the grim and woeful life of the East Side. Both Blossom and I believed
it would have value, and I continue to be of the same mind. He had not
approved of the clinic and had declined to have anything to do with it,
but was eager to join me in capitalizing on the ensuing publicity.
Together we wrote a scenario of sorts, concluding with the trial.
Although I had long since lost faith in my abilities as an actress, I
played the part of the nurse, and an associate of Blossom’s financed its
production. But before it could appear Commissioner of Licenses George
H. Bell ordered it suppressed.
To prove the film mirrored conditions which called for birth control, we
gave a private showing at a theater, inviting some two hundred people
concerned with social welfare. All agreed the public should see it, and
signed a letter to that effect. Justice Nathan Bijur issued an
injunction against interfering with its presentation. The moving picture
theaters, however, fearful lest the breath of censure wither their
profits, were too timid to take advantage of this.
Of infinitely greater and more lasting significance than this venture
was the _Birth Control Review_, which, from 1917 to 1921, was the
spearhead in the educational stage. It could introduce a quieter and
more scientific tone, and also enable me to keep in touch with people
everywhere whose interest had already been evoked. Emotion was not
enough; ideas were not enough; facts were what we needed so that leaders
of opinion who were articulate and willing to speak out might have
authoritative data to back them up.
The first issue of the _Review_, prepared beforehand, had come out in
February, 1917, while I was in the penitentiary. It was not a very good
magazine then; it had few contributors and no editorial policy.
Anyone—sculptor, spiritualist, cartoonist, poet, free lance—could
express himself here; the pages were open to all. In some ways it was
reminiscent of the old days of the _Woman Rebel_, when everybody used to
lend a hand—always with this vital difference, that we held strictly to
education instead of agitation. I had learned a little editorial
knowledge from my previous magazine efforts and now obtained a more
professional touch from the newspaper men and women who gradually came
in, among them William E. Williams, formerly of the Kansas City _Star_,
Walter A. Roberts, who later published the few issues of the _American
Parade_, and Rob Parker, editor and make-up man. Among the associates
were Jessie Ashley, Mary Knoblauch, and Agnes Smedley.
That extraordinarily shy and mysterious woman, Agnes Smedley, had been
born in a covered wagon of squatter parents, and, though she had become
a teacher in the California public schools, her early habits of thought
remained with her; she was consistently for the under dog. The British
Government had suspected her of connection with the seditious activities
of a group of Hindu students and persuaded the Federal authorities to
investigate. All they had been able to find on which to charge her were
a few copies of _Family Limitation_. This brought her within our
province, and when she was arraigned in New York John Haynes Holmes
procured her ten-thousand-dollar bail. After her acquittal she worked
with us at various times until she left for post-War Germany.
On this and other occasions John Haynes Holmes, a speaker second to
none, brought the convincing force of his arguments and mind to our aid.
By the shape of his head and the honesty of his eyes you could recognize
the practical idealist in this Unitarian minister. He never straddled
issues. During the War he said if one flag were to be hung out his
church windows, then those of all nations should be flown; no peoples
were enemies of his.
Two numbers of the _Review_ had appeared when the United States entered
the War and Blossom and I fell out. He was an ardent Francophile and,
like most masculine members of the intelligentsia, threw in his lot with
the Allies. I wrote a pacifist editorial; he refused to run it and
resigned.
To Blossom, as to so many others, pacifism was automatically labeled
pro-Germanism, on the old theory that “he who is not for me is against
me.” I had already seen in Europe what propaganda could do to build up a
war spirit, and prayed every morning when I awoke that I could keep my
head clear and cool. I had heard the plaintive pleas of French mothers,
but had talked also with German mothers. In the hearts of none had there
been hatred or desire for their sons to kill other sons.
I knew what I thought about the War; it was so outrageous I would not be
mixed up in it. I still believe it was not only a dreadful thing in
itself—a slaughter and waste of human life—but, even more disastrous, it
exterminated those who ought now to be ruling our national destinies
according to the pre-War liberality of thought in which they had been
reared. We started at that time to walk backwards instead of forwards,
and have retreated steadily ever since. A fear of expressing opinions
which then began to seep in has gradually helped to impose censorship
and further intolerance.
