Kropotkine.



A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.—POLICE PROTECTION.

Chicago's pride are the stockyards, the Standard Oil University, and Miss Jane Addams. It is, therefore, perfectly natural that the sensibility of such a city would suffer as soon as it became known that an obscure person, by the common name of E. G. Smith, was none other than the awful Emma Goldman, and that she had not even presented herself to Mayor Dunne, the platonic lover of Municipal Ownership. However, not much harm came of it.

The Chicago newspapers, who cherish the truth like a costly jewel, made the discovery that the shrewd Miss Smith compromised a number of Chicago's aristocracy and excellencies, among others also Baron von Schlippenbach, consul of the Russian Empire. We consider it our duty to defend this gentleman against such an awful accusation. Miss Smith never visited the house of the Baron, nor did she attend any of his banquets. We know her well and feel confident that she never would put her foot on the threshold of a representative of a government that crushes every free breath, every free word; that sends her very best and noblest sons and daughters to prison or the gallows; that has the children of the soil, the peasants, publicly flogged; and that is responsible for the barbarous slaughter of thousands of Jews.

Miss Jane Addams, too, is quite safe from Miss Smith. True, she invited her to be present at a reception, but, knowing the weak knees of the soup kitchen philanthropy from past experience, Miss Smith called her up on the 'phone and told her that E. G. S. was the dreaded Emma Goldman. It must have been quite a shock to the lady; after all, one cannot afford to hurt the sensibilities of society, so long as one has political and public aspirations. Miss E. G. Smith, being a strong believer in the prevention of cruelty, preferred to leave the purity of the Hull House untouched. After her return to New York, E. G. Smith sent Smith about its business, and started on a lecture tour in her own right, as Emma Goldman.

CLEVELAND. Dear old friends and co-workers: The work you accomplished was splendid, also the comradely spirit of the young. But why spoil it by bad example of applying for protection from the city authorities? It does not behoove us, who neither believe in their right to prohibit free assembly, nor to permit it, to appeal to them. If the authorities choose to do either, they merely prove their autocracy. Those who love freedom must understand that it is even more distasteful to speak under police protection than it is to suffer under their persecution. However, the meetings were very encouraging and the feeling of solidarity sweet and refreshing.

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 Constitution. Of course, his superiors knew what they were about when they set the Constitution 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 assured 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?

BERTHA: Yes, certainly. At four o'clock.

RITA (looks at the clock): Oh, but that's boring. Now it is already half-past three. One cannot even drink coffee in peace. Hurry, Bertha, prepare the coffee.

(Bertha leaves the room, carrying the articles of attire.)

(Rita, after a pause, singing a melancholy melody.)

(Friedrich Stierwald, a man very carefully dressed in black, about thirty years of age, with a black crepe around his stiff hat, enters from the rear into the antechamber, followed by Bertha.)

BERTHA: But the lady is not well.

FRIEDRICH: Please tell the lady that I am passing through here, and that I must speak with her about a very pressing matter. It is absolutely necessary. Please! (He gives her money and his card.)

BERTHA: Yes, I shall take your card, but I fear she will not receive you.

FRIEDRICH: Why not? O, yes! Just go——

BERTHA: This morning she sang at a charity matinee and so——

FRIEDRICH: I know, I know. Listen! (Rita's singing has grown louder) Don't you hear how she sings? Oh, do go!

BERTHA (shaking her head): Well, then—wait a moment. (She passes through the room to the half-opened door of the sleeping apartment, knocks) Dear lady!

RITA (from within): Well? What's the matter?

BERTHA (at the door): Oh, this gentleman here—he wishes to see you very much. He is passing through here.

RITA (within; laughs): Come in.

(Bertha disappears.)

(Friedrich has walked up to the middle door, where he remains standing.)

RITA: Well. Who is it? Friedrich—— Hmm—— I shall come immediately.

BERTHA (comes out and looks at Friedrich in surprise): My lady wishes you to await her. (She walks away, after having taken another glance at Friedrich.)

