Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

great art patron, and let off with six months imprisonment. But he had to restore the Vendôme Column at his own cost, something which it took him years to do. So the bloody tragi-comedy was ended. President Thiers, a cunning old man, now grown shrewder than ever, who might perhaps have prevented all these horrors, sat in Versailles on the evening of May 25 and rocked himself in the rapture of victory. Dozing as was his wont after his evening meal, he

dreamed a delightful dream. He saw the column of victory again rising on high in the morning sun. However, there was no Napoleon on it this time, but another figure. And who indeed was he thus worthy to replace the great Emperor? Whose was that familiar form, with the great spectacles and the Titus topknot? Suddenly the slumberer started up and rubbed his eyes, still half-confused by his dream. Then he cried in rapture: 'I am it!'

A MAY VISIT TO DUBLIN

BY A SWISS

From Neue Zürcher Zeitung, May 15, 17
(LIBERAL REPUBLICAN DAILY)

'GOING to Ireland?' 'Now?' 'Are you crazy?' 'Got tired of living?' I was bombarded with these and many similar questions by my English acquaintances when I told them that I intended to see the situation in Ireland with my own eyes instead of depending upon hearsay reports. The only two encouraging comments I received were from the Secretary of State for Ireland in London, and from your own regular correspondent in that city.

My journey did not begin under promising auspices. We had hardly left the harbor when a violent storm overtook us and tossed our steamer about unmercifully. However, the However, the tempest subsided as suddenly as it came and, by evening, when we entered Kingstown Harbor considerably delayed, the setting sun was shining brightly. A cruiser lay in the port as if watching sternly each new arrival. Half-an-hour's railway journey brought

us to Dublin. My first impressions were confusing: -the atmosphere of a great city, beautiful imposing buildings, but dirty and neglected streets; well-dressed men and women, but also a multitude of ragged loafers. The business streets exhibited every evidence of activity. Fine modern structures have replaced the buildings burned in Sackville Street after the October Revolution of 1916. Only the General Post Office has been left in ruins to remind future generations of the present fight for liberty.

However, a person is speedily aware of the unwholesome atmosphere surrounding him. Armored automobiles with vicious-looking machine guns rumble through the streets, and a man never knows when some unknown hand may throw a bomb in his vicinity. Even more intimidating are the open, heavy auto-trucks of the auxiliary troops and police- the so-called 'Black

and Tans.' You see these men, standing or kneeling in groups of ten or twenty on the platforms of their trucks, half-protected by a barbed-wire grating or by sand bags, their rifles ready to fire at the slightest challenge. When their trucks charge through narrow or busy streets, where it is almost impossible to get out of the way, they constitute a serious danger for the public and many a young life has been suddenly snuffed out by them.

You often hear a curse or insult hurled after the Black and Tans, whereupon they instantly make ready to fire. I realized it was no joke when my special guard here in Dublin said to me: 'You are playing with death fifty times a day. If you go abroad in the busy part of the city, you can really consider it a lucky accident if you get home at night unharmed.'

However, the infantry patrols are the most disturbing of all. They are from fifteen to twenty strong, and are constantly marching through the streets at a slow measured pace, the men at intervals of ten to fifteen yards from each other, in three columns so as to cover the whole breadth of the avenue. They do not carry their rifles on their shoulders, but muzzle-forward with finger on the trigger guard. Their officer has his revolver in his hand, or else his hand upon his holster, and usually twirls a swagger stick in his fingers as he advances. For the first few days a visitor feels as though he were living in a wasp's nest from which he seeks to escape as soon as possible. But these things become so commonplace that you soon cease to notice them.

If you visit the Bank of Ireland, which occupies the old Parliament Building, you will always find it guarded by a patrol marching back and forth behind a rampart of sand bags and barbed wire. This is also a favorite rendezvous for the armored auto

trucks which are always a high light in the picture. If you visit the City Hall, you will find the portal protected by a barbed-wire barricade six or seven strands high and thirty feet long, in addition to sand-bag entrenchments the height of a man. The windows are broken but a ragged English flag flies from the roof. Armored automobiles and auto-trucks also carry the Union Jack, to drill into the civilians the idea that England still rules here.

