important answer to the puzzling and bothersome problem of the
increasing population in the Netherlands brought about by birth control.
It was proper spacing. The numbers in a family or the numbers in a
nation might be increased just as long as the arrival of children was
not too rapid to permit those already born to be assured of livelihood
and to become assimilated in the community.
Dr. Rutgers suggested I come to his clinic the next day and learn his
technique. He was at the moment training two midwives preparatory to
starting a new center in the outskirts of the Hague. Under his tutelage
I began to realize the necessity for individual instruction to patients
if the method of contraception prescribed was to fulfill its function. I
wondered at the ease with which this could be done. Very soon even I
myself, unable to talk to these women in their own tongue, instructed
seventy-five.
I used to bombard the little man with questions concerning each case. I
took issue with him over his autocratic system of dictating without
explanation. Merely saying, “This is what you do. Do this always,” had
to my mind no educational value.
“Don’t you think it would be a good idea to tell your patients what
you’re aiming at and why?” I asked.
“No, can’t take time. They must do what they’re told.”
His was the doctor’s point of view with which I was familiar, but with
which I could not agree.
It also seemed to me a mistake to regard the women merely as units in a
sociological scheme for bettering the human race. On the file cards were
inscribed only names and addresses; no case histories. I wanted to know
so much more about them. How many children had they already had? How
many had they lost? What were their husbands’ wages? What was the
spacing in each family, and what were the effects? How successful had
been the method of contraception?
If this information had then been recorded, the birth control movement
could later have cited chapter and verse in its own support.
After my morning’s work with Dr. Rutgers I usually repaired to the
Central Bureau of Statistics with my three-in-one translator,
interpreter, and guide. My findings were that in all cities and
districts where clinics had been established the figures showed
improvement—labor conditions were better and children were going to
schools, which had raised their educational standards. Professional
prostitutes were few, and even these were German, French, Belgian, or
English, because Dutch women were encouraged to marry early. It made a
difference. From the eugenic standpoint there had been a rapid increase
in the stature of the Dutch conscript as shown by army records. The data
proved conclusively that a controlled birth rate was as beneficial as I
had imagined it might be, growing out of the first clinic initiated by
the enterprise of Dr. Aletta Jacobs.
I was, of course, looking forward to meeting Dr. Jacobs, and sent her a
note asking for the privilege of an interview. A reply came, curt and
blunt; she would not see me. She was not concerned with my studies or
with me, because it was a doctor’s subject and one in which laymen
should not interfere. Already I had come to the same conclusion in
principle, but was dismayed at this first rebuff I had encountered. I
was also hurt as much as I could be hurt during that period when I
seemed to be one mass of aches, physically and mentally. Not until much
later did I learn that to be a nurse was no recommendation in Europe,
where she was more like an upper servant, a household drudge who took
care of the sick instead of the kitchen.
For two months I wandered about the Netherlands, visiting clinics and
independent nurses in the Hague, Rotterdam, and Amsterdam. In spite of
the League propaganda against commercialization I found many shops in
which a woman, if she so desired, could purchase contraceptive supplies
as casually as you might buy a toothbrush. Unfortunately in some of them
she could be examined and fitted by saleswomen who had but little
training in technique and scant knowledge of anatomy. Although the Dutch
League had several thousand members—each one active, writing to papers,
talking to friends, attending meetings—and although fifty-four clinics
were in operation, many well-informed people did not know anything about
them. More surprising still, the medical profession as a whole appeared
to be utterly ignorant of the directed birth control work that was going
on. It did not, therefore, seem extraordinary that no inkling of all
this—either clinics or contraceptive methods—had ever reached the United
States, and practically no attempt to copy it been made in England.
Even in this neutral country signs of war were everywhere. Along the way
were soldiers in uniform, armed and keeping guard, and at the stations
Red Cross wagons were in readiness. Feeling among the Dutch was greatly
mixed: Queen Wilhelmina’s husband was a German; the army and the
aristocracy were for the Triple Alliance; the poorer classes were more
influenced by the sufferings of the thousands and thousands of Belgians
who had flocked to Dutch firesides for food and shelter.
