The hall is upstairs. A non-committal sign has been tacked over the street
entrance. It discloses that there is to be a discussion this night on the
subject of the world revolution. The disclosure is made in English,
Yiddish and Russian.
A thousand people have arrived. They are mostly west siders, with a
sprinkling of north and south side residents. There seem to be two types.
Shop workers and a type that classifies as the intelligentsia. The workers
sit calmly and smoke. The intelligentsia are nervous. Dark-eyed women,
bearded men, vivacious, exchanging greetings, cracking jokes.
The first speaker is a very bad orator. He is a working-man. An intensity
of manner holds the audience in lieu of phrases. He says nothing. Yet
every one listens. He says that workingmen have been slaves long enough.
That there is injustice in the world. That the light of freedom has
appeared on the horizon.
This, to the audience, is old stuff. Yet they watch the talker. He has
something they one and all treasured in their own hearts. A faith in
something. The workingmen in the audience have stopped smoking. They
listen with a faint skepticism in their eyes. The intelligentsia, however,
are warming up. For the moment old emotions are stirring in them.
Sincerity in others--the martyr spirit in others--is something which
thrills the insincerity of all intelligentsia.
Suddenly there is a change in the hall. Our stuttering orator with the
forceful manner has made a few startling remarks. He has said, "And what
we must do, comrades, is to use force. We can get nowhere without force.
We must uproot, overthrow and seize the government."
Scandal! A murmur races around the hall. The residents from the north and
south sides who have favored this discussion of world revolution with
their uplifting presence are uneasy. Somebody should stop the man. It's
one thing to be sincere, and another thing to be too sincere and tell them
that they should use force.
Now, what's the matter? The orator has grown violent.
It is somebody in the back of the hall. Heads turn. A policeman! The
orator swings his arms, and in his foreign tongue, goes on. "They are
stopping us. The bourgeoisie! They have sent the polizei! But we stand
firm. The police are powerless against us. Even though they drive us from
this hall."
The orator is all alone in his excitement. The audience has, despite his
valorous pronouncements, grown nervous. And the policeman walking down the
aisle seems embarrassed. He arrives at the platform finally. He hands a
card to the orator. The orator glances at the card and then waves it in
the air. Then he reads it slowly, his lips moving as he spells the words
out. The audience is shifting around, acting as if it wanted to rise and
bolt for the door.
"Ah," exclaims the orator, "the policeman says that an enemy of the
revolution has smashed an automobile belonging to one of the audience that
was standing in front of the hall. The number of the automobile is as
follows." He recites the number slowly. And then: "If anybody has an
automobile by that number standing downstairs he better go and look after
it."
A substantial looking north sider arises and walks hurriedly through the
hall. The orator decides to subside. There is a wait for the chief
speaker, who has not yet arrived. During the wait an incident develops.
There are two lights burning at the rear of the stage. A young woman calls
one of the officials of the meeting.
"Look," she says, "those lights make it impossible for us to see the
speaker who stands in front of them. They shine in our eyes."
The official wears a red sash across the front of his coat. He is one of
the minor leaders among the west side soviet radicals. He blinks. "What do
you want of me?" he inquires with indignation. "I should go and turn the
lights out? You think I'm the janitor?"
"But can't you just turn the lights off?" persists the young woman.
"The janitor," announces our official with dignity, "turns the lights on
and he will turn them off." Wherewith the Tarquin of the proletaire
marches off. Two minutes later a man in his short sleeves appears,
following him. This man is the janitor. The audience which has observed
this little comedy begins to laugh as the janitor turns off the offending
lights.
The chief speaker of the evening has arrived. He is a good orator. He is
also cynical of his audience. A short wiry man with a pugnacious face and
a cocksure mustache. He begins by asking what they are all afraid of. He
accuses them of being more social than revolutionary. As long as
revolution was the thing of the hour they were revolutionists. But now
that it is no longer the thing of the hour, they have taken up other
hobbies.
This appears to be rather the truth from the way the intelligentsia take
it. They nod approval. Self-indictment is one thing which distinguishes
the intelligentsia. They are able to recognize their faults, their
shortcomings.
Now the speaker is on his real subject. Revolution. What we want, he
cries, is for the same terrible misfortune to happen in this country that
happened in Russia. Yes, the same marvelous misfortune. And he is ready.
He is working toward that end. And he wishes in all sincerity that the
audience would work with him. Start a reign of terror. Put the spirit of
the masses into the day. The unconquerable will to overthrow the tyrant
and govern themselves. He continues--an apostle of force. Of fighting. Of
shooting, stabbing and barricades that fly the red flag. He is sardonic
and sarcastic and everything else. And the audience is disturbed.
There are whispers of scandal. And half the faces of the intelligentsia
frown in disapproval. They came to hear economic argument, not a call to
arms. The other half is stirred.
It is almost eleven. The hall empties. The streets are alive. People
hurry, saunter, stand laughing. Street cars, store fronts, mean houses,
shadows and a friendly moon. These are part of the system. Three hours ago
they seemed a powerful, impregnable symbol. Now they can be overthrown.
The security that pervades the street is an illusion. Force can knock it
out. A strange force that lies in the masses who live in this street.
The audience moves away. The intelligentsia will discuss the possibility
of a sudden uprising of the proletaire and gradually they will grow
cynical about it and say, "Well, he was a good talker."
The orator finally emerges from the building. He is surrounded by friends,
questioners. For two blocks he has company. Then he is alone. He stands
waiting for a street car. Some of the audience pass by without recognizing
him.
The street car comes and the orator gets on. He finds a seat. His head
drops against the window and his eyes close. And the car sweeps away,
taking with it its load of sleepy men and women who have stayed up too
late--including a messiah of the proletaire who dreams of leading the
masses out of bondage.