Finally, a political argument. These are drafts and notes. The first letter here is Henry’s response just after the argument of May 23. He thought it was all about the war, with a second minor issue rising evidently from a story about a blue-eyed child. The second letter is Henry’s response to Esperanza’s letter of May 26 where she doesn’t even mention the war. He had quite a bit of material and I combined some of it but tried to do minimal editing. The sentences and general organization are his. The longest paragraph in the second letter is untouched by me.
The war argument sounds like a Stalinist versus Trotskyist argument. Stalin's phrase was socialism in one country. Trotsky's was world-wide revolution. Henry was 31 years of age, a true believer in Marx and Trotsky. Esperanza was 35, a lover of literature and outdoor adventure, but working with Stalinists, unknown to Henry it seems. The 25-year idea expressed is probably something she picked up from them.
May 23, 1942 Saturday –
You were sarcastic, “you and Walter think you know more than anybody.” “Don’t try to be a prophet.” Walter and I are “necios.” – because you don’t agree with us.
If the time has come that you are too bored with me to even discuss for a few minutes a matter so grave as the war, then what remains that we can discuss together? A question that affects the public, the proletariat, the world’s future so vitally you dismiss with boredom and disdain. Is there any question that affects our relationship or future more directly than that? – Possibly. You may answer, “yes, my family.”
Saturday night I asked you “why is the government going to war?” I asked you to explain why the government was doing something which would surely have very serious consequences for it – either its overthrow by the right reaction or by a proletarian revolution – with the former being the more likely. I gave the reasons that would cause a strong reaction to the present war policy. My reasoning was that either revolution or reaction will follow as a result of the present policy, with the possibility of reaction being stronger. We had not discussed or analyzed the next step and you gave no reasons for assuming (as you do) that a 25-year period of reaction will follow because Mexico is going to war.
You accuse me of stupidity or ignorance or both when you say, “you never studied Mendel’s law.” I reminded you that the tendency to have blue eyes is strong among the Spaniards, even the Andalucians. That many Indians (mestizos) have blue eyes is absolutely undeniable. Whether Eduardo’s parents were dark eyed you don’t mention in your story – but might have been blue-eyed as well. Whatever the case may be – with both parents green or blue-eyed the odds – according to Mendel, and reality, would be four to one that the child would have blue eyes too.
At home I was considered easy to get along with. Here I am quarreling constantly, almost fighting. I had been happy – after a fashion- like a monk. Now I’m happy only when I’m with you and then often we quarrel and so I’m horribly unhappy. In all my life I’ve never been so unhappy as here. When you had insisted you never wanted to see me again, that you’d call the police, that you despised me, there was no unhappier person in Mexico than I. The quarrel had been caused by the same difficulty that has caused each previous and the present dispute. Your mother will continue to interfere until she succeeds in separating us. The effect she has on you becomes immediately evident after each talk you have with her. I have never loved anyone before, I have never tried half as hard to convince anyone as the correctness of my political views. I have never been hurt so deeply or so often as by you. I have never felt the need for a bit of sympathy, kindness, or love as under the existing conditions and instead I receive from you, whom I cherish more than any being on earth, bitterness, cynicism, deprecation of my deepest sentiments.
May 27, 1942
I’ll agree that there are many who fight more for the cause – but I doubt if any spend more hours at disagreeable menial labor for the sake of the cause. If I get up at 8:30 it is because there is no need to rise earlier, and I stay up to 1:30, not reading, as you suppose, but laboriously and conscientiously carrying out a task I willingly accepted. I’m not doing it for “the cause”, for pride or egoism, but for love and an occasional word of encouragement, cheer or a sign of gratitude. It seems you imagine I never washed the dishes at home – I have been a janitor and dishwasher almost all my life. I don’t say that with pride nor with shame. But just as a matter of fact. What you say is true, mother is killing herself working. Father worked until he utterly destroyed his health and may die any instant. Every proletarian mother and father faces the same fate. Of the nine children mother bore (two died young) I am the only one who dedicated himself to the task of easing the burden for all toilers and to prevent the senseless slaughter of the sons of all mothers. I am proud that my mother understood the need for such action and never discouraged me.
