I Was a Revolutionary (24 page)

He did employ servants to cook, and launder, as well as to look after the children, especially after Etta died. Even a stranger could have noticed the pall that fell over the house afterward. But as I mentioned previously it wasn't long before his heart had rekindled, aflame for Pearl, and soon it was the warmest home one could hope for
.

J.A. and Pearl hosted parties, big affairs for prominent political visitors, but they never failed to open their door to any soul who knocked. There mustn't have existed a tramp in seven states who didn't have their address memorized and who wouldn't receive a hot meal if he could suffer receiving a little socialism in turn. I remember hearing Pearl cater to these men, pitiful-looking as any you have ever seen, while J.A. was at the printing office or away on a trip
checking on his properties. I will leave it to you to imagine sweet little Pearl lecturing transients about the “ruling class” as they ate on china and drank from crystal
.

Perhaps the only occasions they'd not celebrate were holidays. As atheists, J.A. and Pearl passed these days by taking food and presents to the unfortunate. I just remarked on that fact last week to Edward at Easter dinner. If they had lived to see the predicament we find ourselves in today, there would be a line formed at their door stretching all the way to Missouri. I remember stopping by their house one Christmas afternoon to drop some gifts off and J.A. answered the door, which surprised me. Pearl was unavailable for some reason or other, I don't recall, and he invited me in. He had just come back from visiting the needy and I presented the gifts to him. He looked down at the brightly wrapped packages for what seemed a long time and finally he thanked me with that familiar look of his: a pained smile that to some must have seemed nothing more than a grimace. He said he had something for me and asked me to follow him. I said I should be getting home, but he insisted, so I followed him to his library, which was a magnificent room that doubled as his office. There was shelf upon shelf of titles that stretched to the ceiling. He was always lending books to anyone who showed a modicum of interest and a substantial number who showed none at all. I stopped at the door and watched him remove a book from a high shelf. He stood on his tiptoes, reaching. I saw the hem of his blouse stretching tautly in the gap between his vest and trousers so I brought over a stool, which he dismissed. He pulled down a book,
The Theory of the Leisure Class
, and handed it to me. I accepted it and could tolerate only a few pages, but it was a kind gesture, and something I have always remembered. I recall standing in that library and for some reason neither of us making a move to leave until I heard the front door open and close followed by Pearl's voice calling out for J.A. Quickly I turned, leaving him there, and rushed into the other
room to wish Pearl a Merry Christmas, as I now wish you a belated happy Easter, Mr. Bronstein
.

Sincerely,

Jane Shaw

4/12/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

Forgive my eagerness in writing so soon. I don't suspect my last letter has half traversed the distance between Kansas City and New York, but I realized that in all these letters I've yet to tell you how Pearl and I became friends
.

I won't ever forget that day for it was sweltering, the hottest day of the year. Though I didn't like the prospect of leaving the paltry relief of the parlor fan, I went into town to pick up a few items that I needed to prepare supper. Quickly I rushed to the dairy and mercantile, and my last stop was the butchery. I never have cared for the aroma, which accompanies that vocation and you can imagine the stench on that day. I could barely tolerate it and intended to leave as quickly as possible, but when I entered I saw Pearl facing the counter ahead of me. We'd never had occasion to speak before, though I knew quite well who she was. She and J.A. had just married—it had been the talk of the town for a spell—and I thought it rude not to congratulate her on her nuptials. So I greeted her and she turned around. You should have seen her—she looked harried and flummoxed. The poor girl was trying to learn how to cook, I would find out. She didn't see the need for the servants J.A. had kept since Etta's death. In any case, we spoke, and she said they had just returned from their honeymoon. Though the heat and the stench were awful, I couldn't help the curiosity I felt for knowing where the rich socialist would take his young bride. When I asked, she was silent, and then I saw the runnel
that I momentarily mistook for perspiration fall down her cheek. Quickly I handed her a kerchief, looking away, and then I removed the package from her arms, telling Lou to put it back on ice, we would return shortly, and I led Pearl outside to a nearby stand of trees away from the road
.

