Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  But, just for a moment, she couldn’t help it. She had not seen the exhibition before and the rich colours, the size of some of the canvases, overwhelmed her. Paintings that were hundreds of years old, and better, more self-assured than anything people did now. Their value was literally priceless — not only could no one reproduce one that was destroyed, no one today possessed the skill to produce anything remotely similar. At another time, Sarah would have walked slowly round the room, entranced.

  But they are only canvas and oil paint, she told herself. People matter more. Real women who are denied things because of their sex, exploited because of their bodies. And especially Mrs Pankhurst, who is a saint, and who is being tortured and killed by men like these.

  There were three men in front of the picture Sarah had come to see. One of them was small and fat, with a huge round paunch and a large spade beard that spread halfway down his chest. He stood with his legs apart, contemplating the picture with his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his bright yellow waistcoat, and his top hat pushed to the back of his head. Beside him was a young man, thin and stooped, possibly his son. The boy kept glancing nervously from the picture to the catalogue and back again, as though to decipher something important he had not fully grasped.

  The third man was tall, well-built, clearly affluent. His striped trousers and tailcoat sat on him comfortably, and he leant on a silver-topped cane with one foot crossed in front of the other, gazing at the picture with deep satisfaction.

  Sarah hated him on sight, because he reminded her of her husband.

  The picture itself, the Rokeby Venus, was of a naked woman. She lay on a couch with her back to the men in the room, gazing at herself in a small mirror held by a winged cupid. Her face could be seen in the mirror, calm, half-shadowed, relaxed. But the real beauty of the picture was the long, sensual, voluptuous portrayal of her back, which the artist had made so real that it seemed if one reached out and touched it, it would come alive.

  A celebration of female beauty, Sarah thought.

  She had read that phrase in The Times, and now that she saw the picture she understood what it meant. It was, undeniably, beautiful. It was also, because of its size, overwhelming. It frightened her.

  It says, this is what women are, Sarah thought. I expect Jonathan would like me to be like that. I suppose I was for him, once ...

  The tall man sighed, turned from the painting, and glanced at the short fat man in the yellow waistcoat beside him. Their eyes met. The tall man nodded. ‘Fine piece of work, old boy, wouldn’t you say?’

  Pleased to be noticed, the fat man grinned back jovially. ‘Indeed! Most lifelike. Odd that the artist painted her with her back to the audience though, don’t you think? I was just wondering to myself — if I tapped her on the shoulder, do you imagine she might oblige by turning this way for a second? The boy here is interested, you know, and would like to see more …’

  Delighted by his own wit, the fat man began to wheeze and chuckle, his belly under the yellow waistcoat heaving and wobbling with amusement. At first the tall man seemed undecided how to respond to this unexpectedly indecent suggestion, but then he saw the joke and smiled conspiratorially.

  ‘Anything to educate the young, eh?’

  I expect that is the sort of thing Jonathan says when I’m not around, Sarah thought bitterly. And I’m sure father thought like that too. It was thoughts like that which destroyed mother’s life, sent her scurrying to the doctor again and again. But I never thought Jonathan would go the same way. Until that letter. Oh Jonathan! Jonathan! How could you?

  She glared at the tall man, thinking: I hope you die slowly like father did, mad, disgraced, covered with weeping sores! Christabel Pankhurst is right: the only way for women to get justice is to change the way men think. Make them chaste.

  Her anger sent the blood flowing fiercely through her, but at the same time she felt quite calm. Time seemed to have slowed down. She dropped her catalogue on a seat and walked slowly forward towards the picture, both her hands inside her muff. The men glanced at her incuriously as she passed them, still absorbed in their joke. There was a uniformed attendant sitting on a chair near the door, ten, twelve yards away.

  Everything was perfectly normal in the room. No one was taking any notice of her.

  The picture was on an easel in the corner of the room. It was framed in glass. There was a red rope hung on short wooden poles a yard in front of it, to stop people getting too close.

