsive laugh which con 
 tained at once a comedy and a tragedy. She 
 was startled. 
 
 " How strangely you behave," she said, 
 looking up to him. 
 
 " Well," he replied, his voice ringing
 
 64 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 with a merry-tragic tone akin to that laugh, 
 " you say you invited both of us. I told 
 you how I interpreted that both. Still I 
 should have come along with him. But at 
 that time we \vere very poor, so poor, in 
 deed, as only Russian students in the Latin 
 quarter of Paris ever could be. There was, 
 no doubt, a good deal in that poverty of a 
 delightfully idealistic nature. What 
 ever little we were possessed of was as 
 clearly common property as if we had been 
 man and wife. All the same we were very 
 hard up, and so, when the question of go 
 ing to see you arose, it was decided that he, 
 the one, as we thought, who was really 
 wanted, should alone go." 
 
 " I fail to see why " said she. 
 
 "You do, Sophy?" 
 
 He glanced at her rich attire, as if her 
 opulence might afford an explanation for 
 her want of understanding in matters re 
 lating to the communism of the poor, and 
 then, with another sardonic laugh that well 
 nigh choked him, he muttered: 
 
 " Why, in those days, Sophy, we two fel-
 
 COMMUNISM A FAILURE 65 
 
 lows had only one pair of shoes between 
 
 us!" 
 
 * * * 
 
 Around Whitsuntide of the same year a 
 marked copy of a San Francisco paper 
 reached her, in which she found the follow 
 ing lines over her friend s signature : 
 
 Deathless love, hope ever new begetting, 
 
 Heeding neither barriers, space, nor time; 
 Love its very sighs to music setting, 
 Thriving on its groans and fretting, 
 Making hell and heaven rhyme, 
 Is sublime !
 
 THE GROWLING EDITOR 
 (1899) 
 
 You are on the wrong track entirely, my 
 dear reader. The hero of the following 
 short sketch is not as you imagine, a crusty, 
 sulky, disagreeable, old dyspeptic; a man in 
 perpetual dread of budding poets, prosaic 
 bill collectors, of his wife and her temper, 
 of thin skinned, litigious persons whom he, 
 in the discharge of his duty towards hu 
 manity, may have tackled in his most bril 
 liant, most " newsy," but, alas ! not widely 
 circulated paper; a man whose proclivities 
 are in the direction of money-making, 
 while his achievements invariably result in 
 his contracting new debts and chills, with 
 his spine and his creditors ever reminding 
 him of the old ones. 
 
 He is of a different kind altogether. 
 Never jump at conclusions. 
 
 66
 
 THE GROWLING EDITOR 67 
 
 At about 7 o clock in the morning one 
 day early in June, 1876, a young couple was 
 seated on a bench in the public gardens ad 
 joining the University of Koenigsberg, in 
 Prussia. 
 
 The man, who, seemed to be on the right 
 side of thirty, had a careworn, dreamy look 
 about him, the bearing of one who has had 
 a military training, and a pair of hands that 
 betrayed the workingman long out of a job. 
 To look at him you would have taken him 
 for one convalescent after a prolonged ill 
 ness, just discharged from the hospital. As 
 a matter of fact, he was just out of prison, 
 a circumstance which accounted for the 
 bundle, tied up in a kind of shawl, which 
 his fair companion had taken possession of 
 by way of relieving him of it. 
 
 As to the woman, who was evidently 
 some five or six years younger than the man 
 and more refined in appearance, she would 
 easily have been recognized by anyone 
 familiar with the various races inhabiting 
 the German empire as a native of Posen, 
 the province of Prussia where Teutonic 
 placidity and Polish liveliness are so beauti-
 
 68 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 fully blended in the fair sex. Her de 
 meanor towards her friend was that of a 
 mother who at last had found her long-lost 
 child. 
 
 " It is not so terrible as you would im 
 agine," said he, continuing the conversation, 
 which was probably begun at the prison 
 gate; "the jail could not have any terrors 
 for me again." 
 
 " But you won t do it, Hans," she said 
 gently squeezing his hand, " I will just take 
 care that you don t, that s all. Write? Of 
 course you will; but you will have to be 
 more careful. But wasn t it a grand article, 
 all the same! I often wondered how 
 you" 
 
 " Could have written it," said Hans, 
 moving uneasily in his seat. " Well, I 
 but let us drop the subject. I wish, Flora, 
 you had taken a keener interest in the move 
 ment, for there are a hundred things I 
 should like to know all about. I have been 
 as much cut off from the world as if I had 
 been in my grave all this year." 
 
 " It is horrible ! And you will not do it 
 again, you silly boy, do you hear ? I won t
 
 THE GROWLING EDITOR 69 
 
 have it. But you make a little mistake in 
 thinking- that I know nothing about the 
 movement. You imagine I am the same 
 little goose I was when you came back from 
 the French war. I never understood you 
 then, and that s why - 
 
 " Do not cry, Flora/ said the man in a 
 somewhat altered voice ; " you were then 
 quite right. And when you know all 
 and sooner or later you will know all," 
 he made a strong effort not to betray his 
 emotion and succeeded in adding, " you will 
 see that I am not by any means over 
 modest." 
 
 " But that is just what you are, you big 
 baby ! " said Flora while wiping away her 
 tears. " You don t understand your own 
 value. The article was not only dignified, 
 bold, defiant; it was fine writing besides, 
 and everybody admired it. I read it every 
 day since I came here from Dantzig, and I 
 know it by heart. I only wish it had not 
 got you into trouble. That article proves 
 you to be a writer, and, what is more, it 
 shows the wisdom of the comrades in en 
 trusting the paper to you."
 
 /O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 Hans looked agreeably surprised. 
 
 " You said the comrades you are k* 
 the movement, then? Since when?" 
 
 " Well, since I found out all about you. 
 During the last twelve months I have read 
 a good deal besides your article but what 
 is the matter with you? How pale you 
 have turned ! " 
 
 Hans moved away from her a little, and, 
 after a short pause, during which he had 
 evidently formed a resolution, he said : 
 
 " Flora, you make a great mistake, and 
 I will not suffer myself to get into your 
 good graces under false pretenses. Let go 
 my hand, Flora ; I am not the man you take 
 me for. It just proves that you have not 
 been very long in the movement, for you 
 would, otherwise, have guessed at the truth 
 at once." 
 
 "The truth? What truth?" 
 
 " Why, that I was nothing but a growl 
 ing editor all the time." 
 
 Flora s lips moved as if to say something, 
 but she did not interrupt him, and he went 
 on. 
 
 " You have clearly never heard of such a
 
 THE GROWLING EDITOR 7! 
 
 thing as a growling editor. Let me explain 
 it to you. 
 
 " Our party is young and it is more than 
 any Socialist organization in the world a 
 workingman s party. Writers of ability 
 are very scarce in our ranks, and not a week 
 passes by but what some editor or another 
 is committed to prison sent to growl, as 
 the phrase goes. Now, if every one who 
 goes to jail were in reality the editor of his 
 paper, we wouldn t have at this moment 
 more than half a dozen papers in existence, 
 and so " 
 
 He cleared his throat and, somewhat low 
 ering his voice, continued : 
 
 "And so there must be people who, not 
 being writers themselves, would give their 
 names as responsible editors, so that in case 
 of need they " 
 
 " May go to prison for other people s 
 offenses against the law," said Flora, the 
 words almost choking her. 
 
 " Exactly," said Hans. " And so you 
 see, my dear friend, I am not at all the 
 great writer you took me for. I am 
 merely
 
 72 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 He was interrupted by her suddenly get 
 ting up and embracing him in defiance of 
 the broad daylight and all the rules of con 
 ventionality. 
 
 She then sat down again and sobbed, the 
 tree over their heads wondering what it all 
 meant. 
 
 For a while they were both silent. Then 
 Hans felt as if he ought to say something. 
 
 " You now see, Flora dear, he stammered, 
 that I am not what you and many other 
 fancied I was I am merely " 
 
 "A hero!" she exclaimed.
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 
 
 (1893) 
 
 It may sound incredible, but I can vouch 
 for the fact that Nellie, when last heard 
 from, had developed a profound admiration 
 for the dense London fog, that English 
 survival of the ninth plague of Egypt. 
 Now don t shake your head. Read on, and 
 be convinced. 
 
 Nellie was a native of Russia. She was 
 born of fairly well-to-do Jewish parents in 
 the old historic city of Smolensk, where you 
 can still see the fortifications erected by 
 Boris Godunoff in the sixteenth century, 
 and where the French in 1812 defeated the 
 Russians under Barclay de Tolly, thus clear 
 ing their way to the ancient capital. 
 
 Nellie, blue-eyed, blonde, well-shaped, 
 
 sweet-voiced, was the favorite child in the 
 
 family, and as such got a good education. 
 
 She was sent to a grammar-school- 
 
 73
 
 74 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 curiously called a gymnasium for girls, 
 from which she was graduated after a 
 period of six years with honors, though dis 
 liked by masters and authorities owing to 
 her somewhat " rebellious " spirit. She 
 had a will of her own. To the Russian 
 official mind such a thing savors of treason 
 in its embryonic stage. Red tape sees in 
 it the germs of Red Terror. 
 
 At that time Nellie was sixteen years old. 
 As higher colleges for women were then 
 still in existence in both capitals, she took 
 it into her head to go to Moscow and there 
 to study medicine. Her parents, old-fash 
 ioned, though not exactly orthodox people, 
 with a deep-rooted aversion for all new 
 fangled notions, and particularly for the 
 "women s independence craze"- so greatly 
 in vogue among the youngest members of 
 the fair sex in Russia would probably 
 have objected to Nellie s enterprise, but 
 they were, alas! both dead. Her uncle, a 
 brother of her father s, who had been her 
 guardian for some years, offered no resist 
 ance, and so she left the " old place " for 
 Mother Moscow, the White-House town
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 75 
 
 with its forty forties of churches, its Krem 
 lin, its Czar-Bell, and what was of more im 
 portance than the rest to Nellie, its college 
 for girls. There, in the fall of 1882, she 
 was allowed to matriculate, and to take a 
 course of medicine, having" bravely sur 
 mounted no end of difficulties before enter 
 ing college. 
 
 For a while all went well. 
 * * * 
 
 Following upon the outrages against the 
 Jews from below, persecutions from above 
 were now in full swing, subjecting the old 
 race to suffering of every kind. The most 
 exasperating form of persecution was the 
 rigid enforcement of the law by which Jew 
 ish settlers in the " Interior " of the em 
 pire were driven back to the " Pale of Set 
 tlement," that is, to the North-Western and 
 a few other provinces which they had in 
 habited long before Russia annexed them. 
 
 The authorities now discovered that Jew 
 esses, while entitled to study, had no right 
 to live in either St. Petersburg or Moscow, 
 where alone such studies could be pursued. 
 Consequently, Nellie, like many others of
 
 76 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 the objectionable race, was told to go. The 
 poor girl was thunderstruck. There was to 
 her knowledge but one way out of the 
 trouble; to embrace Christianity. She 
 would never do that. "I am not a hypo 
 crite " she said. 
 
 A few days went by. 
 
 " Whatever shall I do ? " she exclaimed, 
 while talking the matter over with a friend 
 of hers similarly afflicted. 
 
 " The same, I suppose, as Minnie and 
 myself," said the other girl, bitterly. 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 " That is to take out yellow passports." 
 
 " Yellow passports ! What do you 
 mean ? " 
 
 " What I mean ? Why, you poor little 
 goose, I mean that we shall get ourselves 
 registered at the at the Police Bureau as 
 as prostitutes - They don t mind Jew 
 esses of that class here. For The 
 poor girl, who had begun her little speech 
 defiantly, expectorating, as it were, her 
 words, those disgusting words, one by one, 
 now broke down, and sobbed violently. Nel 
 lie bit her rosy lips, muttered something in-
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 7J 
 
 articulate and getting up. went away with a 
 determined step. 
 
 In a few days she was duly registered a 
 common harlot, free to live under the holy 
 sound of a thousand Christian church bells, 
 pursuing her studies as heretofore entirely 
 unmolested. But she was no longer the 
 same person. At a time of life wlien 
 woman and love are supposed to be synony 
 mous, Nellie learned to hate, her hatred 
 growing in strength and intensity as one 
 black day succeeded another, and the perse 
 cutions of the Jews increased in volume, in 
 their variety and cruelty. However, she 
 stayed at college some six or seven months 
 
 longer. 
 
 * * * 
 
 In the spring of 1883, Nellie found her 
 self an object of love. It was a young man 
 of her acquaintance who now offered her 
 his hand and heart. She hardly recipro 
 cated the sentiment but being more than 
 ever in need of a friend, she was glad 
 enough to receive his attentions. It is not 
 at all improbable, either, that Nellie would 
 sooner or later have come to love the young
 
 /S STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 man she did not dislike, but her first ro 
 mance was cruelly nipped in the hud. The 
 mail carrier had one morning- brought her a 
 letter couched in the following terms: 
 
 " SMOLENSK, May 19, 1883. 
 "Dear Niece, 
 
 Have just received a notice of expulsion. In 
 three weeks from now I shall leave this town a 
 ruined man. You must come home. You are, 
 of course, welcome to a share in whatever may 
 be left to us, but your continuing your studies is, 
 under the circumstances, out of the question. 
 
