2
Now, while Ann Veronica was taking these soundings
in the industrial sea, and measuring herself against the
world as it is, she was also making extensive explorations
among the ideas and attitudes of a number of human
beings who seemed to be largely concerned with the
world as it ought to be. She was drawn first by Miss
Miniver, and then by her own natural interest, into a
curious stratum of people who are busied with dreams
of world progress, of great and fundamental changes, of a
New Age that is to replace all the stresses and disorders
of contemporary life.
Miss Miniver learned of her flight and got her address
from the Widgetts. She arrived about nine o'clock
the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm.
She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and
called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It's
me! You know —Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before
Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver
might be.
There was a wild light in her eye, and her straight hair
was out demonstrating and suffragetting upon some
independent notions of its own. Her fingers were bursting
through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch
with Ann Veronica. “You're Glorious!” said Miss
Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of
hers and peering up into Ann Veronica's face. “Glorious!
You're so calm, dear, and so resolute, so serene!
“It's girls like you who will show them what We are,”
said Miss Miniver; “girls whose spirits have not been
broken!”
Ann Veronica sunned herself a little in this warmth.
“I was watching you at Morningside Park, dear,”
said Miss Miniver. “I am getting to watch all women.
I thought then perhaps you didn't care, that you were
like so many of them. Now it's just as
though you had
grown up suddenly.”
She stopped, and then suggested: “I wonder —I should
love —if it was anything I said.”
She did not wait for Ann Veronica's reply. She seemed
to assume that it must certainly be something she
had said. “They all catch on,” she said. “It spreads
like wildfire. This is such a grand time! Such a glorious
time! There never was such a time as this! Everything
seems so close to fruition, so coming on and leading
on! The Insurrection of Women! They spring up
everywhere. Tell me all that happened, one sister-woman to another.”
She chilled Ann Veronica a little by that last phrase,
and yet the magnetism of her fellowship and enthusiasm
was very strong; and it was pleasant to be made out a
heroine after so much expostulation and so many secret
doubts.
But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. She
sat, crouched together, by the corner of the hearthrug
under the bookcase that supported the pig's skull, and
looked into the fire and up at Ann Veronica's face, and
let herself go. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said;
“the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and
Ann Veronica agreed. “You are coming right out into
life —facing it all.”
Ann Veronica sat with her chin on her hand, red-lit and saying little, and Miss Miniver discoursed. As
she talked, the drift and significance of what she was
saying shaped itself slowly to Ann Veronica's apprehension.
It presented itself in the likeness of a great,
gray, dull world —a brutal, superstitious, confused, and
wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people
unaccountably. In remote times and countries its evil
tendencies had expressed themselves in the form of
tyrannies, massacres, wars, and what not; but just at
present in England they shaped as commercialism and
competition, silk hats, suburban morals, the sweating
system, and the subjection of women. So far the thing
was acceptable enough. But over against the world
Miss Miniver assembled a small but energetic minority,
the Children of Light —people she described as “being in
the van,” or “altogether in the van, about whom Ann
Veronica's mind was disposed to be more sceptical.
Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,”
everything was “coming on” —the Higher Thought, the
Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the
same really. She loved to be there, taking part in it all,
breathing it, being it. Hitherto in the world's history
there had been precursors of this Progress at great
intervals, voices that had spoken and ceased, but now it
was all coming on together in a rush. She mentioned,
with familiar respect, Christ and Buddha and Shelley
and Nietzsche and Plato. Pioneers all of them. Such
names shone brightly in the darkness, with black spaces
of unilluminated emptiness about them, as stars shine
in the night; but now —now it was different; now it was
dawn —the real dawn.
“The women are taking it up,” said Miss Miniver;
“the women and the common people, all pressing forward,
all roused.”
Ann Veronica listened with her eyes on the fire.
“Everybody is taking it up,” said Miss Miniver.
“You had to come in. You couldn't help it.
Something
drew you. Something draws everybody. From
suburbs, from country towns —everywhere. I see all
the Movements. As far as I can, I belong to them all.
I keep my finger on the pulse of things.”
Ann Veronica said nothing.
“The dawn!” said Miss Miniver, with her glasses
reflecting the fire like pools of blood-red flame.
“I came to London,” said Ann Veronica, “rather
because of my own difficulty. I don't know that I
understand altogether.”
“Of course you don't,” said Miss Miniver, gesticulating
triumphantly with her thin hand and thinner wrist,
and patting Ann Veronica's knee. “Of course you don't.
That's the wonder of it. But you will, you will. You
must let me take you to things —to meetings and things,
to conferences and talks. Then you will begin to see.
You will begin to see it all opening out. I am up to the
ears in it all —every moment I can spare. I throw up
work —everything! I just teach in one school, one good
school, three days a week. All the rest —Movements!
I can live now on fourpence a day. Think how free that
leaves me to follow things up! I must take you everywhere.
I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the
Tolstoyans, and the Fabians.”
“I have heard of the Fabians,” said Ann Veronica.
“It's the Society!” said Miss
Miniver. “It's the
centre of the intellectuals. Some of the meetings are
wonderful! Such earnest, beautiful women! Such
deep-browed men! . . . And to think that there they are
making history! There they are putting together the
plans of a new world. Almos light-heartedly. There is
Shaw, and Webb, and Wilkins the author, and Toomer,
and Doctor Tumpany —the most wonderful people!
There you see them discussing, deciding, planning!
Just think —they are making a new world!”
“But are these people going to alter
everything?”
said Ann Veronica.
“What else can happen?” asked Miss Miniver, with
a little weak gesture at the glow. “What else can possibly
happen —as things are going now?”