Motherhood to-day is on the lips of every penny-a-liner, every social
patchworker and political climber. It is so much prated about that one
is led to believe that motherhood, in its present condition, is a force
for good. It therefore required a free spirit combined with great
dramatic power to tear the mask off the lying face of motherhood, that
we may see that, whatever its possibilities in a free future, motherhood
is to-day a sickly tree setting forth diseased branches. For its sake
thousands of women are being sacrificed and children sent into a cold
and barren world without the slightest provision for their physical and
mental needs. It was left to Brieux to inscribe with letters of fire the
crying shame of the motherhood of to-day.
_Brignac_, a provincial lawyer and an unscrupulous climber for political
success, represents the typical pillar of society. He believes
implicitly in the supremacy of God over the destiny of man. He swears by
the State and the army, and cringes before the power of money. Naturally
he is the champion of large families as essential to the welfare of
society, and of motherhood, as the most sacred and sole function of
woman.
He is the father of three children, all of whom are in a precarious
condition. He resents the idea that society ought to take care of the
children already in existence, rather than continue indiscriminately
breeding more. _Brignac_ himself wants more children. In vain his wife
_Lucie_, weakened by repeated pregnancies, pleads with him for a
respite.
_Lucie._ Listen, Julien, since we are talking about this, I wanted
to tell you--I haven't had much leisure since our marriage. We have
not been able to take advantage of a single one of your holidays. I
really have a right to a little rest.... Consider, we have not had
any time to know one another, or to love one another. Besides,
remember that we already have to find dowries for three girls.
_Brignac._ I tell you this is going to be a boy.
_Lucie._ A boy is expensive.
_Brignac._ We are going to be rich!
_Lucie._ How?
_Brignac._ Luck may come in several ways. I may stay in the civil
service and get promoted quickly. I may go back to the bar.... I am
certain we shall be rich. After all, it's not much good your saying
so, if I say yes.
_Lucie._ Evidently. My consent was asked for before I was given a
husband, but my consent is not asked for before I am given a
child.... This is slavery--yes, _slavery_. After all you are
disposing of my health, my sufferings, my life--of a year of my
existence, calmly, without consulting me.
_Brignac._ Do I do it out of selfishness? Do you suppose I am not a
most unhappy husband all the time I have a future mother at my side
instead of a loving wife?... A father is a man all the same.
_Lucie._ Rubbish! You evidently take me for a fool. I know what you
do at those times.... Don't deny it. You must see that I know all
about it.... Do you want me to tell you the name of the person you
go to see over at Villeneuve, while I am nursing or "a future
mother," as you call it? We had better say no more about it.
_Brignac_ goes off to his political meeting to proclaim to his
constituency the sacredness of motherhood,--the deepest and highest
function of woman.
_Lucie_ has a younger sister, _Annette_, a girl of eighteen. Their
parents being dead, _Lucie_ takes the place of the mother. She is
passionately fond of her little sister and makes it her purpose to keep
the girl sheltered and protected from the outside world. _Annette_
arrives and announces with great enthusiasm that the son of the wealthy
Bernins has declared his love and asked her to marry him, and that his
mother, _Mme. Bernin_, is coming to talk the matter over with _Lucie_.
_Mme. Bernin_ does arrive, but not for the purpose poor _Annette_ had
hoped. Rather is it to tell _Lucie_ that her son cannot marry the girl.
Oh, not because she isn't beautiful, pure or attractive. Indeed not!
