by Robin Paige
“Well, don’t just stand and stare,” the woman snapped. Her voice was low and hoarse. “Come here and let me see you. What’s your name?”
Kate went to stand before the divan. “Kate Sheridan,” she said, trying to conceal her astonished consternation. The woman was grotesquely, preposterously obese, like the Japanese sumo wrestlers whose photographs Kate had seen. Her pale flesh ballooned shapelessly, her arms were like stuffed pillows, and her puffed cheeks squeezed her eyes into narrow slits. But in those eyes there was a sharp, shrewd look, more than a little mad in its focused intensity, that made Kate shiver. The woman’s scanty reddish-brown hair hung in limp, old-fashioned curls around her ears, and she was draped from her chin to her ankles in a sort of Turkish caftan. She wore Moorish sandals on the swollen feet that were propped on a velvet footstool in front of her. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder, and daintily picking chocolates out of a box with fat fingers, each one of which bore a flashing ring. Kate knew that the woman must be Charlotte Conway’s mother, although whatever physical resemblance there might have been between the two was buried in a mountain of flesh.
“Well?” the woman demanded. “What is it?”
Recovering herself, Kate began, “I’ve come to ask you whether-”
“I know, I know,” Mrs. Conway growled impatiently. She gestured peremptorily to one of the chairs, her several chins waggling with the effort. “Sit down. It hurts my neck to look up at you. Where is she?”
“I have no idea,” Kate said, sitting on the edge of one of the upholstered armchairs. She felt very much like Alice in the presence of the Red Queen, and the room was so hot and stuffy that she could scarcely get her breath. “I hoped that you might suggest-”
“Why should I?” Mrs. Conway asked, drawing on her cigarette and blowing the smoke out of both nostrils like a maniacal dragon. “The girl never tells me a thing. Just comes and goes, back and forth to that silly newspaper.” Her voice became whiny. “The ungrateful child never pays her mother a minute’s attention, doesn’t even do me the courtesy of putting in her head to say good morning, or drop in for tea, or-”
“I understand,” Kate interrupted hastily, feeling that she was in danger of being swamped by the woman’s massive self-pity, “that you published the Clarion before Charlotte took it over.”
“Yes, and I did a far better job of it, too.” Mrs. Conway picked up the newspaper that lay on the divan beside her and waved it in the air with an expression of great disdain. “Just look at this, will you? Such namby-pamby, mealy-mouth porridge as I’ve never seen. When I published this paper, we printed strong stuff, I tell you. We were the voice of the revolution!” As she spoke, her own voice grew louder and more ringing, as if she were addressing a multitude. “We stirred men’s souls, I say. We struck their hearts as if they were gongs. We got them out on the streets with revolution on their lips and dynamite in their hands!”
Kate cleared her throat, feeling uneasy. There was something almost electric in the woman’s voice, something commanding. Perhaps Mrs. Conway had indeed stirred men to revolution, although if she had, things did not seem to have been greatly changed by it. “But you are no longer the editor?” she asked.
“Sadly, my health does not permit it.” With a melancholy sigh, Mrs. Conway put out a fat hand and plucked a chocolate out of the box, popping it, whole, into her mouth. “There are my lodgers to look after, of course-quite a demanding lot they are, too, always needing this and that and the other thing. I can hardly keep up with them. And I am otherwise engaged just now, on an important literary project.” She gestured toward a table pushed against the wall under a gas lamp, piled with stacks of papers. “I am writing the story of my life, which is quite extraordinary, really. I have known a great many fascinating revolutionists-Lenin, Kropotkin, Bakunin, Emma Goldman. My book will be of enormous significance.”
“I am sure,” Kate said in a tactful tone, although she felt that Mrs. Conway suffered from too great a sense of her own importance. “But I am deeply concerned about Charlotte.” She took out a calling card with the Sibley House address on it and handed it to Mrs. Conway. “I would very much appreciate it if you could send a note around to this address if you hear from her. Do you have any idea where she might be just now?”
