Damaged Goods
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Upton Sinclair >> Damaged Goods
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"My dear Doctor," responded Monsieur Loches, "you fall into the
French habit of considering the government as the cause of all
evils. Show us the way, you learned gentlemen! Since that is a
matter about which you are informed, and we are ignorant, begin
by telling us what measures you believe to be necessary."
"Ah, ah!" exclaimed the other. "That's fine, indeed! It was
about eighteen years ago that a project of that nature, worked
out by the Academy of Medicine, and approved by it UNANIMOUSLY,
was sent to the proper minister. We have not yet heard his
reply."
"You really believe," inquired Monsieur Loches, in some
bewilderment, "you believe that there are some measures--"
"Sir," broke in the doctor, "before we get though, you are going
to suggest some measures yourself. Let me tell you what happened
today. When I received your card I did not know that you were
the father-in-law of George Dupont. I say that you were a
deputy, and I thought that you wanted to get some information
about these matters. There was a woman patient waiting to see
me, and I kept her in my waiting-room--saying to myself, "This is
just the sort of person that our deputies ought to talk to."
The doctor paused for a moment, then continued: "Be reassured, I
will take care of your nerves. This patient has no trouble that
is apparent to the eye. She is simply an illustration of the
argument I have been advancing--that our worst enemy is
ignorance. Ignorance--you understand me? Since I have got you
here, sir, I am going to hold you until I have managed to cure a
little of your ignorance! For I tell you, sir, it is a thing
which drives me to distraction--we MUST do something about these
conditions! Take this case, for example. Here is a woman who is
very seriously infected. I told her--well, wait; you shall see
for yourself.
The doctor went to the door and summoned into the room a woman
whom Monsieur Loches had noticed waiting there. She was verging
on old age, small, frail, and ill-nourished in appearance, poorly
dressed, and yet with a suggestion of refinement about her. She
stood near the door, twisting her hands together nervously, and
shrinking from the gaze of the strange gentleman. The doctor
began in an angry voice. "Did I not tell you to come and see me
once every eight days? Is that not true?"
The woman answered, in a faint voice, "Yes, sir."
"Well," he exclaimed, "and how long has it been since you were
here?"
"Three months, sir."
"Three months! And you believe that I can take care of you under
such conditions? I give you up! Do you understand? You
discourage me, you discourage me." There was a pause. Then,
seeing the woman's suffering, he began, in a gentler tone, "Come
now, what is the reason that you have not come? Didn't you know
that you have a serious disease--most serious?"
"Oh, yes, sir," replied the woman, "I know that very well--since
my husband died of it."
The doctor's voice bore once again its note of pity. "Your
husband died of it?"
"Yes, sir."
"He took no care of himself?"
"No, sir."
"And was not that a warning to you?"
"Doctor," the woman replied, "I would ask nothing better than to
come as often as you told me, but the cost is too great."
"How--what cost? You were coming to my free clinic."
"Yes, sir," replied the woman, "but that's during working hours,
and then it is a long way from home. There are so many sick
people, and I have to wait my turn, It is in the morning--
sometimes I lose a whole day--and then my employer is annoyed,
and he threatens to turn me off. It is things like that that
keep people from coming, until they dare not put it off any
longer. Then, too, sir--" the woman stopped, hesitating.
"Well," demanded the doctor.
"Oh, nothing, sir," she stammered. "You have been too good to me
already."
"Go on," commanded the other. "Tell me."
"Well," murmured the woman, "I know I ought not to put on airs,
but you see I have not always been so poor. Before my husband's
misfortune, we were well fixed. So you see, I have a little
pride. I have always managed to take care of myself. I am not a
woman of the streets, and to stand around like that, with
everybody else, to be obliged to tell all one's miseries out loud
before the world! I am wrong, I know it perfectly well; I argue
with myself--but all the same, it's hard, sir; I assure you, it
is truly hard."
"Poor woman!" said the doctor; and for a while there was a
silence. Then he asked: "It was your husband who brought you
the disease?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Everything which happened to us came
from him. We were living in the country when he got the disease.
He went half crazy. He no longer knew how to manage his affairs.
