Damaged Goods
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Upton Sinclair >> Damaged Goods
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"No, sir," said the woman, dropping her eyes.
"Well, then?"
"I have thought it over."
George burst out, "Don't go on repeating always the same thing--
'I have thought it over!' That's not telling us anything."
Controlling himself, he added, gently, "Come, tell me why you
want to go away?"
There was a silence. "Well?" he demanded.
"I tell you, I have thought--"
George exclaimed in despair, "It's as if one were talking to a
block of wood!"
His mother took up the conversation again. "You must realize,
you have not the right to go away."
The woman answered, "I WANT to go."
"But I will not let you leave us."
"No," interrupted George angrily, "let her go; we cannot fasten
her here."
"Very well, then," cried the exasperated mother, "since you want
to go, go! But I have certainly the right to say to you that you
are as stupid as the animals on your farm!"
"I don't say that I am not," answered the woman.
"I will not pay you the month which has just begun, and you will
pay your railroad fare for yourself."
The other drew back with a look of anger. "Oho!" she cried.
"We'll see about that!"
"Yes, we'll see about it!" cried George. "And you will get out
of here at once. Take yourself off--I will have no more to do
with you. Good evening."
"No, George," protested his mother, "don't lose control of
yourself." And then, with a great effort at calmness, "That
cannot be serious, nurse! Answer me."
"I would rather go off right away to my home, and only have my
five hundred francs."
"WHAT?" cried George, in consternation.
"What's that you are telling me?" exclaimed Madame Dupont.
"Five hundred francs?" repeated her son.
"What five hundred francs?" echoed the mother.
"The five hundred francs you promised me," said the nurse.
"We have promised you five hundred francs? WE?"
"Yes."
"When the child should be weaned, and if we should be satisfied
with you! That was our promise."
"No. You said you would give them to me when I was leaving. Now
I am leaving, and I want them."
Madame Dupont drew herself up, haughtily. "In the first place,"
she said, "kindly oblige me by speaking to me in another tone; do
you understand?"
The woman answered, "You have nothing to do but give me my money,
and I will say nothing more."
George went almost beside himself with rage at this. "Oh, it's
like that?" he shouted. "Very well; I'll show you!" And he
sprang to the door and opened it.
But the nurse never budged. "Give me my five hundred francs!"
she said.
George seized her by the arm and shoved her toward the door.
"You clear out of here, do you understand me? And as quickly as
you can!"
The woman shook her arm loose, and sneered into his face. "Come
now, you--you can talk to me a little more politely, eh?"
"Will you go?" shouted George, completely beside himself. "Will
you go, or must I go out and look for a policeman?"
"A policeman!" demanded the woman. "For what?"
"To put you outside! You are behaving yourself like a thief."
"A thief? I? What do you mean?"
"I mean that you are demanding money which doesn't belong to
you."
"More than that," broke in Madame Dupont, "you are destroying
that poor little baby! You are a wicked woman!"
"I will put you out myself!" shouted George, and seized her by
the arm again.
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" retorted the nurse. "Then you
really want me to tell you why I am going away?"
"Yes, tell me!" cried he.
His mother added, "Yes, yes!"
She would have spoken differently had she chanced to look behind
her and seen Henriette, who at that moment appeared in the
doorway. She had been about to go out, when her attention had
been caught by the loud voices. She stood now, amazed, clasping
her hands together, while the nurse, shaking her fist first at
Madame Dupont and then at her son, cried loudly, "Very well! I'm
going away because I don't want to catch a filthy disease here!"
"HUSH!" cried Madame Dupont, and sprang toward her, her hands
clenched as if she would choke her.
"Be silent!" cried George, wild with terror.
But the woman rushed on without dropping her voice, "Oh, you need
not be troubling yourselves for fear anyone should overhear! All
the world knows it! Your other servants were listening with me
at your door! They heard every word your doctor said!"
"Shut up!" screamed George.
Her mother seized the woman fiercely by the arm. "Hold your
tongue!" she hissed.
But again the other shook herself loose. She was powerful, and
now her rage was not to be controlled. She waved her hands in
the air, shouting, "Let me be, let me be! I know all about your
brat--that you will never be able to raise it--that it's rotten
because it's father has a filthy disease he got from a woman of
the street!"
She got no farther. She was interrupted by a frenzied shriek
from Henriette. The three turned, horrified, just in time to see
her fall forward upon the floor, convulsed.