Nowhere else was I so impressed with the tragedies of war. Often about
four o’clock I had _kaffee klatch_ at the home of some Dutch lady who
sat, very proper, while the maid served coffee, the best in Europe, from
the big, white, porcelain pot. I suspected most of the morning had been
spent in supervising preparations for the delicious food.
At one of these afternoons I was introduced to five German delegates who
had come to attend the Women’s Peace Conference. They found it difficult
to forgive the stories of German atrocities which England had allowed to
circulate. I ventured to inquire how they could disprove them,
especially in view of the report of the Bryce Commission. “Was not war
cruel and savage, and might not these things have happened?”
“Yes, yes,” one said, “but hundreds of our German boys are brought back
to us, dead and alive, whose noses and ears have been cut off, put in
packages, and taken to headquarters for reward. However, we would not
dream of accusing the French or the English soldiers of such barbarisms.
We know that because their code forbids them to do these things
themselves they have called in the Moors and the Gurkhas and the savages
from Africa.”
Unable to comprehend how those towards whom they felt such friendliness
could return this sentiment with hatred, the women said to me in
bewilderment, “Tell us really why people who do not know us hate us as
they do.” The dignity of their sorrow, the heavy burden of grief under
which they labored, the very calmness and fairness with which they bore
it, had a quieting effect.
The Netherlands was the place to regain a certain sense of balance,
especially if you had passed through England, where feeling was so
embittered. I overheard in Amsterdam a most illuminating conversation
between two Englishmen and a German. After going over the pros and cons,
they shook hands all around, agreeing that six months after the War was
settled German and English trade would be hand in glove, trials and
grievances forgotten.
To go directly to France from the Netherlands was next to impossible;
nor did I find it easy to travel roundabout by way of England, owing to
the recently instituted German submarine blockade. Then at last I heard
that a freighter was to be sent to London to test it. Day after day I
went to the docks for news, and employed the interval with pleasant
social contacts.
Rather than have a cocktail before lunch or dinner the Dutch assembled
at their favorite restaurants for apéritifs. The glass, with winged rim
spreading out about half an inch from the top, was filled to overflowing
with Bols. You were not supposed to touch it at first; instead you
leaned over and sort of scooped a little with your mouth before picking
it up and enjoying it. The French apéritifs were pleasant and mild, but
Holland gin was so strong and raw that I marveled at the way they could
take it with a smile. I was definitely unequal to the art.
One evening I was invited to play billiards with a Dutchman, an
Englishman, and a German. I accepted as naturally as for a game of
whist. Afterwards the Dutchman said that, though no respectable Dutch
wife could have played billiards in that room without later being
approached or insulted, an American woman could do anything and still
not lose caste. She minded her own affairs, paid her own bills, and even
if she were seen on the streets late at night without an escort everyone
knew she must be on legitimate business.
Then the Englishman spoke to the same effect. He said you found the
American woman in all sorts of out-of-the-way and often questionable
places, but you needed only to look into her candid face to find an
answer to what she was doing there. European women owed her a great deal
for her pioneering on the Continent. In England it was a common sight to
see the most estimable women smoking cigarettes in all fashionable
restaurants and hotels just as in America.
“Just as in America!” I gasped, remembering my astonishment at having
seen women smoke publicly in London. “I’m sure there must be some
mistake. Ladies are not supposed to smoke in America. As an example to
Europe they’re a failure, because they haven’t even won that liberty for
themselves.”
This was a surprise to them all. But the Dutchman rallied to the
defense, shifting the subject. “Nevertheless, she is the best-dressed
woman in the world.”
“What about the Parisian?” I exclaimed.
“I except none. I have been over half the globe. I have paid particular
attention to foreigners, their customs, their education, their tastes,
and I have been convinced that today the Parisian woman has had to yield
to the American in respect to clothes and fashion. Paris designs are
intended for the United States, not for France or England. The
Frenchwoman may be trim and neat and jaunty, but it takes a woman of
wealth in France to be in the fashion, while in New York, every shopgirl
wears cheap editions of the latest styles.”
