presidency of the Academy of Medicine, had backed birth control, and
through Dr. Robinson’s endeavors a small committee had later been formed
to look into it. From the reports that had come to me I could not
discover whether any harmonious agreement that the subject lay within
the province of medicine had been made. To my inquiry Dr. Robinson
replied that the committee had met only once and he considered I could
expect no support from them. He enclosed a check for ten dollars towards
the expenses of my trial.
Here were two disappointments to face. Both these organizations had
seemed so well suited to continue progress: one to change the laws, the
other to take proper medical charge. Neither had fulfilled my hopes and
therefore I felt I had to enter the fray again. My burning concern for
the thousands of women who went unregarded could apparently find no
official endorsement; birth control was back again where it had started.
I was convinced I had to depend solely upon the compassionate insight of
intelligent women, which I was certain was latent and could be aroused.
But these problems were suddenly swept aside by a crisis of a more
intimate nature, a tragedy about which I find myself still unable to
write, though so many years have passed.
A few days after my arrival Peggy was taken ill with pneumonia. When Mr.
Content telephoned to say I had better come down and talk it over, I
could not go. He was extremely kind, assuring me there was no hurry and
he would postpone the trial until I was free. This allowed me to devote
my whole attention and time to her.
Peggy died the morning of November 6, 1915.
The joy in the fullness of life went out of it then and has never quite
returned. Deep in the hidden realm of my consciousness my little girl
has continued to live, and in that strange, mysterious place where
reality and imagination meet, she has grown up to womanhood. There she
leads an ideal existence untouched by harsh actuality and disillusion.
Men and women from all classes, from nearly every city in America,
poured upon me their sympathy. Money for my trial came beyond my
understanding—not large amounts, but large for the senders—from miners
of West Virginia and lumbermen of the North Woods. Some had walked five
miles to read _Family Limitation_; others had had it copied for them.
Women wrote of children dead a quarter of a century for whom they were
still secretly mourning, and sent me pictures and locks of hair of their
own dead babies. I had never fully realized until then that the loss of
a child remains unforgotten to every mother during her lifetime.
Public opinion had been focused on Comstock’s activities by Bill’s
sentence, and the liberals had been aroused. Committees of two and three
came to request me to take up the purely legislative task of changing
the Federal law. Aid would be forthcoming—special trains to Congress,
investigations, commissions, and victory in sight before the year was
over! It was tempting. It seemed so feasible on the surface, so much
easier than agonizing delays through the courts. Many others advised me
just as before that in pleading guilty I was choosing the best field in
which to make my fight.
One of those to urge me towards a middle course was Max Eastman, who
possessed an unusual evenness of temper and tolerance towards all who
opposed him as well as a keen mind and keen imagination which followed
hypotheses to logical conclusions. This soft-voiced, lethargic poet,
mentally and emotionally controlled, had too great a sense of humor and
ability in visualizing events in their proper perspective to advocate
direct action.
Max made an appointment for me to see Samuel Untermyer, authority on
constitutional law and a person to whom liberals turned because of the
fight he had put up against the trusts; he might straighten out the
legal aspects. I found him enthroned in his luxurious office amid the
most magnificent American Beauty roses—dozens and dozens and dozens.
With his piercing eyes and head too large for his frame, he appeared a
disembodied brain. Though the appointment had been made with
difficulty—writing and telephoning back and forth through secretaries to
be verified—time now was nothing to him. He was so smooth, so courteous,
so sympathetic, so unhurried; he seemed to understand and to be ready to
lift the load of legal worry from my mind.
Picking up the telephone, he said, “Get me Mr. Content.” Then, “Harold,
come on over to my office and bring your record on Mrs. Sanger.”
When the District Attorney had arrived, Mr. Untermyer’s whole voice
changed. He spoke sternly to the young man. “Why, Harold, what are you
trying to do—persecuting this little woman, so frail and so delicate,
the mother of a family? You don’t want to put her behind bars, do you?
She’s doing a noble work in the world and here you are behaving like
this! Are you representing the Government or are you merely prejudiced
in your own behalf?”
