Letter to a Child Never Born Read online

  ‘I should be very glad to recognize extenuating circumstances and partly absolve her. But I see neither where nor how. Was she, perhaps, poor, floundering in economic circumstances that made her unable to support a child? Absolutely not. She recognizes that herself. Did she have to defend her honour because society would have persecuted her had she brought an illegitimate child into the world? Not even that. She belongs to a cultural establishment that not only would not have rejected her but would have made a heroine of her; and, in any case, she does not believe in the rules of society. She rejects God, her country, the family, marriage, the very principles of living together in society. Her crime has no extenuating aspects because she committed it in the name of a certain freedom: a personal, selfish freedom that takes no account of others and their rights. I have used the word rights. I have done so to forestall the word euthanasia. I’ve also done so to keep you from replying that, by letting this child die, she was exercising her right: the right to spare the community the burden of a sick and thus faulty individual. It is not for us to decide a priori who is to be faulty and who not. Homer was blind and Leopardi a hunchback. Had the Spartans thrown them from the rocks, had their mothers wearied of carrying them in their wombs, humanity today would be all the poorer. I refuse to accept that an Olympic champion is worth more than a crippled poet. As for the sacrifice of guarding the fœtus of an Olympic champion or a crippled poet in the womb, let me remind you that, whether we like it or not, that is the way the human race is propagated. And my verdict is Guilty!’

  I went numb at that shout. I closed my eyes, so I didn’t see the woman doctor as she got up to speak. When I looked up, she had already begun:

  ‘My colleague had forgotten to add that for every Homer a Hitler is born, that every conception is a challenge replete with splendid and horrible possibilities. I don’t know whether this child would have been a Joan of Arc or Hitler: when it died, it was only an unknown possibility. But I do know who this woman is: a reality that must not be destroyed. Between an unknown possibility and a reality that must not be destroyed, I choose the latter. My colleague seems obsessed by the cult of life. But he reserves that cult for those to come. He does not extend it to those who are already here. The cult of life is nothing but rhetoric. Even the remark a-child-is-not-a-decayed-tooth is nothing but a clever remark. I’m sure my colleague has been in the war and fired his gun and killed, forgetting all the while that neither at the age of twenty is a child a decayed tooth. I know no form of infanticide worse than war: war is mass infanticide postponed to the age of twenty. And yet he accepts it, in the name of any number of other cults and does not apply his continuum thesis to it. Even as a scientist I cannot take his continuum seriously: if I did, I should have to go into mourning every time an egg dies unfertilized, every time two hundred million sperm fail to arrive and pierce the membrane. What’s worse, I should have to go into mourning even when it does get fertilized, thinking of the one million nine hundred ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine sperm that die defeated by the single sperm that has pierced the membrane. They too are creatures of God. They too are alive and contain the elements that go to make up an individual. Has my colleague never observed them under a microscope? Has he never seen them swimming with their tails like a school of tadpoles? Has he never seen them toil and struggle against the pellucid zone, beating their heads desperately and knowing that to fail is to die? It’s an agonizing spectacle. By ignoring it, my colleague is scarcely generous to his own sex. I have no wish to indulge in easy irony, but since he believes so much in life, how can he let billions and billions of sperm die without doing anything about it? Is this withholding of assistance or a crime? A crime, obviously: he too should be inside that cage. If he doesn’t take his place there, and immediately, it means he has lied to us, that his sense of respectability is disturbed by those who say that the problem does not consist in letting the greatest number of individuals be born but in reducing as much as possible the misfortunes of those already in existence.

