by Jane Rogers
And so I cross the canal and walk down the lane, beneath the bare silvery trees, to Southgate.
Mr Wroe.
Mr Wroe. Joanna.
He knows what she is; a stranger in the street knows at five minutes’ acquaintance, what she is. Simple, open, bound to God. The most hardened, callous villain in the world would not try to impose upon her. Who, in her life, has ever thought it necessary to trick her or lie to her? Any more than you would seek to deceive a child.
But he has. What satisfaction did it give him?
You walk on hot coals, my dear Hannah. He has had all seven of us in view, picked over us … no doubt Leah’s story is true. Rachel and Rebekah are pretty girls.
Why should I imagine, why cherish the delusion …
Self-contempt twists the thought, for where have you led me now; into envy? Envy for poor exploited insulted ravished Joanna? Or for Leah?
No. It is offensive to imagine I am jealous of it, there is no need for me to wallow in that indignity. I am sorry – for him, and for them; but heartily glad to have escaped such a cruel violence.
He has not been cruel to me. He has been kind. One does not cancel out the other. It is possible to imagine a mind which contains contraries: in which the most deep-seated desires are locked in conflict. My father, for example, who both wished to keep me, and wished me to be free. As my poor Joanna helped me to see, the effect of these contradictions rubbing together daily, nightly, was to produce a poison of paralysing power.
And Mr Wroe? Why not pursue a vicious lust, which he knew must be universally condemned (pursuing it for that reason? desiring to sully purity, without knowing that himself, drawn irresistibly to spoil the whitest flower)? It will all end in death, no matter what he does. The form of the sin is ingenious, for it mocks the very God he invents daily for his followers. Or else is a part of it; did he make himself believe this dream? Yes – surely – for much of the time, he must believe the Voice he hears, whose commands he reports to the church. If a man take one part of his mind and give that part authority over all his other thoughts and instincts (and how else could he be convincing?); makes it King to the rest, which should be equal – then he will commit the same atrocities as any despot upon his people. So he seduced Joanna. In the name of religion; knowing? or not knowing? what he was doing.
But then imagine, in conflict with this … need: the growth of a more human sentiment, an affection, a companionship (can I call it affection? Yes. There was an affection between us). If he is to recognize it – if he is to imagine reaching out a human hand to grasp another, equal hand; then he must fall into a true vision of his earlier behaviour. The lust for Joanna becomes obscene. How is it possible to take a course of action which reveals your earlier actions to have been wrong; defines them, even, as evil? What could he do? but stand paralysed between the two sides of his nature – until the anger at powerlessness that gripped him made him decide to smash up this little world.
You can understand God flooding the earth. What a mess, all the details awry – nothing working quite to plan. What could be better than washing it away to start again? What could be worse than having to tinker at each individual mistake in an attempt to – by a little adjustment here, a little adjustment there – get it functioning in a semi-satisfactory way? Sending messengers, like workmen to repair a leaky roof, who botched and patched – all those prophets and saints – but could not quite get it sorted out, could not get to the root of the problem …
Of course the Israelites need the end of the world to come. Mr Wroe does, above all. So much imperfection and contradiction, there is no putting it right. It must be demolished. And in the New World that follows, they themselves will be saved; which is to say they will become single in intent, contraries will be removed. Wroe’s instincts will agree with his lusts which will agree with the desires of his rational mind and higher spirit, and be sanctioned by his conscience. All will be made simple. The crooked path shall be made straight.
In another, new, world.
Which is death. The removal of contraries is death.
As he told me. That their heaven, or world’s end, will be nothing. Cannot be, anymore than a living animal can be divided into a measure of so much solid matter (bones, skin) and so much fluid (blood, juices) without actually destroying the thing it is (a living creature) and being left with components which no longer have any meaning whatsoever.
Where have I come out? On a mountain, with a view? Or into thick, obscuring mist? Have I justified his crimes? My head aches, my eyes are red and sore. I have not moved an inch. Over and over again, I fabricate explanations; tell myself stories in the hope of illumination. And come no closer to understanding. As if I painstakingly laid a line of straws across the black and windy depths of the night sky, and hoped to use them for a bridge, to cross from one star to another.
