Suppose you are the parents of a girl to whom a misfortune has happened. I admit it is a misfortune, a catastrophe. Probably the greatest catastrophe that, under our present social system, can happen to an unmarried young woman. What are you going to do? Are you going to disgrace her—incidentally disgracing yourselves—are you going to kick her out of the house, condemning her to a suicide's grave, or to a life that is often worse than death? Or are you going to stand by her in her dark hours, to shield her, to surround her with a wall of protection against a cruel and wantonly inquisitive world, and thus earn her eternal gratitude, and put her on the path of self-improvement and useful social work? Which shall it be? But before you decide, kindly bear in mind that your girl is not entirely to blame; that some of the blame lies with you. If she had been properly brought up, this would not have happened. I know such a thing could never have happened in my household.
But I know how I would have acted if such a thing had happened. And I will tell you how one father and mother did act under the circumstances.
They were far from rich; just fairly comfortable; they had a well-paying store. Edith was their treasure, because she was so pretty and so full of life. Unfortunately, she was too pretty and too full of life. She was only seventeen, but was fully developed, and had many empty-headed young admirers, who showered upon her silly compliments and cloying sweets. She became frivolous and flirtatious and was beginning to do poorly in high school. She failed in her last year, and refused to take the year over again.
Now, all the time being her own, and having nobody to give any account to, she began to go out a good deal, and more than ever indulged in flirtations. One night she stayed out later than usual, her parents were worried, and when she came home about two in the morning there was a quarrel, and the father, who was a strict, impulsive man, gave her a pretty good beating. After that she went out very little, kept to herself, became rather melancholy, lost her appetite, and did not sleep well. To all inquiries she answered that there was nothing the matter with her, that she just felt a little indisposed. Four or five months thus passed.
But finally the condition could no longer be concealed.
The mother was the first one to discover it. When the fact dawned upon her consciousness that her beautiful, not quite eighteen-year-old Edith was pregnant she promptly fell in a faint and it took Edith and the maid quite some time to restore her to consciousness. She became distracted. She floundered about pitifully, not knowing what to do, what decision to reach. She tried to conceal the matter from the father, but he saw that there was something wrong and it didn't take him long to worm the truth out of her. As the mother on learning the tragic truth had taken refuge in a dead faint, so he took refuge in a Berserker rage.
He fumed and stormed and was in danger of an apoplectic stroke. He wanted to strike the daughter, but the mother interfered. He then ordered Edith to get out of the house and never to cross his threshold again. Edith looked at him to see if he meant it; the mother tried to intercede; but he was inflexible, and demanded that she leave at once. Edith began to gather a few of her belongings, the tears silently rolling down her face.
And here a sudden change came over the father. Some men (and women) are crushed by small misfortunes; real catastrophes awaken their finer qualities, which lay dormant within them and which might have remained dormant within them forever. In these few minutes he seems to have undergone a complete metamorphosis. He went up to Edith, took her in his arms, kissed her, told her to stay, to calm down and they would see what could be done. In a few days she was taken over to a physician who performed an abortion. She was a pretty sick girl for about six weeks, and at one time there was danger of blood poisoning setting in. But she recovered.
And she was a different girl. She had shed her frivolity and lightheartedness like an old garment. She took her last year in high school over again, entered Barnard, from which she was graduated among the very first, and soon began to teach in that very high school in which she had been a pupil. One of the teachers fell in love with her and she fell in love with him. He asked her to marry him. She wanted no skeleton from the past coming down rattling its bones and marring their married life, and she told him of the unfortunate incident. A good test, by the way, to find out a man's real love and breadth of character.
Fortunately the man's love was a true love, not merely passion, and he was truly broadminded, which is not a very common thing among school-teachers. Their married life is an uncloudedly happy one. And the relation between the daughter and the parents is one of sincere love and deep mutual respect.
Isn't it better so?
Didn't Edith's parents act more decently, more kindly, more humanely, more wisely than the parents, say, of Mary B, who, when they found out her condition, put her out of the house, into which she was brought back two days later a corpse, fished out from the East River? Didn't Edith's father act more nobly, more wisely even from a purely selfish point of view than the father of Bridget C, who kicked his daughter out penniless into the street, where he had to see her afterwards powdered and painted soliciting men and boys? The mother died of a broken heart, and the father, unable to bear the constant, daily repeated disgrace, became an incorrigible drunkard.
