Impossible Saints

by Clarissa Harwood

  “Isn’t that the truth?”

  “Perhaps, in part. But couldn’t I simply be a friend and supporter who would like to learn more about your work?”

  “I don’t know. There’s too much of the medieval knight about you, Paul.” She set down her cigarette and took a sip of tea. “I deeply regret telling you about the agreement I made with my mother about your keeping an eye on me, since your relish for the role is only too apparent. ‘Friend and supporter’? Perhaps, but I’ll have to reserve judgment on that until I’ve seen more evidence. It’s all very well to talk about it, but can you act the part?”

  “I can and I will,” Paul assured her.

  “Very well. Then you may accompany us to the penitentiary, as long as Miss Wells has no objection. I’ll be watching you, though, and you’d do well to keep in mind that this is a trial period.” She softened her severe tone with a smile.

  “I understand. No chivalry. Ordinary politeness may be allowed, I hope?”

  “Certainly. Let us shake hands upon it.”

  And they did.

  4

  We talk of “fallen women;” but for the far greater number there is no fall… . They are starving, and they sell themselves for food.

  —Anna Brownell Jameson, “Sisters of Charity”

  A week later, a small group set out for the Whitechapel House of Mercy. In addition to Paul, Lilia, and Ellen Wells, Lilia’s friend Harriet Firth joined the party. The group had decided to meet at King’s Cross station, a central location for everyone, and take the underground railway to Whitechapel.

  On the way there, Paul remained in the background, feeling out of his element. Harriet was a solid little woman with a humorless stare, in some ways even more formidable than Lilia. After the introductions were made, she looked at him as if she were calculating what price he would fetch if he were sold to a museum. She and Lilia then proceeded to discuss people and ideas surrounding women’s suffrage that Paul knew nothing about. The ethereal Ellen was the opposite of Harriet in both appearance and manner, and her eyes had widened upon seeing Paul, as if she were afraid he would eat her. She said nothing at all.

  When this ill-assorted party finally stood before the stark gray stone walls of the penitentiary, Paul began to have serious misgivings. What, exactly, he asked himself, was he doing there? His desire to protect Lilia, which had evidently been as transparent to her as it was to him, seemed laughable now, considering that the East End held few terrors in the daylight, unless one were afraid of grime and a few beggars. But the other motive he had for this trip, which he hadn’t shared with her, was to prove Thomas Cross wrong about Paul’s “solitary religion.” Doing charitable work was something Paul could accomplish just as well as—perhaps better than—Cross could. Thus, Paul stood outside the penitentiary gates, only too aware of his mixed motives and suddenly wishing he hadn’t come.

  There was little time for internal debate. The group was admitted and ushered into a waiting room of sorts, a room with no windows, only a gas light that produced a greasy, dim glow. A few minutes later, the matron—a tall uniformed woman—entered and said brusquely, “I understood that only two people were visiting Mary Braddock today.”

  “That was our plan, but we hope you’ll allow two more,” Ellen interposed in a surprisingly clear voice. It was the first time Paul had heard her speak.

  “We don’t commonly allow former inmates to visit our current ones, Miss Wells, but Lady Fernham tells me you’re a credit to our House of Mercy and will be a positive influence on the other girls. Mary has certainly caused a good deal of trouble.” The matron’s eyes passed quickly and dismissively over Lilia and Harriet, then came back to rest on Paul. “And a clergyman is always welcome here.”

  As the matron led the group back through the door through which she had entered, Lilia whispered to Paul, “It seems you’re a useful accoutrement when one wishes to gain admittance to heavily guarded places. I won’t put up such a fight next time.”

  “I’ve never been called an accoutrement before,” he said, “but I do hope to be useful.”

  The brief moment of levity dissipated when they entered the room in which Mary Braddock sat at a large table. Aside from the table and four chairs, there was no other furniture, and once again, the dim light and stark stone walls seemed to forbid any feeling but gloom. The young woman’s face, despite brightening upon seeing Ellen, was haggard and pale. She wore a mob cap and a simple gray dress with an apron.

