Ann Veronica: A Modern Love Story

their nature. I don’t suppose you could tell me even the derivation of suffrage if I asked you. No! not even the derivation! But the fashion’s been set and in it you must be.” The men at the reporter’s table lifted their eyebrows, smiled faintly, and leaned back to watch how she took her scolding. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. They had got all this down already--they heard the substance of it now for the fourteenth time. The stipendiary would have done it all very differently. She found presently she was out of the dock and confronted with the alternative of being bound over in one surety for the sum of forty pounds--whatever that might mean or a month’s imprisonment. “Second class,” said some one, but first and second were all alike to her. She elected to go to prison. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison--for Holloway had its quota already. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. Prison was beastly. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. Her hair was washed for her also. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. She sat on the edge of the bed--the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down--and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. She meditated profoundly through several enormous cold hours on all that had happened and all that she had done since the swirl of the suffrage movement had submerged her personal affairs.... Very slowly emerging out of a phase of stupefaction, these personal affairs and her personal problem resumed possession of her mind. She had imagined she had drowned them altogether. CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH THOUGHTS IN PRISON Part 1 The first night in prison she found it impossible to sleep. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. She kept opening her eyes and looking at it. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. She became aware that at regular intervals a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment.... Capes came back into her mind. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him. All through the night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes confronted her, and she argued with him about men and women. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. “For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time.” This couplet sprang into her mind from nowhere, and immediately begot an endless series of similar couplets that she began to compose and address to Capes. They came teeming distressfully through her aching brain: “A man can kick, his skirts don’t tear; A man scores always, everywhere. “His dress for no man lays a snare; A man scores always, everywhere. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. “Men’s waists are neither here nor there; A man scores always, everywhere. “A man can manage without hair; A man scores always, everywhere. “There are no males at men to stare; A man scores always, everywhere. “And children must we women bear-- “Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain. For a time she worried about that compulsory bath and cutaneous diseases. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired. “A man can smoke, a man can swear; A man scores always, everywhere.” She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace. She found herself talking to Capes in an undertone of rational admission. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted. “Women ought to be gentle and submissive persons, strong only in virtue and in resistance to evil compulsion. My dear--I can call you that here, anyhow--I know that. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white--the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked--until MY innocence--it’s smirched. “Smirched!... “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something--what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. You want me to be clean. You would want me to be clean, if you gave me a thought, that is.... “I wonder if you give me a thought.... “I’m not a good woman. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman--I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. I mean I’m not a good specimen of a woman. I’ve got a streak of male. Things happen to women--proper women--and all they have to do is to take them well. They’ve just got to keep white. But I’m always trying to make things happen. And I get myself dirty... “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed--the martyr-queen of men, the white mother.... You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me--of that sort--worth a rap. “I’m not gentle. Certainly not a gentlewoman. “I’m not coarse--no! But I’ve got no purity of mind--no real purity of mind. A good woman’s mind has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep out fallen thoughts.... “I wonder if there are any good women really. “I wish I didn’t swear. I do swear. It began as a joke.... It developed into a sort of secret and private bad manners. It’s got to be at last like tobacco-ash over all my sayings and doings.... “‘Go it, missie,’ they said; “kick aht!’ “I swore at that policeman--and disgusted him. Disgusted him! “For men policemen never blush; A man in all things scores so much... “Damn! Things are getting plainer. It must be the dawn creeping in. “Now here hath been dawning another blue day; I’m just a poor woman, please take it away. “Oh, sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!” Part 2 “Now,” said Ann Veronica, after the half-hour of exercise, and sitting on the uncomfortable wooden seat without a back that was her perch by day, “it’s no good staying here in a sort of maze. I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. I may as well think. I ought to be able to think things out. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?... “I wonder if many people HAVE thought things out? “Are we all just seizing hold of phrases and obeying moods? “It wasn’t so with old-fashioned people, they knew right from wrong; they had a clear-cut, religious faith that seemed to explain everything and give a rule for everything. We haven’t. I haven’t, anyhow. And it’s no good pretending there is one when there isn’t.... I suppose I believe in God.... Never really thought about Him--people don’t.. .. I suppose my creed is, ‘I believe rather indistinctly in God the Father Almighty, substratum of the evolutionary process, and, in a vein of vague sentimentality that doesn’t give a datum for anything at all, in Jesus Christ, His Son.’... “It’s no sort of good, Ann Veronica, pretending one does believe when one doesn’t.... “And as for praying for faith--this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. Aren’t I asking--asking plainly now?... “We’ve all been mixing our ideas, and we’ve got intellectual hot coppers--every blessed one of us.... “A confusion of motives--that’s what I am!... “There is this absurd craving for Mr. Capes--the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. “The first person you love, Ann Veronica, is yourself--get hold of that! The soul you have to save is Ann Veronica’s soul....” She knelt upon the floor of her cell and clasped her hands, and remained for a long time in silence. “Oh, God!” she said at last, “how I wish I had been taught to pray!” Part 3 She had some idea of putting these subtle and difficult issues to the chaplain when she was warned of his advent. But she had not reckoned with the etiquette of Canongate. She got up, as she had been told to do, at his appearance, and he amazed her by sitting down, according to custom, on her stool. He still wore his hat, to show that the days of miracles and Christ being civil to sinners are over forever. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. He classified her as he seated himself. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. Have you anything to ask me?” Ann Veronica readjusted her mind hastily. Her back stiffened. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. “Are you a special sort of clergyman,” she said, after a pause, and looking down her nose at him, “or do you go to the Universities?” “Oh!” he said, profoundly. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. So that Ann Veronica was not able to get the expert advice she certainly needed upon her spiritual state. Part 4 After a day or so she thought more steadily. She found herself in a phase of violent reaction against the suffrage movement, a phase greatly promoted by one of those unreasonable objections people of Ann Veronica’s temperament take at times--to the girl in the next cell to her own. She was a large, resilient girl, with a foolish smile, a still more foolish expression of earnestness, and a throaty contralto voice. She was noisy and hilarious and enthusiastic, and her hair was always abominably done. In the chapel she sang with an open-lunged gusto that