Rapid Reviews

Maoriland Worker, Volume 2, Issue 36, 10 November 1911, Page 4

Rapid Reviews

The Deathless Bomb.

By R. S. ROSS.

X§. -'Worker" Christmas number, 1910)

■ November 11 last was the twentyBecond anniversary of the execution of Hkmr of the eight so-called "Chicago ■Anarchists." History has decreed that they win immortality as "The Chicago Martyrs."

By reason jointly of its theme and its power, an autobiographical novel, named "The Bomb," seems destined to be to the event what Hugo's "Ninetythree", is to the great French Revolution!.

''The Bomb" is by Frank Harris— Surely one of the most literate of living writers —but not yet has it come into its own. It was-first published two years ago.- To mc it is a, remarkable _ovel in several distinctive respects.

First in its delineatory exactitude. then in its dictional skill, and next ii? its love-insight.

I have recently re-read "The Bomb," 'and am the more amazed at the comparative silence in relation to it. I recall that upon its publication I saw it reviewed in "The New Age," and then tried unsuccessfully to obtain it at both library and shop, watching eagerly the while for the'boom that never came.

■-. Towards the close of last year, Ben Tillett sent a copy to Australia, and since it has been in constant circulation in a limited circle.

It purports to be the work of the i>ne defendant of the ten indicted who iescaped and was never again heard of. It thus sensationally begins:

•"My name is Rudolph Schnaubelt. 1 threw the bomb which killed eight policemen and wounded 60 in Chicago in 1886. Now I lie here in Reichholz, Bavaria, dying of consumption tinder a false name., in peace at last."

New, Judge Gary—who presided at the' famous trial —in a. lengthy statement subsequently made by way of Concession to public opinion, said:

"It is probably true that Rudolph Bchnaubeit threw the bomb."

One can't help wondering if Frank Harris has met Schnaubelt and taken 'down Sohnaubelt's life: it is so vividly introspective and true of what such a life would be.

If, as is more likely, the author has assimilated the spirit of the times and the facts of the upheaval, he has done it with genius. The "real inwardness" Of agitatory phenomena has never better been depicted.

•Throughout the work, real names, real happenings/ real atmosphere appear on every page and strengthen the grappling impression that one is •reading, truth.

It is indeed the realness of this novel ■Wnich holds as a magnet and suggests fact rather'than fiction."

.And this,..is a scarce achievement in flctiomal literature.

• • •• * •" Who was Rudolph Schnaubelt? He was the mystery and miracle of the (Celebrated trial.

Of the ten men indicted, one (Seliger) JEuKued informer, eight were sentenced, &nd one (Schnaubelt), despite the extraordinary hue and cry of the period, miraculously eluded capture.

Gilmer (another of the three informers) swore that Schnaubelt was the jtnan who threw the .bomb, while other .witnesses certified as to his movements ,Up till the .hour of the explosion: none , could say how lie had got away or ; .whither he had gone.

■ Frank Harris describes the manner of ilfiis escape with that air of probability [iWliich astounds and convinces.

However, "The Bomb" is only secondarily the story of Schnaubelt's life laud love; primarily it is the story and fctpotheosis of Louis Lingg, bomb-maker of the anarchist martyrs. ,

He is a sort of Man of Iron, and the •portrayal of him is resplendent characterisation.

Whether Lingg deserved it or not, he is so painted as to earn a place in the gallery of creative masterpieces.

At the same time, all that is known ,: of Lingg fully justifies the novelist's jortfaiture. Again, Harris' book is a '... scintilla tirigly graphic and, dramatic Sociological study.

Of "the underworld" it is a-s realistic ih : its' revelation as Sinclair's "The jfungfe," and in its way is as .great as

, ■tfllstoy's "The Resurrection." , Some- ■< 'thing of the superb- simplicity of TolUtojr dominates the' story, plus the >*' : "~..:f" '. ' t ■ -"' ' ' ' " ' •' ' . ■ -..'■•'■'

shrewder style of a lesser but care-

fuller craftsman,

Of works sincerely strong Iff their exposition and analysis of what the world's workers term "the movement," I am inclined to regard Harris' book as mighty, as it will, I think, prove long-lived.

For as"tlHT"yoars pass and the democracy increasingly triumphs, the work-ing-class upheavals of the later centuries shall Inxlk.- forger in interest, in message and influence, and thus the outstanding novels associated with insurrection, and revolution, strike and commune, shall historically beacon as stars to hiimanity's wayward feet. Even Australia is waiting not alone for its play, but its essential novels of stockade, and "rush" arid oamp.

"The Bomb" opens with Schmaubelt dying of consumption. "Nature or man," he says, "will soon deal with ray refuse as they please." . .

''But there is one thing I must do before I go out, one think I have promised to do. I must tell the story of the man who spread terror through America, the greatest man that ever lived, I think; a bom rebel, murderer, and martyr.

"If I can give a fair portrait of Louis Lingg, the Chicago Anarchist, as I knew him, show the body and soul and mighty purpose of him, I shall have done more for men than when I threw the-bomb."

