The Odd Women (Feminist Classic). George GissingЧитать онлайн книгу.
dream of marrying unless reason urges them as strongly as inclination.’
Miss Barfoot laughed.
‘Pray, who ever distinguished in such a case between reason and inclination?’
‘You are most unusually sceptical today,’ said Rhoda, with an impatient laugh.
‘No, my dear. We happen to be going to the root of things, that’s all. Perhaps it’s as well to do so now and then. Oh, I admire you immensely, Rhoda. You are the ideal adversary of those care-nothing and believe-nothing women who keep the world back. But don’t prepare for yourself a woeful disillusion.’
‘Take the case of Winifred Haven,’ urged Miss Nunn. ‘She is a good-looking and charming girl, and some one or other will want to marry her some day, no doubt.’
‘Forgive my interrupting you. There is great doubt. She has no money but what she can earn, and such girls, unless they are exceptionally beautiful, are very likely indeed to remain unsought.’
‘Granted. But let us suppose she has an offer. Should you fear for her prudence?’
‘Winifred has much good sense,’ admitted the other. ‘I think she is in as little danger as any girl we know. But it wouldn’t startle me if she made the most lamentable mistake. Certainly I don’t fear it. The girls of our class are not like the uneducated, who, for one reason or another, will marry almost any man rather than remain single. They have at all events personal delicacy. But what I insist upon is, that Winifred would rather marry than not. And we must carefully bear that fact in mind. A strained ideal is as bad, practically, as no ideal at all. Only the most exceptional girl will believe it her duty to remain single as an example and support to what we call the odd women; yet that is the most human way of urging what you desire. By taking up the proud position that a woman must be altogether independent of sexual things, you damage your cause. Let us be glad if we put a few of them in the way of living single with no more discontent than an unmarried man experiences.’
‘Surely that’s an unfortunate comparison,’ said Rhoda coldly. ‘What man lives in celibacy? Consider that unmentionable fact, and then say whether I am wrong in refusing to forgive Miss Royston. Women’s battle is not only against themselves. The necessity of the case demands what you call a strained ideal. I am seriously convinced that before the female sex can be raised from its low level there will have to be a widespread revolt against sexual instinct. Christianity couldn’t spread over the world without help of the ascetic ideal, and this great movement for woman’s emancipation must also have its ascetics.’
‘I can’t declare that you are wrong in that. Who knows? But it isn’t good policy to preach it to our young disciples.’
‘I shall respect your wish; but —’
Rhoda paused and shook her head.
‘My dear,’ said the elder woman gravely, ‘believe me that the less we talk or think about such things the better for the peace of us all. The odious fault of working-class girls, in town and country alike, is that they are absorbed in preoccupation with their animal nature. We, thanks to our education and the tone of our society, manage to keep that in the background. Don’t interfere with this satisfactory state of things. Be content to show our girls that it is their duty to lead a life of effort — to earn their bread and to cultivate their minds. Simply ignore marriage — that’s the wisest. Behave as if the thing didn’t exist. You will do positive harm by taking the other course — the aggressive course.’
‘I shall obey you.’
‘Good, humble creature!’ laughed Miss Barfoot. ‘Come, let us be off to Chelsea. Did Miss Grey finish that copy for Mr. Houghton?’
‘Yes, it has gone to post.’
‘Look, here’s a big manuscript from our friend the antiquary. Two of the girls must get to work on it at once in the morning.’
Manuscripts entrusted to them were kept in a fire-proof safe. When this had been locked up, the ladies went to their dressing-room and prepared for departure. The people who lived on the premises were responsible for cleaning the rooms and other care; to them Rhoda delivered the door-keys.
Miss Barfoot was grave and silent on the way home. Rhoda, annoyed at the subject that doubtless occupied her friend’s thoughts, gave herself up to reflections of her own.
Chapter 7
A Social Advance
A week’s notice to her employers would release Monica from the engagement in Walworth Road. Such notice must be given on Monday, so that, if she could at once make up her mind to accept Miss Barfoot’s offer, the coming week would be her last of slavery behind the counter. On the way home from Queen’s Road, Alice and Virginia pressed for immediate decision; they were unable to comprehend how Monica could hesitate for another moment. The question of her place of abode had already been discussed. One of Miss Barfoot’s young women, who lived at a convenient distance from Great Portland Street, would gladly accept a partner in her lodging — an arrangement to be recommended for its economy. Yet Monica shrank from speaking the final word.
‘I don’t know whether it’s worth while,’ she said, after a long silence, as they drew near to York Road Station, whence they were to take train for Clapham Junction.
‘Not worth while?’ exclaimed Virginia. ‘You don’t think it would be an improvement?’
‘Yes, I suppose it would. I shall see how I feel about it tomorrow morning.’
She spent the evening at Lavender Hill, but without change in the mood thus indicated. A strange inquietude appeared in her behaviour. It was as though she were being urged to undertake something hard and repugnant.
On her return to Walworth Road, just as she came within sight of the shop, she observed a man’s figure some twenty yards distant, which instantly held her attention. The dim gaslight occasioned some uncertainty, but she believed the figure was that of Widdowson. He was walking on the other side of the street, and away from her. When the man was exactly opposite Scotcher’s establishment he gazed in that direction, but without stopping. Monica hastened, fearing to be seen and approached. Already she had reached the door, when Widdowson — yes, he it was — turned abruptly to walk back again. His eye was at once upon her; but whether he recognized her or not Monica could not know. At that moment she opened the door and passed in.
A fit of trembling seized her, as if she had barely escaped some peril. In the passage she stood motionless, listening with the intensity of dread. She could hear footsteps on the pavement; she expected a ring at the door-bell. If he were so thoughtless as to come to the door, she would on no account see him.
But there was no ring, and after a few minutes’ waiting she recovered her self-command. She had not made a mistake; even his features had been discernible as he turned towards her. Was this the first time that he had come to look at the place where she lived — possibly to spy upon her? She resented this behaviour, yet the feeling was confused with a certain satisfaction.
From one of the dormitories there was a view of Walworth Road. She ran upstairs, softly opened the door of that room, and peeped in. The low burning gas showed her that only one bed had an occupant, who appeared to be asleep. Softly she went to the window, drew the blind aside, and looked down into the street. But Widdowson had disappeared. He might of course be on this side of the way.
‘Who’s that?’ suddenly asked a voice from the occupied bed.
The speaker was Miss Eade. Monica looked at her, and nodded.
‘You? What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to see if some one was standing outside.’
‘You mean him?’
The other nodded.
‘I’ve