Haymarket (43 page)

And don’t become
so
militant that you arrive with a posse and try to shoot our way out of here—which in Waco, I don’t doubt you would have done! Lizzie reports from the week she spent with you, that “militant” is putting it mildly. Even she, who is practically your political twin, confesses to having been startled now and then at your vehemence. Breaking down the door in Orange, New Jersey, was apparently less dramatic than some of your rhetoric, at least as Lizzie reports it. I chuckled over substituting “Hangman Gary” for “Judge Gary,” and I’ve never entirely discounted the possibility that you’re apparently averring as absolute truth, that an
agent provocateur
threw the bomb in Haymarket as part of a Wall Street conspiracy to destroy the eight-hour movement.

But unless your audience is entirely composed of committed revolutionaries (and that can’t be true, given the large size of your crowds), I have to say that you sound in danger of provoking your audience rather than persuading it. You’re your own person, and I have no right to advise restraint. But I do agree with Lizzie, who says she several times felt the need to chide you when you repeatedly called the police “vermin” or said that had you been in Haymarket and heard “that insolent command to disperse,” you would have flung the bomb yourself. Such rhetoric does nothing to soften the hearts of the people, to say nothing of the authorities, towards us.

But let me turn to another subject. I cannot say this strongly enough: I need to see my children, I need to hold them to my breast, hear their sweet, silly squeals, nuzzle their necks. So strong—selfish, if you like—is the need that I’m willing to risk having them feel dislocated. They’re young and resilient; they’ll soon bounce back from being moved from Waukesha to Chicago. I don’t mean that Albert Jr. and Lulu should stay in Chicago indefinitely, but I
must
have them with me for a while. As my own spirits sink—I’ve tried not to write you about this—my soul needs to feed off the joy and hopefulness in their innocent eyes.

Don’t be alarmed; I haven’t fallen into any viselike depression, but my fluctuations of mood are more pronounced now than earlier (though I continue to show, being a good platform performer, a cheerful face). Captain Black feels certain that the appeal he filed with the State Supreme Court ten days ago, asking for a stay of execution, will be granted. And that will give us the needed time to argue for a retrial. Should he be right, I have no doubt my spirits will come surging back.

Call me a sentimentalist if you like, but the newspaper photos of the Statue of Liberty now standing proud and tall in New York Harbor, sent a thrill through me. Think of it this way, dear: the statue represents what our country will one day become. I know you believe this, too, though you enjoy playing the chortling cynic far too much to admit it. People who lack optimism never become social reformers—they’re convinced that nothing can ever be changed for the better. Which is not true of either of us.

I am ever your faithful and loving,
Albert

Cook County Jail, Chicago
January 29, 1887

My Dearest Wife,

The pen feels like lead in my hand. It actively rebels against having to resort yet again to letters after having had you in Chicago these past two months. Even though you were on the road many of those days, it was a great comfort to know you were never too far away and would soon be returning. And oh, the joy of seeing my little ones again, however briefly; I could hardly bear letting them go back to Waukesha. Yet what choice do we have, now that you’re again too far away for visits and can’t return here till April. My heart sinks at the thought. But I’ll stop. We must try and remain strong.

I’m writing immediately following the wedding to give you all the particulars, as promised. As you know, many of our friends thought the whole idea ill-advised. Hortensia and Captain Black were especially upset, feeling the marriage would infuriate Nina’s social set and make it more difficult to plead Spies’s case. I’d never seen Hortensia more vehement; she confided to me her conviction that Nina was impetuous and shallow, a mere publicity seeker, unworthy of Spies and unable to transcend the values of her class. I wanted to say that if she, Hortensia, has, then why is it so unthinkable that Nina could do the same? Certainly she and her parents have shown every sign of understanding our plight, and Nina has defended us most passionately to the outside world. The Van Zandts have risked much, including their personal safety. The family’s house has several times been assaulted—rocks and mud thrown, windows smashed—with Nina and her parents forced to huddle, terrified, in the basement.

In any case, after Matson took over as sheriff and barred Nina from visiting, what options did she and Spies have? Only if Nina officially became
Mrs
. Spies could she demand visitation privileges (though Matson is still doing his best to hold her to a minimum). Besides, Spies was determined to go through with the marriage. The press, of course, insists that it’s all calculation on his part, that he wants to use her fortune for his legal defense and her class influence to win him a reprieve. But that “fortune” is rapidly disappearing. Nina’s aunt, the wealthiest member of her family, has completely disinherited her, and as for her “class influence,” not a single neighbor on East Huron will so much as acknowledge the Van Zandts on the street.

No, I believe the bond between Nina and Spies is real, their affection deep. Who is to decide whether it’s deep enough to be called love—surely not those wealthy families who these days connive to sell their daughters to the highest bidder among the European aristocracy.

