the situation to Sir Bernard, saying that in justice to the women who
had given so generously of their time and effort, who had raised the
money, issued the invitations, paid the delegates’ expenses, they should
be given proper credit. All the latter had had to do was walk in at the
last moment, present their papers, and take part in the social life
planned for them.
Having registered my sentiments, I spent most of Sunday convincing the
members of the staff that the Conference was bigger than their own hurt
feelings and making them promise to return; Edith How-Martyn, however,
who had joined me some time before, refused to continue because the hard
labor of the workers was not to be acknowledged.
Though suspecting that the elimination of my name was the crux of the
matter, I was still at a loss to know the exact reason back of this
tempest until one of the delegates told me the story. Sir Eric Drummond
had warned Sir Bernard that these distinguished scientists would be the
laughing stock of all Europe if it were known that a woman had brought
them together. Hence, in order to influence Italian and French delegates
to attend, Sir Bernard had secretly pledged that I was not to be a party
to the Conference and no discussion of birth control or Malthusianism
would be allowed. He had hoped that the whole thing might be muddled
through, and, when the delegates had come drifting in, had gone from one
to another to urge, “I ask you to stand by me; do not let me down.”
Only our young English friends had held out for the recognition of the
women. I was not surprised at the Europeans; but it was difficult to
comprehend the American attitude on this point. Perhaps Professor Pearl
and Dr. Little, in agreeing to support Sir Bernard, had not realised the
unfairness of the action. Clarence Little was as honest a human being as
you could find, but sometimes I thought his personal allegiances
obstructed his vision; he used his intelligence to make up arguments on
the side of loyalty rather than on the side of principles.
At the hour designated the first meeting opened in the Salle Centrale.
Each delegate had a number of extra tickets, and with the German,
Belgian, and French contingents came several gentlemen with large silver
crosses hanging down outside their coats. In the lobby a Genevese book
concern had been permitted to set up a table for the sale of volumes by
delegates. These guests immediately demanded of Sir Bernard that a
certain one, of which they disapproved, be banished. Sir Bernard trotted
to me and said he wished no trouble; there seemed to be some
controversy. Would I have the offending books taken away?
I approached the strangers and asked who they were. They vociferated in
various languages, shaking the book under my nose, getting red in the
face, looking as though apoplexy might smite them. I sent for an
interpreter and instructed him to say, “The hall will be for rent next
Monday. Meantime, I have paid for it and will suffer no dictation from
anybody as to what shall be done here.”
The disturbers did not depart, and the excitement around the bookstand
was so considerable that the volumes were sold out and more had to be
ordered.
During the course of the Conference the Americans, British, and
Scandinavians admitted the need for limiting population; the Germans and
Czechs concurred, although with less assurance; the Italian and Slav
voices were definitely opposed; the French, who practiced it at home,
preached against it publicly. The papers of Professors East and
Fairchild came perilously near mentioning the forbidden word
Malthusianism, but as for birth control, it was edged about like a bomb
which might explode any moment.
At the close of the three days a permanent population union was formed
which is still meeting—the only international group dealing with the
problem.
All the brilliant committee now took trains and steamed off for home,
leaving me with the bills, the clearing up, and, most important of all,
the editing of the proceedings. After a rest at a sanitorium at Glion in
Switzerland I set to work, and by the end of November they had gone to
press. I wanted to visit India but had to think of this trip in terms of
physical fitness and, consequently, was obliged to forego it. Instead, I
accepted an invitation sent me by Agnes Smedley on behalf of the
Association of German Medical Women to lecture in Germany in December.
The Berlin of 1927 was far different from that of 1920. Food was
plentiful, if expensive, the Adlon and other restaurants were crowded, a
stirring of life and nationalism was everywhere to be sensed. At the
appearance of a Zeppelin in the skies, men in the streets took off their
hats as though it had been a god.
When I spoke in the Town Hall of Charlottenburg-Berlin I was reminded of
the birth strike German women had been carrying on when I had last been
there. German men seemed to have remembered little of this, still
thinking they could keep their wives to childbearing, “their race
function,” as it was called. But the women had now definitely directed
their thoughts from race preservation to self-preservation. As I said to
my audience, “Birth control has always been practiced, beginning with
infanticide, which is abhorred, and then by abortion, nearly as bad.
Contraception, on the other hand, is harmless.”
Almost before I had finished Dr. Alfred Grotjahn, Professor of Social
Hygiene at the University of Berlin, who was seeking to present the
picture of Germany’s future greatness in terms of numbers, shouted out
that every woman ought to have three children before she should be
allowed contraceptive information. No sooner had he resumed his seat
than several women were demanding recognition. I was told one of them
was Dr. Marthe Ruben-Wolf. “She’s a Communist. What she’s saying is all
on your side, but it won’t do any good, because nobody has ever been
able to cope with Grotjahn.” Nevertheless, she answered him figure for
figure, fact for fact, each based on her experience, adding that his
patriotism was only skin deep. He might as well bury himself now; he
would soon be buried by the rising generation and forgotten.