"My God!" cried George. He sprang toward her, and tried to lift
her, but she shrank from him, repelling him with a gesture of
disgust, of hatred, of the most profound terror. "Don't touch
me!" she screamed, like a maniac. "Don't touch me!"
CHAPTER V
It was in vain that Madame Dupont sought to control her daughter-
in-law. Henriette was beside herself, frantic, she could not be
brought to listen to any one. She rushed into the other room,
and when the older woman followed her, shrieked out to be left
alone. Afterwards, she fled to her own room and barred herself
in, and George and his mother waited distractedly for hours until
she should give some sign.
Would she kill herself, perhaps? Madame Dupont hovered on guard
about the door of the nursery for fear that the mother in her fit
of insanity might attempt some harm to her child.
The nurse had slunk away abashed when she saw the consequences of
her outburst. By the time she had got her belongings packed, she
had recovered her assurance. She wanted her five hundred; also
she wanted her wages and her railroad fare home. She wanted them
at once, and she would not leave until she got them. George and
his mother, in the midst of all their anguish of mind, had to go
through a disgusting scene with this coarse and angry woman.
They had no such sum of money in the house, and the nurse refused
to accept a check. She knew nothing about a check. It was so
much paper, and might be some trick that they were playing on
her. She kept repeating her old formula, "I am nothing but a
poor country woman." Nor would she be contented with the promise
that she would receive the money the next day. She seemed to be
afraid that if she left the house she would be surrendering her
claim. So at last the distracted George to sally forth and
obtain the cash from some tradesmen in the neighborhood.
The woman took her departure. They made her sign a receipt in
full for all claims and they strove to persuade themselves that
this made them safe; but in their hearts they had no real
conviction of safety. What was the woman's signature, or her
pledged word, against the cupidity of her husband and relatives.
Always she would have the dreadful secret to hold over them, and
so they would live under the shadow of possible blackmail.
Later in the day Henriette sent for her mother-in-law. She was
white, her eyes were swollen with weeping, and she spoke in a
voice choked with sobs. She wished to return at once to her
father's home, and to take little Gervaise with her. Madame
Dupont cried out in horror at this proposition, and argued and
pleaded and wept--but all to no purpose. The girl was immovable.
She would not stay under her husband's roof, and she would take
her child with her. It was her right, and no one could refuse
her.
The infant had been crying for hours, but that made no
difference. Henriette insisted that a cab should be called at
once.
So she went back to the home of Monsieur Loches and told him the
hideous story. Never before in her life had she discussed such
subjects with any one, but now in her agitation she told her
father all. As George had declared to the doctor, Monsieur
Loches was a person of violent temper; at this revelation, at the
sight of his daughter's agony, he was almost beside himself. His
face turned purple, the veins stood out on his forehead; a
trembling seized him. He declared that he would kill George--
there was nothing else to do. Such a scoundrel should not be
permitted to live.
The effort which Henriette had to make to restrain him had a
calming effect upon herself. Bitter and indignant as she was,
she did not want George to be killed. She clung to her father,
beseeching him to promise her that he would not do such a thing;
and all that day and evening she watched him, unwilling to let
him out of her sight.
There was a matter which claimed her immediate attention, and
which helped to withdraw them from the contemplation of their own
sufferings. The infant must be fed and cared for--the unhappy
victim of other people's sins, whose life was now imperiled. A
dry nurse must be found at once, a nurse competent to take every
precaution and give the child every chance. This nurse must be
informed of the nature of the trouble--another matter which
required a great deal of anxious thought.
That evening came Madame Dupont, tormented by anxiety about the
child's welfare, and beseeching permission to help take care of
it. It was impossible to refuse such a request. Henriette could
not endure to see her, but the poor grandmother would come and
sit for hours in the nursery, watching the child and the nurse,
in silent agony.
This continued for days, while poor George wandered about at
home, suffering such torment of mind as can hardly be imagined.
Truly, in these days he paid for his sins; he paid a thousand-
fold in agonized and impotent regret. He looked back upon the
course of his life, and traced one by one the acts which had led
him and those he loved into this nightmare of torment. He would
have been willing to give his life if he could have undone those
acts. But avenging nature offered him no such easy deliverance
as that. We shudder as we read the grim words of the Jehovah of
the ancient Hebrews; and yet not all the learning of modern times
has availed to deliver us from the cruel decree, that the sins of
the fathers shall be visited upon the children.