 YOURS, ETC. 
 
 "Come home!" she exclaimed, repeating 1 
 those words in a tone of voice almost terri 
 ble for a tender girl of her age. Then, the 
 first shock over, she began to revolve vari 
 ous plans in her mind, finally deciding upon 
 one. " But, said she to herself, he must 
 know nothing about it. He might take it 
 into his head to follow me, and I have no 
 right to drag my friends into the whirlpool 
 after me." 
 
 In the midsummer of that year the popu 
 lation of the British metropolis was in 
 creased by one poor soul. It is true, the
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 79 
 
 young woman s heart was broken, but the 
 census man counts folks without in the least 
 
 bothering about integrity of hearts. 
 * * * 
 
 In London Nellie spent a few years try 
 ing to live. She only managed to vegetate. 
 With all her knowledge absolutely inap 
 plicable to anything, and her inability to 
 eke out a regular living of any kind by man 
 ual labor, nothing she turned to seemed to 
 prosper in her hands. In turns she worked 
 hard at capmaking, buttonhole sewing, at 
 needlework of almost every other descrip 
 tion, at cigarette rolling, even at letter-writ 
 ing (for illiterate countrywomen) ; but none 
 of these occupations yielded her, on an 
 average, fully six shillings a week, while 
 gradually destroying her once robust health. 
 
 Nellie was soon in a fearful plight. Too 
 ill to work, too honest to steal, too proud to 
 beg, even too proud to apply for tempo 
 rary assistance in the shape of a loan, she 
 had starvation staring her in the face. 
 With her colorless eyes, her emaciated 
 cheeks, her faded lips, her neglected teeth, 
 and her bending knees, she looked the very
 
 8O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 image of wretchedness personified. And 
 the clouds kept gathering very fast. The 
 arrears of her rent had accumulated to a 
 -non phis ultra extent, and her landlady, her 
 self very poor, at last gave her notice to 
 quit. She was not unprepared for that, and 
 left the house without a murmur. 
 
 There was the workhouse, but no Rus 
 sian Jewess ever went there. What else? 
 Well, the streets and the sky. Alas! The 
 streets in November are inhospitable, and 
 the sky was chilling and terribly unfriendly. 
 
 When, after a day s wandering, the night 
 overtook her, Nellie was sitting under the 
 portico of a house in one of the least fre 
 quented streets. The rest was a great re 
 lief to her, and she was on the point of go 
 ing off to sleep when she was rudely awak 
 ened by a watchful guardian of the public 
 peace, and told to move on. Resigned to 
 her fate she crawled along. A well-dressed 
 young man passed by, glanced at her, and 
 concluded that she was drunk. Having 
 given vent to his feelings by violently spit 
 ting on the pavement, he quickened his 
 pace, and soon disappeared in the darkness.
 
 THE KNOUT AND THE FOG 8l 
 
 After this Nellie made several fruitless at 
 tempts to give her tired limbs a rest, and 
 was half-dead when the merciless night was 
 gone at last. 
 
 \Yith a few r pennies, obtained at the cost 
 of the last articles of comfort, she managed 
 to keep body and soul together during the 
 next few days; but rest there was none as 
 the cold, angry nights relieved each retiring, 
 gloomy day. Rest came at last, though. 
 
 One bleak November night London got 
 enveloped in a dense, black, suffocating fog. 
 No policeman, not even the most lynx-eyed, 
 can then penetrate into the doings of the 
 poor settled on doorsteps in the streets. 
 Nellie slept, having closed her eyes with a 
 fervent blessing addressed to the kind, mer 
 ciful fog. The same happened on the night 
 following. " Oh, that blessed, blessed 
 fog! " she said. The third night was better 
 still. She slept so soundly that when the 
 stifling darkness at length cleared away, the 
 constable " on duty " found it impossible to 
 rouse her. Nellie was dead. 
 
 But Russia was purged of one moral 
 monster, of one Jewess, at all events.
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 
 (1900) 
 
 That night February 17, 1880 the 
 Communist Workmen s Educational Club, 
 at No. 6 Rose street, Soho Square, in Lon 
 don, presented an unusually lively appear 
 ance. The bar-room, never of an evening 
 entirely deserted, was on that occasion 
 crowded, and, strange to say, not so much 
 by thirsty as by inquisitive souls, who, ever 
 since 7 o clock, had been pouring in, either 
 singly, or in couples, or in small groups. 
 Every time the door was opened the barman, 
 who was also the steward, besides serving on 
 a number of committees, had the same ques 
 tion addressed to him : " Has he arrived ? " 
 Whereupon he gave the stereotyped answer : 
 " Yes, He is in the dining-room, right there, 
 on your left." 
 
 Among the callers were many persons 
 who had never seen the inside of the old 
 82
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 83 
 
 club-house before, and others who, for a 
 variety of reasons, had kept aloof from it 
 for years. There were also among them 
 ladies of all ages, sizes, races, and complex 
 ions, most of them with their best holiday 
 looks on, and some with babies in their arms. 
 Like the men, they were directed by the bar 
 tender aforesaid to the room where " he " 
 was to be found, and whither they repaired 
 with all the haste compatible with a sense of 
 self-respect. 
 
 The particular " he " in question was a 
 middle-aged, tall, broad-shouldered, severe 
 looking man, who had come on a sort of fly 
 ing visit from Germany to London. As a 
 Socialist member of the Reichstag at that 
 time there were not quite a dozen of them 
 altogether and as one of the party s most 
 effective speakers, both in parliament and 
 on the platform, he always loomed large in 
 the public eye. He, moreover, had been only 
 recently, and for a number of months, the 
 recipient of the Kaiser s hospitality, having 
 had board and lodging free of charge con 
 ferred upon him in one of those imperial 
 hotels where they take as much care of you
 
 84 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 as if you were a state document. This cir 
 cumstance naturally lent an additional in 
 terest to our friend s unexpected visit. 
 
 The dining-room, which was also the 
 reading-room, as the many newspapers dec 
 orating the walls conclusively proved, was 
 filled to its utmost capacity when the present 
 writer, late as usual, arrived upon the scene. 
 The general conversation, in the course of 
 which the guest had all sorts of questions 
 pelted at him, was now over, and his at 
 tention entirely monopolized by Malek. 
 How Malek, who was among the least 
 known, and, as a Socialist, hardly a man of 
 any account, had managed to get at the lion 
 of the evening in this fashion I don t know. 
 I am, however, inclined to think that he ac 
 complished the feat in the same way as 
 babies, women after a confinement, and in 
 valids succeed in having things all their own 
 way where the strongest men would furl 
 themselves foiled. Sometimes weakness 
 spells strength. 
 
 " You misunderstand me." I heard Ma 
 lek say as I entered the room. His deep- 
 sunk, glistening eyes, which brought the
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 85 
 
 ghastly palor of his emaciated face into bold 
 relief, were riveted on our guest, while his 
 voice had a funereal sound about it. 
 
 " The question," he went on, " is not 
 whether suicide is or is not an act of mad 
 ness, or, as you put it, one committed in a 
 state of mental aberration. We know all 
 about the so-called instinct of self-preserva 
 tion, and all the rest of it. But that doesn t 
 bother me. What I want to know is sim 
 ply this : Given a person \vho is sane enough 
 to foresee that his death would very seri 
 ously affect the health and happiness of 
 others near and dear to him, the question is : 
 Has he a right, a moral right, to put an end 
 to his life when that same life becomes a 
 burden and a source of torture to him? 
 Now, then, what is your opinion? " 
 
 " Well," said our guest, talking half-re- 
 luctantly, " that would to some extent de 
 pend on the circumstances connected with 
 the particular case. Now your friend, if I 
 understand you right, is " 
 
 " Hold on ! " Malek interrupted him. 
 " Would you have the patience to listen to 
 his story? It is not uninteresting, and I
 
 86 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 will tell it as briefly and succinctly as I 
 can." 
 
 " Tell it, by all means," said the other, 
 and having ordered another lager and a 
 small Manila cigar, combining in so doing 
 economy with good quality, he composed 
 himself to listen. 
 
 " My friend," Malek began, raising his 
 voice with the uncalled for self-assertion of 
 one who feels that he is given a hearing out 
 of mere politeness, " is, like myself, of Hun 
 garian extraction, but born and bred in 
 Germany. When a mere child he lost his 
 father, and was brought up by an uncle of 
 his, who had taken him off the poor wid 
 ow s hands, as she had to work for her 
 living, and the youngster was an encum 
 brance to her. It goes without saying that 
 the parting with her son nearly broke her 
 heart, but then, you know, children are fre 
 quently a luxury which the women of our 
 class cannot afford. As soon as the boy 
 was old enough to make himself useful, his 
 uncle took him away from school and ap 
 prenticed him to his trade. He was a 
 turner. The boy progressed rapidly, and
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 87 
 
 what are you looking for ? a match ? 
 
 here you are quite welcome and 
 was in a fair way to begin to earn nice pock 
 et money. Unfortunately, his health, 
 never very rohust, was getting poorer every 
 year. When he reached the age of twenty- 
 one it became bad enough to stand him in 
 good stead it freed him from military 
 service. At that period he, partly for the 
 sake of his health, partly because he wished 
 to follow the example of others among the 
 journeymen workers of his age, set his 
 heart on wandering. He dreamed of go 
 ing into distant lands, often quoting the 
 case of Bebel in that connection, as he was 
 already a Socialist. He had a little money. 
 Neither his uncle nor his mother raised any 
 objections. But an obstacle arose of which 
 he was not conscious until the very day 
 when his mind was definitely made up to 
 pack up his few belongings and to start out 
 on his travels " 
 
 Our guest interrupted him. As a public 
 speaker and, at that moment, the observed 
 of all observers, he could hardly help it. 
 
 " I smell a rat," said he, " the uncle had
 
 88 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 a daughter, a sweet damsel, blonde and 
 blue-eyed, and so on and so forth." 
 
 " Quite so," said Malek, " though you 
 are wrong as to the young lady s complex 
 ion, and the color of her eyes, for, if I am 
 not mistaken, she was a dark-eyed brunette. 
 The two had grown up together, and would 
 have passed for brother and sister if they 
 had fought each other often enough to 
 make the mistake more readily acceptable. 
 On rough winter days the boy \vas sent to 
 fetch the girl from school, while on fair 
 spring and early summer days he sometimes 
 went on that mission of his own accord. 
 The old man considered the care bestowed 
 upon his daughter a little beyond the actual 
 needs in the case, but said nothing. 
 
 " When the day of his departure set in 
 there was a quiet little scene in a quiet little 
 corner, with the result that a more or less 
 plausible excuse was invented for the bene 
 fit of the uncle, and the journey was indefi 
 nitely postponed for that of the cousin. 
 
 " My friend was, or fancied himself, very 
 happy for a few months. Presently a dis 
 turbance arose one, too, which he could
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 89 
 
 never have foreseen. Twice within three 
 weeks, as you all know, the life of the old 
 emperor had been attempted upon, two 
 years ago. Hoedel s attempt did not affect 
 my friend. So deeply was he at that time 
 absorbed in his little love affair that the 
 whole business was something like a fleeting 
 night-vision to him. But when, on the 
 second of June, 1878, Nobiling, too, shot 
 at the Kaiser and seriously \vounded him, 
 and the police, having proved powerless to 
 guard against it, tried to make amends for 
 its incompetency by arresting everybody in 
 sight, my friend got into trouble. A reck 
 less remark or so landed him in jail. 
 
 " He was not long in preliminary de 
 tention. His trial took place early in July, 
 and he was thundered down for nine 
 months. That day was probably the hap 
 piest in his life, little as he may have realiz 
 ed it. To start with, he behaved nobly, 
 eliciting the admiration of his sweetheart, 
 who was in court, her eyes full of tears, and 
 her heart full of love. Then he seemed to 
 be a revelation to himself as he made his 
 short, defiant speech in his defense, in which
 
 9O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 he proudly avowed himself a Socialist, and 
 then stated that while he, in common with 
 the rest of his comrades of the Social De 
 mocracy, never approved of assassination in 
 any shape or form, he also condemned the 
 system of society which was based on, and 
 sustained by murders and violence. 
 
 " As the sentence was being passed on 
 him, he glanced at the darling of his heart, 
 and seemed to find in her fine, loving eyes 
 all the comfort and solace that he needed in 
 anticipation of the long and terrible months 
 to come. 
 
 " Towards the middle of September he 
 had a surprise. On the goose-walk " 
 
 Our guest offered an explanation for the 
 enlightenment of those among us who were 
 not acquainted with the lingo of German 
 prisons. 
 
 " The * goose-walk is what they call 
 there the convicts promenade in the prison 
 yard which some of them, under certain 
 conditions, are allowed at stated times. 
 They walk two abreast round and round the 
 yard."
 
 MALEK S FRIEND QI 
 
 Malek nodded assent in a very nervous 
 manner, and went on with his narrative. 
 
