institution. It was also from this standpoint that the Drama was
expected to show the terrible consequences of uncontrolled human
passion, and that these consequences should teach man to overcome
himself. "To conquer oneself is man's greatest triumph."
This ascetic tendency, incidentally part of chastisement and acquired
resignation, one can trace in every investigation of the value and
meaning of the Drama, though in different forms. The avenging Nemesis,
always at the heels of the sinner, may be placated by means of rigid
self-control and self-denial. This, too, was Schopenhauer's idea of the
Drama. In it, his eye perceived with horror that human relation became
disastrously interwoven; that guilt and atonement made light of the
human race, which merely served as a target for the principles of good
and evil. Guilt and atonement reign because the blind force of life will
not resign itself, but, on the contrary, is ever ready to yield itself
to the struggle of the passions. Mountains of guilt pile themselves on
the top of each other, while purifying fires ever flame up into the
heavens.
In the idea that Life in itself is a great guilt, Schopenhauer coincides
with the teachings of Christ, though otherwise he has little regard for
them. With Christ, he recognized in the chastisement of the body a
purification of the mind; the inner man, who thus escapes from close
physical intimacy, as if from bad company. The spiritual man appears
before the physical as a saint and a Pharisee. In reality, he is the
intellectual cause of the so-called bad deeds of the human body, its
path indicator and teacher. But, once the mischief is accomplished, he
puts on a pious air and denies all responsibility for the deed.
Wherever the idea of guilt, the fear of sin prevails, the mind becomes
traitor to the body: "I know him not and will have nothing to do with
him." Whenever man entertains the belief in good and evil, he is bound
to pretend the good and do the evil. And yet the understanding of all
human occurrences begins, as with the Zarathustra philosopher, beyond
good and evil.
The modern drama is, in its profoundest depths, an attempt to ignore
good and evil in its analysis of human manifestations. It aims to get at
a complete whole, out of each strong, healthy emotion, out of each
absorbing mood that carries and urges one forward from the beginning to
the end. It represents the World as it reflects itself in each passion,
in each quivering life; not trying to confine and to judge, to condemn
or to praise; not acting merely in the capacity of a cold observer; but
striving to grow in oneness with Life; to become color, tone and light;
to absorb universal sorrow as one's own; universal joy as one's own; to
feel every emotion as it manifests itself in a natural way; to be one's
self, yet oblivious of self.
The modern dramatist tries to understand and to explain. Goodness is no
longer entitled to a reward, like a pupil who knows his lesson; nor is
evil condemned to an eternal Hell. Both belong together in the sphere of
all that is human. Often enough it is seen that evil triumphs over good,
while virtue, ever highly praised in words, is rarely practiced. It is
set aside to become dusty and dirty in some obscure corner. Only at some
opportune moment is it brought forward from its hiding place to serve as
a cover for some vile deed. We can no longer believe that beyond and
above us there is some irrevocable, irresistible Fate, whose duty it is
to punish all evil and wrong and to reward all goodness; an idea so
fondly cherished by our grandfathers.
To-day we no longer look for the force of fate outside of human
activity. It lives and weaves its own tragedies and comedies with us and
within us. It has its roots in our social, political and economic
surroundings, in our physical, mental and psychic capacities. (Did not
the fate of Cyrano de Bergerac lie in his gigantic nose?) With others,
fate lies in their vocation in life, in their mental and emotional
tendencies, which either submerge them into the hurry and rush of a
commonplace existence, or bring them into the most annoying conflicts
with the _dicta_ of society. Indeed, it is often seen that a human
being, apparently of a cheerful nature, but who has failed to establish
a durable relation with society, often leads a most tragic inner life.
Should he find the cause in his own inclinations, and suffer agonizing
reproaches therefrom, he becomes a misanthrope. If, however, he feels
inwardly robust and powerful, living truly, if he crave complete
assertion of a self that is being hampered by his surroundings at every
step, he must inevitably become a Revolutionist. And, again, his life
may become tragic in the struggle with our powerful institutions and
traditions, the leaden weight of which will, apparently, not let him
soar through space to ever greater heights. Apparently, because it
sometimes occurs that an individual rises above the average, and waves
his colors over the heads of the common herd. His life is that of the
storm bird, anxiously making for distant shores. The efforts of the
deepest, truest and freest spirits of our day tend toward the conscious
formation of life, toward that life which will make the blind raging of
the elements impossible; a life which will show man his sovereignity and
admit his right to direct his own world.
