Etta embraced her friend. “Did it ever occur to you,” she said, “that perhaps he sees you as I do?”
Eleanor shook her head and put her hands over her eyes.
“From the moment I met you, I was captivated. When I first saw you at Rivington Street with those young immigrant girls, your words to them were like hope itself, your movements like joy made dance. When I looked into your eyes I saw more than I had ever seen in anyone's, male or female, old or young. I saw all the joy and suffering of all the people in the world. And in you I saw one who could defeat that suffering.”
Etta took Eleanor's head in her hands. They stood there for a long moment until Etta broke their embrace. She kissed Eleanor lightly on her forehead.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”
Her friend's smile was enough to tell Etta she understood.
Eleanor took Etta's hand and led her through the long corridor and out onto the portico. There they gazed up at the moon, brighter now, shining through the gently falling snow.
6
LETTER TO JOSIAH LONGBAUGH
12 State Street, Phoenixville, Pa.
5 March 1904
Near Cholio, Argentina
Dear Father,
It has been two years since my last writing to you and I don't have no excuse. I can only say that that me and my comrades have been busy what with the setting up of life in this foreign country. Us gringos (that's Americans here) have been making headway with the language and find that the Argentine people are warmhearted and friendly and willing to share their last tortilla with you.
But like poor people all over the world, they are oppressed by cruel masters who force them at the threat of the bread in their children's mouths to work all day in the fields and mines here. Everywhere in the world it is the same. The rich get richer. I am now more than ever convinced of the things I learned in New York City.
We came to this beautiful land with quite a stake. Bought a small ranch outside Cholio and invited many of the local people hereabouts to work with us. On our farm nobody, not even us that owns it, earns any more from the fruits of labor than anyone else. All is share and share alike. Here they have what they call campesinos, which is like our tenant farmers back home, only they have it even worse. When we got down here it was usual to come across children dying in the street and old men begging for a few centavos outside the bars. We take these people in, feed them and clothe them, and put them to work. And every day we have school. Not only the children go but everyone. We teach the people to read and write and figure, but we also give them political lessons. We tell them about socialism and the wonderful paradise for the worker that the earth will soon become.
And if the Union Pacific bosses knew their money financed all this, would they be happy and proud? No. Capital would rather see Labor dead than happy and contented and with its fair share of the goods.
I guess it all sounds dead serious, Father, but we have fun too. At night after work, we dance and sing and some of the men play on guitars. The children dance in a ring-round-rosy. They make fine moonshine down here. It is the champagne of the poor, just like it is in Nevada or West Virginia or even Pennsylvania. And if it's strong, it has to be to conquer the bitterness of the lives they have been forced to lead. In Argentina, I begrudge no man the whiteness of his lightning.
We now number in the hundreds and the caballeros—that's the landowners here—hate us because we have taken away so many they made slaves. A rich man named Don Alejandro Espinoza haunts us day and night. He sends his henchman, an animal called El Tigre—“the Tiger” in Spanish—to take our people back to his farms and mines. We have been forced to put barbed-wire fences around our property. They claim our campesinos owe them money for food and for the rent of the squalid huts they once lived in. Sometimes they bribe the judges and win in court, sometimes we bribe the judges and win. Either way, anyone who tries to retrieve a soul from our commune will have to have better guns and braver souls than we do.
Father, I once was ashamed of being a thief. Now I am proud. A few months ago we ran out of the money we brung with us and, as you know only too well, a farmer can barely live on the selling and eating of what he raises. We might have done fine to just scratch, but to build decent buildings, teach, and provide doctoring takes money. Now, whenever we rob a bank or hold up a train, I am filled with happiness because I know the money will help fill a child's hungry belly.
This work comes natural to Etta. Yes, she is from the ruling class but she knows how to care for people. Maybe she is made that way or maybe it is the good influence of her friend, Miss Roosevelt, who I have wrote you of many times. She nurses our sick and old and plays with our children. She carries water for the animals and teaches the Spanish alphabet without being expert in the language. Still, she can drive me loco when it comes to her own education. I can't get her to look at the texts of our great revolution. She says she is too busy doing socialism to read about it. Or she joshes me and says that she knew a Mr. Engels back home and he was a very fine butcher. But I guess the proof of the pudding comes when you eat it, and my love could not be a better example of a worker in our movement. Her soft hands have gone hard.
Of course for some, old ways die hard. Butch has just this week lit out from here. I suppose he wasn't never quite as dedicated to the cause as Etta and me. Plus he built up a dam's worth of vengeance with the amount of señoritas … and, worse, señoras… what he was romancing. When he filled up Mrs. Gutierrez with what turned out a red-blond boy Mr. Gutierrez took it less than kindly. I tried to tell him that jealousy was a booshwa affectation, but he was having none of it. Cassidy got out with his hide, and it was all I could do to keep Mr. Gutierrez from carving up his wife with a machete. But I know where to find Butch when I need him.
I hope this letter finds you all as well and prosperous as can be under the present system. I have enclosed several pamphlets for you, Father. I hope you will read them. Please notice I have circled certain passages in the one entitled “Farmers! The Land Is Yours!” I do this because they remind me of things you said when your burden became almost too heavy for bearing.