_Mme. Bernin_ herself says that her son could not wish for a more
suitable match. But, then, she has no money, and her son must succeed
in the world. He must acquire social standing and position; that cannot
be had without money. When _Lucie_ pleads with her that after all the
Bernins themselves had begun at the bottom, and that it did not prevent
their being happy, _Mme. Bernin_ replies:
No, no; we are not happy, because we have worn ourselves out hunting
after happiness. We wanted to "get on," and we got on. But what a
price we paid for it! First, when we were both earning wages, our
life was one long drudgery of petty economy and meanness. When we
set up on our own account, we lived in an atmosphere of trickery, of
enmity, of lying; flattering the customers, and always in terror of
bankruptcy. Oh, I know the road to fortune! It means tears, lies,
envy, hate; one suffers--and one makes other people suffer. I have
had to go through it: my children shan't. We've only had two
children: we meant only to have one. Having two we had to be doubly
hard upon ourselves. Instead of a husband and wife helping one
another, we have been partners spying upon one another; calling one
another to account for every little expenditure or stupidity; and on
our very pillows disputing about our business. That's how we got
rich; and now we can't enjoy our money because we don't know how to
use it; and we aren't happy because our old age is made bitter by
the memories and the rancor left by the old bad days; because we
have suffered too much and hated too much. My children shall not go
through this. I endured it that they might be spared.
Learning the price _Mme. Bernin_ has paid for her wealth, we need not
blame her for turning a deaf ear to the entreaties of _Lucie_ in behalf
of her sister. Neither can _Lucie_ be held responsible for her stupidity
in keeping her sister in ignorance until she was incapable of protecting
herself when the occasion demanded. Poor _Annette_, one of the many
offered up to the insatiable monster of ignorance and social convention!
When _Annette_ is informed of the result of _Mme. Bernin's_ visit, the
girl grows hysterical, and _Lucie_ learns that her little sister is
about to become a mother. Under the pretext of love and marriage young,
pampered _Jaques Bernin_ has taken advantage of the girl's inexperience
and innocence. In her despair _Annette_ rushes out in search of her
lover, only to be repelled by him in a vulgar and cruel manner. She then
attempts suicide by trying to throw herself under the train which is to
carry off her worthless seducer. She is rescued by the faithful nurse
_Catherine_, and brought back to her anxious sister _Lucie_. _Annette_,
in great excitement, relates:
_Annette._ You'll never guess what he said. He got angry, and he
began to abuse me. He said he guessed what I was up to; that I
wanted to make a scandal to force him to marry me--oh, he spared me
nothing--to force him to marry me because he was rich. And when that
made me furious, he threatened to call the police! I ought to have
left him, run away, come home, oughtn't I? But I couldn't believe it
of him all at once, like that! And I couldn't go away while I had
any hope.... As long as I was holding to his arm it was as if I was
engaged. When he was gone I should only be a miserable ruined girl,
like dozens of others.... My life was at stake: and to save myself I
went down into the very lowest depths of vileness and cowardice. I
cried, I implored. I lost all shame.... What he said then I cannot
tell you--not even you--it was too much--too much--I did not
understand at first. It was only afterwards, coming back, going over
all his words, that I made out what he meant.... Then he rushed to
the train, and jumped into a carriage, and almost crushed my fingers
in the door; and he went and hid behind his mother, and she
threatened, too, to have me arrested.... I wish I was dead! Lucie,
dear, I don't want to go through all that's coming--I am too
little--I am too weak, I'm too young to bear it. Really, I haven't
the strength.
But _Lucie_ has faith in her husband. In all the years of their married
life she has heard him proclaim from the very housetops that motherhood
is the most sacred function of woman; that the State needs large
numbers; that commerce and the army require an increase of the
population, and "the government commands you to further this end to the
best of your ability, each one of you in his own commune." She has heard
her husband repeat, over and over again, that the woman who refuses to
abide by the command of God and the laws to become a mother is immoral,
is criminal. Surely he would understand the tragedy of _Annette_, who
had been placed in this condition not through her own fault but because
she had been confiding and trusting in the promise of the man. Surely
_Brignac_ would come to the rescue of _Annette_; would help and comfort
her in her trying and difficult moment. But _Lucie_, like many wives,
does not know her husband; she does not know that a man who is so
hidebound by statutes and codes cannot have human compassion, and that
he will not stand by the little girl who has committed the "unpardonable
sin." _Lucie_ does not know, but she is soon to learn the truth.
_Lucie._ I tell you Annette is the victim of this wretch. If you are
going to do nothing but insult her, we had better stop discussing
the matter.