He gave orders here and there for considerable sums. We were not
able to find the money."
"Why did he not undergo treatment?"
"He didn't know then. We were sold out, and we came to Paris.
But we hadn't a penny. He decided to go to the hospital for
treatment."
"And then?"
"Why, they looked him over, but they refused him any medicine."
"How was that?"
"Because we had been in Paris only three months. If one hasn't
been a resident six months, one has no right to free medicine."
"Is that true?" broke in Monsieur Loches quickly.
"Yes," said the doctor, "that's the rule."
"So you see," said the woman, "it was not our fault."
"You never had children?" inquired the doctor.
"I was never able to bring one to birth," was the answer. "My
husband was taken just at the beginning of our marriage--it was
while he was serving in the army. You know, sir--there are women
about the garrisons--" She stopped, and there was a long
silence.
"Come," said the doctor, "that's all right. I will arrange it
with you. You can come here to my office, and you can come on
Sunday mornings." And as the poor creature started to express
her gratitude, he slipped a coin into her hand. "Come, come;
take it," he said gruffly. "You are not going to play proud with
me. No, no, I have no time to listen to you. Hush!" And he
pushed her out of the door.
Then he turned to the deputy. "You heard her story, sir," he
said. "Her husband was serving his time in the army; it was you
law-makers who compelled him to do that. And there are women
about the garrisons--you heard how her voice trembled as she said
that? Take my advice, sir, and look up the statistics as to the
prevalence of this disease among our soldiers. Come to some of
my clinics, and let me introduce you to other social types. You
don't care very much about soldiers, perhaps--they belong to the
lower classes, and you think of them as rough men. But let me
show you what is going on among our college students--among the
men our daughters are some day to marry. Let me show you the
women who prey upon them! Perhaps, who knows--I can show you the
very woman who was the cause of all the misery in your own
family!"
And as Monsieur Loches rose from his chair, the doctor came to
him and took him by the hand. "Promise me, sir," he said,
earnestly, "that you will come back and let me teach you more
about these matters. It is a chance that I must not let go--the
first time in my life that I ever got hold of a real live deputy!
Come and make a study of this subject, and let us try to work out
some sensible plan, and get seriously to work to remedy these
frightful evils!"
CHAPTER VI
George lived with his mother after Henriette had left his home.
He was wretchedly unhappy and lonely. He could find no interest
in any of the things which had pleased him before. He was
ashamed to meet any of his friends, because he imagined that
everyone must have heard the dreadful story--or because he was
not equal to making up explanations for his mournful state. He
no longer cared much about his work. What was the use of making
a reputation or earning large fees when one had nothing to spend
them for?
All his thoughts were fixed upon the wife and child he had lost.
He was reminded of Henriette in a thousand ways, and each way
brought him a separate pang of grief. He had never realized how
much he had come to depend upon her in every little thing--until
now, when her companionship was withdrawn from him, and
everything seemed to be a blank. He would come home at night,
and opposite to him at the dinner-table would be his mother,
silent and spectral. How different from the days when Henriette
was there, radiant and merry, eager to be told everything that
had happened to him through the day!
There was also his worry about little Gervaise. He might no
longer hear how she was doing, for he could not get up courage to
ask his mother the news. Thus poor George was paying for his
sins. He could make no complaints against the price, however
high--only sometimes he wondered whether he would be able to pay
it. There were times of such discouragement that he thought of
different ways of killing himself.
A curious adventure befell him during this period. He was
walking one day in the park, when he saw approaching a girl whose
face struck him as familiar. At first he could not recollect
where he had seen her. It was only when she was nearly opposite
him that he realized--it was the girl who had been the cause of
all his misery!
He tried to look away, but he was too late. Her eyes had caught
his, and she nodded and then stopped, exclaiming, "Why, how do
you do?"
George had to face her. "How do you do?" he responded, weakly.
She held out her hand and he had to take it, but there was not
much welcome in his clasp. "Where have you been keeping
yourself?" she asked. Then, as he hesitated, she laughed good-
naturedly, "What's the matter? You don't seem glad to see me."