I long for you and all at home more than a hardened highwayman should. Please see after your health and remember me in your prayers as I remember you in mine.
Viva la Revolucion!
Affectionately your son
Harry Longbaugh
From the
NEW YORK TIMES
March 18, 1905
PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT GIVES THE BRIDE AWAY: NIECE WEDS HER COUSIN, FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT
CEREMONY AT PARISH HOME
THE BRIDE, MISS ELEANOR ROOSEVELT,
DAUGHTER OF PRESIDENT'S ONLY BROTHER
One of the most notable weddings of the year was celebrated yesterday, when Miss Eleanor Roosevelt, daughter of the only brother of President Roosevelt, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt, a cousin of the President, were married by the Rev. Endicott Peabody of Groton, Conn., at the residence of the bride's cousins, Mr. And Mrs. Henry Parish, Jr., 8 East Seventy-sixth Street.
The bride is an orphan, her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott Roosevelt, having died a dozen years or more ago. She has been living with Mrs. Parish since her grandmother Mrs. Valentine G. Hall gave up her city home and went to the country to live.
President Roosevelt gave the bride away. The ceremony, which was at 3:30 o'clock, and witnessed only by relatives and a few intimate friends, in reality took place in the house of Mrs. E. Livingston Ludlow, Mrs. Parish's mother, whose house opens directly into her daughter's by wide sliding doors. The two large drawing rooms on the second floor, done alike in pale amber-yellow satin brocade, were thrown into one large salon running the width of the two houses.
The bride, walking with the President, and preceded by her six bridesmaids, came down the wide flight of stairs leading from the third floor to the second and across the large foyer hall at the rear of the Parish drawing room, through wide doorways and on to a la
rge mantel at the west side of the Ludlow drawing room, where the ceremony took place. First in the bridal procession came the Misses Alice Roosevelt and Corinne Douglas Robinson, followed by the Misses Ellen Delano and Muriel Delano Robbins, and last the Misses Cutting and Isabella Selmes. The attendants were in white faille silk frocks trimmed with lace and silver, and wore tulle veils attached to white Prince of Wales ostrich feathers, tipped with silver, and carried large bouquets of pink roses.
Following came the bride and the President. The bridal gown was a white satin princess robe, flounced and draped with old point lace, and with a white satin court train. The bride's point lace veil was caught with orange blossoms and a diamond crescent. She wore a pearl collar, the gift of the bridegroom's mother, and a diamond bowknot, the gift of Mrs. Warren Delano, Jr. Her bouquet was of lilies of the valley.
The bridal procession passed through an aisle formed by the ushers, who held white satin ribbons. The bridegroom, who came from the large foyer hall of the Ludlow house to the salon to meet the bride, was attended by Lathrop Brown as best man, J. Roosevelt Roosevelt, a half brother, not having arrived from the South in time to fill the place. The ushers were Edmund Rogers, Nicholas Biddle, Lyman Delano, Owen Winston, Charles B. Bradley, W. D. Robbins, and Thomas P. Beales of Boston. A small reception followed the ceremony.
The house was decorated throughout with ferns, palms, and pink roses. The bride's grandmother, Mrs. V. G. Hall, was in black velvet and point lace. The bridegroom's mother, Mrs. James Roosevelt, was in white silk, covered with black lace. Mrs. E. Livingston Ludlow was in mauve satin and point lace, and Mrs. Henry Parish wore a changeable pale blue and pink silk crepe, with lace sleeves and yoke.
After the reception the newly wed couple left for a bridal trip of a week only. They are to sail in the late Spring for Europe, where they will spend the Summer. Meanwhile, on their return from their bridal trip, they will occupy an apartment at 40 West Forty-fifth Street.
he thin young man with the wild hair and pince-nez was now well into the second hour of his lecture, but his audience had forsaken him not long into the first.
The speech would have been tedious at any length, but it was made doubly so by periodic translations from the Russian offered by Miss Yelena Ouspenskaya, a starved intense woman with bright blond hair and snow-pale skin. As the third hour approached, many of the campesinos had drifted off to sleep. Others had escaped into the gathering night to smoke their tobacco or make love.
With darkness falling, the Russian at last bowed and took a seat upon a large rock that had been set with an Indian blanket. There was no applause except from Harry Longbaugh, who beamed at his guest and then spoke sincerely in a Spanish polished by three years of communicating with the wretched of the earth.
“Comrades,” Harry said, to the few that remained, “I know that you will join me in thanking Mr. Trotsky, or should I say Leon Davidovitch, for coming all the way here from Vienna, where he has been in some bad exile. I'm sure that the story of his unjust incarceration in his native land and the details of his escape thrilled and inspired you as it did me. There ain't no greater authority on our movement in this world than Señor Trotsky. And he is right! The revolution must be not just a revolution of 1908 but a permanent revolution! Never again must the working classes let their guard down long enough for the powers that be to seize what's by rights our'n!”