  Paul had entertained two incompatible expectations of these women—the romantic, sorrowful, lovely unfortunates of Pre-Raphaelite paintings on the one hand, and the gaudy, brash, painted courtesans of legend on the other. Neither expectation was realized. What surprised Paul most was how ordinary and young Mary looked. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen, yet her face was sober and intelligent, reminding him of his father’s upper servants. Was this one of the wicked, abandoned creatures that many of his colleagues spoke out against from the pulpit?

  Since there were only four chairs, Paul offered to stand, both to be chivalrous and to better observe the group. Ellen took the chair beside Mary, and Lilia and Harriet sat opposite them at the table. After exchanging a few words with Ellen, Mary described daily life at the penitentiary for the benefit of the other visitors.

  “We get up at half past five, do laundry at six, have prayers at seven, breakfast at eight. Then laundry again at nine,” Mary recited. Her voice was flat and unnaturally loud, as if she’d been told too many times to repeat herself. She continued to account for every hour of her days, ending with, “Bible reading at nine and bedtime at ten.”

  Paul was struck by the regimented nature of the inmates’ lives. It seemed that penitentiary life was modeled on an efficiently run, pious middle-class home.

  “Is laundry the only type of work you do here, Mary?” Lilia asked.

  “Mostly. Some of us work at sewing, too,” she replied. “But I’ve done neither since I was in solitary.”

  “Solitary confinement?” Lilia echoed. “How long were you there?”

  Mary shrugged. “I think it was three days.”

  “Why did they put you there?”

  “For insolence, Matron called it.” The girl glanced at Paul, then back to Lilia. “The chaplain called me a wicked girl and said I ought to admit I’m a sinner. I said I wasn’t no more a sinner than he was, and they popped me into solitary before I could take another breath. Matron said I wouldn’t be comin’ out ’til I said I was a sinner, and I tried to see their way o’ thinkin’—I tried and tried, but it didn’t make sense to me.

  “It was right dark and quiet in that cell and after a time I didn’t care what I said—I just wanted to get out. So I said I was a sinner, and they let me out. But I don’t believe it no more’n I did before. There ain’t no sin in a poor girl keepin’ herself alive any way she can.” She looked at Paul again, this time with a flicker of fear in her eyes. “You won’t tell the matron what I said, will you, Rev’rend? I don’t want to go back to that cell.”

  Paul was horrified almost to the point of speechlessness. After a pause, he managed to say, “I promise I won’t repeat a word.”

  He looked at Lilia, who was clearly both shocked and angry. Lilia turned to Ellen and said, “I thought women enter the penitentiary voluntarily and can leave whenever they wish. Was I mistaken?”

  “Nobody is forced to come here,” Ellen explained, “but once in, it’s difficult to leave. One girl who asked to leave before she was due to be discharged was put in solitary for a week to ‘think about her decision.’ When she got out of solitary, she decided to stay. It’s not like that for everyone, of course. If the girls obey the rules and appear to be sorry for what they’ve done in the past, they’re treated well.”

  Lilia turned back to Mary. “You’ve been badly used indeed. What I suggest you do for now is tell the matron and the other staff whatever they want to hear until you’re discharged. Then you’ll be free to do as you like.”

/>   “A girl can’t do as she likes without money and a place to live, miss.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. I assume you’re being trained for domestic service—is that what the laundry work and sewing is for?”

  Mary nodded.

  Lilia continued, “That should be of some practical use to you. And Miss Wells and Miss Firth and I belong to a community of women that can help you find employment. I’ll write down my address so you can come to see me when you’ve been discharged. I’ll be glad to help you.” Lilia reached out her hand across the table and Mary took it, staring at Lilia as if she were an angel.

  “I’m very sorry for what you’ve suffered here,” Lilia said.

