Terrible Virtue (9 page)

“The way I hear it,” he went on, “you got three kids.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Where's their father?” His voice was even.

“In Paris.”

“Divorced?”

“Not yet.” The answer surprised me. I hadn't quite made up my mind about a divorce.

He straightened his shoulders inside that too-roomy suit coat. “So who's going to take care of the kids while you go to jail to prove a point?”

“I'll manage.”

“Mrs. Sanger, they're not just whistling Dixie in there. You saw the DA and the judge. They're out to make an example of you.”

“That's the first good news I've heard all day.”

“In other words, you've got your heart set on being a martyr.”

“I have my heart set on undoing an unjust and dangerous law.”

There was nothing more to say, though that didn't stop him from trying to persuade me. Finally he gave up, and we said good-bye on the street in front of the restaurant. He told me to
call him if I changed my mind and wanted to plead guilty. I said I wasn't likely to.

“Then what are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure.”

He took a card from his pocket, pressed it into my hand, and held on for a second longer than necessary. I didn't pull away.

“Okay, you win. Call me if you decide to plead not guilty. I'm in either way.”

“You're in? This isn't a poker game, Mr. Goldstein. For women all over the country it's a matter of life and death.”

His gaze was level. “I didn't know that, you think I'd be here? I was marching in suffrage parades when I was only a kid. Just because I want you to plead guilty doesn't mean I don't believe in your cause. Give me a call whatever you decide.”

I told him I would, but I was certain I wouldn't.

THE SUBWAY STREAKED
out of the tunnel into a crimson sunset bleeding down the western sky. I walked home from the station through the sounds of women calling children to supper, and girls skipping rope, and boys shouting
ollie ollie umphrey
.

The telephone was ringing as I opened the door to the apartment. I walked past it. It stopped. There was a moment of silence; then it began to ring again. The noise jangled my nerves. It would only get worse as word of my hearing spread. More and more people would call. Ethel would return with the children. They'd want attention. She'd demand to hear everything that had happened. I had to think, but I couldn't do it here.

I went into the bedroom, took a suitcase from under the bed, and began tossing things into it. Only when I snapped the locks and lifted it did I realize I'd packed far too much for one night,
but the phone was ringing again, and Ethel would be back with the children any minute. I scrawled her a note and hurried down the steps to the street. The heavy suitcase banged against my thigh all the way to the subway.

I got off at Thirty-Fourth Street. There was bound to be a cheap hotel for commercial travelers in the area. I walked past two and entered the third on pure whim. As I signed the register, the desk clerk eyed me suspiciously. I was a woman alone. I must be up to no good. The disapproval on the bellhop's face said he was sure of it. He led me to a small, sparsely furnished room. The bed was narrow, a Gideon Bible stood on the table, and the single electric lightbulb permitted no illusions. The only distraction was a copy of the morning paper that fell out of my carrying case as I tossed it on the bed. The headline stared up at me from the floor.

LONDON HEARS THAT ANTWERP HAS FALLEN;

CITY AFLAME UNDER RAIN OF GERMAN SHELLS;

FRENCH CAPTURE 1600 GERMANS NEAR ROYE

I sat in the single straight-backed chair and stared at the words. Four months earlier, a young man dreaming of Serbian nationalism, as if declaring nationhood would improve the lot of the downtrodden of his country or any other, had shot an Austrian archduke, and overnight the world had gone mad with war fever. Even in America, which was officially neutral, the papers ran black with the news of battles fought by men, and heroism shown by men, and death suffered by men. I'd be lucky to get an inch of space and a few lines of print about women's battles against unwanted pregnancies, and women's heroism raising children they could neither feed nor clothe, and women's death in childbirth
and the attempts to prevent it. As I sat staring down at the paper splattered with war news as gory as blood, I knew one thing for certain. There is no such thing as a martyr without an audience.

I telephoned Ethel to tell her I was leaving for Canada and ask her to take care of the children. I thought for a moment of going back to say good-bye to them, but what good would it do? The boys would turn away in anger, Peggy would cling to me, and I'd lose the will to leave. No, it was better this way. I'd explain when they were older.

