fine-cut features which made American ones seem crude and weak in
comparison. Wearing his long black robe to the ground and topped by a
red fez, he used to come to his duties bearing great armfuls of flowers
from his mother. We held lengthy conversations. “Have you been married?”
I asked.
“Yes, five times.”
“Weren’t any of them happy?”
He began enumerating. The first one had been young and inexperienced;
she had not been properly brought up and did not know her position as
his wife. Although she had cost him a hundred dollars, he had dispatched
her to her parents because she was too independent. Number two had not
been clean and had been too old for his mother to train; he had made
amicable arrangements with her father for her return, and had lost no
money on this transaction. Number three had been sickly, and a great
expense; she also had gone back. Number four had not loved him; it had
been shortly evident her heart was with another man and the agreement
had been broken by mutual consent. Number five, the latest, he had sent
home because she would not wait on his mother.
“Why should she?”
“Madam, my mother carried me in her belly for nine months. Should I have
a wife who would not work for her after that?”
He was now casting about for his sixth.
Ali haunted our footsteps and, in order to collect his five percent
commission on all our purchases, noted every place we went. Merchants
made a social affair of their customers’ calls. You went to a perfume
shop in the Bazaar. The proprietor said, “Yes,” sat down, and handed you
a gold-tipped, aromatic cigarette. He lighted it for you, took out a
pile of letters from a bag, and opened them for your inspection. They
were testimonials that a certain gentleman had sent similar cigarettes
to Hartford, Connecticut, or Pelham, New York. Of course, you bought
some. Then a cup of Persian tea was brought you, and you wanted some of
that. At last you recalled that you had come for attar of roses. By this
time he had sensed your “aura” and knew what you could pay. He was
willing humbly to mention the price.
Our tour had been a wonderful experience for Grant. He had studied the
Baedekers, planned our trips when we were coming to a new city or
country, looked into their histories and, although he was only thirteen,
shown a highly awake and intelligent attitude towards everything we had
seen.
He had had all sorts of wares hurled at him—ostrich feathers, fans,
baskets, sapphires, scarabs. He was satiated with strange sights and
lore—Buddha’s Temple of the Tooth at Kandy, caravans of bullocks, the
English club at tiny Port Swettenham in Malaya, the enormous porters of
Egypt who picked up trunks as though they were handbags, women veiled
and women unveiled, mosques, the Coptic church where Joseph and Mary
were supposed to have hidden Jesus from Herod, the date trees along the
road to Memphis, the underground Temple of the Bull, the remains of an
old proud world at Alexandria where Cleopatra had once held court, the
primitive ferry-raft on which we had crossed the Nile to see the place
where Moses had been found in the bullrushes, the wonderful ride, weird
and lovely, across the Sahara to view the Pyramids and Sphinx. On his
way to Switzerland he had traveled by gondola along the canals of
Venice, had been trailed through the art galleries of Milan.
After a few weeks at Montreux Grant was fully recovered, but he was now
homesick for the first time since we had left New York eight months
before. All he wanted was to see Tilden play in the tennis matches at
Wimbledon, and then go home. Because I did not think he should miss the
reception which H.G. was giving, I had him fly across the Channel to
London, and afterwards, appreciating his longing to be among his own age
and kind, I shipped him off on the maiden voyage of the _Majestic_ to a
camp in the Poconos. By the time he was back at Peddie he was up with
his class, his mind vastly enriched, and able to approach his studies in
a more mature manner. I have never regretted taking him with me.
I myself remained in London for the Fifth International Neo-Malthusian
and Birth Control Conference to be held July 11–14. The inclusion of the
words birth control was a definite concession on the part of the
Neo-Malthusians to the new trend of thought. It was a delight to be amid
conditions where tolerance reigned and the atmosphere was unblighted by
legal restrictions. The scientific candor of the discussion was reported
in the newspapers with sincerity and sobriety.
