A Girl Among the Anarchists

by Isabel Meredith

I awoke on Monday morning with a sense of impending misfortune hovering over me. I had taken refuge in sleep the previous night from a host of troublesome thoughts and perplexing doubts, and I now experienced the hateful sensation of returning consciousness, when one does not yet recollect fully the past, yet realises vaguely the re-awakening to suffering and action. I wanted to get to the office early that morning, for publishing day was near at hand and there was a lot of work to be finished. I felt that the drudgery of composing would be a relief to my over-strained nerves; so, without waiting for breakfast and the morning paper which I generally scanned before leaving home, I dressed rapidly and set out for the Tocsin. I had not gone many yards when my attention was attracted by the large placards pasted on the boards outside a newspaper shop:—

"Shocking outrage in Madrid. Attempt on the life of Spanish Prime-Minister—Many victims. Arrest of Anarchist Assassin. London Police on scent."

Giannoli! The name flashed across my brain as I rushed into the shop and purchased the paper. My heart thumped with excitement as, standing in the shadow of some houses at the corner of the street, I hastily opened and folded the sheet and ran my eyes down the long column, freely interspersed with headlines.

"On Sunday evening, at half-past six, when the fashionable crowd which throngs the Prado at Madrid was at its thickest, and just as the Minister Fernandez was driving by in his carriage, a man pushed his way through the crowd, and shouting 'Long live Anarchy,' discharged at him three shots from a revolver; the aim, however, was not precise, and one of the bullets wounded, it is feared mortally, the secretary, Señor Esperandez, who was seated beside his chief, whilst the Minister was shot in the arm. Several people rushed forward to seize the miscreant, who defended himself desperately, discharging the remaining chambers of the revolver amidst his assailants, two of whom have sustained serious injuries. He was, however, overcome and taken, handcuffed and bound, to the nearest police station. On being interrogated he refused his name and all particulars as to himself, only declaring that he attempted the life of the Minister Fernandez on his own individual responsibility, that he had no accomplices, and that his object was to revenge his comrades who had been persecuted by order of the Minister. When informed that he had missed his aim, and that Fernandez had escaped with a broken arm, whilst his secretary was in danger of death, he expressed his regret at not having succeeded in his object, saying that this was due to his wretched health, which rendered his aim unsteady; but as to Señor Esperandez, he declared that he considered him also responsible, inasmuch as he was willing to associate himself with the oppressor of the people. Neither threats nor persuasion could induce him to say more. The police, however, are making active inquiries, and have ascertained so far (midnight of Sunday) that the prisoner is an Italian Anarchist recently landed at Barcelona from America, passing under the name of Paolo Costa. This name, however, is considered to be false. He is a tall man, of rather distinguished appearance. The police do not credit the idea that he has no accomplices, and during the evening extensive arrests have been made in Madrid and Barcelona. Over a hundred of the most noted Anarchists and Socialists in these cities are now in prison."

Such was the brief outline of facts as given by the Morning Post. Of course I had not the slightest doubt as to the identity of the prisoner; the state of weakness and ill-health which had caused him to miss his aim was conclusive, added to the many other reasons I had for supposing him to be Giannoli. This, then, was the deed he had been contemplating! Only the day before I had been wondering why I had no news of him; but a few hours previously he went forth to his death. For it meant death, of course; of that I had no doubt. He would be garotted; I only hoped that he might not be tortured first. I gave a hasty glance at the other details given by the paper. A column was dedicated to the virtues of the prime-minister. He was upheld as a model of the domestic virtues (a few months back Continental papers had been full of a scandalous trial in which Fernandez had been involved), and was represented as the man who had saved Spain from ruin and disaster by his firm repression of the revolutionary parties: by which euphonious phrase the papers referred to the massacres of strikers which had taken place at Barcelona and Valladolid, and the wholesale arrest and imprisonment of Anarchists and Socialists in connection with a recent anti-clerical movement which had convulsed the Peninsula.

These arrests had given rise to a great political trial for conspiracy before a court-martial, which had ended in a sentence of death passed on five of the prisoners, whilst the others were sentenced to terms of imprisonment varying from thirty to five years. It was to revenge the injustice and the sufferings caused by this policy that Giannoli had attempted the life of the Spanish minister. Another paragraph caught my eye:—

"London police hot on scent: raids and arrests."

"Our correspondent has interviewed a leading detective at Scotland Yard who for some years past has been charged with the surveillance of suspicious foreign Anarchists. This clever officer informs our correspondent that he has no doubt the plot was hatched in London, and thinks that he could name the author, an Italian Anarchist of desperate antecedents who disappeared from London under mysterious circumstances nearly seven months ago. London is a centre of Anarchist propaganda, and foreign desperadoes of all nationalities flock hither to abuse the hospitality and freedom which this government too rashly concedes them. Englishmen will one day be roused from their fool's paradise to find that too long have they nursed a viper in their bosom. We trust that this lesson will not be wasted, and that the police will see to closing without delay certain self-styled clubs and 'printing-offices' which are in reality nothing but hotbeds of conspiracy and murder."

I hurried along as I read these last words. We were evidently once more in for troublous times. The office of the Tocsin was clearly designated in the paragraph I have quoted; perhaps the office would be raided; perhaps the Italian comrades who were staying there would be arrested. I rapidly reviewed in my mind's eye the papers and letters which were in the office, wondering whether anything incriminating would be found; but I did not feel much perturbed on that score, as it was my invariable custom to burn all papers of importance, and I felt certain that nothing more compromising would be found than the Bleeding Lamb's tract on the Seven-headed Beast, which, according to its author, would "make the old Queen sit up a bit," and Gresham's treatise on the persecutions of the Early Christians. I was glad to think that Kosinski had settled to leave the country. I knew that Giannoli had left with him much of his correspondence, and I trusted that this would not fall into the hands of the police.

I had now nearly reached my destination and, as I turned up the corner of Lysander Grove, I at once realised that something unusual had taken place at the office. The shutters were still up at Mrs. Wattles's green-grocer's shop, and that lady herself loomed large at the entrance to the courtyard leading to the Tocsin, surrounded by her chief gossips and by a dozen or two of dirty matrons. Several windows were up in the houses opposite and slatternly-looking women were craning out and exchanging observations. I hurried on and, pushing my way past Mrs. Wattles, who I could see at a glance was in liquor, and heedless of her remarks, I ran down the narrow courtyard to the office door which I found shut. I knocked impatiently and loudly; the door opened and I was confronted by a detective.