A person who visits Ireland to-day is never permitted to forget that he is in the presence of two enemy powers, and he must not fancy that the term Irish Republic is a fiction, an empty boast. He will soon learn better. A person cannot turn around without being observed by spies. A net of many thousand meshes hangs over the heads of the people. A single miscalculation, one thoughtless remark, may end a man. The servants in the restaurants and hotels are organized bodies of spies in the service of one power or the other. Any observant man can confirm this for himself, and documentary proof of it accidentally fell into my possession. At the same time, a man need fear nothing so long as he plays an open hand and keeps in constant touch with both sides. Each party wishes the truth to be known and will help a visitor to learn it.

The unpleasantest hour of the day is the early evening, just before curfew which, in summer, sounds at ten o'clock in Dublin and over the greater part of Ireland. That is the time for raids, when a man is likely to be stopped suddenly at any moment with the order, 'Hands up!' to find a pistol pointed at his breast, and to be forced to show the contents of his pockets to the man behind it. It is the fatal hour for those who cannot clear themselves of suspicion. Let me recite a single incident from my personal experience.

During one of the first days of my stay in Dublin, I dined after nine o'clock in the evening at a hotel which was only a few minutes distant from my lodgings. Three gentlemen and several ladies were in the dining-room chatting over a bottle of champagne. About twenty minutes before ten o'clock, several motors passed without my observing that anyone got out. I accidentally noticed the head waiter beckon to another waiter, whereupon both went over to the party I have just mentioned and requested them with the courteous smile peculiar to their trade, to pay their bill. There was a short conversation, the gentlemen suddenly became disturbed, paid, and left the room with the ladies. Right afterwards, the waiter advised me to leave the hotel as soon as possible because a raid was expected. I paid my check and went into the lobby where the ladies were engaged in excited conversation. The head porter advised me not to run away; whereupon I stepped out of the main entrance and could hardly trust my eyes. The gentlemen I have just mentioned stood in front of the motors with their hands in the air, a pistol was pointed at the breast of each by men in civilian clothes, who roughly questioned them. Apparently they were being searched. The brusque 'Who are you?' was still ringing in my ears when I slipped by without being spoken to and left the spot as soon as possible. Some sixty yards away I turned around, and saw that the whole hotel was in utter darkness. The three gentlemen, however, were forced to enter the motors. No one could tell me the next day why or where they went.

When I got back to my hotel, and related the episode to a few intimate friends, they laughed at my astonishment and told me that the same thing happened dozens of times every evening. A person must not carry his hands

in his overcoat pockets in a busy street or he will be suspected of having a revolver. Every day I could hear the sound of shooting from my hotel.

Almost equally disturbing, though not so dangerous, are the official military raids which occur at night and include a whole block of buildings. One evening, about midnight, I had an opportunity to see such an operation from my hotel windows. Armored automobiles and auxiliary troops in their conveyances and a searchlight train combed out several houses in our neighborhood. Every room in each of these buildings was lighted. The searchlights played on them constantly. Every person and every object was carefully searched; suspicious writings and suspicious objects of every kind were seized, and several people were arrested. After an hour and a half or two hours, the thing was over. But sometimes a second raid is made the same night. Business houses and banks are raided in broad daylight. It is the universal testimony that the raids made by regular troops are orderly and courteous.

But 'Black and Tan' raids are the terror of the community. These troops often take things into their own hands and, as I was told by several parties, the men are often drunk when they make raids. That explains why these forces are so bitterly hated, and are stigmatized as constant threats against personal security and private property. Sinn Fein raids are carried out very quietly; but witnesses tell me that they are, as a rule, much the most dangerous of all because they are ordinarily made only to take a man condemned to death. The person thus sentenced receives a previous warning, but often the sentence is not carried out for several months. I saw such a 'death letter' with my own eyes. Naturally, under such conditions, irresponsible people take advantage of the political chaos

for criminal ends, and it is often difficult to say whether an act has a political or a criminal object.

One result of the universal insecurity is that thousands of people change their lodgings daily, especially men who are active in the Sinn Fein movement. I became acquainted with several young men of this class who were 'on the run,' and who slept in a different house every night, and seldom took their meals twice in the same place. The way the houses are constructed permits a man who is thus in danger to slip out by

some back exit the moment there is an alarm, and to find his way by a similar obscure channel into some neighboring building. Hundreds and thousands of houses are always open to such fugitives, and they are able in this way to evade capture for months. All of them are armed and sell their lives as dearly as possible if that proves necessary. Of course, the spies of the republic lead the same life of constant peril; but the more dangers and the more adventurous their duties, the more enthusiastically they fight for their cause.