The girl--Therese was her name--had a little package under her
arm, as if she had been shopping. She was not well dressed, as
when George had met her before, and doubtless she thought that
was the reason for his lack of cordiality. This made him rather
ashamed, and so, only half realizing what he was doing, he began
to stroll along with her.
"Why did you never come to see me again?" she asked.
George hesitated. "I--I--" he stammered--"I've been married
since then."
She laughed. "Oh! So that's it!" And then, as they came to a
bench under some trees, "Won't you sit down a while?" There was
allurement in her glance, but it made George shudder. It was
incredible to him that he had ever been attracted by this crude
girl. The spell was now broken completely.
She quickly saw that something was wrong. "You don't seem very
cheerful," she said. "What's the matter?"
And the man, staring at her, suddenly blurted out, "Don't you
know what you did to me?"
"What I did to you?" Therese repeated wonderingly.
"You must know!" he insisted.
And then she tried to meet his gaze and could not. "Why--" she
stammered.
There was silence between them. When George spoke again his
voice was low and trembling. "You ruined my whole life," he
said--"not only mine, but my family's. How could you do it?"
She strove to laugh it off. "A cheerful topic for an afternoon
stroll!"
For a long while George did not answer. Then, almost in a
whisper, he repeated, "How could you do it?"
"Some one did it to me first," was the response. "A man!"
"Yes," said George, "but he didn't know."
"How can you tell whether he knew or not?"
"You knew?" he inquired, wonderingly.
Therese hesitated. "Yes, I knew," she said at last, defiantly.
"I have known for years."
"And I'm not the only man."
She laughed. "I guess not!"
There followed a long pause. At last he resumed, "I don't want
to blame you; there's nothing to be gained by that; it's done,
and can't be undone. But sometimes I wonder about it. I should
like to understand--why did you do it?"
"Why? That's easy enough. I did it because I have to live."
"You live that way?" he exclaimed.
"Why of course. What did you think?"
"I thought you were a--a--" He hesitated.
"You thought I was respectable," laughed Therese. "Well, that's
just a little game I was playing on you."
"But I didn't give you any money!" he argued.
"Not that time," she said, "but I thought you would come back."
He sat gazing at her. "And you earn your living that way still?"
he asked. "When you know what's the matter with you! When you
know--"
"What can I do? I have to live, don't I?"
"But don't you even take care of yourself? Surely there must be
some way, some place--"
"The reformatory, perhaps," she sneered. "No, thanks! I'll go
there when the police catch me, not before. I know some girls
that have tried that."
"But aren't you afraid?" cried the man. "And the things that
will happen to you! Have you ever talked to a doctor--or read a
book?"
"I know," she said. "I've seen it all. If it comes to me, I'll
go over the side of one of the bridges some dark night."
George sat lost in thought. A strange adventure it seemed to
him--to meet this girl under such different circumstances! It
was as if he were watching a play from behind the scenes instead
of in front. If only he had had this new view in time--how
different would have been his life! And how terrible it was to
think of the others who didn't know--the audience who were still
sitting out in front, watching the spectacle, interested in it!"
His thoughts came back to Therese. He was curious about her and
the life she lived. "Tell me a little about it," he said. "How
you came to be doing this." And he added, "Don't think I want to
preach; I'd really like to understand."
"Oh, it's a common story," she said--"nothing especially
romantic. I came to Paris when I was a girl. My parents had
died, and I had no friends, and I didn't know what to do. I got
a place as a nursemaid. I was seventeen years old then, and I
didn't know anything. I believed what I was told, and I believed
my employer. His wife was ill in a hospital, and he said he
wanted to marry me when she died. Well, I liked him, and I was
sorry for him--and then the first thing I knew I had a baby. And
then the wife came back, and I was turned off. I had been a
fool, of course. If I had been in her place should have done
just what she did."
The girl was speaking in a cold, matter-of-fact voice, as of
things about which she was no longer able to suffer. "So, there
I was--on the street," she went on. "You have always had money,
a comfortable home, education, friends to help you--all that.
You can't imagine how it is to be in the world without any of
these things. I lived on my savings as long as I could; then I
had to leave my baby in a foundling's home, and I went out to do
my five hours on the boulevards. You know the game, I have no
doubt."
