tart, I too is t of my mistakes.
I imagine a table, slick oo muc. t, I t runs, like ink. I to save t do migaggered beating of clocks. Beyond t come oter cries: tics, ts and scolds of nurses. For table raps upon it to keep o trap separates o prevent ting of ongue; anot I migraps remain: tear me in t me upon . I suck, and the
about me. till, t falling blood— drip drop! drip, drop!—t telling off t fees of my life, t of hen sinks for ever.
I feel it, and suck me.
I pass my first ten years a daugo tabby cat upon t cat, a to pet and dress e-grey go like t ure keys upon it, and call me little nurse. I sleep urn, in ties upon to me, I suppose—and divided in tics, one side for male. I see only t me, as toucers. Otroublesome, and to stand before and strike to my il thing so droll.
ts of discipline and order; and incidentally appretitudes of insanity. ter.
o reason I am given a gold ring said to be my fatrait of a lady called my motand I am an orp, never s love—or rat greatly troubled by t, in t cy. I singing voice and an eye for letters. I I suppose I s all my days a nurse, contentedly teasing lunatics until I die.
So nine and ten. Some time in my elevento tron of to make me some treat. I am ead, she
greets me strangely, and meet my eye. tleman, s ttle to me. It ime. Step closer, tron says. tleman c of black, and a pair of black silk gloves. ter to study me. ending to il I stand before s o pass ongue across tongue is dark at tip.
S makes enoug, for all t. hows her voice?
remulous, complaining, like the shadow of a shivering man.
Say a o tleman, says tron quietly. Say how you are.
I am very ly. tleman winces.
t will do, hen: I hope you can whisper? I hope you can nod?
I nod. Oh yes.
I ?
I can.
Be silent, ts better. urns to tron. I see s o keep . I dont care at all for is too plump. It , and slouc of a t? Did I ask for t?
tron colours. It of to keep ume of the house.
o provide sport for nurses?
ick upon turns again to me, but speaks to her. he says, how well does she read?
ext and let rate.
tron , and again tleman ly! il I speak it in a murmur. te t while he looks on.
A girls heless.
I am also pleased. I understand from I er I ed ters are my undoing. tleman leans ick and tilts acles, the bloodless rims of his eyes.
ell, miss, o come and live in my pus lip at me, mind! o come to me, and learn neat ters?
ruck me. I s not at all, I say at once.
tron says, For shame, Maud!
tleman snorts. Peremper after all. Sy foot, at least. So you like to stamp, miss? ell, my o stamp in, far ao fits ttle o feed you, and t—hmm?
s do upon it. ruction to tron and does not look at me again. ake up t to the floor.
I go! I cry. make me!
tron drao ake a ious lunatics, but noure is to be, in the house of my uncle.
Some men o
take me . All at once, I must give up my little mad of cloto dress me to s, o tiffened from to t ig my complaints, pulls tigc comes time for o take me, ts a pair of scissors to my o take a curl of o keep inside a locket; and, t, take up knives and scissors of t me until my ears at t. tresses like gulls— tics in t e ss hard behind us.
a place to raise a girl in! she says, passing a handkerchief across her lip.
I speak to rait gos me and makes my breats c my ankles. My last I tear tc, complacently. Got a temper, of knitting and a parcel of food. t of salt and te eggs, boiled , to break t of it. t eat it, but let it jerk til it falls upon tut tut, s t. Sakes out ting, t beside iff, in a miserable rage. times rees. the window-glass, dark as blood.
I to grimness and solitude, tered is tillness of my uncles be day. tops at a door, split dohe middle
into to tremble. t I take to be a pos Mr ay, your uncles ste make some gesture s teps do I let ake my to tease—for I imes seen nurses curtsey, laugo lady lunatics. o a darkness t seems to lap at my buff goer or is t my uncle cultivates in her men grow vines and flowering creepers.
takes me up a staircase quite even, and times torn: my nes make me clumsy, and once I fall. Come up, c; and no stay to me—t like ted filled raits, sing blades, creatures in frames and cases. taircase turns upon itself, to make a gallery about t every turning tant grubs, in tand servants, come to see me make my progress the house.
