THE GAME IS UP.
By Sadakichi Hartmann.
"HELLO, Morrison, may I come in?" The door stood slightly ajar.
Morrison came to the door—the complexion of his face was sallow and his eyes had a peculiar look—he recognized his visitor, hesitated for a moment whether he should admit him, then opened the door and made a sort of mock courtesy.
"Cleaning up?" the tall, lean man asked as he entered the little hall room.
"Yes," and a wistful smile glided over Morrison's pale face; "cleaning up for good."
The room had a peculiar appearance. There was no disorder and yet a lot of things were lying about; it looked as if the lodger intended to go away on a long journey and had tried to straighten up matters previous to his departure. The visitor gazed curiously about the room. He had a strange foreboding, but forced himself to ask in a jocular mood: "Going to Egypt again?"
"Farther than that this time, but it won't take so long; the journey I am contemplating will be over by to-morrow evening, I hope."
"What do you mean?"
"The game is up."
The tall, lean man made no immediate reply, he merely gazed steadily into the face of his friend. He had always suspected that it would come to this some day. He really wondered that Morrison had not done it long ago. If any man had a right to dispose of his life it was surely Morrison. He had endured more than most human beings. His case was absolutely hopeless.
"Is there no way out of it?"
Morrison shook his head. He wanted to say something, but his voice failed him. He stepped to the dresser near the window, looked into the mirror and arranged his faded, threadbare tie. It was pitiful to see how shabbily he was dressed. He no longer set the fashion as in his days of success, years ago in Boston.
"Would money help you?" and the tall, lean visitor fumbled in his pockets. Although fairly well dressed, he was hard up most of the time and only ventured to broach the subject as he just happened to have a few dollars to spare that day.
"No, what good would the little do that you could give me?" and he continued to adjust matters and tuck things away in his trunk.
"There, you are right again, not much. But I won forty dollars on the track; I sometimes go out there," he added as a sort of excuse, "as it is impossible to live on literature alone. I could spare ten."
"Can you really spare them? I won't be able to return them, you know. I would like to have them. I suppose you will refuse to let me buy a revolver with them. I have all sorts of poisons," he pointed to some little bottles, "but I would prefer not to use them, it wouldn't be esthetical, and then I want to go away to some place where nobody knows me. I don't want to be identified."
The literary man slowly pulled a small roll out of his pocket. He thought of his wife and children who needed the money. It was really foolish to have made that offer. Well, it was probably the last service he could render his friend. Morrison was serious about his departure, there was no doubt about that. "Here!"
"Thanks," Morrison answered, though he did not take the money right away. He looked about absentmindedly, as in a dream. This was friendship indeed. He had not believed that anybody could so completely enter another man's state of mind. Not a word of opposition. This was glorious! They had known each other for more than seventeen years. They had often drifted apart and, somehow, had always met again. They had never been very intimate, they had merely respected each other for the work they had accomplished, each in his profession; although they differed largely in ideas. Morrison was a sculptor, and almost an ancient Greek in his feelings for the beauty of lines. The tall, lean man, on the other hand, was a strange mixture of a visionary and brutal realist. They both were cynics, however, that found life rather futile. With the literary man this was merely a theoretical view point, while Morrison was really embittered with life. The incidents of this afternoon had surprised him. He was deeply moved and felt as if he should give utterance to his emotions. He remembered that his attitude towards his friend had been rather arrogant at times. He now felt sorry for it, but somehow could not form his sentiments and thoughts into coherent sentences.
"Thanks," he simply repeated, "Has anybody seen you enter the house?"
"No, the door was open and I walked right up. Why do you ask?"
"I don't want anybody to be mixed up in this affair, as it only concerns me."
The literary man smiled: "Could any man influence you one way or another? As far as I can make out you are beyond mortal influence."
A pause ensued. Morrison threw the last thing into his trunk. "Well, I am ready. Everything is settled."
"How about your statues?"
"Pshaw!" Morrison shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody was interested in them while I lived. Why should I bother to think what might become of them after my death?"
The author nodded and scowled at the same time. He was not satisfied with the answer. But there were still other things on his mind. He was used to analyze everything to shreds and tatters. "Are you not afraid that you might make a botch out of the whole job?"
Morrison weighed the question in his mind, then shook his head and answered: "No, there is hardly a chance for it now. I have been tuned up to it, trained myself to it, so to speak. The fruit is ripe. It has to fall. It would be awful, though—" he added, with an after-thought. "Do you remember my emerald ring? I had to pawn it, but I kept the poison which was hidden under the stone. I will take that if anything goes wrong."
"Would you object to my company?" asked the tall, lean man, "I mean until all is over. I, myself, am not quite ready yet for any such heroical performances."
"Oh, don't think of it," the sculptor ejaculated; notwithstanding, the tone of his voice indicated that he would not object, that he would even prefer a traveling companion for the last few hours of his life.
"Well, I'll go with you. Where are you going?"
"To New Haven. It's a nice trip." Morrison carefully brushed his hair and clothes, there came a flush to his face as he realized how shabby his clothes really were. The tall, lean man was delicate enough to look away as if he had not noticed anything.