STUART SANGER

DISAPPEARING ACTS WERE YOUR STYLE, MOTHER. YOU VANISHED AND YOU MADE OTHERS GO MISSING. I'M TALKING ABOUT FATHER. I KNOW PEGGY WASN'T YOUR FAULT, AT LEAST NOT ENTIRELY
.

WHAT GOOD WOULD SAYING GOOD-BYE HAVE DONE, YOU ASK. AT LEAST WE WOULD HAVE KNOWN YOU'D GONE SOMEWHERE AND NOT VANISHED LIKE SOMETHING IN A MAGICIAN'S ACT. DIDN'T YOU REMEMBER HOW TERRIFYING YOU FOUND THOSE DISAPPEARANCES AT THE SANITARIUM? YOU WERE AN ADULT, AND THOSE PEOPLE WERE STRANGERS. WE WERE CHILDREN, AND YOU WERE OUR MOTHER. PEGGY CRIED CONSTANTLY.
MAMA
WAS THE WORD SHE SQUEEZED OUT THROUGH THE SOBS. GRANT STOPPED TALKING. I GOT INTO FIGHTS, THE BIGGER AND MEANER THE OTHER BOY, THE BETTER. BUT THAT WAS ALL RIGHT. YOU'D EXPLAIN IT TO US LATER
.

YOU HAD A PECULIAR VIEW OF CHILDHOOD. WHAT DID YOU TELL THAT REPORTER? I WAS AWAY AT SCHOOL WHEN THE INTERVIEW RAN, BUT I REMEMBER READING IT. “YOUNG CHILDREN ARE BY NATURE SELFISH. IT ISN'T GOOD TO INDULGE THEM.” THAT'S ONE THING YOU CAN'T BE ACCUSED OF
.

DON'T MISUNDERSTAND ME. I'M NOT BLAMING YOU FOR MY FAILINGS. THE DRINKING AND THE DEPRESSION ARE MY WEAKNESSES. I OWN UP TO THEM. MY PSYCHIATRIST SAYS I'M TOO HARD ON MYSELF. I TOLD HIM I TAKE AFTER MY MOTHER
.

BUT IN ALL FAIRNESS, WHEN IT CAME TO NEGLECT, YOU STUDIED AT THE FEET OF MASTERS. YOUR FATHER SPENT HIS LAST DOLLAR ON A BANQUET FOR A VISITING FREETHINKER WHILE THE REST OF YOU STRUGGLED TO SILENCE YOUR PROTESTING STOMACHS. YOUR MOTHER WAS SO BUSY HAVING BABIES THAT SHE HAD NO TIME TO CARE FOR CHILDREN. IT MUST HAVE BEEN ESPECIALLY PAINFUL FOR YOU, WEDGED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BROOD, BETWEEN THE FIRSTBORNS WHO MANAGED TO GRAB A FEW GRAINS OF ATTENTION BEFORE THE SUPPLY RAN OUT AND THE BABIES WHOM IT FELL TO YOU TO CARE FOR. I SUPPOSE YOUR PARENTS GAVE YOU A KIND OF REFLEXIVE LOVE, BUT LIKE THE FOOD, THERE JUST WASN'T ENOUGH TO GO AROUND. DO YOU REALIZE THE ONLY STORY YOU EVER TOLD US ABOUT YOUR CHILDHOOD, OTHER THAN THE ONE ABOUT THE DINNER FOR THE VISITING FREETHINKER, WAS THAT MACABRE TALE OF THE TIME YOUR FATHER TOOK YOU TO THE CEMETERY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO STAND GUARD WHILE HE DUG UP YOUR LITTLE BROTHER'S BODY—AN ILLEGAL AS WELL AS A GHOULISH ACT—TO MAKE A PLASTER OF PARIS MASK OF THE DEAD BABY'S FACE TO COMFORT YOUR MOTHER? WHAT A CRUEL THING TO DO TO A CHILD. BUT YOU DIDN'T SEE IT THAT WAY. YOU WERE SO PROUD THAT HE'D SINGLED YOU OUT TO BE HIS PARTNER IN THAT MORBID CRIME. YOU WERE SO GRATEFUL FOR THE CRUMBS OF ATTENTION. THAT'S WHY I DON'T HOLD YOU RESPONSIBLE, AT LEAST NOT ENTIRELY. YOU WERE DESPERATE FOR LOVE. WHO ISN'T? BUT HERE'S WHAT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO SPEND YOUR LIFE RACING AROUND THE WORLD LOOKING FOR IT WHEN THE THREE OF US, FOUR BEFORE WE LEFT FATHER, WERE SO EAGER TO GIVE IT TO YOU?

