sorting and arranging the material I had brought back from France,
complete with formulas and drawings, to be issued in a pamphlet where I
could treat the subject with more delicacy than in a magazine, writing
it for women of extremely circumscribed vocabularies. A few hundred
dollars were needed to finance publication of _Family Limitation_, as I
named it, and I approached Theodore Schroeder, a lawyer of standing and
an ardent advocate of free speech. He had been left a fund by a certain
Dr. Foote who had produced a book on _Borning Better Babies_, and I
thought my pamphlet might qualify as a beneficiary.
Dr. Abraham Brill was just then bringing out a translation of Freud, in
whom Schroeder was much interested. He asked whether I had been
psychoanalyzed.
“What is psychoanalysis?”
He looked at me critically as from a great height. “You ought to be
analyzed as to your motives. If, after six weeks, you still wish to
publish this pamphlet, I’ll pay for ten thousand copies.”
“Well, do you think I won’t want to go on?”
“I don’t only think so. I’m quite sure of it.”
“Then I won’t be analyzed.”
I took the manuscript to a printer well known for his liberal tendencies
and courage. He read the contents page by page and said, “You’ll never
get this set up in any shop in New York. It’s a Sing Sing job.”
Every one of the twenty printers whom I tried to persuade was afraid to
touch it. It was impossible ever, it seemed, to get into print the
contents of that pamphlet.
Meanwhile, following the March issue the May and July numbers of the
_Woman Rebel_ had also been banned. In reply to each of the formal
notices I inquired which particular article or articles had incurred
disapproval, but could obtain no answer.
At that time I visualized the birth control movement as part of the
fight for freedom of speech. How much would the postal authorities
suppress? What were they really after? I was determined to prod and goad
until some definite knowledge was obtained as to what was “obscene,
lewd, and lascivious.”
Theodore Schroeder and I used to meet once in a while at the Liberal
Club, and he gave much sound advice—I could not go on with the _Woman
Rebel_ forever. Eventually the Post Office would wear me down by
stopping the issues as fast as I printed them. He warned, “They won’t do
so and so unless you do thus and thus. If you do such and such, then
you’ll have to take the consequences.” He was a good lawyer and an
authority on the Constitution.
When my family learned that I might be getting in deep water a council
was called just as when I had been a child. A verdict of nervous
breakdown was openly decreed, but back in the minds of all was the
unspoken dread that I must have become mentally unbalanced. They
insisted father come to New York, where he had not been for forty years,
to persuade me to go to a sanitarium.
For several days father and I talked over the contents of the _Woman
Rebel_. In his fine, flowing language he expressed his hatred of it. He
despised talk about revolution, and despaired of anyone who could
discuss sex, blaming this on my nursing training, which, he intimated,
had put me in possession of all the known secrets of the human body. He
was not quite sure what birth control was, and my reasoning, which
retraced the pattern of our old arguments, made no impression upon him.
Father would have nothing to do with the “queer people” who came to the
house—people of whom no one had ever heard—turning up with articles on
every possible subject and defying me to publish them in the name of
free speech. I printed everything. For the August issue I accepted a
philosophical essay on the theory of assassination, largely derived from
Richard Carlile. It was vague, inane, and innocuous, and had no bearing
on my policy except to taunt the Government to take action, because
assassination also was included under Section 211.
Only a few weeks earlier, the war which Victor Dave had predicted had
started its headlong progress. The very moment when most people were
busy with geographies and atlases, trying to find out just where
Sarajevo might be, the United States chose to sever diplomatic relations
with me.
One morning I was startled by the peremptory, imperious, and incessant
ringing of my bell. When I opened the door, I was confronted by two
gentlemen.
“Will you come in?”
They followed me into my living room, scrutinized with amazement the
velocipede and wagon, the woolly animals and toys stacked in the corner.
One of them asked, “Are you the editor and publisher of a magazine
entitled the _Woman Rebel_?”