A few moments later they left the room. Morrison locked the door and they went out into the street. They did not talk much, merely commonplace phrases that did not bear upon the subject. Both were occupied with their own thoughts, and strange thoughts they must have been. They leisurely strolled to a store of sporting outfits, bought a revolver and cartridges, had their shoes shined at the next corner, and slowly wended their way toward the depot. Their actions were almost mechanical. Suicide is an attack of insanity, a sort of mental plague. If one has caught the fever, one is doomed. There is no escape from it. At the same time it is contagious. The literary man was somewhat infected by it. All his interests in life seemed to be dulled, obliterated as it were. He could only think the one thought, "Morrison is going to kill himself. But who knows, he may, after all, turn up next week with the excuse that he had changed his mind. No, not he!—it was really too bad!" Morrison, on the other hand, grew quite cheerful. With him the idea that he would do it, had become so matter-of-fact, that he ceased to think of it. Nothing could influence him any more. Even if some vague current of soul activity should revolt at the very last moment, he was certain that his hand would mechanically perform the task.
"Only one return ticket," he whispered as he approached the ticket office. "Oh, I almost forgot," replied his friend.
During the trip they silently sat opposite each other, smoking. Now and then Morrison pointed out the beautiful sights. He seemed to be familiar with the scenery. At their arrival in New Haven, at dusk, they at once adjourned to a hotel and sat down at a table in the bar-room. They began to talk about art, they discussed commercialism, the lack of appreciation and the vanity of all serious work, at least as far as art is concerned. They began to relate reminiscences of their student years, and reviewed the hopes and ambitions of their youth. If they had been realized, what wonders they would have accomplished!
"I gave the other side a chance. They never responded. I waited for ten long years, and now, it's all up. Let us have another drink, waiter, the last." They clinked glasses. "And now for a decent departure as in the good old times, when Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, preached suicide in Alexandria—"
They arose. It had grown dark. They sauntered forth into the night. Morrison seemed to know where he was going. "I once spent very pleasant days out here," he explained, "years, I hardly remember how many years ago." After that they did not converse any more. They finally arrived at a beautiful avenue of old elms that extended far into the country. Its deep, dark vista was lit up only by the shimmer of a distant lake.
Morrison stopped, seized his friend's hand, shook it, and said in a firm voice: "Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
And Morrison walked away. It was so dark that in a few moments his form became invisible. Only his footsteps could still be heard. They grew fainter and fainter. The tall, lean man stared after his friend into the blackness of the night. His eyes grew dim.
A few rain drops fell on his face and hands. "I hope it won't rain," he murmured, "it might make dying more difficult, but no—the sky is clear." Then he slightly bent forward and listened eagerly. Everything was calm, motionless, as in suspense. Nobody passed through the avenue. Only in the adjoining side streets pedestrians flitted by like ghosts.
So this was the end! After having struggled bravely for years, after living up to high ideals as well as one could, to go down a long, dark avenue—a falling star flashed across the tree tops.
The tall, lean man pressed his hand to his heart, although he was not certain of having heard a report, he felt, that his friend had arrived at the goal of his life's journey. The game was up!
Books to be had through Mother Earth
The Doukhobors: Their History in Russia; Their Migration to Canada. By Joseph Elkins . . $2.00
Moribund Society and Anarchism. By Jean Grave . . 25c.
Education and Heredity. By J. M. Guyau . . $1.25
A Sketch of Morality—Independent of Obligation and Sanction. By J. M. Guyau . . $1.00
American Communities: New and Old Communistic, Semi-Communistic, and Co-Operative. By W. A. Hinds . . $1.00
History of the French Revolution. (An excellent work for students. It begins with a sketch of history of the earliest times; the decline of the ancient empires, the rise of the French monarchy, and traces the causes which made the Revolution inevitable. The philosophic conclusion is unsurpassed, and the position taken, laying a foundation for the philosophy of freedom, is bound to attract the attention of thinkers.) By C. L. James. Reduced to . . 50c.
Origin of Anarchism. By C. L. James . . 5c.
Fields, Factories, and Workshops. By Peter Kropotkin . . 50c.
Mutual Aid: A Factor of Evolution. By Peter Kropotkin. Reduced to . . $1.20
Memoirs of a Revolutionist. By Peter Kropotkin. Reduced to . . $1.60
Modern Science and Anarchism. By Peter Kropotkin . . 25c.
Ideals of Russian Literature. By Peter Kropotkin . . $2.00
The State: Its Role in History. By Peter Kropotkin . . 10c.
Anarchism: Its Philosophy and Ideal. By Peter Kropotkin . . 5c.
The Wage System. By P. Kropotkin . . 5c.
Anarchist Morality. By P. Kropotkin . . 5c.
History of Civilization In England. By Henry Thomas Buckle . . $2.00
England's Ideal and other Papers on Social Subjects. By Ed. Carpenter . . $1.00
Civilization: Its Cause and Cure. By Ed. Carpenter . . $1.00
Love's Coming of Age. By Ed. Carpenter . . $1.00
Towards Democracy. By Ed. Carpenter . . $2.50
The Chicago Martyrs: The Famous Speeches of the Eight Anarchists in Judge Gary's Court, and Gov. Altgeld's Reasons for Pardoning Fielden, Neebe and Schwab . . 25c.
