Haymarket (22 page)

Regrettably, some needlessly inflammatory language does remain in the final document. The worst is a clause stating: “It is self-evident that the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie must have a violent revolutionary character.” This can, and I hope will, be read as relevant only if the moneyed classes remain deaf to our pleas for amelioration. Still, I fear the language could alienate many more workers than it attracts.

The best thing to come out of Pittsburgh is a new organization, the International Working People’s Association, and, finally, a stated vision very close to our own hearts. “The ultimate goal of our struggle,” the Manifesto reads, “is the creation of a society based on the cooperative organization of production, the exchange of products without profit-mongery, the regulation of all public affairs by free contracts between autonomous groups linked in a federal system, and a secular system of education based on the principle of the equality of the sexes.” (Most announced that “the unsuitability of women for higher education will become so quickly apparent that I need not waste energy opposing it.”)

Whether the
IWPA
can successfully unify the many bitterly divided factions, socialist and anarchist (and everything in between) remains, of course, to be seen. But at least it marks a fresh start, a new hope, and both were desperately needed. For the moment, at least, everyone seems buoyant.

As for Johann Most, I doubt that I’ll ever resolve my deep ambivalence about the man. As infuriating as his performance here has been, we need to remember that it was his brilliant articles in
Die Freiheit
that helped us to understand for the first time that the anarchists, and not Marx, are right about the State—that it’s inevitably an instrument of oppression, no matter who controls it, that power itself, the habit of ruling others, deeply corrupts. The anarchist dream of a decentralized society based on voluntary association
is
the best dream.

You and our babies have been constantly in my thoughts throughout these tumultuous days. It’s hard to believe that dear Lulu is nearly two and a half. How it saddens me to be away from home so much, how I miss its joys and comfort. And now I am off yet again; as I telegraphed you, dearest, I go straight from here, along with Spies and several other comrades, to meet with Terence Powderly in New York City. The meeting, as you know, comes at his suggestion. We’re all eager to find a way to forestall another bout of factionalism down the road.

When next I write, it will be from amidst the fleshpots of Gotham. I toyed with the idea of simply boarding at one of the brothels—I’ll be pressed for time, after all—but finally decided that settling down among a mere twenty or so women would foolishly limit my options. We anarchists, after all, must give full and free expression to human possibilities. I only hope that my strength is equal to the task!

Oh, I almost forgot a juicy tidbit that I know you will savor. Van Patten has disappeared, leaving behind a suicide note declaring his despair at the disintegration of the
SLP
. We were distraught at the news. That is, until word arrived two days later that he had been spotted in Washington. He’s taken a job as a minor federal functionary. Since you always distrusted the man, our hats are off to your intuition.

You can write to me c/o Powderly at the Knights of Labor office, 119 Grove Street, New York City.

Believe me, ever your devoted husband,
Albert

Chicago
October 21, 1883

Dear Husband,

I rejoiced to get your letter, though not at some of its news, and gave your babies big, big kisses from you. Albert Jr. does miss his papa mightily. Lulu and I are indifferent. (Are you silly enough to believe that?)

Some of your news I’d heard just yesterday from Michael Schwab, who got the full text of the Manifesto off the telegraph. You’ve never met Schwab, have you? He moved to Chicago only two years ago. I met
him through Lizzie. You will like him. He’s gentle and mild-mannered, though a little dry and scholarly. Spies can tell you more about him; he’s just hired Schwab as a reporter for the
Arbeiter-Zeitung
. Schwab does agree with Most that the ruling class will never abandon its privileges peacefully. I do, too. I think you’re doing what you always do—torturing yourself with scruples about the possible necessity of force—which I can assure you, my dear, no capitalist has ever felt when murdering us. Lizzie agrees. That ought to impress you. You’ve always viewed John Brown’s insurrection as an act of heroism. Why can’t you apply his logic about the lords of the lash to the lords of the loom? Well, we’ve been over this ground many times. You sometimes think me hard, I know. And I sometimes think you faint-hearted. We must be patient with each other. Together we will find the right path.

Lizzie and I have both been working hard to organize Chicago’s sewing girls. Lizzie’s gone into the commercial sewing shops and found conditions there even worse than the ones we were familiar with. The women sit at long tables in filthy fire traps. In shops where steam provides the power, the sewing machines are bolted to the table. Bits of fabric, along with grease and dust, fill every cranny. Signs are posted on the walls: “No Talking or Laughing Permitted,” “Injured Goods Will be Charged to Employees,” “Extra Trimmings Must be Paid For,” and so forth. And for twelve to sixteen hours a day of such humiliation and drudgery, what wages do these poor souls take home? The range is a dollar fifty to ten dollars a week. How lucky for me that my dark skin made it impossible to get a commercial sewing job and forced me to work at home, where I don’t have to ask permission to go to the toilet or stop for a cup of tea.

High-minded ladies of charity visit the shops to lecture these wretched women about “improving their housekeeping habits and paying more attention to their children’s upbringing.” How dare they, these fancy, idle women, who in their own homes have domestics performing every one of life’s chores for them! It makes my blood boil. It makes me willing to do
anything
—yes—to end this barbaric system. Lizzie and I feel we will soon be able to claim success in organizing the very first strike of Chicago’s sewing girls.

