Emma Goldman - Living My Life (2006)

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Living My Life
by Emma Goldman
IN APPRECIATION
Suggestions that I write my memoirs came to me when I had barely begun to live, and continued all
through the years. But I never paid heed to the proposal. I was living my life intensely -- what need
to write about it? Another reason for my reluctance was the conviction I entertained that one should
write about one's life only when one had ceased to stand in the very torrent of it. "When one has
reached a good philosophic age," I used to tell my friends, "capable of viewing the tragedies and
comedies of life impersonally and detachedly -- particularly one's own life -- one is likely to create
an autobiography worth while." Still feeling adolescently young in spite of advancing years, I did
not consider myself competent to undertake such a task. Moreover, I always lacked the necessary
leisure for concentrated writing.
My enforced European inactivity left me enough time to read a great deal, including biographies
and autobiographies. I discovered, much to my discomfiture, that old age, far from ripening wisdom
and mellowness, is too often fraught with senility, narrowness, and petty rancour. I would not risk
such a calamity, and I began to think seriously about writing my life.
The great difficulty that faced me was lack of historical data for my work. Almost everything in the
way of books, correspondence, and similar material that I had accumulated during the thirty-five
years of my life in the United States had been confiscated by the Department of Justice raiders and
never returned. I lacked even my personal set of the Mother Earth magazine, which I had published
for twelve years. It was a problem I could see no solution for. Sceptic that I am, I had overlooked
the magic power of friendship, which had so often in my life made mountains move. My staunch
friends Leonard D. Abbott, Agnes Inglis, W. S. Van Valkenburgh, and others soon put my doubts to
shame. Agnes, the founder of the Labadie Library in Detroit, containing the richest collection of
radical and revolutionary material in America, came to my aid with her usual readiness. Leonard
did his share, and Van spent all his free time in research work for me.
In the matter of European data I knew I could turn to the two best historians in our ranks: Max
Nettlau and Rudolf Rocker. No further need to worry with such an array of co-workers.
Still I was not appeased. I needed something that would help me re-create the atmosphere of my
own personal life: the events, small or great, that had tossed me about emotionally. An old vice of
mine came to my rescue: veritable mountains of letters I had written. Often I haa been chided by my
pal Sasha, otherwise known as Alexander Berkman, and by my other friends, for my proclivity to
spread myself in letters. Far from virtue bringing reward, it was my iniquity that gave me what I
needed most -- the true atmosphere of past days. Ben Reitman, Ben Capes, Jacob Margolis, Agnes
Inglis, Harry Weinberger, Van, my romantic admirer Leon Bass, and scores of other friends readily
responded to my request to send me my letters. My, niece, Stella Ballantine, had kept everything I
had written her during my imprisonment in the Missouri penitentiary. She, as well as my dear friend
M. Eleanor Fitzgerald, had also preserved my Russian correspondence. In short, I was soon put into
possession of over one thousand specimens of my epistolary effusions. I confess that most of them
were painful reading, for at no time does one reveal oneself so much as in one's intimate
correspondence. But for my purpose they were of utmost value.
Thus supplied, I started for Saint-Tropez, a picturesque fisher nest in the south of France, in
company of Emily Holmes Coleman, who was to act as my secretary. Demi, as she is familiarly
called, was a wild wood-sprite with a volcanic temper. But she was also the tenderest of beings,
without any guile or rancour. She was essentially the poet, highly imaginative and sensitive. My
world of ideas was foreign to her, natural rebel and anarchist though she was. We clashed furiously,
often to the point of wishing each other in Saint-Tropez Bay. But it was nothing compared to her
charm, her profound interest in my work, and her fine understanding for my inner conflicts.
Writing had never come easy to me, and the work at hand did not mean merely writing. It meant
reliving my long-forgotten past, the resurrection of memories I did not wish to dig out from the
deeps of my consciousness. It meant doubts in my creative ability, depression, and disheartenings.
All through that period Demi held out bravely and encouragement proved the comfort and
inspiration of the first year of my struggle.