 " On the goose-walk, then," said he, " my 
 friend met a comrade who for a long time 
 had been a close neighbor of his uncle s. 
 As nobody had as yet visited him, he was 
 naturally anxious to know all about the 
 folks at home. The poor fellow received a 
 piece of information which fairly stagger 
 ed him. The young lady " 
 
 " It s the old, old story," the guest chimed 
 in, " out of sight out of mind, and the fickle 
 fair proved false to the incarcerated swain." 
 
 Malek, so far from being annoyed by the 
 interruption, evidently welcomed it as a 
 kind of relief, the recollection of his 
 friend s most trying ordeal in life having 
 had the effect of rendering the narrative a 
 very painful performance. He wiped the 
 perspiration off his forehead and, lowering 
 his voice, he proceeded as follows : 
 
 " The thing is even worse than what you 
 imagine, but I don t care to dwell on it. 
 Suffice it to say that the man who supplant 
 ed my friend in her affections was already
 
 92 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 in full possession of her heart when she 
 faced the poor fellow in court on the day of 
 his trial. During the remaining seven 
 months of imprisonment he hardly took any 
 nourishment, and slept very little of nights. 
 The result was that he left the jail a com 
 plete wreck of his former self, and he, as 
 you already know, was far from being a 
 giant in the best of times. Now he is a 
 physically ruined man, sentenced to death 
 by the weakness of his lungs. As he has 
 no work, and is without hope of ever being 
 able to do any, if he got it, he longs for the 
 final drop of the curtain. But there is the 
 old mother " 
 
 At this point a terrible noise out in the 
 street put a stop to all conversation. 
 
 " Explosion in the Winter Palace, pa-pa- 
 ar! The Tsar and family nearly killed, 
 pa-pa-ar ! " 
 
 This was yelled from several lusty 
 throats, owned by newsboys from the neigh 
 borhood, who felt pretty certain that they 
 were bringing their wares to the ri^ht 
 market. A rush from the room ensued,
 
 MALEK S FRIEND 93 
 
 and in a minute everybody was reading the 
 latest from the country where the " red ter 
 ror " was in deadly conflict with the " white 
 terror." 
 
 The news, though brief and scanty, gave 
 rise to a long discussion, in consequence of 
 which Malek and his story retreated to the 
 background. Meanwhile the hour for ad 
 journing all talks had set in, and our guest 
 had got into his outlandish overcoat, pre 
 paratory for bidding us good night. 
 
 Malek stopped him on his way to the 
 door. 
 
 " Well," he asked, " what is your opin 
 ion ?" 
 
 The other, his mind full of what had hap 
 pened at St. Petersburg, stared at him blank 
 ly, as he replied : - 
 
 " Oh, I don t know. I suppose we shall 
 have more detailed news about it this time 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " But I am not talking about that. I 
 want your opinion as to whether or not my 
 friend has a moral right 
 
 " Undoubtedly only keep that to your-
 
 94 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 self the Tsar, just fancy, the Tsar and 
 the whole of his family. Good night." 
 " Good night," Malek said. 
 
 Three days later we had a disappoint 
 ment at the club. The guest was to ad 
 dress a public meeting, and did not appear 
 until after most of the people had left the 
 building. It was nearly midnight when he 
 walked in. His face was very pale and he 
 looked more dead than alive. Nobody 
 cared to question him, and a few minutes 
 elapsed in profound silence. At last, as if 
 waking up from a reverie, he spoke. 
 
 " Malek," he said, " you know Malek, 
 who argued with me the other night 
 who wanted my opinion " 
 
 "Yes, yes. Well?" We took him up 
 almost in chorus. 
 
 " Well, his friend he was his friend 
 and and he hanged himself this after 
 noon. What a fool I was "
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 
 
 (1902) 
 
 Of course, you and I, whose generous, 
 loving and philanthropic hearts are ever on 
 the alert for all that is best in human nature, 
 would, at the sight of him, have heaved a 
 deep, lackadaisical sigh, exclaiming or mut 
 tering: " That poor old man! " Not so the 
 young ragamuffins of East Broadway and its 
 tributaries. To them the gray-haired, bent, 
 dreaming and frequently unkempt cloak- 
 maker of Cherry Street \vas simply cranky 
 old Ike, who was so " orful touchy " that he 
 flew into a passion every time a playful 
 " kid " took some liberty with his whiskers, 
 or burlesqued his mode of perambulation, 
 or called him a Sheeny. 
 
 For a long time his shopmates shared the 
 opinion of the boys. As will appear here 
 after, their reasons were not exactly the 
 same. Anyway, he was never thought or 
 95
 
 96 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 spoken of otherwise than as cranky old Ike. 
 He was fearfully nettled by that epithet. 
 In the Yiddish vernacular, in which he did 
 all his thinking even when he had come 
 to speak what he in the innocence of his 
 heart called English the word crank 
 meant disease. It seemed to recall to his 
 mind one terrible winter in Russia, when 
 typhoid fever, aggravated by dire distress, 
 had carried off first his youthful wife, and 
 then, one by one, his three little ones, leav 
 ing him a branchless tree that had evidently 
 nothing more to do than to stand and wait 
 for the woodman s axe to be cut off alto 
 gether. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Ike came to this country in 1882, during 
 the first great exodus of the children of 
 Israel from the modern " land of bondage," 
 hardly knowing wherefore or whither he 
 went. He escaped from the lions den to 
 enter that of the sweater, just vaguely con 
 scious of the fact, and quietly settled down to 
 work long and weary hours for the benefit 
 of a * cockroach boss " and the Singer 
 Sewing Machine Company.
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 97 
 
 In the workshop he was unpopular be 
 cause he was exclusive, unsocial, and a good 
 deal too quiet. His redeeming feature was 
 his submissiveness, the result of the almost 
 entire absence of anything like a will. 
 Without bothering to understand the ethics 
 of trade unionism, he belonged to a union 
 when everybody else did, paid dues long 
 after the others had ceased to do so, went 
 out on a strike when one was ordered, paid 
 every assessment without grumbling, 
 marched in all processions, did his full share 
 of picket duty, and was generally all right 
 for a man of his age. The trouble with 
 him was that he clearly had no heart in all 
 this. He went automatically, like a clock, 
 only when wound up. In the minds of his 
 mates there was the suspicion that this sub 
 servient tool might with equal ease be used 
 by anybody else, not excepting the boss. 
 
 And then he bristled up against every 
 harmless joke, and though usually taciturn 
 enough to be mistaken for a deaf mute, he 
 would at times, like a sleeping volcano, 
 burst out in a rage without any apparent 
 reason for such an outburst. This was the
 
 98 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 case every time anybody in the shop per 
 petrated what Ike took to be an injustice to 
 a fellow workman, or when some gross 
 though innocent lie was indulged in. Peo 
 ple naturally felt such interference to be a 
 breach of good Mammon s first command 
 ment, " Mind your own business," to-wit. 
 Thus it came about that the verdict of the 
 urchins was endorsed, and Ike was voted a 
 
 crank by acclamation. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Years went by without any perceptible 
 change in the old man s ways, habits, or 
 manners. He aged, though. Toward the 
 spring of 1895 ms na r na d become perfect 
 ly white, his eyesight greatly impaired, and 
 in proportion as the last of his teeth in 
 valids for a generation had taken their 
 departure, the wrinkles on his face increased 
 and multiplied. Those who, for lack of a 
 more profitable occupation, at times troub 
 led about him, gradually came to the con 
 clusion that " the old crank was fast going 
 to the dogs." 
 
 Partly, however, they were mistaken. 
 
 About that time there occurred in New
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 99 
 
 York City one of those East-Side strikes, 
 which return annually with the regularity of 
 pugilistic encounters in certain Parliaments. 
 A mass meeting was held in Orchard 
 Street, and among the speakers was one 
 old German Socialist, whose calm, sedate, 
 and sincere manner seemed to have made a 
 strong impression on poor old Ike. Not 
 that it was the first speech of the kind he 
 had ever listened to. Nor can it honestly 
 be claimed for him that he caught the true 
 meaning of more than just a few w r ords in 
 each sentence, and, heaven knows, a Ger 
 man sentence can be long enough to test the 
 lungs of a giant. But he was stirred tip by 
 it all the same, and was a different man to 
 the end of the final chapter of his life. 
 There is, let me add, reason to suppose that 
 what impressed him more particularly was 
 the part in the eloquent harangue in which 
 the speaker showed that the unsanitary con 
 ditions prevailing in the dwellings of the 
 poor render them a sure prey to every con 
 tagious disease. 
 
 However that may have been, the fact re 
 mains that old Ike no longer resembled him-
 
 IOO STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 self. He not only became talkative, but he 
 talked politics, and a good deal of it. 
 
 At first nobody took him seriously. 
 Cranky Ike in the character of a political 
 reformer struck people as no less a mons 
 trosity than might have been a Jewish rabbi 
 performing on the high trapeze in a circus. 
 Men scorned the very idea, and the recog 
 nized wit in the shop raised many a laugh 
 at the old man s expense, the most popular 
 among the many witicisms being to the ef 
 fect that Ike had swallowed an alderman. 
 But as time wore on. and the old man s in 
 terest in politics, so far from flagging, had 
 actually got more intensified and more keen 
 as election day drew near, the jeers and 
 gibes gave place to a kind of silent amaze 
 ment. 
 
 One day in October, 1895, ^ <e was S1 t " 
 ting at his work when suddenly a thought 
 flashed across his mind, and, nudging his 
 nearest neighbor with the elbow, he blurted 
 out : 
 
 " Say, how many of them is there in the 
 Twelfth?" 
 
 " Don t understand you."
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 1OI 
 
 " I mean, how many voters is there in 
 all?" 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " In the Twelfth Assembly." 
 
 " You mean in the Twelfth Assembly 
 District?" 
 
 " Sure." 
 
 " Ask me something easier." 
 
 " Ask a policeman," chimed in the funny 
 man of the place, doing it rather timidly. 
 
 And the old man collapsed. 
 
 That evening a meeting was held on East 
 Broadway, and, as the speakers succeeded 
 each other, poor Ike s heart expanded, his 
 face beamed with delight, and his eyes 
 sparkled as if they had been newly " fixed." 
 
 When pay-day came round, and he got 
 his few hard-earned dollars, he felt so 
 young that he thought he ought to invest a 
 little money in new collars. He accordingly 
 repaired to Gcand Street, examined half- 
 a-dozen show-cases and store-windows, and 
 came home with a fine double-portrait of 
 Marx and Engels, having decided to buy 
 the collars the following Saturday without 
 fail.
 
 IO2 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 As the month of October set in the cam 
 paign was in full swing. Ike devoured 
 every leaflet and news-item bearing on 
 Socialism in general, and the contest in the 
 Twelfth in particular. The prospects look 
 ed to him brighter and more encouraging 
 from day to day, and as he lay down of 
 nights he dreamed of Albany, of the As 
 sembly, of the first Socialist State legisla 
 tor. He saw him enter the House, proud 
 and defiant, a veritable Samson among the 
 Philistines, challenging to battle all and 
 sundry, and carrying aloft the purple banner 
 of justice, and freedom, and well, yes 
 and sanitary conditions. 
 
 He did not sleep well at all, poor old man, 
 and his health suffered visibly. But he did 
 not mind it. " I never felt better in my 
 life," he would say when anybody upbraid 
 ed him for staying up late at night after 
 spending the evening, wet or dry, running 
 from one street corner to another to " hear 
 the speeches." 
 
 And now the great parade came. He 
 was in it. Rather. His step was almost 
 elastic as he walked in the never-ending
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE 103 
 
 procession to Union Square. The thou 
 sands of marchers, the flying colors, the 
 bands of music, and afterwards the fiery 
 speeches seemed to give him a new lease of 
 life. When the parade was over, Ike felt 
 certain that " our man " was going to win 
 in a canter, which meant that the thin end 
 of the wedge was driven in, and the dawn 
 of the new era was near. Why, his chil 
 dren might have lived to see it. . . . 
 Poor little things! 
 
 At length election day came. It was an 
 interminably long day. It could not have 
 been longer if another Joshua had once 
 more stopped the sun in Gibeon. And then 
 he had got up several hours before the 
 usual time. In fact, he hardly slept at all 
 the previous night. Who could sleep? 
 
 At noon he went into a coffee-saloon on 
 Division Street. People talked at the 
 tables. He listened. When the waiter came 
 around for his order, Ike looked at him 
 vaguely, then waking up to the fact that he 
 was to eat there, he pondered over the mat 
 ter for a moment, and then, to save time, 
 ordered a " regular dinner." The soup
 
 IO4 STORIES OF THF STRUGGLE 
 
 came and went back almost untouched .nd 
 the meat was set before him. He had ,ard- 
 ly swallowed the first morsel whei? ,ne talk 
 at the neighboring table turned on the elec 
 tion. 
 
 " He ain t got no show," said a well- 
 dressed young man who looked the very 
 type of the fellow with his mind made up to 
 be rich. Ike had a presentiment, and the 
 fork dropped out of his hand. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked the young 
 man s colloquitor. 
 
