The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 5, 1897, Page 19

THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 5, 1897. 19 who is perhaps the last person iz France | to embroil nimself in any affair naving the here of politics, has sided pub- | licly with the ator. scholar, poit n and radical editor, has been won over to the belief that Scheunrer- Kestner 1s right, mo: ‘“*‘Although he has not shown me the | which he bases his opin- | 1ments write 3 Huu.rncenu. *‘nor communi- ed his plan of action, I find hisattitude pure and disinterested, his words so resolute and his confidence so profound in the means with which he expects to prove the innocence of the condemned man, that I cannot belp being deeply impressed. 1 have known Scheurer-Kestner for more His enemies, if he has vy him neither intelligence ¥ bat such a man, whose e has been divided between scien labors and statecraft, should so o ately pursue for a year such an un- ateful inquiry in the mere interest of the truth—for he does not know a single member of the Dreyfus family —is proof that he must have been prompted by strong reasons. Chance put him on the scent which he has followed. He applied M. himself methodically to disentancling the threads of this mystery. Now he de- es without reservation that he knows the truth, the whole truth, and that he i1 tell it. “Dreyfus is, according to him, the victim of a frightful judi error. If this is / ved, we cannot prevent ou X Clemenceau, the | | Scheurer-Kestner reptied, ‘I will prove it! SCHEURER-KESTNER. lves from i shuadering at the thought of the tortures | inflicted on this uniortunate man. But we must have the proof! “Scarcelv had I said these words wien | I will assume the responsibility of doing | | 80." | * ‘But when?' I asked. | he responded, ‘I am ac- cused of proceeding too slowly. Iappre- | | ciate that the people are impatient to | bave the facts placed before them. Iam not less anxious to press the matter | quickly. But Iam not free fo speak until certain conditions may have been fultilled by others. Soon, 1 hope, nothing will | remain to restrain me. It should be | | understood taat my keenest Gesire 1s to | | be relieved of this weight. Before I place the details before the pubtic I intendto | couform with ail that would exact legal | action on the part of those who believe a | demonstration of the judicial error can be | \ made. We will not have to waitlong. I am traveling, through my sense of duty, | 8 rough road. TIasuit, I disdain. It wili be time to judze me when I have spoken.’ Scheurer-Kesimer plainly indicated | lin this interview with Clemenceau that | he would not challenge a public discus- sion of the mysterious evidence which he | seems to have obtained until all the | | efforts of others who insist on legally | securing a reopening of the D:eyfus case | bave failed. | Paul de Cassagnac, the imperialist ed- | itor, insisis that the revision of the trialis | DREYFUS UNDER GUARD ON DEVILS absolutely thing to do,” necessary. he adds, “It is the only “in order that | Dreyfus may be actually convicted and imately condemned. hat there may no longer remain any afflicling doubt he must be adjudged anew, and this time before an informed and attentive public opinion. Let there be no more ¢! documents. The light for him as well as for us!” These editors of the liberal and impe- rial factions are quoted to illustrate the change that is going on in the political as well as the public mind. Rochefort, the mouthpiece of the irrec- oncilables and barrier-builders, however, bitterly maintains that Dreyfus is guilty and that the campaign to brinz about a | rehearing of the case is the result ofacon- | spirzey supplied with funds by a syndi- cate of wealthy Jews. From the chirographic analysis and pampnlet of M. Lozare the following striking quotations are made: The commandant, Du Paty de Clam, having after an exami \ation effirmed that the writ- | ing of the memorandum was like that of Cap- | tain Dreyfus, it was handed successively, with | | several genuine Dreyfas letters, to two ex- perts—M. Gobert, expert of the Bank of France,and M. Bertillon, Commissary of Po- lice, chief of the service of Judicisl Identifi- | cation. M. Gobert declared that the writing might be that of & person other than the one | suspected. M. Bertilion declared that the same person had written all the documonts which had been communicated to him. In posssssion of these two ports the Ministerof War ordered tie arrest of Dreyfus without nesitation. Nothing in the life of Captain Dri he shadow of & suspicion, honorabe Alsatian fan tered, at 18, the Poiytec! become one of the most brilliant pupils of the College of War, and his eunemies had never Belon g 10 an Iy of Mulhouse he en- From Le Monde Illustre. E AT THE COURT-MARTIAL: d doors, no more secret | tradictory re- | fus aathorized even | ISLAND. COLONEL been able to represent him s other than an ambitious and active officer. | On October 15, 1894, Captain Dreyfus was summoned to the Ministry of War and was ar- rested by M. Cocheiert, Chief of the Detective Service, and by Commandant Henry. The ar- rest was preceded by a melodramatic comedy, conceived by Commandant Du Paty de Clam. It consisted in aictating to Captain Dreyfus a letter containing several phrases included in the note which he was accused of having writ- ten. M. Du Paty de Clam, s latter-day psychol- | ogist, pretended that he observed certain | | trepidation in the captain. His hand, he said, trembled in writing. Thisembarrassment ex- isted ouly in the imagination