ese
filthy, worm-eaten, rotten holes. And yet the old decrepit inhabitants
of this rich man's house unbend their stiff knees in profound salaams
whenever he appears."

But in these leaky rooms of Kate's there was often much jollity and
gaiety, when the "Salon" had its sessions, and proletarians of the pale
cast of thought sat and smoked their cigarettes, drank their beer,
kissed their girls, and talked of philosophy and literature and social
evil and possible regeneration. Then they were always happy, whatever
the subject of their talk. Marie wrote me to my villa in Italy:

"You write of your beautiful gardens and seem quite happy. We too are
well and happy in our little old joint; you are the only one missing to
make our circle complete. But perhaps sometime you can be with us, with
a can on the table and good talk going round, and then I'm sure you will
not miss your Italian garden. Emma Goldman and Berkman have been
visiting Chicago, and we had some jolly good times while they were here.
She is a good fellow, when she is alone with a few choice friends. Then
she lets herself out. The other day we gave a social for these two
celebrated ones. Positively, no police, reporters, or strangers were
admitted. Next day there was a hue and cry in all the papers, dark
conspiracy, and so on! But all we did was to have a great time:
everybody was drunk before morning, and everybody felt kindly toward the
whole world, and would not have cursed even the greatest 'exploiter.' We
finished the evening or rather the morning by an orgy of kissing. It was
quite interesting and innocent. Smith has at last begun to return my
affection. I think he likes me a little now. At least, he calls here
frequently, and he told me once he would like to tear me limb from limb!
This remark made me shudder, not unpleasantly. It must be good to be
torn in that way by such a nice man.

"The rose-leaves you sent from Italy retained some of their sweet smell.
The rose is my favourite flower, and I like to imagine that perhaps some
day my dust will be soil for roses. Last summer I found a poor little
stillborn thing which had been hastily thrown aside, near a place where
Terry and I were camping. Some poor little 'fleur de mal' which I
covered from sight, in the sand, and marked the place with some stones
and flowers. The next year I found some wild white daisies growing
there. This made a deep impression on me and strengthened my hope that
I, too, might b