 " Vy, that Sosh list feller in the Twelfth, 
 of course." 
 
 Ike turned deadly pale. He went up to 
 the first speaker, and, in a trembling voice, 
 ejaculated : 
 
 "You are a liar! That s all." 
 
 The young man got excited, and trouble 
 would have ensued had not the saloon 
 keeper stepped up to the future Rockefeller 
 and whispered in his ear : 
 
 " Dontcher mind him, man. It s cranky 
 old Ike. dontcher know? " 
 
 Hostilities stopped right then, but Ike ate 
 no more. He left the place very much
 
 CRANKY OLD IKE IO5 
 
 troubled in his mind. A terrible doubt was 
 now gnawing at his heart. Could that 
 " clucle " be right ? He went out into the 
 street, and bought the Jewish Socialist 
 daily. The editorial was far from reassur 
 ing. There was some talk there of succeed 
 ing in the end. That wasn t what Ike had 
 come to expect. A cold shiver ran along 
 his back. 
 
 Still, he hoped against hope. " The pa 
 pers," he said to himself, " don t know 
 everything. They make mistakes all the 
 time. And then it is quite possible that the 
 writer purposely talked in that strain so as 
 to make the victory all the more striking 
 when it comes ; yes, when it comes. . . ." 
 
 At ten o clock it was all over. The result 
 was known. Ike s man was at the bottom 
 of the poll. 
 
 The following morning the old man did 
 not show up at the work-shop. The day 
 after he came, but could not work. Then 
 he disappeared altogether.
 
 THE PRICE OF FREEDOM 
 (1902) 
 
 After Balmashoff Hirsch Leckert! 
 
 One after another they come and sacri 
 fice their young lives on the altar of Russian 
 freedom. 
 
 " Well, my friends," said some one, as 
 we talked matters over a few days ago, " it 
 is the blood of the tyrant s countless victims 
 that cries to Heaven for vengeance. The 
 cry being heard on earth, is responded to by 
 the noblest sons, or, as in the case of the 
 Jew Leckert, by the noblest step-sons, of 
 darkest Russia." 
 
 " This," said I, " sounds, of course, plaus 
 ible enough, but there is, to my mind, some 
 thing else underlying the eagerness to do 
 and die on the part of those young heroes. 
 There is an old legend not very extensive 
 ly known even in Russia, which would ex 
 plain my meaning better than any words I 
 1 06
 
 THE PRICE OF FREEDOM IO7 
 
 could use for the purpose. I have it, done 
 into English, and would read it aloud to 
 you, if you care to hear it." 
 
 They composed themselves to listen, and, 
 producing 1 the manuscript, I read what fol 
 lows : 
 
 Thrice-nine lands away, in the thrice- 
 tenth kingdom yonder, there lived and 
 thrived a mighty Czar in the olden days of 
 yore. 
 
 A powerful monarch was he, stout of 
 heart and strong of limb; wise, though 
 youthful, and withal right terrible when in 
 wrath. 
 
 And he took to wife a damsel fair, a 
 beautiful princess, lovely to behold. Her 
 gracefulness was the envy of the fairies, 
 while the lustre of her eyes put to the blush 
 the light of the polar star. 
 
 Full many a time the sun rose and set, 
 ami many a stream ran down its course as 
 the royal pair delighted in bliss beyond the 
 ken of mortal man. 
 
 And now in fulness of time their union 
 was blessed with godlike off-spring, for a
 
 IO8 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 male-child was born unto them, whose coun 
 tenance mirrored wisdom and power ap 
 parently destined to be the wonder of the 
 world. 
 
 Great was the joy of the Czar as the 
 feast was spread in the royal hall. Right 
 glad was he as each Barin and Boyarin, 
 after partaking of the choicest viands and 
 the most delicious wines, came up to pay 
 homage to him who was to be the ruler of 
 the land in days to come. 
 
 But, alas! the Czar s happiness was 
 soon cruelly nipped in the bud. Mid the 
 strains of enchanting music that had roused 
 the spirits of the elder folks, while setting 
 a-whirling in joyous dances the giddy lads 
 with the buxom maidens of the hall, a ser 
 pent in human guise whispered something 
 so dreadful in the monarch s ear that it 
 forthwith set ablaze his heart, and the erst 
 while happy husband and father now resem 
 bled a furious demon. Thus will, at times, 
 peaceful, playful Mother Volga, enraged by 
 a mischievous storm, all of a sudden rise in 
 anger, fiercely smiting her shores to right 
 and left, on ruin and devastation bent.
 
 THE PRICE OF FREEDOM IOO, 
 
 " Thrice-cursed woman ! " thundered the 
 Czar. " Yonder child is not the issue of 
 my loins! " 
 
 Anon the guests, as if terror-struck by a 
 raging volcano, quietly dispersed, and the 
 palace, but now full of life and mirth, be 
 came desolate, dreary, and dead. 
 
 Many a night after this the Czar lay out 
 stretched on his couch which unto him now 
 seemed a bed of thorns, brooding over his 
 fate; while the Czarina bathed her face in 
 tears, pacing up and down in her bower, as 
 might a caged lioness, doomed to an inglo 
 rious end. 
 
 The Czar at first was hesitating only be 
 cause he could not devise a death that would 
 be an adequate punishment for the trans 
 gression of his royal consort. Then, as his 
 fury abated, better counsel prevailed. The 
 more so, as his former great love for her, 
 who but a little while ago had been his all 
 in all, had begun to plead in her favor, rais 
 ing doubts as to her very guilt. 
 
 In the end, however, he decided to place 
 her fate and that of her infant child in the
 
 IIO STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 hands of Providence, so that, if so it be that 
 she, as she all along protested, really were 
 innocent of the crime laid at her door, then, 
 forsooth, her giiardian-angel would protect 
 her and save her from harm. 
 
 He thereupon, got her and the luckless in 
 fant put in a tub strongly built and well 
 tarred on the outside, and, having furnished 
 them with meat and drink, to the end that 
 they perish not of hunger and thirst, he had 
 
 them set afloat on the wide, wide sea. 
 * * * 
 
 Soon a tale is told, but not so soon a 
 deed is done. 
 
 Moon after moon passed as it was born 
 as the Czarina and the outcast scion of a 
 mighty family remained thus confined with 
 in their floating jail, at the mercy of the 
 furious winds and angry waves, 
 
 Meanwhile the prince grew not from day 
 to day, but from hour to hour. He soon 
 was a veritable young giant with the strength 
 of a lion, and the sight of an eagle. So big 
 was he now that he could no longer freely 
 stretch his limbs within the narrow vessel.
 
 THE TRICE OF FREEDOM III 
 
 Anon, my good sirs, a terrible thing came 
 to pass. 
 
 " I must have more elbow room, I must 
 have freedom! " the son one day said unto 
 his mother, and so saying, he made a her 
 culean effort to burst asunder the vessel. 
 
 "For God s sake, stop!" cried his terri 
 fied parent. 
 
 " Mother, I must," quoth he, " I will, and 
 must be free ! " 
 
 " But, oh, foolish child, thou canst have 
 no liberty, leastways not unless thou payest 
 for it with thine own sweet life," said the 
 luckless woman, rising as if to stand up 
 betwixt her child and his death. 
 
 " I will have my freedom, mother dear, 
 whatever the cost ! I will have a taste of it 
 now that I am big, come what may ! " 
 
 " But, my darling, thou wilt surely per 
 ish, thou wilt die, my soul ! " pleaded the 
 poor woman, mother-like entirely oblivious 
 of her own danger. 
 
 " Sweet queen," said the lad, " one short 
 moment s freedom is worth more than a 
 whole long lifetime in bondage and dis-
 
 112 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 grace. I must have air, and light, and lib 
 erty, untrammelled, limitless! I will free 
 myself, and die ! " 
 
 He freed himself and died.
 
 THE MAN LAZY ON PRINCIPLE 
 
 (i893) 
 
 Mike his patronymic nobody ever 
 knew was not exactly a compositor by 
 trade. He was a man who occasionally did 
 an odd job in the lower-class East End 
 printing places in London, but only when 
 there was absolutely nothing more to pawn, 
 and nobody to borrow from, " probably 
 never to repay," as he used to say with char 
 acteristic frankness. He w r as rather under- 
 grown, slender, sleepy-looking, with a sal 
 low complexion and deep-sunken eyes. 
 His temper was very uneven, and he was 
 known to be both " mild and bitter," Soc 
 rates and Xantippe in the space of five min 
 utes. As a general rule, however, he was 
 the most good-natured young fellow in 
 the Tower Hamlets.* Young, did I say? 
 Well, I am afraid it was a somewhat 
 
 * A part of London : the east side.
 
 114 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 hazardous assertion, for you can never tell 
 the age of the poor. They often have a 
 careworn look as soon as they are breeched, 
 and, on the other hand, frequently preserve 
 a healthy color in the face and a bushy head 
 of hair long after their contemporaries of 
 the middle-meddle-muddle class have lost 
 their ruddy cheeks and become as bald as 
 eggs. 
 
 He was very talented was Mike. He 
 not only could give the average compositor 
 odds at typesetting and beat him, but was a 
 good hand at almost anything you cared to 
 mention. He had the making of a com 
 fortably-situated artisan in him, only he had 
 a deep-rooted aversion for all work and pre 
 ferred constant need, with occasional em 
 ployment, which was his lot, to constant 
 employment, with occasional need, which is 
 the lot of other exceptionally skilled work- 
 
 ingmen. He was well read, too. 
 # * * 
 
 " I am," he once told me, in the course of 
 a long debate I had with him, " an idler on 
 principle, and a worker through compulsion. 
 I hate the drudgery of the workshop. Even
 
 THE MAN LAZY ON PRINCIPLE 115 
 
 if work were not, as it generally is, over 
 strained and underpaid, I would still detest 
 it." 
 
 " But, then," I remarked, " you are poor." 
 
 " Well," he replied, " it depends on what 
 you call poor. He who earns four shilling s 
 a week and needs five is not half so pinched 
 as his neighbor who, with a weekly income 
 cf four pounds, lives at the rate of ten. Be 
 sides, man alive, what is a breakfast or two 
 gone without, or a dinner eaten by proxy 
 once or twice in the course of a week, com 
 pared with a spin of idleness lasting through 
 a whole delightful month? Why, a mere 
 nothing." 
 
 "Dolce far niente!" I interposed, prob 
 ably murdering the Italian words in my 
 pronunciation, and accompanying the 
 slaughter with a smile like a genuine civ- 
 ilizer of Asiatics. 
 
 " Just fancy," he continued, visibly an 
 noyed by the interruption, " going to bed 
 with the consciousness of having spent a 
 day in gaping and gazing while strolling 
 through the busy streets like a true free 
 man : then sleeping undisturbed by an over-
 
 Il6 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 filled stomach or a brain racked with cares, 
 and the nasty dreams engendered by the one 
 or the other ! Then to get up late next 
 morning, often late enough to skip the very 
 breakfast one has to do without, and to go 
 out into rain or sunshine, as the case may 
 be, with the prospect of another day s bliss 
 of idleness. It s glorious ! And then, you 
 see, there is the splendid fun of being stared 
 at by every policeman on my beat and to 
 be shadowed as somebody wanted by 
 every cross-eyed, ill-favored, ill-disguised 
 Scotland Yard man, whom I often purpose 
 ly pretend to avoid so as to have the inde 
 scribable pleasure of being followed for 
 days at a stretch." 
 
 " You wax quite eloquent ! " I remark 
 ed, " but between you and me and the lamp 
 post, don t you sometimes give the guardians 
 of property good cause to suspect you ? " 
 
 " Never ! " he most emphatically said. 
 " You must be a simpleton to suppose 
 that I would go to the trouble of stealing, 
 or robbing on the highway, or forging 
 checks, or coining! Why, typesetting,
 
 THE MAN LAZY ON PRINCIPLE 1 1/ 
 
 beastly, hateful typesetting, which I have 
 to resort to when I find that Uncle had 
 got possessed of all of my movable belong 
 ings, is not half so irksome or laborious as 
 any of the criminal professions. I dare say, 
 I might under different circumstances 
 have turned my mind to promoting bubble- 
 companies, or forming syndicates, or going 
 on the Stock Exchange, which, besides re 
 quiring very little physical exertion, have 
 the additional merit of being comparatively 
 safe. I might have done that, I say, but 
 then, you see, my needs are limited, and I 
 have, moreover, no taste for crime in any 
 shape or form." 
 
 " By Jingo ! " I said, " you speak like a 
 book." 
 
 " Like a bad one," he replied, a little 
 self-complacently, and then, relapsing into 
 a sadder mood, he added. " I have set up 
 just enough of these cursed things in my 
 time to talk like one." 
 
 " You were going to say something else 
 when I interrupted you." 
 
 " Nothing, except that you ought to have
 
 Il8 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 had the good sense to understand that with 
 a conscience ill at ease I could never have 
 been the happy man I now am." 
 
 " But," said I, determined to probe his 
 queer philosophy to the bottom, " are you 
 really and truly, now are you hap- 
 py?" 
 