There are no Marxist revolutionaries in the U.S., except those who belong to our party, and their number is small. We have seen the activities of other revolutionaries as in Spain and know that following a false theory leads certainly and inevitably to defeat. We have seen many examples of the revolutionists in words who failed in deeds. The only true fighters for worker’s liberty are our fellow party members. By doing the job they have assigned me, to the best of my ability, I am doing my duty and am helping the cause. You can’t expect more from any loyal comrade.
It may be you imagine a factory worker earning $1.50 per hour is working harder for the revolution thought he understands nothing, not even the class struggle. Possibly I’d be a better revolutionist back home on papa’s farm, raising potatoes. (YES -Esp writes in margin). Maybe Marx was a fool to spend all his time reading or writing books instead of working for the revolution. Had Lenin stayed in Russia instead of living in exile he could have speeded up the revolution???
I had always hoped you would someday understand our policies and politics. It seems you never will.
You admit that it is a great sacrifice to give me two or three hours of your time. You could make demands on my time without stinting yourself. You never considered my time so valuable that you couldn’t postpone or cancel a date., that you could keep me waiting – even a whole day without considering my time or peace of mind important enough to telephone me. You have made appointments and never kept them. Your sarcasm -you won’t rob me of another minute of my precious time – when have I ever spoken so sarcastically to you? Your whole letter – how I spend my time, what I should be doing, when I get up etc. – the whole thing is more sarcastic, more insulting than a slap in the face – and you accuse me of rudeness. Saturday night it was you who said, ‘you think you and Walter know more than anybody else.” “Don’t be a prophet, “shut up and go home,” “You never read Mendel’s law, etc. I had failed to pass a compliment on your new red coat – and I was sorry. But you callously, maliciously and deprecatingly sneered at the camera, “It looks like an antique. It looks like one Napoleon had.” It meant a real sacrifice to get that camera, $35 is 7/12 of one month’s allowance.
You say I am rude. The threat you made to Walter – that you’d call a police if I molested you – that hurt, that was an insult, that was rude. You round out the stock of insults by calling me insane and egoistic. When have I ever spoken that way to you?
As a final bitter jibe you remind me that I shed tears easily, inferring that the sentiment is lacking. That is refined vindictiveness. Am I ever spiteful, malicious? When you get angry you stay angry, but this time you’re really setting a record for bitterness. I have never felt such deep or sincere emotion as during the past year – and never have I shed so many bitter tears. I’m not regretful thought the tears might have been shed for a better cause. I had hoped, sincerely hoped, that you would learn to love me as I love you. Perhaps in spite you have touched accidentally on the cause of our differences. You love is not a matter of sentiment, emotion, sympathy or understanding. Yours is a general coldness, an aloofness, a feeling of separation with an occasional outburst of passion, purely carnal. You have never had a desire to understand, to think the same, to feel the same. We never reached a harmony of understanding. You didn’t care to feel close, united. Few were the sweet words you wasted on me, and though it was flattery still I enjoy remembering it. I have no way of measuring the depth of the sentiment you felt for me – I remember, besides the nice kind things, you also told me that you hated and despised me. Maybe the things you said never hurt you. Maybe my feelings are too easily injured. Maybe everything you say about me is true, but I can’t recall that I ever, once, said or thought similar things about you. People without emotion are unable to feel the lash that cuts another’s back. Unless they themselves suffer want they don’t understand what hunger means. To them poverty is a matter of statistics. Their feeling of abhorrence for beggars is assuaged with a few pennies. Their feeling of pity for the poor, dirty shabbily dressed, pinched faced, hungry little children – demands that they wait, that nothing can be done now, that after a 25-year period of reaction the workers will simultaneously all over the world rise in revolt and without theory, party leadership or guidance establish a classless society – if in the meantime the race isn’t wiped out by war. I am not ashamed of being soft hearted or sentimental, because it brings me closer to those I hope to serve. I am sorry for the sufferings of my family, but feel more depressed when I see the poverty of whole peoples who not only suffer but have no hope of betterment.
I had never hoped for a future reward, but for the past year hoped to find a bit of kindness, sweetness, tenderness from you. But, you are too practical to be tender. You can express all your sentiment with words – whereas I find the language utterly inadequate. If not love, I had hoped for compassion but that too was in vain.