The old conception of the drama paid little or no attention to the
importance of the influences of social conditions. It was the individual
alone who had to carry the weight of all responsibility. But is not the
tragedy greater, the suffering of the individual increased, by
influences he cannot control, the existing social and moral conditions?
And is it not true that the very best and most beautiful in the human
breast cannot and will not bow down to the commands of the commonplace
and everyday conditions? Out of the anachronisms of society and its
relation to the individual grow the strongest motives of the modern
drama. Pure personal conflicts are no longer considered important enough
to bring about a dramatic climax. A play must contain the beating of the
waves, the deep breath of life; and its strong invigorating breeze can
never fail in bringing about a dramatic effect upon our emotions. The
new drama means reproduction of nature in all its phases, the social and
psychological included. It embraces, analyzes and enriches all life. It
goes hand in hand with the longing for materially and mentally
harmonious institutions. It rehabilitates the human body, establishes it
in its proper place and dignity, and brings about the long deferred
reconciliation between the mind and the body.
Full of enthusiasm, with the pulse of time throbbing in his veins, the
modern dramatist compiles mountains of material for the better
understanding of Man, and the influences that mould and form him. He no
longer presents capital acts, extraordinary events, or melodramatic
expressions. It is life in all its complexity, that is being unfolded
before us, and so we come closer to the source of the forces that
destroy and build up again, the forces that make for individual
character and direct the world at large. Life, as a whole, is being
dealt with, and not mere particles. Formerly our eyes were dazzled by a
display of costumes and scenery, while the heart remained unmoved. This
no longer satisfies. One must feel the warmth of life, in order to
respond, to be gripped.
The sphere of the drama has widened most marvellously in all directions,
and only ends where human limitations begin. Together with this, a
marked deepening of the inner world has taken place. Still there are
those who have much to say about the vulgarity contained in the modern
drama, and how its inaugurators and following present the ugly and
untruthful. Untrue and ugly, indeed, for those who are buried under a
mass of inherited views and prejudices. The growth of the scope of the
drama has increased the number of the participants therein. Formerly it
was assumed that the fate of the ordinary man, the man of the masses,
was altogether too obscure, too indifferent to serve as material for
anything tragic; since those who had never dwelt in the heights of
material splendor could not go down to the darkest and lowest abyss.
Because of that assumption, the low and humble never gained access to
the center of the stage; they were only utilized to represent mobs.
Those that were of importance were persons of high position and
standing, persons who represented wealth and power with superiority and
dignity, yet with shallow and superficial airs. The ensemble was but a
mechanism and not an organism; and each participant was stiff and
lifeless; each movement was forced and strained. The old fate and hero
drama did not spring from within Man and the things about him; it was
merely manufactured. Most remarkable incidents, unheard of situations
had to be invented, if only to produce, externally, an appearance of
coinciding cause and effect; and not a single plot could be without
secret doors and vaults, terrible oaths and perjury. If Ibsen, Gorky,
Hauptmann, Gabrielle D'Annunzio and others had brought us nothing else
but liberation from such grotesque ballast, from such impossibilities as
destroy every illusion as to the life import of a play, they would still
be entitled to our gratitude and the gratitude of posterity. But they
have done more. Out of the confusion of trap doors, secret passages,
folding screens, they have led us into the light of day, of undisguised
events, with their simple distinct outlines. In this light, the man of
the heap gains in life force, importance and depth. The stage no longer
offers a place for impossible deeds and the endless monologues of the
hero, the important feature is harmonious concert of action. The hero,
on a stage that conscientiously stands for real art and aims to produce
life, is about as superfluous as the clown who amused the audience
between the acts. After all the spectacle of one star display, one
cannot help but hail the refreshing contrast, shown in the "Man of
Destiny," by the clever Bernard Shaw, where he presents the legend-hero,
Napoleon, as a petty intriguer, with all the inner fear and uneasiness
of a plotter. In these days of concerted energy, of the co-operation of
numerous hands and brains; in the days when the most far-reaching effect
can only be accomplished through the summons of a manifold physical and
mental endeavor, the existence of these loud heroes is circumscribed
within rather limited lines.
