THE CHILD’S CHANCE DEPENDS ON FAMILY INCOME

Tradition may still rise to protest: But the home! You wouldn’t abolish the home! I think you would if you had seen it, Mrs. Smith’s home. Child mortality in her street is at the rate of 200 per 1,000. I know a home in the other end of London that is as lovely as a poet’s dream. Child mortality in this district is 40 per 1,000. There is a great house facing a park. There are three children in it. They have a day nursery and a night nursery and a school room all to themselves. They are cared for by a head nurse, and an assistant nurse, a governess, and a mother who now and then comes to caress them and see that they are happy. There are, you see, four women—to say nothing of the household staff of eight servants indirectly contributing to the same service—to care for three children in the West End.

In the East End Mrs. Smith has only one pair of hands to do for seven, and she is no super-woman. They live in two rooms that the fiercest all the time scrubbing could not keep clean. The discoloured walls are damp with mildew. You can see the vermin in the cracks. There isn’t any pantry. There isn’t any sink. There isn’t so much as a cook stove, only an open grate. There isn’t any poetry in a home on less than a pound a week!

Down the street is the way out to the new home that Mrs. Smith’s wage envelope will help to build. There will be at least 4 rooms and the children away during the day under expert care. The little children of the rich in the West End nursery have no more scientific supervision than the municipal crèche will afford Mrs. Smith for hers. I know she will not longer personally wash their faces and wipe their noses. Even when she tries to, as you may have noticed in any land, she cannot possibly do those tasks as often as they should be done. The mere physical needs of children, any one else can attend to. But only a mother can love them. Hadn’t we better conserve her more for that special function? The rising value of a baby begins to demand it.

And don’t worry about the effect of factory employment on her health. Two government commissions of experts, one in France and one in England, tell us it’s all right after all. Both report that a properly arranged factory is as good a place as any for a woman. Some significant figures presented to England’s Birth Rate Commission show that the proportion of miscarriages is among factory workers 9.2 per cent. as compared with 16 per cent. among women doing housework in the home. Hard work and heavy work, you see, are just as harmful in Mrs. Smith’s kitchen as they might be anywhere else—and not nearly so well paid! Really, in spite of its historic setting there is no sacred significance attaching to the figure of a woman bending over a washtub or on her knees scrubbing a floor. Let us venerate instead Azalie de Rigeaux nursing her child in a Usine de Guerre! After the schools for mothers and the maternity clinics have done what they may to reduce infant mortality, the mothers in industry may do some more. Take your babies in your arms, Mrs. Smith, and flee from that stalking spectre of poverty that has already snatched four of them to the grave. The door of the municipal crèche stands ajar!

Like this, the world is making ready for reconstruction. Let there be every first aid for the maker of men. We await one more measure: Mrs. Smith must never again have ten babies when she lives in two rooms—nor Frau Schmidt in Berlin. This unlimited increase that crowds children from the cradle to the coffin, in the haste to make room for more, has been the fatal force that has impelled nations teeming with too many people to make war for territorial expansion. We shall not blot out from civilisation the Prussian military ideal until we have likewise effaced the Prussian maternity ideal of reckless reproduction. That the cradles of the world may never again spill over, the nations must rise from the peace table with a new population policy. In the “birth politics” of the future there must be birth control. When children are scarce, are they dear. See France! The rising value of a baby may yet lift the curse of Eve!

Then shall we be ready to repopulate right. After the battles are won and man’s work of conquest is done, woman’s war work will only have begun. I have stood in the cathedral at Rheims and in the stricken silence looked with sickening dismay on the destruction of the beautiful temple of worship builded with such exquisite art and such infinite labour. But I assure you not all the cathedrals of Europe piled in a single colossal ruin, broken sculptured saint on saint, can stir the beholder with the poignant pain of one war hospital! There in the whitewashed wards with the smell of blood and ether, where the maimed lie stiff and still and the dying moan and the mad rave in wild delirium, stand there and your soul shall shrivel in horror at the destruction of men! It is the agony of it all, and the suffering and the sorrow and the grief of it all—and then something more. You creep with the feeling that every one of these men once was builded with such exquisite art and such infinite labour and such toilsome pain and anguish by God and a woman! It is a stupendous task of creation to be done over again when the armies shall have finished their work. Bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh, God and woman must rebuild the race. You unto whom a child can be born to-day, to you Parliaments make their prayer!

Not a captain of industry who assembles the engines of war, not a general who directs the armies, may do for his country what you can do who stand beside its cradles. The cry that rings out over Empires bleeding in the throes of death is the oldest cry in the world. Women wanted for maternity!

CHAPTER X

The Ring and the Woman