And just to emphasise how Lingg appears to his "mirror" what of this as intensely arrestive writing :.

"It should be easy enough for mc to paint this one man's portrait. I don't -mean that I am much of a writer; but I have read some of the great writers, and know how they picture a man, and any weakness of mine is more than made up for by the best model a writer ever had.

"God! If he should come in here now and look at mc with those eyes of his, and hold out his hands, I'd rise from this bed and be well again; shake off the cough and sweat and deadly weakness, shake off everything.

"He had enough in him to bring the dead to life, passion, enough for a hundred men. ..."

,As the story proceeds the scenes amid which Lingg moves and has his being are described in vigorous outline, while bold touches put the man before the reader as objectively as the sun in the skies. Thus:

''I felt as if I were in the presence of a huge force and waiting for an ex-

traordinary impact,

His very

method of spea-king has a strong individuality about it; he scarcely ever used an adjective; Ms sentences were made up of verbs and nouns. . ..

"There was an extraordinary passion in his speech, an extraordinary menace in his whole person, a flame in the deep eyes. The words of this man seemed like deeds; frightened one like deeds."

In the end Lingg thus foreshadows his own death:

• "I will pull down the curtain with my own hands, and shut 'off the lights when I please. I'll be my own judge and executioner. It is something to die like a man and not like a sheep. . ."

As a matter of fact,the man went from the dock to kill himself in the cell by exploding a bomb in his mouth. Of passionate speeches from the dock, Lingg's was most volcanic and briefest, perhaps bravest.. It began:

"Court of Justice! With the same irony with' which yott have regarded my efforts to win, in this, 'free land of America,' a livelihood, .do. you* now, after condemning mc to death, concede mc the liberty of making a final speech." It finished: "You laugh! Perhaps "you think, 'You'll throw no more bombs'; but let mc assure you that I die happy on the gallows, so confident am I that the

hundreds and thousands to whom I have spoken will remember my words; and when you shall have hanged us, then, mark my words, tliey will do the bomb-throwing. In this hope do I say to you: M despise you. I despise your order; your laws; your force-propped authority.' Hang mc for itl"

'•' » »■ ' T. S "The Bomb" lures you as a rattlesnake its victim. It is the centipede released from its marsh. It is the frog croaking its weirdness—the owl staring its shadoAvs. It is our social system spaded up, with working-class pain and travail bulging athwart the wreckage for all to. see and groan: at, the sight:

Nor must it be considered Lingg and

Schniaubelt, and nothing more. Of sansoullotic gloom in New York and Chicago it is impressionist artist, as it, i» ■photographer of struggle and strife and revolt.

Of police methods and of agitatory organisations,' and of instinctive oonflict between them, "The Bomb" tells; whilst its character-sketches' of now notoriotis or celebrated figures plumb with awful precision. I venture to quote as sample of everyday courage this plain speech of a victim to "phossy jaw" :

" 'I'm pretty bad,' he said; 'the doctor says be has never seen a worse case. Look here,' and he put his fingers in his mouth and broke off a long slice of jawbone. 'Bad, ain't it? . . .

I've"been'twelve weeks out of work; I'm rotten,' he confided to us, 'that's what I I stepped down off the sidewalk into the street, and — crack! my thigh-bone snapped in two — rotten! I wouldn't care if it weren't for the missus and the kids.' "

There lurks behind such horrors Love of supremest power and penetration. It is ruthless In its stripping —the naked conflict of innermost soul for other soul.

Of Desire burked and baffled, by Affection, Frank Harris has possibly presented a:picture'fated, to win plaudits when the literary world wakes up.

It is so frankly unadorned in its treatment as like to go unheeded; folks have oome to necessarily connecting sex insight and understanding with paradox and epigram, complexity, intricacy and indelicacy. The girl whom Schnaubelt loves is Elsie, and he wants her tempestuously. Temptation, and again temptation, and yet again—and then he no longer wants her in that way, but — 0 bewildering womanhood! —she is now ready to yield. And—

"She held my forehead in her tiny hands and looked bravely at mc with the great shining eyes.

" 'Yoii men think we women have no curiosity, no desire. It is not the same desire as yours, dear; but it is stronger, I think. Yielding means more to us than to you, and therefore we are a little more cautious than • you, more prudeiut; but not much more, considering all thing&. . .

" 'You tempt us with desire, with the pleasure you give, and we can resist ; but tempt us with tenderness or self-sacrifice, ask us to* do It for you, and we melt at once. We women love to give delight-to those we love. We are' born with breasts. Boy, to give. Ask us to enjoy, and we can refuse; ask us to give joy, and we yield at once. ... " *

•" 'That is why the tempting of men is so ignoble. Oh, of course, not in your case; you'd marry mc, I know. It is different, but still the woman's is the nobler part. We ask for yourselves, and we yield for your sakes. It is more blessed to give than to receive. But you, Boy, don't accept the gift, and I don't know whether to be proud of you or angry with you. What silly things we women are!' "

Yes, I think "The Bomb" a notable novel. Don't you?