Ann Veronica

by H. G. Wells

  "I'm taking this calmly now," he said, almost as if he apologized, "because I'm a little stunned."

  Then he asked, "Tell me! has this man, has he DARED to make love to you?"

  Ann Veronica had a vicious moment. "I wish he had," she said.

  "But—"

  The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. "When one wants a thing more than anything else in the world," she said with outrageous frankness, "one naturally wishes one had it."

  She shocked him by that. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion.

  "Mr. Manning," she said, "I warned you not to idealize me. Men ought not to idealize any woman. We aren't worth it. We've done nothing to deserve it. And it hampers us. You don't know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. You are a sisterless man; you have never heard the ordinary talk that goes on at a girls' boarding-school."

  "Oh! but you ARE splendid and open and fearless! As if I couldn't allow! What are all these little things? Nothing! Nothing! You can't sully yourself. You can't! I tell you frankly you may break off your engagement to me—I shall hold myself still engaged to you, yours just the same. As for this infatuation—it's like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you. It's not you—not a bit. It's a thing that's happened to you. It is like some accident. I don't care. In a sense I don't care. It makes no difference.... All the same, I wish I had that fellow by the throat! Just the virile, unregenerate man in me wishes that....

  "I suppose I should let go if I had.

  "You know," he went on, "this doesn't seem to me to end anything.

  "I'm rather a persistent person. I'm the sort of dog, if you turn it out of the room it lies down on the mat at the door. I'm not a lovesick boy. I'm a man, and I know what I mean. It's a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn't kill me. And the situation it makes!—the situation!"

  Thus Manning, egotistical, inconsecutive, unreal. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—"Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights" in his company. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility.

  "For me," Manning went on, "this isn't final. In a sense it alters nothing. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque.... I shall still believe in you. Trust you."

  He repeated several times that he would trust her, though it remained obscure just exactly where the trust came in.

  "Look here," he cried out of a silence, with a sudden flash of understanding, "did you mean to throw me over when you came out with me this afternoon?"

  Ann Veronica hesitated, and with a startled mind realized the truth. "No," she answered, reluctantly.

  "Very well," said Manning. "Then I don't take this as final. That's all. I've bored you or something.... You think you love this other man! No doubt you do love him. Before you have lived—"

  He became darkly prophetic. He thrust out a rhetorical hand.

  "I will MAKE you love me! Until he has faded—faded into a memory..."

  He saw her into the train at Waterloo, and stood, a tall, grave figure, with hat upraised, as the carriage moved forward slowly and hid him. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. Manning might go on now idealizing her as much as he liked. She was no longer a confederate in that. He might go on as the devoted lover until he tired. She had done forever with the Age of Chivalry, and her own base adaptations of its traditions to the compromising life. She was honest again.

  But when she turned her thoughts to Morningside Park she perceived the tangled skein of life was now to be further complicated by his romantic importunity.

  Chapter the Fourteenth — The Collapse of the Penitent

  *

  Part 1

  Spring had held back that year until the dawn of May, and then spring and summer came with a rush together. Two days after this conversation between Manning and Ann Veronica, Capes came into the laboratory at lunch-time and found her alone there standing by the open window, and not even pretending to be doing anything.

  He came in with his hands in his trousers pockets and a general air of depression in his bearing. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. His face brightened at the sight of her, and he came toward her.

  "What are you doing?" he asked.

  "Nothing," said Ann Veronica, and stared over her shoulder out of the window.

  "So am I.... Lassitude?"

  "I suppose so."

  "I can't work."

  "Nor I," said Ann Veronica.

  Pause.

  "It's the spring," he said. "It's the warming up of the year, the coming of the light mornings, the way in which everything begins to run about and begin new things. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. This year—I've got it badly. I want to get away. I've never wanted to get away so much."

  "Where do you go?"

  "Oh!—Alps."

  "Climbing?"

  "Yes."

  "That's rather a fine sort of holiday!"

  He made no answer for three or four seconds.

  "Yes," he said, "I want to get away. I feel at moments as though I could bolt for it.... Silly, isn't it? Undisciplined."

  He went to the window and fidgeted with the blind, looking out to where the tree-tops of Regent's Park showed distantly over the houses. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still.

  "It's the stir of spring," he said.

  "I believe it is."

  She glanced out of the window, and the distant trees were a froth of hard spring green and almond blossom. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. "I've broken off my engagement," she said, in a matter-of-fact tone, and found her heart thumping in her neck. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: "It's a bother and disturbance, but you see—" She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words. Her voice was weak and flat.