*
Expectations of a verdict brought many people to Sanctuary for the first service of the Sabbath, on Friday evening. But Tobias announced that this would be delivered tomorrow morning. Mr Wroe was not present. As the familiar hymns and prayers washed over me, and as my spirits were eased by the still-strange beauty of the music, I considered whether I shall continue to attend Israelite service, when I am no longer of the household. I rather think I shall.
I instructed Lees’ coachman to set me down at Catherine’s house, after the service. I had the conveyance all to myself, for both Leah and Rachel and Rebekah were accompanied by their own families. Catherine has been expecting me for the past two days (the elders would be grieved to hear how fast and wide rumour of the scandal has spread). She was at table with William and his mother (who has a withered arm); all three of them urged me to move in immediately, and so I was shown to a crooked, low-ceilinged upstairs chamber, where they have already put a pallet on the floor for me, beside the mother’s bed. ‘William has the promise of a bedstead off a good customer of his,’ the mother told me proudly; but there is no reason why I should not fetch my bed from Southgate, who needs it there? They made me a supper with food from their own plates, though I told them I was not hungry. For a while I was almost overcome by my sense of their kindness in taking me in. But when I attempted to express this, William hushed Catherine (who will talk, like the rapids of a river, and almost as unstoppable) and told me quite simply that they are happy to have me. That for himself, he will go about his work and daily business the easier for knowing that I am near Catherine ‘and able to exert your steadying influence upon her’, and that by reason of my help in the house and the shop, and by taking over Catherine’s educational responsibilities with the cooperators, when she is unable to fulfil that role, I shall contribute at least as much to their well-being as they will to mine. ‘And that is what is most desirable; that both parties shall benefit equally.’
It was kind of him to speak so honestly, for it did make me feel easier (that is, less indebted). And I can already see, from the hasty and at times bad-tempered way in which Catherine treats her mother-in-law (a slow, inoffensive old thing), that she is in need of a companion who will stand up to her, and guide her away from some of those impetuous decisions she is prone to making. She seems to grasp ideas so quickly and lightly that I tell myself I am dull-witted; and yet, many a time, she lacks the stamina to bring them out to their logical conclusions. And so I do see a partnership, rather as if the tortoise and the hare were to combine their talents, where each of us may strengthen and help the other.
They wanted to know all the news of the trial, and this I exchanged with them, for news of the spinners’ progress. The magistrates have posted notices against their marches and assemblies in the market place, calling it a threat to public peace. The word is that if they persist, the military may be called in to break them up. There is division among the strikers, between those who wish to abandon the assemblies, and those who are intent on gathering more weapons and plan to defend themselves if any attack is made. Many of their families are desperate now, for it is their second wee
k without wages; and though the NAPL have called for a universal strike of all those spinners who receive under 4s 2d, the Scottish and Irish spinners will not leave their work – and indeed, nearer to home, there are some who continue to work for less. Without that general support promised of the NAPL, I fear greatly for the outcome.
I fell asleep that night with the sound of the spinners’ marching feet and chanting voices outside Sanctuary, ringing in my head; and woke three times in a sweat of anxiety over the loss of something which, if I could have recalled it, would have been saved. But I could not tell what it was.
The morning service. Sanctuary is packed, and each of the doors guarded by a church member, to prevent the entrance of outsiders – who mill about excitedly in the road, clamouring for a view of ‘the demon Prophet’. Mr Wroe is standing in his accustomed place, hat on his head, rod in his hand; exactly as he has been at every service I can remember. Joanna still absent. I must go and see her today, I pray she may have found some comfort in her aunt’s company, and her old familiar surroundings. I sit alone on the virgins’ pew, for Leah, Rebekah and Rachel are with their parents. The musicians strike up, we all rise for the hymn.
Christ’s second coming is at hand
In might and pow’r twill be
For Christ will renovate the land
And set the captive free.
Then wars on earth shall be no more
And tears He’ll wipe away
The lame, the blind, infirm and poor
Will bless that happy day.
For paradise will be restor’d –
I cannot sing, I think my throat will crack for dryness. The priest leads us in a prayer for guidance in a time of trouble. There is a rustle amongst the congregation, as dead leaves stir and are lifted by a small wind, before the first real blast of the storm. Tobias rises to speak.
