Mrs. Engels by Gavin McCrea
With Gavin McCrea’s first book, he has written the hell out of his main character. Lizzie Burns was the Irish-born common-law wife of Friedrich Engels, brought out of Engels’ industrial factory and into society life with zero training for it. It was survival of the fittest and the shrewdest for any woman, and Lizzie was ready for it. This is Lizzie:
Take warning. This is a changing world, we don’t know today what’ll happen tomorrow, and the man you go with will decide where you’re put, whether it’s on the top or on the bottom or where. The fine feelings love will bring won’t match the volume of problems a pauper will create … Love is a bygone idea; centuries worn. There’s things we can go without, and love is among them, bread and a warm hearth are not … Establish yourself in a decent situation and put away what you can, that, please God, one day you may need no man’s help. Take it and be content, then you’ll journey well.
McCrea does not paint a pleasant portrait of Marx or Engels in their treatment of women. This is Engels’ treatment of Lizzie’s sister:
No doubt he goes with other women — he’s been seen wandering alone down the District — and the thought of it makes her suffer, deep and miserable. He stays away for weeks on end. She sees him in the mill and pours all her hurt into her eyes, but he resists her willing and stays upstairs where he is. Then when it suits him, he appears again, raps his ashplant on the door, and goes to the end of the passage to wait. So strong is her wanting, she throws a shawl around her pain, and runs out.
But Lizzie gets it. After a rough and life-changing ordeal with an STD, she still sees the endgame of surviving in her world:
It’s men are at the bottom of every plague in this world. We come to the lock with this frontmost in our minds, and as we lie here stewing in our cures, and wondering if we’ll be next to go cripple, or walk off into fits, or turn so childish we’ve to be washed in bath chairs and given to drink with a spoon in a teacup, our knowledge turns to action: sometimes screams or fists but most often somber vows of chastity breathed out into the late-night miasmas … And we make the same vow the next night and every night after, till we’re told by some twist-whiskered pup that we’re saved and can likely leave in the morning … More than that, when we see them biding by the door to take us home, it’s Lucky me! we think. Lucky me to have such a morsel worrying after me!