The German was deep in thought during these speeches, resting his chin
in his hand. Aroused by the striking of the clock he suddenly
interpolated, “Why, you can always tell an American couple in Europe.
The woman is too bossy, she leads the way, she does all the talking and
ordering, while the man trails on behind her and silently pays the
bills.”
“Well, you must have seen him when he was on his good behavior,” I
suggested, “for at home he is not so silent about paying the bills.”
Unabashed, the German continued, “My brother who has long lived in
America says the woman there is the head of the house, that she manages
all; her word is law. Is this true?”
He seemed greatly disturbed, and I was about to reply, but the Briton
rose to speak. “Of course she is, because she’s far superior. Why,
American men have nothing in common with the women. They are coarse,
blunt, crude, while the women are finely sensitive, exquisite, and
courteous. The man has nothing to give his wife but money; he comes home
at night and talks business, introduces into his home only friends who
will help him out financially, and when his wife discusses music, art,
or literature, he falls asleep and snores. That’s why she brings her
fortune into Europe for a husband. She finds her equal in the Frenchman,
the Italian, the Spaniard, but particularly in the Englishman. For every
Englishman is a gentleman, and every American woman is a lady!”
The German added a final convulsive note to the settlement of the woman
problem by adding, “Is it true the American husband not only washes the
dishes but pushes the perambulator?”
“Why, yes, he often does that.”
“That is terr-r-r-rrible,” he answered, the r’s rolling out, and his
hands clasped tight to his temples.
And at that we all departed for our rest. But a few days later one or
another of the quartet was demonstrated right. News came that my boat
was about to leave at once, and I sought out the Captain. At the first
intimation of my errand, he waved his hands and said, “No! No! No
women!”
I kept on talking until I made him admit he was interested in America,
in diet, and in population. When I found he was a reader of _Physical
Culture_ I produced my open sesame letter and again it was more potent
than a passport. I stood reasoning with him on the pier, until finally
he said, “There’s a rule to take no women. But you Americans are not
like others. I think I can put you in.” I was allowed to embark.
During the voyage we were most careful, anchoring at dusk, and when it
was light keeping sharp watch for floating mines which might have broken
loose from their moorings. It took us two nights and a day to make a
crossing that ordinarily occupied only nine or ten hours.
I had plenty of time to sort out my impressions and conclusions
regarding the birth control movement. They had been revolutionized. I
could no longer look upon it as a struggle for free speech, because I
now realized that it involved much more than talks, books, or pamphlets.
These were not enough.
Personal instruction had been proved to be the best method, and I
concluded clinics were the proper places from which to disseminate
information but also, admirable as they were in the Netherlands, they
ought not to be placed in the hands of unskilled midwives, social
workers, or even nurses. These could, of course, instruct after a
fashion, but only doctors had the requisite knowledge of anatomy and
physiology and training in gynecology to examine properly and prescribe
accurately.
I had a new goal, but how difficult and how distant its attainment was
to be I never dreamed.
_Chapter Thirteen_
THE PEASANTS ARE KINGS
I stayed but a few days in London and then went on to Paris, a gloomy,
gloomy city because so many people were garbed in black. Jaurès had been
shot. The capital had already been moved to Bordeaux and suspicion and
hysteria were in the air. When I went within easy driving distance of
Paris for lunch or dinner, I could see the barbed-wire entanglements and
gaps where the trees had been taken down for better visibility.
I renewed what contacts I could. But everybody was too busy now with the
War to think of such a subject as family limitation, which to the French
had never been anything to get excited about because they were too used
to it. Furthermore, the other side of the question was now presenting
itself. They were beginning to ask, “If we had a larger population,
could we not have held the Germans back?”
Again I saw Victor Dave. He was literally starving to death, supported
only by friendly gifts of a few francs here or there which he always
accepted with laughter; what difference did it make to him whether he
lived a few days longer? I never saw greater gallantry than was
manifested by his smile and the shrug of his shoulders as he sauntered
to work with two pieces of dry bread in his pocket.