John Maynard Keynes, who had become famous almost overnight as the
result of his book, _The Consequences of the Peace_, presided at one of
the afternoon meetings. Later, I had lunch with him. He was tall and
well-built, with clear, cold, blue eyes, a fine shapely head, brow, and
face, a brilliant bearing and brilliant intellect. I was impressed by
the fact he did not smile. Because he gave each question of yours so
much consideration, he seemed constantly perplexed, but when he once
started to talk you knew he had already put aside the thing as having
been solved, and gone on in advance. You were probably more puzzled at
his next question than he at yours.
In the two years that elapsed before I saw Keynes again he had married
Lydia Lopokouva of the Russian Ballet. He had become an entirely
different person—his serious mien and countenance had been changed to a
buoyant, joyous happiness. His knowledge of the problems of money,
population, and economics were of a nature far above the grasp of an
ordinary intelligence, yet in his conversation with his wife he always
implied she knew the subject as thoroughly as he, and answered her
queries as though their minds were together. He was the only Englishman,
perhaps the only man, I ever knew to do this.
Unlike Lydia Lopokouva, most women had a strenuous battle trying to
prove themselves equal to men; this marriage conflict was inseparable
from modern life. I could sense it frequently when coming in contact
with a married couple—on her part the years of rebellion, and on his of
trying to put her down as a weakling.
Sentiment has extolled the young love which promises to last through
eternity. But love is a growth mingled with a succession of experiences;
it is as foolish to promise to love forever as to promise to live
forever.
To every woman there comes the apprehension that marriage may not
fulfill her highest expectations and dreams. If in the heart of a girl
entering this covenant for the first time there are doubts, even in the
slightest degree, they are doubled and trebled in their intensity when
she meditates a second marriage.
J. Noah H. Slee, whom I had known for some time, was what the papers
called “a staid pillar of finance.” He was South African born but had
made his fortune in the United States. In customs and exteriors we were
as far apart as the poles; he was a conservative in politics and a
churchman, whereas I voted for Norman Thomas and, instead of attending
orthodox services, preferred to go to the opera.
An old-fashioned type of man, J.N. yearned to protect any type of woman
who would cling. Complications, therefore, confronted us. I had been
free for nearly ten years, and, for as long, had been waging a campaign
to free other women. I was startled by the thought of joining my life to
that of one who objected to his wife’s coming home alone in a taxi at
night, or assumed she could not buy her own railroad tickets or check
her baggage. Nevertheless, despite his foibles, he was generous in
wanting me to continue my unfinished work, and was undeterred by my
warning that he would always have to be kissing me good-by in depots or
waving farewell as the gangplank went up.
I had to consider also that I had two boys to be educated, and that
children were much more to a woman than to a man. Yet I knew he would be
kind and understanding with them. Furthermore, he had faith both in
individuals and in humanity; his naïve appearance of hardness was
actually not borne out in fact. He kept his promises and hated debts; we
attached the same importance to the spirit of integrity.
Hundreds of people who scarcely knew me were delighted when the news of
our marriage eventually became public. Within one week letters began to
arrive from all over the United States and Canada. One man wrote he had
helped me get up a meeting at San Francisco and now needed a printing
press—would I mail him the trifling sum of three thousand dollars?
Another brought to mind I had had dinner at his home when lecturing in
his city, and now that he had painted enough pictures to hold an
exhibit, would I finance it? Dozens of ministers, old men, old ladies,
writers, sculptors wanted me to set them up in business, musical concert
work, bookshops, recalling the time they had taken me in cars to
meetings, or that I had slept in their beds. Parents requested me to
send their children to schools, to Europe, to sanatoriums—heaven knows
what. I never knew people could need so much. I longed with all the
desire in me to make out a check for every lack and wave a magic wand
and say, “So be it.”
But all I could do was write back that I had no more wealth than
before—my husband’s was his own. And I still required as many
contributions to birth control as ever.
