Mother Earth No. 2, April 1906 Part 6

BUFFALO. The shadow of September 6 still haunts the police of that city.

Their only vision of an Anarchist is one who is forever lying in wait for human life, which is, of course, very stupid; but stupidity and authority always join forces. Capt. Ward, who, with a squad of police, came to save the innocent citizens of Buffalo, asked if we knew the law, and was quite surprised that that was not our trade; that we had not been employed to disentangle the chaos of the law,--that it was his affair to know the law. However, the Captain showed himself absolutely ignorant of the provisions of the American Const.i.tution. Of course, his superiors knew what they were about when they set the Const.i.tution aside, as old and antiquated, and, instead, enacted a law which gives the average officer a right to invade the head and heart of a man, as to what he thinks and feels. Capt. Ward added an amendment to the anti-Anarchist law. He declared any other language than English a felony, and, since Max Baginski could only avail himself of the German language, he was not permitted to speak. How is that for our law-abiding citizens? A man is brutally prevented from speaking, because he does not know the refined English language of the police force.

Emma Goldman delivered her address in English. It is not likely that Capt. Ward understood enough of that language. However, the audience did, and if the police of this country were not so barefaced, the saviour of Buffalo would have wished himself anywhere rather than to stand exposed as a clown before a large gathering of men and women.

The meeting the following evening was forcibly dispersed before the speakers had arrived. Ignorance is always brutal when it is backed by power.

TORONTO. King Edward Hotel, Queen Victoria Manicuring Parlor. It was only when we read these signs that we realized that we were on the soil of the British Empire.

However, the monarchical authorities of Canada were more hospitable and much freer than those of our free Republic. Not a sign of an officer at any of the meetings.

The city? A gray sky, rain, storms. Altogether one was reminded of one of Heine's witty, drastic criticisms in reference to a well-known German university town. "Dogs on the street," Heine writes, "implore strangers to kick them, so that they may have some change from the awful monotony and dulness."

ROCHESTER. The neighborly influence of the Buffalo police seems to have had a bad effect upon the mental development of the Rochester authorities. The hall was packed with officers at both meetings. The government of Rochester, however, was not saved--the police kept themselves in good order. Some of them seem to have benefited by the lectures. That accounts for the familiarity of one of Rochester's "finest," who wanted to shake Emma Goldman's hand. E. G. had to decline.

Baron von Schlippenbach or an American representative of law and disorder,--where is the difference?

SYRACUSE. The city where the trains run through the streets. With Tolstoy, one feels that civilization is a crime and a mistake, when one sees nerve-wrecking machines running through the streets, poisoning the atmosphere with soft coal smoke.

What! Anarchists within the walls of Syracuse? O horror! The newspapers reported of special session at City Hall, how to meet the terrible calamity.

Well, Syracuse still stands on its old site. The second meeting, attended largely by "genuine" Americans, brought by curiosity perhaps, was very successful. We were a.s.sured that the lecture made a splendid impression, which led us to think that we probably were guilty of some foolishness, as the Greek philosopher, when his lectures were applauded, would turn to his hearers and ask, "Gentlemen, have I committed some folly?"

Au revoir.

E. G. and M. B.

THE MORAL DEMAND.

A COMEDY, IN ONE ACT, BY OTTO ERICH HARTLEBEN.

Translated from the German for "Mother Earth."

CAST.

RITA REVERA, concert singer.

FRIEDRICH STIERWALD, owner of firm of "C. W. Stierwald Sons" in Rudolstadt.

BERTHA, Rita's maid.

_Time._--End of the nineteenth century.

_Place._--A large German fashionable bathing resort.

Scene.--_Rita's boudoir. Small room elegantly furnished in Louis XVI.

style. In the background, a broad open door, with draperies, which leads into an antechamber. To the right, a piano, in front of which stands a large, comfortable stool._

RITA (_enters the antechamber attired in an elaborate ball toilette. She wears a gray silk cloak, a lace fichu, and a parasol. Gaily tripping toward the front, she sings_): "Les envoyees du paradis sont les mascottes, mes amis...." (_She lays the parasol on the table and takes off her long white gloves, all the while singing the melody. She interrupts herself and calls aloud_) Bertha! Bertha! (_Sings_) O Bertholina, O Bertholina!

BERTHA (_walks through the middle_): My lady, your pleasure?

(_Rita has taken off her cloak and stands in front of the mirror. She is still humming the melody absentmindedly_).

(_Bertha takes off Rita's wraps._)

RITA (_turns around merrily_): Tell me, Bertha, why does not the electric bell ring? I must always sing first, must always squander all my flute notes first ere I can entice you to come. What do you suppose that costs? With that I can immediately arrange another charity matinee.

Terrible thing, isn't it?

BERTHA: Yes. The man has not yet repaired it.

RITA: O, Bertholina, _why_ has the man not yet repaired it?

BERTHA: Yes. The man intended to come early in the morning.

RITA: The man has often wanted to do so. He does not seem to possess a strong character. (_She points to her cloak_) Dust it well before placing it in the wardrobe. The dust is simply terrible in this place ... and this they call a fresh-air resort. Has anybody called?

BERTHA: Yes, my lady, the Count. He has----

RITA: Well, yes; I mean anyone else?

BERTHA: No. No one.

RITA: Hm! Let me have my dressing gown.

(_Bertha goes to the sleeping chamber to the left._)

RITA (_steps in front of the mirror, singing softly_): "Les envoyees du paradis...." (_Suddenly raising her voice, she asks Bertha_) How long did he wait?

BERTHA: What?

RITA: I would like to know how long he waited.

BERTHA: An hour.

RITA (_to herself_): He does not love me any more. (_Loudly_) But during that time he might have at least repaired the bell. He is of no use whatever. (_She laughs._)

BERTHA: The Count came directly from the matinee and asked me where your ladyship had gone to dine. Naturally I did not know.

RITA: Did he ask--anything else?

BERTHA: No, he looked at the photographs.

RITA (_in the door_): Well? And does he expect to come again to-day?