Then a huge shape arose, garbed in uniform and bonnet. I thought she
must be a deaconess, but she turned out to be President of the Midwives
Association. She bellowed in tones even louder than those of Grotjahn,
putting herself on record against birth control. She could not be
stopped; she would not sit down even when the bell was rung. Others
answered her—the debate developed into a regular bear garden before the
contestants were separated and removed.
As a result of the meeting some twenty women physicians gathered at my
hotel two evenings later. Clinics were to be established at Neuköln
under Dr. Kurt Bendix, the health administrator of the section; for the
first time in history a government agency was actually sanctioning birth
control. I promised fifty dollars a month for three years towards
supplies; the doctors agreed to furnish rooms and medical services. They
had a more Feminist point of view than ours in the United States; Ellen
Key’s liberal influence had seeped through from Scandinavia.
Nevertheless, I was astonished that in the very country where we were
purchasing our contraceptives, these outstanding members of their
profession knew practically nothing about them. The original clinic was
opened the following May and for five years contraceptive information
was given in a dozen places under medical supervision. Then the Nazis
came into power, they were closed, and Dr. Bendix committed suicide.
Towards the middle of the month I went to Frankfurt-am-Main where Dr.
Herthe Riese was managing one of the largest of the marriage advice
bureaus, of which there were about fifteen hundred in Germany. Anyone
could apply to these for legal information and, for example, receive
enlightenment as to who should have custody of a child if illegitimate,
the amount of alimony to be paid by the husband in case of divorce, the
nationality of a child if the father were a foreigner, the effect of
sterilization, the results of the marriage of cousins, or any problem,
including homosexuality and inversion, feeblemindedness and abortion.
In this period of great unemployment, bearing particularly heavily upon
families with many children, Dr. Riese had gone to the officers of one
of the big health insurance companies and persuaded them that it would
be economical for them to underwrite sterilization of women carrying
health insurance if this were advised by a doctor. I saw her order
seventy-five of these major operations one evening between six o’clock
and eight-thirty in her own clinic. Professor Grotjahn had created
almost a slogan by his demand that in order to bolster up the falling
birth rate every wife have three children. But the women had a counter
slogan; they came in saying, “I’ve had my three. I want an operation.” I
saw also some who had returned from the hospital to report. They
appeared happy and proud and pleased with themselves. Their ten days or
two weeks in bed had meant food and much-needed rest.
After Germany I went vacationing to St. Moritz, to play, to skate, to
ski, in that glorious high altitude. It was transcendently beautiful. I
used to get up in the morning and listen to the sleighs coming up the
hill with their tinkling bells, and look out at the scintillating snow;
every twig of every tree was encased in ice on which the sun glistened
without melting it. The scene was a white etching.
St. Moritz was much frequented by nobility and royalty on holiday.
Whenever one of them arrived, like a flock of birds the hangers-on
winged their way thither, settled down in all the hotels so that
ordinary folk could scarcely find room.
Almost the first person I met was Lady Astor, more British than the
British themselves, the Southern accent entirely gone. Her blond hair
was turned sand-colored, her blue eyes were always gay, her tanned and
rugged features sharp, mouth and jaw firm set, neck clean cut. She was
quick-tempered and frank, and ready to take fire easily. Lord Astor, who
was devoted to his wife, was much more politically astute, and usually
went campaigning with her. He sat directly behind her, and, when the
heckling began or a question was posed which might involve her in
difficulties, he called out in a stage whisper, “Don’t be drawn, Nancy,
don’t be drawn!”
During one House of Commons debate, Lady Astor had attempted to drive
home a point by stating she was the mother of five children and
therefore ought to know.
Her opponent, taking issue with her, had jumped up, saying his word
should carry more weight on the subject because he was the father of
seven.
Lady Astor then retorted, “But I haven’t finished yet.”
The British professed to be horrified at this—so vulgar and American!
Once after Lady Astor had been off skiing all day, I joined her in her
room shortly before dinner. She was sitting up in bed, the windows wide
open, cold cream smeared over her sunburned face, her glasses on her
nose, reading _Science and Health_ with the Bible near by. She had not
quite ended her day’s lesson.
Almost wherever I am, the subject of birth control comes up sooner or
later, and it did on this occasion. Lady Astor seemed to think her
religion forbade her believing in it. “If they want babies, let them
have babies. If they don’t want them, let them practice continence.”