  Mary made a swipe at her eyes and said in a choked voice, “Thank you, miss.”

  Harriet asked whether inmates had the freedom to refuse to attend prayers or chapel services. The answer was no. Paul listened in silence, knowing himself, at least in his professional capacity, to be the enemy.

  When the matron reappeared to show the visitors the way out, Lilia turned to Paul with a determined look and said in an undertone, “I must see the solitary confinement cells.”

  He nodded. As the group made their way back down the dark corridor, he fell into step with the matron. “Would it be possible to have a tour of the penitentiary?”

  “Certainly, Canon Harris. I’ll show you around myself.”

  The solitary confinement cells were at the back of the building, and the matron, proud of the cells’ apparent ability to turn even the hardest heart to repentance, allowed the group to look into an unoccupied one. The cell was so small that an average-sized woman couldn’t stand upright or lie down at full length in it, although there was a tiny cot for that purpose. It was devoid of light and warmth and had an offensive, damp smell. Horror seized Paul for the second time.

  When the foursome left the penitentiary and headed down the street, Lilia exclaimed, “I never would have believed such barbaric practices existed if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes! Are we living in the twentieth century or the fourteenth? What good does it do to imprison these poor girls in such a place—a place that claims to reform and make respectable women out of fallen ones? They’re better off on the streets!”

  “The House of Mercy did some good for me,” Ellen said quietly. “It gave me food and shelter when I had none, and some useful training as a servant, but it’s harder for the high-spirited girls.” She paused. “I’d never seen one of those cells before, though. I confess it gave me chills.”

  “And such harsh punishment for minor offenses is shocking,” Harriet added. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Canon Harris, but I believe the Bible teaches that we’re all sinners—even clergymen—so poor Mary said nothing but the truth.”

  “You’re quite right, Miss Firth,” Paul said gravely.

  “And where are the men responsible for these women’s plights?” Lilia went on furiously, flinging out her arms and nearly knocking over a passing newsboy. “Where are the penitentiaries for them? What consequences do they experience?”

  “I think—” Paul began.

  “I’ll tell you where they are,” she continued as the group stepped forward to cross a busy street. “They’re in their comfortable homes, enjoying their wealth and their respectable wives. They’re probably in high positions in the church and the government. If I met one of them now, I’d—”

  Paul caught Lilia’s arm and pulled her out of the way of a motorcar that was bearing down upon them. Breathlessly she turned to face him, the full brilliance of her outrage in her eyes.

  “I’m not one of those men,” he reminded her.

  “Of course you’re not.” She blinked and looked from Paul to Ellen and Harriet, who were safely on the curb and watching her with interest. “Forgive me. I get carried away sometimes.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. But I do think you need protection if you’re going to get carried away on the street and not watch out for traffic.”

  Harriet and Ellen safely crossed the street together, and Paul and Lilia followed. She took his arm as they walked and slowed her pace.

  “Now that I know innocent women are being treated so harshly,” she said in a calmer tone, “I must do something.”

  “Not all the women in penitentiaries were seduced,” he pointed out.

  “No, some of them chose to be prostitutes because it was the wisest economic decision they could make. I can’t say I blame them—again, from a purely practical point of view.”

  It was jarring to hear her use the word prostitutes, but he rallied. “I can’t argue with your logic, but focusing on these ugly realities alone is surely discouraging. Would you deny yourself the pleasure of gazing upon a flower in full bloom in order to save one that’s trodden in the mud?”

  “A flower in full bloom doesn’t need me,” she said, looking at him with serious eyes.

  “But perhaps you need it.”

  “Perhaps, but only when I’m old and my work is done,” she said dryly. “Then I’ll luxuriate in all the hedonistic pleasures you seem to think I need!”

  “You’re ridiculous,” he said, smiling. “If looking at a flower is a hedonistic pleasure, then I’m a hopeless voluptuary.”

  “Are you? What other pleasures do you allow yourself to indulge in?”