of M. Du Paty de Clam, for the letter written by Captain Dreyfus is in a firm hand, without a shadow of hesitation. Arrested the captain was taken to prison. As s00n as he was locked up searched his | domicile, without result. They examined cor- ence and books of household expenses nd nothing ineriminating. Although the captain was only underarrsst, he was kept in secret, and his wife was jorbidden to fn. | form bis nearest relatives of his arrest. For | | seventeen days he was iznorani of the charge | against him. ! The investigation proceeded for two months | before the trial, and during that time the prosceation could gather no evidence beyond | he unsigned memorandum. | Hes any one inqured what nced an officer | of the general staff, engaged in betraying his | country, would have to accompany these | batches of documenis with & commercial | memorandum? ~Iam going to start for the maneuvers,” concludes the letter. It has been established thatin 1894, the date on which it was writ- ten, Captain Dreyfus aid not go to the maneu- vers. liwe supnose the writer wished to conceal his identity it would have been much more | |simple for nim to deliver the documents | without accompanying tnem by & memoran- dum. But the memorandum seems to make a parade of the officer’s profession. Hence two hypotheses are alone possible, Either the incriminating letter is the work | sec | letter dwells on the officer’s profession, & pro- | fession destined to give importance to the in- | eccurate. of a forger, desirous of covering himself by | throwing suspicion on another, or it is a letter of advice with a letter containing s proposi- tion. What would lead one rather to adopt the nd hypothesis is the manner in which the formation which the anonymous writer pro- poses to d-liver, and on the equivocal manner | in which it speaks of the firing manual of the artillery. These two hypotheses enable one to explain the origin of the note. Found, as we know, in | the paper-basket of a foreign embessy, it was | thrown there either &s a thing without im- | portance coming from an agent whose ser- vices could no longer be utilized, or with the | object of saving a real traitor and in this way of putting the Bureau of Information of the Ministry of War on the wrong track. On such feeble proof they would never have | dared 10 take Captain Dreylus before s coun- cilof war if ne had not been a Jew and if the pressure of the anti-Semitic band had not con- | strained a Minister without character or cour- age. Buteven then that council of war would have acquitted him if General Mercier, in de- fiance of all justice, had not communicated to | the judges a document which, according to | him, established the guilt of Captain Dreyfus. The existence of this document, unknown to the accased, unknown to his counsel, Gen- eral Mercier himself has revealed to every- body. He did this in the mewspaper the Eclair on September 15, 1896. According to the Eclair, it was a letter in cipher written by & German military attache in Paris to s | Italian militery attache and comtaining this phase: “Decidedly this animal Dreyfus 1s be- coming too exacting.” These details are in- General Mercier, who had lied a ready, when he wss interviewed lied again | 8nd communicated to the newspaper informa- tion that was partly false. The letter submit- ted to the Council of War was not in cipher; it was written in French and contained not the name Dreytus, but the initial “D.” Is it likely that this German military attache, having succeeded in winning from his Government a captain of the general staff, | & precious ageut, whom he woutd safeguard, MAUREL. would hasten to speak of him in a letter when he would naturally fear to make the slightest allusion to such an assistant? Following the announcement of M. Scheurer-Kestner that he had proofs of FALSE. 7 . Fragment From the Memorandum Attributed to Dreyfus. | revelations since that cri 7 it s, A e e e T S oA Al | ./".’..r-u:z/,},. e AW.,./,, e eAa ar Jad & A—Writing of the memorandum. D—From uriting done by Dreyfus. A e ————— 18+ B — D ,fifiw . ENLARGED COMPARISONS OF THE WRITING. the innocence of Captain Dreyfus, but preferred to have them exposed by legal process, s brother of the captain has openly charged Count Esterhazy with havinz forged the memorandum. The al step was teken sustain the accusation that Esterhazy is the traitor. The first mis- take he made in the flush of fright was to declare that M. Scheurer-Kestner and Colonel Piquard, a military notable, who is above suspicion, had been bribed to persecute him. It now transpires that the thelt of documents from the military bureaus having been renewed since the conviction of Captain Dreyfus, Esterhazy was suspended without scandal from headquarter service on suspicion. He was placed on the retired list, under the Clocioer il u?t,_\.‘u- pretext of ill health, though in the best of physical health. It is also regarded as significant, in view of the closing sentence of the fateful memorandum, that he attended the ma- neuvers despite the fact that he was not assigned ana in strict propriety had no right to be there. Testimony is also com- ing to light indicating that he has cher- ished a secret hatred against France in general and the army in particular. The more Esterhazy turns about to face new accusers the more does he seem to become immeshed in his explanations. M. Scueurer-Kestner knows the real culprit. It sterbazy is not the traitor the Sena- tor would have proclaimed that fact many d ays ago E. D. Cowsx. GENUINE. %4"'»0«-4,»-. -.,.)