I do not knos, lunatics.
co the woman.
o see your face, so see if you turned out her.
I y mot t; and am hem.
topped before a door. handsome is as hand-
some does, s died. to be yours.
Sakes me into to t joins it. ttle as if battered by fists. t is er noo ttle fire—I am too small to see my face in tand and shiver.
S your mittens, says ter sakes my cloak from me, t ug all you like, s s you, it s a business to see you neat, after t say. Notle girl lift up s and piddle?
Scs a cloter and washes my face and hands.
I sa. Sefuller t teac house of yours?
I long for my little oo, and knoruggle and limp. At lengteps from me and wipes her hands.
Lord, hink hell make a lady of you.
I dont to be a lady! I say. My uncle cannot make me.
I s e youve made us.
tifled ringing of a bell, times. It is a clock; I understand it, o to t told tics to rise, to dress, to say to take think,
No as before. Even tcs ired. Again my boots catcs. alk softly! says the woman in a whisper, pinching my arm. heres your uncles room, look.
Sakes me in. put on ter sun striking t strangely. t t is t suitable for ted; and t is pink. I suppose all printed o be true ones.
ts me very near tands at my back, s surface is cap assel on a fraying ther, paler, pair of coloured glasses.
So, miss, epping toiles? he asks her.
Rather ill, sir.
I can see it, in her eye. here are her gloves?
t hem.
My uncle comes close. An unhappy beginning. Give me your hand, Maud.
I give it. tc t and lifts it. My to . My uncle . he shakes his head.
No a set of coarse fingers upon my books, iles bring me a nurse. I s o make ter. Your , , t are kept out of ts o t of , and uncoils from it—one of things,
t bookmen use—a line of metal beads, bound tig, seeming to smartly doiless assistance, akes my oto t.
ting like a t bloiles releasing my s, I put my fingers to my mouto weep.
My uncle turns to and ter towards his ears.
Keep silence, girl! . Mrs Stiles pinc makes me cry last I groill.
ell, ly. You s forget ture, hmm?
I s smiles. Mrs Stiles. Youll keep my niece mindful of ies? I e tame. I cant orms and tantrums, stray too far, mind! You must be in reach of her, should she grow wild.
Mrs Stiles makes a curtsey and—under cover of plucking my trembling so keep it from falling into a slouc, t again, as the sun.
Now, says my uncle, w, w you here.
I put my crimson fingers to my face, to wipe my nose.
to make a lady of me.
he gives a quick, dry laugh.
to make a secretary of you. do you see these walls?
ood, sir.
Books, girl, s place and turns it. t as a Bible. t er all,
mig ing different qualities of madness. I feel t advance in t.
My uncle keeps to , and taps its spine.
Do you see title, girl?—Dont take a step! I asked you to read, not to prance.
But too far from me. I sears return.
ress. I s! Look do t t my er consultation —an eye-doctor. t for ordinary gazes. Let me see you step once past t pointing finger, and I s of t doing til t you sime; but at my word, and wand me, hmm?
I do not. I am already groious, and nod as if I do. s ts place, lingering a moment over the shelf.
t ime—a favourite of itle is—
But notle w.
After my uncle o forget me. I stand for anoter-s c of me, and ruggle a moment t, Mrs Stiles darts from to lead me back upstairs. I suppose youre tle girls always are. I seful for a we egg now.
I am admit to it. But so come, and t and a glass of s red o
bear, some I sears , and tiles stand togetce alone. ttle cloak over myself, tle iles at terrible fear, and a sense of many ly tolled. I believe it is seven or eight oclock.
I say, I so be taken home now.
Mrs Stiles laugo t a plaqe to call your home!
I shey miss me.
I so be rid of you—ty, pale-faced little t you are. Come s your bed-time. So unlace my goug a.
I say, Youve no rigo me! Youre noto me! I my mot love me!
trait at my t. ts all teful you , to knoeady. You must o give you the figure of a lady.
Saken tiff buff dress from me, and all tig t grips me s a nigo my e skin gloves, c ts. Only my feet remain bare. I fall upon tcill.
See e, tle daug died. Semper like a lambs. le-tempered co die, and peeviso t say. hy
your motune, surned out tras live to keep your fingers smooto a lady, is a puzzle. eep all tful tears you like. You s ter.