  "I've fallen in love."

  He never helped her by a sound.

  "I—I didn't love the man I was engaged to," she said. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. They struck her as cold and indifferent.

  Her heart failed her and her resolution became water. She remained standing stiffly, unable even to move. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time. But she felt his lax figure become rigid.

  At last his voice came to release her tension.

  "I thought you weren't keeping up to the mark. You—It's jolly of you to confide in me. Still—" Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, "Who is the man?"

  Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. Grace, confidence, the power of movement even, seemed gone from her. A fever of shame ran through her being. Horrible doubts assailed her. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands.

  "Can't you SEE how things are?" she said.

  Part 2

  Before Capes could answer her in any way the door at the end of the laboratory opened noisily and Miss Klegg appeared. She went to her own table and sat down. At the sound of the door Ann Veronica uncovered a tearless face, and with one swift movement assumed a conversational attitude. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence.

  "You see," said Ann Veronica, staring before her at the window-sash, "that's the form my question takes at the present time."

  Capes had not quite the same power of recovery. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss
Klegg's back. His face was white. "It's—it's a difficult question." He appeared to be paralyzed by abstruse acoustic calculations. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica's table, and sat down. He glanced at Miss Klegg again, and spoke quickly and furtively, with eager eyes on Ann Veronica's face.

  "I had a faint idea once that things were as you say they are, but the affair of the ring—of the unexpected ring—puzzled me. Wish SHE"—he indicated Miss Klegg's back with a nod—"was at the bottom of the sea.... I would like to talk to you about this—soon. If you don't think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station."

  "I will wait," said Ann Veronica, still not looking at him, "and we will go into Regent's Park. No—you shall come with me to Waterloo."

  "Right!" he said, and hesitated, and then got up and went into the preparation-room.

  Part 3

  For a time they walked in silence through the back streets that lead southward from the College. Capes bore a face of infinite perplexity.

  "The thing I feel most disposed to say, Miss Stanley," he began at last, "is that this is very sudden."

  "It's been coming on since first I came into the laboratory."

  "What do you want?" he asked, bluntly.

  "You!" said Ann Veronica.

  The sense of publicity, of people coming and going about them, kept them both unemotional. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression.

  "I suppose you know I like you tremendously?" he pursued.

  "You told me that in the Zoological Gardens."

  She found her muscles a-tremble. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her.

  "I"—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—"I love you. I've told you that practically already. But I can give it its name now. You needn't be in any doubt about it. I tell you that because it puts us on a footing...."

  They went on for a time without another word.

  "But don't you know about me?" he said at last.

  "Something. Not much."

  "I'm a married man. And my wife won't live with me for reasons that I think most women would consider sound.... Or I should have made love to you long ago."

  There came a silence again.

  "I don't care," said Ann Veronica.

  "But if you knew anything of that—"

  "I did. It doesn't matter."

  "Why did you tell me? I thought—I thought we were going to be friends."

  He was suddenly resentful. He seemed to charge her with the ruin of their situation. "Why on earth did you TELL me?" he cried.

  "I couldn't help it. It was an impulse. I HAD to."

  "But it changes things. I thought you understood."

  "I had to," she repeated. "I was sick of the make-believe. I don't care! I'm glad I did. I'm glad I did."

  "Look here!" said Capes, "what on earth do you want? What do you think we can do? Don't you know what men are, and what life is?—to come to me and talk to me like this!"

  "I know—something, anyhow. But I don't care; I haven't a spark of shame. I don't see any good in life if it hasn't got you in it. I wanted you to know. And now you know. And the fences are down for good. You can't look me in the eyes and say you don't care for me."

  "I've told you," he said.

  "Very well," said Ann Veronica, with an air of concluding the discussion.

  They walked side by side for a time.

  "In that laboratory one gets to disregard these passions," began Capes. "Men are curious animals, with a trick of falling in love readily with girls about your age. One has to train one's self not to. I've accustomed myself to think of you—as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. If only out of loyalty to co-education one has to do that. Apart from everything else, this meeting of ours is a breach of a good rule."

  "Rules are for every day," said Ann Veronica. "This is not every day. This is something above all rules."

  "For you."

  "Not for you?"

  "No. No; I'm going to stick to the rules.... It's odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. You've placed me in a very exceptional position, Miss Stanley." The note of his own voice exasperated him. "Oh, damn!" he said.

