She thought it a nonsense to speak of any kind of female emancipation until ‘this operation of childbirth, like other operations, shall be made painless and endurable’, and could not forgive ‘the unspeakable egotism and blindness of men of science who permit such atrocities when they can be remedied’. Kathleen, writing in 1932, expressed great relief that among the changes in women’s lot this suffering, at least, was no longer expected of them.
And after the frenzy, the agony, the two days and two nights of unspeakable horror, there was the baby. ‘It was unhurt by it all,’ wrote Kathleen. ‘It was perfect. I turned from the horror with joy to the tiny miraculous object.’ She had a brief, fleeting moment of jealousy that it was not her son, and then a moment of shock that it was not anybody’s son, but a little girl. But soon she was ‘tending and purring over the queer little atom with that love that passes all understanding, the love of a woman for a newborn babe’. The mother herself felt ‘this tremendous love, surpassing the love of men. I was stretched and bleeding, torn and helpless, while the little being sucked and howled. Life, life, life! Give me life! Oh, where was my Art? My Art or any Art? What did I care for Art! I felt I was a God, and superior to any artist.’
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