Had the expected applause actually arrived, Etta Place would not have heard it. The fever in her brain and belly had been building for days and, although she had tried to ignore it by work, it had been no use. At first she had thought the sudden cramps were merely a particularly difficult female cycle; later, a long-hoped-for pregnancy. But by the time the local midwife had declared it an inflamed appendix, Etta had reached a state of near-constant agony. All the attempts to cure her by herb and incantation had failed, and it soon became clear that she would need to return to America for proper medical treatment.
“I cannot allow you to make this journey alone,” Harry had insisted. “You are far too sick to handle the trip. There's all that time on the train, and then the boat. No, you'll need me along.”
Etta stroked his face. His eyes were filled with worry and his forehead felt nearly as feverish as her own. “I won't be alone. There are any number of ladies here who would willingly accompany me to New York. But for you to play nursemaid would be foolhardy. John Swartz took a photograph of you, my love, not me. It's your face that adorns every post office and Pinkerton cubicle between Boston and San Francisco, not mine. Eleanor's lawyers have the only pictures of me the Pinks ever took. I can get well and be back here in a few months. But if you come with me and are killed or taken because of it, I might as well die of what ails me.”
Harry ultimately sought the wise council of Trotsky. The great man agreed with Etta that a return to America by the Sundance Kid would be far too dangerous and then presented his own solution: He would personally accompany his charming hostess back to the United States. What better way to return the kindness of Comrade Longbaugh? In fact, he was so pleased to be of service that the subject formed the basis of a monologue and translation that occupied the better part of the next hour. Etta pleaded a headache and went to bed.
Feigning pain proved an excellent rehearsal for the thunderbolt that split her head in earnest the following morning. Etta reckoned it was caused by a combination of her current sickness and a general overexposure to high-flown philosophy. With her temples pounding and her eyes blurring, she struggled to gather the belongings she would need for her long trek by train and boat. By the time the day of departure had arrived, it was like a labor of Hercules merely to pin Harrys gold and silver watch to her bodice.
The rainy season had begun in Argentina, and with a deluge pounding down around them the lovers found it nearly impossible to say their customary romantic goodbye; and as the cramping pain within Etta prevented her from standing, all of Harry's affections were bestowed as she lay doubled over on a gurney borne through the train yard by four campesinos.
And then there was Trotsky. Whenever Etta and Harry attempted their farewells, the great man would clap them on the back or offer his hearty congratulations for their devotion to both love and social change. When they finally did manage a goodbye kiss, Trotsky wept and embraced them as Miss Ouspenskaya explained in broken English that such effusive emotion was simply “the Russian way.” When the trio at last boarded the train and Etta managed to push her head out the carriage window, there was Trotsky behind her, waving wildly. The final image Harry Longbaugh would have of his departing love was that of a two-headed, three-handed monster crying out not a plaintive farewell but a cracked and merry dossvidanya.
Over the next ten days Etta would have many reasons to wish she had made the journey alone. Ill and pining, there were few times when she found the company of the Russians even mildly soothing or helpful. As the days ground on she often wished for the return of her old physical strength, the better to grab the grand Marxist and fling him over one of the country's cliffs, throwing in Miss Ouspenskaya for company.
For a man of the people, Trotsky was surprisingly fussy about his accommodations. At first, Etta put this down to reasonable anxieties regarding security. Given his reputation, it was no more than prudent that he remain largely out of sight for the majority of the trip. Counterrevolutionaries had made more than one attempt upon his life this year, and there was no reason to expect that they wouldn't try again, even here on an isolated railroad.
Still, Etta couldn't reconcile the legitimacy of such concerns with Trotsky's continuous tantrums over trivialities involving dining and housekeeping. Once, in his private compartment, she saw him go through five pillows, becoming progressively more irritated over their respective degrees of comfort. On the first morning of the journey, Etta felt well enough to join Trotsky and Miss Ouspenskaya for breakfast, a decision she soon regretted. Throughout the meal, the revolutionary continually berated the dining car waiters as if they were peasants
of the steppe, sending back seven soft-boiled eggs before finally consuming one and then, satisfied, ordering another, whereupon the entire process repeated itself. In between courses, Trotsky expounded on the coming hegemony of the laboring classes. But the kind of inflated talk that had sounded charming and well intentioned from a disciple like Harry now seemed pompous and grating from a man who had just overturned his fruit compote for being insufficiently warmed. After that one meal, Etta usually pled the pain of her appendix rather than risk the company of such a spoiled windbag.
Thankfully alone within her compartment, Etta was alternately chilled and fevered, the pain continually traveling throughout her abdomen, but she reserved her weeping for the thought of separation from Harry and only worried that the tiny and useless organ within her would burst before she could reach the surgeons of New York. Should that happen, all would be lost: her life, her love, and the task she had been sent to complete.
Even if her mission should go off without incident, it would still take months. First, there was the appendectomy, then her recovery, and finally the retrieval of the money—her money—that lay buried in Colorado. Over the outlaw years, her share of the plunder had amounted to a more than tidy sum, and the interest she had earned as a moneylender to owlhoots far and wide nearly equaled the principal. That money was now badly needed. The commune had run out of the fortune they had brought with them. What little solace she took now rested in the notion that her treasure would be the instrument by which Harry might bring comfort to bitter lives.
Etta: A Novel Page 25