_Brignac._ I am in a nice fix now! There is nothing left for us but
to pack our trunks and be off. I am done for. Ruined! Smashed! I
tell you if she was caught red handed stealing, the wreck wouldn't
be more complete.... We must make some excuse. We will invent an
aunt or cousin who has invited her to stay. I will find a decent
house for her in Paris to go to. She'll be all right there. When the
time comes she can put the child out to nurse in the country, and
come back to us.
_Lucie._ You seriously propose to send that poor child to Paris,
where she doesn't know a soul?
_Brignac._ What do you mean by that? I will go to Paris myself, if
necessary. There are special boarding houses; very respectable
ones. I'll inquire: of course without letting out that it is for
anyone I know. And I'll pay what is necessary. What more can you
want?
_Lucie._ Just when the child is most in need of every care, you
propose to send her off alone; alone, do you understand, alone! To
tear her away from here, put her into a train, and send her off to
Paris, like a sick animal you want to get rid of. If I consented to
that I should feel that I was as bad as the man who seduced her. Be
honest, Julien: remember it is in our interest you propose to
sacrifice her. We shall gain peace and quiet at the price of her
loneliness and despair. To save ourselves--serious troubles, I
admit--we are to abandon this child to strangers ... away from all
love and care and comfort, without a friend to put kind arms around
her and let her sob her grief away. I implore you, Julien, I entreat
you, for our children's sake, don't keep me from her, don't ask me
to do this shameful thing.
_Brignac._ There would have been no question of misery if she had
behaved herself.
_Lucie._ She is this man's victim! But she won't go. You'll have to
drive her out as you drove out the servant.... And then--after
that--she is to let her child go; to stifle her strongest instinct;
to silence the cry of love that consoles us all for the tortures we
have to go through; to turn away her eyes and say, "Take him away, I
don't want him." And at that price she is to be forgiven for another
person's crime.... Then that is Society's welcome to the new born
child?
_Brignac._ To the child born outside of marriage, yes. If it wasn't
for that, there would soon be nothing but illegitimate births. It
is to preserve the family that society condemns the natural child.
_Lucie._ You say you want a larger number of births, and at the same
time you say to women: "No motherhood without marriage, and no
marriage without money." As long as you've not changed that, all
your circulars will be met with shouts of derision--half from hate,
half from pity.... If you drive Annette out, I shall go with her.
_Lucie_ and _Annette_ go out into the world. As middle-class girls they
have been taught a little of everything and not much of anything. They
try all kinds of work to enable them to make a living, but though they
toil hard and long hours, they barely earn enough for a meager
existence. As long as _Annette's_ condition is not noticeable, life is
bearable; but soon everybody remarks her state. She and _Lucie_ are
driven from place to place. In her despair _Annette_ does what many
girls in her position have done before her and will do after her so long
as the Brignacs and their morality are dominant. She visits a midwife,
and one more victim is added to the large number slaughtered upon the
altar of morality.
The last act is in the court room. _Mme. Thomas_, the midwife, is on
trial for criminal abortion. With her are a number of women whose names
have been found on her register.
Bit by bit we learn the whole tragedy of each of the defendants; we see
all the sordidness of poverty, the inability to procure the bare
necessities of life, and the dread of the unwelcome child.
A schoolmistress, although earning a few hundred francs, and living with
her husband, is compelled to have an abortion performed because another
child would mean hunger for all of them.
_Schoolmistress._ We just managed to get along by being most
careful; and several times we cut down expenses it did not seem
possible to cut down. A third child coming upset everything. We
couldn't have lived. We should have all starved. Besides, the
inspectors and directresses don't like us to have many children,
especially if we nurse them ourselves. They told me to hide myself
when I was suckling the last one. I only had ten minutes to do it
in, at the recreation, at ten o'clock and at two o'clock; and when
my mother brought baby to me I had to shut myself up with him in a
dark closet.
The couple _Tupin_ stand before the bar to defend themselves against the
charge of criminal abortion. _Tupin_ has been out of work for a long
time and is driven by misery to drink. He is known to the police as a
disreputable character. One of his sons is serving a sentence for theft,
and a daughter is a woman of the streets. But _Tupin_ is a thinking man.