Mr. Content replied respectfully, “Well, Mr. Untermyer, we don’t want to
prosecute Mrs. Sanger, but we want her to promise to obey the law.”
“Has she broken the law?”
“We have positive proof that she has violated it on a very large scale.”
Mr. Untermyer immediately assured him, “Why, of course, she’ll promise
not to break any more laws. Is that all it is? You just quash that
indictment and forget about it.”
Mr. Content left. Mr. Untermyer turned to me genially and said, “Well,
you see? We’ve fixed that up.”
“What’s going to happen? The law will be the same, won’t it?”
“Why, yes.”
“What was that you said about a promise?”
“Oh, yes, write me a letter saying you won’t break the law again.”
“I couldn’t promise that, Mr. Untermyer.”
“What?”
“No, I couldn’t do that. The law is there. Something must happen to it.”
“The law may not be what it should be, but you’ll never get anywhere by
violating it. It must be changed by legal methods; gather all your
friends and go to Congress.”
Again I stated my position. The law specified obscenity, and I had done
nothing obscene. I even had the best of the Government as regarded the
precise charge. I had not given contraceptive information in the _Woman
Rebel_, and therefore had not violated the law either in spirit or
principle. But I had done so in circulating _Family Limitation_, and
that would inevitably be brought up. I really wanted this, so that birth
control would be defined once and for all as either obscene or not
obscene.
Mr. Untermyer took down one of his ponderous books and read over the
section in question. Again he said, “The evidence is that you have
violated the law. We don’t separate the spirit from the letter. It is
all there. It seems to me that pleading guilty would let you out of your
troubles without loss of dignity. You should consider yourself fortunate
at the suggested outcome. You can gain nothing by trial. You cannot even
get publicity in these days when the papers are crowded with war news
and the big events of history are happening.”
I still could not admit his interpretation. You had to differentiate
between the things mentioned in that law and actual obscenity; the
courts would some day have to decide on this.
“You have no case,” Mr. Untermyer persisted. “If you have broken the
law, there is nothing anyone can do or say to argue that fact away. We
must prevent your going to jail, however. I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not concerned with going to jail. Going in or staying out has
nothing to do with it. The question at stake is whether I have or have
not done something obscene. If I have done nothing obscene I cannot
plead guilty.”
Mr. Untermyer was upset. Instead of his former warmth I was aware of a
curt and cold politeness. I went from his office feeling I had had an
opportunity to make a powerful friend and had lost it by refusing to
accept the legal point of view.
Max also was decidedly angry. His attitude was, “We tried to help you,
and you declined help.” He wrote formally:
You could accompany your plea of guilty with a statement, both
before the Court and for the press, which would make it a far more
signal attack upon the law to whose violation you would be pleading
guilty than a plea of not guilty. It would do a thousand times more
good. At the same time it would satisfy your pride, or your feeling
that you ought to be brave enough to stand up for what you think, or
whatever it is that is making you refuse the advice of counsel.
I would not plead guilty on any count. They could not make me. I felt
deep within me that I was right and they were wrong. I still had that
naïve trust that when the facts were known, the Government would not
wilfully condemn millions of women to death, misery, or abortion which
left them physically damaged and spiritually crippled.
Clarence Darrow and other liberal lawyers from various cities generously
offered to come to New York to present the case free of charge, but
after my Untermyer interview I was convinced that the quibbles of
lawyers inevitably beclouded the fundamental issues; I had to move
people and persuade them emotionally. I had no practice in public
speaking; mine was the valor of faith. However, I was certain that
speaking from the fullness of my heart I would be guided by the
greatness and profundity of my conviction. In spite of the old adage
that “he who has himself for a lawyer has a fool for a client,” I was
confident that any jury of honest men would acquit me.
I asked Mr. Content to put my case on the calendar as soon as possible.