When I confessed to it, he thrust a legal document into my hands. I
tried to read it, threading my way slowly through the jungle of legal
terminology. Perhaps the words became a bit blurred because of the
slight trembling of my hands, but I managed to disentangle the crucial
point of the message. I had been indicted—indicted on no less than nine
counts—for alleged violation of the Federal Statutes. If found guilty on
all, I might be liable to forty-five years in the penitentiary.
I looked at the two agents of the Department of Justice. They seemed
nice and sensible. I invited them to sit down and started in to explain
birth control. For three hours I presented to their imaginations some of
the tragic stories of conscript motherhood. I forget now what I said,
but at the end they agreed that such a law should not be on the statute
books. Yet it was, and there was nothing to do about it but bring my
case to court.
When the officers had gone, father came through the door of the
adjoining room where he had been reading the paper. He put both arms
around me and said, “Your mother would have been alive today if we had
known all this then.” He had applied my recital directly to his own
life. “You will win this case. Everything is with you—logic, common
sense, and progress. I never saw the truth until this instant.”
Old-fashioned phraseology, but father was at last convinced. He went
home quite proud, thinking I was not so crazy after all, and began
sending me clippings to help prove the case for birth control—women who
had drowned themselves or their children and the brutalities of parents,
because even mother love might turn cruel if too hard pressed.
My faith was still childlike. I trusted that, like father, a judge
representing our Government would be convinced. All I had to do was
explain to those in power what I was doing and everything would come
right.
August twenty-fifth I was arraigned in the old Post Office way downtown.
Judge Hazel, himself a father of eight or nine children, was kindly, and
I suspected the two Federal agents who had summoned me had spoken a good
word on my behalf. But Assistant District Attorney Harold A. Content
seemed a ferocious young fellow. When the Judge asked, “What sort of
things is Mrs. Sanger doing to violate the law?” he answered, “She’s
printing articles advocating bomb throwing and assassination.”
“Mrs. Sanger doesn’t look like a bomb thrower or an assassin.”
Mr. Content murmured something about not all being gold that glittered;
I was doing a great deal of harm. He intimated he knew of my attempts to
get _Family Limitation_ in print when he said, “She is not satisfied
merely to violate the law, but is planning to do it on a very large
scale.”
Judge Hazel, apparently believing the charges much exaggerated, put the
case over until the fall term, which gave me six weeks to prepare my
answer, and Mr. Content concurred, saying that if this were not enough
time, I could have more.
The press also was inclined to be friendly. Reporters came up to Post
Avenue, looked over the various articles. They agreed, “We think the
Government absolutely wrong. We don’t see how it has any case.”
Unfortunately, while we were talking, Peggy, who had never seen a derby
before, took possession of their hats and sticks, and in the hall a
little parade of children formed, marching up and down in front of the
door. One of the gentlemen was so furious that I hid Peggy in the
kitchen away from his wrath. As he went out he remarked, “You should
have birth controlled them before they were born. Why don’t you stay
home and spend some thought on disciplining your own family?”
I had many things to do which could not be postponed, the most important
among them being to provide for the children’s future. This occupied
much of my time for the next few weeks. Temporarily, I sent the younger
two to the Catskills and Stuart to a camp in Maine, arranging for school
in the fall on Long Island.
Defense funds were always being raised when radicals got into trouble to
pay pseudo-radical lawyers to fight the cases on technicalities. I was
not going to have any lawyer get me out of this. Since my indictment had
not stopped my publishing the _Woman Rebel_, through the columns of the
September issue I told my subscribers I did not want pennies or dollars,
but appealed to them to combine forces and protest on their own behalf
against government invasion of their rights. That issue and the October
one were both suppressed.
During what might be called my sleepwalking stage it was as though I
were heading towards a precipice and nothing could awaken me. I had no
ear for the objections of family or the criticism of friends. People
were around me, I knew, but I could not see them clearly; I was deaf to
their warnings and blind to their signs.
When I review the situation through the eyes of those who gave me
circumspect advice, I can understand their attitude. I was considered a
conservative, even a bourgeoise by the radicals. I was digging into an
illegal subject, was not a trained writer or speaker or experienced in
the arts of the propagandist, had no money with which to start a rousing
campaign, and possessed neither social position nor influence.