  Sarah stepped over the rope.

  She thought: Now. Don’t stop now.

  She pulled the heavy knife out of her muff, lifted it, and swung it at the painting.

  It was a heavy meat knife and it smashed clean through the glass. Jagged splinters flew everywhere, bouncing off Sarah’s skirt and jacket. She ignored them, dragging the knife down across the Venus’s back. There was a small tearing sound.

  ‘Hey! What the devil?’

  She pulled the knife out and stabbed again. The canvas was surprisingly hard, but the knife was in and she began to pull, dragging it along the canvas to the right, forcing it in all the time so that it tore the canvas open. She was disappointed that she was now cutting the couch rather than the woman’s body, so she took it out and jabbed again and again. Each time she tried to force the knife up higher, but it was heavy and her shoulder was aching with the strain. She was aware that people were moving, that she had no time left for another attempt. But that didn’t matter — she had already cut it several times and this last slash was already a foot long . . . eighteen inches . . . two feet . . .

  The seconds seemed to go so slowly. Sarah watched the knife blade ripping through the canvas and thought of nothing else, only that, I am doing it, it is cutting further . . .

  Hands grabbed her shoulders roughly and snatched her away. The knife fell from her fingers. She spun round and saw it was the tall man like her husband, and then the short fat man had her arm too. They dragged her away from the painting and she tripped over the rope, stumbling against them.

  ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing, woman?’

  Only then did she realise she must speak, explain the act as well as do it. With one arm twisted behind her and the rope tangled round her feet, she leant forward against the man and stared up into his face. Her eyes were near his chin, she could see a vicious, angry twist to his mouth. She took a deep breath and shouted as loud as she could.

  ‘Free Mrs Pankhurst! Mrs Pankhurst is dying in prison. You must set her free!’

  ‘She’s a damned suffragette!’

  ‘My God, look what she’s done!’

  ‘Get her over here!’

  ‘Hold her arms!’

  There were men all round her now, pulling, clutching, shoving, shouting angrily. The uniformed attendant had the fingers of one hand digging tightly into her arm and was blowing a whistle near her ear. Sarah continued to shout wildly, conscious that this was the last thing she had to do before they took her away.

  ‘Votes for Women! Free Mrs Pankhurst! Votes for Women!’

  Shouting was easy. Once she had started, her screams went on without conscious thought because they were only slogans. As she screamed she twisted her head to look back at the painting and exulted. There was a gash nearly two feet long right down the woman’s back, with the ragged edges of torn canvas hanging down like flaps of skin from a wound. And half-a-dozen smaller slashes from neck to rump. Now they would see what real women were like — fighters, not their whorehouse picture!

  ‘Free Mrs Pankhurst! Votes for Women!’

  They manhandled her out of the room, through the other galleries, and down the stairs. Her clothes were ripped and stretched all ways across her body as it seemed every man in the place exerted himself to get a handhold. Halfway down the stairs they met the commissionaire who had sold her the catalogue. There were people everywhere, pointing and staring — even young coster boys from the street. Another attendant was blowing his whistle outside on the grand stone steps, waving to
attract a policeman.

  Then, mercifully, they marched her into a little office and shoved her roughly into a chair. A row of angry male faces glared at her. She gasped for breath, her face hot, her pulse racing angrily.

  ‘What . . . what happens now?’ she asked feebly.

  ‘We’re waiting for the constable, miss,’ the commissionaire said firmly.

  For a moment no one else spoke and Sarah thought: I’ve done it now — nothing matters any more. Then she saw the fury on the faces in front of her, and remembered Mrs Pankhurst walking endlessly, up and down her cold cell, all day and all night without food or friends or water. And the torture so many women had endured.

  Her body shrank a little inside her clothes, and a shiver passed through her. Cold, like gooseflesh.

  And she thought: this has only just begun . . .

  2

  THE POLICE cells were noisy, crowded, and squalid. But for Sarah they were the first refuge she had had all day.