It was called for the end of November, then set for January 18th, then
January 24th. I used to go almost weekly to demand that it take place,
always stressing the fact that I wanted a trial by jury. One of the
judges that I came before in these various courts had previously asked
me in a personal letter to send him _Family Limitation_, and I had
mailed it to him with my compliments. The twinkle in his eyes was
reflected in mine; we both knew that he as well as I had been
technically breaking the law.
As the New York _Sun_ commented, “The Sanger case presents the anomaly
of a prosecutor loath to prosecute and a defendant anxious to be tried.”
The newspapers were taking ever-increasing notice. A photograph of
myself and my two young sons circulated widely and seemed to alter the
attitude of a heretofore cynical public. At that time I thought the
papers were against me, but looking over these old clippings today I
realize this was merely the impersonality of the news columns. Their
editorial hesitancy made them appear, like all other conservative and
reactionary forces, my opponents. But the rank and file of American
newspaperdom, though they must always have their little jokes, have
always been sympathetic.
They printed the letter to Woodrow Wilson, initiated by Marie Stopes. It
“begged to call the attention” of the President to the fact that I was
in danger of criminal prosecution for circulating a pamphlet on birth
control, which was allowed in every civilized country except the United
States; that England had passed through the phase of prohibiting this
subject a generation before; and that to suppress serious and
disinterested opinion on anything so important was detrimental to human
progress. It respectfully urged the President to exert his powerful
influence in behalf of free speech and the betterment of the race. This
letter was invaluable by reason of its signatories—Lena Ashwell, William
Archer, Percy Ames, Aylmer Maude, M. C. Stopes, Arnold Bennett, Edward
Carpenter, Gilbert Murray, and H. G. Wells, whose name was news. If a
group of such eminence in England could afford to stand by me, then the
same kind of people here might be less timorous.
As public sentiment grew, telegrams and letters showered upon Judge
Clayton demanding the dismissal of the charges against me. He piled them
in wastebaskets and remarked in a bored tone to Mr. Content, “Take these
Sanger letters away.” That I was preparing to go to court undefended by
counsel was making the matter harder for them.
My radical allies were, according to their habit, collecting money for
my defense, but this had no effect on my private financial status. My
sister, Ethel, who was living with me, thought I ought to be considering
the matter. One day she said, “I’ve a good case for you. Wouldn’t you
like to take it?”
“What kind?”
“Maternity. She expects to be delivered in a day or two—probably a
Caesarian. She asked for me, but I’d rather you had it.”
“I’m not interested, thank you. I’ve given up nursing.”
“Well, Mrs. Sanger,” she remarked ironically, “would you mind telling me
what you’re going to do to earn your living?”
“I’m not interested in earning my living. I’ve cast myself upon the
universe and it will take care of me.”
She looked at me sadly and with worried apprehension.
Three days later Ethel received the anticipated summons. On her way out
she picked up the mail at the door. In it was a letter from a California
acquaintance of hers who did not know where I was but had her address.
“Will you please give the enclosed forty-five dollars to Margaret Sanger
from her sympathizers?”
Ethel handed it to me with the resigned comment, “Well, here’s your
check from God.”
The editor of the _Woman Rebel_ had struck her single match of defiance,
but she could be of slight significance in the forward march towards
“women’s rights.” In Feminist circles I was little known. With my
personal sorrow, my manifold domestic duties, my social shyness, I
avoided meeting new people. My attitude thus created some reluctance
among those who might otherwise have hastened to my aid. Indeed, I
wanted a certain type of support, but I could not take the initiative in
asking for it.
This was suddenly done for me. One afternoon I was invited to a tea
arranged by Henrietta Rodman, Feminist of Feminists, in her Greenwich
Village apartment. Wells was particularly sanctified among her group and
I must be all right if he approved. As a result of that meeting the
suffrage worker, Alice Carpenter, set the wheels in motion for a dinner
at the Brevoort Hotel to be held January 23rd, the evening preceding my
trial. I was to be given a chance to say my say, speak my piece before a
gathering of influential people. Although I did not see her until some
years after, I thanked her in my heart many times for what she had done.
