"How do you like living here?"
"It's nice."
"She is practically born here," the mother explained.
"Then you went to school here," I asked.
"Oh, no--no--" all three, father, mother and daughter protested in
chorus. "We would not place our child with _them_," the mother said
indignantly, while the father, who was so shocked that he stopped eating
his pudding, said:
"One is willing to sacrifice his own life, but one has no right to do so
with one's child."
After luncheon Mr. Marcel delivered himself of the following lecture.
"That's the big mistake of the people outside. They don't seem to
realise that in an orphan home you have the scum of the population. The
very fact that their parents died young and poor is a proof of the bad
root they grow from. Most of the time the father or mother or both have
been drunkards, sick and idle. Idleness is a disease and an hereditary
one. Why are they poor? because they are degenerates. A healthy man is
never poor. Why are they sick? Because they are careless and dirty. Why
do they die young if it is not because they are degenerates and careless
and dirty? We get their children. They all have bad habits, bad
characters, are insolent and indolent, and they all long for the street,
the free street. This desire for the free street is terrible. We have
here a splendid garden--have a look through the window, sir--a splendid
garden is it not? It's my greatest pleasure! They want the gutter. We
have a tremendous work to do, and I am happy to be partially
successful. We break them of their evil habits, curb their insolence and
teach them order and submission, order and submission, order and
submission," he repeated.
The heavy meal soon told on the gentleman and his speech lost its
clarity and his tongue stuck in his mouth. He was soon dozing in his
chair and I was saved from the awkward position by Mrs. Marcel who gave
me the freedom of the place, while explaining that Mr. Marcel was
working very hard and was always tired at that hour.
I went down to the garden. There wasn't a child there. One of the
teachers sat on a bench reading a paper.
"Excuse me, madame, but why don't the children use the garden?"
"They are not allowed, sir."
I soon saw them pass out from the refectory to the classroom, like
little mourners coming from the cemetery where their parents were
buried. There are one hundred children, all girls, between the ages of
seven and fourteen. _In five hours' time I did not hear one laugh, did
not see one smile._ All have but one hope. To reach the age of fourteen
and then be placed. It matters not where nor to what work! The main
thing is to get out of the "box" as the children call it. But only six
out of ten reach the age of fourteen. The hospital is the anteroom of
the grave.
When I spoke of the great proportion of sick among the children and of
the pallor of all, the superintendent explained:
"You must not forget that these are not normal children. They are the
offspring of degenerates--of the poor."
In all the world, in all the charitable institutions, poverty is a
crime. Thus are the children, the orphans, treated like little would-be
criminals and every move is regarded with suspicion. Not half of the
money given for their food is spent on food and not a half that is given
for their clothing is spent for them. The whole institution is a shame
and the man who thought he was performing a good deed when he left a
bequest to shelter the children of the poor is cursed instead of being
blessed.
And the devil sits on the stove and says: "This is the best place that
man ever built for me."
This was a model Orphan Home. I have since visited other places and
found everywhere the same situation, with little variations. The
conditions in a Paris house are no better than those in Chicago, and the
children are not more unhappy in Montreal than in Berlin. The children
of the poor, the orphans, are everywhere little criminals that Mr. Levy,
Monsieur Albert, Mr. Marcel or Herr Grun has to "tame and teach
submission." The wish of all the children is to get rid in some way of
the "box." (This word is used by all the orphans all over the world to
designate their home. It is characteristic and shows how suffering is
international and conveys to all the same designation of a certain
evil.) The girls by getting married or becoming servants. Oh! They don't
intend to stay married to the man the institution procures for them.
Generally it is an old widower who applies for one, to "make happy a
poor orphan." She will not stay with him and her vow is worth
nothing--is a subterfuge to escape. And if she goes as a servant it is
also only to get out into the world where she will soon fall a victim to
the first snare, on account of her inexperience and broken spirit, and
her fear of returning to the "box."
Never has the orphan house been described as well as Marguerite Audoux
has done it in her "Marie Claire." There, too, you see what the children
miss--bread and love--and that what they most want is freedom. The day
one of the girls goes away all the others are sad--sad to live between
those four walls. The friendship of the cook is one's greatest asset.
One can get an extra piece of meat or an apple or a slice of bread. All
the while tens of thousands of dollars are given, gardens are made where
the children must not enter and food is prepared which the children do
not eat. Holidays are celebrated and the children are tortured to learn
some platitude which they must recite to please the ladies and gentlemen
who come to honour the house with their presence. But down in their
souls the children hate the whole game. They are not fooled--they know.
And one girl confided to me the following:
"There are busts in clay and marble and paintings of all that have
started and contributed to this institution. In the centre hall is a
white stone plate with the names engraved in gold. Well, every morning I
walk up to each and every one and tell him my opinion of his deed. I can
hardly keep my fist back from the bust of the one who founded this
'box.' And to the plate, that plate with names engraved in gold--morning
and night I say, 'Damn you all.' It's my prayer."
This voices the feeling of all the children.
My visit to the Orphan Asylum was due to the following fact.
Mrs. D., a widow, had two children, two girls, one seven and one ten.
When her husband died she placed both children in the Orphan Home. After
a few months the younger one died there and Mrs. D. took the other one
home. All the charitable institutions did their utmost to get the child
back to the institution, but in vain. The mother maintained that the
death of her child was due to the negligence of the people in charge
there. She said this openly, although she needed assistance. The child,
too, would not return, and whenever the name of the institution was
mentioned would cling to the mother's apron. The office was afraid that
the reputation of the institution would be damaged and so they used
every effort to combat the mother's decision. The whole officialdom was
very nice and gentle to the widow. Help was freely given, and they even
spoke of buying her a candy store, on condition that she free herself of
the child. When this course did not produce the desired effect the
Manager explained to her that the child would stand in the way of her
remarriage, that she was young and had a right to live, etc., etc. When
he wanted, the silken gentleman knew how to use unctuous language. But
the mother instinct was stronger than the desire for money, for
happiness--stronger than hunger.
Finally supplies were cut off. It was expected that hunger, "King
Hunger," would settle everything. And "King Hunger" did settle it. Two
months later two lines in a newspaper spoke about his success. She was
found dead with her child lying near her. The gas-jet was open and the
coroner is investigating whether it was an accident or suicide.
I give only the outlines of this miserable affair. It did not go as
smoothly as it appears on paper. The visits of the mother, the change of
tactics, the cries of the child whenever some one approached her. The
horror of it all! And the talk of the people at the office. From the
Manager to the janitor--cold-blooded murderers. And the threats and
taunts and insults. And to-day, when I look back at it all, I think of
my visit to this and all the other orphan houses, and I am of the
opinion that this mother did not do a bad thing. She had more courage
than many others. If they all knew, as this mother did, and if they all
were as sincere and truthful to their children, Death would always be
preferable to the wreck of what remains. Then, and only then, would the
eyes of the world be opened. Then would everything be clear--clear--that
no man could with one hand ruin health and spirit, through factory and
workshop and adulterated food, dark and dirty tenement houses and Wall
Street speculation, and with another hand give donations of a few
dollars to palliate the evil he had created.
Or is this perhaps a new interpretation of Christ's words: "Let not thy
left hand know what thy right hand doeth"?