Previous generations could never have grasped the deep tragedy in that
famous painting of Millet that inspired Edwin Markham to write his "Man
with the Hoe." Our generation, however, is thrilled by it. And is there
not something terribly tragic about the lives of the great masses who
pierced the colossal stone cliffs of the Simplon, or who are building
the Panama Canal? They have and are performing a task that may safely be
compared with the extraordinary achievements of Hercules; works which,
according to human conception, will last into eternity. The names and
the characters of these workmen are unknown. The historians, coldly and
disinterestedly, pass them by.
The new drama has unveiled this kind of tragedy. It has done away with
the lie that sought to produce a violent dramatic effect through a
plunge from the sublime to the ridiculous. Those who understand
Tolstoy's "Power of Darkness," wherein but those of the lowest strata
appear, will be overwhelmed by the terrible tragedy in their lives, in
comparison with which the worries of some crowned head or the money
troubles of some powerful speculator will appear insignificant indeed.
That which this master unfolds before us is no longer a plunge from
heaven to hell; the entire life of these people is an Inferno. The
terrible darkness and ignorance of these people, forced on them by the
social misery of dull necessity, produces greater soul sensations in the
spectator than the stilted tragedy of a Corneille. Those who witness a
performance of Gerhart Hauptmann's "Hannele" and fail to be stirred by
the grandeur and depth of that masterpiece, regardless of its petty
poorhouse atmosphere, deserve to see nothing else than the "Wizard of
Oz." And again is not the long thunderous march of hungry strikers in
Zola's "Germinal" as awe-inspiring to those who feel the heart beat of
our age even as the heroic deeds of Hannibal's warriors were to his
contemporaries?
The world stage ever represents a change of participants. The one who
played the part of leading man in one century, may become a clown in
another. Entire social classes and casts that formerly commanded first
parts, are to-day utilized to make up stage decorations or as
figurantes. Plays representing the glory of knighthood or minnesingers
would only amuse to-day, no matter how serious they were intended to
appear. Once anything lies buried under the bulk of social changes, it
can affect coming generations only so far as the excavated skeleton
affects the geologist. This must be borne in mind by sincere stage art,
if it is not to remain in the stifling atmosphere of tradition, if it
does not wish to degrade a noble method, that helps to recognize and
disclose all that is rich and deep in the human into a commonplace,
hypocritical and stupid method. If the artist's creation is to have any
effect, it must contain elements of real life, and must turn its gaze
toward the dawn of the morn of a more beautiful and joyous world, with a
new and healthy generation, that feels deeply its relationship with all
human beings over the universe.
[Illustration]
In a report of the Russian government, it is stated that the conduct of
the soldiers in the struggles of the streets was such, that in no
instance did they transgress the limit which is prescribed to them in
their oath as soldiers. This is true. The soldier's oath prescribes
murder and cruelty as their patriotic duty.
[Illustration]
If government, were it even an ideal Revolutionary government, creates
no new force and is of no use whatever in the work of demolition which
we have to accomplish, still less can we count on it for the work of
reorganization which must follow that of demolition. The economic change
which will result from the Social Revolution will be so immense and so
profound, it must so change all the relations based to-day on property
and exchange, that it is impossible for one or any individual to
elaborate the different social forms, which must spring up in the
society of the future. This elaboration of new social forms can only be
made by the collective work of the masses. To satisfy the immense
variety of conditions and needs which will spring up as soon as private
property shall be abolished, it is necessary to have the collective
suppleness of mind of the whole people. Any authority external to it
will only be an obstacle, only a trammel on the organic labor which must
be accomplished, and beside that a source of discord and hatred.
Kropotkine.
[Illustration]
A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY.--POLICE PROTECTION.