George wrote notes to his wife, imploring her forgiveness. He
poured out all his agony and shame to her, begging her to see him
just once, to give him a chance to plead his defense. It was not
much of a defense, to be sure; it was only that he had done no
worse than the others did--only that he was a wretched victim of
ignorance. But he loved her, he had proven that he loved her,
and he pleaded that for the sake of their child she would forgive
him.
When all this availed nothing, he went to see the doctor, whose
advice he had so shamefully neglected. He besought this man to
intercede for him--which the doctor, of course, refused to do.
It was an extra-medical matter, he said, and George was absurd to
expect him to meddle in it.
But, as a matter of fact, the doctor had already been
interceding--he had gone farther in pleading George's cause than
he was willing to have George know. For Monsieur Loches had paid
him a visit--his purpose being to ask the doctor to continue
attendance upon the infant, and also to give Henriette a
certificate which she could use in her suit for a divorce from
her husband.
So inevitably there had been a discussion of the whole question
between the two men. The doctor had granted the first request,
but refused the second. In the first place, he said, there was a
rule of professional secrecy which would prevent him. And when
the father-in-law requested to know if the rule of professional
secrecy compelled him to protect a criminal against honest
people, the doctor answered that even if his ethics permitted it,
he would still refuse the request. "I would reproach myself
forever," he said, "if I had aided you to obtain such a divorce."
"Then," cried the old man, vehemently, "because you profess such
and such theories, because the exercise of your profession makes
you the constant witness of such miseries--therefore it is
necessary that my daughter should continue to bear that man's
name all her life!"
The doctor answered, gently, "Sir, I understand and respect your
grief. But believe me, you are not in a state of mind to decide
about these matters now."
"You are mistaken," declared the other, controlling himself with
an effort. "I have been thinking about nothing else for days. I
have discussed it with my daughter, and she agrees with me.
Surely, sir, you cannot desire that my daughter should continue
to live with a man who has struck her so brutal, so cowardly, a
blow."
"If I refuse your request," the doctor answered, "it is in the
interest of your daughter." Then, seeing the other's excitement
returning, he continued, "In your state of mind, Monsieur Loches,
I know that you will probably be abusing me before five minutes
has passed. But that will not trouble me. I have seen many
cases. And since I have made the mistake of letting myself be
trapped into this discussion, I must explain to you the reason
for my attitude. You ask of me a certificate so that you may
prove in court that your son-in-law is afflicted with syphilis."
"Precisely," said the other.
"And have you not reflected upon this--that at the same time you
will be publicly attesting that your daughter has been exposed to
the contagion? With such an admission, an admission officially
registered in the public records, do you believe that she will
find it easy to re-marry later on?"
"She will never re-marry," said the father.
"She says that today, but can you affirm that she will say the
same thing five years from now, ten years from now? I tell you
you will not obtain that divorce, because I will most certainly
refuse you the necessary certificate."
"Then," cried the other, "I will find other means of establishing
proofs. I will have the child examined by another doctor!"
The other answered. "Then you do not find that that poor little
one has been already sufficiently handicapped at the outset of
its life? Your granddaughter has a physical defect. Do you wish
to add to that a certificate of hereditary syphilis, which will
follow her all her life?"
Monsieur Loches sprang from his chair. "You mean that if the
victims seek to defend themselves, they will be struck the
harder! You mean that the law gives me no weapon against a man
who, knowing his condition, takes a young girl, sound, trusting,
innocent, and befouls her with the result of his debauches--makes
her the mother of a poor little creature, whose future is such
that those who love her the most do not know whether they ought
to pray for her life, or for her immediate deliverance? Sir," he
continued, in his orator's voice, "that man has inflicted upon
the woman he has married a supreme insult. He has made her the
victim of the most odious assault. He has degraded her--he has
brought her, so to speak, into contact with the woman of the
streets. He has created between her and that common woman I know
not what mysterious relationship. It is the poisoned blood of
the prostitute which poisons my daughter and her child; that
abject creature, she lives, she lives in us! She belongs to our
family--he has given her a seat at our hearth! He has soiled the
imagination and the thoughts of my poor child, as he has soiled
her body. He has united forever in her soul the idea of love
which she has placed so high, with I know not what horrors of the
hospitals. He has tainted her in her dignity and her modesty, in
her love as well as in her baby. He has struck her down with
physical and moral decay, he has overwhelmed her with vileness.
