Living My Life - Emma Goldman [43]
The next day Fedya took me to Central Park. Along Fifth Avenue he pointed out the various mansions, naming their owners. I had read about those wealthy men, their affluence and extravagance, while the masses lived in poverty. I expressed my indignation at the contrast between those splendid palaces and the miserable tenements of the East Side. “Yes, it is a crime that the few should have all, the many nothing,” the artist said. “My main objection,” he continued, “is that they have such bad taste—those buildings are ugly.” Berkman’s attitude to beauty came to my mind. “You don’t agree with your chum on the need and importance of beauty in one’s life, do you?” I asked. “Indeed I do not. But, then, my friend is a revolutionist above everything else. I wish I could also be, but I am not.” I liked his frankness and simplicity. He did not stir me as Berkman did when speaking of revolutionary ethics; Fedya awakened in me the mysterious yearning I used to feel in my childhood at sight of the sunset turning the Popelan meadows golden in its dying glow, as the sweet music of Petrushka’s flute did also.
The following week I went to the Freiheit office. Several people were already there, busy addressing envelopes and folding the papers. Everybody talked. Johann Most was at his desk. I was assigned a place and given work. I marvelled at Most’s capacity to go on writing in that hubbub. Several times I wanted to suggest that he was being disturbed, but I checked myself. After all, they must know whether he minded their chatter.
In the evening Most stopped writing and gruffly assailed the talkers as “toothless old women,” “cackling geese,” and other appellations I had hardly ever before heard in German. He snatched his large felt hat from the rack, called to me to come along, and walked out. I followed him and we went up on the Elevated. “I’ll take you to Terrace Garden,” he said; “we can go into the theatre there if you like. They are giving Der Zigeunerbaron tonight. Or we can sit in some corner, get food and drink, and talk.” I replied that I did not care for light opera, that what I really wanted was to talk to him, or rather have him talk to me. “But not so violently as in the office,” I added.
He selected the food and the wine. Their names were strange to me. The label on the bottle read: Liebfrauenmilch. “Milk of woman’s love—what a lovely name!” I remarked. “For wine, yes,” he retorted, “but not for woman’s love. The one is always poetic—the other will never be anything but sordidly prosaic. It leaves a bad taste.”
I had a feeling of guilt, as if I had made some bad break or had touched a sore spot. I told him I had never tasted any wine before, except the kind Mother made for Easter. Most shook with laughter, and I was near tears. He noticed my embarrassment and restrained himself. He poured out two glassfuls, saying: “Prosit, my young, naïve lady,” and drank his down at a gulp. Before I could drink half of mine, he had nearly finished the bottle and ordered another.
He became animated, witty, sparkling. There was no trace of the bitterness, of the hatred and defiance his oratory had breathed on the platform. Instead there sat next to me a transformed human being, no longer the repulsive caricature of the Rochester press or the gruff creature of the office. He was a gracious host, an attentive and sympathetic friend. He made me tell him about myself and he grew thoughtful when he learned the motive that had decided me to break with my old life. He warned me to reflect carefully before taking the plunge. “The path of anarchism is steep and painful,” he said; “so many have attempted to climb it and have fallen back. The price is exacting. Few men are ready to pay it, most women not at all.” [ . . . ]
I inquired whether the anarchist movement in America had no outstanding woman. “None at all, only stupids,” he replied; “most of the girls come to the