  ‘Still, I’m prepared to overlook my colleague’s insinuation of my complicity. At the most I can be accused of mistaken judgment, and not even a jury of life can hold me accountable for mistaken judgment. Besides it was nothing of the kind: it was simply a judgment and one for which I have no regrets. Pregnancy is not a punishment inflicted by nature to make you pay for the thrill of a moment. It’s a miracle that ought to unfold with the same spontaneity that blesses the trees and fish. If it does not proceed in a normal way, you cannot ask a woman to lie flat on her back in a bed for months like a paralytic. In other words, you cannot ask her to give up her activity, her personality, her freedom. Do you demand it of a man, who enjoys that thrill much more? Obviously my colleague does not acknowledge for women the same right he acknowledges for men: the right to dispose of their own bodies. Obviously he considers the man a bee who is allowed to flit from flower to flower, the woman a genital system good only for procreation, It happens to many in our profession: the gynaecologists’ favourite patients are fat, placid brood mares with no problems of freedom. But we aren’t here to judge the doctors. We’re here to judge a woman accused of premeditated homicide, carried out by thought instead of by instruments. I reject the accusation on specific grounds. The day I diagnosed the pregnancy as normal, I saw how greatly relieved she was. The day I perceived that the fœtus was dead, I saw how deeply she suffered. I said fœtus and not child: science permits me to make this distinction. We all know that a fœtus becomes a child only at the moment of viability, and that moment occurs in the ninth month; in exceptional cases, the seventh month. But let’s even admit that it was no longer a fœtus, that it was already a child: the crime would still not exist. My dear colleague, this woman did not desire the death of her child: she desired her own life. And unfortunately in certain cases our life is the death of another, the life of another is our death. We shoot at those who shoot at us. Written laws call it legitimate defence. If this woman unconsciously desired the death of her child, she did it in legitimate defence. Therefore, she is not guilty.’

  Then your father got up, and he was no longer crying. But as soon as he opened his mouth to speak, his chin began to tremble and the tears gushed forth again. Again he covered his eyes with his hands and fell back in his seat. ‘Then you don’t care to speak?’ the doctor said peevishly. Your father imperceptibly shook his head, as though answering no. ‘But you can’t relinquish your vote,’ the other insisted. Your father redoubled his sobs. ‘Your vote, please!’ Your father blew his nose without speaking. ‘Guilty or not?’ Your father gave a long sigh and murmured: ‘Guilty.’ At that point something terrible happened: my friend turned and spat in his face. And, while he sat there pale and wiping his face, she shouted: ‘Coward! Hypocritical coward! You who phoned her just so she’d get rid of it. You who went into hiding for two months like a deserter. You who went to see her only because I begged you to. That’s what you all do, isn’t it? You get scared and leave us alone and, when you do come back to us, it’s only in the name of paternity. For all that paternity costs you! A swaddled, ridiculous, fat stomach? Labour pains, the torture of nursing? The fruits of paternity are ladled out to you like a well-prepared soup or placed on the bed like an ironed shirt. You’ve nothing to do but give it a surname if you’re married, not even that if you’ve succeeded in getting away. The women has all the responsibility, all the suffering and insult. You call her a whore if she’s made love to you. There’s no male equivalent in the dictionary, and to invent one would be an error in semantics. For thousands of years you’ve been forcing your words on us, your precepts, your oppression. For thousands of years you’ve been making use of our bodies and giving us nothing back. For thousands of years you’ve imposed silence on us and consigned to us the job of being mothers. In every woman you look for a mother. You ask every woman to be a mother to you: even if she’s your daughter. You say we don’t have your muscles and then you exploit our labour even to get your shoes shined. You
say we don’t have your brains and then you exploit our intelligence even to administer the salary you bring home. Everlasting children, right up to old age you go on being children, needing to be fed, cleaned, served, advised, consoled, protected in your weaknesses and lazy habits. I despise you. And I despise myself for not being able to do without you, for not shouting at you more often: we’re tired of being mothers to you. We’re tired of this word, which you’ve sanctified in your own interest, your own selfishness. I ought to spit on you too, Doctor. All you see in a woman is a uterus and two ovaries, never a brain. You see a pregnant woman and think: ‘First she has a good time and then she comes to me.’ Haven’t you ever had a good time, Doctor? Haven’t you ever forgotten about the cult of life? You defend it so well at the cellular level that one might say you were envious of what your colleague calls the miracle of maternity. But no, I doubt it. That miracle would be a sacrifice for you. Being a man, you couldn’t face it. We’re not putting one woman on trial here, Doctor: we’re putting all women on trial. And so I have the right to turn it around. Get one thing into your head, Doctor: maternity is not a moral duty. It’s not even a biological fact. It’s a conscious choice. This woman had made a conscious choice, and she didn’t want to kill anyone. It’s you who wanted to kill her, Doctor, by denying her even the use of her own intellect. That’s why you should be the one in the cage, and not for withholding assistance from billions of stupid spermatozoa but for attempted femicide. In view of all this, it goes without saying that the accused is not guilty.’

