Whoring was not something one discussed in polite society—but there were many things that were not discussed, or at least not un-til the ladies had risen from the table.Then, amongst one’s own, it might be murmured: one did not necessarily have need of such creatures oneself, but it was scarcely startling that there were those who did. It was one of the great benefits of living in a society in which the poor were so very poor: servants, workers and women were all cheap and plentiful—a circumstance which made most men instinctively resistant to social reform, just as most women were instinctively supportive of it.
Many of my
lunchtime conversations with Emily were about this very subject—reform, that is: for her, modernity was synonymous with a social conscience, and she took it for granted that, as a poet, I was as keen to change the world as she. Was it not Shelley who had said that poets were the unacknowledged legislators of the world? Had not Byron taken on the armies of the Turk?
I dared not tell her that, whilst I might admire Byron’s haircut and Shelley’s flowing shirts, their political consciences were something alien to me. Mine was a generation of frippery and baubles: we sought only for “experiences”; our one aim was to “pass swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite.” But I was happy to make it seem to Emily as if I was more of a radical than I really was.What can I say? I wanted her good opinion, and I thought that if I revealed myself to be uninterested in such matters, she would think me superficial and shallow—which, of course, I was, although the same superficiality which had seemed so gloriously decadent at Oxford was now starting to feel a little
jejeune.
I did try to tell her. When she first raised the matter of Social Evil, I replied that I had no interest in politics, adding: “In this, surely, I am like most politicians.”
She did not respond, although her face bore a pained expression.
I said airily, “Wealth, of course, would be quite wasted on the poor. One only has to look at the ghastly things the lower classes spend their money on to be thankful that no one has given them any more of it.”
She sighed deeply.
“And I cannot think why any woman would want the Vote, when one sees what ghastly people already have it. One would approve so much more of democracy were it not so frightfully com-mon.”
“Robert,” she said,“do you ever speak seriously?”
“Only when I care absolutely nothing for the subject under discussion.”
“I don’t believe you do so even then,” she muttered.
“I shall take that as a compliment, dear Emily. How I should hate to get an undeserved reputation for sincerity.”
“Robert, shut
up.
” I fell silent.
“These epigrams. Not only are they deeply unoriginal, they are barely even amusing. I cannot help feeling that they are nothing but a verbal tic or habit—a way of showing off, with no more sense to them than that awful croaking noise the Frog has learned to make.”
I opened my mouth. “Wait,” she said, holding up her hand. “You are about to say that sense is greatly overrated: what is needed in the world is more nonsense; or that all epigrams are meaningless: that is why they are so profound; or that showing off is the basis of all art: in that lies its genius; or—or—some other silly construction that sounds impressive but actually has no more wit or sense to it than a fart.”
I stared at her.“Did you just say—?”
“ ‘Fart.’ Yes. Did you really imagine that a modern girl wouldn’t
know such a word?” She pushed her chin defiantly in the air. “Well, I shall fart at you every time you make an epigram.”
“You will not!”
“I will.You think I don’t know how to fart, perhaps? Believe me, my sisters and I are quite expert at it.”
“What an extraordinary girl you are.”
“If it will cure you of epigrams I would do much worse.” “You would risk being accused of immodesty?”
“Not something that you have ever been accused of, I am sure.” “True,” I said thoughtfully. “Yet in a woman immodesty has
nothing to do with boastfulness, only with indelicacy.”
There was a sound like a wet raspberry from Miss Pinker’s direction. I stared at her.“Did you just—?”
“I caught a distinct whiff of epigram.”
“My epigrams, I think you’ll find, smell of violets and roses, whereas—”There was another eruption.“Good God!”
“I mean it, Robert. Every time you pontificate, I shall flatulate.” “Do you know, that’s rather—”
“And now you had better open a window,” she interrupted,“or my father will wonder why his finest Java smells like a privy.”
And so
I learned not to epigrammatize, and to speak seriously on serious matters. But of course, it was the speaking seriously that was the pose; the epigrams, for all their shallowness, were much closer to my real nature. Still, who would not want to wax lyrical about Reform, when those sparkling gray eyes were drinking in your every word? Who would not pretend to care about the Poor, when your reward was such a smile? And who would not agree that something must be done about Fallen Women, when the woman who was talking with such passion on the subject was causing you to become so very aroused with every soft syllable that shaped her pretty lips?
Does it seem strange to you that I could pass so easily from flirtation with Emily Pinker in Limehouse in the afternoon, to fornication in the evening with a Covent Garden whore? But the two were as different as breakfast and dinner, east and west.The fornication meant far less than the flirtation, but at the same time it was far more necessary—oh, I can’t explain this: all I know is that, were it not for the prostitutes, I would surely have embarrassed myself even more than I did during the flirting afternoons.
In any case, there was less time for flirting now: Miss Pinker had me attending Meetings. Oh, how she loved a Meeting! There were Meetings of the Society for the Promotion of International Civilization, Meetings of the Fabians, Meetings of the Society for the Dissolution of the Contagious Diseases Act ...I began to suspect, in fact, that I was being Improved. There were Midnight Meetings at which we dispensed sweet tea to prostitutes—I found a rather wonderful fuck that way, as it happens, a young moll with the sweetest smile: I quietly followed her onto the street, and we had a quick ten-shilling stand-up in an alleyway before I strolled back to rejoin my fair companions. There were luncheon Meetings of the Theosophists. There were Temperance dinners, at which we discussed the need to raise the tax on gin while cradling glasses of fine claret. There was even a deeply uncomfortable meeting at the Fellowship of the New Life, where a strange creature with a high, fluting voice talked incessantly about the Transitional Sex, the fu-ture of Homogenic Love, and other forms of Inversion. I was puce with embarrassment the entire two hours, but to my amazement Emily and the other ladies seemed hardly more perturbed than if he—she? it?—had been discussing a trip to the seaside.
