thin and fat. We could see the road begin about a quarter of a mile
beyond, a sultry sun smiling on the peaks of the mountains. The river
was still rising. One of our guides waded in to test whether we could
ford it, and was soon practically up to his middle in the turbid flood.
Grant began ferrying old ladies over the deep places and a couple of
boys carried the two-hundred-and-ten-pound Professor Ross. The current
was terrific, and people kept falling.
After nearly three hours everybody was across. Our leader found a horse,
galloped off to secure new buses, which arrived and took us to the town
where we were supposed to have lunch. But it was now dark and lunch
became supper. More conversations, more consultations, more delay, more
mystery. Why did we not start? The answer was that three strange men
were sitting in one of our cars—Russians who wanted to get to Tiflis.
They were going to have their rights. When pleading, arguing, reasoning
could not move them, the G.P.U. had to be invoked; still no results. Not
until they had been promised that a bus would leave immediately did they
descend and make room for the three of our group whose seats they had
usurped.
We rattled off again, only to be turned back. Another long halt and more
conversation. Ultimately, since buses had been dispatched from Tiflis to
meet us and were waiting about six miles away, it was decided to push
on.
Then began the real drive through Godaur Pass, up and over rocks and
embankments, roots of trees, sand and water, precarious detours in a
night as jet as any I have ever seen. The militia had been ordered by
Moscow to keep the route open—green skyrockets for us to come ahead, red
ones to stop, and swinging lanterns in front of the worst danger
spots—great drops down into ravines. At last we reached the end and
mounted a new set of buses, but only three of them. Grant was among
those who stayed behind. We arrived at Tiflis at two in the morning.
Dinner was ready as well as clean beds, and we slept until the humid sun
stirred us out for breakfast, just as the rest came straggling in.
It was Sunday morning. Lining the steps of the old Georgian cathedral
were beggar women—lame, blind, filthy—never had I seen any others in
Russia. Children were curiously looking on at the Mass, but we were told
parents were forbidden to make them go to church. The few elderly women
attending were carrying flowers and had twined them also around the
frames of the saints’ pictures. We tourists presented an incongruous
contrast to the priests with their long beards and splendid robes.
Tiflis had slipped the yoke of Moscow. Here among the mosques and the
camels and the bazaars, which gave it a definitely Oriental tinge, we
finally saw signs of private enterprise. Back in the mountains were
tribes the Soviet was trying to civilize—warlike, uncultured, barbaric.
Stalin, sentimental for the country of his origin perhaps, was choosing
as many Georgians as he could for high places and sending in teachers
and moving pictures to educate the others, but the task was herculean.
It was hot, torrid noon when we arrived at Batum on the Black Sea. The
sun was pouring down; we wanted to go swimming to cool off, and were
directed to a stony beach. The water was darkened by the heavy, rich
deposit which coated the bottom, and the sand, of the same color, was
strewn with masses of people just like Coney Island, thousands of them
on the seaweed-covered rocks. It did not look pleasant and we walked
further. A partition of slats through which there was perfect visibility
was supposed to divide the women from the men, but despite having heard
so much about the nude bathing there, we discovered everyone had on
suits—astounding, old-fashioned garments.
Mrs. Clyde declined to go in, but sat watching in her hat and glasses.
Tanya kept on pink panties and a brassiere. The rest of us determined to
throw off our inhibitions. Once you did this you were freed from them
for the time being; it was the doing that was so hard. Most surprising
were the New England schoolteachers, who had certainly never before
removed their clothes in public. They dashed their long, lean bodies
boldly into the water as though to say, “Russia, here we come!”
The steamer on which we left Batum was dirty, loaded with passengers who
had to be stepped over as they slept on deck. If you left your stateroom
even a few moments somebody grabbed it and took your bed.
But the scenery of the Russian Riviera was very lovely. The spurs of the
Caucasus along the coast glittered with marble palaces. I shall always
remember the mighty, sable cypress trees, slender columns silhouetted
against the creamy white walls; they were not funereal to me, but more
like sentinels.
Only the chosen of the chosen, the executives and the intelligentsia,
could stay at Yalta for holidays. Many individuals, Agnes Smedley, for
one, had reason to be grateful to the Soviet for their rest periods.