In the opinion of nearly all my acquaintances I would have to spend at
least a year in jail, and they began to condole with me. None offered to
do anything about it, just suggested how I could get through. One kind
woman whom I had never seen before called late one evening and
volunteered to give me dancing lessons. In a small six-by-four cabin she
had developed a system which she claimed was equally applicable to a
prison cell and would keep me in good health. She even wrote out careful
directions for combining proper exercises with the rhythm of the dance.
But I myself had no intention of going to jail; it was not in my
program.
One other thing I had to do before my trial. _Family Limitation_ simply
must be published. I had at last found the right person—Bill Shatoff,
Russian-born, big and burly, at that time a linotype operator on a
foreign paper. So that nobody would see him he did the job after hours
when his shop was supposed to be closed.
At first I had thought only of an edition of ten thousand. However, when
I learned that union leaders in the silk, woolen, and copper industries
were eager to have many more copies to distribute, I enlarged my plan. I
would have liked to print a million but, owing to lack of funds, could
not manage more than a hundred thousand.
Addressing the envelopes took a lot of work. Night after night the
faithful band labored in a storage room, wrapping, weighing, stamping.
Bundles went to the mills in the East, to the mines of the West—to
Chicago, San Francisco, and Pittsburgh, to Butte, Lawrence, and
Paterson. All who had requested copies were to receive them
simultaneously; I did not want any to be circulated until I was ready,
and refused to have one in my own house. I was a tyrant about this, as
firm as a general about leaving no rough edges.
In October my case came up. I had had no notice and, without a lawyer to
keep me posted, did not even know it had been called until the District
Attorney’s office telephoned. Since Mr. Content had promised me plenty
of time, I thought this was merely a formality and all I had to do was
put in an appearance.
The next morning I presented myself at court. As I sat in the crowded
room I felt crushed and oppressed by an intuitive sense of the
tremendous, impersonal power of my opponents. Popular interest was now
focused on Europe; my little defiance was no longer important. When I
was brought out of my reverie by the voice of the clerk trumpeting forth
in the harshly mechanical tones of a train announcer something about
_The People_ v. _Margaret Sanger_, there flashed into my mind a huge map
of the United States, coming to life as a massive, vari-colored animal,
against which I, so insignificant and small, must in some way defend
myself. It was a terrific feeling.
But courage did not entirely desert me. Elsie Clapp, whose ample Grecian
figure made her seem a tower of strength, marched up the aisle with me
as though she, too, were to be tried. I said to Judge Hazel that I was
not prepared, and asked for a month’s adjournment. Mr. Content
astonished me by objecting. “Mrs. Sanger’s had plenty of time and I see
no reason, Your Honor, why we should have a further postponement. Every
day’s delay means that her violations are increased. I ask that the case
continue this afternoon.”
A change in Judge Hazel’s attitude had taken place since August. Instead
of listening to my request, he advised me to get an attorney at once—my
trial would go on after the noon recess.
I was so amazed that I could only believe his refusal was due to my lack
of technical knowledge, and supposed that at this point I really had to
have a lawyer. I knew Simon H. Pollock, who had represented labor during
the Paterson strike, and I went to see him. He agreed with me that a
lawyer’s plea would not be rejected and that afternoon confidently asked
for a month’s stay. It was denied. He reduced it to two weeks. Again it
was denied. At ten the following morning the case was to be tried
without fail.
From the Post Office Department I received roundabout word that my
conviction had already been decided upon. When I told this to Mr.
Pollock he said, “There isn’t a thing I can do. You’d better plead
guilty and let us get you out as fast as we can. We might even be able
to make some deal with the D.A. so you’d only have to pay a fine.”
I indignantly refused to plead guilty under any circumstances. What was
the sense of bringing about my indictment in order to test the law, and
then admit that I had done wrong? I was trying to prove the law was
wrong, not I. Giving Mr. Pollock no directions how to act, I merely said
I would call him up.
It was now four o’clock and I sought refuge at home to think through my
mental turmoil and distress. But home was crowded with too many
associations and emotions pulling me this way and that. When my thoughts
would not come clear and straight I packed a suitcase, went back
downtown, and took a room in a hotel, the most impersonal place in the
world.
