Ann Veronica: A Modern Love Story
He was suddenly resentful. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of
their situation. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried.
“I couldn’t help it. It was an impulse. I HAD to.”
“But it changes things. I thought you understood.”
“I had to,” she repeated. “I was sick of the make-believe. I don’t care!
I’m glad I did. I’m glad I did.”
“Look here!” said Capes, “what on earth do you want? What do you think
we can do? Don’t you know what men are, and what life is?--to come to me
and talk to me like this!”
“I know--something, anyhow. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of
shame. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it. I wanted
you to know. And now you know. And the fences are down for good. You
can’t look me in the eyes and say you don’t care for me.”
“I’ve told you,” he said.
“Very well,” said Ann Veronica, with an air of concluding the
discussion.
They walked side by side for a time.
“In that laboratory one gets to disregard these passions,” began Capes.
“Men are curious animals, with a trick of falling in love readily
with girls about your age. One has to train one’s self not to. I’ve
accustomed myself to think of you--as if you were like every other
girl who works at the schools--as something quite outside these
possibilities. If only out of loyalty to co-education one has to do
that. Apart from everything else, this meeting of ours is a breach of a
good rule.”
“Rules are for every day,” said Ann Veronica. “This is not every day.
This is something above all rules.”
“For you.”
“Not for you?”
“No. No; I’m going to stick to the rules.... It’s odd, but nothing
but cliche seems to meet this case. You’ve placed me in a very
exceptional position, Miss Stanley.” The note of his own voice
exasperated him. “Oh, damn!” he said.
She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with
himself.
“No!” he said aloud at last.
“The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t
possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. That, I think, is manifest.
You know, I’ve done no work at all this afternoon. I’ve been smoking
cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. We can’t be
lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends.”
“We are,” said Ann Veronica.
“You’ve interested me enormously....”
He paused with a sense of ineptitude. “I want to be your friend,” he
said. “I said that at the Zoo, and I mean it. Let us be friends--as near
and close as friends can be.”
Ann Veronica gave him a pallid profile.
“What is the good of pretending?” she said.
“We don’t pretend.”
“We do. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. Because I’m
younger than you.... I’ve got imagination.... I know what I am
talking about. Mr. Capes, do you think... do you think I don’t know
the meaning of love?”
Part 4
Capes made no answer for a time.
“My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length. “I’ve been
thinking--all the afternoon. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and
feeling there are bottled up too.... I feel a mixture of beast and
uncle. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. Every rule is against me--Why
did I let you begin this? I might have told--”
“I don’t see that you could help--”
“I might have helped--”
“You couldn’t.”
“I ought to have--all the same.
“I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. “You know about my
scandalous past?”
“Very little. It doesn’t seem to matter. Does it?”
“I think it does. Profoundly.”
“How?”
“It prevents our marrying. It forbids--all sorts of things.”
“It can’t prevent our loving.”
“I’m afraid it can’t. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a
fiercely abstract thing.”
“You are separated from your wife?”
“Yes, but do you know how?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why on earth--? A man ought to be labelled. You see, I’m separated from
my wife. But she doesn’t and won’t divorce me. You don’t understand
the fix I am in. And you don’t know what led to our separation. And, in
fact, all round the problem you don’t know and I don’t see how I could
possibly have told you before. I wanted to, that day in the Zoo. But I
trusted to that ring of yours.”
“Poor old ring!” said Ann Veronica.
“I ought never have gone to the Zoo, I suppose. I asked you to go. But
a man is a mixed creature.... I wanted the time with you. I wanted it
badly.”
“Tell me about yourself,” said Ann Veronica.
“To begin with, I was--I was in the divorce court. I was--I was a
co-respondent. You understand that term?”
Ann Veronica smiled faintly. “A modern girl does understand these terms.
She reads novels--and history--and all sorts of things. Did you really
doubt if I knew?”
“No. But I don’t suppose you can understand.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“To know things by name is one thing; to know them by seeing them and
feeling them and being them quite another. That is where life takes
advantage of youth. You don’t understand.”
“Perhaps I don’t.”
“You don’t. That’s the difficulty. If I told you the facts, I expect,
since you are in love with me, you’d explain the whole business as being
very fine and honorable for me--the Higher Morality, or something of
that sort.... It wasn’t.”
“I don’t deal very much,” said Ann Veronica, “in the Higher Morality, or
the Higher Truth, or any of those things.”
“Perhaps you don’t. But a human being who is young and clean, as you
are, is apt to ennoble--or explain away.”
“I’ve had a biological training. I’m a hard young woman.”