Although not a Communist she had written sympathetic articles, and the
Russian Health Department, hearing she was ill in China, had sent her an
invitation to come and recuperate, and here she had stayed a year
without cost, recovering from a strained heart.
I spent a day in the majestic Byzantine summer palace of Nicholas II at
near-by Livadia. It was perfectly landscaped with statues, fountains,
terraces. As we drove up multitudinous shaved heads popped out open
windows. In the marvelous ballroom were a hundred and fifty enamel cots,
side by side, the sleeping quarters of the men on vacation. We saw the
room belonging to the former Tsarina, with fragile, brocaded walls and
delicate panels. In the center of the parquet floor, bare of any
covering, stood a deal table with checked gingham cloth.
Now and then you caught a glimpse of people in the palace, but mostly
they were reclining in the gardens. As we wandered round and round we
came upon a cluster of twenty-five asleep, pale, and not too well-fed.
They did not twitch an eyelid as we approached. I asked Tanya, “Who are
these?”
Touching one of them on the shoulder, she said, “Tovarish, these
tovarishes want to know who you are.”
At that not only he but all of them jumped to their feet, as though at
military drill. One after the other gave his name, each with a “vich” or
a “ski” on the end of it, stating also his occupation. As he finished he
turned his head to the next, who took up the recital. The little woman
with bobbed black hair and a curious bodice of blue proudly said she
wore the Cross of Lenin on her dress because with him she had fought for
Russia. This was the highest honor any woman in Russia could be paid;
only a hundred had it.
Then the first man bowed politely to Tanya and with dignity said
something to her. She interpreted to us, “They want to know who _you_
are.”
“Tell them we’re Americans.”
“North Americans?” with great enthusiasm.
“Yes.”
Then question after question spattered like a machine gun. “Are you from
Seattle? Portland? How did you get here? What way did you come? How long
did it take you? How much did it cost? What has happened to Dillinger?
What’s the latest news of the seamen’s strike on the Pacific Coast? How
soon comes the Revolution?”
We were rather dazed at the degree of current information they had
gleaned—chiefly from posters in the parks. Their bombardment continued.
“Do women in America have as much freedom as men?” We all disagreed on
that. “Can married women work for the Government? Can they teach
school?” Some of us answered “No,” others, “Yes.” On every inquiry of
theirs we were divided, but on whatever we asked them they were united.
“Who is your favorite American author?”
I answered, “I like Sinclair Lewis.”
The woman looked at me accusingly, “Not Theodore Dreiser?”
“Oh, yes,” I agreed, “he’s good.”
A man suggested, “Not Upton Sinclair?”
They were apparently sadly disappointed in us.
At last one of them, making a sweeping gesture, said to me, “Your
American Government has never built anything like this for its workers,
has it?”
“No,” I replied, “we never had a Tsar,” which was very tactless of me.
He answered something to the effect, “You people have opinions but no
convictions. We have been to prison for ours.”
Tanya volunteered, pointing to me, “This lady has been to prison eight
times for hers.”
Astonishment was registered, and one man spoke hurriedly to Tanya who
translated, “He wants to know who you are. Shall I tell him?” She then
explained I was advocating birth control.
“Well, we have that. Haven’t you visited any of our hospitals? Thousands
of women have it.”
“No, that’s abortion. We don’t want that. Birth control is different.”
The conversation had shifted to something concrete and real; we had
struck up an _entente_ that was very _cordiale_. The group gathered
closer. “Come on. Come on. This is important.” They had never heard of
contraception. How could anyone have put me in jail for that? What a
crazy government! Worse than they had thought!
The woman said, “We need you over here. Come and work with us. Don’t
waste your life in America.”
From the impatient bus came horns, whistles, bells, summoning us away.
The whole twenty-five followed us to the char-à-bancs, waving farewell.
Tanya was a most discerning little person, ordinarily impassive but
springing up animatedly the moment music started. One of our party
invited her, “Come on to America. You’ll have pretty clothes, and for
anyone who can dance like you, fame is waiting.”
“Pretty clothes? I have two dresses, which answer their purpose. And as
for fame—this is my people. I enjoy dancing, and they enjoy me. Why
should I go to America?”