In anticipation of the nuptials, Nina had filled Spies’s cell with flowers and put down a lovely small carpet to cover the harsh stones. But Sheriff Matson at the eleventh hour refused permission for the ceremony to be performed in the prison and the couple had to be married by proxy, with Spies’s brother standing in for the groom and taking the vows in their family’s home. Under the circumstances, what can we dare wish the couple? “Happiness” would be fatuous. Courage, maybe? …

Did you see that Henry George has come out in support of our appeal? He’s written in the
Standard
that we have been “convicted by a jury chosen in
a manner so shamelessly illegal that it would be charity to suspect the judge of incompetence.” We already have the country’s leading journalist, Henry Demarest Lloyd, and its leading man of letters, William Dean Howells, on our side, and both continue to champion our cause. In Howell’s most recent statement, he declares that we “are condemned to death on a principle that would have sent every ardent antislavery man to the gallows.”

But we need many more such “notables” to declare themselves if our pending appeal before the State Supreme Court is to carry the needed weight. When the famous speak up, the nabobs take some heed, whereas the opinions of common folk, the “riffraff,” count for little—except of course at election time … Thus far, though, George, Lloyd and Howells stand nearly alone. We hear that in Europe some well-known figures are rallying to our side, including William Morris, Annie Besant, and George Bernard Shaw. But our patriotic judges will doubtless take umbrage at “foreign interference” in our domestic affairs.

I must stop. Having just seen you, the shadow-exercise of a letter is too painful.

Kisses to you, my dearest wife,
Albert

P.S. Here’s a bit of pathos for you: I’ve had to apply to the Defense Committee for money to buy undergarments and socks! If that doesn’t move your hard heart, try this: I’ve been told that in all likelihood I’ll be turned down! Have they decided my chances of surviving are too poor to justify the outlay? Perhaps you could put in a good word—insist that $3.00 from your fund-raising be set aside to keep your husband looking (if not sounding) respectable.

Omaha, Nebraska
February 15, 1887

Dearest Husband,

Your letter of January 29 has just caught up with me, and I hasten to send you a few lines lest you think I’ve disappeared into the bowels of some midwestern prison. The fact is, I
was
jailed in Columbus, but not
for long. After I was refused a hall in which to speak, I confronted the mayor. He told me, “Shut your anarchist mouth,” and when I tried to reply, barked at the guards, “Take her down!” I was thrown into a large, filthy cell, where I found four other women, locked up on charges of “disorderly conduct.” Which I suspect means they’re down on their luck and friendless. They were living on bread, water, and salt doled out twice a day. When my supporters came to visit me, I sent them out to get some proper food for the women. They all but wept with gratitude. I was let out the next day.

Nebraska is the seventeenth state I’ve been in during the past four months. I’ve lost count of how many speeches I’ve given, how many pamphlets I’ve sold, how many tens of thousands of people have heard my message. And yet I remain full of energy, and yes, hope.

I don’t understand the reaction of Hortensia and Captain Black to the marriage. Could it be that their class bias is surfacing? Like you, I think the world of them; without their advocacy we would have been thrown to the wolves long ago. But something tells me their disapproval of Nina hasn’t much to do with concern about generating hostility to Spies. After all, having already been labeled the most dangerous fanatic of the lot, he could hardly fall lower in the public’s estimate. I believe it has more to do with the Blacks’ discomfort with “mixed” class marriages. Being good people, I doubt they’re in touch with their own prejudice. You may think me batty, but I’m not.

I don’t share your pleasure at Henry George enlisting in our cause. At bottom, I think the man’s an ambitious opportunist. As you know, he’ll be running as an independent candidate for Mayor of New York in the upcoming election, and he wants to win. Which means, I suspect, that the next bulletin from Mr. George about the Haymarket defendants will be much less favorable towards us. I hope I’m wrong. Alas, I rarely am: it’s my cross! (Yes I know—and yours).

I’ve met up several times with Lizzie and William, who are maintaining a fund-raising schedule nearly as hectic as my own. Lizzie said to me point-blank one day that she’d gladly trade her life for yours, if she could. And she means it. William told me a touching tale about Fischer. It seems that back in November, before the stay of execution had been granted, William went to say good-bye to all of you in prison before leaving on the first leg of his tour. He said Fischer took him aside and
asked him to tell his old comrades in St. Louis that they must not mourn him, that he was glad to die for his principles and “would not change places with the richest man in America.” The story brought tears to my eyes. I’ve never felt personally close to Fischer, as you know, but the words he spoke represent my own attitude exactly, and I believe yours. We’re privileged to serve … Hold steady, my dearest love,