Living My Life - Emma Goldman [64]
I had met two categories of men: vulgarians and idealists. The former would never have let an opportunity pass to possess a woman and they would give her no other thought save sexual desire. The idealists stoutly defended the equality of the sexes, at least in theory, but the only men among them who practised what they preached were the Russian and Jewish radicals. This man, who had picked me up on the street and who was now with me in the back of a saloon, seemed an entirely new type. He interested me. He must be rich. But would a rich man give something for nothing? The manufacturer Garson came to my mind; he would not even give me a small raise in wages.
Perhaps this man was one of those soul-savers I had read about, people who were always cleansing New York City of vice. I asked him. He laughed and said he was not a professional busybody. If he had thought that I really wanted to be on the street, he would not have cared. “Of course, I may be entirely mistaken,” he added, “but I don’t mind. Just now I am convinced that you are not intended to be a streetwalker, and that even if you do succeed, you will hate it afterwards.” If he were not convinced of it, he would take me for his mistress. “For always?” I cried. “There you are!” he replied; “you are scared by the mere suggestion and yet you hope to succeed on the street. You’re an awfully nice kid, but you’re silly, inexperienced, childish.” “I was twenty-three last month,” I protested, resentful of being treated like a child. “You are an old lady,” he said with a grin, “but even old folks can be babes in the woods. Look at me; I’m sixty-one and I often do foolish things.” “Like believing in my innocence, for instance,” I retorted. The simplicity of his manner pleased me. I asked for his name and address so as to be able to return his ten dollars some day. But he refused to give them to me. He loved mysteries, he said. On the street he held my hand for a moment, and then we turned in opposite directions.
That night I tossed about for hours. My sleep was restless; my dreams were of Sasha, Frick, Homestead, Fourteenth Street, and the affable stranger. Long after waking the next morning the dream pictures persisted. Then my eye caught my little purse on the table. I jumped up, opened it with trembling hands—it did contain the ten dollars! It had actually happened, then!
On Monday a short note arrived from Sasha. He had met Carl Nold and Henry Bauer, he wrote. He had set the following Saturday for his act, provided I could send some money he needed at once. He was sure I would not fail him. I was a little disappointed by the letter. Its tone was cold and perfunctory, and I wondered how the stranger would write to the woman he loved. With a start I shook myself free. It was crazy to have such thoughts when Sasha was preparing to take a life and lose his own in the attempt. How could I think of that stranger and Sasha in the same breath? I must get more money for my boy.
I would wire Helena for fifteen dollars. I had not written my dear sister for many weeks, and I hated to ask her for money, knowing how poor she was. It seemed criminal. Finally I wired her that I had been taken ill and needed fifteen dollars. I knew that nothing would prevent her from getting the money if she thought that I was ill. But a sense of shame oppressed me, as once before, in St. Petersburg, when I had deceived her.
I received the money from Helena by wire. I sent twenty dollars to Sasha and returned the five I had borrowed for my finery.
CHAPTER IX
[...] In the early afternoon of Saturday, July 23, Fedya rushed into my room with a newspaper. There it was, in large black letters: “YOUNG MAN BY THE NAME OF ALEXANDER BERGMAN SHOOTS FRICK—ASSASSIN OVERPOWERED BY WORKING-MEN AFTER DESPERATE