I had not wanted the worry or trouble of handling money, nor do I want
it today. The things I valued then I value now, not for what they cost,
but for what they are. To me dollars and cents are only messengers to do
my bidding, and nothing more. To use them properly and get results is my
responsibility.
When I asked J.N., “Why do you lock things up?” he replied, “I always
do, don’t you?”
“Never. I haven’t anything worth locking up.”
That is the way I still feel.
It seemed so final when again I started a home, but there had been a
gathering loneliness in my life—not seeing the children except on
holidays, never having time to spend with old friends or to make new
ones, and with such rich opportunities constantly offering themselves. I
knew very well, however, what sort of a house I wanted—a simple one,
something like Shelley’s in Sussex.
In 1923, with stones gathered from the fields we built a house near
Fishkill, New York, cradled in the Dutchess County hills, beside a
little lake. On it we tried out swans, but they did not work; although
they looked picturesque, they were too messy. So we changed to ducks and
stocked the water with bass. I planned a blue garden which grew up and
down and threw itself about the house and altered with the seasons.
Pepper, a cocker spaniel puppy of two months, came the first year and
bounced and leaped around us as we walked through the woods or rode
horseback over the hills.
Willow Lake was only sixty miles from New York. I could make out the
menus for a week ahead, leave directions for the gardening, be in my
office fairly early and back again for dinner at night. Later, for
working purposes, we built a studio among the treetops on the edge of a
cliff from which I could look far off across the majestic valley of the
Hudson.
Domesticity, which I had once so scorned, had its charms after all.
_Chapter Twenty-nine_
WHILE THE DOCTORS CONSULT
After coming back from around the world I found nothing had been done
about the Tenth Street clinic, which I had expected to be in operation.
No members of the Academy of Medicine had come forth to back Dr. de
Vilbiss, and I had paid the rent for the last twelve months while vainly
waiting.
Now I gave it up and decided to start afresh. The more I had studied,
the more clearly I had recognized that it was not possible to advise a
standard contraceptive for all women any more than it was possible to
prescribe one set of eyeglasses for all conditions of sight. Only upon
examination and careful check-up could you determine the most suitable
method. No detailed statistics had ever been kept except at Brownsville,
and those case histories had never been returned to me by the police. I
wanted to collect at least a thousand such records for a scientific
survey before any opposition could interfere with the plan.
Many women were still coming to me personally for information at 104
Fifth Avenue. The best thing to do was have a woman doctor right there
to take care of them—a quiet way to begin. It was hard to locate one
foot-loose and free; I could have no shying or running off at the first
indication of trouble. In making inquiries I heard of Dr. Dorothy
Bocker, who held a New York City license though she was at present in
the Public Health Service of Georgia. This single, cordial, and
enthusiastic young woman knew practically nothing about birth control
technique, but was willing to learn. The difficulty was that she wanted
five thousand dollars a year.
At first this appeared an almost unsurmountable obstacle. Here was just
the person I had been looking for, but it seemed beyond my power to
raise so large a sum. I was loaded with the financial weight of the
_Review_ and the League. That organization had been admitted as a
membership corporation and hence could not secure a license to conduct a
clinic, which in New York was synonymous with a dispensary. No clinic,
therefore, could be included in its budget; it would remain a department
of the League by courtesy only, being actually my private undertaking.
Where could I find someone to donate such an enormous amount?
Then I remembered Clinton Chance, a young manufacturer of Birmingham,
who had prospered exceedingly both before and during the War. He and his
wife, Janet, had become good friends of mine during my 1920 visit to
England. Having felt the need of a more sound and fundamental outlet for
his riches than that provided by charity, he had come to see that birth
control information was far better for his employees than a dole at the
birth of every new baby. He was not in any sense a professional
philanthropist, but only wanted to help them be self-sufficient.