Before I left I wanted to do something for her, give her some sort of
gift in return for her many services. She was going to be married and,
because her mother was old-fashioned, have a registered ceremony, call
in all her friends, and even don special raiment. I had some new
stockings with me and presented them to her. She looked at them, handled
them as though treasuring some lovely thing she longed for but could not
possess.
“I wouldn’t dare wear them. I would be ashamed because my friends could
not have the same.”
Tanya was willing to go without until silk stockings were to be had by
all. It was necessary to grasp this attitude to understand Sovietism. It
gave you slight personal freedom, and you had to ask yourself honestly
whether exploitation by government or by individual was basically
different. But what you did have was security for your old age and the
hope that when the rewards came you would have your share.
The Russians were a mass of contradictions. One moment I was irritated
enough to tear them limb from limb, the next prostrate before their
sincerity and zeal. The more than one hundred and fifty races and
forty-five languages made for problems that challenged man’s
intelligence. Perhaps no other nation had had a lower order of serfdom
to arouse from lethargy and put to work on a new civilization. Nothing
but admiration could be accorded their attempts and achievements.
But most of the time they were entranced by their own drug of idealism.
They had swallowed so much of it that they were self-hypnotized, and
bumped into reality without understanding it. Like the Spanish, it was
enough for them to say, “It will be,” without taking sufficient thought
as to how to bring it about.
At Odessa we boarded what then seemed to us by contrast the most
beautiful ship in the world, the Italian liner _Campidoglio_, entering
into another domain. A neat, white cloth was spread for you, yourself;
no longer did you have a soiled napkin folded for indefinite use;
spotless coats adorned the waiters; our chairs were pulled out;
everybody had a proper bed and cabin. It was only a simple ship, but it
signified Western refinement, and I must say I welcomed it. No matter
how much proletarian sympathy you might have, you appreciated clean
tables, dishes, sheets, towels, and a bathroom that worked.
In order to hurry back to school Grant separated from me in Rumania and
my husband joined me in Naples to go to Marienbad. I had barely reached
there when Grant cabled that Stuart was ill again; I left for home the
same day. On arrival I found the doctors contemplating a radical
operation, but I refused to let him have another. As an alternative
Tucson, Arizona, was suggested for its dry, warm climate. His wound was
still unhealed when we started.
Being stowed away in Stuart’s small Ford coupé for days on end gave us
the best possible opportunity to catch up in our talks and experiences
and place trivial and unimportant events in the pockets of memory where
they belonged. The joy of thus familiarizing myself with my grown-up son
made me envy mothers who had leisure to grow along with their children
or, at least, to watch them develop. But it is possible we are all the
better friends in adult life; at least we adhere to the rights of
individuality for ourselves and for each other.
It was nearing the close of October when one bright morning we left El
Paso and came across miles and miles of brown and yellow desert, up to
the hills and mountains. Through the heat waves we saw mirages; we were
positive they were lakes. Arizona was so unlike any place I had been
before; you either had to be enthralled by it or hate and dread it. Not
being quick to come to conclusions I was not at first sure. But I knew
there was a delight in the cool nights and the translucent, sunny days
with a lovely tang in the air. In the beginning it was the people who
won me, particularly Mrs. Robert P. Bass, daughter of Mrs. Charles
Sumner Bird, one of our early pioneers. We stayed with her for a short
time, and then took a pink adobe house out where the desert met the
foothills. Stuart grew better. In the spring we packed our bags once
more in the little car and drove away, looking back regretfully at the
indescribable Catalinas, on which light and clouds played in
never-ending change of pattern.
_Chapter Thirty-seven_
WHO CAN TAKE A DREAM FOR TRUTH?
“_Divinity sleeps in stones, breathes in plants, dreams
in animals, and awakes in human beings._”
INDIAN PROVERB
Several times I had approached the idea of going to India, and always
something had prevented me. In 1922 when I was near by, it was the hot
season and everybody had gone to the hill stations. In 1928, when I had
also made tentative plans, I was not well. I think I had, in addition,
been reluctant because Katherine Mayo’s book had left me with such an
aching pain I felt powerless to help lift the inertia she described.
