Paris: The Novel

anarchists had fled to England.
    But what was anarchism for? What did it achieve?
    There were so many groupings on the Left. If radicalism was a tree that had grown from the ideals of the French Revolution, the mid-centurygraftings of Marx and Engels had now produced a plant of many branches. There were kindly utopians, trade union men, socialists, communists, anarchists and many variations in between. They all opposed the monarchy. They were all suspicious of the Church. And they all longed for a perfect society of free men. But what that society would be, and how to achieve it, was the subject of endless discussion. And no subject was more disputed than the role of the anarchists.
    Le Sourd knew that the true anarchist movement, the anarchism of men like Proudhon in France, followed by Bakunin and Kropotkin, called for the overthrow of the state, which would be followed by a utopian world of friendly collectives. For these men, the violent outrages, the bombings and terrorist acts were only a catalyst—the shock needed to trigger a huge reaction—in which the state, which lacked all moral validity, would collapse. After that, miraculously, poverty, exploitation and human suffering would end.
    Jacques was not an anarchist. He thought that even the original anarchist philosophers were utopian dreamers, and that most of their followers were dangerous fanatics. And the three men he’d talked with that day had confirmed all his worst opinions.
    Hadn’t they learned anything from the Paris Commune? The Commune for which his father had fought and died? During its brief reign, it had run Paris successfully. But it lacked a proper army. The Communards hadn’t gotten an organization outside the capital, and the forces of reaction had been able to march into Paris and break them. The present regime, republican but corrupt, had been in power ever since.
    The more he’d listened to the men this afternoon, the more he had appreciated why his father’s Commune should be his guide. The anarchists he’d spoken to wanted to throw a bomb and run away. There, they seemed to think, their responsibility ended. But his father and his friends had stood up for their beliefs, fought for them, tried to construct something concrete, and been killed for it.
    Compare these anarchists with that other heroine of the Commune, still living, Louise Michel. She’d fought for the Commune up in Montmartre. Afterward, at her trial, she’d challenged the government to execute her. “Put a bullet in me,” she had cried, “for if you don’t, I’ll go straight back to opposing you.” And if she hadn’t been a woman, no doubt they would have shot her. But she’d been as good as her word. Deported, in and out of jail ever since, she’d taught, preached revolution, even takenup arms again. People called her an anarchist, but properly speaking, in Jacques Le Sourd’s opinion, she was a revolutionary.
    Perhaps, he thought, this comparison might provide the structure for his article.
    For Jacques had long ago concluded that the Marxists were right. There must be central organization. There must be a proper power base. Just days ago, the Jewish Workers in Russia and Poland had formed a party to promote socialism and equal rights for women. They were calling it the Bund. This was the sort of well-established development that would be needed, years of it, before the revolution would be ready.
    And who knew, when the revolution did come, it might be worldwide. He hoped so. Until then, the anarchist bombs were as useless as they were cruel.
    After four hours of listening to these men in the Lapin Agile, who thought that outrage was an end in itself, he’d come to the conclusion that they were vain, self-centered lunatics and artists, and he’d left in disgust.
    So having walked down the hill to the boulevard de Clichy, and seeing the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge, he had decided to go in there to relax a little. He might be a revolutionary, but he still loved to dance.
    The big hall was packed as usual. Here and there he saw tables where groups of women sat. Some were there to look for clients. Others were just there to have a good time. Either way, since he was tall, and dark, and danced well, he always found women happy to dance with him. And if he wanted more, he could often find that too, without having to pay for it.
    Of course, when the revolution finally came, scenes of bourgeois decadence like this would surely have to go. Most of his