“None at all,” Mrs. Conway said, carelessly dropping the card on the table. “I told the police as much, too, when they came around, pestering me about her. The girl is an adult, and not my concern. A true Anarchist-I consider myself such, of course-refuses to acknowledge any responsibility to family or comrades. A true Anarchist lives entirely for himself.” She paused, delicately searching with her fat fingers among the chocolates. Finding what she wanted, she dropped it into her mouth. “Although there is one person I might have mentioned to that detective,” she said, around the mouthful of chocolate, “if I had thought of her at the time.”
Kate stared at the woman, astonished by her glaring inconsistencies. But she only said, in the calmest voice she could manage, “And who is that?”
“One of those Rossetti girls. I’ve no idea which one, and anyway, I can never remember their names. They published that wretched little paper, the Torch, they called it.” She made a disgusted noise. “Such silly creatures. I could never see why Emma Goldman found them so interesting. Insipid, in my view. Not a breath of revolutionary spirit in them. It’s not surprising that they have abandoned the movement.”
The Rossetti girls, Kate thought with rising excitement. They were the authors of the manuscript she was reading, A Girl Among the Anarchists. If they were friends of Miss Conway, she just might have tried to make contact with them. “Do you happen to know,” she said, concealing her interest, “where I might find these young women?”
“Oh, one never knows things like that,” Mrs. Conway said carelessly. She fitted another cigarette into the holder and lit it. “Anyway, the Torch was put out some years ago, while the Clarion lives on-such as it is, of course. I will say this for Lottie: The child is persistent. Not a scrap of talent or gift, mind you, and no revolutionary boldness. But doggedly persistent, nonetheless. There’s something in that, I suppose.”
Kate could hardly decide whether she should feel pity for a woman who had so entirely deceived herself, or anger at a mother who had so little respect for her daughter. She rose. “Thank you for your time,” she said through clenched teeth, and turned toward the door.
“But I’m not finished yet!” Mrs. Conway exclaimed, her voice becoming shrill. “I haven’t told you about my publishing plans. I have been in contact with the editors at Duckworth, who have assured me that my memoir-”
“I think you are finished,” Kate said distinctly. “Quite finished.” And with that, she went out the door, closing it behind her as if to make sure that nothing from the room would escape into the outer air.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Now and again it happens that the [Russian] colony misses one or more of its prominent members, perhaps a man and a woman, or two women by themselves. They have disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind them. No one makes any enquiries, but these fugitives are not forgotten. Presently a newcomer brings tidings. Elzelina Kralchenskaya is in a Russian prison; Vera Ivanovna is in Siberia; Dmitry Konstantinovitch is dead.
Count E. Armfelt, “Russia in East London,” in Edwardian London, Volume 1, 1902
When Charles arrived back at Sibley House, he spoke immediately to Richards, who just managed not to sniff at his lordship’s unconventional request. He murmured a polite, “As your lordship wishes.” Such things had never been asked for in the days of his lordship’s brother and father, but those days were gone forever. So, after some consultation with the male members of the household staff, Richards at last produced a pair of brown trousers with traces of mud on the knees, a dark overcoat, a soft cap, and a knitted scarf, and handed them over with a look of restrained distaste. Charles dressed and combed his hair straight back from his forehead without a parting, in the Slavic manner,
turned up the collar of the overcoat, rammed the cap down on his head, and made for Euston Station.
London had for centuries been a vigorously cosmopolitan city, but during the sixty years of Victoria’s reign it had attracted increasingly large numbers of exiles seeking safe harbor from the totalitarian governments of the Continent. Among these London refugee colonies, the largest and fastest-growing were the Russian and Polish, populated by men and women and children who had fled the tyrannies of the Romanov regime. Pursuing as far as they could the crafts and trades they had learned in their native land, living on black rye bread, potatoes, turnips, and onions, they crowded together in tenements along the by-streets and back alleys of East India Dock Road, Commercial Road, and Whitechapel. But while their living conditions might be difficult and luxuries few, these people-many of whom were Jewish-possessed what was to them the greatest luxury of all: the freedom to work and talk and think as they pleased, without being harassed by the authorities.
