Mr Wroe's Virgins

by Jane Rogers

  The women seem exceptionally dissatisfied. I wish that you were here, my dear, to influence them with your calm good sense. They seem to share a disinclination for communal cooking and laundry work, despite the obvious benefits (in terms of the saving of labour) that these provide. And although it pains me to say so – and I cannot in the least understand why – I am become the particular butt of their discontent. In one of the farms where I worked, the daughter of the house (a sweet, intelligent girl of sixteen) showed such an interest in the aims and principles of Owenism that I invited her to come and see our community for herself. She was so impressed by it (you see, my dear Hannah! Even strangers warm to the happy, purposeful equality of communitarian life: I cannot wait till I see your reaction to Libertatia!) that she asked if she might join us, which was agreed by all at one of our weekly meetings. However, her father angrily refused it – exhibiting those signs of moral timidity and lack of vision, which we recognize as the products of old world society and, in particular, family life. Within families the relations between men and women are always those of possessors and possessed: the husband owns not only his wife but also his daughters, and seems to feel he has the right to decide upon their disposal, with complete disregard for their own wishes.

  March 4 1830

  Receipt of your sad news urges me to take up my pen again, my dear Hannah, and reproaches me with the long passage of time since I began this letter. I am heartily sorry for your father’s death. Life here has been hard also, this winter, and it is with a heavy heart that I am forced to relate to you a number of occurrences which can do nothing to lift your own spirits. Firstly there was the departure from Libertatia of four of our most hardworking and (as I thought) most idealistic members. Alice R., who was in charge of the dairy, and our most expert cook, apparently formed an association with one of the old New Harmonists, a widower, while we were staying in their meeting hall. Benjamin, in the interests of openness and honesty between community members, referred to this at weekly meeting; with the result that Alice has left us to move in with her widower, and her husband George, the blacksmith, is now returning to England – with many a bitter accusation levelled at the community. The second exodus was of two young single men who have taken over one of the empty New Harmony houses to live and work there on an individualist basis; they are both skilled shoe makers, and we shall sadly miss the income the sale of their goods brought into the community.

  However, two of the old New Harmony members, Angus Q. and Virginia S., are come to join us, which I am glad of, especially since Angus is disabled by the loss of his right hand after an accident in the mill, and might have fallen upon very hard times if we were not able to offer him sanctuary. I am ever thankful for that greatest of human characteristics, the ability we share to help one another in time of trouble. Hannah, if that is ever lost – then we are less than animals.

  I told you of the girl who wished to join us, and of her father’s disapproval; well, he came with two of his workers, to remove her. It was an ugly scene, dear Hannah; I grieve for the sins my sex has perpetrated upon your own. Immediately after, I was put into a most difficult position by Anna S., who accompanied us as Nicholas’s wife, and has shared his quarters ever since our arrival here. She came to me in tears, asking if she might be allowed to share my sleeping quarters, as Nicholas is now frequently drunk and has ill treated her on several occasions. He has accused her of being in love with me; well you may judge for yourself the foolishness of such a notion. She is with child by him (the child is due in the summer) and her distress was very real. At first I suggested she should have sleeping quarters of her own (this indeed was the original rule of the community; that each adult should have their own, individual, sleeping quarters, thus liberating all from that wretched legalized prostitution enforced by marriage. However, those married couples amongst us argued so strongly against this from the first, that we built six double-chambers, and it is one of these that she has shared with Nicholas). Her response to my suggestion was that she has already used the guest chamber to avoid him when he is in an ugly mood, and that he has simply broken in and violated her solitude.

  ‘I need to be in your room, brother,’ she told me (I wish you had seen her poor face, darling Hannah, with the tears streaming down), ‘for he is afraid of you, and will not dare to attack me if I have your protection.’

