Living My Life - Emma Goldman [136]
Within the last few years I had felt more drawn to my people, Helena remaining nearest to me. I always stayed with her on my visits to Rochester, and my folks had learned to take it as a matter of course. My arrival this time was the occasion for a general family reunion. It gave me a chance to get in closer touch with my brother Herman and his charming young wife, Rachel. I learned that the boy who could not memorize his lessons at school had become a great mechanical expert, his specific line the construction of intricate machinery. When it grew late and the other members of the family retired, I remained with my dear Helena. We always had much to say to each other, and it was nearly morning when we separated. Sister consoled me by saying I could sleep late.
I had hardly dozed off when I was awakened by a messenger bringing a letter. Glancing at the signature first, in a half-drowsy state, I saw with surprise that it was signed “Garson.” I read it several times to make sure that I was not dreaming. He felt proud that a daughter of his race and city had achieved nation-wide fame, he wrote; he was glad of her presence in Rochester and he would consider it an honour to welcome me at his office soon.
I handed the letter to Helena. “Read it,” I said, “and see how important your little sister has become.” When she got through, she asked: “Well, what are you going to do?” I wrote on the back of the letter: “Mr. Garson, when I needed you, I came to you. Now that you seem to need me, you will have to come to me.” My anxious sister was worried about the outcome. What could he want and what would I say or do? I assured her that it was not difficult to guess what Mr. Garson wanted, but I intended, nevertheless, to have him tell it to me in person and in her presence. I would receive him in her store and treat him “as a lady should.”
In the afternoon Mr. Garson drove up in his carriage. I had not seen my former employer for eighteen years, and during that time I had hardly given him a thought. Yet the moment he entered, every detail of the dreadful months in his shop stood out as clearly as if it had happened but yesterday. I saw the shop again and his luxurious office, American Beauties on the table, the blue smoke of his cigar swelling in fantastic curves, and myself standing trembling, waiting until Mr. Garson would deign to notice me. I visioned it all again and I heard him saying harshly: “What can I do for you?” Everything to the minutest detail I recalled as I looked at the old man standing before me, silk hat in hand. The thought of the injustice and humiliation his workers were suffering, their driven and drained existence, agitated me. I could barely suppress the impulse to show him the door. If my life depended on it, I could not have asked Mr. Garson to sit down. It was Helena who offered him a chair—more than he had done for me eighteen years before.
He sat down and looked at me, evidently expecting me to speak first. “Well, Mr. Garson, what can I do for you?” I finally asked. The expression must have recalled something to his mind; it seemed to confuse him. “Why, nothing at all, dear Miss Goldman,” he presently replied; “I just wanted to have a pleasant talk with you.” “Very well,” I said, and waited. He had worked hard all his life, he related, “just like your father, Miss Goldman.” He had saved penny by penny and in that way had accumulated a little money. “You may not know how difficult it is to save,” he went on, “but ask your father. He works hard, he is an honest man, and he is known in the whole city as such. There isn’t another man in Rochester more