Dunlop for a companion, Dr. Vickery boarded the tram to attend some
gathering. She had been one of the first to welcome the militant
suffragettes, and she never missed a suffrage meeting, nor, for that
matter, any other significant one on infant or maternal welfare,
eugenics, or public health. She always went with the definite purpose of
getting the audience down to fundamentals. In time she became a familiar
figure. As soon as she entered a hall you could feel those present
aligning themselves against her. They knew she was going to bring up a
controversial subject that no one wanted discussed, such as birth
control. It was like casting a boulder into a nice quiet lake, but, with
an unruffled exterior and grim determination, she invariably rose just
the same, asked the chairman to recognize her, and said her say on the
Feminist side of the question. From the lips of this Victorian old lady
it sounded strange to hear frank remarks about the importance of
limiting offspring. Dr. Dunlop, with Scotch determination, was also bent
on setting people straight; he followed her and expounded the medical
aspects of population.
In June Dr. Vickery asked me to tell my story to a group of her friends.
Among them was Edith How-Martyn, who had recently graduated from the
London School of Economics. But already the zealous ardor of this small
and slight person had landed her in jail for suffrage. She had now split
from Mrs. Pankhurst, unable to subscribe to the militant policy.
The American woman is apt to say, “Anything I can do for you, let me
know,” and then go away, her conscience relieved. The Englishwoman
states definitely that she can get up a meeting, bring you in touch with
so and so, give you money, or get money for you. Edith How-Martyn in her
quiet manner said to me, “I think what you have told us today should
have a larger audience. Will you give a lecture if we arrange it for
you? We’ll do the donkey work; all you have to do is speak.”
In a few days the time and place were set. I was to appear in Fabian
Hall the following month under my own name.
The chairs in the auditorium were wooden and the interior was
unheated—not like an American hall. The audience was quite different
from the little Socialist gatherings of working women I had addressed at
home. The atrocious and hideous English hats gave it an intellectual and
highly respectable air. These representatives of nearly every social and
civic organization in London, had the rationalist attitude and preferred
to listen to principles and theories. I told them what I had been trying
to do through the _Woman Rebel_ and explained my private and personal
conception of what Feminism should mean; that is, women should first
free themselves from biological slavery, which could best be
accomplished through birth control. This was, generally speaking, the
introduction of the term into England.
Many came up and talked to me afterwards, among them Marie Stopes, a
paleontologist who had made a reputation with work on coal. Would I come
to her home and discuss the book she was writing?
Over the teacups I found her to have an open, frank manner that quite
won me. She took me into her confidence at once, stating her marriage
had been unconsummated, and for that reason she was securing an
annulment. Her book, _Married Love_, was based largely on her own
experiences and the unhappiness that came to people from ignorance and
lack of understanding in wedlock, and she hoped it would help others.
She was extremely interested in the correlation of marital success to
birth control knowledge, although she admitted she knew nothing about
the latter. Could I tell her exactly what methods were used and how? In
spite of my belief that the Netherlands clinics could be improved upon,
I was fired with fervor for the idea as such, and described them as I
had seen them.
Later when I came back to the United States, I brought with me the
manuscript of _Married Love_, and tried every established publisher in
New York, receiving a rejection from each. Finally I induced Dr. William
J. Robinson to publish it under the auspices of his _Critic and Guide_,
a monthly magazine which took up many subjects the _Journal_ of the
American Medical Association would not touch. Unfortunately even here it
had to be expurgated. When I cabled Dr. Stopes I had a publisher in New
York, her new husband, H. V. Roe, financed an unabridged English edition
which appeared simultaneously.
No one can underestimate the work Marie Stopes has done. Though her
other books, _Radiant Motherhood_ and _Wise Parenthood_, were limited in
value because they were based on limited personal experience, she has
handled sex knowledge with delicacy and wisdom, placing it in a modern,
practical category. She started the first birth control clinic in
England, but she was not a pioneer in the movement. Annie Besant, Dr.
Vickery, the Drysdales, and many others had plowed the ground and sown
the seed. It needed only a new voice, articulate and clear as hers, to
push her into the front ranks of the movement, where she must have been
much surprised to find herself.