Yes, George knew the game. Somehow or other he no longer felt
bitter towards this poor creature. She was part of the system of
which he was a victim also. There was nothing to be gained by
hating each other. Just as the doctor said, what was needed was
enlightenment. "Listen," he said, "why don't you try to get
cured?"
"I haven't got the price," was the answer.
"Well," he said, hesitatingly, "I know a doctor--one of the
really good men. He has a free clinic, and I've no doubt he
would take you in if I asked him to."
"YOU ask him?" echoed the other, looking at George in surprise.
The young man felt somewhat uncomfortable. He was not used to
playing the role of the good Samaritan. "I--I need not tell him
about us," he stammered. "I could just say that I met you. I
have had such a wretched time myself, I feel sorry for anybody
that's in the same plight. I should like to help you if I
could."
The girl sat staring before her, lost in thought. "I have
treated you badly, I guess," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm ashamed
of myself."
George took a pencil and paper from his pocket and wrote the
doctor's address. "Here it is," he said, in a business-like way,
because he felt that otherwise he could become sentimental. He
was half tempted to tell the woman what had happened to him, and
all about Henriette and the sick child; but he realized that that
would not do. So he rose and shook hands with her and left.
The next time he saw the doctor he told him about this girl. He
decided to tell him the truth--having already made so many
mistakes trying to conceal things. The doctor agreed to treat
the woman, making the condition that George promise not to see
her again.
The young man was rather shocked at this. "Doctor," he
exclaimed, "I assure you you are mistaken. The thing you have in
mind would be utterly impossible."
"I know," said the other, "you think so. But I think, young man,
that I know more about life than you do. When a man and a woman
have once committed such a sin, it is easy for them to slip back.
The less time they spend talking about their misfortunes, and
being generous and forbearing to each other, the better for them
both."
"But, Doctor," cried George. "I love Henriette! I could not
possibly love anyone else. It would be horrible to me!"
"Yes," said the doctor. "But you are not living with Henriette.
You are wandering round, not knowing what to do with yourself
next."
There was no need for anybody to tell George that. "What do you
think?" he asked abruptly. "Is there any hope for me?"
"I think there is," said the other, who, in spite of his
resolution, had become a sort of ambassador for the unhappy
husband. He had to go to the Loches house to attend the child,
and so he could not help seeing Henriette, and talking to her
about the child's health and her own future. He considered that
George had had his lesson, and urged upon the young wife that he
would be wiser in future, and safe to trust.
George had indeed learned much. He got new lessons every time he
went to call at the physician's office--he could read them in the
faces of the people he saw there. One day when he was alone in
the waiting-room, the doctor came out of his inner office,
talking to an elderly gentleman, whom George recognized as the
father of one of his classmates at college. The father was a
little shopkeeper, and the young man remembered how pathetically
proud he had been of his son. Could it be, thought George, that
this old man was a victim of syphilis?
But it was the son, and not the father, who was the subject of
the consultation. The old man was speaking in a deeply moved
voice, and he stood so that George could not help hearing what he
said. "Perhaps you can't understand," he said, "just what it
means to us--the hopes we had of that boy! Such a fine fellow he
was, and a good fellow, too, sir! We were so proud of him; we
had bled our veins to keep him in college--and now just see!"
"Don't despair, sir," said the doctor, "we'll try to cure him."
And he added with that same note of sorrow in his voice which
George had heard, "Why did you wait so long before you brought
the boy to me?"
"How was I to know what he had?" cried the other. "He didn't
dare tell me, sir--he was afraid of my scolding him. And in the
meantime the disease was running its course. When he realized
that he had it, he went secretly to one of the quacks, who robbed
him, and didn't cure him. You know how it is, sir."
"Yes, I know," said the doctor.
"Such things ought not to be permitted," cried the old man.
"What is our government about that it allows such things to go
on? Take the conditions there at the college where my poor boy
was ruined. At the very gates of the building these women are
waiting for the lads! Ought they to be permitted to debauch
young boys only fifteen years old? Haven't we got police enough
to prevent a thing like that? Tell me, sir!"
"One would think so," said the doctor, patiently.
"But is it that the police don't want to?"
