A Girl Among the Anarchists

by Isabel Meredith

The neighbouring church chimes rang out half-past six as I approached home, and on reaching the doorstep of the Fitzroy Square house I found my brother Raymond just letting himself in. On seeing me he exclaimed, "Oh, Isabel, where have you been so early?—though really your appearance suggests the idea that you have never been to bed rather than that you have just risen!" I confirmed his suspicion and together we entered his study.

"Well, where have you been? Is there something new on with the Anarchists? I have seen so little of you for the past six months that I feel quite out of the world—your world at least."

It was a great relief to me to find my brother so conversable. We had both been so occupied of late in our respective ways that we had had but scant opportunity for talk or companionship. Raymond had now started practising on his own account; he was popular with his poor patients in the crowded slums round King's Cross, amongst whom his work chiefly lay, and day and night he toiled in their midst. Certainly the sights he saw there were not calculated to destroy his revolutionary longings, though they were often such as might well have made him doubt of the ultimate perfectibility of the human race.

"Oh, I am so glad to find you, Raymond, and I should enjoy a nice long talk together; but you must be tired; you have, I suppose, only just come in after working all night?"

He explained to me that he had been summoned after midnight to attend a poor woman's confinement, and had stayed with her till past four, when, feeling more inclined for a walk than for his bed, he had wandered off in the direction of Highgate and had only just got home.

"By the way, Isabel," he said, "as I was coming down the Caledonian Road I met your friend Armitage. He is a good fellow whom I have always liked, so I stopped him and we had a chat. He explained to me that he was attired in his new pedestrian costume, which indeed struck me as almost pre-Adamite in its simplicity. He had been helping some of his friends to move—to shoot the moon, I fancy, would describe the situation. He inquired of me what I was doing, and we got talking on all sorts of scientific and philosophic problems. It is extraordinary what an intellect that man has. Only he lives too much in a world of his own creation; he seems absolutely oblivious of self, and I feel sure his hygiene and vegetarianism are simply the outcome of his desire to free himself from all worldly cares which might impede his absolute devotion to his Cause. He seems to have practically abandoned his practice. As we were wandering on rather aimlessly, I suggested accompanying him home, but he did not appear to jump at the idea, and as I know that it is not considered etiquette amongst you folk to press inquiries as to address and so on, I was going to drop the subject; but Armitage, after a short silence, explained that the fact was he had not exactly got a home to go to. I concluded that he was in for the bother of changing diggings, and made some sympathetic remark to that effect; but he said that was not exactly the case—that, in fact, he had given up having a fixed abode altogether. As you can imagine, Isabel," continued my brother, "this information somewhat staggered me. I knew through you that he had long ago given up his Harley Street establishment and moved into more populous quarters, where I quite supposed him still to be residing. But he calmly went on to explain, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, that he had been in need of a rather considerable sum of money some weeks back for purposes of propaganda, and that, not knowing where else to obtain the money, he had sold up all his belongings and cleared out of his lodgings without paying his rent, 'by way of an example.' All this he explained with the air of a man adducing an unanswerable argument, and as his manner did not admit of remonstrance, I simply asked him what he thought of doing now, which started him off on a long account of the opportunities for propaganda afforded by such establishments as Rowton House, the casual wards, and the Salvation Army Shelters. 'We want to get at the oppressed, to rouse them from their lethargy of ages, to show them that they too have rights, and that it is cowardly and wicked to starve in the midst of plenty; we want to come amongst them, not as preachers and dilettantists, but as workers like themselves, and how can this be done better than by going in their midst and sharing their life?' I could not but feel amazement and admiration at the enthusiasm and sincerity of this man, mingled with sorrow at the thought that such an intellect as his should be thus wasted. He is a man who might have done almost anything in the scientific world, and now he seems destined to waste his life, a dreamer of dreams, a sort of modern St. Francis in a world lacking in idealism, and where he will be looked upon as a wandering lunatic rather than a saint."

I sat silent for a few minutes. I had not quite realised that poor Armitage had come to this—a frequenter of casual wards, a homeless and wandering lunatic; my brother was right, the world would judge him as such. I was not, however, in the least surprised at the news.

The servants had by now come down and we had breakfast brought to the study, and I gave Raymond an account of my night's proceedings. When I concluded my brother said,

"Well, Isabel, you will remain almost alone at the Tocsin. Kosinski is leaving, Giannoli is gone, Armitage is otherwise occupied. Will you be able to keep it going?"

"Oh, I could keep it going," I replied. "There are still a lot of comrades hanging on to it; new ones are constantly turning up. The work can be done between us, there is no doubt of that. It is rather of myself that I doubt. I begin to feel isolated in the midst of the others; I cannot believe that people like Short and Simpkins can change Society; they would have to begin reforming themselves, and that they are incapable of. I can admire a man like Kosinski: I cannot exactly sympathise with him. As to Armitage, I can only grieve that he should thus waste his life and talents. Probably, had he thought a little more of his personal happiness, he would have avoided falling a victim to monomania, for such he is in part. And then—and then—it is not only of others that I doubt, but of myself. Am I really doing any good? Can I sincerely believe that the Tocsin will help towards the regeneration of mankind? Can mankind be regenerated? When such questions never occurred to me, or, if they did, were answered by my brain with an unhesitating affirmative, then it was easy to work. No difficulties could daunt me; everything seemed easy, straightforward. But now—but now...."