Scakes me to to t, y bed, ts doains. t: sells me it leads to anotempered girl sleeps ten in t, and if I am anyt still and good and quiet, she will hear; and her hand is very hard.
Say your prayers, so forgive you.
takes up the lamp and leaves, and I am plunged in an awful darkness.
I t a terrible to do to a c terrible, even noraining my ears against ting black of my oer. My corset . My knuckles, tugged into tiff skin gloves, are starting out in bruises. No clock ss its gears, and c comfort I can from my idea t someco s of tics licence to aking it for anotempered girl t sleeps next door is ed, and tle me o , close by—unnaturally close, to me to be: I imagine a t tain, a to cry. t I ears come strangely. I long to lie still, so t guess t I am t tiller I try to be, tcly, a spider or a mottling last, and jerk in a convulsion and, I suppose, shriek.
t bethe
seams of tain. A face appears, close to my o tic, but t of t my little tea of biscuits and s wine. Sgown, and down.
Noly. s it to my rokes my face, and I groears flourally I say I ics, and she laughs.
tics ot you glad, to t is only strange for you o it.
Sakes up . I see , and begin at once again to cry.—! she says.
I say I do not like tened to lie alone. Sates, tiles. But I dare say my bed is softer t is er, and fearfully cold. S last t sil I sleep. She darkness.
Sells me s me rest my t you like it here?
I say I t a little, if s; and at t stles ably upon ttress.
S once, and face-cream. , at t, and I find t for sleep to come—as if I am tumbling into t darkness and t will save me.
I am telling you t you mige t work upon me, making me w I am.
Next day, I am kept to my to se my terrors of t, t do it! I cry,
tearing tiles beats me. My go being so stiff, ss riking of my back. I take tle consolation I mig.
I am beaten often, I believe, in my first days t be ots, tings of ty y of my uncles o fits and foaming tempers. I am an amiable craint. I dasable to til ts fly from my il my t bleeds. My passions are met s, eac. I am bound about ts and mout into lonely rooms, or into cupboards. One time—urned a candle and let t til taken by Mr ay into to t remember, noal—t tick in try silence, like so many clocks. tick for tiles comes to release me I and cannot be uncurled, and am as hey had drugged me.
I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.
If sers for ever!
It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.
to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as for tiles conduct me to ions o my progress.
iles?
Still badly, sir.
Still fierce?
Fierce, and snappish.
Youve tried your hand?
Semper, more rages and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.
a dot of a girl, to be so naugiles says stle tartar as you. you be good?
I morning I upturn my c and tread to t. Mrs Stiles trikes my face. to my uncles door.
of us. Good God, ?
Oful thing, sir!
Not more of break out, among the books?
But s ime at me. I stand very stiff, my face, my pale my shoulders.
At lengtakes off acles and closes o me, and very soft at to the bridge of his nose, and pinches.
ell, Maud, , tiles, and aff, all ing on your good manners. I ter to find you biddable. os s only to examine your c is , I tiless
is cool, hmm?
-edged, for cutting pages. oops and puts t against my face. ens me. as a girls. o see you , Maud. Indeed I am. Do you suppose I you t? It is you it, since you provoke it so. I t like to be struck.—t is cooler, is it not? urned the blade. I shiver. My bare arms
creep ing, s, on your good manners. ell, t, at Briar. e can , and , and again. Mrs Stiles and my staff are paid to do it; I am a sco it by nature. Look about you my collection. Do you suppose tient man? My books come to me sloedly passed many tedious ation of poorer volumes t mig; moves t of to a spot beneatilts up my face and looks it over. ts tucks tacles behind his ears.
I advise you to wiles, roublesome again.
Perer all, and may be broken. My uncle returns to o my se is not t of a is y of patience. tience so terrible as t of tics labour at endless tasks—conveying sand from one leaking cup into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I cannot say. And of course, ts t come to me later, day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.
Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.
I do not .
I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.
t is t day, perion. But next day, at
eigutors me a desk and a stool for me close to ting finger on ool is and t of my single and finally groience er all; and to be free of a desire to ty often.
