Section 47 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. In my utter isolation the world outside appears like a faint memory, unreal and dim. The deprivation of newspapers has entirely severed me from the living. Letters from my comrades have become rare and irregular. They sound strangely cold and impersonal. The life of the prison is also receding. No communication reaches me from my friends. Pious John, the rangeman, is unsympathetic. He still bears me ill will from the days of the jail. Only young Russell still remembers me. I tremble for the reckless boy as I hear his low cough. Apprising me of the stiff, he unerringly shoots between the bars, while the double file of prisoners marches past my door. He looks pale and haggard. The old buoyant step, now languid and heavy. A tone of apprehension pervades his notes. He is constantly harassed by the officers he writes. His task has been increased. He is nervous and weak, and his health is declining. In the broken sentences I sense some vagueness giving as of impending calamity. With intense thankfulness I think of Russell. Again I live through the hopes and fears that drew us into closer friendship. The days of terrible anxiety incident to the tunnel project, my heart goes out to the faithful boy, whose loyalty and discretion have so much aided the safety of my comrades. A strange longing for his companionship possesses me. In the gnawing loneliness his face floats before me, casting the spell of a friendly presence. His strong features softened by sorrow. His eyes grown large, with the same sweet sadness of little Felipe. A peculiar tenderness steals into my thoughts of the boy. I look forward eagerly to his notes. Patiently I scan the faces in the passing line, wistful through the sight of the youth, and my heart beats faster at his fleeting smile. How sorrowful he looks! Now he is gone. The hours are weary with silence and solitude. Listlessly I turn to the pages of my library-book. If only I had the birds. I should find solace in their thoughtful eyes. Classic and cis would understand and feel with me. But my poor little friends have disappeared. Only Russell remains. My only friend! I shall not see him when he returns to the cell at noon. The line passes on the opposite side of the hall. But in the afternoon, when the men are again unlocked for work, I shall look into his eyes for a happy moment, and perhaps the dear boy will have a message for me. He is so tender-hearted. His correspondence is full of sympathy and encouragement, and he strives to cheer me with the good news. Another day is gone. His sentence is nearing its end. He will at once secure a position, and save every penny to aid in my release. Only I concur in his ardent hope. It would break his heart to be disillusioned. II The passing weeks and months bring no break in the dreary monotony. The call of the robin on the riverbank rouses no echo in my heart. No sign of awakening spring brightens the constant semi-darkness of the solitary. The dampness of the cell is piercing my bones. Every movement racks my body with pain. My eyes are tortured with the eternal white of the walls. Somber shadows brood around me. I long for a bit of sunshine. I wait patiently at the door. Perhaps it is clear today. My cell faces west. Maybe the setting sun will steal a glance upon me. For hours I stand with naked breasts close to the bars. I must not miss a friendly ray. It may suddenly peep into the cell and turn away from me, unseen in the gloom. Now a bright beam plays on my neck and shoulders, and I press closer to the door to welcome the dear stranger. He caresses me with soft touch. Perhaps it is the soul of little Dick pouring out his tender greeting in this song of light. Or maybe the astral aura of my beloved Uncle Maxim bringing warmth and hope, sweet conceit of oriental thought, barren of joy in life. The sun is fading. It feels chilly in the twilight. And now the solitary is once more bleak and cold. As his release approaches, the tone of native confidence becomes more assertive in Russell's letter. The boy is jubilant and full of vitality. Within three months he will breathe the air of freedom. A note of sadness that leaves me behind permeates his communications, but he is enthusiastic over his project of aiding me to liberty. Eagerly every day I anticipate his mute greeting as he passes in the line. This morning I saw him hold up two fingers, the third crooked, in the sign of the remaining two and a stump. A joyous light in his eyes, his step firmer, more elastic. But in the afternoon he is missing from the line. With sudden apprehension I wondered his absence. Could I have overlooked him in the closely walking ranks? It is barely possible. Perhaps he has remained in his cell, not feeling well. It may be nothing serious. He will surely be in the line to-morrow. For three days every morning and afternoon I anxiously scrutinize the faces of the passing men, but Russell is not among them. His absence torments me with a thousand fears. Maybe the warden has renewed his inquisition of the boy. Perhaps he got into a fight in the shop. In the dungeon now he'll lose his commutation time. Unable to bear the suspense I'm about to appeal to the chaplain, when a friendly runner surreptitiously hands me a note. With difficulty I recognize my friend's bold handwriting in the uneven, nervous scrawl. Russell is in the hospital. At work in the shop he writes he had suffered a chill. The doctor committed him to the ward for observation. But the officers and the convict nurses accuse him of shaming to evade work. They threaten to have him return to the shop, and he implores me to have the chaplain intercede for him. He feels weak and feverish, and the thoughts of being left alone in the cell in his present condition fills him with horror. I send an urgent request to see the chaplain. But the guard informs me that Mr. Milligan is absent. He's not expected at the office till the following week. I prevail upon the kindly Mitchell, recently transferred to the South's stock, to deliver a note to the warden, in which I appeal on behalf of Russell. But several days pass, and still no reply from Captain Wright. Finally, I pretend severe pains in the bowels, to afford Frank, the doctor's assistant, an opportunity to pause at my cell. As the medicine boy pours a prescribed pint of horse-salt through the funnel inserted between the bars, I hastily inquire. Is Russell still in the ward, Frank? How is he? What Russell, he asks indifferently. Russell Schreuer put four days ago under observation. Oh, that poor kid! Why, he is paralyzed. For an instant I am speechless with terror. No, it cannot be. Frank, I mean young Schreuer, from the construction shop. He's number 2608. Your friend Russell, I know who you mean. I'm sorry for the boy. He is paralyzed all right. But no, it can't be. Why, Frank, it was just a chill and a little weakness. Look here, Alec. I know you're square, and you can keep a secret all right.  Yes, yes, Frank, what is it? You know, Flem, the night nurse? Doing a five-spot for murder? His father and the warden are old cronies. That's how he got to be a nurse.  Always makes mistakes. Well, Doc ordered an injection for Russell.  Flem got the wrong bottle. Gave the poor boy some acid in the injection.  I passed the night in anguish. Clutching desperately at the faint hope that it cannot be, some mistake, perhaps Frank, has exaggerated. But in the morning the medicine boy confirms my worst fear. The doctor has said the boy will die. Russell does not realize the situation. There is something wrong with his legs, the poor boy writes. He is unable to move them, and suffers great pain. It can't be fever, he thinks, but the physician will not tell him what is the matter. The kindly Frank is sympathetic. Every day he passes notes between us, and I try to encourage Russell. He will improve, I assure him. His time is short, and fresh air and liberty will soon restore him. My words seem to soothe my friend, and he grows more cheerful, when unexpectedly he learns the truth from the wrangling nurses. His notes grow piteous with misery. Tears fill my eyes as I read his despairing cry. Oh, Alec, I am so young. I don't want to die. He implores me to visit him. If I could only come to nurse him, he is sure he would improve. He distrusts the convict attendants, who harry and banter the country lad. Their heartless abuse is irritating the sick boy beyond patients. Exasperated by the taunts of the night nurse, Russell yesterday threw a saucer at him. He was reported to the doctor, who threatened to send the paralyzed youth to the dungeon. Plagued and tormented in great suffering, Russell grows bitter and complaining. The nurses and officers are persecuting him, he writes. They will soon do him to death if I will not come to his rescue. If he could go to an outside hospital, he is sure to recover. Every evening Frank brings sadder news. Russell is feeling worse. He is so nervous. The doctor has ordered the nurses to wear slippers. The doors and the ward have been lined with cotton to deaden the noise of slamming. But even the sight of a moving figure throws Russell into convulsions. There is no hope, Frank reports. Decomposition has already set in. The boy is in terrible agony. He is constantly crying with pain and calling for me. Distraught with anxiety and yearning to see my sick friend, I resolve upon a way to visit the hospital. In the morning, as the guard hands me the bread ration and shuts my cell, I slip my hand between the sill and the door. With an involuntary cry, I withdraw my maimed and bleeding fingers. The overseer conducts me to the dispensary. By tacit permission of the friendly medicine boy, I pass to the second floor, where the wards are located and quickly steal to Russell's bedside. The look of mute joy on the agonized face subdues the excruciating pain in my hand. Oh, dear Alec, he whispers.  