  Then my boss got up with an expression of false embarrassment. He said he didn’t know how to pronounce an opinion, since he felt like an outsider on this jury. The others were linked to the defendant by professional or emotional ties that included the child; he, on the other hand, was merely her employer. As such, he could only rejoice in the fact that things had turned out the way they had: even with every wish to be magnanimous, he had always considered that pregnancy an obstacle. Or worse, a catastrophe that would cost him a good deal of money. Just think of the salary she would have to be paid, according to an absurd and objectionable law, even in her months of inactivity. The child had been wise, wiser than the mother. Moreover, by dying, it had protected the name of the firm. What would the public have thought on seeing one of his employees, unmarried to boot, with a newborn baby in her arms? He wasn’t ashamed to admit it: had the woman accepted his offer, he would have helped her to get rid of the untimely infant. But he wasn’t only a businessman, he was a man. And the jurors who had preceded him, the two male jurors, of course, had aroused second thoughts in his mind. The doctor through logic and morality, the child’s father through grief. On reflection, he could not help aligning himself with the reasoning of the former and the sorrow of the latter. A child belongs in equal measure to the father and the mother: if a crime had been committed, it was a question of a double crime, since, in addition to eliminating the life of an infant, it had shattered the life of an adult man. Of course, it was necessary to decide whether the crime had been committed or not: but were there any doubts on that score? Was any more crushing proof needed than the testimony offered by the doctor? The doctor had been too indulgent in speaking of a general selfishness. He, the woman’s employer, could disclose the specific motive and reason. The defendant had been afraid that the famous trip would be assigned to a rival colleague. That was why she had jumped out of bed and departed, with no concern for the life she carried in her womb. With no compassion. Let her ally go ahead and spit, let her go ahead and insult him. He found the defendant guilty.

  Then my eyes sought out my father and mother. And in silence I implored them, for they were my last hope for salvation. They answered me with a disheartened look. They seemed exhausted, much older than when the trial had begun. Their heads hung forward as though their necks couldn’t support the weight, their bodies trembled as though they were cold, and everything in them gave way to a sadness that set them apart from the others, uniting them in a single despair. They held each other’s hands for support. Hand in hand, they asked permission to remain seated. Permission was granted, and then I saw them confer: to decide, I suppose, who would speak first. It was he who spoke first. He said: ‘I have, had two sorrows. The first sorrow was in knowing that the child existed, and the second in knowing it didn’t exist any more. I hope I’ll be spared a third sorrow: seeing my daughter convicted. I don’t know how these things happened. None of you can know since none can enter into the souls of others. But this is my daughter, and to a father his children are not guilty. Never.’ Then my mother spoke. She said: ‘She’s my little girl. She’ll always be my little girl. And my little girl can’t do anything bad. When she wrote to me that she was expecting a child, I wrote back: ‘If you’ve decided on it, that means it’s right.’ If she had written to me that she didn’t want it, I would have answered the same thing. It’s not for us to judge, nor for you. You have no right to accuse or defend her, because you’re not inside her mind and heart. None of your testimony is worth anything. There’s only one witness here who could explain what happened. And this witness is the child who cannot …’ Then the others interrupted her, in chorus: ‘The child, the child!’ And I seized the bars of the cage, shouting: ‘Not the child! Not the child!’ And it was while I was shouting like this that …