Many people went out of their way to be kind to me in those days. I was
often asked to the home of E. P. C. Haynes, solicitor, writer on freedom
of the press, and a fine adviser. Around his table, one of the grandest
set anywhere in England, could usually be found a large group of
distinguished people. Among them was the American Civil War veteran,
Major G. P. Putnam, a dapper, lively, alert little publisher with a
white mustache and cold blue eyes. He was conservative and formal, but
at the same time a firebrand in his fashion and an enthusiast for
certain issues. Haynes had invited him to hear my views, and himself
introduced the subject of birth control. Thus I was enabled to pave the
way for having G. P. Putnam’s Sons eventually take over the publication
of _Married Love_ in this country, although not until 1931, through the
Major’s efforts, was the ban lifted which prohibited the importation of
the complete edition into the United States.
Harold Cox, brilliant Member of Parliament and editor of the _Edinburgh
Review_, was another delightful host at Old Kennards in Buckinghamshire.
In the _Review_ he was constantly helping to form an enlightened public
opinion on birth control, having every argument at his finger tips and
never missing a chance to answer questions in the London _Times_.
Hugh and Janet de Selincourt’s place at Torrington, Sussex, where
Shelley was born, always was a haven of refuge. After five days’ work in
town I could come, tired and pent-up, for a week-end. I loved the joy
and simplicity of the music there, the lighthearted conversation, and
tea on the lawn. From there you saw English ivy climbing up to the
thatched roof, and a pond, a small one, which had been converted into a
swimming pool. The general impression was of shrubbery and old walls
with fruit trees trellised against them. Beyond the velvet green grass
were red tree roses, beautiful borders of pink lupins, and delphiniums,
the tallest and bluest I have ever seep, From the dining-room window the
effect was that of a tapestry. I wanted some day to embody the rambling
spirit of this home in one of my own.
Here again laughter bound me to these people. We laughed and we laughed
and we laughed. Whole days were spent in gaiety over the most absurd
things. Hugh could never quite accept me as a crusader; he went into
roars of merriment whenever I mentioned the subject of population—it was
too much for a woman in a yellow dress to bother about.
But many of my week-ends were spent in “bothering” about it. At Sunday
afternoon labor meetings in London someone was always holding forth.
“Here’s a chance for you to talk birth control,” Rose Witcop once urged.
It was an opportunity to reach working people and I agreed, but lunch of
that day found me trembling. Henry Sara, a young man but old in the ways
of the speaker, noticed I was not eating or drinking and could hardly
utter a word. “I say, what’s the idea of all this worry? What you must
think about is that everybody there comes merely to hear somebody or
anybody. They’ve no notion what you’re going to say. Anything is all
right with them. Get that in your mind and stop worrying.”
His friendly encouragement gave me a little more fortitude, but on the
way to the hall Rose Witcop took me severely to task for the trembling,
which I seemed unable to stop. “These are just plain people you’re going
to speak to. It’s utter nonsense to be nervous about it.”
When Rose stood up to introduce me, she began, “Comrades—” There was a
long pause. For the second time she tried in a less assured tone,
“Comrades—” Another interval and a third time, in a voice so weak she
herself could hardly hear it, she attempted, “Comrades—” Then, barely
whispering, “Excuse me,” she sat down. By comparison my speech was not
bad.
Writing at this time was a means of expression much easier than
speaking. I had not forgotten my subscribers to the _Woman Rebel_. I had
to fulfill my obligations and supply something to take the place of the
three issues which I had been unable to furnish them. Therefore, I wrote
three pamphlets on methods of contraception in England, the Netherlands,
and France respectively. Printing them cost me a considerable amount of
money. My friends in Canada, knowing I was not affluent, now and then
when they had a little windfall or unexpected dividend sent me small
checks of from five to ten pounds, saying, “To use for your work.” These
had come in quite often.
On one occasion I had squeezed my pocketbook dry paying for the last
pamphlet; I had not another penny to buy stamps. Ten days had gone by,
and I kept wishing something might come in to help me out. That morning
a letter arrived. I tore it apart and a money order dropped out.
