Later on we passed at high speed over Havre, the lights of which twinkled merrily through a mist patch. Next Rouen glided away beneath us, and at seven we swept over the gorgeous city of Paris. Satiated in some measure with these sights I stepped down into a court and entered the cosy smoking-room. Burnett was there, and Brandt, the “philosopher” whom Hartmann had mentioned. I was very fond of German thought, and did not fail to improve the timely occasion. Brandt was not only a metaphysician, but readily listened to my very guarded criticisms of the anarchists. He was, however, inflexible, and professed the most supreme confidence in Hartmann. “He is the heart of the enterprise, and it was he who gave the _Attila_ wings. Look at what he effected with small resources, and you may rely on him with great.” He evinced a sturdy faith in the scheme of supervision, and prophesied as its result a grand moral and intellectual regeneration of man. But, he added, the initial blows will be terrible. One remark filled me with apprehension. “London,” he said, “in three days will be mere shambles with the roof ablaze.”
“Yes. The object of this trip is merely to settle details with some terrestrial friends who meet us to-morrow evening—delegates from the various affiliated bodies of Europe.”
Shortly afterwards I had an interview with Hartmann, and urged that some warning might at least be given to our friends.
“By all means,” he remarked, “warn yours to keep away from London. One of the delegates will act for you after due inspection of the message. For myself, I have already taken my private precautions.”
DIARY. _Tuesday Morning._—Crossed Dijon and the river Saone in the night. Rising rapidly, as the slopes of the Jura mountains are ahead of us, and “the captain,” as they call him, will insist on keeping high! No doubt it is safer, but I suspect the real truth is that he wants to appear unannounced over London—a portent as mysterious as terrible. Shows himself ironical and inflexible. I suggest a mild course of action, and he asks me whether I aspire to be captain of the _Attila_. Am becoming nevertheless almost inured to the thought of the impending calamity. Brandt says philosophically that “the advance of man is always over thorns.” Unhappily the thorns do not always lead to happiness. Will they do so in this case? The bluster of the vulgar dynamitards is revolting. Even Burnett is forgetting the end in the means. As to Schwartz, his vile parody is being sung freely by all the English-speaking hyænas of his stamp:—