  * * *

  Yes, it was while I was shouting like this that I heard your voice: ‘Mother!’ And I felt a sense of loss – of emptiness – because it was the first time anyone had called me Mother, and because it was the first time I was hearing your voice, and it wasn’t the voice of a child. It was the voice of an adult, of a man. And I thought: ‘He was a man!’ Then I thought: ‘He was a man, he’ll condemn me.’ Finally I thought: ‘I want to see him!’ And my eyes searched everywhere, in the cage, outside the cage, among the benches, beyond the benches, on the floor, on the walls. But they didn’t find you. You weren’t there. There was only the quiet of a tomb. And in this quiet of a tomb your voice was heard again: ‘Mother! Let me speak, Mother. Don’t be afraid. There’s no need to be afraid of the truth. Besides, it’s already been said. Each of them has spoken a truth, and you know it: it was you who taught me that truth is made up of many different truths. Those who have accused you are right and so are those who have defended you, those who have absolved you and those who have condemned you. But those judgments don’t count. Your father and mother are right in saying one can’t enter into the souls of others and that the only witness is myself: Only I, Mother, can say that you killed me without killing me. Only I can explain how you did it and why. I hadn’t asked to be born, Mother. No one asks for it. In nothingness there is no will. There is no choice. There’s nothingness, that’s all. When we’re wrenched away and we realize we’ve started out, we don’t even wonder who wanted it and whether it’s good or bad. We simply accept and then wait to see if we like it. I found very early that I like it. Even through your fear, your hesitation, you were so good in convincing me that to be born is beautiful and to escape from nothingness a joy. Once you’re born, you mustn’t get discouraged, you said: not even at suffering, not even at dying. If one dies, it means one was born, that one emerged from nothingness, and nothing is worse than nothingness: the worst is having to say that one has not existed. Your faith seduced me, your arrogance. It really seemed like the arrogance of those remote times when life had exploded in the way you told me. I believed you, Mother. Along with the water in which I was immersed, I drank in your every thought. And your every thought had the flavour of a revelation. Could it have happened otherwise? My body was only a plan that developed in you, by virtue of you; my mind was only a promise that was realized in you, by virtue of you. All I learned was what you gave me; what you didn’t give me I couldn’t know; my drafts of light and awareness were you. If you were challenging everything so as to lead me into life, I thought life must truly be a sublime gift.

  ‘But then your uncertainties and doubts increased, and you started wavering be
tween flattery and threats, tenderness and resentment, courage and fear. To wash away your fear one day you bestowed on me the decision to exist, Mother. You claimed you had obeyed an order of mine, not your own choice. You actually accused me of being your master: you my victim, not I yours. And you went on to reproach me, blaming me for making you suffer. You even reached the point of challenging me by explaining what life was like: a trap devoid of freedom, of happiness, of love. A well of slavery and violence that I wouldn’t be able to get out of. You never tired of showing me that there’s no salvation in the ant heap, that no one can escape its sinister laws. Magnolia trees are there for women to be flung down on, chocolate to be eaten by those who don’t need it; tomorrow is first a man shot for a piece of bread and then it’s a bag of dirty underpants. Your sad fairy tales always ended with a question: Was it really time for me to emerge from my peaceful nest and come forth? You never told me that one can pick magnolia blossoms without dying, that one can eat chocolate without humiliation, that tomorrow can be better than yesterday. And when you realized it, it was too late: I was already committing suicide. Don’t cry, Mother: I realize you did it for love, to prepare me for the day when I would first be struck by the horror of existence- It’s not true, Mother, that you don’t believe in love. You believe in it so much that you torture yourself because you see so little of it, and because what little you see is never perfect. You’re made of love. But is it enough to believe in love if you don’t believe in life? No sooner did I see that you didn’t believe in life, that you were making such an effort to live there and bring me to live there, than I allowed myself my first and last choice: that of refusing to be born, denying you the moon for the second time. By then I could do so, Mother. My mind was no longer your mind: I had one of my own. A small one, perhaps, only the outline of one, but still able to draw this conclusion: if life is a torment, what’s the use of it? You had never told me why one is born. And you had been honest enough not to deceive me with the legends you who are born have invented to console yourselves: the omnipotent God who creates in his image and likeness, the search for good, the race to paradise. Your only explanation was that you too had been born, and before you your mother, before your mother, your mother’s mother: all the way back into a yesterday whose traces were lost. In short, one was born because others had been born so that others would be born: in a proliferation similar to oneself. If it weren’t to happen this way, you told me one evening, the human species would be wiped out. Or rather it wouldn’t exist. But why should it exist, why must it exist, Mother? What’s the purpose? I’ll tell you, Mother: an expectation of death, of nothingness. In my universe, which you called the egg, the purpose existed: it was to be born. But in your world the purpose is only to die: life is a death sentence. I don’t see why I should have had to emerge from nothingness just to return to nothingness.’