Not wanting to embarrass her more than she already was, I looked away as she struggled to compose herself. “I don't think anyone noticed,” I said. She said she didn't care who saw and sobbed a few minutes more. I asked her what on earth was the matter, what should sour such a joyful time in her new life? Then she told me of her honeymoon: to Kentucky to see Mammoth Cave, taking in theater every night in Chicago, dining in the finest restaurants of St. Louis—three weeks in all they were away. I said I felt not a drop of pity for her in the least, which made her smile. She said that when they returned home, just a few days prior to our conversation, she was describing the trip to J.A.'s children over dinner and Walter said, “That's the same trip Father took with Mother.” And so it was, down to the very hotels in which they'd stayed and the establishments in which they dined. She said she didn't know which was worse: J.A.'s longing for his first wife or the thought of a ghost following their every step
.

We talked for a long time in that heat, nearly an hour I'd say, and then walked back to the butchery before returning to our respective homes. The next morning I found a basket of flowers on my doorstep that she had picked from her garden. Later, when I ventured the quarter-mile walk down the road to show my thanks, she invited me in and we passed another afternoon, more pleasant with the heat having broken, conversing, which was to become a regular occurrence. How I miss those conversations, Mr. Bronstein. All should cherish the pleasant commiseration of a dear friend
.

Sincerely,

Jane Shaw

5/01/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

I apologize for the haste with which I now write. In the prolonged tumult in which our country finds itself, Edward's company has suddenly ceased operations, which has rendered his health poor. The circumstances, you'll understand, require my full attention. Perhaps soon they shall allow me to be more charitable to the needs of your work
.

Sincerely,

Jane Shaw

8/17/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

Thank you for your kind note. I'm pleased to say Edward's health has improved. A rest much overdue has eased some of the burden and he is slowly regaining the vigor of his old self. Given his recent experience, I understand fully the pressures one's business can exert. As such, I do not find your queries “insensitive.” In fact, I've quite missed our correspondence of late and should be pleased to help as your deadline nears
.

[1]
Of course I knew Debs. He and J.A. were good friends, and after many years of asking, J.A. was finally able to convince him to move to Girard to write for the
Appeal
. This must have been 1908 or so. He announced his run for the presidency on the front steps of the newspaper's offices. Gene was a sweet man. The children in town loved him because he always seemed to have an ice cream cone to give away. He must have lived in Girard about five years, writing his column, often
leaving to campaign on speaking tours. I would rather not comment on the speculation you mention. I will say he loved his wife, that was apparent. To suggest otherwise on account of salacious rumor is not only unpleasant but unfair. Let's let him rest in peace, shall we. I prefer to remember him as the man with the slow gait and quick smile, passing out ice-cream cones to children
.

[2]
Yes,
Mother Jones
, too. I must say, I interacted with her infrequently and what little I did I didn't care for her. She was imperious, liable to say whatever thought drifted into that head of hers, but J.A. carried a great fondness for her. I do recall the first time I saw her. I hadn't a clue who she was. Edward and I had been invited over to Fred Warren's house for dinner and there was this small old woman. J.A. and Pearl were there, along with some folks we were new to meet. J.A. introduced us to the room and she spoke first. She was sitting in a chair, as if she couldn't be bothered to stand and properly greet us, and called out, asking if we had brought any beer. Edward reminded her of Kansas law (Kansas was dry long before the rest of the country, if you recall) and she began to laugh. Something about this tickled her. She must have gone on a minute or so until Fred, who did not drink, rose and left the room, returning not two minutes later with a fresh bottle of brew for his guest
.