  This matter was not resolved purely between ourselves, dear Hannah, for as you know the minds of many can offer solutions which one individual may not even imagine, and I do believe the spirit of rationality grows stronger among us, when we are together: so it was discussed at our next weekly meeting. A strong portion of the community were in favour of expelling Nicholas, for his anti-cooperative tendencies, and for the violence he has shown towards a woman. I argued against them, for I believe that a part of our work must be to educate and help those to whom cooperation comes less easily; how may we hope to develop and spread our system across the world, if we are driven to expel one of our first and most enthusiastic members after little more than a year of communial life? There is also the question of his child, which will be the second to be born to our community. Decisions on childrearing were taken long ago (you will recall, my dear, you yourself were party to some of them before we left London) and all children are, of course, to be reared and cared for jointly. But if Nicholas is expelled from the community, is he to be forbidden contact with his own child? Whatever the natural justice in the case, the paternalistic law of the land is likely to remove the child from its mother and give it entirely to its father. Sensibility of this fact caused Anna to plead that he should be allowed to stay, although she refuses to budge from my room, and claims that she will never be reconciled to him.

  Sadly, our community is split by this argument – one faction being resolute for his expulsion, the other equally certain that the only right course of action is for him to stay. I have spent countless evenings, over the past month, talking and arguing with him, trying to revive in him that early passion for the principles of communitarianism, and to re-awaken both his self-respect and his respect for women. This last is a particularly distressing duty, for he accuses me of stealing his wife (which as you know my dear Hannah, I have less reason than any man on earth to do, for all my free thoughts are of you).

  I am exceedingly tired at present, since the continuing shortage of basic foodstuffs necessitates that I should take on as much carpentry as I possibly can. Few of our members now have skills which can be readily exchanged for hard cash. I am urging them to discuss suitable crops and planting methods with our neighbouring farmers, for I fear that if we cannot adapt more swiftly to the land and climate, we shall always be short of food.

  And so, my dear Hannah, I must end this letter – not, as I hoped, with an urgent invitation for you to join me immediately, although you know my heart desires nothing more. But it would be foolishness and indeed unkindness to you, my beloved, to urge you over here, to find my room shared by Anna (and before this reaches you, perhaps her child), all my waking hours filled with furniture repairs at outlying farms, and the community in a state of poverty and dislocation. Within a six-month, I am sure, there will be an improvement. Nicholas must, I am sure, see beyond his own distress, to the communial good: our next year’s crop may succeed; and once her child is born, Anna (who is a good, sweet woman) may feel more able to be independent and strong.

  As I hope – and know – my dear Hannah, you are. I am sorry for your father’s death, but I rest confident in the knowledge that despair cannot pull you down. When ever I think of you, it is as a figure of hope and joy.

  And so farewell, my dear. My next letter will, I am sure, carry more cheerful news; you know that we plant a seedling here, whose nurture must take precedence over our selfish individual desires and aspirations. Once established, it will grow into a great strong tree of liberty and equality, which shall recommend itself, by the shining example of human happiness it displays, to emulation by people all around the wo
rld.

  Let us never forget, the individual sacrifices we make must be counted light, for we are indeed at the beginning of a New moral World.

  Your ever loving

  Edward.

  This morning I told Joanna I had to visit my aunt and uncle, which was a lie. I have never seen them (apart from across the pews at Sanctuary) since I came into this household. Nor do I wish to.

  I walked as far as the end of their road, and then on towards what I judged to be the centre of Ashton. Another hot day; the dust coming up off the roads is enough to choke one, and there is a pretty bad smell everywhere on the other side of the canal. We are fortunate to be out in the open fields: sickness spreads quickly in the heat, three children of Sanctuary families have died in this last week.

  I long for the anonymity of my old clothes. One cannot help but be a spectacle in this dress and bonnet; in the western part of town there are a sufficient number of the Israelite community for me to pass without remark, but on the eastern side – where I have never been on foot before – people stare, especially at the bonnet, and the children call out. I proceeded with increasing discomfort, from the attention I was drawing to myself as well as from the heat.

