She noticed that many women carried a staff with a silver arrow fixed to its top. She asked the woman nearest her what that symbolized.
"The arrows on prison clothing," the woman replied. "All the women who carry that have been to jail."
"To jail!" Charlotte was taken aback. She had known that a few suffragettes had been imprisoned, but as she looked around she saw hundreds of silver arrows. For the first time it occurred to her that she might end the day in prison. The thought made her feel weak. I won't go on, she thought. My house is just there, across the park; I can be there in five minutes. Prison! I would die! She looked back. Then she thought: I've done nothing wrong! Why am I afraid that I shall go to prison? Why should I not petition the King? Unless we do this, women will always be weak, ignorant and stupid. Then the band began again, and she squared her shoulders and marched in time.
The facade of Buckingham Palace loomed up at the end of The Mall. A line of policemen, many on horseback, stretched across the front of the building. Charlotte was near the head of the procession: she wondered what the leaders intended to happen when they reached the gates.
She remembered once coming out of Derry & Toms and seeing an afternoon drunk lurching at her across the pavement. A gentleman in a top hat had pushed the drunk aside with his walking cane, and the footman had quickly helped Charlotte up into the carriage, which was waiting at the curb.
Nobody would rush to protect her from a jostling today.
They were at the palace gates.
Last time I was here, Charlotte thought, I had an invitation.
The head of the procession came up against the line of policemen. For a moment there was deadlock. The people behind pressed forward. Suddenly Charlotte saw Mrs. Pankhurst. She wore a jacket and skirt of purple velvet, a high-necked white blouse and a green waistcoat. Her hat was purple with a huge white ostrich feather and a veil. She had detached herself from the body of the march and somehow had managed, unnoticed, to reach the far gate of the palace courtyard. She was such a brave little figure, marching with her head held high to the King's gate!
She was stopped by a police inspector in a flat hat. He was a huge, burly man, and looked at least a foot taller than she. There was a brief exchange of words. Mrs. Pankhurst stepped forward. The inspector barred her way. She tried to push past him. Then, to Charlotte's horror, the policeman grabbed Mrs. Pankhurst in a bear hug, lifted her off her feet and carried her away.
Charlotte was enraged--and so was every other woman in sight. The marchers pressed fiercely against the police line. Charlotte saw one or two break through and run toward the palace, chased by constables. The horses shifted, their iron hooves clattering threateningly on the pavement. The line began to break up. Several woman struggled with policemen and were thrown to the ground. Charlotte was terrified of being manhandled. Some of the male by-standers rushed to the aid of the police, and then jostling turned into fighting. A middle-aged woman close to Charlotte was grabbed by the thighs. "Unhand me, sir!" she said indignantly. The policeman said: "My old dear, I can grip you where I like today!" A group of men in straw boaters waded into the crowd, pushing and punching the women, and Charlotte screamed. Suddenly a team of suffragettes wielding Indian clubs counterattacked, and straw boaters flew everywhere. There were no longer any spectators: everyone was in the melee. Charlotte wanted to run away but every way she turned she saw violence. A fellow in a bowler picked up a young woman by getting one arm across her breasts and one hand in the fork of her thighs, and Charlotte heard him say: "You've been waiting for this for a long time, haven't you?" The bestiality of it all horrified Charlotte: it was like one of those medieval paintings of Purgatory in which everyone is suffering unspeakable tortures; but it was real and she was in the middle of it. She was pushed from behind and fell down, grazing her hands and bruising her knees. Someone trod on her hand. She tried to get up and was knocked down again. She realized she might be trampled by a horse and die. Desperately, she grabbed the skirts of a woman's coat and hauled herself to her feet. Some of the women were throwing pepper into the eyes of the men, but it was impossible to throw accurately, and they succeeded in incapacitating as many women as men. The fighting became vicious. Charlotte saw a woman lying on the ground with blood streaming from her nose. She wanted to help the woman but she could not