In the ballroom were collected several hundred people. Mary Heaton
Vorse, Dr. Mary Halton, Jack Reed, Dr. Robinson, Frances Brooks
Ackerman, Walter Lippmann, then of the _New Republic_, and Mrs. Thomas
Hepburn, the Kathy Houghton of my Corning childhood, all were there.
As we were about to go in to dinner, Rose Pastor Stokes, the Chairman,
took me aside and said, “Something very disturbing has happened. We’ve
just been talking to Dr. Jacoby. He has a speech ready in which he
intends to blast you to the skies for interfering in what should be a
strictly medical matter. Remember he’s greatly admired and he’s speaking
here tonight for the doctors. We meant to have you come at the end of
the program but now we’re going to put you first so that you can spike
his guns.”
My trepidation was increased. Nevertheless, I plunged into my carefully
prepared maiden speech in behalf of birth control. Fortunately I had
already planned to upbraid the doctors who daily saw the conditions
which had so moved me and yet made it necessary for a person like
myself, not equipped as they were, to stir up public opinion. It was
like carrying coals to Newcastle; they should have been teaching me.
I said I recognized that many of those before me of diverse outlooks and
temperaments would support birth control propaganda if carried out in
what they regarded as a safe and sane manner, although they did not
countenance the methods I had been following in my attempt to arouse
working women to the fact that having a child was a supreme
responsibility. There was nothing new or radical in birth control, which
Aristotle and Plato as well as many modern thinkers had demonstrated.
But the ideas of wise men and scientists were sterile and did not affect
the tremendous facts of life among the disinherited. All the while their
discussions had been proceeding, the people themselves had been and
still were blindly, desperately, practicing birth control by the most
barbaric methods—infanticide, abortion, and other crude ways. I might
have taken up a policy of safety, sanity, and conservatism—but would I
have secured a hearing? Admittedly physicians and scientists had far
more technical knowledge than I, but I had found myself in the position
of one who had discovered a house was on fire and it was up to me to
shout out the warning. Afterwards others, more experienced in executive
organization, could gather together and direct all the sympathy and
interest which had been aroused. Only in this way could I be vindicated.
Since my charge had forestalled his, the venerable Dr. Jacoby either had
to answer me or shift his ground. He chose the latter course and talked
on the question of quality in population, which might perhaps have been
construed as in my favor.
Many of the women present were comfortable examples of the manner in
which birth control could enable them to lead dignified lives. Elsie
Clews Parsons made the suggestion that twenty-five who had practiced it
should rise in court with me and plead guilty before the law. But only
one volunteered. What surprised me most was the voice of Mary Ware
Dennett announcing that she represented the National Birth Control
League and that that body was going to stand behind Margaret Sanger in
her ordeal—subscriptions were urgently needed for the League.
The next morning when I arrived at nine o’clock at the Federal Court
building more than two hundred partisans were already in the corridors.
A great corps of reporters and photographers was on hand. The stage had
been set for an exciting drama.
Judge Henry D. Clayton and Assistant District Attorneys Knox and Content
arrived at ten-thirty, apparently feeling the effects of the publicity
of the night before.
The moment Knox moved to adjourn for a week I was on my feet asking
immediate trial, but Judge Clayton postponed the case. Everybody went
home disappointed.
February 18th the Government finally entered a nolle prosequi. Content
explained there had been many assertions that the defendant was the
victim of persecution, and that had never been the intent of the Federal
authorities. “The case had been laid before the grand jurors as
impartially as possible and since they had voted an indictment there was
nothing that the District Attorney could do but prosecute. Now, however,
as it was realized that the indictment was two years old, and that Mrs.
Sanger was not a disorderly person and did not make a practice of
publishing such articles, the Government had considered there was reason
for considerable doubt.”
Well, when an army marches up the hill and then marches down again some
good excuse must always be given.
All my friends regarded the quashing of the Federal indictment a great
achievement. There was much rejoicing and congratulation, but they acted
as though they were saying, “Now settle down in your domestic corner,
take your husband back, care for your children, behave yourself, and no
more of this nonsense. Your duty is to do the thing you are able to do
which is mind your home and not attempt something others can do better
than you.”