Clinton had once offered me money to set the birth control movement
going in England, but I had refused then because England had enough
co-workers, who were handling the situation well, and, furthermore, my
place was in the United States. He had then said to me, “I won’t give
you a contribution for regular current expenses, but if ever you see the
necessity for some new project which will advance the general good, call
on me.”
Now I cabled Clinton at length, explaining my need. He promptly
answered, “Yes, go ahead,” and soon arrived an anonymous thousand pounds
to cover Dr. Bocker’s salary for the first year. I made out a contract
for two. She was to come in January, 1923, and we were to shoulder the
risks and responsibilities together.
Even to choose a name for the venture was not easy. I had been steadily
advertising the term “clinic” to America for so long that it had become
familiar and, moreover, to poor people it meant that little or no
payment was required. But the use of the word itself was legally
impossible, and I was not certain that the same might not be true of
“center” or “bureau.” I wanted it at least to imply the things that
clinic meant as I had publicized it, and also to include the idea of
research.
Finally, one of the doors of the two rooms adjoining the League offices,
readily accessible to me and to the women who came for advice, was
lettered, Clinical Research.
It was still a clinic in my mind, though frankly an experiment because I
was not even sure women would accept the methods we had to offer them.
We started immediately keeping the records. Dr. Bocker wrote down the
history of the case on a large card, numbering it to correspond with a
smaller one containing the patient’s name and address. Each applicant
she suspected of a bad heart, tuberculosis, kidney trouble, or any
ailment which made pregnancy dangerous, she informed regarding
contraception and advised medical care at once.
In our first annual report, which attracted much attention, all our
cases were analyzed. We said, “Here is the proof—nine hundred women with
definite statistics concerning their ages, physical and mental
conditions, and economic status.”
As time went on I became less and less pleased with Dr. Bocker’s system.
She had no follow-up on patients, and I wished the clinic to be like a
business in the thoroughness of its routine. I refused to approve
methods as a hundred percent reliable until there had been not merely
one but three checks on each woman who had been to the clinic. To begin
with, she was to return two or three days after her initial visit; she
usually did that. But if she did not come back inside three months, then
a social worker in our own employ should be sent to call on her.
Finally, she was to be examined once a year. Dr. Bocker did not see eye
to eye with me that this was the only way to put the work on a sound
scientific basis of facts, and we agreed to part company in December of
the second year.
Dr. Hannah M. Stone, a fine young woman from the Lying-In Hospital,
volunteered to take Dr. Bocker’s place without salary. Her gaze was
clear and straight, her hair was black, her mouth gentle and sweet. She
had a sympathetic response to mothers in distress, and a broad attitude
towards life’s many problems. When the Lying-In Hospital later found she
had connected herself with our clinic, it gave her a choice between
remaining with us and resigning from the staff. She resigned. Her
courageous stand indicated staunch friendship and the disinterested
selflessness essential for the successful operation of the clinic. These
qualities have kept her with us all this time, one of the most beloved
and loyal workers that one could ever hope for.
The clinic could serve New York, but its practical value outside was
restricted, and I was always seeking some way of remedying this. We took
the preliminary step in Illinois, where no laws existed against clinics.
I had arranged a conference in Chicago at the Drake Hotel, October,
1923, the first of a regional series. Mrs. Benjamin Carpenter and Dr.
Rachelle Yarros, who had been with Jane Addams at Hull House, had to
obtain a court decision before Dr. Herman Bundesen, Commissioner of
Health, would issue a license for the second clinic in the United
States.
Meanwhile, between 1921 and 1926, I received over a million letters from
mothers requesting information. From 1923 on a staff of three to seven
was constantly busy just opening and answering them. Despite the
limitations of the writers and their lack of education, they revealed
themselves strangely conscious of the responsibilities of the maternal
function.
Childbearing is hazardous, even when carried out with the advantages of
modern hygiene and parental care. The upper middle classes are likely to
assume all confinements are surrounded by the same attention given the
births of their own babies. They do not comprehend it is still possible
in these United States for a woman to milk six cows at five o’clock in
the morning and bring a baby into the world at nine. The terrific
hardships of the farm mother are not in the least degree lessened by
maternity. If she and her infant survive, it is only to face these
hardships anew, and with additional complications.