move--it was as much as she could do to stay upright. She began to feel angry as well as scared. The men, police and civilians alike, punched and kicked women with relish. Charlotte thought hysterically: Why do they grin so? To her horror she felt a large hand grasp her breast. The hand squeezed and twisted. She turned, clumsily shoving the arm away from her. She was confronted by a man in his middle twenties, well-dressed in a tweed suit. He put out his hands and grabbed both her breasts, digging his fingers in hard. Nobody had ever touched her there. She struggled with the man, seeing on his face a wild look of mingled hatred and desire. He yelled: "This is what you need, ain't it?" Then he punched her in the stomach with his fist. The blow seemed to sink into her belly. The shock was bad and the pain was worse, but what made her panic was that she could not breathe. She stood, bending forward, with her mouth open. She wanted to gasp, she wanted to scream, but she could do neither. She felt sure she was going to die. She was vaguely aware of a very tall man pushing past her, dividing the crowd as if it were a field of wheat. The tall man grabbed the lapel of the man in the tweed suit and hit him on the chin. The blow seemed to knock the young man off his feet and lift him into the air. The look of surprise on his face was almost comical. At last Charlotte was able to breathe, and she sucked in air with a great heave. The tall man put his arm firmly around her shoulders and said in her ear: "This way." She realized she was being rescued, and the sense of being in the hands of someone strong and protective was such a relief that she almost fainted.
The tall man propelled her toward the edge of the crowd. A police sergeant struck at her with a truncheon. Charlotte's protector raised his arm to ward off the blow, then gave a shout of pain as the wooden club landed on his forearm. He let go of Charlotte. There was a brief flurry of blows; then the sergeant was lying on the ground, bleeding, and the tall man was once again leading Charlotte through the crush.
Suddenly they were out of it. When Charlotte realized she was safe she began to cry, sobbing softly as tears ran down her cheeks. The man made her keep walking. "Let's get right away," he said. He spoke with a foreign accent. Charlotte had no will of her own: she went where he led her.
After a while she began to recover her composure. She realized they were in the Victoria area. The man stopped outside a Lyons Corner House and said: "Would you like a cup of tea?"
She nodded, and they went in.
He led her to a chair, then sat opposite her. She looked at him for the first time. For an instant she was frightened again. He had a long face with a curved nose. His hair was very short but his cheeks were unshaven. He looked somehow rapacious. But then she saw that there was nothing but compassion in his eyes.
She took a deep breath and said: "How can I ever thank you?"
He ignored the question. "Would you like something to eat?"
"Just tea." She had recognized his accent, and she began to speak Russian. "Where are you from?"
He looked pleased that she could speak his language. "I was born in Tambov province. You speak Russian very well."
"My mother is Russian, and my governess."
A waitress came, and he said: "Two teas, please, love."
Charlotte thought: He is learning English from Cockneys. She said in Russian: "I don't even know your name. I'm Charlotte Walden."
"Feliks Kschessinsky. You were brave, to join that march."
She shook her head. "Bravery had nothing to do with it. I simply didn't know it would be like that." She was thinking: Who and what is this man? Where did he come from? He looks fascinating. But he's guarded. I'd like to know more about him.
He said: "What did you expect?"
"On the march? I don't know . . . W
hy do those men enjoy attacking women?"
"This is an interesting question." He was suddenly animated, and Charlotte saw that he had an attractive, expressive face. "You see, we put women on a pedestal and pretend they are pure in mind and helpless in body. So, in polite society at least, men must tell themselves that they feel no hostility toward women, ever; nor do they feel lust for women's bodies. Now, here come some women--the suffragettes--who plainly are not helpless and need not be worshiped. What is more, they break the law. They deny the myths that men have made themselves believe, and they can be assaulted with impunity. The men feel cheated, and they give expression to all the lust and anger which they have been pretending not to feel. This is a great release of tension, and they enjoy it."
