Fingersmith

  His drawing-room is even darker, and seems smaller, than mine: he has hangings upon the walls, and more book-presses. I don’t look at them. I go to his dressing-room door, put my ear to the wood; take the handle and turn it. One inch, two inches, three.—I hold my breath, my hand upon my heart. No sound. I push the door further, stand and listen again. If he stirs, I will turn and go. Does he move? For a second there is nothing. Still I wait, uncertain. Then comes the soft, even rasp of his breathing.

  He has his bed-curtains pulled close but keeps a light, as I do, upon a table: this seems curious to me, I should never have supposed him to be nervous of the dark. But the dim light helps me. Without moving from my place beside the door, I look about me; and at last see the two things I have come to take. On his dressing-stand, beside his jug of water: his watch-chain with, upon it, the key to his library, bound in faded velvet; and his razor.

  I go quickly and take them up—the chain uncurling softly, I feel it slither against my glove. If it should fall—! It does not fall. The door-key swings like a pendulum. The razor is heavier than I expect, the blade is free of its clasp, at an angle, showing its edge. I pull it a little freer, and turn it to the light: it must be sharp, for what I want it for. I think it is sharp enough. I lift my head. In the glass above the mantel, picked out against the shadows of the room, I see myself—my hands: in one a key, in the other a blade. I might pass for a girl in an allegory. Confidence Abused.

  Behind me, the drapes to my uncle’s bed do not quite meet. In the space between them a shaft of light—so weak it is hardly light, but rather a lessening of darkness—leads to his face. I have never seen him sleep before. In form he seems slight, like a child. The blanket is drawn to his chin, uncreased, pulled tight. His lips let out his breath in a puff. He is dreaming—black-letter dreams, perhaps, or pica, morocco, calf. He is counting spines. His spectacles sit neatly, as if with folded arms, on the table beside his head. Beneath the lashes of one of his soft eyes there is a gleaming line of moisture. The razor is warming in my hand . . .

  But this is not that kind of story. Not yet. I stand and watch him sleep for almost a minute; and then I leave him. I go as I have come—carefully, silently. I go to the stairs, and from there to the library, and once inside that room I lock the door at my back and light a lamp. My heart is beating hardest, now. I am queasy with fear and anticipation. But time is racing, and I cannot wait. I cross to my uncle’s shelves and unfasten the glass before the presses. I begin with The Curtain Drawn Up, the book he gave me first: I take it, and open it, and set it upon his desk. Then I lift the razor, grip it tight, and fully unclasp it. The blade is stiff, but springs the last inch. It is its nature to cut, after all.

  Still, it is hard—it is terribly hard, I almost cannot do it—to put the metal for the first time to the neat and naked paper. I am almost afraid the book will shriek, and so discover me. But it does not shriek. Rather, it sighs, as if in longing for its own laceration; and when I hear that, my cuts become swifter and more true.

  When I return to Sue she is at the window, wringing her hands. Midnight has sounded. She supposed me lost. But she is too relieved to scold me. ‘Here’s your cloak,’ she says. ‘Fasten it up now, quick. Take your bag.—Not that one, that one’s too heavy for you. Now, we must go.’ She thinks me nervous. She puts her finger to my mouth. She says, ‘Be steady.’ Then she takes my hand and leads me through the house.

  Soft as a thief, she goes. She tells me where I may walk. She does not know that I have recently stood, light as a shadow, and watched my uncle sleep. But then, we go by the servants’ way, and the naked passages and stairs are strange to me, all this part of the house is strange to me. She keeps her hand in mine until we reach the basement door. Then she sets down her bag, so she may smear the key and the bolts with grease, to make them turn. She catches my eye and winks, like a boy. My heart aches in my breast.

  Then the door is opened and she takes me into the night; and the park is changed, the house seems queer—for of course, I have never before seen it at such an hour as this, I have only stood at my window and gazed out. If I stood there now, would I see myself running, Sue tugging my hand? Would I seem so bleached of depth and colour, like the lawn, the trees, the stones and stumps of ivy? For a second I hesitate, turn and watch the glass, quite sure that, if I only wait, I will see my face. Then I look at the other windows. Will no-one wake, and come, and call me back?

  No-one wakes, no-one calls. Sue pulls at my hand again, and I turn and follow. I have the key to the gate in the wall: when we are through and the lock is fast again I let it fall among the rushes. The sky is clear. We stand in shadow, saying nothing—two Thisbes, awaiting a Pyramus. The moon makes the river half silver, half deepest black.