I’ve also reached a decision this week to refuse to sew for any of the wealthy clients that have occasionally come my way. Though we need the money, I can no longer bear to be in their overstuffed homes and listen
to the chatter of their empty minds. I do make one exception, and one only—the Van Zandts, mother and daughter. For them, I’ll willingly continue to make clothes. I’ve told you about them before, their intelligence and kindness, their genuine interest in hearing about conditions among the poor. (It’s amazing to me how little information finds its way into the cocoons of the rich.)

The daughter, Nina—yes, she insists I call her Nina, can you believe it?—has a kind of innate egalitarianism—can you imagine, a wealthy young debutante schooled at Miss Grant’s and recently graduated from Vassar! If only we could figure out why some few traitors (well, potential traitors) to their class do emerge, we might be able to produce more of them. Anyway, when I was fitting Nina yesterday, she actually wept when I told her about the conditions Lizzie had found in the commercial sewing shops. Whether her empathy will ever take any political form remains to be seen. You can be sure I’ll do my best to bring tears to her eyes whenever possible.

I cannot warn you too strongly, dear husband, to be on your guard against Powderly, especially since I’m told he has a great deal of personal magnetism. By now you may well have had your meeting with him. But if not, let me remind you that the man is on record urging workers to shun strikes whenever possible in favor of “negotiated settlements” with their employers. Oh yes, I know, he acknowledges that strikes are a legitimate weapon of last resort and can be an effective organizing tool, but his emphasis is on caution and conciliation. What he fails to tell us is how we are to “negotiate” when we have no power, or how to “conciliate” someone who has his boot on your throat. Powderly’s counsel of patience feeds the workers’ already profound sense of fatalism. Taught to believe from early youth that whatever happens to them is either ordained by heaven or the result of their own character defects, they discount their ability to influence their own fate.

And something extraordinary—Lizzie is giving piano lessons! She used to be a music teacher and never told us! She says she’d put that part of her life behind her and has returned to it only because, with economic conditions worsening again, she’s forced to piece out her income. She’s a marvel, our Lizzie. I heard her lecture the other night on “The History and Philosophy of Music” and it was as if I was in the presence of a learned professor.

You will much oblige your loving wife if you avoid patronizing Gotham’s prostitutes. I care not a fig for your virtue, but rather for my health! On the other hand, I insist that you see as much of the rest of the city as possible, and describe it to us in detail when next you write. Do not waste your entire visit on the likes of Terence Powderly—you can be bored to death right here in Chicago. I want to hear all about the latest fashions, the Coney Island Loop-the-Loop, the grand new Opera House, and the electric arc illumination on the city streets. And before blowing up J. P. Morgan’s Madison Avenue mansion, be sure to take copious notes on its incandescent lighting!

Ever your devoted wife,
Lucy

New York City
October 25, 1883

Dearest Assassin,

Have you and Lizzie yet picked a candidate whose murder will “awaken the people to their liberation” (as your new mentor, Johann Most, might put it)? Shall it be another President? The current incumbent, the honorable Chester Alan Arthur, seems rather too rotund to be successfully pierced with any ordinary weapon; perhaps a forced diet of baking soda and saltpeter would do the trick.

Or do you have your heart set on the arch worker-traitor himself, Mr. Terence V. Powderly? You sound ferocious enough about him to have settled on death by cannibalism. That might also satisfy your penchant for melodrama. You will admit, my dear, that you have a tendency to see people in theatrical terms.

Yes, I intend to lecture you a bit. I hope you’ll sit still for it. It’s important not to caricature Powderly. I’ve now spent two lengthy evenings with the man and I admit that on sight he looks like a timid tee-totaler, with his Prince Albert frock coat, starched standup collar and tie. But his views are more complex—even his attitude towards strikes—than we’ve been led to believe. The labor movement can’t continue to demonize people with whom we disagree on particular points. We’ve seen far
too much of that. It does the work of the enemy for them.

I want to remind you that Powderly has been outspoken against all discrimination based on sex or color. Just last month, as you know, one of the Knights’ key demands in the telegraphers strike against Western Union was equal pay for the female operators who make up a quarter of the workers. True, Powderly, unlike us, believes that labor and capital can ultimately be harmonized. But he’s no Pollyanna. The man may be slow to go to war, but he’s not afraid to fight, and his ultimate goal is the same as ours: a cooperative society. Contrast Powderly’s views with those of the craft unions, especially the up-and-coming Cigarmakers International under Gompers and Strasser. They mock our determination to overthrow capitalism as utopian fantasy. Powderly told Spies and me that he thinks the craft unions and the Knights are on a collision course—both growing rapidly in numbers, but committed to very different social visions for the future.

Given his temperamental dislike for extremism of any kind, Powderly may one day end up denouncing us, or we him. But let’s not declare him an enemy in advance of a rupture that may never prove necessary.

There, I’m done lecturing you. Have you already torn my letter to shreds and gone raging off to Lizzie? I know your stubbornness prevents you from taking kindly to criticism, but we must be able to say everything to each other. You are my closest friend. If I’ve been too harsh, you’ll let me know. Of that I can be sure!