 " Well," he answered, half-reluctantly, 
 " not, perhaps, absolutely so ; nobody is un 
 der the present conditions of society." 
 
 That expression rather tickled me, but I 
 let him talk on. 
 
 " Both," he said, " the ever-needy and 
 the ever-greedy are perpetually hungry, and 
 therefore never contented. 
 
 " It is the case," I could not help chim 
 ing in, " of little Oliver Twist here and King 
 Solomon s horseleech there." 
 
 " And, broadly speaking," he continued, 
 " humanity is composed of those two 
 classes. Then, you know, there can be no 
 true happiness so long as to have is 
 everything and to be next to nothing; 
 while, in fact, nobody does strive to be any 
 thing except for the purpose of having 
 something. Again, self-respect is, I im-
 
 THE MAX LAZY OX PRINCIPLE I IQ 
 
 agine, an essential condition of happiness, 
 of real happiness (as distinguished from the 
 base-metal finery of the drawing-room), 
 and pray, who is there alive now between 
 the four points of the compass who, in his 
 heart of hearts, could possibly respect him 
 self, unless he be as conceited as a London 
 sheriff and as stupid as a gravestone? 
 Who? Surely not your politician, who 
 hoodwinks his fellows, nor those same fel 
 lows who submit to the process. Surely 
 not the task-master who grinds his peo 
 ple, nor the people who put up with the 
 grinding, evidently taking it to be a kind 
 of black cholera which defies all remedies, 
 or else considering the greatest evil of the 
 greatest number part of the plan on which 
 society is built. Who else? Surely not 
 your lawyer, whom I would not describe, 
 as I may need him, nor your physician, who 
 thrives on disease, nor your philanthropist, 
 who donates the chaff and keeps the 
 wheat, nor your tradesman, both behind 
 the counter, and in the professional chair, 
 nor " 
 
 " Hold on," I said, " we have heard that
 
 I2O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 lay before. What is it that you are driving 
 at?" 
 
 " Why," he replied angrily, " I merely 
 want to show you that as no one nowa 
 days can honestly respect himself, there 
 would be one reason the more why there 
 can be no absolute happiness. But and 
 now I come to answer your question - 
 within these limits I think myself a happy 
 man. My shabby coat, my aged trousers, 
 my w-eatherbeaten cap, my ventilated shoes, 
 my lodgings at times air-tight, at others 
 too airy my scanty and not ever-ready 
 meal, my very faults and, Heaven knows, 
 they are many and weighty never bother 
 me. I do not even worry if, before allow 
 ing myself to go into harness for the sake 
 of a bite or a sup for to-day and to-morrow, 
 I have to apply to a friend for a tanner or 
 a bob,t . . . because they are always 
 welcome to what little I can spare, pro 
 vided they do not put me to the trouble of 
 * giving, which is an exertion like receiv 
 ing/ and more disagreeable, as it savors of 
 beneficence." 
 
 t A sixpence or a shilling.
 
 THE MAN LAZY ON PRINCIPLE 121 
 
 " To judge," I remarked, " from your 
 way of talking, I should take it that you 
 are a bit of a Socialist." 
 
 " You are wrong there," he replied 
 quickly, almost snappishly. He was silent 
 for a moment, and then continued, speak 
 ing with abated animation : 
 
 " Not, mind you, that I find it difficult 
 to accept the tenets of Socialism, or that I 
 fail to see the very inevitableness of its ad 
 vent as a system of society soon to replace 
 the wild scramble we live under; but the 
 way I look on such tilings is briefly this : 
 A wine barrel is not the same thing as a 
 barrel of wine, and there is no duty on 
 names. To label oneself this, that, or the 
 other is about as easy as lying. Unless, 
 then, a man does something to justify his 
 name, title, or sobriquet, he might as well 
 style himself Rameses II as Socialist. 
 Now, doing, acting, and working for any 
 cause whatsoever is not in my line." 
 
 Having said which, Mike gave me to 
 understand that he had talked himself out 
 of breath, and I left him to enjoy a well- 
 earned rest.
 
 ECK-KE 
 (1899) 
 
 The sweet voice now was silent, and as 
 the vibrations of the last notes were dy 
 ing out, several persons of both sexes sur 
 rounded the owner of that marvellous vocal 
 instrument whose sounds had just been 
 caressing their ears, while filling their hearts 
 with love, and hope, and faith. 
 
 Among those who came up to shake 
 hands with the tribune of the people was a 
 middle-aged, stumpy, poorly-clad individ 
 ual with a pair of small, grey, sly eyes, a 
 narrow, almost idiotic looking forehead, a 
 peculiarly shaped mouth devoid of front 
 teeth, and a nose flatter and shorter than 
 the average run of East Side noses. A 
 beard of fully ten days growth served to 
 render his face wellnigh repulsive, while 
 the absence of collar and tie clearly demon- 
 
 122
 
 ECK-KE 123 
 
 strated the man s contempt for convention 
 alities. 
 
 He offered the speaker a cold, fishy hand, 
 doing it in a manner rather obtrusive, if 
 not bold. 
 
 " How do you do ? " said Mr. Debs, who 
 possesses the art of pronouncing those usu 
 ally politely-meaningless words in a way 
 to make you feel certain that the man ad 
 dressing that inquiry to you is in all serious 
 ness anxious to know the state of your 
 health, sincerely hoping to hear from you 
 that you are really and truly well. 
 
 Before the other could have found time to 
 say anything in reply, he added : 
 
 " What is your name, Comrade? " 
 
 The man did not answer, and there was 
 a half-subdued titter among the bystanders. 
 Debs could not help noticing that there w r as 
 something wrong, and looked a little puz 
 zled. 
 
 What was the matter with the man? 
 Nothing. He was neither bashful, nor un 
 mannerly, but simply dumb. 
 
 It was the deaf-mute baister Eck-Ke, 
 commonly so called because those two sylla-
 
 124 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 bles were the only ones the poor fellow could 
 articulate. It was deaf Silence that came 
 to pay homage to eloquent Speech. 
 
 What, you wonder, was he, of all people 
 in the world, doing at that meeting of ours? 
 
 Well, he was listening without hearing 
 so as to repeat without talking, which is 
 the plain, unvarnished truth. As, however, 
 you look a little dubious, let me give you 
 the information I am possessed of, and you 
 
 will judge for yourselves. 
 * * * 
 
 Eck-Ke is a Russian Jew. He came to 
 this country early in the eighties, along with 
 the others, after the first great anti-semitic 
 onslaught on Jews and decency. He must 
 have been quite young at that time. 
 
 His physical defect is the result of an 
 accident which occurred when he was three 
 years old. At the time of writing he is 
 the father of a family, and very proud of his 
 children, with good reason, no doubt. 
 As a sober, industrious and skilled work 
 man he seems to earn as much as anyone 
 else in his trade, and his folks are natu 
 rally greatly attached to him. He is, and
 
 ECK-KE 125 
 
 always has been, a strict union-man, aye, 
 and an intelligent one, to boot. He not 
 only takes considerable pride in his union 
 card, but thoroughly understands both the 
 immediate and the ultimate aims of union 
 ism. 
 
 Several years ago there was a sort of 
 general strike in the East Side tailoring 
 trade. It goes without saying that Eck-Ke 
 held out to the bitter end, and the end, let 
 me say in passing, was very bitter indeed. 
 Seeing that strikes are almost always be 
 gun with more enthusiasm in the ranks 
 than cash in the treasury, they come, among 
 our people, unfortunately only too often to 
 such an end. But Eck-Ke on that occasion 
 did more than hold out; he won his spurs. 
 
 The great event of his life happened in 
 this wise: 
 
 During a parade or something Eck-Ke 
 saw a wrathful policeman with pro-capital 
 istic propensities make free with his club 
 much to the discomfort of a number of 
 heads. Others probably saw it too. Un 
 like them, however, Eck-Ke could neither 
 hear nor speak, so he acted. A scuffle en-
 
 126 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 sued. Our friend was worsted. All the 
 same outraged Authority had to be avenged, 
 and he was arrested. When the case of the 
 People versus the deaf-mute was decided in 
 favor of the former, Eck-Ke went to jail 
 
 for four calendar months. 
 
 * * * 
 
 His attitude toward the Socialist move 
 ment is that of a sympathizer. There is no 
 direct evidence of his ever having been offi 
 cially connected with any party, but he 
 takes a livelier interest in all our family 
 scraps than many an old timer, which is, 
 perhaps, not exactly to his credit. 
 
 With all his sympathy for Socialism he is 
 a union man first, last and all the time. As 
 such he is ready to fight, and that to the 
 last ditch, as the phrase goes, any party or 
 individual in the Socialist movement whom 
 he considers antagonistic to organized labor, 
 no matter how organized. It is for that 
 reason that he opposes unity with the S. 
 L. P., and every time the subject is broached 
 he gives vent to his feelings by making as 
 wry a face as if he had swallowed a turn-
 
 ECK-KE 127 
 
 blerful of vinegar, accompanying the horri 
 ble grimace by a shrill, drawn out yell. 
 
 There is a cafe on Grand street which is 
 frequented by the progressive element of 
 Jewish young men in process of American 
 ization. Eck-Ke may be seen there almost 
 every evening in the week. He comes for 
 a chat, as it were : some of the boys can talk 
 to him. 
 
 When there is anything of interest in the 
 papers, he takes them home, and gets his 
 children to tell him all he wants to know 
 about. Once in full possession of the facts 
 he comes back to the cafe, ready for an 
 argument and woe to him or her who ven 
 tures to disagree with him. 
 * * * 
 
 Such a thing as a religious Socialist 
 among the younger generation of Russian 
 Jews is indeed a rara avis. If there be an 
 exception to the rule, it surely is not our 
 friend Eck-Ke. He not only is decidedly 
 irreligious, but perfectly " outspoken " 
 about it. More than that, he occasionally 
 even goes out of his way to tease his pious
 
 128 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 brethren, as the following well-authen 
 ticated little story would go to show : 
 
 One day Eck-Ke was accosted on the 
 street by a very excited individual in search 
 of a " tenth man " needed in order to make 
 up a prayer-meeting (a " minyan," requir 
 ing at least ten men ; women, children, deaf- 
 mutes, etc., not counting). So eager was 
 the man to get somebody looking more or 
 less like an old-fashioned, religious Jew, 
 that he fairly dragged Eck-Ke into the 
 house, where the services were to be held. 
 In an instant Eck-Ke had taken in the sit 
 uation, and inwardly chuckling, he obeyed 
 the summons, and soon formed part of the 
 congregation, well aware of the fact that 
 his ignorance of the ritual entirely incapac 
 itated him from completing the requisite 
 number. Prayers over, he set his fingers 
 to work, and with the broadest grin on his 
 face, he made the trick plain to the nine 
 good and pious co-religionists. 
 
 Take him all in all, Eck-Ke is undoubt 
 edly a character.
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSER 
 
 JESTER, PRINTER, AND YIDDISH BARD 
 (1902) 
 
 Toward the end of the sixties the 
 Lithuanian city of Kovno, in Russia, could 
 boast of but few booksellers. One of the 
 two whose stores had a more or less modern 
 complexion, the books therein being of a 
 polyglot character, was a red-haired, 
 undersized, weak-eyed, weak-everything- 
 elsed individual, an almost bodyless little 
 man. His store was hidden away in a quiet 
 nook of a large, at times malodorous court 
 yard, out of sight, as it were. In Russia, 
 you see, both the Jew and the Book feel 
 safest in the shade, both of them being 
 tabooed ; to some extent, anyway. 
 
 This man s customers were mainly school 
 boys, youngsters, that is, out of the old- 
 fashioned " Cheder " who were allowed a 
 129
 
 I3O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 two years course in the public school, where 
 they got a knowledge of the three R s and 
 a proper understanding of the beauties of 
 autocracy. 
 
 I was one of the number. I used to go 
 there to feast my eyes on that wonderful 
 collection of books in all languages, which 
 the man had on his shelves, in an apology 
 for a trunk with its lid half gone, and in 
 the capacious pockets of his overcoat a 
 garment which occasionally did duty for a 
 bed-cover and a window blind. I was then 
 about twelve years old, a budding fabulist, 
 with Kryloff as my model, and a partner 
 about my own age to " make up " the story, 
 he, in my opinion, being a great authority 
 on wild and domesticated animals. In his 
 company I often spent a delightful half- 
 hour gazing at the books, full of reverence 
 not only for themselves, but for the very 
 dust enveloping them, and even for the 
 spider on the top shelf, who, without any 
 undue interference, busily manufactured 
 textile fabrics in his own ingenious way, 
 probably thankful for the continued ab-
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSER 13! 
 
 sence of cobweb machines owned by some 
 cobweb trust. 
 
 One summer evening as my friend and 
 I were in the bookshop discussing a plot for 
 a new fable, we were surprised to hear the 
 proprietor hum a sweet, typically Jewish 
 tune. We stopped talking and listened. 
 The man raised his voice and continued a 
 song about a flower that was once full of 
 fragrance and life, guarded from evil winds, 
 admired by all, but now detached from its 
 native soil, despised and neglected, blown 
 into the gutter by a furious gale. Poor, 
 outcast Jewish race ! 
 
 The bookseller s weak eyes, never dry on 
 general principles, now filled up to the ex 
 tent of looking like crying, but that stage 
 was not reached. 
 
 "Whose are the words?" he plainly 
 read in our faces, for he said : 
 
 " What, you don t know ? Why, it s one 
 of the songs of Eliakum the badchan, the 
 famous merrymaker who sings at the rich 
 est weddings, and gets fabulous sums of 
 money for his rhymes."
 
 132 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 " For example ? " my friend asked, who 
 in his mind was then perhaps trying to 
 figure out the market value of fables as 
 compared with wedding rhymes. 
 
 " Well," said the bookman, " I can t tell, 
 but I know of one case where he was offered 
 as much as twenty-five roubles to come here 
 from Wilna." 
 
 "Railroad fare paid?" my friend fur 
 ther asked. 
 
 "I think so," said the other; "third 
 class, of course ! " 
 
 " Tis wonderful, as I am a Jew ! " ejac 
 ulated my partner in (the clearly much less 
 remunerative) fable business." 
 
 I was silent. I was, in fact, dumb 
 founded. Here was, in the first place, a 
 badchan, a fellow, socially a degree lower 
 than a fiddler, spoken of by a man like the 
 bookseller, one who usually weighs his 
 words, as " Eliakum," instead of " Elia- 
 kum-ke,." that is without the affix " ke " 
 denoting contempt when applied to an 
 adult. That same badchan, moreover, 
 writes not only funny rhymes, but poems,
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSEU 133 
 
 and people recite them, sing them. Who 
 ever heard of such a thing? 
 
 The bookseller had, however, a still 
 greater surprise for me. While I was ru 
 minating about it all he had gone up to the 
 place where the overcoat aforesaid was 
 summering, and pulled out from the appar 
 ently bottomless depths of the pockets a 
 large pile of promiscuous printed matter. 
 After a long search, in which his nose took 
 as much of a part as his weak, watering 
 eyes, he produced a small booklet. 
 
 " Here," he said, " are some of Elia- 
 kum s songs in print. Cheap, boys, very 
 cheap." 
 
 He named the price. It was only a few 
 kopecks, but I was just then financially 
 somewhat embarrassed, having only a week 
 or so before invested a little fortune (about 
 a nickel, in American money) in a cheap 
 paper edition of Kryloff s fables. But it 
 was not the money part of the thing that 
 kept me absorbed in thought at the sight of 
 the booklet. It was the idea, the prepos 
 terous idea of a badchan-fellow s writings
 
 134 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 being printed, published and sold, yes, sold> 
 just like any other respectable publication, 
 and that by a man who handles the Russian 
 poets, Zschokke s novels, and the choicest 
 Hebrew books! And now, as if to cap the 
 climax, the bookseller informed us that the 
 print I was looking at was only one of a 
 series, published in Wilna since 1861. 
 
 " Is that possible ! " I felt like exclaiming, 
 but the piece of information having literally 
 taken my breath away I said nothing. 
 
 A week or two later I raised funds suffi 
 cient to become the lawful owner (I insist 
 on the adjective, it is important when you 
 talk of books) of a couple of Eliakum Zun- 
 ser s publications. 
 
 In 1871 something happened that most 
 forcibly brought back to my mind the Jew 
 bard and his songs. 
 
 The news reached us in Kovno that the 
 cholera, then raging in Wilna, had wiped 
 out of the Book of the Living three of Elia 
 kum s children; that he fled from grim 
 death to Minsk, but, on the way, the fourth 
 and last child and his wife had succumbed.
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSER 135 
 
 This tragic incident reminded us of the 
 existence of the sorrow-laden, heart-broken 
 singer who was still obliged to exhilarate 
 people entering into the bonds of matri 
 mony; to go on writing songs, dipping his 
 pen in his still bleeding wounds, and then 
 setting his words to music by way of turn 
 ing wails and sighs into harmonious sounds. 
 
 " Here of three children a father bereft, 
 Buries the last one, Death seemed to have left 
 Him, and as this comes to pass, he in his plight. 
 Seeks from his cruel fate refuge in flight. 
 Four little darlings gone; beautiful, sweet. 
 Lovely beloved ones, bright and so neat, 
 All in five days devoured, all in their graves 
 Leaving me shipwrecked, a plank tossed by 
 waves." 
 
 And in spite of the ungainliness, the un 
 civilized look and sound of the " vulgar 
 Yiddish," we shed tears as we listened to 
 the bitter-sweet song of the Job-tried singer. 
 Some thirty years later I was privileged 
 to entertain Mr. Zunser as a visitor at my 
 house. I then for the first time met him 
 face to face, and in the course of the even-
 
 136 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ing he was kind enough to recite the very 
 poem from which I quoted (hastily done 
 into English) the above few lines. 
 
 I learned at that time a great many de 
 tails with regard to his highly interesting 
 career. The singer, it appeared, had to turn 
 printer in this practical matter-of-fact coun 
 try; the heavy leaden type having proved 
 more serviceable in procuring his daily 
 bread than the airy flights of the most fanci 
 ful muse. 
 
 Of course, he had been writing, too, all 
 these years, and not only a great deal, but 
 things that in some respects were vastly su 
 perior to his earlier efforts. His vocabulary 
 was still rather poor, his rhythm still faulty, 
 although hardly noticeable when sung. He 
 had enlarged his vocabulary by adopting 
 many Slavonic and Anglo-Saxon words, 
 while his rhymes still sounded more like the 
 jingle of the old-time badchan than any 
 thing else. Notwithstanding all this, and 
 whatever else might be urged against Mr. 
 Zunser s lyrical effusions, you need read only 
 such of his poems as " The Aristocrat," 
 "The Immortal People," "To the Stars,"
 
 ELIAKUM ZUNSER 137 
 
 " The Nineteenth Century," " My feelings," 
 in order to realise that you have to deal 
 with a true poet, one who, perhaps, lacks a 
 language, through which to give suitable 
 expression to his thoughts and feelings, but 
 who is a poet all the same. Unlike Ra 
 phael, for whom it is claimed that he would 
 have been a painter even if he had come into 
 this world without hands, Mr. Zunser would 
 in all probability never have written a line 
 without the use of words, but he is un 
 doubtedly a poet, of the kind that are born, 
 not made, whatever his shortcomings. 
 
 The main burden of his riper productions, 
 of which the few above-mentioned are prob 
 ably among the best, is a protest, reiterated 
 over and over again, directed against " as 
 similation," against national self-effacement, 
 even against free thought, inasmuch as it 
 may lead to the weakening of the national 
 bonds among the Jews. He goes so far 
 as to regard the persecution to which the 
 Children of Israel are subjected here and 
 there as a sort of blessing in disguise; he 
 sees in it all the hand of the national guar 
 dian angel, who employs this, in the opin-
 
 138 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ion of some of us, somewhat peculiar 
 method for the preservation of the purity 
 and the integrity of the race. It need 
 hardly be pointed out that the only thing 
 new about this is the forcible, in some places 
 beautiful, way Zunser has of putting it. 
 
 It is safe to say that had he, in addition to 
 his powers of observation, his quiet humor, 
 his good heart and depth of feeling, enjoyed 
 a systematic education, he would have de 
 veloped into a sort of Jewish Beranger. As 
 it is, he lacks, of course, to say the least, the 
 great Frenchman s polish, but he is for that 
 very reason a truly Jewish bard.
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS, 
 
 BEING SUGGESTIONS OF LAWS AGAINST THE 
 
 ANARCHISTS, DRAFTED BY A GOOD 
 
 CITIZEN. 
 
 (IQOI) 
 
 The blues, that s what is the matter with 
 us just at present. 
 
 The Reds are at the bottom of it all. 
 
 The Reds being dark red. we are troubled 
 with blues which are dark blue, very dark 
 blue, more dark, in fact, than blue. 
 
 The Blues then, it is clear, have to fight 
 the Reds. 
 
 The situation demands the adoption of 
 drastic measures. 
 
 I, therefore, respectfully submit a few 
 such measures, trusting that they will be 
 amplified, and so amended, as to fully meet 
 the requirements in the case. 
 
 In order to facilitate the universal under 
 standing of the following laws against the 
 
 139
 
 I4O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 Reds, I deemed it proper to divest them in 
 many instances of the legal phraseology. 
 Should they, however, as I hope they will, 
 be adopted and placed on the statute book, 
 the learned profession will, no doubt, so 
 rephrase and redraft them, as to make 
 them duly obscure, and properly unintellig 
 ible to the lay mind. 
 
 Here is the draft aforesaid in its present 
 crude shape. 
 
 ANYBODY OR ANYBODY ELSE : 
 
 Whether high or low or a church-beadle; 
 
 Whether masculine, feminine or neuter; 
 
 Without distinction as to race, creed, 
 color, dye, real or false teeth, hair or pro 
 fession ; 
 
 Whether whiskered, bald-faced (not 
 bold-faced), long-haired or pig-tailed; 
 
 Whether in or out of his, her or its wits, 
 senses or anything that may pass for, or be 
 regarded as, such; 
 
 Whether in or out of office, be it sacred 
 or profane, be it national. State, municipal, 
 district, janitorial, mercantile, educational, 
 journalistic (or otherwise impudent),
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS 
 
 street-cleaning, home, foreign, permanent or 
 temporary; with or without reward, pay, 
 compensation, emolument, reguerdon, rec 
 ompense or remuneration; no matter 
 whether in the shape of salary, wages, fees, 
 sops, persequisites, tips, bribes, hush-money, 
 solacium, railroad passes, theatre passes, 
 grants, franchises, divorce-court-admission- 
 tickets, votes, name-handles, chairmanships, 
 or compliments (as to youth and beauty) 
 in the case of spinsters, ladies in general, 
 and aging bachelors of no arts; 
 
 Whether they be gifted with speech or be 
 mute, or a cross between the two. if, that is, 
 they be diplomatically constituted persons; 
 
 Whether silver-tongued or brazen-faced, 
 whether quiet, noisy, whistling, muttering 
 or barrell-organically musical; 
 
 Whether they be policemen or, on the 
 contrary, watchful people; handwriting ex 
 perts or rather adverse to perjury as a 
 trade ; 
 
 Whether in or out of love, single or 
 plural, free or encumbered either with 
 mothers-in-law or counsellors-at-ditto, with 
 borrowing brothers or worrying lodge-
 
 142 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 brethren, with too frequent triplets, un 
 marketable poems, unbusinesslike scruples; 
 with bibliomania, clear, i. e. costly friends, 
 and other things or beings of the same na 
 ture, character, kind or description ; 
 
 Whether they believe in free love, chained 
 love, love in anticipation of a valuable 
 death, love on the installment plan, love sale 
 able to the highest bidder, love in exchange 
 for a title, love for domestic use or foreign 
 exportation, love platonic, histrionic, oper 
 atic, leg-high-up-ic, mormonic, morganatic, 
 poetically constant, or, on the contrary, real 
 love ; love with or without regard to and for 
 gastronomy and dyspepsia, to and for soup 
 cooked with or without thrilling dime-no 
 vels ; 
 
 Whether they be smokers, chewers and 
 coughers, or persons who expectorate for 
 the fun of the thing; 
 
 Whether they be afflicted with a mania 
 for pictures or drawings representing either 
 landscapes, nude live stock, or pure Corn- 
 stock in fact, any but watered stock ; 
 
 Whether they make a living, or speeches, 
 or money to burn, or burnings for money,
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS 143 
 
 or fools of themselves, of matches (parlor, 
 kitchen or diamond, settlement-girt safety 
 matches), or anything else calculated to 
 either give light or cause a (conjugal) ex 
 plosion in a house ; 
 
 Whether they be store-keepers, score- 
 keepers, game-keepers, park-keepers, book 
 keepers, saloon-keepers, or, in a general way 
 keepers of all they can lay hands on : 
 
 Now all these persons, both home-grown 
 and imported, naturalized and denatural 
 ized, carnivorous, herbivorous, omnivorous 
 and humble pie eaters, will henceforth come 
 under the following laws, rules, regulations, 
 restrictions and ordinances, to wit : 
 
 I. All Anarchists, whether they be such or 
 not, are to be swiftly and ruthlessly exter 
 minated. 
 
 II. Under the designation of " anarchist " 
 come all those who are commonly called 
 " reds," irrespective of their professions. 
 (Harvard may remain crimson, provided the 
 philological faculty unequivocally declare in 
 writing that there is a distinction between 
 crimson and red, and that there is, further-
 
 144 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 more, no organic relation between crimson 
 and crime.) 
 
 III. Everybody will be taken to be a red, 
 i. e., a dangerous person in an embryonic 
 stage, who shall be found wearing a red but 
 ton, a red shawl, a red necktie, a red ribbon, 
 or a red nose, he, she or it being unable, (in 
 the case of nasal rubicundity, that is) to 
 prove to the satisfaction of the authorities 
 by means of a sworn affidavit of no less than 
 three saloon-keepers, that he, she or it, as 
 the case may be, has acquired the red nose 
 aforesaid in a legal way. 
 