Hurrying as fast as I could to the post office I received the cash,
spent it all on stamps, and hastened back in the hope of getting the
whole edition off on the _Arabic_; in wartime sailings had to be
considered. One batch of envelopes had already gone into the pillar box,
and I was just finishing addressing and stamping the second lot when I
heard the knocker on the door below clatter through the house. It had
the ring of authority and sounded so ominous that I felt it must have
something to do with me.
Sure enough, in a few moments a bobby and a man in plain clothes
appeared at my threshold. They asked whether I were the person who had
been sending quantities of mail to a foreign address.
“Yes,” I admitted in a small voice, wondering what on earth was going to
happen now.
The bobby came closer, showed me an unopened envelope, and demanded
sternly, “Did you post this?”
“I think so.”
“Madam, in England we never put His Majesty on upside down. We do not
represent our King standing on his head. Will you please, in affixing
your stamps, pay attention to the customs of our country?”
The care with which I stuck on the remainder right side up delayed me so
that I barely made the _Arabic_. Only then did I have time to read the
letter. I took it out of my bag, thinking how wonderful it was of my
friends to send me the money and how much good I had been able to do
with it. To my consternation and amazement it was not for my use, but to
buy gifts—certain books to be sent back as soon as possible.
The money was gone and the presents could not be purchased.
After all this rush and pother the _Arabic_ was torpedoed and went down
with the entire two thousand pamphlets. I made another effort, this time
successfully completed, and shaped an article on Emerson, Thoreau, and
Humphrey Noyes and the Oneida Community, about whom the English were
talking.
Meanwhile I had written to Canada apologizing and saying I expected
shortly to be able to fulfill the commissions. I now had an opening
ahead of me for a career abroad. Portet’s publishing house in Barcelona
was closely allied with others in Paris. Through him I was offered the
job of choosing appropriate books in English, which could be published
in both French and Spanish, especially works that would be of help to
women and labor. The salary was satisfactory, the job itself
interesting, and it gave promise of permanency as soon as the War should
be over. I had almost decided to take it, even selecting a little house
in Versailles with sunny rooms and a garden for the children.
There was only one drawback—the subtle, persistent dread that something
was wrong with Peggy. Night after night her voice startled me from deep
sleep and left me in a state of agitation until I received the next
letter containing news that all was going well. I tried to dismiss this
fear and would have it partially submerged, but always the same troubled
voice rang in my ears, “Mother, Mother, are you coming back?”
One definite though inexplicable experience kept puzzling me. As I
unclosed my eyes in the morning, or even before I was completely awake,
I became conscious of the number 6, as though that numeral were
repeating itself again and again in my drowsy mind. I often tried to fit
it into some event of the day—six o’clock, sixpence, the price of tea,
or anything else amusing, and as casual or silly as I could make up.
This I did to protect myself against the premonition which seemed at
first to come upon me with the recurrence of this number. Later, like a
leaf on a wall calendar, NOV. 6 stood out.
When the publisher asked me to commit myself by signing a three-year
contract to stay in Paris, I said, “Yes, I will if you’ll guarantee to
lock me up or send me to Africa or the North Pole until after November
6th.”
“Why November 6th?”
“I don’t know, but I’m certain that something important is to occur on
that day, something different, and something which will affect my entire
future.”
He drew up our plans as of January 1st of the following year.
Edith Ellis was lecturing in America, and by letter we arranged for her
to bring back Peggy and Grant, because it appeared I might be staying
for some time. Then, since only Peggy seemed lonely and in need of her
mother and Grant was happy in school, it was determined he should be
left there. Edith was to sail with Peggy on the _Lusitania_.
When word was flashed that the liner had been torpedoed, I stood in the
middle of the night in front of the Cunard office, scanning with horror
the mounting ranks of missing and dead. Not until two in the morning was
the list complete and could I breathe once more; neither Peggy’s nor
Edith’s name was on it. Edith had received one of those slips warning
prospective passengers that the ship might be blown up, and was one of
the few who had heeded the admonition and transferred to another boat.