(Friedrich looks about embarrassed and shyly.)

(Rita enters attired in a tasteful dressing gown, but remains standing in the door.)

FRIEDRICH (bows; softly): Good day.

(Rita looks at him with an ironical smile and remains silent.)

FRIEDRICH: You remember me? Don't you?

RITA (quietly): Strange. You—come to see me? What has become of your good training? (Laughs.) Have you lost all sense of shame?

FRIEDRICH (stretches out his hand, as if imploring): Oh, I beg of you, I beg of you; not this tone! I really came to explain everything to you, everything. And possibly to set things aright.

RITA: You—with me! (She shakes her head.) Incredible! But, please, since you are here, sit down. With what can you serve me?

FRIEDRICH (seriously): Miss Hattenbach, I really should——

RITA (lightly): Pardon me, my name is Revera. Rita Revera.

FRIEDRICH: I know that you call yourself by that name now. But you won't expect me, an old friend of your family, to make use of this romantic, theatrical name. For me you are now, as heretofore, the daughter of the esteemed house of Hattenbach, with which I——

RITA (quickly and sharply): With which your father transacts business, I know.

FRIEDRICH (with emphasis): With which I now am myself associated.

RITA: Is it possible? And your father?

FRIEDRICH (seriously): If I had the slightest inkling of your address, yes, even your present name, I should not have missed to announce to you the sudden death of my father.

RITA (after pause): Oh, he is dead. I see you still wear mourning. How long ago is it?

FRIEDRICH: Half a year. Since then I am looking for you, and I hope you will not forbid me to address you now, as of yore, with that name, which is so highly esteemed in our native city.

RITA (smiling friendly): Your solemnity—is delightful. Golden! But sit down.

FRIEDRICH (remains standing; he is hurt): I must confess, Miss Hattenbach, that I was not prepared for such a reception from you. I hoped that I might expect, after these four or five years, that you would receive me differently than with this—with this—how shall I say?

RITA: Toleration.

FRIEDRICH: No, with this arrogance.

RITA: How?

FRIEDRICH (controlling himself): I beg your pardon. I am sorry to have said that.

RITA (after a pause, hostile): You wish to be taken seriously? (She sits down, with a gesture of the hand) Please, what have you to say to me?

FRIEDRICH: Much. Oh, very much. (He also sits down.) But—you are not well to-day?

RITA: Not well? What makes you say so?

FRIEDRICH: Yes, the maid told me so.

RITA: The maid—she is a useful person. That makes me think. You certainly expect to stay here some time, do you not?

FRIEDRICH: With your permission. I have much to tell you.

RITA: I thought so. (Calling loudly) Bertha! Bertha! Do you suppose one could get an electric bell repaired here? Impossible.

BERTHA (enters): My lady?

RITA: Bertha, when the Count comes—now I am really sick.

BERTHA (nods): Very well. (She leaves.)

RITA (calls after her): And where is the coffee? I shall famish.

BERTHA (outside): Immediately.

FRIEDRICH: The—the Count—did you say?

RITA: Yes, quite a fine fellow otherwise, but—would not fit in now. I wanted to say: I am passionately fond of electric bells. You know they have a fabulous charm for me. One only needs to touch them softly, ever so softly, with the small finger, and still cause a terrible noise. Fine—is it not? You wanted to talk about serious matters. It seems so to me.

FRIEDRICH: Yes. And I beg of you, Miss Erna——

RITA: Erna?

FRIEDRICH: Erna!

RITA: Oh, well!

FRIEDRICH (continuing): I beg of you; be really and truly serious. Yes? Listen to what I have to say to you. Be assured that it comes from an honest, warm heart. During the years in which I have not seen you, I have grown to be a serious man—perhaps, too serious for my age—but my feelings for you have remained young, quite young. Do you hear me, Erna?

RITA (leaning back in the rocking chair, with a sigh): I hear.

FRIEDRICH: And you know, Erna, how I have always loved you from my earliest youth, yes, even sooner than I myself suspected. You know that, yes?