I was neither pro-Ally nor pro-German but, using common sense, was
distressed at seeing German achievements torn into shreds. Intelligence
in Germany had been focused on all fronts; she had the lowest illiteracy
of any country and had invested heavily in mass education from which the
rest of the world was benefiting at little cost. She had offered the
best training for graduate students in medicine; foreign travel had been
accelerated by German linguists; commerce had been able to carry on
international contacts through German interpreters; any foreign industry
which had needed technical advice had usually employed a German
scientist, engineer, or chemist who knew how to do his job and do it
well. Germany could not continue this policy without wanting to receive
some tangible return.
I was convinced the primary cause of this war lay in the terrific
pressure of population in Germany. To be sure, her birth rate had
recently begun to decline, but her death rate, particularly infant
mortality, had, through applied medical science, likewise been brought
far down. The German Government had to do something about the increase
of her people. Underneath her rampant militarism, underneath her demand
for colonies was this driving economic force. She could hold no more,
and had to burst her bounds.
Blossom’s defection was one of the heart-breaking things that can creep
into any endeavor, even the most idealistic. I have seen so many young
crusaders come galloping to show me the way, joining the procession and
blowing horns for “The Cause,” panting with enthusiasm to reform the
world, willing to teach me how to put the movement on a “social” or
“sound practical and economic” basis. They were going to get vast
contributions so that money would roll unceasingly into our coffers. But
if they lacked the necessary patience and forbearance, or were there for
personal aggrandizement, they became discouraged at the first show of
thorny, disagreeable obstacles, retreating or deserting rather than
fighting through.
In the birth control movement supporters have come and gone. When they
remained they found work, work, work, and little recognition, reward, or
gratitude. Those who desired honor or recompense, or who measured their
interest by this yardstick, are no longer here. It is no place for
anything except the boundless love of giving. Blossom was the first
illustration to me that the ones to whom authority is handed over are
likely to expand and explode unless they have selflessly dedicated
themselves.
Now, I believe the three chief tests to character are sudden power,
sudden wealth, and sudden publicity. Few can stand the latter; nothing
goes to the head with more violence. Seeing this all around me, I did
not subscribe to a clipping bureau until it seemed necessary for
historical purposes. I did not even read the papers when unsought
advertisement was great, remembering that this could be but a nine days’
wonder. Furthermore, news items were often distracting because the facts
were constantly embroidered just to make a good story, to paint a
situation according to the policy of the paper, or because they
reflected the inhibitions of the reporters. Hours could have been
entirely given over to denials and contradictions.
In the midst of any emergency such as a police raid or the stopping of a
meeting my own emotions generally kept an even tenor; they did not go
hopping up and down like a temperature. A nurse cannot afford to lose
her head, and the control I had won in that training helped me, as did
also my father’s philosophy, “Since all things change, this too will
pass.”
Consequently, during this feverish period, neither public praise nor
public blame affected me very much, although the type of criticism that
came from friends was different. Just because they were friends and I
wanted them to understand, I was unhappy if they did not. But, since
persons one likes can have great influence and friendships take time, I
refrained from making many new ones. Nevertheless, those I had then are
as good today; when we meet we pick up the threads where we dropped
them.
The War halted the progress of the birth control movement temporarily.
The groups that had before been active now found new interests. The
radicals were convulsed and their own ranks torn in two by the
opposition to conscription. Influenza swept over the world and in its
passage took off many of our old companions. Governor Whitman’s promised
commission blew up. One bright bugle sounded when I learned that the
section on venereal disease in _What Every Girl Should Know_, which had
once been banned in the New York _Call_ and for which Fania had been
fined, was now, officially but without credit, reprinted and distributed
among the soldiers going into cantonments and abroad. At home all felt
there was little to do but wait until people came back to their senses;
the _Review_ was the only forward step I could take at the time.