I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT WAS ONLY SEX. I KNOW YOU WOULD NEVER PUT THE WORDS
ONLY
AND
SEX
TOGETHER. MY MARGARET CAME HOME FROM HER LAST VISIT TO YOU AND ANNOUNCED, “GRANDMOTHER SAYS A PERSON SHOULD HAVE SEXUAL INTERCOURSE THREE TIMES A DAY, LIKE A SQUARE MEAL.” SOMETIMES I WONDER HOW YOU FOUND THE TIME TO CHANGE THE WORLD WITH ALL THAT HOPPING IN AND OUT OF BED. NOT SOMETHING A SON PARTICULARLY WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT HIS MOTHER. YOU THINK I'M A PRUDE, BUT YOU'RE WRONG. I DON'T OBJECT TO THE SEX, THOUGH THE WAY YOU WENT ABOUT IT STRIKES ME AS AWFULLY GRIM AND MECHANICAL. I WON'T ASK YOU WHERE WAS THE LOVE, BECAUSE I KNOW YOUR ANSWER. YOU COULDN'T MAKE LOVE WITH SOMEONE YOU DIDN'T LOVE. BUT THAT'S A PRETTY PROMISCUOUS DEFINITION OF A SERIOUS EMOTIONAL STATE
.

PEOPLE GOT HURT, MOTHER
.

I
N CANADA, MY
socialist friends and friends of friends took me in but warned that it would be dangerous to stay for long. I might be spotted. The authorities might ask for extradition. Europe would be safer. And in Europe I could continue my work.

Three weeks after I arrived, I sailed from Montreal on the RMS
Virginian
, a woman alone and therefore, once again, suspect. And no one even knew about the fake passport. It listed me as Bertha Watson. I'd chosen the name because a woman called Bertha Watson couldn't possibly be anyone of interest, let alone an outlaw, but now I regretted it. I didn't like masquerading as dowdy.

I wasn't the only anxious passenger. Fear enveloped the ship, thick and viscous as the Atlantic fog. Passengers were constantly imagining they spotted German U-boats. Rumor had it that the hold was a powder keg packed with munitions for England. There was another terror as well. Our course took us through the waters where the
Titanic
had gone down two and a half years earlier. A more recent disaster was even more chilling. Less than a year before, the
Empress
of
Ireland
had sunk in the St.
Lawrence River with a greater loss of life, but more people had heard of the
Titanic
disaster because of all the presailing hoopla about how big the ship was, and how fast, and how unsinkable.

As bad as the fear was, my homesickness was worse. No, not homesickness, childsickness. I ached for my babies. Everywhere I looked, I saw their faces. The boys' voices carried on the wind. Peggy's giggles haunted me, though Bill, who'd returned from Paris, had written to me in care of the friends in Montreal that she cried constantly. I wanted to tell him that was because of the brace he'd put on her leg, not her mother's absence.

THE SHIP MADE
landfall, and I sailed through customs as the dowdy Bertha Watson, then made my way to London. The train was cold and damp. It was good preparation for the city. Rain streamed down the buildings, raced along the gutters, and settled in my bones and glands. My childsickness grew worse.

I found a cheerless room on the top floor of 67 Torrington Square, just behind the British Museum. The building smelled of boiled sprouts and unwashed bodies. Use of the bath cost extra. So did the coal heater in my room. It devoured the confusing currency at a breakneck rate. The money my Canadian friends had scraped together was running out.