(Rita is silent and does not look at him.)

FRIEDRICH: When I was still a foolish schoolboy I already called you my betrothed, and I could not but think otherwise than that I would some day call you my wife. You certainly know that, don't you?

RITA (reserved): Yes, I know it.

FRIEDRICH: Well, then you ought to be able to understand what dreadful feelings overcame me when I discovered, sooner than you or the world, the affection of my father for you. That was—no, you cannot grasp it.

RITA (looks at him searchingly): Sooner than I and all the world?

FRIEDRICH: Oh, a great deal sooner ... that was.... That time was the beginning of the hardest innermost struggles for me. What was I to do? (He sighs deeply.) Ah, Miss Erna, we people are really——

RITA: Yes, yes.

FRIEDRICH: We are dreadfully shallow-minded. How seldom one of us can really live as he would like to. Must we not always and forever consider others—and our surroundings?

RITA: Must?

FRIEDRICH: Well, yes, we do so, at least. And when it is our own father! For, look here, Erna, I never would have been able to oppose my father! I was used, as you well know, from childhood to always look up to my father with the greatest respect. He used to be severe, my father, proud and inaccessible, but—if I may be permitted to say so, he was an excellent man.

RITA: Well?

FRIEDRICH (eagerly): Yes, indeed! You must remember that it was he alone who established our business by means of his powerful energy and untiring diligence. Only now I myself have undertaken the management of the establishment. I am able to see what an immense work he has accomplished.

RITA (simply): Yes, he was an able business man.

FRIEDRICH: In every respect! Ability personified, and he had grown to be fifty-two years of age and was still, still—how shall I say?

RITA: Still able.

FRIEDRICH: Well, yes; I mean a vigorous man in his best years. For fifteen years he had been a widower, he had worked, worked unceasingly, and then—the house was well established—he could think of placing some of the work upon younger shoulders. He could think of enjoying his life once more.

RITA (softly): That is——

FRIEDRICH (continuing): And he thought he had found, in you, the one who would bring back to him youth and the joy of life.

RITA (irritated): Yes, but then you ought to—(Breaks off.) Oh, it is not worth while.

FRIEDRICH: How? I should have been man enough to say: No, I forbid it; that is a folly of age. I, your son, forbid it. I demand her for myself. The young fortune is meant for me—not for you?——No, Erna, I could not do that. I could not do that.

RITA: No.

FRIEDRICH: I, the young clerk, with no future before me!

RITA: No!

FRIEDRICH: My entire training and my conceptions urged me to consider it my duty to simply stand aside and stifle my affection, as I did—as I already told you even before any other person had an idea of the intentions of my father. I gradually grew away from you.

RITA (amused): Gradually—yes, I recollect. You suddenly became formal. Indeed, very nice!

FRIEDRICH: I thought——

(Bertha comes with the coffee and serves.)

RITA: Will you take a cup with me?

FRIEDRICH (thoughtlessly): I thought——(Correcting himself) pardon me! I thank you!

RITA: I hope it will not disturb you if I drink my coffee while you continue.

FRIEDRICH: Please (embarrassed). I thought it a proper thing. I hoped that my cold and distant attitude would check a possible existing affection for me.

RITA: Possible existing affection! Fie! Now you are beginning to lie! (She jumps up and walks nervously through the room.) As though you had not positively known that! (Stepping in front of him) Or what did you take me for when I kissed you?

FRIEDRICH (very much frightened, also rises): O, Erna, I always——

RITA (laughs): You are delightful! Delightful! Still the same bashful boy—who does not dare—(she laughs and sits down again.) Delightful.

FRIEDRICH (after a silence, hesitatingly): Well, are you going to allow me to call you Erna again, as of yore?

RITA: As of yore. (She sighs, then gaily) If you care to.

FRIEDRICH (happy): Yes? May I?

RITA (heartily): O, yes, Fritz. That's better, isn't it? It sounds more natural, eh?

FRIEDRICH (presses her hand and sighs): Yes, really. You take a heavy load from me. Everything that I want to say to you can be done so much better in the familiar tone.