Even so, the thought of being responsible for Peggy had been too
alarming and she had decided not to bring her.
The War had sent many Americans back from Europe and Bill had returned
to New York. I had had a detailed letter from him describing the
stirring events of the previous December. A man introducing himself as
A. Heller had called upon him at his studio and requested a copy of
_Family Limitation_, pleading that he was poor, had too large a family,
and was a friend of mine. Bill said he was sorry but we had agreed that
I was to carry on my work independently of him, and he did not even
think he had any of the pamphlets. However, the man’s story was so
pathetic that he rummaged around and by chance found one in the library
drawer.
A few days later Bill opened the door to a gray-haired, side-whiskered
six-footer who lost no time in announcing, “I am Mr. Comstock. I have a
warrant for your arrest on the grounds of circulating obscene
literature.” Accompanying him was the so-called Heller, who turned out
to be Charles J. Bamberger, an agent of the New York Society for the
Suppression of Vice. The three departed but Bill soon found himself in a
restaurant instead of the police station. When he protested that he
wished to consult a lawyer without delay, Comstock, between mouthfuls of
lunch, offered advice. “Young man, I want to act as a brother to you.
Lawyers are expensive and will only aggravate your case.” Here he patted
Bill on the shoulder. “Plead guilty to this charge, and I’ll ask for a
suspended sentence.”
Bill’s answer was that, though he had been in Europe when the pamphlet
had been written, he believed in the principles embodied in it, and
that, therefore, his own principles were at stake. He would not plead
guilty. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Comstock, there’s nothing obscene
in that pamphlet.”
“Young man, I have been in this work for twenty years, and that leaflet
is the worst thing I have ever seen.”
This sort of conversation went on all afternoon; Comstock even tried to
bribe Bill to turn states’ evidence by disclosing my whereabouts. It was
his custom to arrive at the police station so late that his prisoner
could not communicate with a lawyer or bonding office and had to spend
the night in jail. He could then make a statement to the papers that his
captive had been unable to secure bail.
When Comstock and Bill at last reached the Yorkville Police Court and
the clerk had asked the latter how he wished to plead, Comstock spoke
for him, “He pleads guilty.”
“I do not,” expostulated Bill. “I plead not guilty.”
He was arraigned and bail fixed at five hundred dollars, but he was
obliged to spend thirty-six hours in jail before it could be procured.
In September I had word that, after several postponements, his trial had
finally come up before Justices McInerney, Herbert, and Salmon. He
started to read his typewritten statement. “I admit that I broke the
law, and yet I claim that in every real sense it is the law and not I
that is on trial here today.”
Justice McInerney interrupted him. “You admit you are guilty, and all
this statement of yours is just opinions. I’m not going to have a lot of
rigmarole on the record. We’ve no time to bother. This book is not only
indecent but immoral. Its circulation is a menace to society. Too many
women are going around advocating woman suffrage. If they would go
around advocating bearing children we should be better off.
“The statute gives you the privilege of being fined for this offense,
but I do not believe this should be so. A man, guilty as you are, ought
to have no alternative from a prison sentence. One hundred and fifty
dollars or thirty days in jail.”
“Then I want to say to the court,” shouted Bill, leaning forward and
raising his hand for greater emphasis, “that I would rather be in jail
with my self-respect than in your place without it!”
Although he was convinced of the justice of my cause, this was the first
and only copy of the pamphlet he had ever given out. It was one of
life’s sharpest ironies that, despite our separation, he should have
been drawn into my battle, and go to prison for it.
When I received Bill’s letter bearing this news, I tore across the lawn
to Dr. Vickery’s. Dr. Drysdale happened to be there, and in his
indignation his face became red and his hands were clenched. He tramped
up and down the floor in a frenzy of rage that such a thing could be
done to any human being. I am still touched when I think of this mild,
gentle person being moved to depths of anger over an injustice which did
not affect him personally.
The question before me was, “Should I go back?” As had gone Bill’s trial
so would probably go my own. I did not want to sacrifice myself in a
lost cause. I was young, and knew I should be used for something.