I took a job waiting tables in a tearoom. Jail would have been better. At least behind bars I would have been making a statement. Here, I was merely a woman alone and broke, trying to hide my rage behind a respectful smile as patrons complained that the water wasn't hot enough and their scones were taking too long to arrive at the table. My American accent didn't help. The city was war mad, and I was personally responsible for America's refusal to get into the fight. As a socialist, I'd always
thought patriotism was one more trick of the ruling class to subjugate the downtrodden, but the more those tea-swilling women complained of American cowardice, the more American I felt.

The cold and damp grew worse. Sometimes I felt as if I would never be warm again. Others I burned with fever. As I lay in bed at three a.m. staring at the water-stained ceiling, as I cracked the ice in the pitcher each morning to wash my face and brush my teeth, as I huddled blanket-wrapped in front of the cold heater each evening, I heard my children pleading with me to come home. I had never been lonelier.

My friends in Canada had given me letters of introduction to Charles and Bessie Drysdale of the Malthusian League, but I'd been reluctant to write to them. From what I'd read and heard, the Malthusians were in favor of contraceptives for the bourgeoisie but didn't give a hoot about the working class. I could imagine what they'd make of an uneducated socialist outlaw who was determined to unshackle the poor from their biological chains. But finally, desperate, I wrote to the Drysdales. They wrote back immediately, inviting me to tea. One thing led to another. They took me to lectures and meetings. They introduced me to other people. The children still importuned me to come home during the day and stalked my dreams at night, but I was less lonely. Sufficient funds arrived from socialist friends in New York to allow me to quit my job and return to my research. Work was a godsend. It filled the time and some of the emptiness.

One morning I came down the stairs, careful not to trip on the torn carpet runner, and found an envelope on the hall table.
Mrs. Margaret Sanger
was written on the front,
Mr. Havelock Ellis
on the back flap. My new friends had promised to tell him about me, but I hadn't expected to hear from him. He was
renowned. It was said that Freud kept an inscribed photograph of him on his examining-room wall.

I tore open the envelope.

Dear Mrs. Sanger,

Will you do me the honor of coming to tea on December 22?

He went on to give me the address, 14 Dover Mansions in Brixton on the other side of the Thames, and detailed instructions for getting there from my boardinghouse. Most people left me to find my way around the city on my own, but here was one of the great thinkers and writers of our era taking the time to give me directions. I was still in awe of him, but I was also touched.

THE BUS SMELLED
of wet wool permeated with coal smoke. Around me, cockney voices rose and fell. Everyone was carrying parcels, some of them already wrapped for Christmas and Boxing Day. The war seemed far away. The Zeppelin raids that would terrify the population as the fighting dragged on hadn't yet begun. People said the Kaiser was reluctant to endanger his relatives. The idea infuriated me. He could turn laborers and miners and farmers into cannon fodder, but he didn't want to harm a hair on his royal cousins' heads. I rubbed the fogged-over window with my gloved hand to get a glimpse of the street. I didn't want to miss my stop.

By the time I stepped down from the bus, I was overcome with shyness and self-doubt. My accent was wrong, my edu
cation was wanting, and I couldn't get over the feeling that I was out of my depth. A few years ago, I'd been afraid to speak up among the New York socialists. A few weeks ago, I'd been reluctant to write to my new Malthusian friends. But Havelock Ellis was beyond all of them. I was terrified to meet him. And I wouldn't have given up the chance for the world.

I found the address easily. Rain stained the drab redbrick façade of the building black. A police station sat grim and forbidding on the ground floor. He hadn't mentioned that. Traveling on a fake passport encourages paranoia.

I started up the stairs. On the third landing, a card engraved with the name
MR. HAVELOCK ELLIS
was mounted in a brass holder. I lifted the knocker and tapped it against the door. It opened immediately, almost as if he'd been lurking on the other side of it.

