Part 2

The next morning was as dark and foggy as if it was mid-November instead

of early March. Ann Veronica woke rather later than usual, and lay awake

for some minutes before she remembered a certain resolution she

had taken in the small hours. Then instantly she got out of bed and

proceeded to dress.

She did not start for the Imperial College. She spent the morning up

to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she

tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and

went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. She turned a

resolute face southward.

She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for

Chancery Lane. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those

heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the

lane. She studied the painted names of firms and persons and enterprises

on the wall, and discovered that the Women’s Bond of Freedom occupied

several contiguous suites on the first floor. She went up-stairs and

hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which

professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. She

opened one and found herself in a large untidy room set with chairs that

were a little disarranged as if by an overnight meeting. On the walls

were notice-boards bearing clusters of newspaper slips, three or four

big posters of monster meetings, one of which Ann Veronica had attended

with Miss Miniver, and a series of announcements in purple copying-ink,

and in one corner was a pile of banners. There was no one at all in this

room, but through the half-open door of one of the small apartments

that gave upon it she had a glimpse of two very young girls sitting at a

littered table and writing briskly.

She walked across to this apartment and, opening the door a little

wider, discovered a press section of the movement at work.

“I want to inquire,” said Ann Veronica.

“Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen,

with an impatient indication of the direction.

In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with

a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening

letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered

industriously at a typewriter. The tired woman looked up in inquiring

silence at Ann Veronica’s diffident entry.

“I want to know more about this movement,” said Ann Veronica.

“Are you with us?” said the tired woman.

“I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. I want very much to do

something for women. But I want to know what you are doing.”

The tired woman sat still for a moment. “You haven’t come here to make a

lot of difficulties?” she asked.

“No,” said Ann Veronica, “but I want to know.”

The tired woman shut her eyes tightly for a moment, and then looked with

them at Ann Veronica. “What can you do?” she asked.

“Do?”

“Are you prepared to do things for us? Distribute bills? Write letters?

Interrupt meetings? Canvass at elections? Face dangers?”

“If I am satisfied--”

“If we satisfy you?”

“Then, if possible, I would like to go to prison.”

“It isn’t nice going to prison.”

“It would suit me.”

“It isn’t nice getting there.”

“That’s a question of detail,” said Ann Veronica.

The tired woman looked quietly at her. “What are your objections?” she

said.

“It isn’t objections exactly. I want to know what you are doing; how you

think this work of yours really does serve women.”

“We are working for the equal citizenship of men and women,” said the

tired woman. “Women have been and are treated as the inferiors of men,

we want to make them their equals.”

“Yes,” said Ann Veronica, “I agree to that. But--”

The tired woman raised her eyebrows in mild protest.

“Isn’t the question more complicated than that?” said Ann Veronica.

“You could have a talk to Miss Kitty Brett this afternoon, if you liked.

Shall I make an appointment for you?”

Miss Kitty Brett was one of the most conspicuous leaders of the

movement. Ann Veronica snatched at the opportunity, and spent most

of the intervening time in the Assyrian Court of the British Museum,

reading and thinking over a little book upon the feminist movement the

tired woman had made her buy. She got a bun and some cocoa in the little

refreshment-room, and then wandered through the galleries up-stairs,

crowded with Polynesian idols and Polynesian dancing-garments, and all

the simple immodest accessories to life in Polynesia, to a seat among

the mummies. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her

mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than

usual. It generalized everything she put to it.

“Why should women be dependent on men?” she asked; and the question was

at once converted into a system of variations upon the theme of “Why

are things as they are?”--“Why are human beings viviparous?”--“Why are

people hungry thrice a day?”--“Why does one faint at danger?”

She stood for a time looking at the dry limbs and still human face of

that desiccated unwrapped mummy from the very beginnings of social life.

It looked very patient, she thought, and a little self-satisfied. It

looked as if it had taken its world for granted and prospered on that

assumption--a world in which children were trained to obey their

elders and the wills of women over-ruled as a matter of course. It was

wonderful to think this thing had lived, had felt and suffered. Perhaps

once it had desired some other human being intolerably. Perhaps some one

had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek

with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living

hands. But all of that was forgotten. “In the end,” it seemed to be

thinking, “they embalmed me with the utmost respect--sound spices chosen

to endure--the best! I took my world as I found it. THINGS ARE SO!”