The libraries were shut. Paris was no place for me, but I could see
something of Spain, and Portet was waiting for me there. After the
customary passport argument and some surprise at the cost of the
sleeping-car arrangements I left for the South. It was four o’clock in
the morning as the express pulled into Cerbère, the station on the
border, where the French viewed all passengers with caution and
mistrust.
“Cerbère!” shouted the guard, and, “Passports!” shouted an inspector
following on his heels. Mine was not quite right. The train moved out
leaving me and my baggage desolate on the platform. In the course of
several interviews with various officials I made out that my passport
lacked a particular signature, and Perpignan was the nearest town where
it could be secured.
I paced up and down the tiny station watching for the train back. As
usual, peasants were asleep in the waiting room, some on the floor,
others sitting on bags and parcels. We were so close under the shadow of
the Pyrenees that they almost seemed to be toppling over us.
From the train window I looked out on the beauty of dawn and the rising
sun, a scene of such magnificence that it repaid me in pleasure for all
the trouble. To one side was the far stretch of the Mediterranean, as
magic a blue as I had ever imagined it. To the other were the majestic,
rugged mountains with snow-capped peaks and bases covered with pink,
flowering apricots. Little villages of white houses and red-tile roofs
nestled in the valleys and serpentine roads coiled up the hillsides,
where thousands of acres of grape vines, trim and well cared-for,
bespoke the wine country.
From Perpignan I telegraphed Portet, “Live or die, sink or swim, survive
or perish, I’ll be in Barcelona tomorrow,” and boarded the train once
more with a light heart and my papers, three of them.
Already in the minute second-class compartment were a large, middle-aged
woman whose sweet face was framed in a black mantilla, a small
gray-haired man, evidently her husband, and a younger one of about
twenty-five. It would have been crowded enough as it was, but they had
brought with them packages and bundles that filled the space to the
roof. However, they squeezed out enough room for me to curl myself up
and go to sleep.
I awakened with a start, hearing again the fateful word, “Passports!”
and found the agent examining those of my fellow passengers. I opened
the bag where I had always carried my credentials, but they were not
there. The officer stood waiting. “I have my papers all signed,” I said,
“but I cannot find them. Go on to the others and when you come back I’ll
have them.”
Since he could not understand English my speech had little effect; he
continued to wait. I began turning things out—letters, books, pamphlets
of all kinds and descriptions, groping through every bag, in and out of
every package. My traveling companions gazed on the commotion
sympathetically and drew their legs aside so I could look under the
seat.
At this point another uniform approached and the two consulted together.
Then one of them blew a whistle and at its loud and shrill summons five
men came running. The biggest of them threw wide the compartment door,
to indicate I must get off. They were jabbering at me in French and
Spanish; I was talking English. All of us were going as fast as we
could. First I jumped up and expostulated, then sat down and waved my
hands saying, “Go away.”
Finally there appeared a young Spanish student who could speak English.
He conveyed to me that the train was already late on my account; I must
get off so the other passengers could catch the Barcelona Express.
I would not be bothered any more. “So do I want to catch it,” I
exclaimed. “Why don’t they move on? I have a passport and I’ll find it
in a few minutes. I’ve paid for my ticket to Port Bou and I’m not going
back. You can stop the train here for a week if you want to—I shan’t
budge!”
The gendarmes were standing expectantly on the platform below. The
interpreter shrugged his shoulders, “She’ll do as she says. She’s an
American woman and she’ll never come down. You might as well move on.”
Nevertheless, the big fellow with the long black cape resolutely seized
one bag after another and handed them out. Underneath the last one were
disclosed the missing papers. Straightway everybody was wreathed in
smiles. The bags were restored and the agents apologized, thanked me
profusely, and departed.
The passengers shook hands with me all around.
