Chapter XXIV: Thoughts That Stole Out of Prison

April 12, 1896.

MY DEAR GIRL:

I have craved for a long, long time to have a free talk with
you, but this is the first opportunity. A good friend, a "lover
of horseflesh," promised to see this "birdie" through. I hope it
will reach you safely.

In my local correspondence you have been christened the
"Immutable." I realize how difficult it is to keep up
letter-writing through the endless years, the points of mutual
interest gradually waning. It is one of the tragedies in the
existence of a prisoner. "K" and "G" have almost ceased to
expect mail. But I am more fortunate. The Twin writes very
seldom nowadays; the correspondence of other friends is fitful.
But you are never disappointing. It is not so much the contents
that matter: these increasingly sound like the language of a
strange world, with its bewildering flurry and ferment,
disturbing the calm of cell-life. But the very arrival of a
letter is momentous. It brings a glow into the prisoner's heart
to feel that he is remembered, actively, with that intimate
interest which alone can support a regular correspondence. And
then your letters are so vital, so palpitating with the throb of
our common cause. I have greatly enjoyed your communications
from Paris and Vienna, the accounts of the movement and of our
European comrades. Your letters are so much part of yourself,
they bring me nearer to you and to life.

The newspaper clippings you have referred to on various
occasions, have been withheld from me. Nor are any radical
publications permitted. I especially regret to miss
_Solidarity_. I have not seen a single copy since its
resurrection two years ago. I have followed the activities of
Chas. W. Mowbray and the recent tour of John Turner, so far as
the press accounts are concerned. I hope you'll write more
about our English comrades.

I need not say much of the local life, dear. That you know from
my official mail, and you can read between the lines. The action
of the Pardon Board was a bitter disappointment to me. No less
to you also, I suppose. Not that I was very enthusiastic as to a
favorable decision. But that they should so cynically evade the
issue,--I was hardly prepared for _that_. I had hoped they would
at least consider the case. But evidently they were averse to
going on record, one way or another. The lawyers informed me
that they were not even allowed an opportunity to present their
arguments. The Board ruled that "the wrong complained of is not
actual"; that is, that I am not yet serving the sentence we want
remitted. A lawyer's quibble. It means that I must serve the
first sentence of seven years, before applying for the remission
of the other indictments. Discounting commutation time, I still
have about a year to complete the first sentence. I doubt
whether it is advisable to try again. Little justice can be
expected from those quarters. But I want to submit another
proposition to you; consult with our friends regarding it. It is
this: there is a prisoner here who has just been pardoned by the
Board, whose president, the Lieutenant-Governor, is indebted to
the prisoner's lawyer for certain political services. The
attorney's name is K---- D---- of Pittsburgh. He has intimated
to his client that he will guarantee my release for $1,000.00,
the sum to be deposited in safe hands and to be paid _only_ in
case of success. Of course, we cannot afford such a large fee.
And I cannot say whether the offer is worth considering; still,
you know that almost anything can be bought from politicians. I
leave the matter in your hands.

The question of my visits seems tacitly settled; I can procure
no permit for my friends to see me. For some obscure reason, the
Warden has conceived a great fear of an Anarchist plot against
the prison. The local "trio" is under special surveillance and
constantly discriminated against, though "K" and "G" are
permitted to receive visits. You will smile at the infantile
terror of the authorities: it is bruited about that a "certain
Anarchist lady" (meaning you, I presume; in reality it was
Henry's sweetheart, a jolly devil-may-care girl) made a threat
against the prison. The gossips have it that she visited
Inspector Reed at his business place, and requested to see me.
The Inspector refusing, she burst out: "We'll blow your dirty
walls down." I could not determine whether there is any
foundation for the story, but it is circulated here, and the
prisoners firmly believe it explains my deprivation of visits.

That is a characteristic instance of local conditions.
Involuntarily I smile at Kennan's naive indignation with the
brutalities he thinks possible only in Russian and Siberian
prisons. He would find it almost impossible to learn the true
conditions in the American prisons: he would be conducted the
rounds of the "show" cells, always neat and clean for the
purpose; he would not see the basket cell, nor the bull rings in
the dungeon, where men are chained for days; nor would he be
permitted to converse for hours, or whole evenings, with the
prisoners, as he did with the exiles in Siberia. Yet if he
succeeded in learning even half the truth, he would be forced to
revise his views of American penal institutions, as he did in
regard to Russian politicals. He would be horrified to witness
the brutality that is practised here as a matter of routine, the
abuse of the insane, the petty persecution. Inhumanity is the
keynote of stupidity in power.

Your soul must have been harrowed by the reports of the terrible
tortures in Montjuich. What is all indignation and lamenting, in
the face of the revival of the Inquisition? Is there no Nemesis
in Spain?