At some of
these meetings there was much earnest discussion about what a Rational Marriage might look like. People often quoted with approval those lines of Shelley’s in the
Epipsychidion:
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion....
I noticed, however, that the men and women tended to take it different ways—the women wanted equality and independence, by which they meant equal status with their husbands, while the men wanted equality and independence, by which they meant something less like a marriage and more like the freedom of being a bachelor. For my part, I offered no opinions. If pressed, one could always quote Shelley.
Emily’s own
views on marriage were rather more complicated. I remember an argument we had as we were walking back to the of-fice after one of these meetings. I cannot now recall what started it—I suppose I had made a flippant remark about the speaker. She turned to me and said crossly, “Do you actually believe that, Robert, or is it just another pose?”
“It is one of my most strongly held opinions, and I shall certainly have discarded it by teatime.”
“The question,” she said, ignoring me, “is whether men and women should have the same political rights.”
I recalled now that we were talking about that old chestnut, votes for women, and with a sigh I prepared to be serious. “But men and women have separate spheres—”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted.“The woman has the drawing room, and the man has politics and business and the whole of the rest of the world.That isn’t equality—it’s like saying the prisoner has the freedom of her cell.”
“But any woman has to accept the authority of her husband—”
“Why?”
I must have looked confused, because she added,“Oh, it’s never talked about, of course.We’re supposed to say suffrage can’t possibly undermine a man’s right to be master of his own home. It’s just that no one can give me a good reason why men have to be masters in the first place.”
“But look at men’s achievements—”
“That’s a circular argument. Men have had the opportunities.” “But your argument is circular too, my dear Emily.You’re say-ing that women would have achieved more if they had been given the opportunity, yes?” She nodded.“So why did men have the opportunities in the first place? Because they took them, that’s why.”
For some reason this incensed her even further. “So it all boils down to brute force and rape?”
“Rape? Where does rape come into it?”
“Because by
your
definition, marriage and rape are one and the same.Whereas
I
happen to believe that men and women can love each other fully only when they are equals.”
“But men and women are different,” I pointed out. “The fact that we’re having this extraordinary argument proves it.”
She stopped and stamped her foot on the pavement.“And if we were married, you would be able to tell me that as my husband you were right, and that would be an end of it?”
“I can tell you I’m right now. I don’t see you agreeing.” “Because you haven’t proved your point.” She was flushed and
angry.“And I suppose you think I shouldn’t have a job?” “Emily—how did we get onto jobs? I thought we were talking
about votes. And then somehow we got onto marriage—” “Don’t you see—it’s all the same?”And then she would not talk
to me, and walked on in a furious silence.
I lit a cigarette and caught up with her. “I’d offer you one,” I said,“but . . .”
“. . . But a woman shouldn’t smoke in the street?” “I was going to say, but you’re already fuming.”
Later,
when she had calmed down, I said to her, “I’m sorry we quarreled.”
“We didn’t quarrel, Robert.We argued.” “Is there a difference?”
“As my father would say, a distinction.Arguing is a pleasure and quarreling isn’t.” She sighed.“The limitations of a woman’s rights in marriage is a subject on which I tend to become heated. It is a long-standing disagreement I am having with my father. He is completely modern in every way but that. I think it may have something to do with not having a wife—he feels that choosing, or at least approving, our husbands is his last responsibility toward us.”
“What sort of husband does he intend for you?”
“That’s the problem. In his head he wants someone modern— someone like himself, a man of industry. But in his heart he wants someone with connections and social standing.”
“It’s a rare combination. And you? What sort of man will capture your heart?”
She rolled her eyes.“Robert!” “What?”
“ ‘Capture your heart’—you sound like something from a novel. No one’s going to capture any bit of me, thank you very much. My hand, and my affection, will be bestowed on someone . . .” She thought for a moment. “Someone whom I can ad-mire. Someone who has already achieved something in the world, and intends to go on achieving things
—great
things. Someone who can see what’s wrong, but who also knows how to put it right; someone with so much passion he can make other people see things his way simply by speaking—I always imagine him with
an Irish accent, actually, but that may just be because I know he will have very determined views on Home Rule. He’s probably the sort of person who doesn’t have much time for women, but that doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to sit around being decorative in any case. I intend to be his helpmeet, you see, and although no one else will ever know it, privately he will always acknowledge that he couldn’t have done any of it without me.”
“Ah,” I said. It is always disconcerting to realize that someone else finds admirable exactly the sort of person one would least like to be.“And what if you can’t find that man?”
“Then I shall just have to settle for someone who captures my heart,” she answered, linking her arm in mine.
“Sure, and dat’s a very foine way of tinking.”
“Why are you speaking in that ridiculous Irish accent, Robert?”
“Air, no reason.”
[
twel ve
]
Understanding coffee’s flavour is further complicated by the intricate method by which the human palate responds to multiple sensations.
—
lingle
, The Coffee Cupper’s Handbook
*
mily stands in her father’s offi , looking down on
Robert as he leaves Pinker’s for the evening. She continues to watch until he is out of sight, leaning progressively closer to the window so that she can follow him down Narrow Street.When he has gone she finds that her breath has left a coffee-scented blossom
on the glass.
It is just one of many things she would not have noticed a few weeks ago.
Without thinking she touches the tip of her tongue to the cool, hard glass.The blossom acquires a tongue-tip-shaped pistil in its center.With the end of her finger she traces four petals, then a stalk. When she rubs it out, the side of her hand squeaks on the windowpane.
Something is happening to her. She is not sure whether to be