Finally, in 1936, I had word from Margaret Cousins, pioneer in the
Indian women’s movement, wife of a poet and university professor, who
asked whether I would accept an invitation to attend the coming
All-India Women’s Conference. The previous conference had passed a
resolution favoring birth control in theory, but now they wanted me to
assist them to “put teeth in it,” to draw up one which would outline a
practical plan applicable to all castes, to present it, and to argue for
it.
Since such a resolution would mean that the movement had now gone beyond
the point where we had to break in to be heard, and would start things
in the right direction, I arranged to spend three months in India, from
November to January, under the auspices of the International Information
Center, which had been set up in London after the Geneva Conference so
that various peoples and countries interested in the subject might have
some means of contact.
Mrs. John Phillips, who had fought many battles in Pittsburgh for birth
control, suggested that her daughter, a graduate of Vassar and a
newspaper woman, might come along as my secretary. All the way a fine
young crowd rallied around the lively Anna Jane, who had as great a
capacity for laughter as any human being I ever knew. Nothing was too
hard for her, nothing too big or too small for her to do; altogether she
was a perfect companion, beginning with our voyage to England, and
ending in Honolulu.
Temporarily in London was Gandhi’s appointed successor, Pundit
Jawaharlal Nehru, of a family noted for scholarship. He was the youthful
leader of the more radical elements in India, much more inclined towards
Communism than Gandhi. After having been in jail for four years he had
now been released to see his wife who was ill and dying in Germany. I
was unable to be present at a reception for him, so Anna Jane telephoned
to say I was sorry. “Why should Mrs. Sanger be sorry?” he said, with the
simplicity of the truly great. “She can come any time.” I did so the
next afternoon.
Nehru was quiet and poised, with a thoughtful manner which impressed you
immediately as one of controlled intelligence. His intention was to
establish in the mind of Young India that Gandhi’s spiritual doctrines
would only be effective if knit with economic and sociological
principles.
More recondite than the Indian was the Englishman, Paul Brunton, small
and dark, with a solemn, intense, almost mystic expression in his eyes.
He was attempting to find what virtue lay in fakirs and holy men,
combing India for them, and had embodied the result in his book, _The
Search in Secret India_. He told me, “Not many holy men remain; most of
them have gone back into the mountains, inaccessible to Westerners. The
one for whom I have the greatest regard is the sage of Arunachala, the
Maharshi of Tiruvannamalai. My wife and I have a little hut southwest of
Madras, and if you will visit us when you reach that section of India, I
will see that you come into his presence.”
Naturally I accepted his offer eagerly and put it on my “must” list.
Shortly before my departure from London, a farewell banquet was given at
the Barber-Surgeons’ Hall, a relic of old London known to few, and to
which you could be admitted only by invitation. It was on Monkwell
Street in the City near the London Wall and Aldersgate. Well aware of
the difficulties of threading that maze, even by daylight, I inquired of
the carriage attendant at the Savoy whether the taxi-driver were
familiar with it.
“Certainly, Madam.”
Off I went with Mrs. Kerr-Lawson, the painter’s wife, somewhat pressed
for time. As usual in November, it was raining. After we had serpentined
in and out for twenty minutes we began to surmise that the driver was
lost, and I called to him, “Don’t you know the way?”
“Well, I thought it was down ’ere, but it don’t seem to be.”
“Why don’t you ask somebody?”
“W’ere’s Barbers’ ’All?” He addressed a mail carrier, who paused to
think, and then said, “Well, it’s along there,” pointing back from where
we had come.
We turned about but had no better luck. The driver stopped at least ten
people, each in uniform or livery of some kind or other, “W’ere’s
Barbers’ ’All?” and all we heard was the echo, “Barbers’ ’All?” He drew
up beside a bobby; even he did not know.
Finally, we saw smart-looking cars going in a certain direction. We said
that must be it, and, sure enough, there on the corner was the sign. For
our own peace of mind we were not last. H.G. was close behind us,
frothing with fury because he too had been driving around Robin Hood’s
barn.
Much of the building was locked up, but what we saw was beautifully
preserved. Evidently the Guild of the Barbers had prospered in the days
when their members did bleeding and leeching, and attended to other
annoyances of humanity, such as pulling teeth.