Altogether I was very fortunate in the number and devotion of friends who exerted themselves to
smooth the way for Living My Life. The first to start the fund to secure me from material anxiety
was Peggy Guggenheim. Other friends and comrades followed suit, giving without stint from their
limited economic means. Miriam Lerner, a young American friend, volunteered to take Demi's
place when the latter had to leave for England. Dorothy Marsh, Betty Markow, and Emmy Eckstein
typed part of my manuscript as a labour of love. Arthur Leonard Ross, kindest and most lavish of
men, gave me his untiring efforts as legal representative and adviser. How could such friendship
ever be rewarded?
And Sasha? Many misgivings beset me when we began the revision of my manuscript. I feared he
might resent seeing himself pictured through my eyes. Would he be detached enough, I wondered,
sufficiently objective for the task? I found him remarkably so for one who is so much a part of my
story. For eighteen months Sasha worked side by side with me as in our old days. Critical, of
course, but always in the finest and broadest spirit. Sasha also it was who suggested the title, Living
My Life.
My life as I have lived it owes everything to those who had come into it, stayed long or little, and
passed out. Their love, as well as their hate, has gone into making my life worth while.
Living My Life is my tribute and my gratitude to them all.
EMMA GOLDMAN
Saint-Tropez, France
January 1931
Living My Life
by Emma Goldman
Volume one
New York: Alfred A Knopf Inc.,1931.
Chapter 1
IT WAS THE 15TH OF AUGUST 1889, THE DAY OF MY ARRIVAL IN New York City. I was
twenty years old. All that had happened in my life until that time was now left behind me, cast off
like a worn-out garment. A new world was before me, strange and terrifying. But I had youth, good
health, and a passionate ideal. Whatever the new held in store for me I was determined to meet
unflinchingly.
How well I remember that day! It was a Sunday. The West Shore train, the cheapest, which was all
I could afford, had brought me from Rochester, New York, reaching Weehawken at eight o'clock in
the morning. Thence I came by ferry to New York City. I had no friends there, but I carried three
addresses, one of a married aunt, one of a young medical student I had met in New Haven a year
before, while working in a corset factory there, and one of the Freiheit, a German anarchist paper
published by Johann Most.
My entire possessions consisted of five dollars and a small hand-bag. My sewing-macliine, which
was to help me to independence, I had checked as baggage. Ignorant of the distance from West
Forty-second Street to the Bowery, where my aunt lived, and unaware of the enervating heat of a
New York day in August, I started out on foot. How confusing and endless a large city seems to the
new-comer, how cold and unfriendly!
After receiving many directions and misdirections and making frequent stops at bewildering
intersections, I landed in three hours at the photographic gallery of my aunt and uncle. Tired and
hot, I did not at first notice the consternation of my relatives at my unexpected arrival. They asked
me to make myself at home, gave me breakfast, and then plied me with questions. Why did I come
to New York? Had I definitely broken with my husband? Did I have money? What did I intend to
do? I was told that I could, of course, stay with them. "Where else could you go, a young woman
alone in New York?" Certainly, but I would have to look for a job immediately. Business was bad,
and the cost of living high.
I heard it all as if in a stupor. I was too exhausted from my wakeful night's journey, the long walk,
and the heat of the sun, which was already pouring down fiercely. The voices of my relatives
sounded distant, like the buzzing of flies, and they made me drowsy. With an effort I pulled myself
together. I assured them I did not come to impose myself on them; a friend living on Henry Street
was expecting me and would put me up. I had but one desire - to get out, away from the prattling,
chilling voices. I left my bag and departed.
The friend I had invented in order to escape the "hospitality" of my relatives was only a slight
acquaintance, a young anarchist by the name of A. Solotaroff, whom I had once heard lecture in
New Haven. Now I started out to find him. After a long search I discovered the house, but the
tenant had left. The janitor, at first very brusque, must have noticed my despair. He said he would
look for the address that the family left when they moved. Presently he came back with the name of
the street, but there was no number. What was I to do? How to find Solotaroff in the vast city? I
decided to stop at every house, first on one side of the street, and then on the other. Up and down,
six flights of stairs, I tramped, my head throbbing, my feet weary. The oppressive day was drawing
to a close. At last, when I was about to give up the search, I discovered him on Montgomery Street,
on the fifth floor of a tenement house seething with humanity.
