Living My Life - Emma Goldman [100]
The matter finally ended with our decision not to apply to Carnegie at all. Sasha’s case was not even brought before the Board of Pardons at the time intended. Its members were found to be too prejudiced against him, and it was hoped that the new Board, which was to take office in the following year, might prove more impartial. [ ... ]
Three weeks later Ed fell ill with pneumonia. All my care and love were pitted against the great dread I felt at the possibility of losing the precious life. The big strong man, who used to make light of illness and who had often hinted “that such things were inherent only in the female species,” now clung to me like an infant and would not have me out of sight even for a moment. [ ... ]
At last the crisis was over. In the morning Ed opened his eyes. His hand groped for mine, and in a faint voice he asked: “Dear nurse, must I kick the bucket?” “Not this time,” I comforted him, “but you must be very quiet.” His face lit up with his old beautiful smile, and he dozed off again.
When Ed was already on his feet, though still very weak, I had to leave for a meeting I had promised to address long before his illness. Fedya remained with him. When I returned, late at night, Fedya was gone and Ed fast asleep. There was a note from Fedya saying that Ed was feeling fine and had urged him to go home.
In the morning Ed was still asleep. I took his pulse and noticed that he was breathing heavily. I became alarmed and sent for Doctor Hoffmann. The latter expressed concern over Ed’s unusually protracted sleep. He asked to see the box of morphine he had left for Ed to take. Four powders were missing! I had given Ed one before going away, and I had impressed upon Fedya that he was not to get any more. Ed had taken four times the ordinary dose—no doubt in an attempt to end his life! He wanted to die—now—after I had barely rescued him from the grave! Why? Why?
“We must get him on his feet and walk the floor with him,” the doctor ordered; “he is alive, he is breathing; we must keep him alive.” We supported his drooping body up and down the room, from time to time applying ice to his hands and face. Gradually his face began to lose its deathly pallor, and his lids responded to pressure. “Who would ever have thought that a reserved and quiet person like Ed would be capable of such a thing?” the doctor remarked. “He’ll sleep on for many more hours, but no need to worry. He’ll live.”
I was shocked by Ed’s attempted suicide and tried to fathom what particular cause had induced his action. On several occasions I was on the point of asking him for an explanation, but he was in such cheerful humour and recuperating so well that I was afraid to dig up the ghastly affair. He himself never referred to it.
Then one day he surprised me by mentioning that he had not intended to take his life at all. My leaving him to go to the meeting when he was still so ill had enraged him. He knew from past experience that he could stand a large dose of morphine, and he swallowed several powders, “just to scare you a little and cure you of your mania for meetings, which stops at nothing, not even at the illness of the man you pretend to love.”
His words staggered me. I felt that the seven years of our life together had failed to make Ed grasp the pain and travail of my inner growth. A “mania for meetings”—that was all that it meant to him.
There followed days of conflict between my love for Ed and the realization that life had lost its content and meaning. At the end of my bitter struggle I knew that I must leave him. I told Ed that I should have to go, for good. [ ... ]
I began preparations for my tour. The day of departure was approaching, and Ed pleaded with me to permit him to see me off. I declined;