Chicago's pride are the stockyards, the Standard Oil University, and
Miss Jane Addams. It is, therefore, perfectly natural that the
sensibility of such a city would suffer as soon as it became known that
an obscure person, by the common name of E. G. Smith, was none other
than the awful Emma Goldman, and that she had not even presented herself
to Mayor Dunne, the platonic lover of Municipal Ownership. However, not
much harm came of it.
The Chicago newspapers, who cherish the truth like a costly jewel, made
the discovery that the shrewd Miss Smith compromised a number of
Chicago's aristocracy and excellencies, among others also Baron von
Schlippenbach, consul of the Russian Empire. We consider it our duty to
defend this gentleman against such an awful accusation. Miss Smith never
visited the house of the Baron, nor did she attend any of his banquets.
We know her well and feel confident that she never would put her foot on
the threshold of a representative of a government that crushes every
free breath, every free word; that sends her very best and noblest sons
and daughters to prison or the gallows; that has the children of the
soil, the peasants, publicly flogged; and that is responsible for the
barbarous slaughter of thousands of Jews.
Miss Jane Addams, too, is quite safe from Miss Smith. True, she invited
her to be present at a reception, but, knowing the weak knees of the
soup kitchen philanthropy from past experience, Miss Smith called her up
on the 'phone and told her that E. G. S. was the dreaded Emma Goldman.
It must have been quite a shock to the lady; after all, one cannot
afford to hurt the sensibilities of society, so long as one has
political and public aspirations. Miss E. G. Smith, being a strong
believer in the prevention of cruelty, preferred to leave the purity of
the Hull House untouched. After her return to New York, E. G. Smith sent
Smith about its business, and started on a lecture tour in her own
right, as Emma Goldman.
CLEVELAND. Dear old friends and co-workers: The work you accomplished
was splendid, also the comradely spirit of the young. But why spoil it
by bad example of applying for protection from the city authorities? It
does not behoove us, who neither believe in their right to prohibit free
assembly, nor to permit it, to appeal to them. If the authorities choose
to do either, they merely prove their autocracy. Those who love freedom
must understand that it is even more distasteful to speak under police
protection than it is to suffer under their persecution. However, the
meetings were very encouraging and the feeling of solidarity sweet and
refreshing.
BUFFALO. The shadow of September 6 still haunts the police of that city.
Their only vision of an Anarchist is one who is forever lying in wait
for human life, which is, of course, very stupid; but stupidity and
authority always join forces. Capt. Ward, who, with a squad of police,
came to save the innocent citizens of Buffalo, asked if we knew the law,
and was quite surprised that that was not our trade; that we had not
been employed to disentangle the chaos of the law,--that it was his
affair to know the law. However, the Captain showed himself absolutely
ignorant of the provisions of the American Constitution. Of course, his
superiors knew what they were about when they set the Constitution
aside, as old and antiquated, and, instead, enacted a law which gives
the average officer a right to invade the head and heart of a man, as to
what he thinks and feels. Capt. Ward added an amendment to the
anti-Anarchist law. He declared any other language than English a
felony, and, since Max Baginski could only avail himself of the German
language, he was not permitted to speak. How is that for our law-abiding
citizens? A man is brutally prevented from speaking, because he does not
know the refined English language of the police force.
Emma Goldman delivered her address in English. It is not likely that
Capt. Ward understood enough of that language. However, the audience
did, and if the police of this country were not so barefaced, the
saviour of Buffalo would have wished himself anywhere rather than to
stand exposed as a clown before a large gathering of men and women.
The meeting the following evening was forcibly dispersed before the
speakers had arrived. Ignorance is always brutal when it is backed by
power.
TORONTO. King Edward Hotel, Queen Victoria Manicuring Parlor. It was
only when we read these signs that we realized that we were on the soil
of the British Empire.
However, the monarchical authorities of Canada were more hospitable and
much freer than those of our free Republic. Not a sign of an officer at
any of the meetings.
The city? A gray sky, rain, storms. Altogether one was reminded of one
of Heine's witty, drastic criticisms in reference to a well-known German
university town. "Dogs on the street," Heine writes, "implore strangers
to kick them, so that they may have some change from the awful monotony
and dulness."