How do I describe my first sight of the man who would become the inspiration, the guide, the love of my life? His head was massive, as if it had to be larger than that of mere mortals to hold all his wisdom. His mane of white hair foamed over his bold features like a breaking wave. His white beard was worthy of an Old Testament prophet, his smile that of an angel. No, not an angel, a saint. Then he spoke. I was shocked. The voice of this powerfully built man was high and reedy, squeaky as a boy's in the throes of puberty. He reached out, took my hand, and drew me into the room. I forgot his unfortunate voice. I don't think I ever noticed it again.

A jumble of books, magazines, newspapers, and writing pads covered every surface. Paintings crowded the walls. I recognized a Matisse close by an old master whose provenance I didn't know but whose beauty I couldn't miss. A coal fire glowed in the hearth. He lit two candles on the mantel. Our shadows sprang up on the opposite wall.

He helped me off with my coat, and we sat at either end of
a sofa. A moment of silence embarrassed the room. I had heard he hated small talk. That was all right. I was too awed to make any. Then he asked about the indictment that had brought me to London. I answered. The words began to spill out. Neither of us could stop them. Here is a partial list, in no particular order, of the topics we discussed that first afternoon. Shakespeare, Shaw, travel writing, art criticism, the criminal mind, censorship, Fabianism, socialism, anarchism, the ballot for women, social hygiene, convention, hypocrisy, marriage. He explained that he and his wife lived apart most of the time. He found the arrangement more conducive to happiness. Contraception. He said that in his experience—he was speaking of his training as a medical doctor, not his personal life, he assured me—
karezza
was the best method of contraception and dismissed my contention that only a sexually sophisticated man could manage to postpone his orgasm until the woman was satisfied, then ejaculate outside the vagina. He spoke of his book
Sexual
Inversion
. It had been acclaimed for its candor and tolerance—he saw no shame in any sexual act and danger in repression—and pilloried for the same traits. After that experience, he'd decided to publish abroad rather than battle the British legal system and recommended that I do the same, bypassing puritanical America for the Continent. “You must concentrate on your work, not litigation.”

We stopped talking only when he excused himself to make tea and returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with pots of tea and hot water, cups, saucers, and scones and cakes.

“I am my own charwoman,” he announced as he put the tray on the table in front of the sofa. “I would rather be able to lay a proper fire, market, and cook than write an essay.”

They were the only words he spoke that afternoon that I didn't believe.

Etiquette dictated that I stay for an hour. The clock on the mantel chimed. We went on talking. It chimed again, and again after that. I'd arrived at three. I left at a little after nine.

I apologized.

His beatific smile spilled over me like sunlight. “Scandalous, isn't it.”

We agreed to meet the next day at the British Museum. He was going to supervise my course of inquiry.

“You read too promiscuously,” he said.

I walked all the way home. I couldn't bear to board a stuffy bus packed with mundane humanity, not after I had spent an afternoon and evening locked in conversation with a god. It wasn't only that he understood and elevated sex. It was that he articulated the convictions I'd known instinctively all my life.

I lay awake for a long time that night. My mind raced with ideas. Fragments of conversation ricocheted around in my head. In half consciousness, I had an erotic encounter with the great man and woke from it tense and disappointed.

I got out of bed, wrapped myself in the blanket, crossed to the window, and stood staring out into the night. Havelock had said we would celebrate Boxing Day together. He liked it better than Christmas, because traditionally it was the day the servants had off from their work to return to their families with boxes of food and gifts. The custom had intrigued me, but suddenly the thought gave way to self-reproach. I had never been apart from the children at Christmas. I hadn't realized it until now, but then I hadn't thought of the children all day.

NINE DAYS LATER,
on New Year's Eve, exactly a year after the children and I had left Bill in Paris, bells tolled, horns sounded,
and people cheered in the streets, while in the hushed privacy of Havelock's flat, he blushed—a grown man of fifty-six who was unafraid to write about the most forbidden sexual acts blushed!—as he leaned in to kiss me.

“I cannot promise you an erection, my dear rebel, but I can assure you of pleasure.”

I will not go into the details of that evening, though many people would love to know. I'm aware of the gossip that swirls around Havelock's sexual prowess. But I refuse to cater to prurient interests. Suffice it to say that Havelock gave me the pleasure he promised. And I returned it in kind.