Still, t o o e, to se moves silently upon paper, and a green-so save my eyes.
t s, of smouldering dust: a curious smell—I so e it!—th.
My self is of t tedious kind, and consists cext, from antique volumes, into a leat is filled my job is to render it blank again ask, more tter I am made to copy: for tion, groo tear; and t of a smudge on a leaf of text, or tearing paper, is more ts of t I fear most as a cres of past lessons, imperfectly erased.
I call t I am not taugo recite, softly and clearly; I am never taugo sing. I never learn t am scead in tcley, silk. I learn inks; tting of pens; tyles and sizes of founts: sans-serif, antique, Egyptian, pica, brevier, emerald, ruby, Pearl. . . t is a c. For te.
But I learn quickly. turns. I am made small re-soled slippers, a goiff as t, but of velvet. I am alloo take my supper in t one end of a great oak table, set s at t if I so let fall a fork, or to jar my knife against my plate, terrible eye. t obliges you to grind your silver in t way?
too large and too fully once.
taken a eat s, and s, and calves feet, my kid-skin gloves groing to tance tite leaves me. I care most for t in a crystal glass engraved arnisial. to keep me mindful, not of my name, but of t of my mother; which was Marianne.
S spot of all t lonely park—ary grey stone among so many aken to see it, and made to keep tomb neat.
Be grateful t you may, says Mrs Stiles, crim tery grass, end my grave? I s forgotten.
aken all tle daugo make ornaments cut to , I groful meekness t, receiving t s provokes o tless enougo scolds, o tain to sigo trengtone. In time—so cunning
am I!—I find out ter; tc giving birto a litter of kittens, I take one for a pet, and name it for o call it loudest ty child you are! how fine your black fur is! Come, kiss your mama.
Do you see, ances make of me?
Mrs Stiles trembles and the words.
take ture arid ! so Barbara, w no more.
I run and loved me, and t brings t tears coolly to my eyes.
O! Say you !
Barbara says siles sends her away.
Youre a sly, eful c t kno. Dont t see through you and your designing ways.
But it is s udying of is so me? is anyone no send to save me; six montten me. tiles, ttle girl emper. I am sure, to be rid of you. In time, I believe o forget. My old life groo times emerges to darken or trouble it, in dreams and as trokes of forgotten lessons noart out upon the pages of my copy-book.
My proper mote. Didnt srait in a little o loat. Let me kiss mama good-nigime, unlocking my box. But I do it only to torment Mrs Stiles. I raise ture to my lips and, nig which
follo last, as a clock must tick to a regular beat, I find I must do it or lie fretful in my bed. And trait must be set doly, s ribbon quite uncreased. If trikes t lining of too ake it out and set it down carefully again.
Mrs Stiles c, e still until Barbara comes.
Meanertaining gentlemen at Briar: noexts, not understanding tter I am made to recite; and tlemen—like Mrs Stiles—crangely. I groo t. my uncles instruction I curtsey. I curtsey lemen clap, to sroke my ell me, often, heir gazes.
So my uncles room to find my little desk removed, and a place made ready for me among o him.
take off your gloves, o touc is a cold, still, sunless day. I Briar, t begun to bleed as women do.
ell, Maud, says my uncle. At last you cross to my books. You are about to learn ty of your vocation. Are you afraid?
A little, sir.
You do o be. For ter. You think me a scholar, hmm?
Yes, sir.
ell, I am more t. I am a curator of poisons. tly puts pile of ink-stained papers t litter heir Index.
tion and proper study. t so perfect as t is complete. I ed many years to its construction and revision; and se many more, as t. I o to make you immune, t you mig me. My eyes—do you look at my eyes, Maud. akes off acles and brings o mine; and I flinc of and naked face—yet see nooo, ain film, or milkiness, upon t sside triol and arsenic must do so like t so. I he larger dose.
urns and takes a book from to me, pressing my fingers it.
Keep t o tutored. tainted, sell. You understand me? I ouch poison, Maud. Remember.
tain Draion of Laura. I sit alone, and turn tand at last tter I lemen.
t pleasure. My uncle collects it—keeps it neat, keeps it ordered, on guarded s keeps it strangely—not for its o; rat provides fuel for tisfying of a curious lust.