There was no doubt in my mind that if I faced the hostile court the next
morning, unprepared as I was, I would be convicted of publishing an
obscene paper. Such a verdict would be an injustice. If I were to
convince a court of the rightness of my cause, I must have my facts well
marshaled, and that could not be done in eighteen hours.
Then there was the question of the children’s welfare. Had I the right
to leave them the heritage of a mother who had been imprisoned for some
offensive literature of which no one knew the details?
What was I to do? Should I get another lawyer, one with personal
influence who could secure a postponement, and should we then go into
court together and fight it out? I had no money for such a luxury.
Should I follow the inevitable suggestion of the “I-told-you-so’s” and
take my medicine? Yes, but what medicine? I would not swallow a dosage
for the wrong disease.
I was not afraid of the penitentiary; I was not afraid of anything
except being misunderstood. Nevertheless, in the circumstances, my going
there could help nobody. I had seen so many people do foolish things
valiantly, such as wave a red flag, shout inflammatory words, lead a
parade, just for the excitement of doing what the crowd expected of
them. Then they went to jail for six months, a year perhaps, and what
happened? Something had been killed in them; they were never heard of
again. I had seen braver and hardier souls than I vanquished in spirit
and body by prison terms, and I was not going to be lost and broken for
an issue which was not the real one, such as the entirely unimportant
_Woman Rebel_ articles. Had I been able to print _Family Limitation_
earlier, and to swing the indictment around that, going to jail might
have had some significance.
Going away was much more difficult than remaining. But if I were to sail
for Europe I could prepare my case adequately and return then to win or
lose in the courts. There was a train for Canada within a few hours.
Could I take it? Should I take it? Could I ever make those who had
advised me against this work and these activities understand? Could I
ever make anyone understand? How could I separate myself from the
children without seeing them once more? Peggy’s leg was swollen from
vaccination. This kept worrying me, made me hesitate, anxious. It was so
hard to decide what to do.
Perfectly still, my watch on the table, I marked the minutes fly. There
could be no retreat once I boarded that train. The torture of
uncertainty, the agony of making a decision only to reverse it! The hour
grew later and later. This was like both birth and death—you had to meet
them alone.
About thirty minutes before train time I knew that I must go. I wrote
two letters, one to Judge Hazel, one to Mr. Content, to be received at
the desk the next day, informing them of my action. I had asked for a
month and it had been refused. This denial of right and freedom
compelled me to leave my home and my three children until I made ready
my case, which dealt with society rather than an individual. I would
notify them when I came back. Whether this were in a month or a year
depended on what I found it necessary to do. Finally, as though to say,
“Make the most of it,” I enclosed to each a copy of _Family Limitation_.
Parting from all that I held dear in life, I left New York at midnight,
without a passport, not knowing whether I could ever return.
_Chapter Ten_
WE SPEAK THE SAME GOOD TONGUE
At Montreal I found comfort and refuge. In fact, on any road I took men
and women who knew about the _Woman Rebel_ came to my aid. I shall never
forget the generosity of the Baineses who met me at the train and
welcomed me to their home. They had been friends of Walt Whitman and
still honored “his” memory. I sat at the table where “he” had sat, and
in “his” chair. Among their many kindnesses they gave me an introduction
to Edward Carpenter, also mentioned in awed tones, leader of the Whitman
group in England and author of _Love’s Coming of Age_, which was then on
every modern bookshelf.
Since I was charged with felony I could be extradited. I was obliged,
therefore, in buying my passage, to choose a new name. No sooner had I
selected the atrociously ugly “Bertha Watson,” which seemed to rob me of
femininity, than I wanted to be rid of it. But once having adopted it I
could not escape.