‘We, the Elders of the twelve tribes of the Church of the Christian Israelites, in the city of the New Jerusalem, hitherto known as Ashton-under-Lyne, having deliberated among ourselves under the guardianship and benevolent influence of our Heavenly Father, hereby deliver our verdict on the charges laid against Mr John Wroe, Prophet of our church.
‘To the first charge, of immoderate drinking, not guilty.
‘To the second charge, of fornication, not guilty.’
A moment’s silence, in which all are held frozen. Wroe comes to life. He steps forward and raises his arms. ‘Brothers and sisters –’
‘Will you listen to this man?’ screams a woman’s voice.
‘Devil! Imposter!’
‘Get him out!’
‘Down – down – get him down!’
Cries burst out on all sides. Wroe stands quite still, arms half-raised in his habitual crowd-quietening gesture, like a great bird poised for flight above us. If he speaks, if he cares to raise his arms to their full height, and demand their silence – he may yet calm them. But he does not; and seeing he does not, their rage increases. Those below begin screaming and urging those in the gallery to grab him and hold him fast. All around me the congregation are shouting out, calling, stamping, crying – some begin to throw objects. Their hymnbooks, their hats. There is a rush toward the front; Tobias and the elders are submerged in a crowd. Above all the shouts, one piercing cry rings repeatedly, insistently, like a machine which cannot be stopped – ‘Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!’ Leah is fighting her way along the pew, eyes fixed on him – as I look up to follow her line of vision I see him duck out of the way of a hurled missile, and run along the back of the gallery. ‘Get him! Get Wroe!’ Now the whole mob is focused on his movement. There is a surge towards the gallery stairs, which are swiftly blocked by the crowd. One enterprising fellow jumps on to the top of a pew beneath the gallery balcony, and makes a leap for the railing. Grasping one of the balcony supports, he hauls himself up till he can poke his feet through the balcony rails – and then he is up and over the railing, to a cheer from the crowd. They form a chain, helping to haul one another up, and scatter across the balcony. ‘Where is he?’
‘Get Wroe!’
‘He is gone!’ Angry cries and shouts now, their fury becomes destructive, they begin to rip hangings – tear the altar cloth down; haul open the door of Inner Sanctum and fling out the books and papers they find there.
‘Where is he?’
‘Where is that devil?’
I have stayed – as well as I can – on my seat: pushed once to my knees by the crush of people forcing past me, but now in quiet isolation amongst a half-dozen empty pews. There is a fight beside the alter table, men pushing and shouting, among whom I recognize a number of the elders, but not Wroe.
‘He is got away!’
‘Get him!’ The shouts and cries are down towards the main door now; people are pushing and shoving to get out. Gradually, Sanctuary empties. Here and there people still sit, in ones or twos, like myself – waiting the return of peace.
I watch the Elders Tobias and Joseph, helped by William Lees, eject Elder Moses, who is fighting like a cornered pig.
At last it is quiet. The floor is littered with books, torn papers, scattered garments. The altar table lies bare – its cloth sprawled across the floor, the candelabra bent and twisted beside it, its lights extinguished.
Tobias, a livid red mark on one side of his face, raises his hands to us. We stand; a motley collection of some twenty people.
‘Brothers and sisters. Let us ask God’s forgiveness. For this desecration. Have mercy, Oh Father – have pity on us.’
One by one we leave the building. I stop to ask Tobias.
‘Yes, he is safe.’ He smiles wryly. ‘A miraculous escape. There is a secret way out.’
‘Where will he go?’
‘To Huddersfield, in the first instance, I imagine. He would not be wise to return to Ashton.’
‘You found him innocent.’
Tobias hesitates, looking around Sanctuary, as if appraising the cost of the damage. ‘Yes.’
I returned to Catherine’s; thence to Peter and Annie’s, where the aid of the brewer’s dray was enlisted for removing supplies from Southgate (still standing empty, when we arrived there in the early evening. I had half expected to find the place plundered). And on to my final call of the day – Joanna. Her aunt opened the door to me herself, and seemed glad to see me. ‘She is in the drawing room, my dear. She is still very much distressed. I hope you may be able to comfort her.’
