On this day in 1894 a 26 year old Frenchman died when a bomb he was carrying exploded in Greenwich Park. He was an anarchist, his name was Martial Bourdin and he was a member of the Autonomie Club. I felt as though for a time I was one of his friends, as I researched a lot about him for my Master's thesis, and then for my booklet, and then finally for Spectacular Times.
This was the only real 'outrage' - as they were called - to take place in Britain, but since there had been a sustained Fenian terrorist phase before this, the police, and especially Chief Inspector Melville, head anarchist hunter, were quite cocky about it. They assumed that they had all anarchists well and truly infiltrated, but I don't think this was exactly the case. In memoirs and official reports it is clear that the police were watching Bourdin but they had been badly embarrassed a couple of days before when Emile Henry threw a bomb into the Cafe Terminus in Paris. Henry, another member of the Autonomie Club, had travelled to Paris with a bomb he obtained in London. And yet Melville says nothing of it. Because he didn't know, obviously.
Eighteen years ago I was waiting around to have a baby, I was almost two weeks overdue at the time, and I perversely wanted her born on this day. She didn't appear on the day, but hey, she turned up a few days later. It would have been one hundred years exactly if she had been born on that day, but maybe it would have been a bad omen. It was also, in 1894, not too long before my grandfather was born.
I do feel upset about Martial because like many people he probably didn't think too much about what he was doing, what would happen if it all went wrong. Well, you know, really think, but maybe he did. Maybe he really didn't care about his life, but maybe he did. When someone approached him he said 'take me home,' which is such an incredibly sad thing to say when you're dying, but I suppose many people do say it. But I wish he hadn't.
In Spectacular Times I write about the effects of terrorism, or Propaganda by Deed as anarchists called it. The messy, sad and horrible stuff that is often not talked about. I wish Martial hadn't died, and I wish Emile Henry hadn't died either, although they both would be dead by now, as my grandfather is. I always want everything to be perfect, to be happy and married to your love of your life and have children and sit round the table being happy, but I know how little this happens. Maybe they didn't want kids or a wife or a table, maybe they wanted the big stuff, the spectacular stuff. Emile Henry had already gotten away with it once, maybe he thought he could get away with it again.
Like everyone else in the world I do not know what Martial wanted or intended or thought about as he was walking through Greenwich Park. His brother in law, Harry Samuels, editor of The Commonweal, didn't give the police any real information – that came out at any rate – even though he had dinner with Martial just before he set off for the Park. But lack of information certainly didn't stop Joseph Conrad from writing a pile of crap called The Secret Agent which is riddled with venom and bitterness towards anarchists. The police are great, anarchists are pimps, informers, fat or lazy. Or maniacs wandering round with a bomb under their coat. Don't get me started on sloppy writers comparing muslim terrorists with Victorian anarchists, just don't start me, please.
The damage one novel has done to the anarchist movement is huge. Because it's 'easy' – a nice clear message that the cops have it all under control and the anarchist movement is in effect not even real – middle class England laps it up and believes it. Everyone now believes Martial was a stooge and Harry Samuels was a police informer. How lovely and easy for everyone. Joseph Conrad, lie uneasy in your grave for what you have done.
I utter this curse because Conrad knew Helen Rossetti. He wrote a short story about her which is also full of bile, much along the lines of she's a middle class dilittante. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn't. But he had first hand, primary source information. And he chose such an easy, popular, money making route, and condemned anarchists forever to taunts. Well in this country anyway.
Rest in Peace Martial, and Emile, and Helen Rossetti. I love you all for the inspiration you have given me, and I've written about you all in Spectacular Times, and I try and keep your memory alive, and in the best possible light. I always wanted to visit the Autonomie, back in 1894, but since time travel isn't here yet, I did the next best thing and wrote a novel instead.
0 comments:
Post a Comment