“Nice clean hardness, anyhow. I think you are hard. There’s
something--something ADULT about you. I’m talking to you now as though
you had all the wisdom and charity in the world. I’m going to tell you
things plainly. Plainly. It’s best. And then you can go home and think
things over before we talk again. I want you to be clear what you’re
really and truly up to, anyhow.”
“I don’t mind knowing,” said Ann Veronica.
“It’s precious unromantic.”
“Well, tell me.”
“I married pretty young,” said Capes. “I’ve got--I have to tell you this
to make myself clear--a streak of ardent animal in my composition. I
married--I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful
persons in the world. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is,
well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. If you met
her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. She has never
done a really ignoble thing that I know of--never. I met her when we
were both very young, as young as you are. I loved her and made love to
her, and I don’t think she quite loved me back in the same way.”
He paused for a time. Ann Veronica said nothing.
“These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. They leave
them out of novels--these incompatibilities. Young people ignore them
until they find themselves up against them. My wife doesn’t understand,
doesn’t understand now. She despises me, I suppose.... We married,
and for a time we were happy. She was fine and tender. I worshipped her
and subdued myself.”
He left off abruptly. “Do you understand what I am talking about? It’s
no good if you don’t.”
“I think so,” said Ann Veronica, and colored. “In fact, yes, I do.”
“Do you think of these things--these matters--as belonging to our Higher
Nature or our Lower?”
“I don’t deal in Higher Things, I tell you,” said Ann Veronica, “or
Lower, for the matter of that. I don’t classify.” She hesitated. “Flesh
and flowers are all alike to me.”
“That’s the comfort of you. Well, after a time there came a fever in
my blood. Don’t think it was anything better than fever--or a bit
beautiful. It wasn’t. Quite soon, after we were married--it was just
within a year--I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman
eight years older than myself.... It wasn’t anything splendid, you
know. It was just a shabby, stupid, furtive business that began between
us. Like stealing. We dressed it in a little music.... I want you to
understand clearly that I was indebted to the man in many small ways. I
was mean to him.... It was the gratification of an immense necessity.
We were two people with a craving. We felt like thieves. We WERE
thieves.... We LIKED each other well enough. Well, my friend found
us out, and would give no quarter. He divorced her. How do you like the
story?”
“Go on,” said Ann Veronica, a little hoarsely, “tell me all of it.”
“My wife was astounded--wounded beyond measure. She thought me--filthy.
All her pride raged at me. One particularly humiliating thing came
out--humiliating for me. There was a second co-respondent. I hadn’t
heard of him before the trial. I don’t know why that should be so
acutely humiliating. There’s no logic in these things. It was.”
“Poor you!” said Ann Veronica.
“My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me. She
could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation.
She had money of her own--much more than I have--and there was no need
to squabble about that. She has given herself up to social work.”
“Well--”
“That’s all. Practically all. And yet--Wait a little, you’d better have
every bit of it. One doesn’t go about with these passions allayed simply
because they have made wreckage and a scandal. There one is! The same
stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off
from its redeeming and guiding emotional side. A man has more freedom to
do evil than a woman. Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic
way, you know, I am a vicious man. That’s--that’s my private life. Until
the last few months. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. I haven’t
taken much account of it until now. My honor has been in my scientific
work and public discussion and the things I write. Lots of us are like
that. But, you see, I’m smirched. For the sort of love-making you think
about. I’ve muddled all this business. I’ve had my time and lost my
chances. I’m damaged goods. And you’re as clean as fire. You come with
those clear eyes of yours, as valiant as an angel....”
He stopped abruptly.
“Well?” she said.
“That’s all.”
“It’s so strange to think of you--troubled by such things. I didn’t
think--I don’t know what I thought. Suddenly all this makes you human.
Makes you real.”
“But don’t you see how I must stand to you? Don’t you see how it bars us
from being lovers--You can’t--at first. You must think it over. It’s all
outside the world of your experience.”
“I don’t think it makes a rap of difference, except for one thing. I
love you more. I’ve wanted you--always. I didn’t dream, not even in my
wildest dreaming, that--you might have any need of me.”
He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out
within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech.
They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station.
“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it
to-morrow. Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. As for loving
you, I do. I do--with all my heart. It’s no good hiding it any more.
I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that
parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. If
I were a clean, free man--We’ll have to talk of all these things. Thank
goodness there’s plenty of opportunity! And we two can talk. Anyhow, now
you’ve begun it, there’s nothing to keep us in all this from being the
best friends in the world. And talking of every conceivable thing. Is
there?”
“Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face.
“Before this there was a sort of restraint--a make-believe. It’s gone.”
“It’s gone.”
“Friendship and love being separate things. And that confounded
engagement!”
“Gone!”
They came upon a platform, and stood before her compartment.