RITA: Oh! Have you still so much to say to me?

FRIEDRICH: Well—but now tell me first: how was it possible for you to undertake such a step. What prompted you to leave so suddenly? Erna, Erna, how could you do that?

RITA (proudly): How I could? Can you ask me that? Do you really not know it?

FRIEDRICH (softly): Oh, yes; I do know it, but—it takes so much to do that.

RITA: Not more than was in me.

FRIEDRICH: One thing I must confess to you, although it was really bad of me. But I knew no way out of it. I felt relieved after you had gone.

RITA: Well, then, that was your heroism.

FRIEDRICH: Do not misunderstand me. I knew my father had——

RITA: Yes, yes—but do not talk about it any more.

FRIEDRICH: You are right. It was boyish of me. It did not last long, and then I mourned for you—not less than your parents. Oh, Erna! If you would see your parents now. They have aged terribly. Your father has lost his humor altogether, and is giving full vent to his old passion for red wine. Your mother is always ailing, hardly ever leaves the house, and both, even though they never lose a word about it, cannot reconcile themselves to the thought that their only child left them.

RITA (after a pause, awakens from her meditation, harshly): Perhaps you were sent by my father?

FRIEDRICH: No—why?

RITA: Then I would show you the door.

FRIEDRICH: Erna!

RITA: A man, who ventured to pay his debts with me——

FRIEDRICH: How so; what do you mean?

RITA: Oh—let's drop that. Times were bad. But to-day the house of Hattenbach enjoys its good old standing, as you say, and has overcome the crisis. Then your father must have had some consideration—without me. Well, then.——And Rudolstadt still stands—on the old spot. That's the main thing. But now let us talk about something else, I beg of you.

FRIEDRICH: No, no, Erna. What you allude to, that——do you really believe my father had——

RITA: Your father had grown used to buy and attain everything in life through money. Why not buy me also? And he had already received the promise—not from me, but from my father. But I am free! I ran away and am my own mistress! (With haughtiness.) A young girl, all alone! Down with the gang!

(Friedrich is silent and holds his head.)

RITA (steps up to him and touches his shoulder, in a friendly manner): Don't be sad. At that time your father was the stronger, and——Life is not otherwise. After all, one must assert oneself.

FRIEDRICH: But he robbed you of your happiness.

RITA (jovially): Who knows? It is just as well.

FRIEDRICH (surprised): Is that possible? Do you call that happiness, this being alone?

RITA: Yes. That is MY happiness—my freedom, and I love it with jealousy, for I fought for it myself.

FRIEDRICH (bitterly): A great happiness! Outside of family ties, outside the ranks of respectable society.

RITA (laughs aloud, but without bitterness): Respectable society! Yes. I fled from that—thank Heaven. (harshly) But if you do not come in the name of my father, what do you want here? Why do you come? For what purpose? What do you want of me?

FRIEDRICH: Erna, you ask that in a strange manner.

RITA: Well, yes. I have a suspicion that you—begrudge me my liberty. How did you find me, anyway?

FRIEDRICH: Yes, that was hard enough.

RITA: Rita Revera is not so unknown.

FRIEDRICH: Rita Revera! Oh, no! How often I have read that name these last years—in the newspapers in Berlin, on various placards, in large letters. But how could I ever have thought that you were meant by it?

RITA (laughs): Why did you not go to the "Winter Garden" when you were in Berlin?

FRIEDRICH: I never frequent such places.

RITA: Pardon me! Oh, I always forget the old customs.

FRIEDRICH: Oh, please, please, dear Erna; not in this tone of voice!

RITA: Which tone?

FRIEDRICH: Erna! Do not make matters so difficult for me. See, after I had finally discovered, through an agency in Berlin, and after hunting a long time, that you were the famous Revera, I was terribly shocked at first, terribly sad, and, for a moment, I thought of giving up everything. My worst fears were over. I had the assurance that you lived in good, and as I now see, in comfortable circumstances. But, on the other hand, I had to be prepared that you might have grown estranged to the world in which I live—that we could hardly understand each other.