Joanna was sitting alone, before a large fire. There was no other light in the room, but what the fire provided was enough to show me how puffy, blotched and ill she looked. Her eyes were no more than slits, and her lips bitten raw. She greeted me without surprise, and made no comment or reaction when I told her of the day’s events.
‘I am sorry you could not turn to me, Joanna. I wish I had been able to help you.’
She shook her head. ‘Those evils were necessary. It is His plan. It was necessary for that man’s wickedness to be revealed, for the next stage of His plan. I am glad to have been of service; happy the servant who is called.’ I took her hand, and clasped it between mine. It was cold, her flesh dense and moist.
‘Joanna – what is this plan?’
‘You will help me, Sister Hannah, I know. All the women are called. We are to form a women’s church; where none but women may preach, none but women may sing, none but women may make the laws. Our church is to be founded on the writings of Mother Southcott. As God previously loved and upheld men, so He now turns to women – we are His beloved, for men are raddled with sin. He has revealed this to me, Hannah, through my sufferings, which have been a trial of purification.’
I sat with her for upwards of an hour, making several attempts to guide the conversation on to other topics; but she continued regardless.
‘Men have glorified His name only as a means to their own aggrandizement; men have built up churches to establish power on earth for themselves. Sister Hannah, you know this. Men, taking the government of nations upon their shoulders, have n
either helped the poor nor healed the sick nor fed the hungry nor brought the little children into the ways of God. Their greed has grown as it has been fed; the world’s goodness is stuffed into their ravening maw, as into the gaping mouth of hell itself, and still they are not satisfied.’
‘Sister Joanna, be calm. He is cast out; the church members have cast out Mr Wroe.’
‘In the first part of history were women despised, and blamed for loss of Eden. Thou cursed woman, dear God, promising that she should travail and bring forth children in pain. And we have suffered; generation upon generation of women have suffered, bringing forth children, serving men. Until at last the great balance tips in our favour; the sins of men outweigh ours by as much as a thousand times.’
‘Come, Joanna, it is over now. Let us think of the future. We have our freedom now, you and I – shall we take a walk tomorrow, if the sun shines?’
‘We women have no need of a prophet, in whose hands corrupting power may be concentrated. God will speak openly to the hearts of all the women in the church. Our task is to prepare the world for Judgement, Sister Hannah. All the old prophecies are true, it needed only this final reversal to bring women into the full light of His love again, before the start of His thousand-year reign of bliss!’
When I left I kissed her and she urged me earnestly to come again the next day – which I promised I would. In the hall I consulted with her aunt, who has called the doctor twice, and is ensuring that she eats regularly, ‘though it seems impossible for her to sleep, poor soul’. I pray that Time may do its work, to heal up the savage wound that Mr Wroe has made.
*
Now the start of a New Year gives many signs that optimism shall be rewarded. Catherine is delivered of a healthy baby boy. I am working five days a week in their shop at present, earning my keep and making many plans. So successful have the night classes proved that we (that is, the Ashton Cooperators) are considering the establishment of a day school, for young children, to be run along Owenite lines. I have just read Mr Robert Dale Owen’s book describing the schools at his father’s factory in New Lanark. There is a suggestion that two from Ashton should travel up to Scotland to visit the school and learn the key to its success, and I hope that I shall be one of the two. I am convinced that this is the way forward; through education – through encouraging and fostering communial care and love. Not by the present defective and tiresome system of book learning, but by new methods of instruction founded in nature, in singing and dancing and through the gentle encouragement and satisfaction of natural curiosity. If (as in New Lanark) children may be kept out of the mills till they are ten, and sent to our school … We are likely to face opposition from their parents, who rely upon their wages, but by persuasion and example at the end I am sure they must come to see the benefits. There is now an Ashton Factory Reform Committee, founded by a crippled ex-operative named George Downes; he is pressing for shorter working hours for children, which would leave some daylight hours for schooling. As Mr Mudie says, truly the school is the steam engine of the moral world. For once a child learns that his happiness is dependent upon the common happiness of all; then dissension and strife must disappear.