Just before we reached Port Bou one of them peered out the window,
rippled off some words to the others in Catalan. The whole compartment
was as though electrified. In a few seconds parcels were being torn
apart and boxes ripped open. The Señora removed her mantilla and placed
a smart new hat on her head, then crowned that with another, and
another, and another, until finally she was wearing four. Yards of
beautiful and exquisite lace went inside her bodice. She took off her
outer skirt and swathed her hips in lengths of cloth. The men stuffed
their pockets and the lining of their coats. At last there were only a
few rolls of braid left. The younger one lifted his trousers, wound them
round and round his legs and tucked the ends in his garters. Then
through the window went crumpled paper, boxes, string. Finally, as the
train was slowing up they put on light-buff, linen dusters. My eyes
popped out of my head to see these simple people suddenly transformed
into stylish stouts returning from Paris.
The two men nonchalantly smoked cigars as though nothing out of the way
were going on while the customs officials went through their bags.
Everybody concerned knew they were merchants smuggling goods, but even
the authorities regarded it as legitimate for them to bring in as much
as they could carry on their persons. As they left the shed where my
belongings were still being scrambled over, they glanced commiseratingly
at me and glowered indignation at the officials that a lady should be so
served.
I had expected to find in Barcelona street-corner Carmens with hibiscus
blossoms in their hair, wandering guitarists and singers. But the only
music that passed my window oozed out mechanically from two-wheeled,
highly-ornamented hurdy-gurdies. Nevertheless, the city was full of
color. Strange little wagons with canvas covers, looking as though they
were part of a caravan, rattled over the cobbles. There was something
gorgeously elegant about the members of the _Guardia Civil_, grandly
mounted on Arabian horses, their mustachios fiercely bristling, their
uniforms ablaze with scarlet and yellow topped off with black patent
leather hats. The red Phrygian caps of the porters seemed almost too
realistic a reminder of revolution. The workers still wore their
crimson-fringed sashes, their blue French blouses, and white rope-soled
shoes. The men, as a rule, were of slight frame, but conveyed an
impression of strength like steel rods; the women, invariably black-clad
except for the very young, were fat and waddling.
Numberless bells were constantly ringing in numberless churches.
Everywhere, like crows, were priests in long swinging robes, shovel
hats, and dirty bare toes sticking through their sandals. On the corners
of the central streets I saw them occupying the booths of the
professional correspondents who for ten cents read and answered letters
for the illiterate.
Although Barcelona, capital of the separatist province of Catalonia, was
the progressive, industrial center of Spain, it was not darkened by a
mêlée of belching chimneys. The hundreds of factories were kept out of
sight, each one isolated in the fields, leaving the city free from
traffic, smoke, and the whir of machinery. The palms in the squares and
parks were lovely, but set side by side with the new was the startling
antiquity of the old town, congested and melancholy.
Overlooking the sea at the end of the Rambla, decorated along its length
with flower stalls and trees, loud with birds, stood a tall column
bearing the statue of Columbus. Around the base were scenes portraying
various incidents of the voyage to America, each represented by small
images cast in bronze, all beautiful to the last detail. But the effect
was greatly spoiled because nearly every one remaining had a leg, arm,
foot, or even head gone. After looking at this for some time and
pondering over the wherefore, I concluded that figures so strongly made
and set had not easily been removed, and decided it must have something
to do with the Spanish-American War. When I asked my Spanish friends
whether I had guessed correctly, their only explanation was that
ruffians had doubtless done it for sport.
However, after I had left the country I received verification of my
supposition. The monument had been stoned in ’98, but no Spaniard would
ever have admitted this fact to any American; it might hurt the feelings
of the visitor even to mention the unpleasantness.
I began to study Spanish with a teacher, but I was not nearly far enough
advanced to be able to get anywhere in my investigations. Unfortunately
also, although men thronged the cafés in droves, they kept their wives
in semi-Oriental seclusion and even mentally imposed their deep-rooted
ideas of the isolation of women on foreigners. I could not violate this
custom by going about alone, because I was a guest. As a result Portet,
who was a busy man himself, provided me with a succession of male
escorts.