RITA: Hm! Shall I tell you what was your ideal—how you would have liked to find me again? As a poor seamstress, in an attic room, who, during the four years, had lived in hunger and need—but respectably, that is the main point. Then you would have stretched forth your kind arms, and the poor, pale little dove would have gratefully embraced you. Will you deny that you have imagined it thus and even wished for it?

FRIEDRICH (looks at her calmly): Well, is there anything wrong about it?

RITA: But how did it happen that, regardless of this, of this disappointment, you, nevertheless, continued to search for me?

FRIEDRICH: Thank goodness, at the right moment I recollected your clear, silvery, childlike laughter. Right in the midst of my petty scruples it resounded in my ears, as at the time when you ridiculed my gravity. Do you still remember that time, Erna?

(Rita is silent.)

BERTHA (enters with an enormous bouquet of dark red roses): My lady—from the Count.

RITA (jumps up, nervously excited): Roses! My dark roses! Give them to me! Ah! (She holds them toward Friedrich and asks) Did he say anything?

BERTHA: No, said nothing, but——

FRIEDRICH (shoves the bouquet, which she holds up closely to his face, aside): I thank you.

RITA (without noticing him, to Bertha): Well?

BERTHA (pointing to the bouquet): The Count has written something on a card.

RITA: His card? Where? (She searches among the flowers) Oh, here! (She reads; then softly to Bertha) It is all right.

(Bertha leaves.)

RITA (reads again): "Pour prendre conge." (With an easy sigh) Yes, yes.

FRIEDRICH: What is the matter?

RITA: Sad! His education was hardly half finished and he already forsakes me.

FRIEDRICH: What do you mean? I do not understand you at all.

RITA (her mind is occupied): Too bad. Now he'll grow entirely stupid.

FRIEDRICH (rises importantly): Erna, answer me. What relationship existed between you and the Count?

RITA (laughs): What business is that of yours?

FRIEDRICH (solemnly): Erna! Whatever it might have been, this will not do any longer.

RITA (gaily): No, no; you see it is already ended.

FRIEDRICH: No, Erna, that must all be ended. You must get out of all this—entirely—and forever.

RITA (looks at him surprised and inquiringly): Hm! Strange person.

FRIEDRICH (grows more eager and walks up and down in the room): Such a life is immoral. You must recognize it. Yes, and I forbid you to live on in this fashion. I have the right to demand it of you.

RITA (interrupts him sharply): Demand? You demand something of me?

FRIEDRICH: Yes, indeed, demand! Not for me—no—in the name of morals. That which I ask of you is simply a moral demand, do you understand, a moral demand, which must be expected of every woman.

RITA: "Must!" And why?

FRIEDRICH: Because—because—because—well, dear me—because—otherwise everything will stop!

RITA: What will stop? Life?

FRIEDRICH: No, but morals.

RITA: Ah, I thank you. Now I understand you. One must be moral because—otherwise morality will stop.

FRIEDRICH: Why, yes. That is very simple.

RITA: Yes—now, please, what would I have to do in order to fulfill your demand? I am curious like a child now, and shall listen obediently. (She sits down again.)

FRIEDRICH (also sits down and grasps her hand, warmly): Well, see, my dear Erna, everything can still be undone. In Rudolstadt everybody believes you are in England with relatives. Even if you have never been there——

RITA: Often enough. My best engagements.

FRIEDRICH: So much the better. Then you certainly speak English?

RITA: Of course.

FRIEDRICH: And you are acquainted with English customs. Excellent. Oh, Erna. Your father will be pleased, he once confessed to me, when he had a little too much wine. You know him: he grows sentimental then.

RITA (to herself): They are all that way.

FRIEDRICH: How?

RITA: Oh, nothing. Please continue. Well—I could come back?

FRIEDRICH: Certainly! Fortunately, during these last years, since you have grown so famous, nobody has——

RITA: I have grown notorious only within a year.