Books to be had through Mother Earth
Essays on the Materialistic Conception of History. By Antonio Labriola . . $1.00
Wealth Against Commonwealth. By H. D. Lloyd . . $1.00
Woman's Share in Primitive Culture. By O. Mason. Leather, reduced to $1.50. Cloth, reduced to . . $1.00
Superstition in All Ages. By Jean Meslier. Cloth . . $1.00
News from Nowhere; or, An Epoch of Rest. By William Morris . . 60c.
Thus Spake Zarathustra: A Book for All and None. Friedrich Nietzsche . . $2.50
Rights of Man. By Thomas Paine . . 25c.
The Martyrdom of Man. By Winwood Reade . . $1.00
The Science of Life. By J. Arthur Thomson . . 75c.
Pages of Socialist History. By W. Tcherkesoff . . 25c.
The Slavery of Our Times. By Leo Tolstoy . . 75c.
Bethink Yourself. By Leo Tolstoy . . 10c.
Church and State. By Leo Tolstoy . . 15c.
Volney's Ruins: or, Meditation on the Revolutions of Empires and the Law of Nature . . 75c.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol. By Oscar Wilde . . 10c.
The Soul of Man under Socialism. By Oscar Wilde . . 50c.
De Profundis. By Oscar Wilde . . $1.25
Intentions. By Oscar Wilde . . $1.50
Plays. By Oscar Wilde. 2 vols . . $2.50
Life Without a Master. By J. Wilson, Ph.D. . . $1.50
The New Dispensation. By J. Wilson, Ph.D. . . $1.50
Living Thoughts. By J. Wilson, Ph.D. . . $1.50
Paris and the Social Revolution. By J. Sanborn . . $3.50
Anarchism: Is It All a Dream? By E. Malatesta and J. F. Morton, M.A. . . 5c.
Who Is the Enemy; Anthony Comstock or You? A Study of the Censorship. By Edwin C. Walker . . 25c.
All Orders, Money Prepaid, to be sent to E. GOLDMAN, Box 217,
Madison Square Station, New York City.
THE BOOKS OF ERNEST CROSBY
Garrison the Non-Resistant. 16mo, cloth, 144 pages, with photogravure portrait, 50c.; by mail . . 55c.
Plain Talk In Psalm and Parable. A collection of chants in the cause of justice and brotherhood. 12mo, cloth, 188 pages, $1.50; by mail, $1.62. Paper, 40c.; by mail . . 44c.
Captain Jinks, Hero. A keen satire on our recent wars, in which the parallel between savagery and soldiery is unerringly drawn. Profusely illustrated by Dan Beard. 12mo, cloth, 400 pages, postpaid . . $1.50
Swords and Plowshares. A collection of poems filled with the hatred of war and the love of nature. (Not sold by us in Great Britain.) 12mo, cloth, 126 pages, $1.20; by mail . . $1.29
Tolstoy and His Message. "A concise and sympathetic account of the life, character and philosophy of the great Russian."—New York Press. "A genuinely illuminative interpretation of the great philosopher's being and purpose."—Philadelphia Item. (Not sold by us in Great Britain.) 16mo, cloth, 93 pages, 50c.; by mail . . 54c.
Tolstoy as a Schoolmaster. An essay on education and punishment with Tolstoy's curious experiments in teaching as a text. 16mo, cloth, 94 pages, 50c.; by mail . . 53c.
Broad-Cast. New chants and songs of labor, life and freedom. This latest volume of poems by the author of "Plain Talk in Psalm and Parable" and "Swords and Plowshares" conveys the same message delivered with equal power. 12mo, cloth, 128 pages, 50c.; by mail . . 54c.
Edward Carpenter, Poet and Prophet. An illuminative essay, with selections and portrait of Carpenter. 12mo, paper, 64 pages, with portrait of Carpenter on cover, postpaid . . 20c.
THE BOOKS OF BOLTON HALL
Free America. 16mo, cloth, ornamental, gilt top, 75c.; by mail . . 80c.
The Game of Life. A new volume of 111 fables. Most of them have been published from time to time in Life, Collier's, The Outlook, The Century, The Independent, The Ram's Horn, The Pilgrim, The Christian Endeavor World, The Rubric, The New Voice, The Philistine and other papers and magazines. 16mo, cloth, ornamental, postpaid . . $1.00
Even as You and I. This is a presentation, by means of popular and simple allegories, of the doctrine of Henry George and the principle which underlies it. A part of the volume is an account of Tolstoy's philosophy, drawn largely from the Russian's difficult work, "Of Life." This section is called "True Life," and follows a series of thirty-three clever parables. Count Tolstoy wrote to Mr. Hall: "I have received your book, and have read it. I think it is very good, and renders in a concise form quite truly the chief ideas of my book." 16mo, cloth, ornamental, gilt top, 50 c.; by mail . . 54c.