The shadow of death is in his eyes. The body exudes decomposition. Be raft of speech. I gently press his white, emaciated hand. The weary eyes close and the boy falls into slumber. Silently I touch his dry lips and steal away. In the afternoon I appeal to the warden to permit me to nurse my friend. It is the boy's dying wish he will ease his last hours. The captain refers me to the inspectors, but Mr. Reed informs me that it would be subversive of discipline to grant my request. Thereupon I ask permission to arrange a collection among the prisoners. Russell firmly believes that he would improve in an outside hospital and the pardon board might grant the petition. Friendless prisoners are often allowed to circulate subscription lists among the inmates. And two years previously I had collected $123 for the pardon of a lifetimer. But the warden curtly refuses my plea. Remarking that it is dangerous to permit me to associate with the men. I suggest a chaplain for the mission or some prisoner selected by the authorities. But this offer is also vetoed. The warden berating me for having taken advantage of my presence in the dispensary to see Russell clandestinely and threatening to punish me with a dungeon. I plead with him for permission to visit the sick boy who is hungry for a friendly presence and constantly calling for me. Apparently touched by my emotion, the captain yields. He will permit me to visit Russell, he informs me on condition that a guard be present at the meeting. For a moment I hesitate. The desire to see my friend struggles against the fear of irritating him by the sight of the hated uniform. But I cannot expose the dying youth to this indignity and pain. Angered by my refusal, perhaps disappointed in the hope of learning the secret of the tunnel from the visit. The warden forbids me hereafter to enter the hospital. Late at night Frank appears at my cell. He looks very grave as he whispers. Alec, you must bear up. Russell? Yes Alec, worse tell me Frank. He is dead. Bear up Alec. His last thought was of you. He was unconscious all afternoon, but just before the end it was 9.33, he sat up in bed so suddenly he frightened me. His arm shot out and he cried. Goodbye Alec. End of section 47, recording by Lynn Jarrow. Section 48 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phyllis Vincelli. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Part two, chapter 41, The Shock Epiphalo. One, July 10th, 1901. Dear girl, this is from the hospital, Subrosa. Just out of the straitjacket after eight days. For over a year, I was in the strictest solitary. For a long time, mail and reading matter were denied me. I have no words to describe the horror of the last months. I have passed through a great crisis. Two of my best friends died in a frightful manner. The death of Russell especially affected me. He was very young and my dearest and most devoted friend and he died a terrible death. The doctor charged the boy with shamming but now he says it was spinal meningitis. I cannot tell you the awful truth. It was nothing short of murder and my poor friend rotted away by inches. When he died they found his back one mass of bedsores. If you could read the pitiful letters he wrote, begging to see me and to be nursed by me. But the warden wouldn't permit it. In some manner his agony seemed to affect me and I began to experience the pains and symptoms that Russell described in his notes. I knew it was my sick fancy. I strove against it but presently my legs showed signs of paralysis and I suffered excruciating pain in the spinal column just like Russell. I was afraid that I would be done to death like my poor friend. I grew suspicious of every guard and would barely touch the food for fear of its being poisoned. My head was working they said. And all the time I knew it was my diseased imagination and I was in terror of going mad. I tried so hard to fight it but it would always creep up and get hold of me stronger and stronger. Another week of solitary would have killed me. I was on the verge of suicide. I demanded to be relieved from the cell and the warden ordered me punished. I was put in the straight jacket. They bound my body in canvas, strapped my arms to the bed and chained my feet to the posts. I was kept that way eight days unable to move rotting in my own excrement. Released prisoners called the attention of our new inspector to my case. He refused to believe that such things were being done in the penitentiary. Reports spread that I was going blind and insane. Then the inspector visited the hospital and had me released from the jacket. I'm in pretty bad shape but they put me in the general ward now and I'm glad of the chance to send you this note. Sasha. Two, direct to box A7 Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, July 25th, 1901. Dear Sanya, I cannot tell you how happy I am to be allowed to write to you again. My privileges have been restored by our new inspector, a very kindly ma'am. He has relieved me from the cell and now I am again on the range. The inspector requested me to deny to my friends the reports which have recently appeared in the papers concerning my condition. I have not been well of late but now I hope to improve. My eyes are very poor. The inspector has given me permission to have a specialist examine them. Please arrange for it through our local comrades. There is another piece of very good news, dear friend. A new commutation law has been passed which reduces my sentence by two and a half years. Still leaves me a long time, of course, almost four years here and another year to the workhouse. However, it is a considerable gain and if I should not get into salentary again, I may. I am almost afraid to utter the thought. I may live to come out. I feel as if I'm being resurrected. The new law benefits the short timers proportionately much more than the men with longer sentences. Only the poor lifers do not share in it. We were very anxious for a while as there were many rumors that the law would be declared unconstitutional. Fortunately, the attempt to nullify its benefits proved ineffectual. Think of men who will see something unconstitutional and allowing the prisoners a little more good time than the commutation statute of 40 years ago. As if a little kindness to the unfortunate's, really justice, is incompatible with the spirit of Jefferson. We were greatly worried over the fate of this statute but at last the first batch has been released and there is much rejoicing over it. There is a peculiar history about this new law which may interest you. It sheds a significant sidelight. It was especially designed for the benefit of a high federal officer who was recently convicted of aiding two wealthy Philadelphia tobacco manufacturers to defraud the government of a few million by using counterfeit tax stamps. Their influence secured the introduction of the commutation bill and its hasty passage. The law would have cut their sentences almost in two but certain newspapers seem to have taken offense at having been kept in ignorance of the deal and protests began to be voiced. The matter finally came up before the attorney general of the United States who decided that the men in whose special interest the law was engineered could not benefit by it because a state law does not affect US prisoners. The latter being subject to the Federal Commutation Act. Imagine the discomforture of the politicians. An attempt was even made to suspend the operation of the statute. Fortunately it failed and now the common state prisoners who were not at all meant to profit are being released. The legislature has unwittingly given some unfortunates here much happiness. I was interrupted in this writing by being called out for a visit. I could hardly credit it. The first comrade I have been allowed to see in nine years. It was Harry Gordon and I was so overcome by the sight of the dear friend I could barely speak. He must have prevailed upon the new inspector to issue a permit. The latter is now acting warden owing to the serious illness of Captain Wright. Perhaps he will allow me to see my sister. Will you kindly communicate with her at once? Meantime I shall try to secure a pass with renewed hope and always with green memory of you, Alex. Three, Subrosa, December 20th, 1901. Dearest girl, I know how your visit and my strange behavior have affected you. The sight of your face after all these years completely unnerved me. I could not think, I could not speak. It was as if all my dreams of freedom, the whole world of the living were concentrated in the shiny little trinket that was dangling from your watch chain. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. I couldn't keep my hand from playing with it. It absorbed my whole being and all the time I felt how nervous you were at my silence and I couldn't utter a word. Perhaps it would have been better for us not to have seen each other under the present conditions. It was lucky they did not recognize you. They took you for my sister, though I believe your identity was suspected after you had left. You would surely not have been permitted to visit had the old warden been here. He was ill at the time. He never got over the shock of the tunnel and finally he has been persuaded by the prison physician who has secret aspirations to the wardenship that the anxieties of his position are a menace to his advanced age. Considerable dissatisfaction has also developed of late against the warden among the inspectors. Well, he has resigned at last, thank goodness. The prisoners have been praying for it for years and some of the boys on the range celebrated the event by getting drunk on wood alcohol. The new warden has just assumed charge and we hope for improvement. He is a physician by profession with a title of major in the Pennsylvania militia. It was entirely uncalled for on the part of the officious friend, whoever he may have been, to cause you unnecessary worry over my health and my renewed persecution. You remember that in July the new inspector released me from the straitjacket and assigned me to work on the range, but I was locked up again in October after the McKinley incident. The president of the board of inspectors was at the time in New York. He inquired by wire what I was doing. Upon being informed that I was working on the range, he ordered me into solitary. The new warden on assuming office sent for me. They give you a bad reputation, he said, but I will let you out of the cell if you'll promise to do what is right by me. He spoke brusquely in the manner of a man closing a business deal with the power of dictating terms. He reminded me of Bismarck at Versailles, yet he did not seem unkind. The thought of escape was probably in his mind, but the new law has germinated the hope of survival. My weakened condition and the unexpected shortening of my sentence have at last decided me to