I mean, t of the bookman.
See o me softly, draexts e t edge? Observe tooling, look. he
tilts to me but, jealously, let me take it. Not yet not yet! Ater; titles, look, picked out in red. tals floext. extravagance! And t see ispiece— ture is of a lady reclined on a coucleman beside tip—done after Borel, most rare. I all at Liverpool, for a s part noy pounds.—Come, come! y o my eacion, to see you colour? ell, no more of t. leisure. You tance, in tiny of the form.
So o me, many times. I do not believe een. t first, seems a frig c lusts, gro limbs and cavities, be prone to fevers, to crises, seek not togeting flesopped up ing of my legs. I imagine myself fingered and pierced ... I am teen, as I o restlessness: I begin to lie eac at Barbaras side, back t to study t. take to c I kno, and fair—darkest of all. t troubles me. t last, one day, sc are you looking at? s, I anss as . her cheek flares crimson. Oh! she cries. I never did! here did you learn such words? From my uncle, I say.
Oleman. Ill tell Mrs Stiles! Siles ead, like Barbara, sarts back. But takes up a block of soap and, while
Barbara o my mout back and fortongue.
Speak like a devil, and a filt? Like your orasher? ill you? ill
you?
ts me fall, and stands and out a light.
t least, I may keep ;
I ongue gro still taste lavender. I t , after all.
But soon, I do not care. My cunt groand my uncles books to be filled rut c quite fades from my limbs. tlessness turns all to scorn. I become o be. I become a librarian.
tful turk, my uncle mig?
e index—o Priapus and Venus ed me, as oticed to the loom.
I knoill e. I knoors, auctioneers— ents of ters:
quot;Mr Lilly: on t of Paris claims no kno, sodomitical matter. S;
My uncle heir lenses.
t no leave to languis me see . . . ival of till trey? You must copy it, Maud ...quot;
I will, I say.
You t myself, and yaudies me. aken s nib.
It appears you find your occupation dull, last. Pero return to your room. I say not?
Perer a moment.
Per back your book t, Maud— t, as I cross to truct Mrs Stiles to keep t suppose I so keep you warm in idleness, hmm?
I ate, ter—it seems aler t until made to dress for dinner. But at table, e, my uncle stops , in this house.
takes tter arike ead I must sit, ting my o t, biting doears, upon my uncles ink-stained tongue, until I am dismissed.
Next day at eigurn to my o yawn again.
I groaller, in t follos and gloves and slippers.—My uncle notes it, vaguely, and instructs Mrs Stiles to cut me neo ttern of t take a sort of malicious pleasure from to suit hen again, perhaps in her grief for
er sten t little girls are meant to turn out Briar, and dra, noy. I o my gloves and my t unloosening of trings. Undressed, I seem to feel myself as naked and unsafe as one of my uncles lenseless eyes.
Asleep, I am sometimes oppressed by dreams. Once I fall into a fever, and a surgeon sees me. fless o my croubled, s? ell, expect t. You are an uncommon girl. rokes my o be taken in a cup of er—for restlessness. Barbara puts out ture, wiles looks on.
to be married, and I am given anot as a bird—one of ttle, little birds t men bring dos. Se skin marked een, innocent as butter. S first. S still to be, and ill its look of mine. I beat he resemblance.
So my life passes. You mig kno queer. But I read otalk of servants, and catc—by tying glances of parlourmaids and grooms!—I see well enougy I have become.
I am as rakes of fiction; but came to my uncles s park. I kno remember t follo remember do, , for example, sit a horse, or dance. I have
never o spend it. I ain, or a sea.
I , I t, too. I kno, from my uncles books. I kno lies upon a river—er, t, overturned punt tted as ual mockery, it seems to me, of my confinement; but I like to sit upon it, gazing at t ters edge. I remember tory, of t and er of a king. I so find a c, not to keep it!—but to take its place in t and leave it at Briar to groo be me. I ten of t claim me.
t is o fancies. and at t and at my o, for many a time. And in t t covers t crescent, to t of secrets.
But I am inside t, and long to get out. . .
I am seventeen and a promise and tory of a gullible girl wo .