Late in 1917 a new recruit was enlisted. Nobody ever knew Kitty Marion’s
true name. She had been born in Westphalia, Germany, and when she was
fifteen her father had whipped her once too often and she had run away
to England, where eventually she had headed a turn at a music hall.
The London slums had aroused Kitty’s social conscience, and she had
abandoned her own career to enroll with Mrs. Pankhurst in the suffrage
crusade, becoming one of the most determined of her followers. When put
in jail she set fire to her cell, chewed a hole in her mattress, broke
the window, and upon being released threw bricks at Newcastle Post
Office. Seven times she went to prison, enduring four hunger strikes and
two hundred and thirty-two compulsory feedings, biting the hand that
forcibly fed her. Since it was distasteful to the Government to have any
suffragette die in prison, Kitty, under the so-called Cat-and-Mouse Act,
was once released to a nursing home until she should have strength
enough to return to confinement. Friends visited her there, exchanged
clothes with her, and she escaped. On another occasion the Bishop of
London personally begged her to give up her struggle. At the outbreak of
war, the Pankhurst forces hustled her over to America rather than have
her run the almost certain risk of deportation or internment.
Selling _The Suffragette_ on the streets of London had been part of the
initiation which duchesses and countesses and other noble auxiliaries to
the Pankhurst cause had had to undergo. Kitty had stood side by side
with them. Since we had so experienced a veteran ready for service we
began to offer the _Review_ on the sidewalks of New York. Our more sober
supporters objected because they considered it undignified. But men and
women from here, there, and everywhere passed through the commercial
centers of New York, and this was a real means of reaching them.
All of us took a hand, but Kitty was the only one who stood the test of
years. Strong, stoutish, tow-headed, her blue eyes bright and keen in
spite of being well on in her fifties, she became a familiar sight.
Morning, afternoon, and until midnight—workdays, Sundays, and
holidays—through storms of winter and summer, she tried every street
corner from Macy’s to the Grand Central Terminal. But her favorite stand
was Seventh Avenue and Forty-second Street, right at Times Square. In
her own words she was enjoying “the most fascinating, the most comic,
the most tragic, living, breathing movie in the world.”
Many people still think I must be Kitty Marion. Everywhere they say to
me, “I saw you twenty years ago outside the Metropolitan Opera House.
You’ve changed so I wouldn’t know you.”
Street selling was torture for me, but I sometimes did it for
self-discipline and because only in this way could I have complete
knowledge of what I was asking others to do. In addition, I learned to
realize what possible irritations Kitty had to encounter.
Notwithstanding the insults of the ignorant, the censure of the bigots,
she remained good-humored. They said to her, “You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, you ought to be arrested, to be shot, to be in jail, to be
hanged!” or, “It’s disgraceful, disgusting, scandalous, villainous,
criminal, and unladylike!” When someone asked, “Have you never heard
God’s word to ‘be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth’?” Kitty
replied, “They’ve done that already,” and, knowing her Apocrypha as well
as her Bible, retorted in kind, “Does it not say in Ecclesiasticus:
16; 1, ‘Desire not a multitude of unprofitable children’?”
During the War it was astonishing how many men, in and out of uniform,
mistook Birth Control for British Control. “We don’t want no British
Control here!” they exclaimed. Kitty would correct them, “Birth
Control,” and someone would call, “Oh, that’s worse!”
Who bought the _Review_? This question was invariably asked, and the
answer was—radicals, the curious, girls about to be married, mothers,
fathers, social workers, ministers, physicians, reformers,
revolutionaries, foreigners. A psychological analysis of reactions of
passers-by when they saw the words “birth control” would have been
interesting. I never could credit the power those simple words had of
upsetting so many people. Their own complexes as to what sex meant to
them appeared to govern them. Many were disappointed at its staidness;
some were highly indignant, others highly amused, regarding it as a
joke; some bought with the set faces of soldiers going over the top;
some looked and looked and then strolled on. Others walked by only to
return with the money ready, hastily stuff the magazine in their
pockets, and move away, trying to seem unconcerned. The majority bought
with the utmost seriousness in the hope that it might solve their
personal problems.