He proves that his earnings at best are not enough to supply the needs
of an already large family. The daily nourishment of five children
consists of a four-pound loaf, soup of vegetables and dripping, and a
stew which costs 90 centimes. Total, 3f. 75c. This is the expenditure of
the father: Return ticket for tram, 30c. Tobacco, 15c. Dinner, 1f. 25c.
The rent, 300f. Clothing for the whole family, and boots: 16 pairs of
boots for the children at 4f. 50c. each, 4 for the parents at 8f., total
again 300f. Total for the year, 2,600f. _Tupin_, who is an exceptional
workman, earns 160f. a month, that is to say, 2,100f. a year. There is
therefore an annual deficit of 500f., provided _Tupin_ keeps at work all
the time, which never happens in the life of a workingman. Under such
circumstances no one need be surprised that one of his children is
imprisoned for theft, and the other is walking the streets, while
_Tupin_ himself is driven to drink.
_Tupin._ When we began to get short in the house, my wife and I
started to quarrel. Every time a child came we were mad at making it
worse for the others. And so ... I ended up in the saloon. It's warm
there, and you can't hear the children crying nor the mother
complaining. And besides, when you have drink in you, you forget....
And that's how we got poorer and poorer. My fault, if you like....
Our last child was a cripple. He was born in starvation, and his
mother was worn out. And they nursed him, and they nursed him, and
they nursed him. They did not leave him a minute. They made him live
in spite of himself. And they let the other children--the strong
ones--go to the bad. With half the money and the fuss they wasted on
the cripple, they could have made fine fellows of all the others.
_Mme. Tupin._ I have to add that all this is not my fault. My
husband and I worked like beasts; we did without every kind of
pleasure to try and bring up our children. If we had wanted to slave
more, I declare to you we couldn't have done it. And now that we
have given our lives for them, the oldest is in hospital, ruined and
done for because he worked in "a dangerous trade" as they call
it.... There are too many people in the world.... My little girl had
to choose between starvation and the street.... I'm only a poor
woman, and I know what it means to have nothing to eat, so I forgave
her.
Thus _Mme. Tupin_ also understands that it is a crime to add one more
victim to those who are born ill and for whom society has no place.
Then _Lucie_ faces the court,--_Lucie_ who loved her sister too well,
and who, driven by the same conditions that killed _Annette_, has also
been compelled to undergo an abortion rather than have a fourth child by
the man she did not love any more. Like the _Schoolmistress_ and the
_Tupins_, she is dragged before the bar of justice to explain her crime,
while her husband, who had forced both _Annette_ and _Lucie_ out of the
house, has meanwhile risen to a high position as a supporter of the
State with his favorite slogan, "Motherhood is the highest function of
woman."
Finally the midwife _Thomas_ is called upon for her defense.
_Thomas._ A girl came to me one day; she was a servant. She had been
seduced by her master. I refused to do what she asked me to do: she
went and drowned herself. Another I refused to help was brought up
before you here for infanticide. Then when the others came, I said,
"Yes." I have prevented many a suicide and many a crime.
It is not likely that the venerable judge, the State's attorney or the
gentlemen of the jury can see in _Mme. Thomas_ a greater benefactress to
society than they; any more than they can grasp the deep importance of
the concluding words of the counsel for the defense in this great social
tragedy.
_Counsel for the Defense._ Their crime is not an individual crime;
it is a social crime.... It is _not_ a crime against nature. It is a
revolt against nature. And with all the warmth of a heart melted by
pity, with all the indignation of my outraged reason, I look for
that glorious hour of liberation when some master mind shall
discover for us the means of having only the children we need and
desire, release forever from the prison of hypocrisy and absolve us
from the profanation of love. That would indeed be a conquest of
nature--savage nature--which pours out life with culpable
profusion, and sees it disappear with indifference.
Surely there can be no doubt as to the revolutionary significance of
"Maternity": the demand that woman must be given means to prevent
conception of undesired and unloved children; that she must become free
and strong to choose the father of her child and to decide the number of
children she is to bring into the world, and under what conditions. That
is the only kind of motherhood which can endure.