“Even accepting that continence is the ultimate ideal,” I replied,
“wouldn’t you agree that contraception as an immediate necessity to help
millions of women is of equal importance with wearing glasses to read
the Bible? As a good Christian Scientist you should not use them. Until
you get enough faith to go without, don’t you think it better to read
Mary Baker Eddy through some such means as glasses than not at all?”
In one second she beamed. “You’re perfectly right. That’s only
reasonable.”
If you present common-sense people with the premise that birth control
is common sense, they will always react in a common-sense way. Lady
Astor was a practical person, and from that time on she has been a
friend of the movement.
_Chapter Thirty-two_
CHANGE IS HOPEFULLY BEGUN
As a cause becomes more and more successful, the ideas of the people
engaged in it are bound to change. While still at St. Moritz I had been
getting messages and letters about the disturbing situation in the
American Birth Control League. I cabled Frances Ackermann to take it in
hand, but she replied she was unable to bring about a friendly solution.
I found on my return after eighteen months that the tone of the movement
had altered. The machinery I had built up to be ready for any emergency
was marking time. An incident which occurred almost immediately was
highly indicative. During my absence the League had been invited to
participate in the Parents’ Exhibition in the Grand Central Palace, and
had signed a contract for a certain space. The day before the opening
came a letter from Robert E. Simon, who was in charge, stating that
William O’Shea, Superintendent of Public Schools, threatened to remove
the Board of Education exhibit if ours were there, and he therefore
requested our withdrawal.
With time so short I asked an attorney to secure a court injunction to
prevent our exclusion. But one member of the Board said no step should
be taken without the approval of all; a meeting should be called to
discuss what course was to be adopted. I tried to reach various
Directors by telephone, but before I could gather a quorum it was too
late; the check which paid for our space had been sent back and the
Exhibition had opened. We were left out.
Obviously, the old aggressive spirit had been superseded by a
doctrinaire program of social activity; the League had settled down. I
had always believed that offerings should be voluntarily measured by the
individual’s desire. In this way you could appeal whenever a special
occasion warranted and receive anywhere from one dollar to two or three
hundred. Contributors were giving to something that concerned them
vitally, and they did it, not because they had signed a pledge for a
limited sum, but because they wanted to help forward the movement. I
could not share the League’s enthusiasm over the fact that our bank
account had grown to sizeable proportions—thousands of dollars drawing
interest, though I admit it must have been a great relief to a Board
whose previous experience had been to hear wails from the President and
Treasurer as to our needs for some new project.
I knew the apathy which came from a fat bank balance. I knew also the
tacit disapproval which would meet every suggestion to touch that
precious fund. But my policy had been to spend, not to save, when work
ought to be done. I discovered that subscribers to the _Review_ had not
been informed it was time for them to renew their subscriptions, and
that, consequently, they had diminished from thirteen thousand to
twenty-five hundred. Accordingly I told the bookkeeper to give fifteen
or twenty dollars to the clerk to pay for circularizing. She said she
could not do it; a bylaw had been made that nobody could direct the
outlay of more than five dollars without a resolution passed by the
Board.
There is doubtless a place for organizations that restrict their scope
to the status quo. Most charities are like that—they live on securities,
install as officers those who keep pace with but are never in advance of
general opinion. Two members of the Board, with League-of-Women-Voters
training, saw the movement in the light of routine, annual membership
dues and a budget, going through the same ritual year after year and
remaining that way, performing a quiet service in the community. I
looked upon it as something temporary, something to sweep through, to be
done with and finished; it was merely an instrument for accomplishment.
I wanted us to avail ourselves of every psychological event, to push
ahead until hospitals and public health agencies took over birth control
as part of their regular program, which would end our function.
Regretfully I found the League was to side-step the greatest and most
far-reaching opportunity yet offered it. It was logically equipped to
enter the legislative field. But it wanted to progress state by state. I
was convinced action in the Federal sphere would be quicker and much
broader educationally, and that, furthermore, success there would
provide a precedent for the states.
When you build an organization, you try to combine harmonious elements,
but you cannot tell what they will turn out to be until a certain
interval has elapsed. Some of these women were in the movement for
reasons they themselves did not always understand. A few liked the
sensation of being important and having personal attention; they were at
their best in following an individual, yet I never felt they were doing
it for me. The liberals who had started with me had never demanded a
reward. What they gave was for the cause; they refused to work _for_
people; they worked _with_ them or not at all.
Most movements go through the phase of being brought into the drawing
room. Those who disagreed with me believed the emphasis should be on
social register membership, and argued that my associations had been
radical. The answer was “Yes,” because the radicals alone had had the
vision and the courage to support me in the early days. The women who
were raising objections now had only joined up after it had been safe to
do so. Moreover, they were, for the most part, New Yorkers, not all of
whom had even gone into neighboring states. Their attitude tended to be,
“Never you mind the West; let the Empire State make the decisions.”
