He saw the President drive away and followed. He tried to pass through the entrance after the President, but the guards halted him and sent him away. He entered the stadium by another entrance, but was not permitted to get within reach of the President.
The next morning he was at the exposition again and was in the crowd at the railroad gate when the President arrived at that point after crossing the grounds from the Lincoln Park entrance. But with the rest of the crowd he was driven back when the President’s carriage arrived. He saw the President pass through the gate to the special train which was to take him to the falls.
Czolgosz waited for the President’s return. In the afternoon he went to the Temple of Music and was one of the first of the throng to enter. He crowded well forward, as close to the stage as possible. He was there when the President entered through the side door. He was one of the first to hurry forward when the President took his position and prepared to shake hands with the people.
Czolgosz had his revolver gripped in his right hand, and about both the hand and the revolver was wrapped a handkerchief. He held the weapon to his breast, so that any one who noticed him might suppose that the hand was injured.
He reached the President finally. He did not look into the President’s face. He extended his left hand, pressed the revolver against the President’s breast with his right hand and fired twice.
That was all there was to his story.
“Did you mean to kill the President?” asked the District Attorney.
“I did,” was the reply.
“What was the motive that induced you to commit this crime?” he was asked.
“I am a disciple of Emma Goldman,” he replied.
The following is Czolgosz’s signed confession to the police. It agrees with the above, but we give it in his exact words:
“I was born in Detroit nearly twenty-nine years ago. My parents were Russian Poles. They came here forty-two years ago. I got my education in the public schools of Detroit and then went to Cleveland, where I got work. In Cleveland I read books on socialism and met a great many Socialists. I was pretty well known as a Socialist in the West. After being in Cleveland for several years I went to Chicago, where I remained seven months, after which I went to Newburg, on the outskirt of Cleveland, and went to work in the Newburg wire mills.
“During the last five years I have had as friends Anarchists in Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, and other Western cities, and I suppose I became more or less bitter. Yes, I know I was bitter. I never had much luck at anything and this preyed upon me. It made me morose and envious, but what started the craze to kill was a lecture I heard some little time ago by Emma Goldman. She was in Cleveland and I and other Anarchists went to hear her. She set me on fire.
“Her doctrine that all rulers should be exterminated was what set me to thinking so that my head nearly split with the pain. Miss Goldman’s words went right through me and when I left the lecture I had made up my mind that I would have to do something heroic for the cause I loved.
“Eight days ago, while I was in Chicago, I read in a Chicago newspaper of President McKinley’s visit to the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo. That day I bought a ticket for Buffalo and got there with the determination to do something, but I did not know just what. I thought of shooting the President, but I had not formed a plan.
“I went to live at 1078 Broadway, which is a saloon and hotel. John Nowak, a Pole, a sort of politician who has led his people here for years, owns it. I told Nowak that I came to see the fair. He knew nothing about what was setting me crazy. I went to the Exposition grounds a couple of times a day.
“Not until Tuesday morning did the resolution to shoot the President take a hold of me. It was in my heart; there was no escape for me. I could not have conquered it had my life been at stake. There were thousands of people in town on Tuesday. I heard it was President’s Day. All these people seemed bowing to the great ruler. I made up my mind to kill that ruler. I bought a 32–caliber revolver and loaded it.
“On Tuesday night I went to the Fair grounds and was near the railroad gate when the Presidential party arrived. I tried to get near him, but the police forced me back. They forced everybody back so that the great ruler could pass. I was close to the President when he got into the grounds, but was afraid to attempt the assassination because there were so many men in the bodyguard that watched him. I was not afraid of them or that I should get hurt, but afraid I might be seized and that my chance would be gone forever.
“Well, he went away that time and I went home. On Wednesday I went to the grounds and stood right near the President, right under him near the stand from which he spoke.
“I thought half a dozen times of shooting while he was speaking, but I could not get close enough. I was afraid I might miss, and then the great crowd was always jostling, and I was afraid lest my aim fail. I waited on Wednesday, and the President got into his carriage again, and a lot of men were about him and formed a cordon that I could not get through. I was tossed about by the crowd, and my spirits were getting pretty low. I was almost hopeless that night as I went home.
“Yesterday morning I went again to the Exposition grounds. Emma Goldman’s speech was still burning me up. I waited near the central entrance for the President, who was to board his special train from that gate, but the police allowed nobody but the President’s party to pass where the train waited, so I stayed at the grounds all day waiting.
“During yesterday I first thought of hiding my pistol under my handkerchief. I was afraid if I had to draw it from my pocket I would be seen and seized by the guards. I got to the Temple of Music the first one and waited at the spot where the reception was to be held.
“Then he came, the President—the ruler—and I got in line and trembled and trembled until I got right up to him, and then I shot him twice, through my white handkerchief. I would have fired more, but I was stunned by a blow in the face—a frightful blow that knocked me down—and then everybody jumped on me. I thought I would be killed and was surprised the way they treated me.”
Czolgosz ended his story in utter exhaustion. When he had about concluded he was asked: “Did you really mean to kill the President?”
“I did,” was the reply.
“What was your motive, what good could it do you?” he was asked.
“I am an Anarchist. I am a disciple of Emma Goldman. Her words set me on fire,” he replied, with not the slightest tremor.
“I deny that I have had an accomplice at any time,” Czolgosz told District Attorney Penny. “I don’t regret my act, because I was doing what I could for the great cause. I am not connected with the Paterson group or with those Anarchists who sent Bresci to Italy to kill Humbert. I had no confidants; no one to help me. I was alone absolutely.”
Czolgosz, the assassin, was the son of Paul Czolgosz, who lived at 306 Fleet street, Cleveland, Ohio, at the time of the assassination, having moved there from Warrensburg, Ohio, in search of work. Other members of the family were John, who lived at home with his father and stepmother; Mike, a soldier serving in the Philippines; Vladiolan, who was on his father’s farm, located on the Chagrin Falls Suburban line; and Jacob, of Marcelline avenue. There were two uncles living on Hosmer street.
The family was Polish and evidently poor.
Czolgosz’s father talked of his son’s crime. He said his son should be hanged, and that there was no excuse for the crime. At first he appeared not to realize the enormity of the crime, but when aroused he denounced his son, saying he must have been mad.
The stepmother could not speak English, but gave out the following interview through the medium of an interpreter. She said: