Chapter Chapter 11 · The incidents of the days that followed, relating as they did

peculiarly to Jennie, were of an order which the morality of our day

has agreed to taboo.

Certain processes of the all-mother, the great artificing wisdom of

the power that works and weaves in silence and in darkness, when

viewed in the light of the established opinion of some of the little

individuals created by it, are considered very vile. We turn our faces

away from the creation of life as if that were the last thing that man

should dare to interest himself in, openly.

It is curious that a feeling of this sort should spring up in a

world whose very essence is generative, the vast process dual, and

where wind, water, soil, and light alike minister to the fruition of

that which is all that we are. Although the whole earth, not we alone,

is moved by passions hymeneal, and everything terrestrial has come

into being by the one common road, yet there is that ridiculous

tendency to close the eyes and turn away the head as if there were

something unclean in nature itself. "Conceived in iniquity and born in

sin," is the unnatural interpretation put upon the process by the

extreme religionist, and the world, by its silence, gives assent to a

judgment so marvelously warped.

Surely there is something radically wrong in this attitude. The

teachings of philosophy and the deductions of biology should find more

practical application in the daily reasoning of man. No process is

vile, no condition is unnatural. The accidental variation from a given

social practice does not necessarily entail sin. No poor little

earthling, caught in the enormous grip of chance, and so swerved from

the established customs of men, could possibly be guilty of that depth

of vileness which the attitude of the world would seem to predicate so

inevitably.

Jennie was now to witness the unjust interpretation of that wonder

of nature, which, but for Brander's death, might have been consecrated

and hallowed as one of the ideal functions of life. Although herself

unable to distinguish the separateness of this from every other normal

process of life, yet was she made to feel, by the actions of all about

her, that degradation was her portion and sin the foundation as well

as the condition of her state. Almost, not quite, it was sought to

extinguish the affection, the consideration, the care which,

afterward, the world would demand of her, for her child. Almost, not

quite, was the budding and essential love looked upon as evil.

Although her punishment was neither the gibbet nor the jail of a few

hundred years before, yet the ignorance and immobility of the human

beings about her made it impossible for them to see anything in her

present condition but a vile and premeditated infraction of the social

code, the punishment of which was ostracism. All she could do now was

to shun the scornful gaze of men, and to bear in silence the great

change that was coming upon her. Strangely enough, she felt no useless

remorse, no vain regrets. Her heart was pure, and she was conscious

that it was filled with peace. Sorrow there was, it is true, but only

a mellow phase of it, a vague uncertainty and wonder, which would

sometimes cause her eyes to fill with tears.

You have heard the wood-dove calling in the lone stillness of the

summertime; you have found the unheeded brooklet singing and babbling

where no ear comes to hear. Under dead leaves and snow-banks the

delicate arbutus unfolds its simple blossom, answering some heavenly

call for color. So, too, this other flower of womanhood.

Jennie was left alone, but, like the wood-dove, she was a voice of

sweetness in the summer-time. Going about her household duties, she

was content to wait, without a murmur, the fulfilment of that process

for which, after all, she was but the sacrificial implement. When her

duties were lightest she was content to sit in quiet meditation, the

marvel of life holding her as in a trance. When she was hardest

pressed to aid her mother, she would sometimes find herself quietly

singing, the pleasure of work lifting her out of herself. Always she

was content to face the future with a serene and unfaltering courage.

It is not so with all women. Nature is unkind in permitting the minor

type to bear a child at all. The larger natures in their maturity

welcome motherhood, see in it the immense possibilities of racial

fulfilment, and find joy and satisfaction in being the hand-maiden of

so immense a purpose.

Jennie, a child in years, was potentially a woman physically and

mentally, but not yet come into rounded conclusions as to life and her

place in it. The great situation which had forced her into this

anomalous position was from one point of view a tribute to her

individual capacity. It proved her courage, the largeness of her

sympathy, her willingness to sacrifice for what she considered a

worthy cause. That it resulted in an unexpected consequence, which

placed upon her a larger and more complicated burden, was due to the

fact that her sense of self-protection had not been commensurate with

her emotions. There were times when the prospective coming of the

child gave her a sense of fear and confusion, because she did not know

but that the child might eventually reproach her; but there was always

that saving sense of eternal justice in life which would not permit

her to be utterly crushed. To her way of thinking, people were not

intentionally cruel. Vague thoughts of sympathy and divine goodness

permeated her soul. Life at worst or best was beautiful--had

always been so.

These thoughts did not come to her all at once, but through the

months during which she watched and waited. It was a wonderful thing

to be a mother, even under these untoward conditions. She felt that

she would love this child, would be a good mother to it if life

permitted. That was the problem--what would life permit?

There were many things to be done--clothes to be made; certain

provisions of hygiene and diet to be observed. One of her fears was

that Gerhardt might unexpectedly return, but he did not. The old

family doctor who had nursed the various members of the Gerhardt

family through their multitudinous ailments--Doctor

Ellwanger--was taken into consultation, and he gave sound and

practical advice. Despite his Lutheran upbringing, the practice of

medicine in a large and kindly way had led him to the conclusion that

there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our

philosophies and in our small neighborhood relationships. "So it is,"

he observed to Mrs. Gerhardt when she confided to him nervously what

the trouble was. "Well, you mustn't worry. These things happen in more

places than you think. If you knew as much about life as I do, and

about your neighbors, you would not cry. Your girl will be all right.

She is very healthy. She can go away somewhere afterward, and people

will never know. Why should you worry about what your neighbors think.

It is not so uncommon as you imagine."

Mrs. Gerhardt marveled. He was such a wise man. It gave her a

little courage. As for Jennie, she listened to his advice with

interest and without fear. She wanted things not so much for herself

as for her child, and she was anxious to do whatever she was told. The

doctor was curious to know who the father was; when informed he lifted

his eyes. "Indeed," he commented. "That ought to be a bright

baby."

There came the final hour when the child was ushered into the

world. It was Doctor Ellwanger who presided, assisted by the mother,

who, having brought forth six herself, knew exactly what to do. There

was no difficulty, and at the first cry of the new-born infant there

awakened in Jennie a tremendous yearning toward it. This was

her child! It was weak and feeble--a little girl, and it

needed her care. She took it to her breast, when it had been bathed

and swaddled, with a tremendous sense of satisfaction and joy. This

was her child, her little girl. She wanted to live to be able to work

for it, and rejoiced, even in her weakness, that she was so strong.

Doctor Ellwanger predicted a quick recovery. He thought two weeks

would be the outside limit of her need to stay in bed. As a matter of

fact, in ten days she was up and about, as vigorous and healthy as

ever. She had been born with strength and with that nurturing quality

which makes the ideal mother.

The great crisis had passed, and now life went on much as before.

The children, outside of Bass, were too young to understand fully, and

had been deceived by the story that Jennie was married to Senator

Brander, who had died. They did not know that a child was coming until

it was there. The neighbors were feared by Mrs. Gerhardt, for they

were ever watchful and really knew all. Jennie would never have braved

this local atmosphere except for the advice of Bass, who, having

secured a place in Cleveland some time before, had written that he

thought when she was well enough it would be advisable for the whole

family to seek a new start in Cleveland. Things were flourishing

there. Once away they would never hear of their present neighbors and

Jennie could find something to do. So she stayed at home.