  She had probably waited for only a quarter of an hour in the room at the National Gallery, but it had been a frightening time. Every few minutes someone burst in from outside, to stare at her, shake a fist, or scream abuse. The manager, a small, dark, excitable man, had been near to tears. He had stood in front of her, shaking with rage, saying that the painting was a priceless, priceless, work of art, and that in his opinion she was a vandal and should be whipped — no, hanged, for such an act of desecration. The commissionaire had scowled also, and then there had been a stream of indignant men — and women too — some of whom had had to be restrained from spitting at her. And all the time the noise outside the door rose from a murmur to a menacing hubbub, and Sarah had begun to fear that she would be beaten or even lynched for what she had done.

  Then the two policemen had come in.

  They were big men, with impressive moustaches and shoulders that completely filled the doorway when they came through it. They exuded an air of calm and solidity. They were totally unexcited by what had happened. They contemplated Sarah with interest, and no anger whatsoever.

  Her heartrate began to slow down.

  She knew the drill, now. She had been through it several times before. There was nothing personal in it for the police. Many of them actually liked suffragettes. Within half an hour they had taken most of the preliminary details and were ready to take her away. One fastened the bracelet of a pair of handcuffs carefully round her right wrist. He attached the other bracelet to his own.

  ‘You don’t mind, I hope, ma’am? Just a formality really, but it’s for your protection as much as ours. There’s a biggish crowd out there.’

  He was right about that. The entrance hall and the steps outside the Gallery were packed, and no one, so far as Sarah could tell, had a good word to say for her. People jeered, cat-called, spat — one or two pieces of fruit even came her way. She felt an intense gratitude for the calm solidity and bulk of the two constables beside her. Coster boys and street urchins followed them along the street, and women — women! — screamed abuse.

  Surely someone will cheer, she thought. I did it for justice, for all womankind. There are so many of us — surely someone will understand?

  Then she saw it. A green, white and purple banner waving above the crowd outside Bow Street Police Station, with a small, determined knot of suffragettes underneath it. As she was marched past they saw her, and a ragged cheer went up:

  ‘Votes For Women!’

  ‘Free Mrs Pankhurst!’

  ‘Don’t let them get you down, dear! We’ll be out here, waiting!’

  She didn’t know them, but it didn’t matter. Only a few seconds, but it was the most wonderful moment of the day. She was not alone, she was understood. And it was true, they would support her, just as she had slashed the painting to support Mrs Pankhurst. If they all hung together, and dared enough, they would win in the end — they had to! It was only justice.

  Justice in Bow Street Police Station was bluff, calm, matter-of-fact. The sergeant at the desk raised an eyebrow briefly at her name and address, but no more. The details of the charge were taken and written down in a big ledger with a sigh. The constables were busy, they had seen it all before, they were ready for their tea. Sarah was taken down underneath the station to the cells.

  She had seen cells before, too, many of them. This one was dark. There was a high window at the far end, but it was closed and black with grime. On the right was a wide, long plank raised from the floor, with a sort of wooden bolster for a pillow. Under the window, in the corner, a toilet. Nothing else. No light, no bedclothes.

  It was cold, and there were shouts and banging from cells further down the corridor. It was what she had expected. Nothing would happen now for some time. Sarah felt suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion. I haven’t recovered from starving myself the last two times, she thought, and now it’s all going to start again. Her legs trembled and would not hold her, and she had an irresistible urge to cry. But even that took too much energy — she could not sustain it long. When the weeping fit was over, she slumped down on the plank bed, put her hands over her ears, and tried to sleep.

  Despite the noise, she must have slept for some time, for when she awoke she could see a light burning in the corridor through the little judas window in the door. And there was something else — a voice, a familiar sound — which had woken her.

  Keys clanked in the lock, the door opened, light flooded in. And in the light, the silhouette of a man — tall, thin, bearded, in top hat and coat.