abandon the idea of escape. I therefore replied to the warden, I will do what is right by you if you treat me right. Thereupon he assigned me to work on the range. It is almost like liberty to have the freedom of the cell house after the close solitary. And you, dear friend, in your letters I feel how terribly torn you are by the events of the recent months. I lived in great fear for your safety and I can barely credit the good news that you are at liberty. It seems almost a miracle. I followed the newspapers with great anxiety. The whole country seemed to be swept with the fury of revenge. To a considerable extent, the press fanned the fires of persecution. Here in the prison, very little sincere grief was manifested. Out of hearing of the guards, the men passed very uncomplementary remarks about the dead president. The average prisoner corresponds to the average citizen. Their patriotism is very passive, except when stimulated by personal interest or artificially excited. But if the press mirrored the sentiment of the people, the nation must have suddenly relapsed into cannibalism. There were moments when I was in mortal dread for your very life and for the safety of the other arrested comrades. In previous letters, you hinted that it was official rivalry and jealousy and your absence from New York to which you owe your release. You may be right, yet I believe that your attitude of proud self-respect and your admirable self-control contributed much to the result. You were splendid, dear. And I was especially moved by your remark that you would faithfully nurse the wounded man if he required your services. But the poor boy, condemned and deserted by all, needed and deserved your sympathy and aid more than the president. More strikingly than your letters, that remark discovered to me the great change rotten us by the ripening years. Yes, in us, in both, for my heart echoed your beautiful sentiment. How impossible such a thought would have been to us in the days of a decade ago. We should have considered it treason to the spirit of revolution. It would have outraged all our traditions, even to admit the humanity of an official representative of capitalism. Is it not very significant that we too, you living in the very heart of anarchist thought and activity, and I in the atmosphere of absolute suppression and solitude, should have arrived at the same evolutionary point after a decade of divergent paths? You have alluded, in a recent letter, to the ennobling and broadening influence of sorrow. Yet not upon everyone does it exert a similar effect. Some natures grow embittered and shrink with the poison of misery. I often wonder at my lack of bitterness and enmity, even against the old warden, and surely I have good cause to hate him. Is it because of greater maturity? I rather think it is temperamentally conditioned. The love of the people, the hatred of oppression of our younger days, vital as these sentiments were with us, were mental rather than emotional. Fortunately so, I think. For those like Pheja and Lewis and Pauline and numerous others, soon how their emotionally inflated idealism punctured on the thorny path of the social Protestant. Only aspirations that spontaneously leap from the depths of our soul persist in the face of antagonistic forces. The revolutionist is born. Beneath our love and hatred of former days lay inherent rebellion and the passionate desire for liberty and life. In the long years of isolation I have looked deeply into my heart. With open mind and sincere purpose I have revised every emotion and every thought. Away from my former atmosphere and the disturbing influence of the world's turmoil I have divested myself of all traditions and accepted beliefs. I have studied the sciences and the humanities, contemplated life and pondered over human destiny. For weeks and months I would be absorbed in the domain of pure reason or discuss with Leibniz the question of free will and seek to penetrate beyond Spencer into the unknowable. Political science and economics, law and criminology. I studied them with unprejudiced mind and sought to slacken my soul's thirst by delving deeply into religion and theology. Seeking the key to life at the feet of Mrs. Eddy, expectantly listening for the voice of disembodied, studying, corechanity and theosophy, absorbing the prana of knowledge and power and concentrating upon the wisdom of the yogi. And after years of contemplation and study, chastened by much sorrow and suffering, I arise from the broken fetters of the world's folly and delusions to behold the threshold of a new life of liberty and equality. My youth's ideal of a free humanity in the vague future has become clarified and crystallized into the living truth of anarchy as the sustaining elemental force of my everyday existence. Often, I have wondered in the years gone by, was not wisdom dear at the price of enthusiasm? At 30, one is not so reckless, not so fanatical and one-sided as at 20. With maturity, we become more universal, but life is a shylock that cannot be cheated of his due. For every lesson it teaches us, we have a wound or a scar to show. We grow broader, but too often the heart contracts as the mind expands and the fires are burning down while we are learning. At such moments, my mind would revert to the days when the momentarily expected approach of the social revolution absorbed our exclusive interest, the raging present and its conflicting currents past a spy, while our eyes were riveted upon the dawn in thrilling expectancy of the sunrise. Life and its manifold expressions were vexatious to the spirit of revolt and poetry, literature and art were scorned as hindrances to progress, unless they sounded the toxin of immediate revolution. Humanity was sharply divided in two warring camps, the noble people, the producers, who yearned for the light of the new gospel and the hated oppressors, the exploiters, who craftily strove to obscure the rising day that was to give back to man his heritage. If only the good people were given an opportunity to hear the great truth, how joyfully they would embrace anarchy and walk in triumph into the promised land. The splendid naivete of the days that resented as a personal reflection the least misgivings of the future, the enthusiasm that discounted the power of inherent prejudice and predilection. Magnificent was the day of hearts on fire with the hatred of oppression and the love of liberty. Woe indeed to the man or the people whose soul never warmed with the spark of Prometheus, for it is youth that has climbed the heights, but maturity has clarified the way and the stupendous task of human regeneration will be accomplished only by the purified vision of hearts that grow not cold. And you, my dear friend, with the deeper insight of time, you have yet happily kept your heart young. I have rejoiced at it in your letters of recent years, and it is especially evident from the sentiments you have expressed regarding the happening at Buffalo. I share your view entirely. For that very reason, it is the more distressing to disagree with you in one very important particular, the value of Leon's act. I know the terrible ordeal you have passed through, the fiendish persecution to which you have been subjected. Worse than all must have been to you the general lack of understanding for such phenomena, and sadder yet the despicable attitude of some would-be radicals in denouncing the man and his act. But I am confident that you will not mistake my expressed disagreement for condemnation. We need not discuss the phase of a tentat, which manifested the rebellion of a tortured soul, the individual protest against social wrong. Such phenomena are the natural result of evil conditions, as inevitable as the flooding of the riverbanks by the swelling mountain torrents. But I cannot agree with you regarding the social value of Leon's act. I have read of the beautiful personality of the youth, of his inability to adapt himself to brutal conditions, and the rebellion of his soul. It throws a significant light onto the causes of the a tentat. Indeed, it is at once the greatest tragedy of martyrdom, and the most terrible indictment of society, that it forces the no-blessed men and women to shed human blood, though their souls shrink from it. But the more imperative it is that drastic methods of this character be resorted to only as a last extremity. To prove a value, they must be motivated by social rather than individual necessity, and be directed against a real and immediate enemy of the people. The significance of such a deed is understood by the popular mind, and in that alone is the propagandistic, educational importance of the a tentat, except if it is exclusively an act of terrorism. Now, I do not believe that this deed was terroristic, and I doubt whether it was educational, because the social necessity for its performance was not manifest. That you may not misunderstand, I repeat, as an expression of personal revolt, it was inevitable, and in itself an indictment of existing conditions. But the background of social necessity was lacking, and therefore the value of the act was to a great extent nullified. In Russia, where political oppression is popularly felt, such a deed would be of great value, but the scheme of political subjection is more subtle in America, and though McKinley was the chief representative of our modern slavery, he could not be considered in the light of a direct and immediate enemy of the people. While in an absolutism, the autocrat is visible and tangible. The real despotism of Republican institutions is far deeper, more insidious, because it rests on the popular delusion of self-government and independence. That is the subtle source of democratic tyranny, and as such, it cannot be reached with a bullet. In modern capitalism, exploitation, rather than oppression, is the real enemy of the people. Oppression is but its handmade, hence the battle is to be waged in the economic, rather than the political field. It is therefore that I regard my own act as far more significant and educational than Leon's. It was directed against a tangible, real oppressor, visualized as such by the people. As long as misery and tyranny fill the world, social contrasts and consequent hatreds will persist, and the noblest of the race, our chulgus sees, burst forth in rockets of iron. But does this lightning really illumine the social horizon, or merely confuse minds with the succeeding darkness? The struggle of labor against capital is a class war, essentially and chiefly economic, and that arena the battles must be fought. It was not these considerations, of course, that inspired the nationwide manhunt, or the attitude even of alleged radicals. Their cowardice has filled me with loathing and sadness. The brutal farce of the trial, the hypocrisy of the whole proceeding, the thirst for the blood of the martyr, these make one almost despair of humanity. I must close. The friend to smuggle out this letter will be uneasy about its bulk. Send me sign of receipt, and I hope that you may be permitted a little rest and peace to recover from the nightmare of the last months. Sasha. End of section 48. Section 49 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phyllis Vincelli. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman. Part two, chapter 42, Marred Lives. One. The discussion with the girl is a source of much mortification. Harassed on every side, persecuted by the authorities and hounded even into the street, my friend, in her hour of bitterness, confounds my appreciative disagreement with the denunciation of stupidity and inertia. I realize the inadequacy of the written word and despair at the hopelessness of human understanding as I vainly seek to elucidate the meaning of the buffalo tragedy to friendly guards and prisoners. Continued correspondence with the girl accentuates the divergence of our views, painfully discovering the fundamental difference of attitude underlying even common conclusions. By degrees, the stress of activities reacts upon my friend's correspondence. Our discussion lags and soon ceases entirely. The world of the outside temporarily brought closer, again recedes, and the urgency of the immediate absorbs me in the life of the prison. Two. A spirit of hopefulness breathes in the cell house. The new commutation law is bringing liberty appreciably nearer. In the shops and yard, the men excitedly discuss the increased good time and prisoners flit about with paper and pencil, seeking a tutored friend to figure out their time of release. Even the solitaries on the verge of despair and the long timers facing a vista of cheerless years are instilled with new courage and hope. The tenor of conversation is altered. With the appointment of the new warden, the constant grumbling over the food has ceased. Pleasant surprise is manifest at the welcome change in the grub. I wonder at the tolerant silence regarding the disappointing Christmas dinner. The men impatiently frown down the occasional kicker. The warden is green, they argue. He did not know that we are supposed to get current bread for the holidays. He will do better. Just give him a chance. The improvement in the daily meals is enlarged upon and the men thrill with amazed expectancy at the incredible report, oysters for New Year's dinner. With gratification, we hear the major's expression of disgust at the filthy condition of the prison, his condemnation of the basket cell and dungeon as barbarous and the promise of radical reforms. As an earnest of his regime, he has released from solitary the men whom Warden Wright had punished for having served as witnesses in the defense of Murphy and Mung. Greedy for the large reward, Hopkins and his stools had accused the two men of a mysterious murder committed in Elk City several years previously. The criminal trial involving the suicide of an officer whom the warden had forced to testify against the defendants resulted in the acquittal of the prisoners whereupon Captain Wright ordered the convict witnesses for the defense to be punished. Footnote. Officer Robert G. Hunter who committed suicide August 30th, 1901 in Clarion, Pennsylvania where the trial took place. He left a written confession in which he accused Warden E. S. Wright of forcing him to testify against men whom he knew to be innocent. And footnote. The new warden, himself a physician, introduces hygienic rules, abolishes the holy stoning of the cell house floor because of the detrimental effect of the dust and decides to separate the consumptive and syphilitic prisoners from the comparatively healthy ones. Footnote. The process of whitening stone floors by pulverizing sand into their surfaces. And footnote. Upon examination, 40% of the population are discovered in various stages of tuberculosis and 20% insane. The death rate from consumption is found to range between 25 and 60%. At light tasks in the block and the yard, the major finds employment for the sickly inmates. Special gangs are assigned to keeping the prison clean, the rest of the men at work in the shop. With the exception of a number of dangerously insane who are to be committed to an asylum, every prisoner in the institution is at work and the vexed problem of idleness resulting from the anti-convict labor law is thus solved. The change of diet, better hygiene, and the abolition of the dungeon produce a noticeable improvement in the life of the prison. The gloom of the cell house perceptibly lifts and presently the men are surprised at music hour between six and seven in the evening with the strains of merry ragtime by the newly organized penitentiary band. Three. New faces greet me on the range but many old friends are missing. Billy Ryan is dead of consumption. Frenchie and Ben have become insane. Little Matt, the dukesne striker committed suicide. In sad remembrance I think of them, grown close and dear in the years of mutual suffering. Some of the old timers have survived but broken in spirit and health. Praying Andy is still in the block, his mind clouded, his lips constantly moving in prayer. Me innocent, the old man reiterates, God him know. Last month the board has again refused to pardon the lifetimer. Now he is bereft of hope. Me have me no more money. My children they save and save and bring me for pardon and now no more money. Alec Collane has also been refused by the board at the same session. He is the oldest man in the prison, in point of service and the most popular lifer. His innocence of murder is one of the traditions of Riverside. In the boat he had rented to a party of picnickers. A woman was found dead. No clue could be discovered and Alec was sentenced to life. Because he could not be forced to divulge the names of the men who had hired his boat. He pauses to tell me the sad news. The authorities have opposed his pardon, demanding that he furnish the information desired by them. He looks seer with confinement. His eyes full of mute sadness that can find no words. His face is deeply seamed. His features grave, almost immobile. In the long years of our friendship I have never seen Alec laugh. Once or twice he smiled and his whole being seemed radiant with rare sweetness. He speaks abruptly with a perceptible effort. Yes, Alex, he is saying. It's true, they refused me. But they pardoned Mac, I retort hotly. He confessed to a cold-blooded murder and he's only been in for years. Good luck, he remarks. How good luck. Mac's father accidentally struck oil on his farm. Well, what of it? 300 barrels a day, rich, got his son a pardon. But on what ground did they dismiss your application? They know you were innocent. District attorney came to me. You're innocent, we know. Tell us who did the murder. I had nothing to tell. Pardon refused. Is there any hope later on, Alec? When the present administration are all dead, perhaps. Slowly he passes on at the approach of a guard. He walks weakly with halting step. Old Sammy is back again, his limp heavier, shoulders bent lower. I'm here again, friend Alec. He smiles apologetically. What could I do? The old woman died and my boys went off somewhere. The farm was sold that I was borned in. His voice trembles with emotion. I couldn't find the boys and no one wanted me and wouldn't give me any work. Go to the Pogie, they told me. Footnote, poor house and footnote. I couldn't Alec, I've worked all my life. I don't want no charity. I made a bluff. He smiles between tears. Broken to his stored, here I am. With surprise, I recognize tough monk among the first grade men. For years he had been kept in stripes and constantly punished for bad work in the hosiery department. He was called the laziest man in prison. Not once in five years had he accomplished his task. But the new warden transferred him to the construction shop, where Monk was employed at his trade of blacksmith.  I've struck it right now. And the major says I'm the best worker in the shop. Wouldn't believe it, eh, would ya? Major promised me a 10 spot for the fancy ironwork I did for them electric posts in the yard. Says it's artistic, see? That's me, all right. It's work I like. I won't lose any time either. Warden says old Sandy was a fool for makin' me knit socks with them big paws of mine. The major's all right, all right. With a glow of pleasure I meet smiling Al, my colored friend from the jail. The good-natured boy looks old and infirm. His kindness has involved him in much trouble. He has been repeatedly punished for shouldering the faults of others, and now the inspectors have informed him that he is to lose the greater part of his commutation time. He has grown wan with worry over the uncertainty of release. Every morning is tense with expectation. Might be I goes to-day, Alec. He hopefully smiles as I pause at his cell. But the weeks pass. The suspense is torturing the young Negro, and he is visibly failing day by day. A familiar voice greets me. Hello, Burke, ain't ya glad to see an old pal? Big Dave beams on me with his cheerful smile. No, Davey, I hoped you wouldn't come back. He becomes very grave. Yes, I swore I'd swing sooner than come back. Didn't get a chance, you see, he explains his tone full of bitterness. I goes to work and gets a job, and good job too, and I keeps away from the booze and me pals. But the damn bulls was after me. Got me sacked from me job three times, and then I knocked one of them on the head. Damn his soul to hell, wish I'd killed him. Old offender, they says to the judge, and he soaks me for a seven spot. I was a sucker all right for trying to be straight. Four. In the large cage at the center of the block, the men employed about the cell house congregate in their idle moments. The shadows steal silently, in and out of the enclosure, watchful of the approach of a guard. Within sounds the hum of subdued