\,,‘-A-A y o~ L PR T fo npredmt Lo, P o 0 tm il Sl Ay & 10 u € mnii Vol v Sl Z° tnn el win L fopn B oo T Pt mn aSE T s g pr o e & peps LT & g sons (1€ rrem 70963, Fragment of Letter Showing the Handwriting of Dreyfus. € . Ancans'y Lt i iy The steps which lead to it go down, down, quite a little ways below the side- walks of this alley back of Mission street, and your feet are among blown bits of | refuse and dust and the cobwebs cling to your body vou go by. A woman witha wrinkled and shrunken ! visage and unkempt hair thrust herself | part way through the door. She had a little plaid shawl, faded and ragged, caught up about her neck and one lean hand held it in its place. If'a gust of north wind had not suddenly dashed roughly against us I fancy 1 should never have seen beyond the outer door, but the woman shivered slightly with the cold and drew back, and I followed. “Is this Mrs. Rice?”’ I asked. I had been told that the mother of the well- known actress Fanny Rice lived there; that for years she had kept to herself down in the dirt and filih and squalor of this back lev, refusing all offers of a better habitation from the daughter, who s abundantly «ble to give it to her, and referring to keep her identily unknown and be as she wished. The woman to whom I spoke mads un- intelligible sound and moved across the erk and narrow room to a narrow bunk it must have served her for a bed and nbled the rags about upon it and sat se edee of it and looked at me. ere was one chair in the room and one bare little stand, on which sat a bowl and a partly broken cup. Tue floor was uncovered; the one window, which was about level with the sidewalk, was barred, although one could never have seen anything looking from the light of day into the ainginess of that room. A | r Yy stove, with but three unsteady iezs, occupied # small corner all to itself. On one unpayered wall of the room were two ehelves. On theuppershelf lay two dusty | “*She bad seven children. Of these Fanny photographs; on the other lay dust-cov- ered vackages and little tin boxes. ‘“‘Are you Fanny Rice’s mother?’ asked again. The woman on the edge of the bed was childishly nervous and frightened. She must have been azes old, from the num- ber of wrinkles that made her skin re- | semble tluted parchment. She looked | dully toward where 1 stood and swayed ber body slightly back and forth. *That is not Mrs. Rice,’” said a woman'’s voice just behind me. *“Fanny Rice's mother did live here, but she is not here now; she’s dead ana buried."” | She evidently mistook the expression | on my face, for she nodded her curly head | and went on to tell the story. “Llive back here” she said, pointing over her shoulder at the tall house whose back door looked unfeelingly at the front door of the house where Fanny Rice's mother bac lived. I used to see her a greatdeal,” she went on, *coming in and going out and living her empty life. Then she knew I friendly to her, and she used to bring Fanny’s letters in and read them to me. Poor ol¢ soui! She only bad two peoble to talk to—this oid woman and myself.” “But she did not have to live this way, did she? Ste could huve had everything she wanted ?"’ 1 think there is nothing Fanny would not have done 1o have changed her mother’s way of living, but the ola woman preferred it '’ the little lady answered with a slow shaking of her head. 1 was the youngest. The rest of the chil- dren being born in wretchedness and poverty remained so, I guess. I never beard of any of tiem and she never men- tionea any one but the youngest., She used to tell me how Fanny would sing when she was a child and how good and kind she always was, and how she got one engagement af.er another until they took her East and she became great. “Well, it was queer,” this genial little talker went on, “'it wassirange to see Miss Rice's carriage drive up this dingy alley in view of the backs of all these houses, and to see her zet oat in all her elegance and sweep down these stairs and into this room. She used to come every day dur- ing her engagements here, and that was | the only time th-se steps were ever kept clean or the room was ever swept, “Do you know,” she said, motioning me to a seat on the only chair 1n the room and seating herself on the edge of the bunk by the side of the still staring old woman, *“Idon’t think it was natural for Mrs. Rice to do as she did. 1 think that she had suffered o much and had to live sodreadfully before the youngest child was able to raise her out or the surround- ings tnat she had grown used to, that her mind hed become affected. Fanny was a mighty nice looking woman and they say when she was younger that she was very preity and lovable. Don’t you t ink there must have been something bright about the mother at that time or she never | wou'd have Lrought forth brightness?” There might have been something in that, and it was a pretity thought any- how. Butone would imagine that the first rather than the last child would have had the joy of life within it, for the mother must have had youth then, and | some degree of hope and strength. And | When she had struggled and workea and | wanted for six childish lives there would | seem Lo be little joy left for the seventi. | “Did she Go anything for her support | or did her daughter care for her?? The little woman laughea cheerfuily. 'See those bags and tins on that shelf?’ she asked. “Those are filled with herbs. | The old lady had an idea that she could | cure people with those—cure anything | from a sore ioe to consumption. She used | to bave imaginary patients and she was always doctoring herseii. I don’t think | she ever would have died a natural deatn, Ste was areadfully old. I could never have guessed her age. She was older than this one, I thivk,” she said, indicating | the silent woman at her side, whose age I could never have imagined ina thou- | sand years. “But anyhow, in spite of her age and previous condition, and present dition, too,” she said brigitly, “the daughter was gooJ to her, and she was as devotcd to the daughter as a slave. Her | only thougnts in the world were of her | herbs and her child. Tne last letter she received from Fanny before she died she brought over to my house and read to me, and in it the girl said she was just count- ing ihe days until she would b2 clasped once more in her mother's arms. Ana I remember that I looked at the lean arms covered witi the ragged garments, and it con- | seemed =0 incongruous to think of their being clasped around that girl’s elegant silks. You couldn’t some way have thought of her as being any one’s mothe: She wasn’t like that. I can’t explain, but she was different.” *‘But she had the mother love,” 1said. 0; 1t was more like the affection of a patient animal that would crawl about faithfully and lick the hands anda feet of the master than the full love that a mother should have. That's the reason tnat I think ber mind was turned, else she would not have been so different from her child. I never saw the daughter on thestace, but the mother used to go and sit way up in the gallery. She used to wear the old clothes tnat she had. Fanny used to give her others, but she wouldn’t wear them, and after the play was out she'd creep ‘around to the stage entrance and stand in the shadows and watch until her daughter came out with her friends, and laughing and taiking got into her carriage and drove away, and then the mother would creep home through the darkress of this alley and go down these steps into this bare, coid room and lay herself in this bed and pull these bed- clothes up around her and go to sleep— alone, *‘The last time 1 saw the old lady w: the tme that she read me Fanny’s letter saying she would be in the city soon and would beso happy to see her mother, and all that. Iremember that I was unkind enough to think that I wonld not have been glad to have claimed her for my mother. But shie never saw he: STRANGE STORY OF MOTHER, DAUGHTER AND FRIEND. for the next time I saw her she was dead in this room and this old woman was here.” “She died suddenly?’ I asked, a queer feeling crepicg over me at her tone and the strange actions of the other one. “Why,” she said, “the house fell on her—that Fifth-street house, don’t you re- member, that feil and hurt so many people? She was passing at the time and was killed. Nobody knew, when they dragged out the poor old creature, that she was the mother of a woman who is known from here to New York, and this woman led the way here and she was buried and nobody said anything about it. Even the newspapers didn’t get hold of it. **‘And the daughter?”’ “I aon’t think she knew until she came on because there was no one to send her word. She was traveling with the com- pany and/no one knew where she was. The neighbors say that when she came out she drove up here, but I don’t know what she didtor said, for she drove away again and never came back, and this woman has lived ever since, just as the mother lived before, although no one knows who she is and she won’t teL “The old woman’s herbs are just as she left them. I don’t think they’ve been touched. You can tell they haven’t been dusted. The only difference is that the top shelf used always to be kept clean, and that was the ounly p'ace in the room that was clean, because on that shelf she kept the photographs that Fanny Rice sent her. It was a kind of a shrine, you know, an humble one, but still I guess those /photographs were ail the idols she had and Fanny Rice as much a goddess of bounty to her as any Venus could ever have been to those who, worshiped her.” The speaker crossed the room and lifted one of the pictures from the shelf where it was lying. Soiled it was from its contact with the dirt of the place and yet when the woman had carefully dusted iton her apron and handed it to meit was certainly a sweet face that smiled from the cardboard, and in the girl's handwriting across the back was traced: “To my dear mother, from her loving daughter Fanny.” “‘There’s not many girls in the worid who wouldn't have forgotten that mother,” said my new-found acquaint. ance, as we climbed the steps to the side- walk together. The papers did not speak well of her when she was here. They said she couldn’t act, and couldn’t sing, and lots of other things, and it made me hate them. They didn’'t any of them know how faithful she'd been all these years— how she left her friends that wers like herself, and came to see the old woman whom she couldn’t make like herself juss to make the old lady happy. Why, she was more dutiful and kind to her than manv a girl is to a mother whom she should be proud of and love dearly. I used to want to tell people so.” “T'll tell them 8o !” [said, and I thanked ber and hurried away before she recov- ered from her surprise. Isaw Fanny Rice when she was here last, and Idid not think she could sing, nor had I any idea that she could act, and she had lost most of her youtnful pretti- ness; bat I think if she ever comes again to the city where her mother lies buried in an obscure end unknown grave, I shall g0 and see her and be glad that she is f the good she tried to do. o MURIEL BarLy,