Temporarily postponing my final answer to the publishing house, I
decided to return to the United States, but only long enough to survey
the situation, to gather up my children. I intended, if possible, to
come back to that little house in Versailles.
_Chapter Fifteen_
HIGH HANGS THE GAUNTLET
“_Let God and man decree
Laws for themselves and not for me;
Their deeds I judge and much condemn
Yet when did I make laws for them?_”
A. E. HOUSMAN
The end of September, 1915, I set sail from Bordeaux, I remember how
interminable that voyage was across the dangerous, foggy Atlantic. The
shadow of the _Lusitania_ hung over us. The ship was absolutely dark,
and tension crackled in the very air. My own thoughts were black as the
night and the old nervousness, the nervousness that came with a queer
gripping at the pit of the stomach, was upon me; a dread presentiment
and a foreboding were with me almost incessantly.
When I succeeded in snatching a few hours’ sleep I was startled out of
unpleasant dreams. One of them was of attempting to struggle through a
crowded street against traffic; I was pushed to the curb and had to make
my way cautiously. The mechanical, automaton-like crowds were walking,
walking, walking, always in the opposite direction. Then suddenly in my
dream the people turned into mice—thousands and thousands of them; they
even smelled like mice. I awakened and had to open the porthole to rid
the room of that musty smell of mice.
At last the lights of Staten Island, winking like specters in the dim
dawn, signaled our safe arrival at quarantine. As the ship sidled along
the wharf at West Fourteenth Street on that gray October morning, a new
exhilaration, a new hope arose in my heart.
To see American faces again after the unutterable despair of Europe, to
sense the rough democracy of the porters and of the good-hearted,
hard-boiled taxi-drivers; to breathe in the crisp, electric autumn air
of home—all these brought with them an irresistible gladness. Because I
wanted the feeling to linger, I refused a taxi, picked up my small bag,
and walked away from the pier, looking about.
At the first news stand I passed I caught sight of the words, “What
Shall We Do About Birth Control?” on the cover of the _Pictorial
Review_. It seemed strange to be greeted, not by friends or relatives,
but by a phrase of your own carried on a magazine. I purchased it and,
singing to myself, went on to a hotel where the children were brought to
me. I cannot describe the joy of being reunited with them.
That evening I sat down at my desk and wrote several letters. I notified
Judge Hazel and Assistant District Attorney Content that I was now back
and ready for trial, and inquired whether the indictments of the
previous year were still pending; I was politely informed that they
were.
A note more difficult to compose went to the National Birth Control
League, which had been re-organized in my absence under the leadership
of Mary Ware Dennett, Clara Stillman, and Anita Block. To it had been
turned over all my files, including the list of subscribers to the
_Woman Rebel_. I asked them what moral support I could expect from the
League, saying this would help to determine the length of my stay.
Mrs. Stillman, the secretary, invited me to call a few days later at her
home, where an executive meeting was to convene. I went with keen
anticipation, totally unprepared for the actual answer. The committee
had met. Mrs. Dennett, Mrs. Stillman, and Anita were all there. Mrs.
Dennett spoke for the group; the National Birth Control League disagreed
with my methods, my tactics, with everything I had done. Such an
organization as theirs, the function of which was primarily to change
the laws in an orderly and proper manner, could not logically sanction
anyone who had broken those laws.
After delivering this ultimatum, Mrs. Dennett walked to the door with
me. Would I mind giving her the names and addresses of those socially
prominent and distinguished persons I had found on my European trip to
be interested? Heartsick as I was over my reception, I was also amused
at her shrewdness.
Mrs. Dennett was a good promoter and experienced campaigner, a capable
office executive, an indefatigable worker for suffrage and peace, with a
background that might have been invaluable. I often regretted that we
could not have combined our efforts. Had we been able to do so the
movement might have been pushed many years ahead.
My fourth communication was to Dr. William J. Robinson, an émigré from
the land of orthodox medicine, who was possessed of a sensitivity to
current moods. When he had realized that Will Durant’s lectures had
aroused interest in sex psychology, he had stepped in to speak to larger
audiences, using a more popular approach, although, as far as I know, he
had never publicly discussed the prevention of conception.