Charlotte looked at him in amazement. It was fantastic--a complete explanation, just like that, off the top of his head! I like this man, she thought. She said: "What do you do for a living?"
He became guarded again. "Unemployed philosopher."
The tea came. It was strong and very sweet, and it restored Charlotte somewhat. She was intrigued by this weird Russian, and she wanted to draw him out. She said: "You seem to think that all this--the position of women in society and so on--is just as bad for men as it is for women."
"I'm sure of it."
"Why?"
He hesitated. "Men and women are happy when they love." A shadow passed briefly across his face and was gone. "The relation of love is not the same as the relation of worship. One worships a god. Only human beings can be loved. When we worship a woman we cannot love her. Then, when we discover she is not a god, we hate her. This is sad."
"I never thought of that," Charlotte said wonderingly.
"Also, every religion has good gods and bad gods. The Lord and the Devil. So, we have good women and bad women; and you can do anything you like to the bad women, for example, suffragettes and prostitutes."
"What are prostitutes?"
He looked surprised. "Women who sell themselves for--" He used a Russian word that Charlotte did not know.
"Can you translate that?"
"Swiving," he said in English.
Charlotte flushed and looked away.
He said: "Is this an impolite word? I'm sorry. I know no other."
Charlotte screwed up her courage and said in a low voice: "Sexual intercourse."
He reverted to Russian. "I think you have been put on a pedestal."
"You can't imagine how awful it is," she said fiercely. "To be so ignorant! Do women really sell themselves that way?"
"Oh, yes. Respectable married women must pretend not to like sexual intercourse. This sometimes spoils it for the men, so they go to the prostitutes. The prostitutes pretend to like it very much, although since they do it so often with so many different people, they don't really enjoy it. Everyone ends up pretending."
These things are just what I need to know! thought Charlotte. She wanted to take him home and chain him up in her room, so that he could explain things to her day and night. She said: "How did we get like this--all this pretending?"
"The answer is a lifetime study. At least. However, I'm sure it has to do with power. Men have power over women, and rich men have power over poor men. A great many fantasies are required to legitimize this system--fantasies about monarchy, capitalism, breeding and sex. These fantasies make us unhappy, but without them someone would lose his power. And men will not give up power, even if it makes them miserable."
"But what is to be done?"
"A famous question. Men who will not give up power must have it taken from them. A transfer of power from one faction to another faction within the same class is called a coup, and this changes nothing. A transfer of power from one class to another is called a revolution, and this does change things." He hesitated. "Although the changes are not necessarily the ones the revolutionaries sought." He went on: "Revolutions occur only when the people rise up en masse against their oppressors--as the suffragettes seem to be doing. Revolutions are always violent, for people will always kill to retain power. Nevertheless they happen, for people will always give their lives in the cause of freedom."
"Are you a revolutionary?"
He said in English: "I'll give you three guesses."
Charlotte laughed.
It was the laugh that did it.
While he spoke, a part of Feliks's mind had been watching her face, gauging her reactions. He warmed to her, and the affection he felt was somehow familiar. He thought: I am supposed to bewitch her, but she is bewitching me.
And then she laughed.
She smiled widely; crinkles appeared in the corners of her brown eyes; she tipped back her head so that her chin pointed forward; she held up her hands, palms forward, in a gesture that was almost defensive; and she chuckled richly, deep in her throat.
Feliks was transported back in time twenty-five years. He saw a three-roomed hut leaning against the side of a wooden church. Inside the hut a boy and a girl sat opposite one another at a crude table made of planks. On the fire was a cast-iron pot containing a cabbage, a small piece of bacon fat and a great deal of water. It was almost dark outside and soon the father would be home for his supper. Fifteen-year-old Feliks had just told his eighteen-year-old sister, Natasha, the joke about the traveler and the farmer's daughter. She threw back her head and laughed.
Feliks stared at Charlotte. She looked exactly like Natasha. He said: "How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
There occurred to Feliks a thought so astonishing, so incredible and so devastating that his heart stood still.