A year had passed since our first meeting, but Solotaroff had not forgotten me. His greeting was
genial and warm, as of an old friend. He told me that he shared his small apartment with his parents
and little brother, but that I could have his room; he would stay with a fellow-student for a few
nights. He assured me that I would have no difficulty in finding a place; in fact, he knew two sisters
who were living with their father in a two-room flat. They were looking for another girl to join
them. After my new friend had fed me tea and some delicious Jewish cake his mother had baked, he
told me about the different people I might meet, the activities of the Yiddish anarchists, and other
interesting matters. I was grateful to my host, much more for his friendly concern and camaraderie
than for the tea and cake. I forgot the bitterness that had filled my soul over the cruel reception
given me by my own kin. New York no longer seemed monster it had appeared in the endless hours
of my painful walk the Bowery.
Later Solotaroff took me to Sachs's café on Suffolk Street, which, as he informed me, was the
headquarters of the East Side radicals, socialists, and anarchists, as well as of the younly Yiddish
writers and poets. "Everybody forgathers there," he remarked; " the Minkin sisters will no doubt
also be there."
For one who had just come away from the monotony of a provincial town like Rochester and whose
nerves were on edge from a night's trip in a stuffy car, the noise and turmoil that greeted us at
Sachs's were certainly not very soothing. The place consisted of two rooms and was packed.
Everybody talked, gesticulated, and argued, in Yiddish and Russian, each competing with the other.
I was almost overcome in this strange human medley. My escort discovered two girls at a table. He
introduced them as Anna and Helen Minkin.
They were Russian Jewish working girls. Anna, the older, was about my own age; Helen perhaps
eighteen. Soon we came to an understanding about my living with them, and my anxiety and
uncertainty were over, I had a roof over my head; I had found friends. The bedlam at Sachs's no
longer mattered. I began to breathe freer, to feel less of an alien.
While the four of us were having our dinner, and Solotaroff was pointing out to me the different
people in the cafe, I suddenly heard a powerful voice call: "Extra-large steak! Extra cup of coffee!"
My own capital was so small and the need for economy so great that I was startled by such apparent
extravagance. Besides, Solotaroff had told me that only poor students, writers, and workers were
the clients of Sachs. I wondered who that reckless person could be and how he could afford such
food. "Who is that glutton?" I asked. Solotaroff laughed aloud. "That is Alexander Berkman. He can
eat for three. But he rarely has enough money for much food. When he has, he eats Sachs out of his
supplies. I'll introduce him to you."
We had finished our meal, and several people came to our table to talk to Solotaroff. The man of the
extra-large steak was still packing it away as if he had gone hungry for weeks. Just as we were
about to depart, he approached us, and Solotaroff introduced him. He was no more than a boy,
hardly eighteen, but with the neck and chest of a giant. His jaw was strong, made more pronounced
by his thick lips. His face was almost severe, but for his high, studious forehead and intelligent
eyes. A determined youngster, I thought. Presently Berkman remarked to me: "Johann Most is
speaking tonight. Do you want to come to hear him?"
How extraordinary, I thought, that on my very first day in New York I should have the chance to
behold with my own eyes and hear the fiery man whom the Rochester press used to portray as the
personification of the devil, a bloodthirsty demon! I had planned to visit Most in the office of his
newspaper some time later, but that the opportunity should present itself in such an unexpected
manner gave me the feeling that something wonderful was about to happen, something that would
decide the whole course of my life.
On the way to the hall I was too absorbed in my thoughts to hear much of the conversation that was
going on between Berkman and the Minkin sisters. Suddenly I stumbled. I should have fallen had
not Berkman gripped m arm and held me up. "I have saved your life," he said jestingly. "I hope I
may be able to save yours some day," I quickly replied.
The meeting-place was a small hall behind a saloon, through which one had to pass. It was crowded
with Germans, drinking, smoking, and talking. Before long, Jonathan Most entered. My first
impression of him was one of revulsion. He was of medium height, with a large head crowned with
greyish bushy hair; but his face was twisted out of form by an apparent dislocation of the left jaw.
Only his eyes were soothing; they were blue and sympathetic.
