1
THE first night in prison she found it impossible to
sleep. The bed was hard beyond any experience
of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell
at once cold and stuffy. The little grating in the door,
the sense of constant inspection, worried her. She kept
opening her eyes and looking at it. She was fatigued
physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body
could rest. She became aware that at regular intervals
a light flashed upon her face and a bodiless eye regarded
her, and this, as the night wore on, became a torment. . . .
Capes came back into her mind. He haunted a state
between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she
found herself talking aloud to him. All through the
night an entirely impossible and monumental Capes
confronted her, and she argued with him about men and
women. She visualized him as in a policeman's uniform
and quite impassive. On some insane score she
fancied she had to state her case in verse. “We are
the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we
are verse and you are prose.
“For men have reason, women rhyme
A man scores always, all the time.”
This couplet sprang into her mind from nowhere, and
immediately begot an endless series of similar couplets
that she began to compose and address to Capes. They
came teeming distressfully through her aching brain:
“A man can kick, his skirts don't tear;
A man scores always, everywhere.
“His dress for no man lays a snare;
A man scores always, everywhere.
For hats that fail and hats that flare;
Toppers their universal wear;
A man scores always, everywhere.
“Men's waists are neither here nor there;
A man scores always, everywhere.
“A man can manage without hair;
A man scores always, everywhere.
“There are no males at men to stare;
A man scores always, everywhere.
“And children must we women bear —
“Oh, damn!” she cried, as the hundred-and-first
couplet or so presented itself in her unwilling brain.
For a time she worried about that compulsory bath
and cutaneous diseases.
Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of
bad language she had acquired.
“A man can smoke, a man can swear;
A man scores always, everywhere.”
She rolled over on her face, and stuffed her fingers in
her ears to shut out the rhythm from her mind. She
lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more
tolerable pace. She found herself talking to Capes in
an undertone of rational admission.
“There is something to be said for the lady-like theory
after all,” she admitted. “Women ought to be gentle
and submissive persons, strong only in virtue and in
resistance to evil compulsion. My dear —I can call you
that here, anyhow —I know that. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit. Their idea of maidenly
innocence was just a blank white —the sort of flat white
that doesn't shine. But that doesn't alter the fact that
there is innocence. And I've read, and
thought, and
guessed, and looked —until my
innocence —it's smirched.
“Smirched! . . .
“You see, dear, one is passionately
anxious for
something —what is it? One wants to be
clean. You want
me to be clean. You would want me to be clean, if you
gave me a thought, that is. . . .
“I wonder if you give me a thought. . . .
“I'm not a good woman. I don't mean I'm not a
good woman-I mean that I'm not a good woman.
My
poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am
saying. I mean I'm not a good specimen of a woman.
I've got a streak of male. Things happen to women —
proper women —and all they have to do is to take them
well. They've just got to keep white. But I'm always
trying to make things happen. And I get myself
dirty . . .
“It's all dirt that washes off, dear, but it's dirt.
“The white unaggressive woman who corrects and
nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed —
the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. . . . You
can't do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion,
and there's no religion in me —of that sort —worth a rap.
I'm not gentle. Certainly not a gentlewoman.
I'm not coarse —no! But I've got no purity of
mind —no real purity of mind. A good woman's mind
has angels with flaming swords at the portals to keep
out fallen thoughts. . . .
“I wonder if there are any good women really.
“I wish I didn't swear. I do swear. It began as a
joke. . . . It developed into a sort of secret and private
bad manners. It's got to be at last like tobacco-ash
over all my sayings and doings. . . .
“ `Go it, missie,' they said; “kick aht!'
“I swore at that policeman —and disgusted him.
Disgusted him!
“For men policemen never blush;
A man in all things scores so much . . .
“Damn! Things are getting plainer. It must be
the dawn creeping in.
“Now here hath been dawning another blue day;
I'm just a poor woman, please take it away.
“Oh, sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!”