conversation. The men lounging about the sawdust barrel, absorbed in snakes Wilson's recital of his protracted struggle with old Sandy. He relates vividly his persistent waking at night, violent stamping on the floor, cries of murder, I see snakes. With admiring glances the young prisoners hang upon the lips of the old criminal, whose perseverance in shamming finally forced the former warden to assign snakes a special room in the hospital, where his snake-seeing propensities would become dormant. To suffer again violent awakening, the moment he would be transferred to a cell. For ten years the struggle continued, involving numerous clubbings, the dungeon, and the straight jacket, till the warden yielded and snakes was permanently established in the comparative freedom of the special room. Little groups stand about the cage, boisterous with the wit of the four-eyed Yegg, who styles himself Bill Nye, or excitedly discussing the intricacies of the commutation law, the chances of Pittsburgh winning the baseball pennant the following season and next Sunday's dinner. With much animation, the rumored resignation of the deputy Warren is discussed. The major is gradually weeding out the old gang it is gossiped. A colonel of the militia is to secure the position of assistant to the warden. This source of conversation is inexhaustible, every detail of local life serving for endless discussion and heated debate. But at the lookout's whimpered warning of an approaching guard, the circle breaks up, each man pretending to be busy dusting and cleaning. Officer Mitchell passes by. With short legs wide apart, he stands surveying the assembled idlers from beneath his fierce-looking eyebrows. Quiet as my grandmother at church, ain't she? All of a sudden, too.   I've just come in for a broom. You'll reprobate you. I saw you sneak in there an hour ago.  Think this is a bar room, do ya? Get to your cells, all of you.  One by one, the men steal back into the cage, jokingly teasing each other upon their happy escape. Presently, several rangemen join the group. Conversation becomes animated. Voices are raised in dispute. But anger subsides, and a hush falls upon the men as blind Charlie gropes his way along the wall. Bill Nye reaches for his hand and leads him to a seat on the barrel. Feeling better today, Charlie? He asks gently. Yes, I think a little better. The blind man says in an uncertain, hesitating manner.  It happened only a few months ago. In company with two friends, considerably the worse for liquor, he was passing a house on the outskirts of Allegheny. It was growing dark, and they wanted a drink. Charlie knocked at the door. A head appeared at an upper window. Robbers, someone suddenly cried, there was a flash. With a cry of pain, Charlie caught at his eyes. He staggered, then turned round and round, helpless in a daze. He couldn't see his companions, the house and the street disappeared, and all was utter darkness. The ground seemed to give beneath his feet, and Charlie fell down upon his face, moaning and calling to his friends. But they had fled in terror, and he was alone in the darkness, alone and blind. I'm glad you're feeling better, Charlie. Bill Nye says kindly. How are your eyes? I think a bit better. The gunshot had severed the optic nerves in both eyes. His sight is destroyed forever. But with the incomplete realization of sudden calamity, Charlie believes his eyesight only temporarily injured. Billy, he says presently. When I woke this morning, it didn't seem so dark. It was like a film over my eyes. Perhaps it may get better yet. His voice quivers with the expectancy of having his hope confirmed. Ah, what you're kidding yourself for? Snakes interposes.  Bill flares up grabbing snakes by the throat. Charlie, he adds. I once got paralyzed in my left eye. It looked just like yours now, and I felt as if there was a film on it. Do you see things like in a fog, Charlie? Yes, yes, just like that. Well, that's the way it was with me. But little by little, things got to be lighter and now the eyes as good as ever. Is that right, Billy? Charlie inquires anxiously. What did you do? Well, the doc put things in my eye. The croaker here is giving you some applications, ain't he? Yes, but he says it's for the inflammation. That's right, that's what the doctors told me. You just take it easy, Charlie, don't worry. You'll come out all right, see if you don't. Bill reddens guiltily at the unintended expression, but quickly holds up a warning finger to silence the giggling snowball kid. Then, with sudden vehemence, he exclaims, My God, Charlie, if I ever meet that judge of yours on a dark night, I'll choke him with these here hands to help me.  You should have gone to a hospital, that's what I say. But you're up, oh boy. You won't have to serve your three years, you can bet on that. We'll all club together to get your case up for a pardon, won't we, boys? With unwanted energy, the old Yegg makes the rounds of the cage, taking pledges of contributions. Dr. George appears around the corner, industriously polishing the brasswork, and Bill appeals to him to corroborate his diagnosis of the blind man's condition. A smile of timid joy suffuses the sightless face as Bill Nye slaps him on the shoulder, crying jovially. What did I tell you, eh? You'll be okay soon, and meantime, keep your mind busy, how to avenge the injustice done you. And with a violent wink in the direction of snakes, the Yegg launches upon a reminiscence of his youth. As far as he can remember, he relates, the spirit of vengeance was strong within him. He has always religiously revenged any wrong he was made to suffer. But the incident that afforded him the greatest joy was an experience of his boyhood. He was fifteen then, and living with his widowed mother and three elder sisters in a small country place. One evening, as the family gathered in the large sitting-room, his sister Mary said something which deeply offended him. In great rage, he left the house. Just as he was crossing the street, he was met by a tall, well-dressed gentleman, evidently a stranger in the town. The man guardedly inquired whether the boy could direct him to some address where one might pass the evening pleasantly. Quick as a flash, a brilliant idea struck me, Bill narrates, warming to his story. Never sure to them, anyhow. He remarks parenthetically, but here was my revenge. You mean a whorehouse, don't you? I asked the fellow. Yes, that's what was wanted, my man says. Why, says I to him kind of suddenly. See the house right there across the street? That's the place you want. And I point out to him the house where the old lady and my three sisters are all sitting around the table, expectant-like, waiting for me, you know. Well, the man gives me a quarter and up he goes, knocks on the door and steps right in. I hide in a dark corner to see what's coming, you know, and sure enough, presently the door opens with a bang and something comes out with a rush and falls on the veranda. And mother, she's got a broom in her hand and the girls have re-blessed one of them out with flat iron and dustpan and biff-baff they rain it upon that thing on the steps. I thought I'd split my sides laughing. By and by I return to the house and mother and sisters are kind of excited. And I says, innocent-like, what's up, girls? Well, you ought to hear them talk, did they? That beast of a man, the dirty thing that came to the house and insulted us with, they couldn't even mention the awful things he said. And Mary, that's the sis I got mad at.  I wish you was here when that nasty old thing came up. The boys are hilarious over the story and Dr. George motions me aside to talk over old times. With a hearty pressure, I greet my friend, whom I had not seen since the days of the first investigation. Suspected of complicity, he had been removed to the shops and only recently returned to his former position in the block. His beautiful thick hair has grown thin and gray. He looks aged and worn. With sadness, I notice his tone of bitterness. They almost killed me, Alec. He says, if it wasn't for my wife, I'd murder that old warden. Throughout his long confinement, his wife had faithfully stood by him, her unfailing courage and devotion sustaining him in the hours of darkness and despair. The dear girl, he muses, I'd be dead if it wasn't for her. But his release is approaching. He has almost served the sentence of 16 years for alleged complicity in the bank robbery at Leechburg during which the cashier was killed. The other two men convicted of the crime had both died in prison. The doctor alone has survived, thanks to the dear girl, he repeats. But the six months at the workhouse fill him with apprehension. He has been informed that the place is a veritable inferno, even worse than the penitentiary. However, his wife is faithfully at work, trying to have the workhouse sentence suspended, and full liberty may be at hand. End of section 49. Section 50 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Phyllis Vincelli. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. Part two, chapter 43, Passing the Love of Woman. The presence of my old friend is a source of much pleasure. George is an intelligent man. The long years of incarceration have not circumscribed his intellectual horizon. The approach of release is intensifying his interest in the life beyond the gates, and we pass the idle hours conversing over subjects of mutual interest, discussing social theories and problems of the day. He has a broad grasp of affairs, but his temperament and Catholic traditions are antagonistic to the ideas dear to me. Yet his attitude is free from personalities and narrow prejudice, and our talks are conducted along scientific and philosophical lines. The recent death of Leapnick and the American lecture tour of Peter Kropotkin afford opportunity for the discussion of modern social questions. There are many subjects of mutual interest, and my friend, whose great grandfather was among the signers of the Declaration, waxes eloquent in denunciation of his country's policy of extermination in the Philippines and the growing imperialistic tendencies of the Republic. A Democrat of the Jeffersonian type, he is virulent against the old warden on account of his favoritism and discrimination. His prison experience, he informs me, has considerably altered the views of democracy he once entertained. Why Alec, there is no justice, he says vehemently. No, not even in the best democracy. 