His speech was a scorching denunciation of American conditions, a biting satire on the injustice and
brutality of the dominant powers, a passionate tirade against those responsible for the Haymarket
tragedy and the execution of the Chicago anarchists in November 1887. He spoke eloquently and
picturesquely. As if by magic, his disfigurement disappeared, his lack of physical distinction was
forgotten. He seemed transformed into some primitive power, radiating hatred and love, strength
and inspiration. The rapid current of his speech, the music of his voice, and his sparkling wit, all
combined to produce an effect almost overwhelming. He stirred me to my depths.
Caught in the crowd that surged towards the platform, I found myself before Most. Berkman was
near me and introduced me. But full of the tumult of emotions Most's speech had aroused in me.
That night I could not sleep. Again I lived through the events of 1887. Twenty-one months had
passed since the Black Friday of November 11, when the Chicago men had suffered their
martyrdom, yet every detail stood out clear before my vision and affected me as if it had happened
byt yesterday. My sister Helena and I had become interested in the fate of the men during the period
of their trial. The reports in the Rodchester newspapers irritated, confused, and upset us by their
evident prejudice. The violence of the press, the bitter denunciation of the accused, the attacks on
all foreigners, turned our sympathies tot he Haymarket victims.
We had learned of the existence in Rochester of a German socialist group that held sessions on
Sunday in Germania Hall. We began to attend the meetings, my older sister, Helena, on a few
occasions only, and I regularly. The gatherings were generally uninteresting, but they offered an
escape from the grey dullness of my Rochester existence. There one heard, at least, something
different from the everlasting talk about money and business, and one meet people of spirit and
ideas.
One Sunday it was announced that a famous socialist speaker from New York, Johanna Greie,
would lecture on the case then being tried in Chicago. On the appointed day I was the first in the
hall. The huge place was crowded from top to bottom by eager men and women, while the walls
were lined with police. I had never before been at such a large meeting. I had seen gendarmes in St.
Petersburg disperse small student gatherings. But that in the country which gauranteed free speech,
officers armed with long clubs should invade an orderly assembly filled me with consternation and
protest.
Soon the chairman announced the speaker. She was a woman in her thirties, pale and ascetic-
looking, with large luminous eyes. She spoke with great earnestness, in a voice vibrating with
intensity. Her manner engrossed me. I forgot the police, the audience, and every thing else about
me. I was aware only of the frail woman in black crying out her passionate indictment against the
forces that were about to destroy eight human lives.
The entire speech concerned the stirring events in Chicago. She began by relating the historcal
background of the case. She told of the labour strikes that broke out throughout the country in 1886,
for the demand of an eight-hour workday. The center of the movement was Chicago, and there the
struggle between the toilers and their bosses became intense and bitter. A meeting of the striking
employees of the McCormick Harvester Company in that city was attacked by police; men and
women were beaten and several persons killed. To protest against the outrage a mass meeting was
called in Haymarket Square on May 4. It was addressed by Albert Parsons, August Spies, Adolph
Fischer, and others, and was quiet and orderly. This was attested to by Carter Harrison, Mayor of
Chicago, who had attended the meeting to see what was going on. The Mayor left, satisfied that
everything was all right, and he informed the captain of the district to that effect. It was getting
cloudy, a light rain began to fall, and the people started to disperse, only a few remaining while one
of the last speakers was addressing the audience. Then Captain Ward, accompanied by a strong
force of police, suddenly appeared on the square. He ordered the meeting to disperse forthwith.
"This is an orderlv assembly," the chairman replied, whereupon the police fell upon the people,
clubbing them unmercifully. Then something flashed through the air and exploded, killing a number
of police officers and wounding a score of others. It was never ascertained who the actual culprit
was, and the authorities apparently made little effort to discover him. Instead orders were
immediately issued for the arrest of all the speakers at the Haymarket meeting and other prominent
anarchists. The entire press and bourgeoisie of Chicago and of the whole country began shouting
for the blood of the prisoners. A veritable campaign of terror was carried on by the police, who
were given moral and financial encouragement by the Citizens' Association to further their
murderous plan to get the anarchists out of the way. The public mind was so inflamed by the
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