  I soon came out at a wide and surprisingly elegant road called Stamford Street. The shops and houses here are all new, and built with a pleasing conformity. Men and women in more fashionable dress than I have seen for a long while sauntered along, gazing into the shop fronts; and one dandy on a bay cob paused to stare at me through his eyeglass. Looking back to the west, the vista is completed by a fine new gothic church, which must be St Peter’s – for I know Mr Wroe goes to visit the rector there. I made my way on to Old Square. Spotting the refreshing sight of greenery to my left, I turned towards it and soon found myself in St Michael’s churchyard, which is bordered on the river side by a fine orchard. I sat on a big old tombstone by the wall to cool myself. To the east, the Pennine hills are very clear. Their gentle round shapes put me in mind of a huge sleeping body, or maybe an animal at rest, ignorant of – and dwarfing – the small human concerns of the town.

  I have read and reread Edward’s letter. My poor love; my poor lamb. I can see him, waking before dawn, setting out with his bag of tools across his shoulder, cheerful, whistling, a great sense of what he will accomplish for the good of the community before him as the sun rises; and then at evening, exhausted in body and spirit, trying to steer a right course between the arguing factions that surround him, pouring out to them his energy and love, as if those precious resources were limitless.

  How generous his vision is. I ache for him, as I ache for remembered states of childhood; for a simple world, for ignorance, for innocence. The other women are angry because he remains faithful to me. And he will do, I know, even if he never sees me again. He will hold that certainty in his heart; it will sustain him. He is like a part of my childhood. Have I outgrown that romantic sensibility – or was I simply never endowed with it?

  Edward – Edward! I am free! There is nothing for me in the certain love of a good man a continent away. The very fact that you prefer my shadow to those warm breathing solid women about you, chills me. Easily – as easily as slipping into water – I cast off, I am free.

  Sitting in the long grass beneath the orchard wall, with the lacy heads of the cow parsley nodding along the ditch beside me, I conjure in my mind’s eye a picture of my life, which is a small craft on a huge and lazy river. The tiny boat is borne along gently on the current. I think I may determine my course; that I could have gone to America, or anywhere. With my oar I make a little splashing here, a frenzy of dabbling there. The craft spins, then veers sharply to one side. But gradually, inexorably, the gentle pace of the current bears me back to mid-stream; carries me round the slow, deep bend, and into another reach of water. I still have my oar, and with a really determined spurt of paddling, I could reach the bank, at either side. I could even, for a while, fight the current and move upstream. Opportunities missed – Edward, America – are no more than any of those other dreams and years that grow thick as virgin forest upon the banks of my river. I shall put ashore. I shall exercise my single right to land … but the strength of the current, the shape of the river, the effects of the weather, the state of my vessel, a hundred factors which lie perhaps beyond my own control, will also determine that choice. It would be worse than anything to land, and stand stranded on the bank, regretting that lost and hidden country just beyond the river’s next lazy loop.

  Ironic to consider that I, like Edward, also live in a community. A household of seven women and two men, within the larger community of the Christian Israelites. Ironic to consider that such benefits as I enjoy within it are the result of lack of liberty and equality. That I willingly live under the sway of a tyrant, and am grateful for that irresponsibility. Certainly we are fortunate that those sexual jealousies which have divided Libertatia cannot take hold here; it is not likely we shall squabble over the Prophet’s favours!

  At length I walked through the graveyard and out, behind the church, on to Scotland Street. Here the houses are older, and the roadway narrow and dark; I proceeded until I came out at a junction where stands a fine old timbered building, identified by a sign as the Manor Court House. Turning westwards again, along Old Street, I passed some of the darkest, most foul-smelling alleys I have ever seen. The cramped houses stand back to back, and thick clouds of flies buzz over the filth and nuisance littering the open gutter between them. Pressing my handkerchief across my nose and mouth for fear of contagion, I moved on. I could not bring myself to walk into one of these alleys, despite a lively sense of curiosity: I had imagined, from the prosperous orderliness of our end of town, that the greater part of the population were employed in the new mills. This is clearly not true. Men and women lounged in these dark doorways, and I saw several pallid faces peering up from cellar rooms: the lethargy in their movements, and in the spindly children who sprawl in the dust outside, indicates how near they are to starvation. The gable ends are plastered with hand bills, many ripped and hanging in shreds, adding to the derelict air of the place. One that I paused to read called for a meeting and general strike of ‘all the labouring classes’.