ROCHESTER. The neighborly influence of the Buffalo police seems to have
had a bad effect upon the mental development of the Rochester
authorities. The hall was packed with officers at both meetings. The
government of Rochester, however, was not saved--the police kept
themselves in good order. Some of them seem to have benefited by the
lectures. That accounts for the familiarity of one of Rochester's
"finest," who wanted to shake Emma Goldman's hand. E. G. had to decline.
Baron von Schlippenbach or an American representative of law and
disorder,--where is the difference?
SYRACUSE. The city where the trains run through the streets. With
Tolstoy, one feels that civilization is a crime and a mistake, when one
sees nerve-wrecking machines running through the streets, poisoning the
atmosphere with soft coal smoke.
What! Anarchists within the walls of Syracuse? O horror! The newspapers
reported of special session at City Hall, how to meet the terrible
calamity.
Well, Syracuse still stands on its old site. The second meeting,
attended largely by "genuine" Americans, brought by curiosity perhaps,
was very successful. We were assured that the lecture made a splendid
impression, which led us to think that we probably were guilty of some
foolishness, as the Greek philosopher, when his lectures were applauded,
would turn to his hearers and ask, "Gentlemen, have I committed some
folly?"
Au revoir.
E. G. and M. B.
THE MORAL DEMAND.
A COMEDY, IN ONE ACT, BY OTTO ERICH HARTLEBEN.
Translated from the German for "Mother Earth."
CAST.
RITA REVERA, concert singer.
FRIEDRICH STIERWALD, owner of firm of "C. W. Stierwald Sons" in
Rudolstadt.
BERTHA, Rita's maid.
_Time._--End of the nineteenth century.
_Place._--A large German fashionable bathing resort.
* * * * *
Scene.--_Rita's boudoir. Small room elegantly furnished in Louis XVI.
style. In the background, a broad open door, with draperies, which leads
into an antechamber. To the right, a piano, in front of which stands a
large, comfortable stool._
* * * * *
RITA (_enters the antechamber attired in an elaborate ball toilette. She
wears a gray silk cloak, a lace fichu, and a parasol. Gaily tripping
toward the front, she sings_): "Les envoyées du paradis sont les
mascottes, mes amis...." (_She lays the parasol on the table and takes
off her long white gloves, all the while singing the melody. She
interrupts herself and calls aloud_) Bertha! Bertha! (_Sings_) O
Bertholina, O Bertholina!
BERTHA (_walks through the middle_): My lady, your pleasure?
(_Rita has taken off her cloak and stands in front of the mirror. She is
still humming the melody absentmindedly_).
(_Bertha takes off Rita's wraps._)
RITA (_turns around merrily_): Tell me, Bertha, why does not the
electric bell ring? I must always sing first, must always squander all
my flute notes first ere I can entice you to come. What do you suppose
that costs? With that I can immediately arrange another charity matinée.
Terrible thing, isn't it?
BERTHA: Yes. The man has not yet repaired it.
RITA: O, Bertholina, _why_ has the man not yet repaired it?
BERTHA: Yes. The man intended to come early in the morning.
RITA: The man has often wanted to do so. He does not seem to possess a
strong character. (_She points to her cloak_) Dust it well before
placing it in the wardrobe. The dust is simply terrible in this place
... and this they call a fresh-air resort. Has anybody called?
BERTHA: Yes, my lady, the Count. He has----
RITA: Well, yes; I mean anyone else?
BERTHA: No. No one.
RITA: Hm! Let me have my dressing gown.
(_Bertha goes to the sleeping chamber to the left._)
RITA (_steps in front of the mirror, singing softly_): "Les envoyées du
paradis...." (_Suddenly raising her voice, she asks Bertha_) How long
did he wait?
BERTHA: What?
RITA: I would like to know how long he waited.
BERTHA: An hour.
RITA (_to herself_): He does not love me any more. (_Loudly_) But during
that time he might have at least repaired the bell. He is of no use
whatever. (_She laughs._)