Tenderness, by Teresa Claramunt

[Published in Freedom in the 1890s.]

By Teresa Claramunt

When I read about the news published by the Spanish newspapers I could not help taking up my pen in order to write a small article with the title « Tenderness. » It is well-known that this quality is familiar to us women, because of the natural feebleness of our organism and also of the limited education we receive. Such a state of things being general amongst the fair sex, it is supposed that queens are not an exception to the rule under ordinary circumstances ; therefore I was not surprised by the Spanish Regent’s declarations. But the good señora has become aware of the infamies that were committed by her ministers somewhat too late ; because, indeed, since her elevation to regency so many infamies have been committed that she should have shown sooner the tender feelings of her heart.
But the poor señora is not to be blamed, because strength and feeling have their limit in the human machine and it is not to be expected that a being who is constantly lifting her eyes to heaven or to the altar should see what is passing about her. On the other hand, when one’s heart is full of divine love, there is o place for any human feeling ; because, by dint of consecrating all one’s love on a single fixed object, all the rest lose their worth for him who is in such a mood. I, therefore, do not find fault with the Regent’s having so recently awaked to so grave a matter. The perfume of incense causes perturbations in the brain ;—the innocent victims’ cries have made the throne quake, and the concussion has had for result that Maria Cristina has moved her eyes from the altar to direct them to the ground on which it stands.
Then—oh, how horrible !—she saw at her feet rivers of blood and heard piteous bewailing. Then, sharpening her senses, she saw obvious chinks in the solid walls of her palace ; then, as a tender mother and a tender woman, she made known to the whole nation that she is « willing to have justice done, » and that she reproves her ministers for the infamies they have committed. And as, amongst these infamies, the crime of Montjuich is to be taken into account,the queen could not help speaking about it : since innocent victims have filled with blood the moat of this Bastille called Montjuich ; because not only in the last trial were innocent men tortured, but she who writes these lines can affirm that the said men who were shot, and the four that were condemned to perpetual detention for the bomb thrown by Pallas at Marshal Campos were also tortured.
But let us leave the dead—the tenderness of a queen cannot recall them to life ;—let us occupy ourselves with those who are innocently suffering in the hulks in consequence of these infamies.
« I am willing that justice should be done, » said Maria Cristina. It is well-known that the justice a queen is minded to have is very limited, but it is to be supposed that the queen’s limits of justice will reach these honest workmen so unjustly condemned and so enable them to again take their place in society.
We who bitterly remember the infamies committed in Montjuich by Marzo, Portas, G
arcia, Navarro, Tresolo and other torturers, do not forget the four workmen who are innocently suffering at the Ceuta hulks for the first trial, and the twenty that also suffer for the second one. We have given important information to the public, and its sad character of truth has interested all the hearts of civilised countries.
The queen’s latest affirmations are the last stroke that will compel the revision of these atrocious sentences, and chastise severely the torturers and impostors.
If that is not done, the people surely will do it.

Anarchy, Teresa Claramunt

Teresa Claramunt

What is anarchy? Is it art? It’s more than that. Is it science? It is more than that. Is it labour? Still more. Is it love? More, more.

Anarchy is life.

There are great artists, men of science, people who love and millions of people who work use their efforts in manual labour, but in all this group of activities we can see a flaw. Life’s creative aspiration is fatal. The oppressive environment of this society only interested in money absorbs its potential. The artist has a stomach and those who have the means to satisfy its needs are idiots, which impossibility to be able to elevate themselves to the regions towards which progress leads. The inspiration they have to protect the monopoly of ignorant people who have money cannot make life more beautiful or better.

There are also references to the men of science who see themselves forced to mix generally with the contemptible traders who put a price on science as if they were dealing with bottles of wine. And what to say of this other human army of the workers, who try to find how to survive, something to eat. Eyes without faces. This is the most exact representation of death, terrifying members mutilated by the insatiability of parasitism.

Love, the delicate plant which comes to life finds death. Current society lacks the atmosphere for this whole factor of happiness. People replace it by selfishness, by a conventionalism disguised in a thousand ways.

Art, science, labour, and love. The revitalising sun denies its warmth to human beings because evil capital creates thick storm clouds among which move the idiots, the wicked, the hypocrites, all the parasites who conspire against life. Those who adore art, those who love science, those who celebrate the cult of labour and love continue to thrash about in the womb of death if they are not manly, and don’t shed the prejudices which wrap them up and fight against everything for the full enjoyment of life: Anarchy.