10 years ago I would have staked my life on the courts. Today I know they are a failure. Our whole jurisprudence is wrong. You see, I've been here nine years. I have met and made friends with hundreds of criminals. Some were pretty desperate, and many of them scoundrels. But I have to meet one yet in whom I couldn't discover some good quality if he's scratched right. Look at that fellow there. He points to a young prisoner scrubbing in upper range. That's Johnny the Honk. He's in for murder. Now what did the judge and jury know about him? Just this. He was a hard-working boy in the mills. One Saturday he attended a wedding with a chum of his. They were both drunk when they went out into the street. They were boisterous, and a policeman tried to arrest them. Johnny's chum resisted. A cop must have lost his head. He shot the fellow dead. It was right near Johnny's home, and he ran in and got a pistol and killed the policeman. Must have been crazy with drink. Well, they were going to hang him, but he was only a kid, hardly 16. They gave him 15 years. Now he's all in.  Now what kind of a boy is he, do you know? Guess what he did. It was only a few months ago. Some screw told him that the widow of the copy shot is hard up. She has three children and takes in washing. You know what Johnny did? He went around among the cons, got together $50 on the fancy paperwork he is making. He's an artist at it. He sent the woman the money, and begged her to forgive him. Is that true, doctor? Every word. I went to Milligan's office on some business, and the boy had just sent the money to the woman. The chaplain was so much moved by it, he told me the whole story. But wait, that isn't all. You know what that woman did? What? She wrote to Johnny that he was a dirty murderer, and that if he ever goes up for a pardon, she will oppose it. She didn't want anything to do with him, she wrote, but she kept the money. How did Johnny take it? It's really wonderful about human nature. The boy cried over the letter, and told the chaplain that he wouldn't write to her again. But every minute he can spare, he works on that fancy work, and every month he sends her money. That's the criminal, the judge sentenced to 15 years in this hell. My friend is firmly convinced that the law is entirely impotent to deal with our social ills. Why, look at the courts, he exclaims. They don't concern themselves with crime. They merely punish the criminal, absolutely indifferent to his antecedents and environment, and the predisposing causes. But George, I rejoin. It is the economic system of exploitation, the dependence upon a master for your livelihood, want and the fear of want, which are responsible for most crimes. Only partly so, Alec. If it wasn't for the corruption in our public life, and the commercial scourge that holds everything for sale, and the spirit of materialism which has cheapened human life, there would not be so much violence in crime, even under what you call the capitalist system. At any rate, there's no doubt the law is an absolute failure in dealing with crime. The criminal belongs to the sphere of therapeutics. Give him to the doctor instead of the jailer. You mean, George, that the criminal is to be considered a product of anthropological and physical factors. But don't just see that you must also examine society to determine to what extent social conditions are responsible for criminal actions. And if that were done, I believe most crimes would be found to be misdirected energy, misdirected because of false standards, wrong environment, and unenlightened self-interest. Well, I haven't given much thought to that phase of the question, but aside of social conditions, see what a bitch the penal institutions are making of it. For one thing, the promiscuous mingling of young and old, without regard to relative depravity and criminality, is converting prisons into veritable schools of crime and vice. The blackjack and the dungeon are surely not the proper means of reclamation, no matter what the social causes of crime. Restraint and penal methods can't reform. The very idea of punishment precludes betterment. True reformation can emanate only from voluntary impulse inspired and cultivated by intelligent advice and kind treatment. But reformation, which is the result of fear, lacks the very essentials of its object, and will vanish like smoke the moment fear obeys. And you know, Alec, the reformatories are even worse than the prisons. Look at the fellows here from the various reform schools, why it's a disgrace. The boys who come from the outside are decent fellows, but those kids from the reformatories, one-third of the cons here have graduated there. They're terrible. You can spot them by looking at them. They are worse than street prostitutes. My friend is very bitter against the prison element variously known as the girls, sallies, and punks, who forgain traffic and sexual gratification. But he takes a broad view of the moral aspect of homosexuality. His denunciation is against the commerce in carnal desires. As a medical man and a student, he is deeply interested in the manifestation of suppressed sex.  In detail, my friend traces the various phases of his psychic development since his imprisonment, and I warm toward him with a sense of intense humanity, as he reveals the intimate emotions of his being. A general medical practitioner, he has not come in personal contact with cases of homosexuality. He had heard of paderesty. But like the majority of his colleagues, he had neither understanding for nor sympathy with the sex practices he considered abnormal and vicious. In prison he was horrified at the perversion that frequently came under his observation. For two years the very thought of such matters filled him with disgust. He even refused to speak to the men and boys known to be homosexual, unconditionally condemning them. With my prejudices rather than my reason, he remarks. But the forces of suppression were at work. Now, this is in confidence, Alec, he cautions me. I know you will understand. Probably you yourself have experienced the same thing. I'm glad I can talk to someone about it. The other fellows here wouldn't understand it.  And the officers too. You know as well as I that quite a number of them are addicted to these practices. Well, I'll tell you. I suppose it's the same story with everyone here, especially the long timers. I was terribly dejected and hopeless when I came. Sixteen years. I didn't believe for a moment I could live through it. I was abusing myself pretty badly. Still after a while, when I got work and began to take an interest in this life, I got over it. But as time went, the sex instinct awakened. I was young, about 25, strong and healthy. Sometimes I thought I'd get crazy with passion. You remember when we were selling together on that upper range on R? You were in the stocking shop then, weren't you? Don't you remember? Of course I remember, George. You were in the cell next mine. We could see out on the river. It was in the summer. We could hear the excursion boats and the girls singing and dancing. That too, helped to turn me back to onanism. I really believe the whole blessed range used to indulge them. Think of the precious material fed to the fishes. He smiles, deprives, you know, empty into the river. Some geniuses may have been lost to the world in those orgies. Yes, orgies, that's just what they were. As a matter of fact, I don't believe there is a single man in the prison who doesn't abuse himself at one time or another. If there is, he's a mighty exception. I have known some men to masturbate four and five times a day. Kept it up for months, too. Yes, and they either get the con or go bugs. As a medical man, I think that self abuse if practiced no more frequently than ordinary cohesion would be no more injurious than the latter. But it can't be done. It grows on you terribly. And the second stage is more dangerous than the first. What do you call the second? Well, the first is the dejection stage, hopeless and despondent. You seek forgetfulness in noninism.   This stage passes with your dejection as soon as you begin to take an interest in the new life as all of us are forced to do before long. The second stage is the psychic and mental. It is not the result of dejection.  At this stage, your self abuse is induced by actual need. It is the more dangerous phase because the frequency of the practice grows with the recurrent thought of home, your wife or sweetheart. While the first was mechanical, giving no special pleasure and resulting only in increasing lassitude, the second stage revolves about the charms of some loved woman or one desired and affords intense joy. Therein is its lurement and danger. And that's why the habit gains in strength. The more miserable the life, the more frequently you will fall back upon your soul source of pleasure. Many become helpless victims. I have noticed that prisoners of lower intelligence are the worst in this respect. I have had the same experience, the narrower your mental horizon, the more you dwell upon your personal troubles and wrongs. That is probably the reason why the more illiterate go insane with confinement. No doubt of it. You have had exceptional opportunities for observation of the solitaries and the new men. What did you notice, Alec? Well, in some respects the existence of a prisoner is like the life of a factory worker. As a rule, men used to outdoor life suffer most from solitary. They are less able to adapt themselves to the close quarters and the foul air quickly attacks their lungs. Besides, those who have no interests beyond their personal life soon become victims of insanity. I've always advised new men to interest themselves in some study or fancy work. It's their only salvation. If you yourself have survived, it's because you lived in your theories and ideals, I'm sure of it. And I continued my medical studies and sought to absorb myself in scientific subjects. For a moment, George pauses.  