Living My Life - Emma Goldman [110]
One evening as I was about to go with Hippolyte to an important committee session, the hotel maid handed me a visiting-card. I was overjoyed to see on it the name of Oscar Panizza, whose brilliant writings in the Armer Teufel had delighted me for years. Presently a tall, dark man entered, introducing himself as Panizza. He had learned through Dr. Eugene Schmidt of my presence in Paris and was anxious to “meet Cassandra, our dear Robert’s friend.” He asked me to spend the evening with him and Dr. Schmidt. “We are going up to see Oscar Wilde2 first,” he said, “and we want you to come with us. Afterwards we will have dinner.”
What a marvellous event to meet Panizza and Wilde the same evening! In a flurry of anticipation I knocked at Hippolyte’s door to tell him about it. I found him pacing his room, waiting for me in great irritation. “You don’t mean you are not going to the session!” he cried angrily. “You have promised, you are expected, you have undertaken work to do! You can meet Oscar Wilde some other time, and Panizza too. Why must it be tonight?” In my excitement I had forgotten all about the session. Of course, I could not go back on it. With heavy heart I went downstairs to tell Panizza that I was not able to come that evening. Could we not meet tomorrow or the next day? We agreed on the following Saturday, at luncheon. He would invite Dr. Schmidt again, but he could not promise as to Oscar Wilde. The latter was in poor health and not always able to be about; but he would try his best to arrange a meeting.
On Friday Dr. Schmidt called to say that Panizza had left unexpectedly, but he was to return to Paris before long, and he would see me then. The doctor must have read disappointment on my face. “It is lovely outside,” he remarked, “come for a walk.” I was grateful, sick with regret for having given up the rare opportunity of meeting Oscar Wilde and of spending an evening with Panizza.
During our walk in the Luxembourg I told the doctor of the indignation I had felt at the conviction of Oscar Wilde. I had pleaded his case against the miserable hypocrites who had sent him to his doom. “You!” the doctor exclaimed in astonishment, “why, you must have been a mere youngster then. How did you dare come out in public for Oscar Wilde in puritan America?” “Nonsense!” I replied; “no daring is required to protest against a great injustice.” The doctor smiled dubiously. “Injustice?” he repeated; “it wasn’t exactly that from the legal point of view, though it may have been from the psychological.” The rest of the afternoon we were engaged in a battle royal about inversion, perversion, and the question of sex variation. He had given much thought to the matter, but he was not free in his approach, and I suspected that he was somewhat scandalized that I, a young woman, should speak without reservations on such tabooed subjects. [ ... J
Some of the documents I had received to be read at the congress treated of the importance of the discussion of sex problems in the anarchist press and lectures. Kate Austen’s paper was particularly strong, giving the history of the American movement for freedom in love. Kate was no mincer of words; frankly and directly she set forth her views of sex as a vital factor in life. Victor assured me that certain French comrades would not consent to have Kate’s paper read at the congress; surely not to discuss it. I could hardly believe it. The French, of all people! Victor explained that not being puritanical does not always mean being free. “The French have not the same serious attitude towards sex as the idealists in America,” he