Une Visite a la Maternité

CHRONICLE OF CHARITY
A VISIT TO THE MATERNITY HOSPITAL
INAUGURATION OF THE NEW BUILDINGS

La Femme, January 1, 1894, pages 1-3

May the readers of La Femme kindly allow us to simply recount to them what took place in Paris on November 23rd at the Hospice de la Maternité.

The occasion was the inauguration of a new pavilion designed to accommodate frail, infirm, or premature newborns brought in from far and wide.

The guests—men and women alike, and quite numerous—first gathered in the establishment’s modest parlor. This room had been charmingly transformed for the occasion, adorned with green plants pleasantly intermingled with bouquets of various chrysanthemums, creating a delightful effect.

This engaging ceremony was presided over by Mr. Tarnier, the former physician of the Maternity Hospital; gathered at his side were Mr. Peyron, Director of Public Assistance; Mr. Strauss, a City Councilor; Dr. Pinard; and several other medical luminaries.

In moving terms, the president expressed his gratitude to the entire intelligent and devoted staff of the hospice, and most particularly to Mrs. Henry, whose devotion and selflessness have long stood the test of time.

We would have liked very much to reproduce Mr. Peyron’s remarks, but they have not reached us. From the applause they elicited, however, we can surmise the depth of the sympathy they conveyed.
Mr. Strauss then took the floor:

“The creation owed to Mrs. Henry demonstrates what feminine initiative can achieve—provided that initiative is intelligent, practical, and well-supported. While men bring a passionate solicitude to works of public assistance, French women are the very first to dedicate themselves to them.” “We do not make sufficient use of this female contribution,” adds Mr. Strauss, “nor do we yet accord—in our country—to maternal assistance the care it entails and deserves.”

What a touching invention is the Incubator, devised by Dr. Tarnier! An incubator that Mrs. Henry has just modified, improved, and transformed in such an eminently intelligent manner.

The original incubator—as conceived by Dr. Tarnier—was a box made of fir wood, flawed in that its planks would often warp; moreover, it would sometimes happen that the poor little occupant entrusted to its care would be joined by highly unpleasant parasites—creatures almost impossible to eradicate completely. Mrs. Henry envisioned something better, and her vision has now taken tangible form: Today, the incubators at the Maternité are beautiful glass enclosures, framed by bronze-iron struts and supported by four legs—also made of iron; they are easy to clean and harbor no parasites.

In a warm, earnest voice, Mme Henry (Chief Midwife at the Maternité)—specifically charged with overseeing this new department, of which she was the most ardent instigator—simply outlined the reasons—or rather, the needs—that necessitated its creation.

“Space was lacking in the old wards; and besides, who does not know that a drop in body temperature and a loss of weight are detrimental to a newborn? These two ills required a remedy; and how could they be remedied, if not through the incubator?” Mme Henry can, quite rightly, take pride in the improvements—nay, the refinements—she has conceived and implemented at the Maternité.

With the resources available in the past, it was possible to save premature infants in only a meager proportion: 10 percent.

Following the invention of the Tarnier incubator, this figure rose to 33 percent; and now—based on trials conducted since last July—we can be assured of a survival rate that is nearly double that amount.
And now, dear readers, let us set off on an exploratory journey through the new buildings constructed along the Boulevard de Port-Royal—buildings whose cost, we are told, stands at approximately 60,000 francs.

f we struggled to catch every word of the speeches, what a delightful recompense we found during the tour itself! We followed Mme Henry closely, eager to hear the explanations we sought directly from her lips. With what graciousness—one might even say with what tenderness—she offered those explanations! And with what benevolence she answered the questions addressed to her by several people at once! There is nothing more curious, more charming, or more delightful than the special sight that greets the eye upon entering the first room—the dormitory.

To the right stands a row of small wire cribs—each fitted with a soft eiderdown in a loose pink-and-white cover—in which lie infants born prematurely, yet already robust enough to live just like any other child. You look for the blissful babe resting within this delightful cradle: he is draped in white muslin that shields him from drafts and dust; you lift it gently, a slight movement pushes back the covering, and… there he is, stretching out and fluttering his eyes open as if to bid you welcome; Soon he lets out a soft cry, repeated in chorus by his little neighbors.

To the left, a row of glass cages, the incubators, resembling so many tiny aquariums, where the unfortunate little ones born prematurely are kept, waiting until they, in turn, can breathe ordinary air.
One of these little beings particularly catches our eye with his pallor. He was born at six and a half months and seems quite content with the regime to which he is subjected. His woolen swaddling clothes with wide sky-blue borders and his pretty crocheted vest, in the same shade, further accentuating the whiteness of his complexion, make him look like a wax doll.

Incidentally, the uniform is the same for all of them. We overhear a thank you addressed to a lady, the generous donor of all the little vests, about forty of them. The little girls have a small pink bow on their heads. All are bareheaded. Hot water pipes maintain a constant temperature of 33°C in the room, and the swaddling balls, placed under the small mattresses of the incubators, are changed three times every twenty-four hours.

On the wall, in place of each child, is the usual small sign: a registration number indicating the child’s name, their weight each day, whether rising or falling; their temperature, and several other small, intimate details to which many mothers (especially in the working class) rarely think to pay attention.

Let us now enter the second room, called the “changing room.” Here again, new subjects for observation and admiration.

All around the room, a kind of iron dresser on which are spread small, very flat cushions or mattresses of gray linen, filled with fine straw. It is on these that the child is placed to be swaddled or unswaddled; In this way, no awkward movements, no delays, therefore less boredom for the dear baby who is changed every five hours, a supervisor tells us.

In this same room, about a dozen young women, dressed in gray dresses of a special and singularly practical design, and covered with a white cape, look at the visitors and eagerly answer the questions posed to them. They are the wet nurses, former residents of the establishment that chose them and took them on. Beside them, or in their arms, is their own chubby, plump baby, with wide, astonished eyes. A few of them are running around the room. Everyone seems happy.

Here comes one—then two, then three—passing into the first room and returning immediately, each bearing her little burden. It is feeding time—every three hours. The cries cease, and this whole little world performs its task admirably.

We really ought to be thinking about taking our leave, yet we haven’t seen everything, and the unknown beckons to us.

We continue our tour through the wards. Here is a large room, much like the first. Inside stand large beds intended for the mothers, with—right beside them—a soft little nest awaiting the one yet to arrive.
This room is not yet occupied.

Next, a sort of laboratory. On a table sit several rows of tiny, microscopic glass bottles, intended to hold the sterilized milk prepared right here in this room.

Finally, a washroom, a refectory, and then the garden. Our tour is complete.

And yet, our curiosity is not entirely satisfied. We had heard mention of a small carriage—fitted with individual compartments for the babies—used to take them out for a stroll whenever the weather is fine. But… it is evening; there are no strolls to be had. Tucked away beneath a shed, we discover a small cart, carefully covered over. This must be it! And the donkey—the one meant to pull this novel vehicle—where is he?

Safely sheltered, no doubt, just like all the little inhabitants of this Maternity Home. Lucky donkey! And above all, lucky children—whom enlightened and tender care strives to snatch back from the jaws of death. You shall live! You shall grow up to become valiant soldiers, good mothers, the glory of the nation, and the sacred, pure guardians of the domestic hearth.

Our thanks to you, noble and valiant woman, who—working quietly in the shadows—accomplishes a work of such magnitude. If today you proclaim that life is a right inherent to all, you have long since demonstrated that this right constitutes the noblest of titles of nobility when—as you do—one places it at the service of suffering humanity.

— M.-A. Doy

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Last Updated on 04/10/26