In the midst of an era of science and fabulous wealth reaching out for
enlightenment to advance our civilization, with millionaires tossing
their fortunes into libraries and hospitals and laboratories to discover
the secrets and causes of life, here at the doorstep of everyone was
this tragic, scarcely recognized condition.
It was an easy and even a pleasant task to reduce human problems to
numerical figures in black and white on charts and graphs, but
infinitely more difficult to suggest concrete solutions. The reasoning
of learned theologians and indefatigable statisticians seemed academic
and anemically intellectual if brought face to face with the actuality
of suffering. When they confronted me with arguments, this dim, far-off
chorus of pain began to resound anew in my ears.
Sensitive women of our clerical staff were constantly breaking down in
health under the nervous depression caused by the fact we had so little
knowledge to give. One who went to Chicago to help rehabilitate soldiers
wrote me, “I’m feeling much better. These men who have lost a leg or arm
come in, apparently disqualified forever, but something is being done
about them, and it is happy work, not forlorn like yours.”
To prove that the story could be told by the mothers themselves, ten
thousand letters, with the assistance of Mary Boyd, were selected and
these again cut to five hundred. Eventually this historical record
appeared in book form as _Motherhood in Bondage_.
Whenever I am discouraged I go to those letters as to a wellspring which
sends me on re-heartened. They make me realize with increasing intensity
that whoever kindles a spark of hope in the breast of another cannot
shirk the duty of keeping it alive.
_Woman and the New Race_, which sold at first for two dollars, had a
distribution of two hundred and fifty thousand copies, and it made my
heart ache to know that poor women who could ill afford it were buying
the book and not finding there what they sought. To the best of my
ability I tried to supply general information, but the only way of
extending genuine aid was to persuade doctors to give it professionally.
By a happy chance I met Dr. James F. Cooper, tall, blond, distinguished,
a fine combination of missionary and physician, who left no stone
unturned when a patient came to him, but devoted his whole attention to
her—everything in her life was important to him. He was recently back
from Fuchow, China, and was establishing himself in Boston as a
gynecologist. Since he was thoroughly convinced of the vital necessity
for birth control and could talk technically to his profession and
interpret to the layman as well, my husband pledged his salary and
expenses for two years, and I induced him to associate himself with us
as medical director to go forth and try to convince the doctors
throughout the country that contraceptive advice would save a large
proportion of their women patients.
In January, 1925, Dr. Cooper started on a tour which covered nearly all
the states in the Union. In the course of the two years he delivered
more than seven hundred lectures. Occasionally he was suspected of
ulterior motives, of attempting to advertise the products he
recommended, but this did not sway him from his persistence. Where he
found laxity on the part of medical organizations he spoke to lay
associations, which applied pressure on their own physicians, demanding
information. As a result of this trip, doctors really began to awake to
the problem of contraception, and when it was ended we had the names of
some twenty thousand from Maine to California who had consented to
instruct patients referred to them.
At this point began the huge and difficult process of decentralization,
so that the New York office need no longer be a clearing house. Each
request which lay outside the pale of the Cooper influence required
voluminous correspondence. One letter, enclosing a stamped,
return-addressed envelope, was mailed to the woman, asking her to
furnish us the name of her doctor. We then wrote him to inquire whether
he would give her information, and offered to send supplies if she could
not afford them. If he said yes, we notified her to that effect; if he
said no, we gave some other doctor in her vicinity an opportunity to
co-operate.
We were immediately confronted with the situation that even willing
doctors had little to recommend. Literally thousands of women reported
that such ineffective methods had been tendered them they had refused to
pay. We ourselves did not have a great deal, and this put us in a weak
position; the acceptance of the theory was ahead of the means of
practicing it.