Fathers and mothers! So bring up your daughters, so guard them and protect them, that the misfortune of an illegitimate pregnancy may not befall them. But if the misfortune has befallen them, then stand by them! Do not desert them then in these dark hours, the darkest hours in a girl's life. Do not kick them—they are down enough. Stand by them, and they will become good women and you will have their eternal gratitude. If you do not stand by them, you are worse than the beasts of the jungle and deserve their eternal curse. You are unworthy to be, or to be called, parents, for you are devoid of the least spark of that sacred feeling called Parental Love, a feeling which unfortunately in only too many parents is replaced by nothing but the most sordid, most brutal egotism.
But I know how I would have acted if such a thing had happened. And I will tell you how one father and mother did act under the circumstances.
They were far from rich; just fairly comfortable; they had a well-paying store. Edith was their treasure, because she was so pretty and so full of life. Unfortunately, she was too pretty and too full of life. She was only seventeen, but was fully developed, and had many empty-headed young admirers, who showered upon her silly compliments and cloying sweets. She became frivolous and flirtatious and was beginning to do poorly in high school. She failed in her last year, and refused to take the year over again.
Now, all the time being her own, and having nobody to give any account to, she began to go out a good deal, and more than ever indulged in flirtations. One night she stayed out later than usual, her parents were worried, and when she came home about two in the morning there was a quarrel, and the father, who was a strict, impulsive man, gave her a pretty good beating. After that she went out very little, kept to herself, became rather melancholy, lost her appetite, and did not sleep well. To all inquiries she answered that there was nothing the matter with her, that she just felt a little indisposed. Four or five months thus passed.
But finally the condition could no longer be concealed.
The mother was the first one to discover it. When the fact dawned upon her consciousness that her beautiful, not quite eighteen-year-old Edith was pregnant she promptly fell in a faint and it took Edith and the maid quite some time to restore her to consciousness. She became distracted. She floundered about pitifully, not knowing what to do, what decision to reach. She tried to conceal the matter from the father, but he saw that there was something wrong and it didn't take him long to worm the truth out of her. As the mother on learning the tragic truth had taken refuge in a dead faint, so he took refuge in a Berserker rage.
He fumed and stormed and was in danger of an apoplectic stroke. He wanted to strike the daughter, but the mother interfered. He then ordered Edith to get out of the house and never to cross his threshold again. Edith looked at him to see if he meant it; the mother tried to intercede; but he was inflexible, and demanded that she leave at once. Edith began to gather a few of her belongings, the tears silently rolling down her face.
And here a sudden change came over the father. Some men (and women) are crushed by small misfortunes; real catastrophes awaken their finer qualities, which lay dormant within them and which might have remained dormant within them forever. In these few minutes he seems to have undergone a complete metamorphosis. He went up to Edith, took her in his arms, kissed her, told her to stay, to calm down and they would see what could be done. In a few days she was taken over to a physician who performed an abortion. She was a pretty sick girl for about six weeks, and at one time there was danger of blood poisoning setting in. But she recovered.
And she was a different girl. She had shed her frivolity and lightheartedness like an old garment. She took her last year in high school over again, entered Barnard, from which she was graduated among the very first, and soon began to teach in that very high school in which she had been a pupil. One of the teachers fell in love with her and she fell in love with him. He asked her to marry him. She wanted no skeleton from the past coming down rattling its bones and marring their married life, and she told him of the unfortunate incident. A good test, by the way, to find out a man's real love and breadth of character.
Fortunately the man's love was a true love, not merely passion, and he was truly broadminded, which is not a very common thing among school-teachers. Their married life is an uncloudedly happy one. And the relation between the daughter and the parents is one of sincere love and deep mutual respect.
Isn't it better so?
Didn't Edith's parents act more decently, more kindly, more humanely, more wisely than the parents, say, of Mary B, who, when they found out her condition, put her out of the house, into which she was brought back two days later a corpse, fished out from the East River? Didn't Edith's father act more nobly, more wisely even from a purely selfish point of view than the father of Bridget C, who kicked his daughter out penniless into the street, where he had to see her afterwards powdered and painted soliciting men and boys? The mother died of a broken heart, and the father, unable to bear the constant, daily repeated disgrace, became an incorrigible drunkard.
Fathers and mothers! So bring up your daughters, so guard them and protect them, that the misfortune of an illegitimate pregnancy may not befall them. But if the misfortune has befallen them, then stand by them! Do not desert them then in these dark hours, the darkest hours in a girl's life. Do not kick them—they are down enough. Stand by them, and they will become good women and you will have their eternal gratitude. If you do not stand by them, you are worse than the beasts of the jungle and deserve their eternal curse. You are unworthy to be, or to be called, parents, for you are devoid of the least spark of that sacred feeling called Parental Love, a feeling which unfortunately in only too many parents is replaced by nothing but the most sordid, most brutal egotism.
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