FRIEDRICH: Well, most likely nobody in Rudolstadt has ever seen you on the boards. In one word, you must return.

RITA: From England?

FRIEDRICH: Yes, nothing lies in the way. And your mother will be overjoyed.

RITA: Nay, nay.

FRIEDRICH: How well that you have taken a different name.

RITA: Ah, that is it. Yes, I believe that. Then they know that I am Rita Revera.

FRIEDRICH: I wrote them. They will receive you with open arms. Erna! I beg of you! I entreat you; come with me! It is still time. To-day. You cannot know, but anybody from Rudolstadt who knows might come to the theatre and——

RITA (decidedly): No one from Rudolstadt will do that. They are too well trained for that. You see it by your own person. But go on! If I would care to, if I really would return—what then?

FRIEDRICH: Then? Well, then, you would be in the midst of the family and society again—and then——

RITA: And then?

FRIEDRICH: Then, after some time has elapsed and you feel at home and when all is forgotten, as though nothing had ever happened——

RITA: But a great deal has happened.

FRIEDRICH: Erna, you must not take me for such a Philistine that I would mind that. At heart I am unprejudiced. No, really, I know (softly) my own fault, and I know Life. I know very well, and I cannot ask it of you, that you, in a career like yours, you——

RITA: Hm?

FRIEDRICH: Well, that you should have remained entirely faultless. And I do not ask it of you either.

RITA: You do well at that.

FRIEDRICH: I mean, whatever has happened within these four years—lies beyond us, does not concern me—but shall not concern you any longer either. Rita Revera has ceased to be—Erna Hattenbach returns to her family.

RITA: Lovely, very lovely. Hm!—but then, what then? Shall I start a cooking school?

FRIEDRICH (with a gentle reproach): But, Erna! Don't you understand me? Could you think of anything else than—— Of course, I shall marry you then.

(Rita looks at him puzzled.)

FRIEDRICH: But that is self-evident. Why should I have looked you up otherwise? Why should I be here? But, dear Erna, don't look so stunned.

RITA (still stares at him): "Simply—marry." Strange. (She turns around towards the open piano, plays and sings softly) Farilon, farila, farilette.

FRIEDRICH (has risen): Erna! Do not torment me!

RITA: Torment? No. That would not be right. You are a good fellow. Give me a kiss. (She rises.)

FRIEDRICH (embraces and kisses her): My Erna! Oh, you have grown so much prettier! So much prettier!

(Rita leans her head on his shoulder.)

FRIEDRICH: But now come. Let us not lose one moment.

(Rita does not move.)

FRIEDRICH: If possible let everything be.... Come! (He pushes her with gentle force) You cry?

RITA (hastily wipes the tears from her eyes, controls herself): O, nonsense. Rita Revera does not cry—she laughs. (Laughs forcedly.)

FRIEDRICH: Erna, do not use that name. I do not care to hear it again!

RITA: Oh—you do not want to hear it any more. You would like to command me. You come here and assume that that which life and hard times have made of me you can wipe out in a half hour! No! You do not know life and know nothing of me. (Harshly) My name is Revera, and I shall not marry a merchant from Rudolstadt.

FRIEDRICH: How is that? You still hesitate?

RITA: Do I look as though I hesitated? (She steps up closer to him.) Do you know, Fred, that during the years after my escape I often went hungry, brutally hungry? Do you know that I ran about in the most frightful dives, with rattling plate, collecting pennies and insults? Do you know what it means to humiliate oneself for dry bread? You see; that has been my school. Do you understand that I had to become an entirely different person or go to ruin? One who owes everything to himself, who is proud of himself, but who no longer respects anything, above all, no conventional measures and weights? And do you understand, Fred, that it would be base on my part were I to follow you to the Philistine?

FRIEDRICH (after a pause, sadly): No, I do not understand that.

RITA (again gaily): I thought so. Shall I dread there every suspicion and tremble before every fool, whereas I can breathe free air, enjoy sunshine and the best conscience. You know that pretty part in the Walkuere? (She sings):

"Greet Rudolstadt for me, Greet my father and mother And all the heroes.... I shall not follow you to them!"