“Jail” was the instant reaction of every new policeman on the beat.
Kitty, who knew she needed no license, would contest the point with him
while a crowd gathered. But few of her arresters were familiar with the
law in the name of which they hauled her off to the station. Time and
again my night’s slumbers were broken to go and bail her out. J.J. was
always able to have the case dismissed, but only after it had been
argued and proved in our favor.
Once Charles Bamberger, the _agent provocateur_ of the Society for the
Suppression of Vice who had brought about Bill Sanger’s arrest, worked
much the same ruse on Kitty. His society was supposedly designed to
promote purity, which was to its members synonymous with good. But in
order to do this they induced people to break the law by appealing to
their deepest human sympathies, a form of trickery not to be condoned by
any moral code.
Bamberger, on repeated visits to Kitty at our office, poignantly
described the condition of his unfortunate wife whose health depended
absolutely on her getting contraceptive information. Anna’s sense, like
Fania Mindell’s, was unfailing in recognizing such decoys; I never went
against it. But in vain did she warn Kitty, who gave him the
information. He had her arrested, and she was not allowed to tell in
court the means by which he had obtained his evidence; she had to serve
a term. Kitty’s sentence did not have adequate publicity, but so violent
was the war temper, that, in view of her German birth, even
well-disposed newspapers practically ignored it.
In addition to selling the _Review_ we tried another experiment in
street propaganda. During the warm evenings of one summer Kitty, Helen
Todd, and I, often accompanied by George Swazey, a friendly Englishman,
proceeded to the neighborhood of St. Nicholas Avenue above 125th Street,
where many white collar families lived. We used to buy a soapbox at the
nearest delicatessen and Helen, who had a lank, swarthy picturesqueness
which attracted attention, mounted it; Swazey, standing behind, held
aloft an American flag. Though not a soul might be in sight except our
little group with its bundles of literature and Kitty with her
_Reviews_, Helen began in her beautiful voice, “Ladies and Gentlemen,”
bowing to the trees, “we welcome you here tonight.” When nobody appeared
she began again. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” and this time one or two
strollers usually lingered. Immediately we raised our pasteboard banners
with “birth control” printed in black letters. She was off in full
swing, and in a few minutes we had our audience.
In the course of our various trials people had sent checks and made
donations to the special Defense Fund account, and we sent anybody who
gave money, no matter how much or how little, a mimeographed report of
all contributors. We had also accepted almost two thousand
paid-in-advance subscriptions, and had therefore incurred an obligation
to continue the _Review_ for twelve months.
One May morning when I put my key in the office door and swung it open,
Anna Lifshiz and I stood and gazed at each other. Only the telephone
perched forlornly on top of a packing box relieved the bare and empty
room—files, furniture, vouchers, checks, and business records were gone.
We still had to supply the subscribers with nine issues more, yet we had
no equipment and not one cent in the bank account of the _Review_.
It was a challenge. We hurried over to Third Avenue and for twenty
dollars refurnished the office. The loss of the contributors’ cards,
however, was irreparable. I could never, in spite of my best efforts,
recover either them or the missing funds.
The strain to finance the _Review_ was so great that after June no more
issues came out until December—the printer trusted us as far as he was
able from month to month. Often the bank account was down to the last
hundred dollars, just enough to hold it open. Yet it might be necessary
to mail letters; the call might be urgent. I was hesitant to spend that
last amount, but I believed faith could bring anything to realization.
Invariably when I operated on that principle and did what I was impelled
to do, money poured in perhaps ten times over. Always we cleaned the
slate at the end of the year.
This was one of the periods of getting roots in and waiting for the
organism to grow, of quiescence before the new beginning and quickening.
I kept going, conscious that with every act I was progressing in accord
with a universal law of evolution—moral evolution but evolution just the
same.