  She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself.

  "No!" he said aloud at last.

  "The plain common-sense of the case," he said, "is that we can't possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. That, I think, is manifest. You know, I've done no work at all this afternoon. I've been smoking cigarettes in the preparation-room and thinking this out. We can't be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends."

  "We are," said Ann Veronica.

  "You've interested me enormously...."

  He paused with a sense of ineptitude. "I want to be your friend," he said. "I said that at the Zoo, and I mean it. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be."

  Ann Veronica gave him a pallid profile.

  "What is the good of pretending?" she said.

  "We don't pretend."

  "We do. Love is one thing and friendship quite another. Because I'm younger than you.... I've got imagination.... I know what I am talking about. Mr. Capes, do you think... do you think I don't know the meaning of love?"

  Part 4

  Capes made no answer for a time.

  "My mind is full of confused stuff," he said at length. "I've been thinking—all the afternoon. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too.... I feel a mixture of beast and uncle. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. Every rule is against me—Why did I let you begin this? I might have told—"

  "I don't see that you could help—"

  "I might have helped—"

  "You couldn't."

  "I ought to have—all the same.

  "I wonder," he said, and went off at a tangent. "You know about my scandalous past?"

  "Very little. It doesn't seem to matter. Does it?"

  "I think it does. Profoundly."

  "How?"

  "It prevents our marrying. It forbids—all sorts of things."

  "It can't prevent our loving."

  "I'm afraid it can't. But, by Jove! it's going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing."

  "You are separated from your wife?"

  "Yes, but do you know how?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Why on earth—? A man ought to be labelled. You see, I'm separated from my wife. But she doesn't and won't divorce me. You don't understand the fix I am in. And you don't know what led to our separation. And, in fact, all round the problem you don't know and I don't see how I could possibly have told you before. I wanted to, that day in the Zoo. But I trusted to that ring of yours."

  "Poor old ring!" said Ann Veronica.

  "I ought never have gone to the Zoo, I suppose. I asked you to go. But a man is a mixed creature.... I wanted the time with you. I wanted it badly."

  "Tell me about yourself," said Ann Veronica.

  "To begin with, I was—I was in the divorce court. I was—I was a co-respondent. You understand that term?"

  Ann Veronica smiled faintly. "A modern girl does understand these terms. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Did you really doubt if I knew?"

  "No. But I don't suppose you can understand."

  "I don't see why I shouldn't."

  "To know things by name is one thing; to know them by seeing them and feeling them and being them quite another. That is where life takes advantage of youth. You don't understand."

  "Perhaps I don't."

  "You don't. That's the difficulty. If I told you the facts, I expect, since you are in love with me, you'd explain the whole business as being very fine and honorable for me—the Higher Morality, or something of that sort.... It wasn't."

  "
I don't deal very much," said Ann Veronica, "in the Higher Morality, or the Higher Truth, or any of those things."

  "Perhaps you don't. But a human being who is young and clean, as you are, is apt to ennoble—or explain away."

  "I've had a biological training. I'm a hard young woman."

  "Nice clean hardness, anyhow. I think you are hard. There's something—something ADULT about you. I'm talking to you now as though you had all the wisdom and charity in the world. I'm going to tell you things plainly. Plainly. It's best. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. I want you to be clear what you're really and truly up to, anyhow."

  "I don't mind knowing," said Ann Veronica.

  "It's precious unromantic."

  "Well, tell me."

  "I married pretty young," said Capes. "I've got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world. She is a year or so older than I am, and she is, well, of a very serene and proud and dignified temperament. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. She has never done a really ignoble thing that I know of—never. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. I loved her and made love to her, and I don't think she quite loved me back in the same way."

  He paused for a time. Ann Veronica said nothing.

  "These are the sort of things that aren't supposed to happen. They leave them out of novels—these incompatibilities. Young people ignore them until they find themselves up against them. My wife doesn't understand, doesn't understand now. She despises me, I suppose.... We married, and for a time we were happy. She was fine and tender. I worshipped her and subdued myself."

  He left off abruptly. "Do you understand what I am talking about? It's no good if you don't."

  "I think so," said Ann Veronica, and colored. "In fact, yes, I do."

  "Do you think of these things—these matters—as belonging to our Higher Nature or our Lower?"

  "I don't deal in Higher Things, I tell you," said Ann Veronica, "or Lower, for the matter of that. I don't classify." She hesitated. "Flesh and flowers are all alike to me."