The dining room, once the operating theater, was now the fairest setting
for a dinner that one could have—the service presented by Queen Anne,
crystal goblets, a silver rose-carved finger bowl, the vast Royal Grace
Cup given by Henry VIII, like a chalice with a six-inch stem, everything
used only on rare occasions. The table was like an E with the middle
left out, and in the center sat Harry Guy in his high-backed chair above
the rest of us. I was on his right and next me was a man whose name had
performed almost a miracle for birth control in England—Baron Thomas
Horder, then physician to the Prince of Wales.
Sidney Walton, the member without whom this banquet could not have taken
place, opened the affair as ancient custom prescribed by declaiming,
“Pray, silence for the King!” After the toast to His Majesty, one was
drunk to the President of the United States, and then my health was
proposed; the loving cup, containing about a quart of red wine, began to
make the rounds. During the toast, three people had to be standing—the
one holding the cup, the one who just had it on the left, and the one on
the right who was to receive it. The waiter came to wipe the lip
hygienically when each had swallowed his sip; this was the sole modern
touch.
London offered me many courtesies. The Italian invasion of Ethiopia was
now in full swing. Rumors were abroad that British ships were avoiding
the Suez Canal; therefore, I booked on a Dutch line. When I mentioned
this to Sir John Megaw, former director of the Indian Medical Service,
he practically stopped breathing and bristled in every hair of his head.
“What! a P. and O. boat not go through the Canal for fear of Italy?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“My dear Mrs. Sanger, you can go through the Suez Canal on a British
boat if the British Navy has to escort you through!”
Sir John’s report calling upon the British Government to make some plan
for population growth, increase, and distribution for India was one of
the most intelligent issued by any health officer in this age. Although
entirely in sympathy with my project, yet he doubted whether it would be
possible for me to do anything. That I was an American, however, he
thought might obviate the antagonism which would inevitably follow the
mention of birth control by anybody from the British Isles.
Almost as soon as the _Viceroy of India_ sailed, we seemed much nearer
the East. Indian deck hands moved about, distinguishable by their slim
bodies, brown faces, and turbans, but the English were in command of all
departments. It must have been a source of resentment to the Indian
passengers to be ignored or treated as inferiors by the English Civil
Service going to rule them in their own land.
The ship was second-rate, rocky in a heavy sea, and raucous. The blast
of bugles for rising and meals had long since been outmoded on most
passenger liners but was retained here. I was awakened at eight or
earlier every morning by the most awful thud, thud, thud overhead. After
I had had a headache for two days I went up to the sports deck and found
the English were getting exercise by throwing quoits around directly
above my stateroom.
The Suez Canal was bright with yellow sand and blue sky. We slowly
steamed past two Italian transports with bandaged soldiers on the decks,
invalided home from Ethiopia. As far as conversation on our own vessel
went, no one would have suspected there was a war. Not an Englishman
brought up the subject, and, if drawn into a discussion, he eluded it by
saying his country could jolly well look after itself.
Once we were in the Red Sea, passengers and officers emerged in white;
the decks were roofed with canvas so that the games might go on. Most of
these British had traveled so much they had a seafaring routine. They
indulged in sports in the morning, dressed appropriately. From two to
four in the afternoon a pall of silence descended. All the chairs on the
deck were occupied by dozing, browsing loungers. But as soon as the tea
things appeared, life began to be interesting. Music burst forth from
the orchestra, babies were brought up from the nursery, everybody
hurried to and fro from chair to table, picking and choosing cakes or
buns, sandwiches or plain bread and jam. After dinner again the full,
blazing lights gave ample illumination for the interminable deck tennis
and quoits.
Bombay from the distance was a city of tall buildings. Not until very
close could you see the sizzling heat on the water; the hot sun and
heavy air made it unpleasant to stand on deck. The wharf was filled, the
British easily recognizable by their sola topees, the ugliest headgear
in the world. All were waving with great excitement, and many carried
flower garlands for visitors or those coming home. Amid scrambling and
confusion coolies swarmed aboard for luggage. A delegation of about
fifty welcomed us, including Edith How-Martyn, who had been sounding out
popular and religious sentiment, and Dr. A. P. Pillay, editor of the
magazine, _Marriage Hygiene_, the man most active in eugenics and birth
control in India.