The conflict of views which reigned in various matters was based on
lives and environments which had been vastly separated. The time of some
of the members of the Board had to depend on what was left from other
duties—husbands, children, servants, charities, church entertainments,
shopping. To me the cause was not a hobby, not a mere filler in a whirl
of many engagements, not something that could wait on this or that mood,
but a living inspiration. It came first in my waking consciousness and
was my last thought as I fell asleep at night.
I was always willing to present my facts to experts and abide by their
superior knowledge, and I gave every consideration to the suggestions of
the Board. But I was no paper president. Experience had given me a
judgment which entitled me to a certain amount of freedom of action, and
I could not well observe the dictates of people who did not know my
subject as well as I did.
June 12, 1928, I resigned the presidency of the League. Because the
majority of the Directors were against this, and because I wanted to
make it easier for Mrs. Robertson-Jones to take over, I stayed on the
Board and continued to edit the _Review_.
But the divergence of opinions rapidly crystallized in the next few
months. This had to be pondered upon and wisely dealt with. The
situation was going to mean constant friction, and the League might
easily disintegrate into a dying, static thing. In any event, internal
discord was abhorrent. I began to ask myself whether I could pass over
the Review, which for eleven years had been a vital part of my own
being.
Then came a meeting at which the question of the editorship arose. For
the first time friend opposed friend. Three voted against me; the other
nine were for me. But my mind was now made up. I could fight outside
enemies but not those who had been my fellow-workers; I would give
complete freedom to others in order to obtain a new freedom for myself.
Therefore, I surrendered the _Review_ to the League as its private
property. I have been sorry that this step was necessary, because the
magazine changed from being a national and international medium for the
expression of ideas and became merely a house organ. However, I trust
that some day it will be possible to broaden its scope of usefulness
once more.
The clinic, which had recently been treated rather like an orphan, still
remained intact. No one in the League had ever paid any attention to it,
and the doctors on the committee had been too busy with their own
practices. I felt it was my responsibility, and belonged to me
personally. It was an interesting angle on my own psychology. I did not
regret the theoretical part of the movement going into other hands, but
I would have been traitor to all that had been entrusted to me had I
yielded the clinic to women who had shown themselves incapable of the
understanding and sympathy required in its operation.
One of the most distressing aspects of the impasse was that members of
the organization had to forswear one to choose another, and this I
hated. Juliet Rublee, Frances Ackermann, and Mrs. Walter Timme came with
me unhesitatingly. So, too, did Kate Hepburn, Mrs. Day, and Dr. William
H. Garth, the only minister on the Board, a forthright man who always
spoke his mind.
Dr. Cooper was ready either to go with the clinic or keep on with the
League in the field if I thought he could be of most use there. It
seemed to me few in the country could fill his place in speaking to the
profession and, consequently, I advised him to continue with the latter.
Anne Kennedy had been loyal, done her job well, served a valuable
purpose. She asked whether I would approve her affiliating herself with
the Holland-Rantos Company. Someone was badly needed in the
manufacturing realm who was at one with our policies, who could help to
instill pride in quality into the contraceptive business. Although I
knew she did not like the commercial atmosphere and it would be a
definite sacrifice for her, it was an excellent choice, and I was sure
that any firm she was with would hold fast to ethical standards.
Mrs. Delafield called me up and I went to see her. “They’ve telephoned
me three or four times this very day. I’ve refused to answer until I
talked with you. What do you want me to do?”
I asked her a counter-question. “What do you want? You must go as your
heart tells you.”
“Well,” she replied, “I realize you will now require only
professionals—doctors, nurses, social workers, people who know
politics—perhaps I could be of more use in the work with which I am
familiar.”
Thus the matter was settled.
There are many ways by which the same goal may be reached, and as a rule
diverse ones must be tried out in order to find the best. I still
believed we were all aiming towards this, although not seeing eye to eye
on procedure.
I felt very decidedly that the future of the movement was like that of a
growing child. You might guide its first faltering steps, but unless you
let it run and fall it never could develop its own strength. The younger
generation might need a little pushing and prodding now and then, but I
was confident that eventually they were going to build toward a sound
civilization.
As things recede in time they become of less and less importance. One of
my absolute theories is that any movement which has been based on
freedom, as this had been, is like a live cell; there is a biology of
ideas as there is a biology of cells, and each goes through a process of
evolution. The parent cell splits and the new entities in their turn
divide and divide again. Instead of indicating breakdown, it is a sign
of health; endless energy is spent trying to keep together forces which
should be distinct. Each cell is fulfilling its mission in this
separation, which in point of fact is no separation at all. Cohesion is
maintained until in the end the whole is a vast mosaic cleaving together
in union and strength.
_Chapter Thirty-three_
OLD FATHER ANTIC, THE LAW