Living My Life - Emma Goldman [44]
“You?” I questioned; “you have thousands in New York—all over the world. You are loved, you are idolized.” “Yes, little girl, idolized by many, but loved by none. One can be very lonely among thousands—did you know that?” Something gripped my heart. I wanted to take his hand, to tell him that I would be his friend. But I dared not speak out. What could I give this man—I, a factory girl, uneducated; and he, the famous Johann Most, the leader of the masses, the man of magic tongue and powerful pen? [ . . . ]
The next day, when Berkman called, I related to him my wonderful evening with Most. His face darkened. “Most has no right to squander money, to go to expensive restaurants, drink expensive wines,” he said gravely; “he is spending the money contributed for the movement. He should be held to account. I myself will tell him.”
“No, no, you musn’t,” I cried. “I couldn’t bear to be the cause of any affront to Most, who is giving so much. Is he not entitled to a little joy?” Berkman persisted that I was too young in the movement, that I didn’t know anything about revolutionary ethics or the meaning of revolutionary right and wrong. I admitted my ignorance, assured him I was willing to learn, to do anything, only not to have Most hurt. He walked out without bidding me good-bye. [ . . . ]
For a whole week Berkman did not show up. When he came back again, it was to invite me for an outing in Prospect Park. He liked it better than Central Park, he said, because it was less cultivated, more natural. We walked about a great deal, admiring its rough beauty, and finally selected a lovely spot in which to eat the lunch I had brought with me.
We talked about my life in St. Petersburg and in Rochester. I told him of my marriage to Jacob Kershner and its failure. He wanted to know what books I had read on marriage and if it was their influence that had decided me to leave my husband. I had never read such works, but I had seen enough of the horrors of married life in my own home. Father’s harsh treatment of Mother, the constant wrangles and bitter scenes that ended in Mother’s fainting spells. I had also seen the debasing sordidness of the life of my married aunts and uncles, as well as in the homes of acquaintances in Rochester. Together with my own marital experiences they had convinced me that binding people for life was wrong. The constant proximity in the same house, the same room, the same bed, revolted me.
“If ever I love a man again, I will give myself to him without being bound by the rabbi or the law,” I declared, “and when that love dies, I will leave without permission.”
My companion said he was glad to know that I felt that way. All true revolutionists had discarded marriage and were living in freedom. That served to strengthen their love and helped them in their common task. He told me the story of Sophia Perovskaya and Zhelyabov.4 They had been lovers, had worked in the same group, and together they elaborated the plan for the execution of Alexander II. After the explosion of the bomb Perovskaya vanished. She was in hiding. She had every chance to escape, and her comrades begged her to do so. But she refused. She insisted that she must take the consequences, that she would share the fate of her comrades and die together with Zhelyabov. “Of course, it was wrong of her to be moved by personal sentiment,” Berkman commented; “her love for the Cause should have urged her to live for other activities.” Again I found myself disagreeing with him. I thought that it could not be wrong to die with one’s beloved in a common act—it was beautiful, it was sublime.