  “Let me think—there are so many. I admire beauty wherever I find it; I love art, poetry, music … there’s really no end to the pleasure I find in such things.”

  “I’m shocked!” she exclaimed. “It seems to me I’d be the better priest.”

  “I agree with you. You exercise self-denial and take action to do good for others, but I am constantly distracted by these self-indulgent pleasures.”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” Lilia objected.

  “I do understand why you’re angry about the penitentiary,” he said. “It’s the Contagious Diseases Acts all over again, women treated like criminals while the men who are responsible for the true problems go free.”

  In order to halt the spread of venereal disease, the acts had allowed the police to detain and inspect any woman who was suspected of being a prostitute. Her middle-class clients—and accusers—were never so much as questioned.

  “That’s exactly it!” Lilia exclaimed. “It’s another example of addressing the symptoms of a social problem instead of the cause. And so many of the supposed solutions ultimately harm women, while having no effect on men. Why, for example, won’t people consider addressing overcrowding in the slums by providing the women there with contraception?”

  Contraception was a word Paul had never heard from the lips of a respectable unmarried woman. He associated it with prostitution, as most people did, and though Lilia had already shown that she knew more about these things than a well-brought-up young lady should, he couldn’t help being taken aback.

  When he didn’t reply, Lilia looked up into his face and said, “I’ve shocked you.”

  “No, not exactly. I just …” He floundered for a moment, then decided she was probably just repeating a theory she had learned about at Girton College. “It’s not something I’ve given much thought to.”

  “Well, you ought to. Everyone ought to.”

  He was saved from having to reply by Harriet calling to them from the other side of the street. Paul and Lilia had been so engrossed in their conversation that they had walked in the wrong direction.

  Lilia sat facing her pupil Amy Hightower at the large table in the middle of her schoolroom. Lessons were over for the day, but she had asked Amy to stay behind. From Lilia’s first day as a teacher at the Fernham Preparatory School for Girls, she had sensed that Amy would be a thorn in her side. Now, two weeks later, she saw no reason to change her mind.

  “Amy, do you know why I want to talk to you?”

  The pretty fifteen-year-old shrugged, her cupid’s-bow mouth flattening into a frown. Despite her habitually blank expression, she was clever. Not as clever as Anna Martin, but clever enough to atte
nd university and make something of herself if she wanted to.

  “You haven’t done the work I assigned yesterday, or the day before that,” Lilia said. “And the Horace translation you showed me at the beginning of the week was very poor. I know you can do better.”

  “I haven’t had time,” the girl said sullenly. “I had to go to the shops with Mama nearly every day. We’re having a big family party in a few days.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re not doing the work during your lessons.”

  Amy twisted a glossy auburn curl around her finger and stared across the room. “I don’t understand why it’s so important to learn Latin.”

  “Then you haven’t been listening to me. Latin is the foundation of Western civilization. It’s at the root of every discipline, as well as the English language. It trains one’s mind—” She broke off, seeing her pupil’s bored expression. “Don’t you want the same opportunities that boys your age have?”

  “No.”

  Lilia had expected reluctance but not outright denial. She stared at the girl, who separated a thick strand of hair into three sections and began to plait it.

  “Amy, stop playing with your hair.”

  The girl obeyed with a toss of her head and a stony look.

  “Your mother wants those opportunities for you, even if you don’t. She wouldn’t have enrolled you in this school otherwise.”

  “She just wants me to be able to teach my sons, when I have them.”

  Puzzled, Lilia said, “Why do you say that?”

  “She wrote that thing … oh, what’s it called? For the NUWSS. About public-spirited sons.”

  Lilia recognized the reference to a handbill Mrs. Hightower had written that listed reasons to support women’s suffrage, including Lilia’s least favorite reason: Because public-spirited mothers make public-spirited sons. She found it baffling that someone as active in the women’s suffrage movement as Mrs. Hightower would focus on sons and ignore daughters.