Living My Life - Emma Goldman [85]
I had been speaking on the futility of politics and its corrupting influence when the first shot was fired. “How about honest politicians—don’t you believe there are such?” “If there are, I never heard of one,” I hurled back; “Politicians promise you heaven before election and give you hell after.” “‘Ear! ’Ear!” they screamed in approval. I had barely got back to my speech when the next bolt struck me. “I say, old girl, why do you speak of heaven?—Do you believe in such a place?” “Of course not,” I replied; “I was only referring to the heaven you stupidly believe in.” “Well, if there is no heaven, where else would the poor get their reward?” another heckler demanded. “Nowhere, unless they insist on their right here—take their reward by gaining possession of the earth.” I continued that even if there were a heaven, the common people would not be tolerated there. “You see,” I explained, “the masses have lived in hell so long they would not know how to behave in heaven. The angel at the gate would kick them out for disorderly conduct.” This was followed by another half-hour of fencing, which kept the crowd in spasms. Finally they called for the hecklers to stop, admit defeat, and let me go on.
My fame travelled quickly; the crowds grew in size at every meeting. Our literature sold in large quantities, which delighted my comrades. They wanted me to remain in London because I could do so much good there. But I knew that out-of-door speaking was not for me. My throat would not hold out under the strain and I could not bear the disturbing noises of the street traffic so close at hand. Besides, I realized that people standing up for hours grew too restless and weary to be able to concentrate or to follow a serious talk. My work meant too much to me to turn it into a circus for the amusement of the British public. [ ... ]
Anarchist activities in London were not limited to the natives. England was the haven for refugees from all lands, who carried on their work without hindrance. By comparison with the United States the political freedom in Great Britain seemed like the millennium come. But economically the country was far behind America.
I had myself experienced want and I knew of the poverty in the large industrial centres of the United States. But never had I seen such abject misery and squalor as I did in London, Leeds, and Glasgow. Its effects impressed me as not being the results of yesterday or even of years. They were century-old, passed on from generation to generation, apparently rooted in the very marrow of the British masses. One of the most appalling sights was that of able-bodied men running ahead of a cab for blocks to be on the spot in time to open the door for a “gentleman.” For such services they would receive a penny, or tuppence at most. After a month’s stay in England I understood the reason for so much political freedom. It was a safety-valve against the fearful destitution. The British Government no doubt felt that as long as it permitted its subjects to let off steam in unhampered talk, there was no danger of rebellion. I could find no other explanation for the inertia and the indifference of the people to their slavish conditions. [ ... ]
After my return from Leeds and Glasgow, where I spoke at large meetings and became acquainted with many active and devoted workers, I found a letter from Kropotkin asking me to visit him. At last I was to realize my long-cherished dream, to meet my great teacher.
Peter Kropotkin was a lineal descendant of the Ruriks and in the direct succession to the Russian throne. But he gave up his title and wealth for the cause of humanity. He did more: since becoming an