But I was not content to have a Liberty Dinner and jubilate. I could not
consider anything more than a moral victory had been attained. The law
had not been tested. I agreed with the loyal _Globe_, which staunchly
maintained, “If the matter Mrs. Sanger sent through the mails was
obscene two years ago, it is still obscene.” I knew and felt
instinctively the danger of having a privilege under a law rather than a
right. I could not yet afford to breathe a sigh of relief.
The Federal law concerned only printed literature. My own pamphlet had
given the impression that the printed word was the best way to inform
women, but the practical course of contraceptive technique I had taken
in the Netherlands had shown me that one woman was so different from
another in structure that each needed particular information applied to
herself as an individual. Books and leaflets, therefore, should be of
secondary importance. The public health way was through personal
instruction in clinics.
A light had been kindled; so many invitations to address meetings in
various cities and towns were sent me that I was not able to accept them
all but agreed to as many as I could. It was no longer to be only a free
speech movement, and I wanted also if possible to present this new idea
of clinics to the country. If I could start them, other organizations
and even hospitals might do the same. I had a vision of a
“chain”—thousands of them in every center of America, staffed with
specialists putting the subject on a modern scientific basis through
research.
Many states in the West had already granted woman suffrage. Having
achieved this type of freedom, I was sure they would receive clinics
more readily, especially California which had no law against birth
control. The same thing would follow in the East. As I told the
_Tribune_, “I have the word of four prominent physicians that they will
support me in the work.... There will be nurses in attendance at the
clinic, and doctors who will instruct women in the things they need to
know. All married women or women about to be married will be assisted
free and without question.”
A splendid promise—but difficult to fulfill, as events were to prove.
_Chapter Sixteen_
HEAR ME FOR MY CAUSE
“_Speak clearly if you speak at all.
Carve every word before you let it fall._”
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES
Once Amos Pinchot asked me how long it had taken me to prepare that
first lecture I delivered on my three months’ trip across the country in
1916.
“About fourteen years,” I answered.
I was thinking of all the time that had passed during which experiences,
tragic and stirring, had come to me and were embodied therein.
So much depended on this speech; the women of leisure must be made to
listen, the women of wealth to give, the women of influence to protest.
Before starting April 1st, I tried to put myself in their places and to
see how their interests and imaginations could most effectively be
excited, how the pictures which had so unceasingly beset me could best
be brought to their minds. I felt certain that if I could do this, they
would do the rest.
But the anxiety that went into the composition of the speech was as
nothing to the agonies with which I contemplated its utterance. My
mother used to say a decent woman only had her name in the papers three
times during her life—when she was born, when she married, and when she
died. Although by nature I shrank from publicity, the kind of work I had
undertaken did not allow me to shirk it—but I was frightened to death.
Hoping that practice would give me greater confidence, I used to climb
to the roof of the Lexington Avenue hotel where I was staying and
recite, my voice going out over the house tops and echoing timidly among
the chimney pots.
I repeated the lecture over and over to myself before I tried it on a
small audience in New Rochelle. I did not dare cut myself adrift from my
notes; I had to read it, and when I had finished, did not feel it had
been very successful. By the time I reached Pittsburgh, my first large
city, I had memorized every period and comma, but I was still scared
that if I lost one word I would not know what the next was. I closed my
eyes and spoke in fear and trembling. The laborers and social workers
who crowded the big theater responded so enthusiastically that I was at
least sure their attention had been held by its content.
It was interesting to watch the pencils come out at the announcement
that there were specifically seven circumstances under which birth
control should be practiced.
First, when either husband or wife had a transmissible disease, such as
epilepsy, insanity, or syphilis.
Second, when the wife suffered from a temporary affection of the lungs,
heart, or kidneys, the cure of which might be retarded through
pregnancy.
Third, when parents, though normal, had subnormal children.
Fourth, when husband or wife were adolescent. Early marriage, yes, but
parenthood should be postponed until after the twenty-third year of the
boy and the twenty-second of the girl.