  At length I came out at Dungeon Street, which is a little wider but still bordered by mean filthy dwellings. I should not be surprised to hear that there is no night soil collection at all in this part of town. A little way up the street I perceived that there are improvements afoot. The old dwellings have been cleared, and to the right stands a large new poorhouse. I saw a young woman’s pale face staring out of one window. To the left is the market place, which was opened only a week or so since. (I owe this information to Leah, who told me there would be a grand celebration at the opening ceremony; it was not quite an invitation to go with her – nor can I imagine Mr Wroe would have permitted such a thing. It seemed more as if she were testing me, to see whether I had any inclination to play truant with her. At any rate, I did not go.) It is a decent sized area, with covered stalls and flagged openings, and building work still in progress (judging by the clouds of dust) at the far side. The proximity of this prosperous site to the squalor of the old dwellings is quite shocking: there are extremes of wealth and poverty in Ashton which I had not imagined. I turned back down toward Stamford Street, passing on the way several newly pasted handbills advertising that Mr William Cobbett would speak at the town hall on Monday next, on the subject of ‘The present distressed state of the country and the means necessary to be adopted to restore it to prosperity.’ I came out at the bridge and crossed the canal with relief, able to breathe deeply again.

  *

  I should like to go and hear Mr Cobbett speak on Monday. Father and I once planned to hear him at the Taylors’ Hall, but missed him through some confusion as to the time. It is partly an inclination to hear him … and partly, I admit, a desire to test the extent of my liberty with Mr Wroe. There is a world outside this house; are we permitted to mix with it, or will the purity of their religi
on be soiled by such contact?

  I made my request at the usual time, after a reading. It was met for a while with silence. Then he said, ‘Why do you wish to hear Mr Cobbett?’

  ‘Because I admire his writings. He has a clear grasp of the wrongs done to the working people – and many a sensible, practical remedy to suggest.’

  ‘You see, you already know his views. You have no need to go and hear him mouth them again.’

  ‘By that reasoning one need never speak to any person more than once. I have an idea of his general way of thinking, but I hope to learn more in detail by hearing him speak – particularly I hope to be in some way enlightened concerning the situation of the poorer classes here in your town.’

  ‘Why?’

  I could not think of a ready answer to this.

  ‘There is room for charitable work within our church,’ he said. ‘There are always poor, and sick, to visit.’

  ‘I am not looking for charitable work.’

  ‘What are you looking for, Sister Hannah?’

  ‘I am not looking for anything.’ My answer sounded perhaps more irritable than I intended. He raised his eyebrows briefly.

  ‘You may go to hear Mr Cobbett. But take one of the others with you – I will not have you traipsing about the streets alone.’

  I asked Leah to accompany me: she took it for granted that this was simply a request of convenience, and at the Ashton side of the bridge, asked what time she should meet me there for our return to Southgate. I had to ask her directions to the town hall, but soon realized that I know it, for it is one and the same as that fine old court house I found last week.

  When I saw the crowd on the stairs to the assembly room my courage nearly failed me. My dress is so strange that everyone stares; no, it is not that, but they were all together, each with a companion, I seemed to be the only single woman present. When I have attended such meetings in the past it has been with my father, or Edward. I think I was never conscious of how much they made way for me, and protected me from the jostling of a crowd. Here people pushed in front of me, and called out to one another over my head, as if I were a child. I could not get a seat and was squeezed up against the wall where I could not properly see the speakers. After a while I calmed down sufficiently to listen to Mr Cobbett, who was describing the plight of the urban poor. He urged the unnaturalness of the manufacturing process as one of the chief causes of the ills of society, outlining a vision of rural bliss which might be obtained by each cottager having a small plot of land, a cow and some chickens, and making his family self-sufficient in home-grown foodstuffs. His audience were ill disposed to this advice, and there was a great deal of heckling from men who wanted to know, ‘Why a decent living cannot be made at manufacturing, if only the masters will give us fair hours and wages?’ Many others called for universal suffrage and the proper representation of the manufacturing districts in parliament. There is, I learned, no parliamentary member at all for the Manchester district.