Living My Life - Emma Goldman [137]
“Just a moment, Mr. Garson,” I interrupted; “you forgot something. You forgot to mention that you had saved by the assistance of others. You were able to put aside penny by penny because you had men and women working for you.”
“Yes, of course,” he said apologetically, “we had ‘hands’ in our factory, but they all made good livings.”
“And were they all able to open factories from their savings of penny by penny?”
He admitted that they were not, but it was because they were ignorant and spendthrift. “You mean they were honest workingmen like my father, don’t you?” I continued. “You’ve spoken in such high terms of my father, you certainly will not accuse him of being a spendthrift. But though he has worked like a galley-slave all his life, he has accumulated nothing and he has not been able to start a factory. Why do you suppose my father and others remained poor, while you succeeded? It is because they lacked the forethought to add to their shears the shears of ten others, or of a hundred or several hundred, as you have done. It isn’t the saving of pennies that makes people rich; it is the labour of your ‘hands’ and their ruthless exploitation that has created your wealth. Eighteen years ago there was an excuse for my ignorance of it, when I stood like a beggar before you, asking for a rise of a dollar and a half in pay. There is no excuse for you, Mr. Garson—not now, when the truth of the relation between labour and capital is being cried from the house-tops.”
He sat looking at me. “Who would have thought that the little girl in my shop would become such a grand speaker?” he said at last. “Certainly not you!” I replied, “nor could she have if you had had your way. But let’s come down to your request that I visit your office. What is it you want?”
He began talking about labour’s having its rights; he had acknowledged the union and its demands (whenever reasonable) and had introduced many improvements in his shop for the benefit of his workers. But times were hard and he had sustained heavy losses. If only the grumblers among his employees would listen to reason, be patient awhile, and meet him half-way, everything could be amicably adjusted. “Couldn’t you put this before the men in your speech,” he suggested, “and make them see my side a little? Your father and I are great friends, Miss Goldman; I would do anything for him if he should be in trouble—lend him money or help in any way. As to his brilliant daughter, I have already written you how proud I am that you come from my race. I should like to prove it by some little gift. Now, Miss Goldman, you are a woman, you must love beautiful things. Tell me what you’d like best.”
His words did not rouse my anger. Perhaps it was because I had expected some such offer from his letter. My poor sister was regarding me with her sad, anxious eyes. I rose quietly from my chair; Garson did the same and we stood facing each other, a senile smile on his withered face.
“You’ve come to the wrong person, Mr. Garson,” I said; “you cannot buy Emma Goldman.”
“Who speaks of buying?” he exclaimed. “You’re wrong; let me explain.”
“No need of it,” I interrupted him. “Whatever explanation is necessary I will make tonight before your workers who have invited me to speak. I have nothing more to say to you. Please go.”
He edged out of the room, silk hat in hand, followed by Helena, who saw him to the door. [ . . . ]
During my brief stay in Rochester I had another caller, much more interesting than Mr. Garson: a newspaper woman who introduced herself as Miss T. She came to interview me, but she stayed to tell a remarkable story. It was about Leon Czolgosz. [ ... ]
What Miss T. told me bore out all that I had guessed and what I had learned about Leon in 1902 when I visited Cleveland. I had hunted up his parents; they were dark people, the father hardened by toil, the stepmother with a dull, vacant look. His own mother had died when he was a baby; at the age of six he had been forced into the street to shine shoes and sell papers; if he did