 IV. Anybody red in the face will have to 
 satisfy the police that he. she or it, has come 
 by such redfacedness through nothing but 
 excessive drinking, or the reading of some 
 politicians biographies, or a pugilistic slap 
 in the face, or a perusal of the Police News, 
 of certain divorce proceedings, same being 
 low-life-triangles in high-life-circles, or from 
 some other cause equally natural and, there 
 fore unobjectionable. 
 
 V. If caught, reds may be lynched as if 
 they had been blacks, lawlessness against
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS 145 
 
 the lawless being lawful though technically 
 lawless. 
 
 VI. Henceforth each and every immi 
 grant must bring along with him, her or it, 
 a certificate of good behavior from the old 
 country, proving beyond any manner of 
 doubt that he, she or it had in his, her or its 
 native place been a good and faithful sub 
 ject; had never been to any political meeting 
 of a subversive kind, had never called any 
 body " comrade," had never belonged to any 
 trade union, had taken part in no strike (ex 
 cept by way of betraying rebellious strikers), 
 had been a church member, had gone to a 
 Sunday school when a youth, and had de 
 nounced to the powers that be every revolu 
 tionist within his, her or its cognizance. 
 
 VII. They would, furthermore, have to 
 prove that they had no connection with either 
 Polish Insurrectionists, or the Paris Com 
 munards, or English Chartists (dead or 
 alive,) or Irish Fenians, or Russian Nihi 
 lists, or Italian Carbonari, or German Social 
 Democrats, or Austrian Reichsrath rowdies, 
 or Spanish Carlists, or European malicious
 
 146 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 detractors of Chicago canned beef, or any 
 other dangerous malcontents. 
 
 VIII. They would also have to satisfy the 
 authorities that they never read the early 
 writings of Tennyson, and Swinburne, or 
 the mature writings of William Morris and 
 one G. Herwegh, or any other poetry or 
 prose of a seditious nature, more particular 
 ly the treasonable poems of the notorious 
 Shelley, and certain deviltry of Robert Bu 
 chanan. 
 
 IX. Any pregnant woman landing on 
 Ellis Island or elsewhere, shall be kept in 
 quarantine until such time as she may give 
 birth to the foreign conception. Should the 
 child appear to the authorities suspiciously 
 red in the skin, or too much of a squealer, 
 thus giving signs of a discontented disposi 
 tion, or manifest an objection to swaddling 
 clothes, thereby betraying a proneness to an 
 inordinate degree of freedom, or rebelliously 
 kick in the washtub, or otherwise behave in 
 a manner incompatible with good, lawabid- 
 ing citizenship, in all such cases both 
 mother and child are to be sent back to Eu 
 rope, the United States Government paying
 
 THE BLUES VERSUS THE REDS 147 
 
 the return passage, and charging same to 
 " Statue of Liberty, Maintenance Account." 
 
 X. Open air meetings to be strictly pro 
 hibited, except when called by bona fide Re 
 publicans, Gold Standard Democrats-, thor 
 oughly sterilized and disinfected Populists, 
 the Salvation Army, Prohibitionists of the 
 " horrible example " variety, soap-selling 
 fakers, a genuine dead horse in the street, as 
 well as in the case of juvenile bonfire wor- 
 shippers, or of " curb " stock brokers, of a 
 house on fire, and of an arrested youngster 
 who may have purloined a loaf of bread, 
 naturally causing an assemblage of indignant 
 honest people. 
 
 XL Poles, Italians and Peter Kropotkin 
 are not to be allowed to land at all. Italians 
 \vhose declared place of destination be Pater- 
 son, N. J., must be searched, divested of all 
 weapons (including suspicious looking pen 
 knives, corkscrews and metal toothpicks,) 
 and sent back to Europe before their arrival 
 in this country. 
 
 XII. Nobody shall be permitted to sell, 
 vend, give, barter, present, transfer, send, 
 forward, hand, convey, dispense or deliver
 
 148 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 any books, booklets, leaflets, pamphlets, 
 tracts, circulars, appeals, manifestoes, hand 
 bills, programmes, papers, journals, maga 
 zines, annuals, manuals, almanacs, reviews, 
 or periodicals of any and every kind, either 
 printed, lithographed, typewritten, hand 
 written, or otherwise published, made 
 known, written out, either in longhand, 
 shorthand, or in any other way, in English 
 or in any other language, dead or alive, 
 which may contain either openly or implied, 
 insinuated, hinted, or by way of allusion, 
 matter savoring of rebellion, disobedience or 
 disregard for law and order, its guardians 
 and officers, legislative, executive and de 
 tective. 
 
 XIII. In all school books the phrase in 
 the Declaration of Independence proclaim 
 ing all men to be born equal, as well as all 
 phrases about liberty and happiness and all 
 the rest of it to be expunged.
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 
 (1908) 
 I 
 
 Lost in admiration, I stood outside the 
 Tonhalle, in Zurich, Switzerland, watching 
 the formation of that memorable parade 
 which, in the afternoon of Sunday, August 
 6, 1893, followed the inaugural session of 
 the third International Congress of Social 
 ists and Trade Unionists. Old Sol behaved 
 splendidly, providing, as he did, as much 
 light as the most exacting could desire, with 
 out " taking it out of us " in undue perspi 
 ration. The Lake, too, was delightful. 
 While as transparent as a professional poli 
 tician s philanthropy, only a good deal 
 purer, it was quietly frollicking with the 
 mountain breeze that had evidently come 
 down with the set purpose of taking part in 
 the jolly gathering of the nations. 
 
 All the time the procession was form- 
 149
 
 I5O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ing. As these lines are being penned, I 
 fancy I am witnessing the whole glorious 
 scene over again. 
 
 Here, for instance, is the detachment of 
 the sturdy sons of Labor, all in plain, but 
 clean, almost uniform attire, marching up 
 under the strains of Rouget de Lisle s im 
 mortal hymn, carrying the banners of their 
 various trades, each head erect, each step 
 elastic. 
 
 They pass by. They take their stand 
 somewhere, and are succeeded by another 
 legion. It is the militia. What, in the 
 name of thunder, are they doing there? 
 Well, Vogelsang, Comrade Vogelsang, you 
 know, is the chief commissioner of the po 
 lice, or something akin to that, and the mi 
 litia-fellows are in our ranks by his orders, 
 as brothers in arms. It is a capital joke, 
 isn t it? 
 
 They, too, pass along. There is some 
 thing else. It s the children, bless their 
 little hearts! Here they are, some four 
 hundred of them, all in white, with red 
 sashes around their waists, walking, like 
 their elders, four-abreast, led by a sweet lit-
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 
 
 tie marshal, a 1 4-year-old girl. She wears 
 a Phrygian cap, and carries a purple ban 
 ner, looking the very incarnation of the tri 
 umphant Social Revolution in miniature. 
 
 Now they, too. are gone. Their place is 
 taken by a promiscuous crowd of citizens, 
 visitors to the Congress from different Swiss 
 and foreign cities, and others, who soon 
 form an orderly detachment, and join the 
 procession. 
 
 Who comes next? Why. the delegates, 
 to be sure. See them arrive, the representa 
 tives of nineteen nations, among whom there 
 are the Germans conscious of their victory 
 at the polls a few weeks ago, a.nd the French 
 conscious of victory a few weeks hence. 
 They are gathering into one solid mass, and 
 as I look at them, I hear Swinburne say : 
 
 We mix from many lands, 
 
 We march for very far ; 
 In hearts and lips and hands 
 
 Our staffs and weapons are ; 
 The light we walk in darkens sun and moon and 
 star. 
 
 and again : 
 
 O nations undivided, 
 
 O single people and free,
 
 152 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 We dreamers, we derided, 
 
 We mad blind men that see, 
 We bear you witness ere you come that ye shall 
 be. 
 
 All the same they, the delegates, though 
 the heroes of the day, are probably the 
 cheapest lot in the show. Some have only 
 just arrived in the city and have been 
 pressed into service before they had time to 
 get a wash. Others have travelled all night 
 and look fatigued. A good many seem to 
 be novices in this kind of thing, as they 
 come from countries where the only kind of 
 processions allowed by the authorities is the 
 last escort of friends to the place of eternal 
 rest, the place of freedom unclaimed and 
 equality uncontested. 
 
 Now they, too, are organized into a solid 
 body. I have my eyes on them, all the time 
 thinking of the little darlings. 
 
 I am to join those others, but I do not 
 seem to realize the fact. I feel more lost 
 than Alice ever felt in Wonderland. I 
 stand there and dream. 
 
 Presently there is a gentle tap at my 
 shoulder. I am startled at first, but the sur-
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 153 
 
 prise turns out to be a very pleasant one. 
 There is a familiar sound in the words : 
 
 " Say, Edward and Will Thorne are to 
 bring up the rear as marshals. Let us two 
 march between them. We Jews ought to 
 stick together." 
 
 It was poor Eleanor Marx who spoke. 
 She was grinning all over her face, and as 
 happy as possible. By " Edward " she 
 meant, of course, her husband, who only a 
 few years later was to be the cause of her 
 untimely death. 
 
 We got into line. She was talking all 
 the time, now and then taking notice of a 
 jest on the part of her husband, sometimes 
 answering a question put to her by Thorne, 
 but allotting to me most of her attention, as 
 I had touched upon a topic always near to 
 her heart: the life of her father of Karl 
 Marx, whose daughter she not only was, 
 but deserved to be. 
 
 After a while she said : 
 
 " Not to forget. This morning after the 
 close of the session, I was looking out for 
 you, but you were gone. There is a coun-
 
 154 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 trywoman of yours here in Zurich who is 
 very anxious to be introduced to you." 
 
 " What sort of a woman is she? " I asked. 
 
 " A very peculiar one," Eleanor said, 
 " she struck me as being" either a little de 
 ranged in her mind, or a spy. She is very 
 pretty, though, and has already attracted a 
 good deal of attention." 
 
 Pretty women as spies were then to some 
 extent in vogue. It was the latest move of 
 the Russian government in dealing with Ni 
 hilism abroad. I knew of at least one case 
 in which a Russian refugee in Switzerland, 
 a learned man, too, was victimized by a fe 
 male detective. 
 
 " Do you know what she wants with 
 me? " I asked. 
 
 " No," she said, " I tried to find it out, but 
 she fought shy of me. . . . Look! 
 Here are the children again. Aren t they 
 just lovely ? " 
 
 The procession was formed in a kind of 
 a zigzag, and was so arranged as to enable 
 the various detachments to see one another. 
 Every now and then one of them met an 
 other marching parallel with it, only in an
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 155 
 
 opposite direction, whereat there always was 
 great cheering-, fraternizing, and mutual sal 
 utations. 
 
 " How soon do you expect to see her? " 
 I asked Eleanor when the children had en 
 tirely disappeared from view. 
 
 " Hardly before to-morrow afternoon," 
 she said, " she will probably look me up in 
 the hall as soon as the morning session is 
 over." 
 
 That session turned out to be a stormy 
 one, and by the time the hour for adjourn 
 ment was reached I had almost forgotten all 
 about the mysterious lady. During the af 
 ternoon, the novelty of the situation having 
 somewhat worn off, I not only thought of 
 her again, but once or twice even looked 
 around for her in the part of the hall which 
 was reserved for the press, but was occa 
 sionally invaded by daring outsiders, per 
 sons who, for aught that I knew to the con 
 trary, might have been dabbling in fiction, 
 but certainly not of the kind which is pub 
 lished as news. She was not there. The 
 only representative of the other sex discern 
 ible in that portion of the hall was the fa-
 
 156 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 mous Vera Zassoulich, the lady who in 1878 
 had shot at Trepoff, the chief commissioner 
 of the St. Petersburg police, was tried by a 
 jury and acquitted, with the result that the 
 government never again submitted a similar 
 case to a dozen " benighted idiots " from the 
 people. 
 
 Eleanor, as one of the translators (the 
 delegates had the choice of English, French 
 and German, every speech being rendered 
 into two other languages) was busy most of 
 the time, and she could only be approached 
 during recess or in the evening. This, how 
 ever, was by no means an easy matter, as she 
 was always in great demand. 
 
 And so the whole week passed by without 
 my hearing, to say nothing of seeing, any 
 thing of the fair unknown. 
 
 At noon on Saturday, August 12, Con 
 gress was closed, old Frederick Engels, to 
 the great surprise of most of us, suddenly 
 appearing on the platform to make the clos 
 ing speech, and receiving an ovation which 
 was probably the most enthusiastic he ever 
 was accorded in the whole of his long and 
 fruitful public career. For the afternoon
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 157 
 
 an excursion to the island of Ufenau was 
 planned, and duly carried into effect. We 
 went down by steamer, ever and anon 
 cheered from the shore by hundreds of 
 working men and women who had come 
 out from work-shops and factories to have 
 a look at the delegates. We had, both on 
 the way and on landing, what the romantic 
 girl would describe as a " lovely time." 
 
