From the Other Shore

XIV

my own sorrow and from its sorrow; to perish, perhaps, during the collapse and destruction toward which it is rushing at full steam.

Why, then, do I remain?

I remain because there is a struggle here, because, despite the blood and tears, social questions are being resolved here, because the sufferings here are painful and burning, but public, the struggle is open, and no one hides. Woe to the defeated, but they are not defeated before the battle, nor are they deprived of their language before they have uttered a word; violence is great, but the protest is loud; the fighters often go to the galleys penal labor colonies or prison ships, chained hand and foot, but with head held high and with free speech. Where the word has not perished, the deed has not yet perished. For this open struggle, for this speech, for this publicity—I remain here; for it I give up everything, I give up you for it, a part of my property, and perhaps I will give up my life in the ranks of the energetic minority, "persecuted, but not cast down" a reference to 2 Corinthians 4:9.

For the sake of this speech, I broke, or rather, suppressed for a time, my blood ties with the people in whom I found so many echoes of the bright and dark sides of my soul, whose song and language are my song and my language, and I remain with the people, in whose life I deeply sympathize with the one bitter cry of the proletarian and the desperate courage of his friends.

It cost me dearly to decide . . . you know me . . .