Presently, he says, Alec, I'm gonna speak very frankly to you. I'm much interested in the subject. I'll give you my intimate experiences and I want you to be as frank with me. I think it's one of the most important things and I want to learn all I can about it. Very little is known about it and much less understood. About what, George? About homosexuality. I have spoken of the second phase of onanism. With a strong effort, I overcame it. Not entirely, of course, but I have succeeded in regulating the practice, indulging in it at certain intervals. But as the months and years passed, my emotions manifested themselves. It was like a psychic awakening. The desire to love something was strong upon me. Once I caught a little mouse in my cell and tamed it a bit. It would eat out of my hand and come around at mealtimes and by and by it would stay all evening to play with me. I learned to love it. Honestly, Alec, I cried when it died. And then, for a long time, I felt as if there was a void in my heart. I wanted something to love. It just swept me with a wild craving for affection. Somehow the thought of women gradually faded from my mind. And I saw my wife that was just like a dear friend. But I didn't feel for her sexually. One day, as I was passing in the hall, I noticed a young boy. He had been in only a short time and he was rosy-cheeked with a smooth little face and sweet lips. He reminded me of a girl I used to court before I married. After that, I frequently surprised myself thinking of the lad. I felt no desire toward him, except just to know him and get friendly. I became acquainted with him. And when he heard I was a medical man, he would often call to consult me about the stomach trouble he suffered. The doctor here persisted in giving the poor kid salts and physics all the time. Well, Alec, I could hardly believe it myself. When I grew so fond of the boy, I was miserable when a day passed without my seeing him. I would take big chances to get near him. I was rangeman, then, and he was assistant on a top tier. We often had opportunities to talk. I got him interested in literature and advised him what to read, for he didn't know what to do with his time. He had a fine character, that boy, and he was bright and intelligent. At first, it was only a liking for him, but it increased all the time until I couldn't think of any woman. But don't misunderstand me, Alec. It wasn't that I wanted a kid. I swear to you, the other youths had no attraction for me, whatever. But this boy, his name was Floyd. He became so dear to me, I used to give him everything I could get. I had a friendly guard, and he'd bring me fruit and things. Sometimes I'd just die to eat it, but I always gave it to Floyd. And Alec, you remember when I was down in the dungeon six days? Well, it was for the sake of that boy. He did something, and I took the blame on myself. And the last time, they kept me nine days chained up. I hit a fellow for abusing Floyd. He was small and couldn't defend himself. I did not realize it at the time, Alec, but I know now that I was simply in love with the boy, wildly, madly in love. It came very gradually. For two years I loved him without the least taint of sex desire. It was the purest affection I ever felt in my life. It was all absorbing, and I would have sacrificed my life for him if he asked it. But by degrees, the psychic stage began to manifest all the expressions of love between the opposite sexes. I remember the first time he kissed me. It was early in the morning. Only the rangemen were out, and I stole up to his cell to give him a delicacy. He put both hands between the bars and pressed his lips to mine. Alec, I tell you never in my life had I experienced such bliss at that moment. It's five years ago, but it thrills me every time I think of it. It came suddenly. I didn't expect it. It was entirely spontaneous. Our eyes met, and it seemed as if something drew us together. He told me he was very fond of me. From then on we became lovers. I used to neglect my work, and risk great danger to get a chance to kiss and embrace him. I grew terribly jealous too, though I had no cause. I passed through every phase of a passionate love, but this difference though, I felt a touch of the old disgust at the thought of actual sex contact. That I didn't do. It seemed to me a desecration of the boy and of my love for him. But after a while, that feeling also wore off, and I desired sexual relation with him. He said he loved me enough to do even that for me, though he had never done it before. He hadn't been in any reformatory, you know, and yet somehow I couldn't bring myself to do it. I loved the lad too much for it. Perhaps you'll smile Alec, but it was real, true love. When Floyd was unexpectedly transferred to the other block, I felt I would be the happiest man if only I could touch his hand again or get one more kiss. You are laughing. He asks abruptly, a touch of anxiety in his voice. No, George, I'm grateful for your confidence. I think it's a wonderful thing. George, I had felt the same horror and disgust at these things as you did, but now I think quite differently about them. Really Alec, I'm glad you say so. Often I was troubled. Is it viciousness or what, I wondered. But I could never talk to anyone about it. They take everything here in such a filthy sense, yet I knew in my heart that it was a true honest emotion. George, I think it a very beautiful emotion. Just as beautiful as love for a woman. I had a friend here. His name was Russell, perhaps you remember him. I felt no physical passion toward him, but I think I loved him with all my heart. His death was a most terrible shock to me. It almost drove me insane. Silently, George holds out his hand. End of section 50. Section 51 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Chuck Williamson. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Bergman. Part two, chapter 44, loves daring. Castle on the Ohio. August 18th, 1902. My dear Carolus. You know the saying, Der Einah hat den Beutel, Der Andere das Geld. I find it a difficult problem to keep in touch with my correspondence. I have the leisure, but theirs is the advantage of the paper supply. Thus runs the world. But you, a most faithful correspondent, have been neglected a long while. Therefore, this unexpected sub-rosa chance is for you. My dear boy, whatever your experiences since you left me, don't fashion your philosophy and the image of disappointment. All life is a multiplied pain. Its highest expressions, love and friendship are sources of the most heartbreaking sorrow. That has been my experience, no doubt yours also. And you are aware that here, under prison conditions, the disappointments, the grief and anguish are so much more acute, more bitter and lasting. What then? Shall one seal his emotions or barricade his heart? Ah, if it were possible, it would be wiser, some claim.  I think it a your horizon.  You can, in a measure, escape the sortedness of life only by living for something higher. Perhaps that is the secret of my survival. Wider interests have given me strength and other phases there are. From your own experience, you know what sustaining satisfaction is found in prison in the constant fight for the feeling of human dignity. Because of the constant attempt to strangle your sense of self-respect, I have seen prisoners offer most desperate resistance in the defense of their manhood. On my part, it has been a continuous struggle. Do you remember the last time I was in the dungeon? It was on the occasion of Comrade Kropotkin's presence in this country during his last lecture tour. The old warden was here then. He informed me that I would not be permitted to see our grand old man. I had a tilt with him, but I did not succeed in procuring a visiting card. A few days later, I received a letter from Peter. On the envelope under my name was marked Political Prisoner. The warden was furious. We have no political prisoners in a free country. He thundered, tearing up the envelope. But you have political grifters, I retorted. We argued the matter heatedly, and I demanded the envelope. The warden insisted that I apologize. Of course, I refused, and I had to spend three days in the dungeon. There have been many changes since then. You're coming to Pittsburgh last year, and the threat to expose this place. They knew you had the facts, helped to bring matters to a point. They assigned me to a range, and I am still holding the position. The new warden is treating me more decently. He wants no trouble with me, he told me, but he has proved a great disappointment. He started in with promising reforms, but gradually he has fallen into the old ways. In some respects his regime is even worse than the previous one. He has introduced a system of economy which barely affords us efficient food. The dungeon and basket, which he had at first abolished, are in operation again. And the discipline is daily becoming more drastic. The result is more brutality and clubbings, more fights and cutting affairs, and general discontent. The new management cannot plead ignorance. For the last fourth of July the men gave a demonstration of the effects of humane treatment. The warden had assembled the inmates in the chapel, promising to let them pass the day in the yard on condition of good behavior. The inspectors and the old guards advised against it, arguing the great risk of such a proceeding. But the major decided to try the experiment. He put the men on their honor and turned them loose in the yard. He was not disappointed. The day passed beautifully without the least mishap. There was not even a single report. We began to breathe easier when, presently, the whole system was reversed. It was partly due to the influence of the old officers upon the warden, and the latter completely lost his head when a trustee made his escape from the hospital. It seemed to have terrorized the warden into abandoning all reforms. He has also been censured by the inspectors because of the reduced profits from the industries.  The labor bodies of the state have been protesting in vain. How miserably weak is the giant of toil, because unconscious of his strength. The men are groaning and wishing old Sandy back. In short, things are just as they were during your time. Men and wardens may come and go, but the system prevails. More and more, I am persuaded of the great truth. Given authority and the opportunity for exploitation, the results will be essentially the same, no matter what particular set of men or of principles happens to be in the saddle. Fortunately I am on the home run. I am glad you felt that the failure of my application to the Supreme Court would not depress me. I built no castles upon it, yet I am glad it has been tried. It was well to demonstrate once more that neither lower courts, pardon boards, nor higher tribunals are interested in doing justice. My lawyers have such a strong case from the legal standpoint, that the state pardon board resorted to every possible trick to avoid the presentation of it. And now the Supreme Court thought it the better part of wisdom to ignore the arguments that I am being illegally detained. They simply refused the application, with a few meaningless phrases that entirely evade the question at issue.  