Now you know. (She sits down at the piano again.)

FRIEDRICH (after silence): Even if you have lived through hard times, that still does not give you the right to disregard the duties of morals and customs.

RITA (plays and sings): "Farilon, farila, farilette—"

FRIEDRICH: I cannot understand how you can refuse me, when I offer you the opportunity of returning to ordered circumstances.

RITA: I do not love the "ordered" circumstances. On the contrary, I must have something to train.

FRIEDRICH: And I? I shall never be anything to you any more? You thrust me also aside in your stubbornness.

RITA: But not at all. Why?

FRIEDRICH: How so? Did you not state just now that you would never marry a merchant from Rudolstadt.

RITA: Certainly——

FRIEDRICH: Do you see? You cannot be so cold and heartless towards me? (Flattering) Why did you kiss me before? I know you also yearn in your innermost heart for those times in which we secretly saw and found each other. You also, and, even if you deny it, I felt it before when you cried. (Softly) Erna! Come along, come along with me! Come! Become my dear wife!

RITA (looks at him quietly): No, I shall not do such a thing.

FRIEDRICH (starts nervously; after a pause): Erna! Is that your last word?

RITA: Yes.

FRIEDRICH: Consider well what you say!

RITA: I know what I am about.

FRIEDRICH: Erna! You want—to remain what you are?

RITA: Yes. That's just what I want.

FRIEDRICH (remains for some time struggling, then grasps his hat): Then—adieu! (He hurries toward the left into the bedroom.)

RITA (calls smiling): Halt! Not there.

FRIEDRICH (returns, confused): Pardon me, I——

RITA: Poor Fred, did you stray into my bedroom? There is the door. (Long pause. Several times he tries to speak. She laughs gently. Then she sings and plays the song from "Mamselle Nitouche"):

A minuit, apres la fete, Rev'naient Babet et Cadet; Cristi! la nuit est complete, Faut nous depecher, Babet. Tache d'en profiter, grosse bete! Farilon, farila, farilette. J'ai trop peur, disait Cadet— J'ai pas peur, disait Babet— Larirette, larire, Larirette, larire.— — —

(Friedrich at first listens against his will, even makes a step toward the door. By and by he becomes fascinated and finally is charmed. When she finishes, he puts his stiff hat on the table and walks toward her with a blissful smile.)

RITA: Now? You even smile? Did I impress you?

FRIEDRICH (drops down on his knees in front of her): Oh, Erna, you are the most charming woman on earth. (He kisses her hands wildly.)

RITA (stoops down to him, softly and merrily): Why run away? Why? If you still love me, can you run off—you mule?

FRIEDRICH: Oh, I'll remain—I remain with you.

RITA: It was well that you missed the door.

FRIEDRICH: Oh, Erna——

RITA: But now you'll call me Rita—do you understand? Well? Are you going to—are you going to be good?

FRIEDRICH: Rita! Rita! Everything you wish.

RITA: Everything I wish. (She kisses him.) And now tell me about your moral demand. Yes? You are delightful when you talk about it. So delightful.

* * * * *

Benj. R. Tucker

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THE BOOKS OF ERNEST CROSBY

Garrison the Non-Resistant. 16mo, cloth, 144 pages, with photogravure portrait, 50c.; by mail 55c.

Plain Talk In Psalm and Parable. A collection of chants in the cause of justice and brotherhood. 12mo, cloth, 188 pages, $1.50; by mail, $1.62. Paper, 40c.; by mail 44c.

Captain Jinks, Hero. A keen satire on our recent wars, in which the parallel between savagery and soldiery is unerringly drawn. Profusely illustrated by Dan Beard. 12mo, cloth, 400 pages, postpaid $1.50

Swords and Plowshares. A collection of poems filled with the hatred of war and the love of nature. (Not sold by us in Great Britain.) 12mo, cloth, 126 pages, $1.20; by mail $1.29

Tolstoy and His Message. "A concise and sympathetic account of the life, character and philosophy of the great Russian."—New York Press. "A genuinely illuminative interpretation of the great philosopher's being and purpose."—Philadelphia Item. (Not sold by us in Great Britain.) 16mo, cloth, 93 pages, 50c.; by mail 54c.