And yet the law is such, the customs of society are such, that
the woman cannot separate herself from that man save by the aid
of legal proceedings whose scandal will fall upon herself and
upon her child!"
Monsieur Loches had been pacing up and down the room as he spoke,
and now he clenched his fists in sudden fury.
"Very well! I will not address myself to the law. Since I
learned the truth I have been asking myself if it was not my duty
to find that monster and to put a bullet into his head, as one
does to a mad dog. I don't know what weakness, what cowardice,
has held me back, and decided me to appeal to the law. Since the
law will not protect me, I will seek justice for myself. Perhaps
his death will be a good warning for the others!"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders, as if to say that this was no
affair of his and that he would not try to interfere. But he
remarked, quietly: "You will be tried for your life."
"I shall be acquitted!" cried the other.
"Yes, but after a public revelation of all your miseries. You
will make the scandal greater, the miseries greater--that is all.
And how do you know but that on the morrow of your acquittal, you
will find yourself confronting another court, a higher and more
severe one? How do you know but that your daughter, seized at
last by pity for the man you have killed, will not demand to know
by what right you have acted so, by what right you have made an
orphan of her child? How can you know but that her child also
may some day demand an accounting of you?"
Monsieur Loches let his hands fall, and stood, a picture of
crushed despair. "Tell me then," he said, in a faint voice,
"what ought I to do?"
"Forgive!"
For a while the doctor sat looking at him. "Sir," he said, at
last, "tell me one thing. You are inflexible; you feel you have
the right to be inflexible. But are you really so certain that
it was not your duty, once upon a time, to save your daughter
from the possibility of such misfortune?"
"What?" cried the other. "My duty? What do you mean?"
"I mean this, sir. When that marriage was being discussed, you
certainly took precautions to inform yourself about the financial
condition of your future son-in-law. You demanded that he should
prove to you that his stocks and bonds were actual value, listed
on the exchange. Also, you obtained some information about his
character. In fact, you forgot only one point, the most
important of all--that was, to inquire if he was in good health.
You never did that."
The father-in-law's voice had become faint. "No," he said.
"But why not?"
"Because that is not the custom."
"Very well, but that ought to be the custom. Surely the father
of a family, before he gives his daughter to a man, should take
as much precaution as a business concern which accepts an
employee."
"You are right," was the reply, "there should be a law." The man
spoke as a deputy, having authority in these matters.
But the doctor cried, "No, no, sir! Do not make a new law. We
have too many already. There is no need of it. It would suffice
that people should know a little better what syphilis is. The
custom would establish itself very quickly for a suitor to add to
all the other documents which he presents, a certificate of a
doctor, as proof that he could be received into a family without
bringing a pestilence with him. That would be very simple. Once
let the custom be established, then the suitor would go to the
doctor for a certificate of health, just as he goes to the priest
for a certificate that he has confessed; and by that means you
would prevent a great deal of suffering in the world. Or let me
put it another way, sir. Nowadays, before you conclude a
marriage, you get the lawyers of the two families together. It
would be of at least equal importance to get their two doctors
together. You see, sir, your inquiry concerning your son-in-law
was far from complete. So your daughter may fairly ask you, why
you, being a man, being a father who ought to know these things,
did not take as much care of her health as you took of her
fortune. So it is, sir, that I say to you, forgive!"
But Monsieur Loches said again, "Never!"
And again the doctor sat and watched him for a minute. "Come,
sir," he began, finally, "since it is necessary to employ the
last argument, I will do so. To be so severe and so pitiless--
are you yourself without sin?"
The other answered, "I have never had a shameful disease."
"I do not ask you that," interrupted the doctor. "I ask you if
you have never exposed yourself to the chance of having it." And
then, reading the other's face, he went on, in a tone of quiet
certainty. "Yes, you have exposed yourself. Then, sir, it was
not virtue that you had; it was good fortune. That is one of the
things which exasperate me the most--that term 'shameful disease'
which you have just used. Like all other diseases, that is one
of our misfortunes, and it is never shameful to be unfortunate--
even if one has deserved it." The doctor paused, and then with
some excitement he went on: "Come, sir, come, we must understand
each other. Among men the most exacting, among those who with
their middle-class prudery dare not pronounce the name of
syphilis, or who make the most terrifying faces, the most
disgusted, when they consent to speak of it--who regard the
syphilitic as sinners--I should wish to know how many there are
who have never exposed thenselves to a similar misadventure.
