Part 3 (2/2)
For himself the place must be always hateful, for he was in exile.
What was the golden sunlight to him when he longed for the snows and frozen wastes of Russia, that sombre country so like the hearts of those by whom it is peopled.
One day he took her for an excursion to Montserrat, three hours'
journey from Barcelona. They left the train at Monistrol, and started to walk through the vineyards and pine woods towards the famous mountain that towers up to heaven in grey rugged terraces of rock. All round, for miles, were undulating waves of green, here and there the brown towers of some ancient castle, or the buildings of a farmstead; and below on the plain the glitter of the winding river. They climbed to the wooded slopes of Olese, where they sat down to rest. Arith.e.l.li threw herself on the short, dry gra.s.s, with her arms under her head, and drew a long breath of pleasure and relief.
”I love all this; it makes me feel so free.”
Emile sat with his back against a huge plane tree, and rolled cigarettes, watching her under his heavy eyebrows. She looked in her proper place here, he thought. There was something wild and animal-like about the grace of her att.i.tude.
”So you're out of a convent?” he said, hurling out the remark with his usual abruptness. ”_Tiens_! It's absurd!”
”But it's true. Convent schools are cheap, you see, that's why we were sent there. No, I'm not a Catholic. Most of the girls made their abjurations, but I never did. They told lies there, and they spied. I hated that. The nuns spied on the children of Mary, and the children of Mary spied on the ones who were not the children of Mary, and--” she stopped.
Emile told her to continue. ”I should like to hear more about your--your religious experiences,” he said. ”Besides, it will do you more good to talk than to go to sleep.”
Arith.e.l.li complied at once, with unruffled good nature. ”Oh, of course I'll tell you if you like,” she said amiably. ”I stopped because I thought you would probably be bored, _ennuye_, you know.”
She described the nuns mumbling their prayers, and punctuating them with irate commands to the children; the many and various rules, the _Mere Superieure_, the food, the clothes, the eccentricities of _Monsieur le Directeur_. She had the rare and unwomanlike art of witty description, though it a.s.sorted badly with her tragic face and unsmiling eyes. As she talked her voice rippled and broke into suppressed laughter.
”It was all rather dull, _n'est-ce-pas_?” said Emile, who felt more amus.e.m.e.nt than he had any intention of showing. ”You'll find the Cause more exciting.”
Before any practical steps were taken to make her a member of the band it was necessary to stimulate her enthusiasm, her imagination. He knew that for all her outward calmness she had no lack of fire. The coldest countries sometimes produced the most raging volcanoes.
”It's the only thing you care about--isn't it--the Cause?” she said.
”Tell me more about it. As I'm going in for it I ought to understand.
Of course I like anything that's 'agin the Government.' All the Irish have always been rebels and patriots. We've helped your country too.”
Emile did not require a second invitation to induce him to expound his views. ”I suppose you think we throw bombs about by way of a little distraction?” he asked sarcastically. ”What have we suffered before we took to throwing bombs? Before I came here I saw men and women, old and young together, shot down in the streets of St. Petersburg.
Because they rioted? No! Because they wished to offer a protest against the brutalities of the Government officials. Are our pet.i.tions ever read, our entreaties ever answered? There were other things too, but they didn't generally get into the newspapers. Women stripped in barrack rooms,--and that in winter,--the Russian winter,--and beaten by common soldiers. Not women of the streets and slums, but women of the higher cla.s.ses. Mock trials held with closed doors, the crime,--to have incurred the displeasure of someone in favour at the Court,--the end,--Siberia! A student is known to be quiet, a great reader and interested in the condition of the serfs. He is watched, arrested, and on the false evidence of the police ends his days in the mines.
Entreaties, reason, appeal! Have we not tried them? Now we have only one weapon left--retaliation. Sometimes we are able to avenge our martyrs. The two fiends who guarded Marie Spiridonova were shot by the members of her Society. She was only a girl too--about the same age as you. We Anarchists do not serenade women and make them compliments, but we think it an honour to kiss the hand of such as Marie Spiridonova. She was tortured, starved, outraged, and came through worse than death to be transported to a convict settlement. Now she is in the Malzoff Prison. She will never see the world again, but it may be years before the life is ground out of her by labour and privations.
Her case will soon be forgotten, except by a few, and thousands of other women have gone the same road. The details of the tragedy may be a little different, the thing itself is the same. One day I shall go back to my own country. In the meantime I carry on the campaign here.
”It's a losing cause. But if we lose we pay. We don't ask for mercy!”
They sat together that evening at a _cafe_ on the Rambla, the strolling place of the Spanish beauties, who promenaded there in an endless stream, with waving fans and rustling draperies, carnations and roses burning in dark, elaborately dressed hair. Tziganes made wild, witch music. At the _cafes_ people laughed and drank.
Suddenly Arith.e.l.li leant across the little table, raising her gla.s.s.
”To the Cause!” she whispered under her breath.
For an instant the two pairs of eyes flamed into each other; then those of the man, hard and steel-grey, softened into something like admiration. Their gla.s.ses clinked softly together. ”To the Cause!” he repeated. ”_Mon Camarade_!”
CHAPTER IV
”These were things she came to know, and to take their measure, When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure.”
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