Living My Life - Emma Goldman [140]
Her first appearance in New York was at Cooper Union and proved the most inspiring manifestation I had seen for years. Babushka, who had never before had a chance to face such a vast gathering, was somewhat nervous at first. But when she got her bearings, she delivered a speech that swept her audience off its feet. The next day the papers were practically unanimous in their tributes to the grand old lady. They could afford to be generous to one whose attack was levelled against far-off Russia instead of their own country. But we welcomed the attitude of the press because we knew that publicity would arouse interest in the cause Babushka had come to plead. Subsequently she spoke in French at the Sunrise Club before the largest assembly in the history of that body. I acted as interpreter, as I did also at most of the private gatherings arranged for her. [ ... I
Often after the late gatherings Babushka would come with me to my flat to spend the night. It was amazing to see her run up the five flights with an energy and vivacity that put me to shame. “Dear Babushka,” I once said to her, “how have you been able to keep your youth after so many years of prison and exile?” “And how did you manage to retain yours, living in this soul-destroying, materialistic country?” she returned. Her long exile had never been stagnant; it was always rejuvenated by the stream of politicals passing through. “I had much to inspire and sustain me,” she said; “but what have you in a country where idealism is considered a crime, a rebel an outcast, and money the only god?” I had no answer except that it was the example of those who had gone before, herself included, and the ideal we had chosen that gave us courage to persevere. The hours with Babushka were among the richest and most precious experiences of my propaganda life.
Our strenuous work for Russia at this time received additional significance by the news of the appalling tragedy of January 22 in St. Petersburg. Thousands of people, led by Father Gapon, assembled before the Winter Palace to appeal to the Tsar for relief, had been brutally mowed down, massacred in cold blood by the autocrat’s henchmen. Many advanced Americans had held aloof from Babushka’s work. They were willing enough to pay homage to her personality, her courage and fortitude; they were sceptical, however, about her description of conditions in Russia. Things could not be quite so harrowing, they claimed. The butchery on “Bloody Sunday” gave tragic significance and incontestable proof to the picture Babushka had painted. Even the lukewarm liberals could no longer close their eyes to the situation in Russia.
At the Russian New Year’s ball we greeted the advent of 1905 standing in a circle, Babushka dancing the kazatchok with one of the boys. It was a feast for the eyes to see the woman of sixty-two, her spirit young, cheeks ruddy, and eyes flashing, whirling about in the popular Russian dance.
In January Babushka went on a lecture tour, and I could turn to other interests and activities. My dear Stella had come from Rochester in the late fall to live with me. It had been her great dream to do so since early childhood. My narrow escape during the McKinley hysteria had changed the attitude of my sister Lena, Stella’s mother, making her more kindly and affectionate towards me. She no longer begrudged me Stella’s love, having learned to understand how deep was my concern for her child. Stella’s parents realized that their daughter would have better opportunity for development in New York, and that she would be safe with me. I was happy in the anticipation of having with me my little niece, whose birth had brightened my dark youth. Yet when the long-awaited moment arrived, I was too busy with Babushka to give much time to Stella.