They and they alone have the right to speak. How many are there?
Among a thousand men, are there four? Very well, then.
Excepting those four, between all the rest and the syphilitic
there is nothing but the difference of chance."
There came into the doctor's voice at this moment a note of
intense feeling; for these were matters of which evidence came to
him every day. "I tell you, sir, that such people are deserving
of sympathy, because they are suffering. If they have committed
a fault, they have at least the plea that they are expiating it.
No, sir, let me hear no more of that hypocrisy. Recall your own
youth, sir. That which afflicts your son-in-law, you have
deserved it just as much as he--more than he, perhaps.
Therefore, have pity on him; have for him the toleration which
the unpunished criminal ought to have for the criminal less
fortunate than himself upon whom the penalty has fallen. Is that
not so?"
Monsieur Loches had been listening to this discourse with the
feeling of a thief before the bar. There was nothing that he
could answer. "Sir," he stammered, "as you present this thing to
me--"
"But am I not right?" insisted the doctor.
"Perhaps you are," the other admitted. "But--I cannot say all
that to my daughter, to persuade her to go back to her husband."
"You can give her other arguments," was the answer.
"What arguments, in God's name?"
"There is no lack of them. You will say to her that a separation
would be a misfortune for all; that her husband is the only one
in the world who would be devoted enough to help her save her
child. You will say to her that out of the ruins of her first
happiness she can build herself another structure, far stronger.
And, sir, you will add to that whatever your good heart may
suggest--and we will arrange so that the next child of the pair
shall be sound and vigorous."
Monsieur Loches received this announcement with the same surprise
that George himself had manifested. "Is that possible?" he
asked.
The doctor cried: "Yes, yes, yes--a thousand times yes! There
is a phrase which I repeat on every occasion, and which I would
wish to post upon the walls. It is that syphilis is an imperious
mistress, who only demands that one should recognize her power.
She is terrible for those who think her insignificant, and gentle
with those who know how dangerous she is. You know that kind of
mistress--who is only vexed when she is neglected. You may tell
this to your daughter--you will restore her to the arms of her
husband, from whom she has no longer anything to fear, and I will
guarantee that you will be a happy grandfather two years from
now."
Monsieur Loches at last showed that he was weakened in his
resolution.
"Doctor," he said, "I do not know that I can ever go so far as
forgiveness, but I promise you that I will do no irreparable act,
and that I will not oppose a reconciliation if after the lapse of
some time--I cannot venture to say how long--my poor child should
make up her mind to a reconciliation."
"Very good," said the other. "But let me add this: If you have
another daughter, take care to avoid the fault which you
committed when you married off the first."
"But," said the old man, "I did not know."
"Ah, surely!" cried the other. "You did not know! You are a
father, and you did not know! You are a deputy, you have assumed
the responsibility and the honor of making our laws--and you did
not know! You are ignorant about syphilis, just as you probably
are ignorant about alcoholism and tuberculosis."
"No," exclaimed the other, quickly.
"Very well," said the doctor, "I will leave you out, if you wish.
I am talking of the others, the five hundred, and I don't know
how many more, who are there in the Chamber of Deputies, and who
call themselves representatives of the people. They are not able
to find a single hour to discuss these three cruel gods, to which
egotism and indifference make every day such frightful human
sacrifices. They have not sufficient leisure to combat this
ferocious trinity, which destroys every day thousands of lives.
Alcoholism! It would be necessary to forbid the manufacture of
poisons, and to restrict the number of licenses; but as one has
fear of the great distillers, who are rich and powerful, and of
the little dealers, who are the masters of universal suffrage,
one puts one's conscience to sleep by lamenting the immorality of
the working-class, and publishing little pamphlets and sermons.
Imbeciles! . . .Tuberculosis! Everybody knows the true remedy,
which would be the paying of sufficient wages, and the tearing
down of the filthy tenements into which the laborers are packed--
those who are the most useful and the most unfortunate among our
population! But needless to say, no one wants that remedy, so we
go round begging the workingmen not to spit on the sidewalks.
Wonderful! But syphilis--why do you not occupy yourself with
that? Why, since you have ministers whose duty it is to attend
to all sorts of things, do you not have a minister to attend to
the public health?"
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