The difficulty, however, as Charles well knew, was that not all of these people had come to settle down as peaceful, hardworking citizens of their adopted country. Most European governments had already passed severe repressive measures against Anarchists and others who aimed to disturb the social order, but tolerant Britain had taken no such action, and London’s East End had become the safest refuge that the revolutionaries could find, as well as a sheltering haven for the Czarist counterrevolutionaries who aimed to discredit and unmask them. It made for an extraordinarily volatile and confusing situation.
Charles left the Underground at Liverpool Street Station and walked for some distance, past Spitalfields Market and the Ghetto Bank of Whitechapel. The bank was one of the busiest in London, for every Russian refugee managed, through sheer industry and determined economy, to send money to family and friends in Russia and Poland-a million rubles a year, it was said. As Charles walked along Commercial Road, he was struck by the vibrant energy and liveliness of the place: the remarkable variety of Yiddish and Hebrew and Russian dialects spoken on the street; the astonishing range of crafts-cabinetmakers, tailors, boot-makers, seamstresses, milliners, upholsterers, bookbinders, watchmakers, icon painters-represented in the shops along the way; and the fascinating spectrum of restaurants and cafes, serving such exotic delicacies as smoked goose, reindeer tongue, and pickled lampreys, along with the more usual caviar, smoked salmon, strong cheeses, black bread, and vodka. Someone else walking these streets-a Jack London, for instance, looking for the downtrodden and desperate-might see stooped shoulders, weary faces, and forlorn spirits. But Charles caught scraps of song drifting from open doorways and heard the pleasure in the greetings of old babushkas in aprons and shawls as they passed on the streets. These people might not have much, but their spirits were indomitable, their hopes invincible, and their dreams of freedom unconquerable.
The address on the torn scrap of paper in Yuri Messenko’s shirt pocket proved to be that of a library located on the second floor of a small building in Church Lane, a block off Commercial Road. The first floor was occupied by a cigar shop that displayed tins of Russian tobacco and wooden boxes of Russian cigars in its square-paned, fly-specked window, along with hand-colored photographs of chubby-cheeked girls in native Russian costume and stacks of Russian newspapers and books. The entrance to the library was in a little alcove. There was a sign on the door; underneath a Russian inscription, in English, Charles read, “Free Russian Library. Open daily from 11 A.M. to 10 P.M.” The door was plastered with dozens of other notes and notices, also in Russian.
The door gave onto a dark, steep stair. Climbing to the top, Charles opened another door and stepped into a crowded, stuffy room, lit by several hanging gas lamps. The walls were lined with shelves of paperbound books and journals, the air was filled with the distinct perfume of tobacco and sweat and unwashed bodies, and almost every chair at the two long wooden tables was occupied. Some of the men were reading books and newspapers, others were writing, and still others-those who could not write, Charles guessed-appeared to be dictating letters to scribes. The men were of all ages, from beardless students to elders with long gray beards neatly tucked inside their coats, and the muted murmurs of their conversations were sibilant and foreign.
The librarian, or so Charles thought he must be, was seated behind a small wooden table. “Might I help you find something?” he asked, in heavily accented English. He was a very young man with dark, anxious eyes, clean-shaven, and neatly dressed in coat and cravat.
Charles took off his cap and held it respectfully against his chest. “I’m looking for Yuri Messenko,” he said. “Is he here, please?”
The librarian’s eyes widened. “You haven’t heard? Or read in the newspapers?”
“Heard what?” Charles asked innocently. “I’ve been traveling on the Continent for the last several weeks.”