I boarded the _RMS Virginian_, laden with munitions, food, Englishmen
returning home for war duty, and Canadians going over. Even before the
printing of _Family Limitation_ had begun in August, I had arranged a
key message which would release all the pamphlets simultaneously
whenever it should be received by any of four trusted lieutenants. In
case one should be arrested, another ill, or a third die, still
everything would go forward as provided for. Three days out of Montreal
I sent a cable and shortly had one in reply that the program was being
executed as planned. My soul was sick and my heart empty for those I
loved; the one gleam in this dreadful night of despair was the faint
hope that my efforts might, perhaps, make Peggy’s future easier.
The government official examining credentials at Liverpool said sternly,
“England is at war, Madam. You can’t expect us to let you through. We’re
sending back people without passports every day, and I can’t make an
exception in your case.”
But I had Good Luck as an ally; she comes so often to help in
emergencies. A shipboard acquaintance telephoned and pulled wires, a
procedure not so common in England as in the United States. On his
guarantee that I would get a passport from the American Embassy
immediately on reaching London I was allowed to enter.
I wound through dirty streets in a cab to the Adelphi Palace. It rained
all day, the wind blew, its howling came through the windows and crept
down the chimney. Homesickness swept over me worse than ever before or
since. I knew it would not do to “set and think” as the Quakers say, so
I wandered about in the business district, trying to adjust my mind to
the prices marked in the store windows in order to have some idea of
what they were in dollars and cents. I viewed church architecture and
the Cathedral, which was not expected to be finished for fifty years. It
did not look so splendid, but since everything about it was closed I
really could not tell.
Liverpool was a quaint city. I liked its weathered brick houses, and the
evenness and settled feeling, as though the people in them planned to
remain where they were for time everlasting. The women of the poor were
unconcernedly wearing on the streets dresses originally made for
bustles, hats with feathers, caricatures which should have been stuffed
away in attics forty years before.
Bertha Watson had a letter to the local Fabian Society, and at six I
went to the Clarion Café, where it foregathered each Friday. I presented
her letter, was welcomed heartily, and invited to the discussion. I
found the English then and later polite in speech and action, tolerant
in listening. One of the members helped me to locate temporary rooms
while I waited for the arrival of letters and messages from the United
States. These lodgings were in the home of gentle, middle-class people
to whom I paid thirty shillings a week, including breakfast and dinner.
I shall always be glad I went to that meeting, because there I met
Lorenzo Portet, once companion of Francisco Ferrer and now heir to his
educational work, which both believed was the key to Spanish
emancipation.
After the attempted assassination of Alfonso XIII and Victoria of
England, the Government had arrested twenty-five hundred Spaniards
having republican ideas, among them Ferrer. His school had been closed
and he had been jailed. When he had been eventually released, he had
still been determined to educate for universal peace by means of
economic justice. Accordingly, as Portet stated it, he had reopened a
school for all Spain by publishing labor texts at Barcelona. This again
had earned him no reward from a grateful Government. In 1909 he had been
arrested in a purge of republicans, stood up against a wall and shot,
and his body thrown into a ditch.
Ferrer had left his money to Portet, who was now fulfilling his trust by
feeding the country with modern scientific translations from Italy,
France, and England. He was a man of middle height and weight whose
alert glance summed you up with an accuracy occasionally disturbing.
After our initial encounter he called on me with punctiliousness and
formality, and produced an article from a New York magazine which
carried the story of the indictment of Margaret Sanger. “This is you?”
he questioned with the jumping of all fact which is termed intuition.
Portet, a born teacher, was then instructing youth at the University of
Liverpool in Spanish. No human being I ever knew could explain with such
infinite pains the details of a subject. He placed your own opposition
before you, marshaled it in all its strength, and then annihilated every
point, one by one. His humorous cynicism was most baffling to those who
were merely emotional converts to better worlds. “Civilization?” he
might say, “Mainly a question of good roads.”
Sometimes in the midst of those long, drab, November weeks I escaped to
Wales, where there were endless lanes, winding and hard, with very few
carts, and all very quiet. Even here were Carnegie libraries, one of
them turned into a restaurant. I went into the houses of the smelting
workers at Green Brombo, Wexham, all lovely, minute, stone cottages of
two or three rooms, huddled closely together, charming with their walks
and walls and flower gardens. The folk were slow, deliberate, simple.