He swallowed, and said: "When is your birthday?"
"The second of January."
He gasped. She had been born exactly seven months after the wedding of Lydia and Walden; nine months after the last occasion on which Feliks had made love to Lydia.
And Charlotte looked exactly like Feliks's sister, Natasha.
And now Feliks knew the truth.
Charlotte was his daughter.
NINE
"What is it?"Charlotte said.
"What?"
"You look as if you'd seen a ghost."
"You reminded me of someone. Tell me all about yourself."
She frowned at him. He seemed to have a lump in his throat, she thought. She said: "You've got a cold coming."
"I never catch colds. What's your earliest memory?"
She thought for a moment. "I was brought up in a country house called Walden Hall, in Norfolk. It's a beautiful gray stone building with a very lovely garden. In summer we had tea outdoors, under the chestnut tree. I must have been about four years old when I was first allowed to have tea with Mama and Papa. It was very dull. There was nothing to investigate on the lawn. I always wanted to go around to the back of the house, to the stables. One day they saddled a donkey and let me ride it. I had seen people ride, of course, and I thought I knew how to do it. They told me to sit still or I would fall off, but I didn't believe them. First somebody took the bridle and walked me up and down. Then I was allowed to take the reins myself. It all seemed so easy that I gave him a kick, as I had seen people do to horses, and made him trot. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground in tears. I just couldn't believe I had really fallen!" She laughed at the memory.
"It sounds like a happy childhood," Feliks said.
"You wouldn't say that if you knew my governess. Her name is Marya and she's a Russian dragon. 'Little ladies always have clean hands.' She's still around--she's my chaperone now."
"Still--you had good food, and clothes, and you were never cold, and there was a doctor when you were sick."
"Is that supposed to make you happy?"
"I would have settled for it. What's your best memory?"
"When Papa gave me my own pony," she said immediately. "I had wanted one so badly, it was like a dream come true. I shall never forget that day."
"What's he like?"
"Who?"
Feliks hesitated. "Lord Walden."
"Papa? Well .
. ." It was a good question, Charlotte thought. For a complete stranger, Feliks was remarkably interested in her. But she was even more interested in him. There seemed to be some deep melancholy beneath his questions: it had not been there a few minutes ago. Perhaps that was because he had had an unhappy childhood and hers seemed so much better. "I think Papa is probably a terribly good man . . ."
"But?"
"He will treat me as a child. I know I'm probably frightfully naive, but I'll never be anything else unless I learn. He won't explain things to me the way--well, the way you do. He gets very embarrassed if he talks about . . . men and women, you know . . . and when he speaks of politics his views seem a bit, I don't know, smug."
"That's completely natural. All his life he's got everything he wanted, and got it easily. Of course he thinks the world is wonderful just as it is, except for a few small problems, which will get ironed out in time. Do you love him?"
"Yes, except for the moments when I hate him." The intensity of Feliks's gaze was beginning to make her uncomfortable. He seemed to be drinking in her words and memorizing her facial expressions. "Papa is a very lovable man. Why are you so interested?"
He gave her a peculiar, twisted smile. "I've been fighting the ruling class all my life, but I rarely get the chance to talk to one of them."
Charlotte could tell that this was not the real reason, and she wondered vaguely why he should lie to her. Perhaps he was embarrassed about something--that was usually the reason why people were less than honest with her. She said: "I'm not a member of the ruling class, any more than one of my father's dogs is."
He smiled. "Tell me about your mother."
"She has bad nerves. Sometimes she has to take laudanum."
"What's laudanum?"
"Medicine with opium in it."
He raised his eyebrows. "That sounds ominous."
"Why?"
"I thought the taking of opium was considered degenerate."
"Not if it's for medical reasons."
"Ah."
"You're skeptical."
"Always."
"Come, now, tell me what you mean."
"If your mother needs opium, I suspect it is because she is unhappy, rather than because she is ill."