| Paul Lafargue was born in Cuba in 1842. As he would
later boast, he was an “international[ist] of blood before [he] was one of
ideology.” By which he meant that of his four grandparents, only one was a
Christian French citizen – one of his grandmothers was an Indian from Jamaica
and one was a mulatto refugee from Haiti, and his maternal grandfather was
a French Jew. He also liked to say that “the blood of three oppressed races
runs in my veins” and when Daniel DeLeon asked him about his origins, he promptly
replied, “I am proudest of my Negro extraction.”
[1
] Lafargue’s family was balanced between privilege and oppression. While his father most likely moved from Cuba to France (in 1851) to escape the repression against the Black working class that was also hitting the mulatto middle class, he kept his property in Cuba and also “owned” a slave whose name was Genevieve, whom he only freed in 1866. Paul’s life marks a continuation of this contradiction – although he and Laura would often be very short on cash, the couple was supported for Engels for years and then by Paul’s inheritance. For most of his life he did not have to work at any kind of steady job. Likewise, although Paul repeatedly ended up in prison, being an officially recognized French political prisoner in those days meant suffering none of the squalid conditions or abuse of being a mere “social prisoner”, like a debtor or a thief. Political prisoners enjoyed spacious lodgings and unlimited visits; Pauls’ wife Laura would bring food almost every day, and friends would frequently smuggle in wine and spend the day hanging out and discussing politics and activism. |
|
Sound of mind and body, I am killing myself before pitiless old age, which gradually deprives me one by one of the pleasures and joys of existence and saps my physical and intellectual strength, paralyzes my energy, breaks my will, and turns me into a burden to myself and to others.Twenty thousand people attended their funeral, and revolutionaries from around the world paid their respects. Lenin – who befriended the couple while in exile – could not decide which ascetic lesson to draw from their suicide. At one point he approvingly noted that “if one no longer has the strength to work for the party, it is necessary to look at the truth squarely and to know how to die as did the Lafargues.” At another he complained that “a socialist does not belong to himself but to his party. If he can still be useful to the working class, for example to write an article or make an appeal, he had no right to commit suicide.”[ 4 ]
A number of years ago I promised myself not to live beyond the age of seventy; I have fixed the time of year of my departure from life and I have prepared the method of carrying out my resolution: a hypodermic injection of hydrocyanide acid.
I die with the supreme joy of having the certitude that in the near future, the cause to which I have devoted myself for forty-five years will triumph.
Long live Communism! Long live the Socialist International!
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