“Messenko was… killed.” With an uneasy glance, the librarian took in Charles’s worn overcoat and baggy trousers, seeming to be reassured by the unassuming costume. “It was an accident, or so I was told.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Charles said. “It must have been a terrible shock to his friends. He came here frequently, I understand.”
“Occasionally,” the librarian replied, his tone becoming guarded, his eyes more anxious. “Why do you ask?”
“I need to contact someone, and I was told that Yuri Messenko could tell me how.” Charles gave a discouraged sigh. “Now I suppose I’ll have to find a different way.”
The libarian moved some papers on his desk. “Who did you want to contact?”
“His name is Vladimir Rasnokov,” Charles replied. He bent forward, adding eagerly, and in a louder voice, “Do you know Rasnokov? I should very much like to reach him.”
The librarian’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Rasnokov is not here.”
Charles let out his breath. “Do you know where I might find him?”
A bearded man wearing a dirty gray jerkin and a black knitted cap rose from his seat at the nearby table, returned his newspaper to a rack beside the window, and brushed past Charles on his way out the door. Another man, on the opposite side of the table, looked up and caught the librarian’s eye with a warning glance and an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
The librarian turned back to Charles. “Regrettably,” he said, in a formal tone, “I cannot help you. Rasnokov is not here. I do not know where he is to be found.”
Charles bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said humbly. He put on his cap and went out the door and down the steps. He was not surprised to see the man in the black knitted cap and gray jerkin waiting on the pavement in front of the cigar shop.
The man approached Charles. “Ye’re lookin’ fer Rasnokov, eh?” His voice was low and gravelly and his breath smelled of onions and garlic.
“I am,” Charles said. He straightened his shoulders.
“Wot’s yer business with ’im?”
Charles, no longer humble, gave the man a long, hard look. “That is between Rasnokov and myself. Do you know where to find him?”
“Wot’s in it fer me?”
Charles felt in his pocket and took out a shilling. “I have nothing else.”
The man took the coin with a hard look. “Ye might try the Little Moscow Cafe, in the cellar next t’ the Post Office. ’E has ’is lunch there most ev’ry day.”
“Thank you,” Charles said, and turned away. A few paces on, he paused and stood before the window of a tailor’s shop, his hands in the pockets of his coat. In the reflecting glass, he caught a glimpse of the man in the gray jerkin. He had mounted a rusty bicycle and was pedaling swiftly down Church Lane-on his way, no doubt, to the Little Moscow Cafe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Unfortunately, the Rossettis [Helen and Olivia] could not sustain such a narrative of female emancipation. In the conclusion to their novel, Isabel retracts her belief in anarchism and instead forcefully reinscribes the traditional feminine myth of hearth and home.
&nb
sp; Jennifer Shaddock, Introduction to the Bison Book Edition, 1992, of Isabel Meredith, A Girl Among the Anarchists, 1902
Olivia Rossetti was now married and with her husband in Italy, but after a call to Mr. Perry at Duckworth, Kate had no difficulty finding Helen Rossetti, who was living with her father in a small, comfortable house with an ivy-draped porch in a street in Chelsea. Kate had no difficulty introducing herself, either, since she had finished reading the manuscript of A Girl Among the Anarchists the night before and could tell Miss Rossetti that she had heartily enjoyed the adventures of Isabel Meredith and was recommending the novel to her editors for publication.
“I admired it very much,” she added, with genuine enthusiasm, when they were seated in the parlor. “It showed me an aspect of an Englishwoman’s life that I would otherwise have found difficult to imagine.”
Helen Rossetti, a small, plump young woman with dark eyes and dark hair pulled snugly back into a bun, sat back in her chair and gave a little cry of delight. “My dear Lady Sheridan!” she exclaimed. “How kind of you to come and tell me!” She flashed a mischievous smile that showed the dimples in her round cheeks. “And you are truly Beryl Bardwell?”