"No doubt they have the same excuse as all the rest--they don't
know. Take courage, sir; we have cured worse cases than your
son's. And some day, perhaps, we shall be able to change these
conditions."
So he went on with the man, leaving George with something to
think about. How much he could have told them about what had
happened to that young fellow when only fifteen years old! It
had not been altogether the fault of the women who were lurking
outside of the college gates; it was a fact that the boy's
classmates had teased him and ridiculed him, had literally made
his life a torment, until he had yielded to temptation.
It was the old, old story of ignorant and unguided schoolboys all
over the world! They thought that to be chaste was to be weak
and foolish; that a fellow was not a man unless he led a life of
debauchery like the rest. And what did they know about these
dreadful diseases? They had the most horrible superstitions--
ideas of cures so loathsome that they could not be set down in
print; ideas as ignorant and destructive as those of savages in
the heart of Africa. And you might hear them laughing and
jesting about one another's condition. They might be afflicted
with diseases which would have the most terrible after-effects
upon their whole lives and upon their families--diseases which
cause tens of thousands of surgical operations upon women, and a
large percentage of blindness and idiocy in children--and you
might hear them confidently express the opinion that these
diseases were no worse than a bad cold!
And all this mass of misery and ignorance covered over and
clamped down by a taboo of silence, imposed by the horrible
superstition of sex-prudery! George went out from the doctor's
office trembling with excitement over this situation. Oh, why
had not some one warned him in time? Why didn't the doctors and
the teachers lift up their voices and tell young men about these
frightful dangers? He wanted to go out in the highways and
preach it himself--except that he dared not, because he could not
explain to the world his own sudden interest in this forbidden
topic.
These was only one person he dared to talk to: that was his
mother--to whom he ought to have talked many, many years before.
He was moved to mention to her the interview he had overheard in
the doctor's office. In a sudden burst of grief he told her of
his struggles and temptations; he pleaded with her to go to
Henriette once more--to tell her these things, and try to make
her realize that he alone was not to blame for them, that they
were a condition which prevailed everywhere, that the only
difference between her husband and other men was that he had had
the misfortune to be caught.
There was pressure being applied to Henriette from several sides.
After all, what could she do? She was comfortable in her
father's home, so far as the physical side of things went; but
she knew that all her friends were gossiping and speculating
about her separation from her husband, and sooner or later she
would have to make up her mind, either to separate permanently
from George or to return to him. There was not much happiness
for her in the thought of getting a divorce from a man whom deep
in her heart she loved. She would be practically a widow the
rest of her life, and the home in which poor little Gervaise
would be brought up would not be a cheerful one.
George was ready to offer any terms, if only she would come back
to his home. They might live separate lives for as long as
Henriette wished. They would have no more children until the
doctor declared it was quite safe; and in the meantime he would
be humble and patient, and would try his best to atone for the
wrong that he had done her.
To these arguments Madame Dupont added others of her own. She
told the girl some things which through bitter experience she had
learned about the nature and habits of men; things that should be
told to every girl before marriage, but which almost all of them
are left to find out afterwards, with terrible suffering and
disillusionment. Whatever George's sins may have been, he was a
man who had been chastened by suffering, and would know how to
value a woman's love for the rest of his life. Not all men knew
that--not even those who had been fortunate in escaping from the
so-called "shameful disease."
Henriette was also hearing arguments from her father, who by this
time had had time to think things over, and had come to the
conclusion that the doctor was right. He had noted his son-in-
law's patience and penitence, and had also made sure that in
spite of everything Henriette still loved him. The baby
apparently was doing well; and the Frenchman, with his strong
sense of family ties, felt it a serious matter to separate a
child permanently from its father. So in the end he cast the
weight of his influence in favor of a reconciliation, and
Henriette returned to her husband, upon terms which the doctor
laid down.
The doctor played in these negotiations the part which he had not
been allowed to play in the marriage. For the deputy was now
thoroughly awake to the importance of the duty he owed his
daughter. In fact, he had become somewhat of a "crank" upon the
whole subject. He had attended several of the doctor's clinics,
and had read books and pamphlets on the subject of syphilis, and
was now determined that there should be some practical steps
towards reform.
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