A JOURNEY TO GEORGIA

BY LUISE KAUTSKY

From Arbeiter Zeitung, April, 6, 7, 9
(VIENNA MODERATE SOCIALIST Daily)

LAST August my husband and I were able to comply with a long cherished wish of the Social Democratic Labor Party of Georgia, that we should make a tour of investigation through their country. We journeyed across Tyrol and Italy to the harbor of Taranto, from which we took steamer to Constantinople. Passing over the thousand interesting incidents of this voyage, let me begin with our arrival at Batum, after three days' steamer-travel from the Turkish capital.

The largest port of Georgia greets one with an imposing panorama. The wide sweeping bay is encircled by the gently rising hills clothed with luxuriant tropical vegetation. In the immediate background the dazzling white snow peaks of the Caucasus tower aloft, in striking contrast with the reposeful verdure at their feet.

We had little time to view this charming scene for automobiles were awaiting us at the wharf with a committee of the Georgian Social Democratic Party which, at that time, was in complete possession of the government. We were received with an address in French by a member of the National Assembly, who is also editor of the Georgian Socialist Party newspaper,1 which said many friendly things about my husband, whose writings are familiar to every Georgian comrade. The cordial sincerity of these remarks went directly to our hearts. We were taken by motor to the beautiful residence of the mayor. Our route was at first along the sea, past wharves and warehouses, then through clean, broad, beautiful boulevards bordered with palms.

From the moment we first set foot on 1 Since executed by the Bolsheviki.

Georgian soil until we left the country three months later, we were the recipients of every possible courtesy from our countless comrades, whose first object in life seemed to be to make our stay as delightful as possible and to do honor to the man whom they regarded as a great apostle of social democracy. We had hardly reached our host's house before a deputation of workingmen from the local unions arrived, inviting us to a mass meeting which was to welcome us that evening. Then we were taken in an automobile to see the extensive tea- and bamboo-plantations in the vicinity of the city. This gave us an opportunity to learn something of the magnificent country which surrounds the town. News of our arrival had spread like wildfire, and crowds gathered in the streets to greet us, shouting the Georgian formula of welcome, Gaumart schoba, which means literally, 'Victory to you,' and which crystallizes in a single phrase the warlike history of the nation. Wherever we stopped, picturesque men and women crowded round us to touch the hand of the 'beloved teacher,' and when we moved on their fur caps would be tossed into the air with the loud Georgian cheer: Wascha! Wascha!

At the evening meeting, whose chairman spoke perfect German, we were more than surprised at the perfect familiarity which the speakers showed not only with the classical literature of socialism, but also with the status of the labor movement in Western Europe. We were equally touched by the eagerness which the masses exhibited for still further instruction and information along these lines. My husband's statement that he had come to study Georgian conditions was received with great enthusiasm. We were accompanied, on our return to the mayor's home, by practically all the audience, which remained for a considerable period in

front of the house singing the Georgian national hymn and the International.

Our journey from Batum to Tiflis was like a triumphal procession. The railway buildings along the way were decorated with the Red flag and with the Georgian flag, and with pictures of Marx and Engels. I was touched to see everywhere youthful portraits of my husband framed in garlands. This confirmed what Georgians had told me in Germany, that Kautsky was held in the same esteem in their native country as Marx and Engels themselves. At every station where we stopped we were met by a throng of happy, excited people who invaded our car, delivered speeches, and cheered us on our way. In fact this continued ovation, and the unaccustomed luxury of our surroundings, became almost embarrassing. However, our Georgian comrades reassured us on the latter point, saying that the workingmen of their country rejoiced in their ability to show their own leaders the same honors and to provide them the same luxuries, which had formerly gone to their Tsarist oppres

sors.

At Tiflis we were greeted by Comrade Jordania, President of the Republic, one of the most genial as well as the most notable men in public life. During the first day of our sojourn in the capital we were fairly flooded with callers and deputations of every conceivable kind, from all sections of the people. Our ignorance of Georgian and Russian, the two languages in common use, prevented our talking directly with the workingmen themselves as we so much desired. However, there was no lack of interpreters among our comrades, many of whom spoke both German and French fluently.

Moreover, among our callers were many German colonists. Formerly one whole quarter of Tiflis was occupied exclusively by Germans, and they are

« VorigeDoorgaan »