This belief seemed at times to force locked doors. It enabled me to
dictate hundreds of letters, to interview dozens of people, to debate,
or to lecture, all in twenty-four hours. Day after day I attended parlor
meetings, night after night open forums, returning home too tired to
eat, too excited to sleep. Frequently at seven in the morning the
telephone started ringing; somebody wanted to catch me before I left the
house.
For the purpose of having a more solid and substantial basis on which to
operate the _Review_, the New York Women’s Publishing Company was
incorporated in May, 1918; shares were sold at ten dollars each. The
women who gave both monetary and moral support were the wives of
business men who advised them how to conduct this organization in the
proper fashion. Each month Mary Knoblauch opened her charming apartment
for the regular meetings any corporation was required to hold.
The movement can never be disassociated in my mind from Frances
Ackermann, who, at the suggestion of Mabel Spinney of Greenwich House,
came to us as Treasurer. She was exceptionally able and was soon one of
our bulwarks, remaining with us eleven years. Her family was wrapped up
in orthodoxy—church and Wall Street and the status quo in politics—but
Frances’ interests were much broader, and she was not content to lead
the usual type of life ordained by her social and financial standing.
Tall, very thin, wearing her clothes with an air, Frances was one of the
finest persons I have ever known. To her, fair play amounted to a
religion; she was so highly sensitive that she lay awake at night after
merely reading of an injustice done to anybody. To hundreds of
conscientious objectors who were incarcerated during the War because of
pacifist or strike activities she sent cigarette money, magazines,
stationery—always anonymously—assisting their families and suggesting
plans for their own futures. Her death was not only a blow to us but a
blow to any endeavor that was seeking understanding. Many lifers who
depended on her for brightening luxuries must now wonder what has become
of her.
In 1920 Anne Kennedy came to help boost the circulation of the _Review_
and gain further financial aid for it. She was a Californian with wide
club experience, and had two children. Fair, in her thirties, cheerful,
and a good mixer, she was most maternal-looking with her soft gray hair
and sweet face; you felt you could lay your head on her bosom and tell
her the story of your life.
The incorporation had heralded a new trend wherein we could have a
recognized policy. When the _Review_ had first been started I had had to
beg authors to write. Free speech was their favorite theme, and their
pieces were inferior, but they were the only things I could fall back
upon. I used to ask possible contributors, “Don’t you agree that these
poor mothers should have no more babies?”
“Of course, but where’s there any article in that?”
Then I had to suggest ideas, show them how to link these up with larger
sociological aspects, until they began to cast into the arena legal,
medical, eugenic compositions. The material on free speech continued to
come in, but we did not need to print it any longer.
Incidentally, we now secured second-class mailing privileges. Soon
afterwards I happened to be talking to a cousin who worked in the Post
Office, a very young boy in his early twenties, who kept assailing me
with questions about the _Review_. I could not understand his
unprecedented interest, and asked, “Why are you so curious?”
“Well, I’m the official reader. It’ll save my having to wade through
every issue if you’ll tell me ahead of time just what your policy’s
going to be.”
“Do you make the decisions?”
“That’s my job. If any seem objectionable I send them on to Washington.”
I was horrified to find this adolescent in a position which permitted
him to pass judgment on such serious matters, but I was able to reassure
him; the course we had adopted would in no way interfere with retaining
our second-class mailing privileges.
Many of the buyers of the _Review_ had been disappointed because it
contained no practical information. “I have your magazine. All in there
is true but what I want to know is how not to have another baby next
year.” Thousands of letters were sent out explaining that the _Review_
could not print birth control information. Nevertheless, some of the
appeals, particularly from women who lived on lonely, remote farms, were
so heart-rending that I simply had to furnish them copies of _Family
Limitation_, though urging them to go to their physicians.
Every once in a while I had a telephone message to come down to the Post
Office at an appointed hour. I did so, wondering and uncertain. Was the
interview to be about the _Review_, _Family Limitation_, or what?