Tolstoy as a Schoolmaster. An essay on education and punishment with Tolstoy's curious experiments in teaching as a text. 16mo, cloth, 94 pages, 50c.; by mail 53c.

Broad-Cast. New chants and songs of labor, life and freedom. This latest volume of poems by the author of "Plain Talk in Psalm and Parable" and "Swords and Plowshares" conveys the same message delivered with equal power. 12mo, cloth, 128 pages, 50c.; by mail 54c.

Edward Carpenter, Poet and Prophet. An illuminative essay, with selections and portrait of Carpenter. 12mo, paper, 64 pages, with portrait of Carpenter on cover, postpaid 20c.

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The Game of Life. A new volume of 111 fables. Most of them have been published from time to time in Life, Collier's, The Outlook, The Century, The Independent, The Ram's Horn, The Pilgrim, The Christian Endeavor World, The Rubric, The New Voice, The Philistine and other papers and magazines. 16mo, cloth, ornamental, postpaid $1.00

Even as You and I. This is a presentation, by means of popular and simple allegories, of the doctrine of Henry George and the principle which underlies it. A part of the volume is an account of Tolstoy's philosophy, drawn largely from the Russian's difficult work, "Of Life." This section is called "True Life," and follows a series of thirty-three clever parables. Count Tolstoy wrote to Mr. Hall: "I have received your book, and have read it. I think it is very good, and renders in a concise form quite truly the chief ideas of my book." 16mo, cloth, ornamental, gilt top, 50 c.; by mail 54c.

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Work and Wages. By Prof. J. E. Thorold Rogers. Shows that the real wages of the laborer, as measured by his standard of living, are actually lower now than in the fifteenth century. Cloth $1.00

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England's Ideal, and Other Papers on Social Subjects. By Edward Carpenter. Edward Carpenter is at once a profound student of social problems, an essayist with a most charming style, and a writer of true poetic insight. Everything he writes is worth reading. Cloth $1.00

The Social Revolution. By Karl Kautsky. Translated by A. M. and May Wood Simons. Cloth 50c.

The Origin and Growth of Village Communities in India. By B. H. Baden-Powell. A scientific study of a remarkable survival of a phase of primitive communism in the British dominions to-day. Cloth $1.00

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The Sale of an Appetite. By Paul Lafargue. This book by one of the foremost socialists of Europe is a notable work of art considered merely as a story and at the same time it is one of the most stirring indictments of the capitalist system ever written. Cloth, illustrated 50c.

The Triumph of Life. By Wilhelm Boelsche. The German critics of this book all agree that it is more interesting than his previous work on "The Evolution of Man," and those who have read the former work will realize what this means. The book is the story of the victory of life over the planet earth and is told in a marvelously vivid and picturesque manner. Cloth 50c.

Poems of Walt Whitman. We have secured a reprint of Whitman's famous "Leaves of Grass" for the benefit of those who, having read Mrs. Maynard's charming introduction, may desire to read the poet. Nearly all of Whitman's poems are contained therein, and John Burroughs has written a biographical introduction.

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Crime and Criminals. By Clarence S. Darrow. This is an address delivered to the prisoners at the county jail in Chicago. It shows the real cause of what is called crime and the real way to put an end to it. Paper 10c.

Katharine Breshkovsky—"For Russia's Freedom." By Ernest Poole. This is the true story of a Russian woman revolutionist who has been addressing immense crowds in American cities. "Daughter of a nobleman and earnest philanthropist; then revolutionist, hard-labor convict, and exile for twenty-three years in Siberia; and now a heroic old woman of sixty-one, she has plunged again into the dangerous struggle for freedom." Paper 10c.

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THE END