I have two in a stump, stump eleven months. And I feel the courage of perseverance. But I hope that the next legislature will not repeal the new commutation law. There is considerable talk of it, for the politicians are angry that their efforts on behalf of the wealthy U.S. grafters in the Eastern Penitentiary failed. They begrudge the common prisoner the increased allowance of good time. However, I shall make it. Of course you understand that both French Leave and Dutch Act are out of the question now. I have decided to stay, to like and walk through the gates. In reference to French Leave, have you read about the Biddle Affair? I think it was the most remarkable attempt in the history of the country. Think of the wife of the jail warden helping prisoners to escape. The boys here were simply wild with joy. Everyone hoped they would make good their escape, and old Sammy told me he prayed they shouldn't be caught. But all the bloodhounds of the law were unchained. The Biddle boys got no chance at all. The story is this. The brothers Biddle, Jack and Ed, and Walter Dorman, while in the act of robbing a store, killed a man. It was Dorman who fired the shot, but he turned state's evidence. The state rewards treachery. Dorman escaped the news, but the two brothers were sentenced to die. As his customary, they were visited in the jail by the gospel ladies. Among them, the wife of the warden. You probably remember him, Soful. He was deputy warden when we were in jail. And a rat he was, too. Well, Ed was a good-looking man with soft manners and so forth. Mrs. Soful fell in love with him. It was mutual, I believe. Now witness the heroism a woman is capable of when she loves. Mrs. Soful determined to save the two brothers. I understand they promised her to quit their criminal life. Every day she would visit the condemned men to console them. Pretending to read the gospel, she would stand close to the doors to give them an opportunity to saw through the bars. She supplied them with revolvers, and they agreed to escape together. Of course, she could not go back to her husband. For she loved Ed, loved him well enough never even to see her children again. The night for the escape was set. The brothers intended to separate immediately after the break, subsequently to meet together with Mrs. Soful. But the latter insisted on going with them. Ed begged her not to. He knew that it would be sheer suicide for all of them. But she persisted, and Ed acquiesced, fully realizing that it would prove fatal. Don't you think it showed a noble trait in the boy? He did not want her to think that he was deserting her. The escape from the jail was made successfully. They even had a few hours' start. But snow had fallen, and it was easy to trace two men and a woman in a sleigh. The brutality of the man-hunters is past belief. When the detectives came upon the boys, they fired their Winchesters into the two brothers. Even when the wounded were stretched on the ground, bleeding and helpless, a detective emptied his revolver into Ed, killing him. Jack died later, and Mrs. Soful was placed in jail. You can imagine the savage fury of the respectable mob. Mrs. Soful was denounced by her husband, and all the good women cried unclean and clamored for the punishment of their unfortunate sister. She is now here, serving two years for aiding in the escape. I caught a glimpse of her when she came in. She has a sympathetic face that bears signs of deep suffering.  Think of the struggle before she decided upon the desperate step. Then the days and weeks of anxiety as the boys were sawing the bars and preparing for the last escape. I should appreciate the love of a woman whose affection is stronger than the iron fetters of convention. In some ways, this woman reminds me of the girl. The type that possesses the courage and strength to rise above all considerations for the sake of the man or the cause held dear. How little the world understands the vital forces of life.


Welcome to Toffy TV, it is the Everton News Daily Broad streaming partnership with the Sofa Score app. The driveway at Everton's training ground, Finch Farm, has been named after Joe Royal, the former Everton player and manager, the last manager to win a trophy for Everton Football Club. It was revealed yesterday that the club have decided to name the driveway and the gates going into Finch Farm after the former player Royal made his first team debut at Everton at the age of 16 and held that record for I think it was 40 years till James Vaughan took it off him. He ended up playing 276 games for Everton Football Club and scored 119 goals. Like I've just said, he was also the last Everton manager to win a trophy. He won the FA Cup and the charity shield in 1995. It was revealed on the website that people who are on the social app can have a vote on what it's called. The three options for the naming are Joe Royal Way, Joe Royal Lane or Joe Royal Drive. Personally I like Joe Royal Way, I think that has got a nice ring to it. You'll see what the winner is. That poll will go live at the end of the season once the season finishes this year. So you can get on the social app and have your say on what Everton knew. The gate and the driveway at Finch Farm will be called, like I said, I like Joe Royal Way. That's my two pen of the earth. Former Everton defender Nils Cuncu has been speaking to French publication and said that he didn't want to leave Everton. The young French defender left Everton firstly on loan to go to St Etienne. He played 21 times. There are eight goals and six assists. But Everton had an option in the loan that St Etienne could buy him for 2.5 million euros. They did buy him and then sold him to Eintracht Frankfurt in the summer. But Ncuncu said that he intended to stay at Everton. He'd extended this contract with Everton and thought he was going to St Etienne on loan and then returning to the trophies. But that isn't how it was when he's gone on. He's done quite well really for Frankfurt this season. So there you go. Ciaran Maguire, as today revealed on the football insider podcast that 777 partners could be a positive for Everton in terms of debt at the moment. He did say he didn't think that £330 million of debt will be a huge concern. He said that my understanding is that one of the conditions for the 777 partners to acquire Everton is that they will have to convert their loans into equity. That would immediately halve the extent of Everton's borrowing. They will also try to wait for Bramley Morddoch to increase their revenue generation. So while I have huge reservations regarding 777 partners, from a debt perspective, for Everton Football Club they are a positive. Obviously we'll know more about this takeover I guess on Monday when there is that supposed deadline, that MSP are due their money back. If 777 can pay them back by then, that is another one of the conditions they will have met. And that would, in my opinion, see the match even closer to gaining full control of Everton Football Club. So we'll see what happens there as well. That is it for the news today. Give the video a thumbs up. Subscribe if you haven't. The 1878 podcast is out. Go and check it out right now. We'll see you later.


So we're here at SilverCon, so who are you? Yes, we are a small, young company from Poland and we have developed and scaled up a production of nano-silver powder and we are producing nano-silver paste and nano-silver ink for high conductive electronics and the brand name is SilverCon. So is this what you're looking at, your product? Yes, this is our product in different forms. We have paste, we have paint. So where does it go? Pardon? Where do people use this? The people use it for high performance electronic circuits when the high conductivity, low sintering temperatures and high adhesion to difficult substrates is needed. Alright, what are you showing over there behind? So behind we are showing samples of our applications. So we have our paste put on glass, on aluminum, ceramic material. So this is printed on tracks? Yes, printed using screen printing. So how many people are doing this so far? So far we have a new industry, right? Yes, it's a new, as I said, it's a small company. We are at the moment eight people. And how big is it going to be this market? Where do you see this going? So in our opinion this market is just starting. We are happy and we have a feeling that we are just in the right place in the right time. We met potential customers who are very interested in our products. They are always also developing their products so they are interested to go in parallel. So we can also adjust the parameters of our product to their requirements. And what are you talking about here? Product applications? Yeah, this is potential applications. Printed circuit boards, flexible circuit boards, solar cells. So what do you think about this show? Oh, great event. We are happy we are here. As I said, we have a feeling that we are in the right place in the right time. Cool. And then some more demonstrations right here. What are you showing there? So our paste can be also used for junction, to make a junction. And in the center we can see the junction done by our paste. Two others on the top and on the bottom are done using soldering and gluing. So we can see that element which is attached using our paste has a much lower temperature. Which proves that the thermal conductivity of our junction is better than others. Alright, so that's cool. And this is a microscope? Yeah, it's an electron microscope picture. And there it is. So where are you from? We are from Poland. And so how many companies in Poland are working in this industry? We are in cooperation with Scientific Institute. Then we know about one other company in Poland who is making similar things. Alright, so there it is. And people can find more information right there.