 On the island, as the English delegation 
 congregated for the purpose of getting pho 
 tographed in a group, I met Eleanor and 
 found at last an opportunity to exchange a 
 few words with her. My mysterious coun 
 trywoman was the " first order of business." 
 
 " She is here on the grounds." Eleanor 
 said, " but you had better wait till we are 
 on the boat again. There I will easily spot 
 her, and bring her up to you as soon as I 
 see her. She is evidently waiting to catch 
 you alone." 
 
 On the steamer, however, I again lost 
 sight of her, of Eleanor, I mean, and was 
 soon an active participant in an animated 
 discussion relating to something that had 
 taken place during the week. Things were
 
 158 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 getting very lively when somebody right be 
 hind me exclaimed, in an undertone : 
 "What a charming woman!" I turned 
 round, and glancing in the direction the ad 
 mirer of the beautiful was looking out, I 
 made sure I had at last met the mysterious 
 lady. 
 
 She would have struck you as a woman 
 still young who was charming without be 
 ing beautiful. The shape of her chin, the 
 cut of her mouth, her somewhat stern look, 
 and nervous manner made it perfectly clear 
 to you that you were face to face with a 
 strong, perhaps headstrong, determined and 
 excitable woman. She spoke in short, crisp 
 sentences, at times so laconic as to recall to 
 your mind Alfred Jingle Esquire of Pick 
 wickian fame. 
 
 The preliminaries over, she told me her 
 story. 
 
 II 
 
 It began, it appears, in 1877. As a 
 motherless girl of barely sixteen, Amy (for 
 that was her name) came with her sick 
 father to Koenigsberg in Prussia. In that
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 159 
 
 town there lived at that time a famous sur 
 geon, the son of a still more famous one, 
 who was almost worshipped by Polish and 
 Lithuanian Jews, though himself a German 
 and a gentile. 
 
 Amy s father was successfully operated 
 upon, but was not to be moved, not out of 
 town, at least, for several months. All that 
 time Amy nursed her father during the day, 
 and was relieved by a trained nurse in the 
 evenings. 
 
 The old man being well to do, she could 
 afford to spend her leisure hours in theatres, 
 at concerts, and wherever else pleasure of 
 one kind or another was for sale. Of all 
 this, however, she soon began to tire, and 
 she was overjoyed when someone of her ac 
 quaintance suggested public lectures. More 
 than that. She was to hear something 
 about Socialism. 
 
 In Russia she managed to find out just 
 enough concerning the new Gospel to make 
 her curious about it. She, therefore, eagerly 
 seized the first opportunity to listen to a 
 learned discourse on the subject, albeit the 
 lecturer by no means was one of those great
 
 l6o STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 orators whose fame had reached her native 
 Byalistock. And she was really disap 
 pointed. The talk, forsooth, was fiery 
 enough to suit her temperament, but prosaic, 
 and entirely different from what, in her 
 opinion, a socialist talk had to sound like. 
 Still, after the lapse of a fortnight or so, she 
 went again. 
 
 This time it was a man of science, Pro 
 fessor Moeller of the Koenigsberg Univer 
 sity, who was to smite the Socialists hip and 
 thigh. He certainly did his best, and the 
 adherents of the attacked party looked pretty 
 crestfallen as the discourse was brought to 
 an end amid the rapturous cheers of our op 
 ponents. , 
 
 In the discussion that followed the lecture 
 a tall, handsome young man got up, and the 
 tables were turned before he uttered his 
 third or fourth sentence. He fairly " wiped 
 the floor " with the great scientific luminary, 
 assailing and effectively pulverizing the 
 professor s supposedly most invulnerable 
 stronghold, his ancient history, Spartans 
 and all. The effect was dramatic in the 
 extreme, and the scientist s somewhat lame
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN l6l 
 
 reply only served to emphasize the Socialist 
 victory. 
 
 The young man, without knowing it, car 
 ried away little Amy s heart as a trophy of 
 his passage at arms, of that David-Goliath 
 encounter, while she herself hardly realized 
 the departure of her heart. Like many oth 
 ers, she went up to the speaker and shook 
 hands with him, not suspecting the gravity 
 of her position until she read in the local 
 paper that her hero had left for Berlin, 
 whence he had come to Koenigsberg on a 
 Diving visit. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Returned to Russia, the old man had a 
 relapse and died. Amy who came into quite 
 a little fortune, was placed under a guard 
 ian. With his consent she went the follow 
 ing summer to Berlin, ostensibly to study 
 medicine or something. By dint of a most 
 diligent search, taking in several visits to the 
 socialist daily paper (" Die Berliner Freie 
 Presse," of which John Most then was the 
 editor in chief) and all public meetings ac 
 cessible to young women, she at last found 
 the man who had run away with her heart.
 
 1 62 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 They soon renewed their acquaintance, 
 each finding the other mentally grown out 
 of all proportion to the time since elapsed. 
 Amy now looked physically also much riper, 
 even than her age. They came nearer and 
 closer to each other every time they met. 
 At this stage Cupid took a hand in the game, 
 and Amy decided to try and arrange mat 
 ters with her guardian as soon as she got 
 back to Russia. Meanwhile, and for a 
 while, all was bliss and happiness. 
 
 " For a while " for two reasons. 
 
 In the first place the gag-and-muzzle law 
 against the Socialists, as a consequence of 
 the two attempts on the old Emperor s life, 
 got things in general very much mixed. 
 Five " responsible " editors of the Berlin 
 daily above mentioned were now in jail, and 
 every Socialist known either as a writer or 
 as a speaker had the sword of Damocles 
 visibly suspended over his neck. 
 
 Secondly, because the Frenchman is right. 
 He, I mean, who in plain defiance of all that 
 the poets from time immemorial have said 
 and sung, maintains that there is in reality 
 no such thing as mutual love; that what gen-
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 163 
 
 erally happens is what I am going to put in 
 a separate sentence. Of every two people 
 in love one loves, while the other suffers 
 himself or herself to be loved. 
 
 The latter seems to have been the part 
 played by Amy s young friend. 
 
 " He came one evening," Amy went on 
 excitedly in her narrative, " and told me we 
 must part. He protested his undying love 
 for me, but . . . well, there were many 
 buts. I was too young. Worse still, I 
 was too rich. Also too pretty. Would take 
 no mean advantage. Wouldn t lay himself 
 open to suspicion that he was after my 
 money. Then that Minor State of Siege. 
 Berlin will soon be under it. There will be 
 expulsions galore. May be something still 
 worse. Couldn t allow me to share in it. 
 Dares not do it. Against his principles. 
 
 " I said nothing. Was even too proud to 
 cry. Got nearly choked with sobs, but 
 maintained control. Wonder how I man 
 aged it. But I did. We parted." 
 
 Her conqueror retreated. As she was 
 talking I thought I saw Moscow in flames, 
 and Napoleon beating a hasty retreat leav-
 
 164 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 ing behind him his erstwhile coveted con 
 quest. Well, it was not he who set fire to 
 it, was it ? What a pity, all the same ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 The steamer, meanwhile, reached its Zu 
 rich landing, and we all went ashore. I in 
 vited her to join our little circle in the even 
 ing, which she did, and in the course of the 
 few hours I spent in her company I got out 
 of her the rest of her story. This was ac 
 complished not without difficulty, and by 
 snatches, as we were considerably inter 
 rupted during the evening. 
 
 And to start with I put to her a question 
 which the reader must have had on the tip of 
 his tongue all the time. 
 
 " Your story," I said to her at the first 
 chance I got, " is beyond doubt very inter 
 esting, but I fail to see why you tell it to 
 me." 
 
 " Well, she said with something like the 
 suspicion of a smile on her lips, a sane per 
 son would have begun by such an explana 
 tion. The fact of the matter is, I expect you 
 to help me. That s why I took such pains
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 165 
 
 to find you. That s why I waited till con 
 gress was closed and your labors over; I 
 wanted to have you in the proper frame of 
 mind. You can help me." 
 
 " Help you do what ? " I asked, 
 
 " Help me find him," she said. 
 
 " What makes you think I can ? " 
 
 " I ll tell you. You are a countryman of 
 mine, you are an active Socialist, and you 
 have worked, for a few years, I understand, 
 among German-speaking people. Moreover, 
 you left Germany about the same time that 
 he did. like him, too, being expelled under 
 the new law. You see, I have your record 
 pretty correct, haven t I ? " 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 Proceeding, she informed me that she 
 knew him to be somewhere in or about 
 London. Considering that I had uninter 
 ruptedly lived in that town for about 14 
 years, I should be able to do for her what 
 hardly anybody else could do. 
 
 Without exactly sharing her opinion re 
 garding my fitness for the service she de 
 sired to assign to me, I promised to do the 
 best I could, provided I knew what she her-
 
 1 66 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 self had done by way of locating him in the 
 British metropolis. 
 
 She then informed me that between 1879 
 and 1889 she had been in London three 
 times, on one occasion staying there fully 
 six months. 
 
 " I visited," she said, " every Socialist or 
 radical haunt; attended every lecture; took 
 part in every parade; was at every trade- 
 union meeting held in public ; found, out all 
 I could about the personnel of every pro 
 gressive newspaper; acquired a thorough 
 knowledge of the German and French quar 
 ters; took meals in every restaurant and 
 cook-shop around Fitzroy Square, Totten 
 ham Court Road and all over the East End ; 
 frequented the British Museum reading 
 room; spent hours and hours in the Soho 
 Square Club. 
 
 " I did more. Rain or shine, I went two 
 or three times every week to the big railway 
 stations. Kept watch on all incoming sub 
 urban trains in the morning. Watched 
 trains to suburbs in the evening. More than 
 once I fancied* I spotted him. Illusions." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears as she uttered
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN l6/ 
 
 the last few words. She looked embar 
 rassed, as if ashamed of the tears. 
 
 " What," I asked her, " makes you so 
 sure that he is in London at all ? " 
 
 " That s beyond doubt," she said, " for I 
 saw him there." 
 
 "You did, did you?" 
 
 " Yes, once. Caught sight of him sitting 
 on the top of a bus going west. Six or 
 seven months ago. Followed first impulse, 
 and ran after it. Soon realized futility of 
 it. Might have beckoned to conductor to 
 stop bus when it passed. Was startled. 
 Left undone most natural thing there was 
 to do. Then it was too late." 
 
 " Now what, pray, can I do for you ? " I 
 asked her, placing the accent on the " I." 
 
 " Well," she said hesitatingly, " when you 
 come back to London you might look up a 
 few people whom I can t go and see myself. 
 Can t for a variety of reasons. One of them 
 is my sex. By no means the most important 
 reason, though. Will you do it ? " 
 
 " Why, of course ! " I answered. 
 
 " Thanks, ever so much ! " said she. 
 
 We then arranged that I should write
 
 1 68 STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 to her to Zurich as soon as I had any news 
 for her. 
 
 * * * 
 
 For a month or so my endeavors were 
 entirely fruitless. As a consequence I had 
 nothing to communicate to my new friend 
 when answering her frequent, though short 
 letters. Despairing of me, she came to Lon 
 don. Many more weeks passed by without 
 our united efforts showing any results. 
 
 One day she looked me up at my office. 
 A glance at her was enough to indicate an 
 important turn in her fortunes. She seemed 
 to be out of breath. 
 
 " Have a clue ! " she exclaimed as soon as 
 she regained it. " Studying directory, as 
 usual. Happy thought flashed across my 
 mind. His name is easily translated into 
 English. Am sure he has done it. Wants 
 a. veil drawn over his past. Common thing 
 among political refugees here." 
 
 She must have read something sinister in 
 my eyes, for she added almost pleadingly : 
 
 " Oh, he is surely still an honorable man, 
 whatever his present occupation . . ." 
 
 Of course, I did not gainsay it.
 
 A PERSEVERING WOMAN 169 
 
 We started out on a new quest, following 
 up her clue. She turned out to have been 
 successful at last. 
 
 As we reached Drury Lane, where we 
 were to find our man, she got very excited. 
 
 " Listen," she said, " never divulge his 
 name to anybody. I have a foreboding. 
 Sylvester H. is my Sylvester. But keep 
 it all to yourself." 
 
 " What shall we do ? " I asked her. 
 
 " It s just luncheon time. Let us go into 
 the restaurant across the street. He takes 
 his meals there. I will recognize him at 
 once. Heavens! Hope it is not he . . ." 
 
 " You hope not ? " 
 
 " I hope not, no, I hope not . . . 
 though I don t think it possible . . . ." 
 
 An hour later she was sitting on a bench 
 in Regent s Park, broken-hearted, poor girl. 
 
 The vanquisher of Professor Moeller kept 
 a shop now in London, kept a pawn-shop. 
 
 Before parting from her I thought it my 
 duty to say a few words of consolation. She 
 seemed to ignore my existence. I proffered 
 my hand as I said good-bye. She took it, 
 vaguely looked into my face, then in a tone
 
 I7O STORIES OF THE STRUGGLE 
 
 that baffles description, accompanied by 
 something like a cross between a laugh and 
 a cry, she muttered : 
 
 " My poor, fatherless child ! " 
 
 THE END
 
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