[3]
Yes, I am aware that J.A. had tried to start a “utopian village” in the years after leaving Pueblo, Colorado, and before coming to Girard, but I know little of it. Ruskin, it was called, and located in Tennessee, if I'm not mistaken. I never heard him speak of it much, though I do recall a picture he had framed in his office of the village. Yes, the picture. It was of a stark cabin room. I remember asking him about it one afternoon when I had come to see Pearl but had forgotten that she was away visiting family. J.A. invited me in and I demurred, but he was insistent I come in for a glass of lemonade. (Why in my memories of the time is the weather always sweltering?) He walked back to his office. I was reluctant to follow. I remarked on the refreshing drink
and asked where the children were. He said they were away for some reason or another. Perhaps they were with Pearl. I don't recall the specifics. In any case, I figured he likely wanted to foist some book or other on me, and this was a proclivity I indulged so as not to hurt his feelings, always feigning delightful curiosity at the unbearable Marx he had placed in my hand. However, in my memory of that day, we are sitting at his desk, conversing a long time. Not about politics, just life. At some point I remarked on the photograph behind him on the wall and that's when he told me it had been his cabin at Ruskin. He seemed to recall it fondly, though I do not remember him saying much more. I know nothing of the fray of which you speak. It is news to me if the other villagers kicked him out of the “socialist experiment” he started in Ruskin. I'd be interested to know more. Perhaps your book will educate me
.

Good luck to you, Mr. Bronstein, and, again, thank you for your well wishes. I shall pass them on to Edward
.

Sincerely,

Jane

9/2/31

Dear Mr. Bronstein,

I suppose I have always known where your questions would lead sooner or later, but perhaps I've wishfully hoped otherwise. You must understand, it's not a memory I court
.

Pearl and I passed most afternoons in a variety of manner, but our favorite pastimes, aside from our frequent and interminable walks, were watching silent pictures and motoring in her new automobile. The picture house wasn't much of a house at all. It was a roofless area of picnic tables with an accompanying piano in the corner. Most pitiful to think of today, but how we enjoyed it then!
Pearl and I would pay our five cents and see the same picture seven times over. That day, I still recall, it was a jungle picture of some sort, silliest thing we'd ever seen. White men dressed-up colored, carrying spears and fighting animals. “Hard to tell one from the other,” I remember Pearl whispering to me, and our laughter was shushed. Afterward, we went for a drive
.

The Waylands were one of the few families in town who had an automobile at the time and Pearl liked to drive the ten miles to Pittsburg, where we would shop and spend the afternoon. She had little tolerance for the “inchworms” still in their carriages, and Pearl took the Ford to top speed out on the dirt-dust roads that surrounded Girard. We were gone no longer than an hour before returning home. So, yes, I did drive with her that day, but here I must correct Fred. I was not in the car with Pearl when it happened. She was alone. For all the speed she craved, what an accident of chance, a cruel irony, to be thrown from the car as it circled her own home. I was devastated and you don't need to speculate long to venture a guess as to J.A.'s feelings. This was 1911, in less than a year he would be dead
.

It was a bad time all around for J.A. The
Appeal
was indicted by the government for obscenity. Additionally, there was some intimation in private conversations that he was not well. That final year, however, he gave up his monthly visits to his properties in Texas to collect rents and poured himself into Debs's campaign like a man but half his age. For the first time in years he went on the speaking circuit, stumping for Gene. It was the one aspect to find hopefulness about, I suppose. He'd long since turned over most control at the paper to Fred, but he even began writing paragraphs again. That's what I would find him doing most nights in his office: slumped over his desk, spectacles sliding down his nose, grimacing at the paper before him as he worked over his words
.

After Pearl's death, I'd taken to stopping by most evenings, for my sake as much as his. If he was out of town at a rally, I sat with
one of his daughters, playing cards. If he was home, I often brought supper and we would sit a long time, talking or not talking, as the mood suited us. Our heartsick was mutual. It is difficult to explain, except that I needed to be in that house. It wasn't proper behavior, I'll grant, but such behavior can the aggrieved's heart effect. Edward, bless his heart, didn't like it and one evening said so. It was, hand on the Bible, the only time I have disrespected my husband. I mean that. I was furious and let him know so—shameful to think of my insolence now—but how could I expect him to understand? How can we ever understand the sadness of others? And yet I think I was close to knowing J.A.'s
.