  ‘Jonathan!’ Of course, he would have to come. But she did not want to face this. Not now.

  She had slashed the picture to avoid facing him.

  ‘My God, it’s dark enough in here! Can we have a light, man?’

  ‘I’ll fetch you a candle, sir.’

  The door was left open behind him — clearly the constable did not fear she would run away. Sarah sat up, on the edge of the bed. She felt her face flushed, her hands trembling. Jonathan stood, the light behind him, as though waiting for her to get up and run towards him. As she had done when they were younger and still in love . . . If I run towards him now, she thought, I’ll scratch his eyes out.

  The constable returned with a candle.

  ‘I’ll have to lock you in, sir, I’m afraid. Regulations. But there’ll be someone down at the end of the corridor. Just bang on the door when you want to come out.’

  ‘I hope you can distinguish my bang from those of these other poor wretches, then.’ But the urbane sarcasm was lost on the policeman. The heavy door closed behind him and they were alone.

  They had been married eleven years and at first it had seemed a brilliant match. But they were both forceful people and over the past few years there had been increasing strain. Partly because they had no children. Sarah had had three miscarriages and she could not bear to try again. She knew how much he wanted children but she was afraid to let him near her, now. The love she had once felt for him had been tarnished by the pain.

  She was glad of that now, after what she had discovered. He was no better than her father, after all. Perhaps no men could be trusted.

  He said: ‘Why did you do it? You broke your promise.’

  ‘I broke my promise?’

  ‘Yes. Sarah, you know you did. After the last time, you promised you wouldn’t do anything like this again for three months. Damn it, you’re not well, Sarah!’

  ‘It’s my body! I should be the judge of how well I am.’

  Jonathan sat down on the hard bed — there was nowhere else — and put the candle between them. He was a slim, handsome man, still lithe even at the age of thirty-eight and he moved with the grace of an athlete. He had always defied convention by keeping a full beard, trimmed short like a radical. Lit from below by the candlelight, his face, usually kind, sensitive, curious, looked eerie and ghostlike. Like that of a stranger in the night.

  He said: ‘You destroyed one of the most beautiful paintings in the world.’

  ‘Yes. You’ve seen
it, then?’

  ‘Seen it? I didn’t have to. It’s all over the evening papers. Mad Suffragette slashes Rokeby Venus. Vandals strike again. MP’s wife in scandal. Here, look.’

  She glanced briefly at the newspaper he gave her, then laid it aside. ‘I gather you don’t approve.’

  ‘Approve? For God’s sake, Sarah!’ He stood up, took two fretful paces to the toilet under the window, then came and sat down again. Very carefully and pedantically, he asked: ‘Do you really think that destroying a priceless work of art is going to make people respect the suffragettes, and regard women as responsible adult people who deserve the vote?’

  It’s the prison warders who are supposed to torture you, Sarah thought, not your own husband.

  She said: ‘Yes, I do. Jonathan, you’re a man. You probably don’t see that picture in the same way as I do. I am sure it is a great work of art but it degrades women, too, because it invites men to see us as sexual attractions and nothing more. We want to be citizens, not odalisques!’

  You didn’t always want that, Jonathan thought. In the early days, when I used to come home late at night, and you would be waiting up for me, in that long silk gown . . . he sighed. This situation seemed to him to be a culmination of everything that had gone wrong in the eleven years of their marriage. It was not just the miscarriages, it was the way their minds no longer met. But it was not at all clear to him, even now, how they had got here. Still less about where it would lead.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You tell me, then. How am I to defend this in the House when the question comes up? My wife regards Velasquez as a pornographer, is that it?’

  ‘No! Just say your wife regards paintings as less important than people. If they free Mrs Pankhurst and give us the vote, all these things will stop tomorrow. Jonathan, you know that! Until then, justice is more important than art.’

  For a moment the coldness of her slogan hung in the air between them. Then the silence was shattered by a drunk battering his cell door with his boots further down the corridor.