  He keeps to the black part. The boat sits low upon the water—a dark-hulled boat, slender, rising at the prow. The dark boat of my dreams. I watch it come, feel Sue’s hand turn in mine; then step from her, take the rope he casts, let him guide me to my seat, unresisting. She comes beside me, staggering, her balance all gone. He braces the boat against the bank with a single oar, and as she sits, we turn, and the current takes us.

  No-one speaks. No-one moves, save Richard as he rows. We glide, softly, in silence, into our dark and separate hells.

  What follows? I know that the journey upon the river is a smooth one: that I should like to keep upon the boat, but am made to leave it and mount a horse. I should be afraid of the horse, at any other time; but I sit lifelessly upon it now, letting it bear me—as, I think, I would let it throw me, if it chose to. I remember the church of flint, the stalks of honesty, my own white gloves—my hand, that is bared then passed from one set of fingers to another, then bruised by the thrusting of a ring. I am made to say certain words, that I have now forgotten. I remember the minister, in a surplice smudged with grey. I do not recall his face. I know that Richard kisses me. I remember a book, the handling of a pen, the writing of my name. I do not remember the walk from the church: what I recall next is a room, Sue loosening my gown; and then a pillow, coarse against my cheek; a blanket, coarser; and weeping. My hand is bare and has that ring upon it, still. Sue’s fingers slip from mine.

  ‘You must be different now,’ she says, and I turn my face.

  When I look again, she has left me. In her place stands Richard. He keeps for a second before the door, his eyes on mine; then he lets out his breath, puts the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle laughter.

  ‘Oh, Maud,’ he says quietly, shaking his head. He wipes his beard and lips. ‘Our wedding-night,’ he says; and laughs again.

  I watch him and do not speak, the blankets pulled high before my breast. I am sober, now. I am quite awake. When he falls quiet, I hear the house beyond him: the stairs expand, throw off the pressure of his step. A mouse, or bird, moves in the space above the rafters. The sounds are wrong. The thought must show in my face.

  ‘It’s queer for you, here,’ he says, coming closer to me. ‘Don’t mind it. You shall be at London soon. There’s more life there. Think of that.’ I say nothing. ‘Will you speak? Hmm, Maud? Come, you needn’t be fey; not now, with me. Our wedding-night, Maud!’ He has come to my side. He raises his hand and grips the head-board above my pillow and shakes it, hard, until the legs of the bed lurch and grind against the floor.

  I close my eyes. The shuddering continues another moment, then the bed grows still. But he keeps his arm above me, and I feel him watching. I feel the bulk of him—seem to see the darkness of him, even through my eyelids. I sense him change. The mouse or bird still moves in the ceiling of the room, and I think he puts back his head, to follow its path. Then the house falls quiet, and he studies me again.

  And then his breath comes, quick, against my cheek. He has blown in my face. I open my eyes. ‘Hey,’ he says softly. His look is strange. ‘Don’t say you’re afraid.’ He swallows. Then he brings back his arm from the head-board, slowly. I flinch, thinking he might strike me. But he does not do that. His gaze moves over m
y face, then settles at the hollow of my throat. He looks, as if fascinated. ‘How fast your heart beats,’ he whispers. He lowers his hand, as if he means to test, with his finger, the racing of my blood.

  ‘Touch it,’ I say. ‘Touch it, and die. I have poison in me.’

  His hand stops, an inch from my throat. I hold his gaze, not blinking. He straightens. His mouth gives a twitch, then curls in scorn.

  ‘Did you think I wanted you?’ he says. ‘Did you?’ He almost hisses the words—for of course, he cannot speak too loudly, in case Sue should hear. He moves away, agitatedly smoothing his hair behind his ears. A bag lies in his path, and he kicks it. ‘God damn it,’ he says. He takes off his coat, then tugs at the link in a cuff, begins to work savagely at one of his sleeves. ‘Must you stare so?’ he says, as he bares his arm. ‘Haven’t I already told you, you are safe? If you think I am any gladder than you, to be married—’ He comes back to the bed. ‘I must act glad, however,’ he says moodily. ‘And this is a part of what passes for gladness, in marriage. Had you forgotten?’

  He has drawn back the blanket, exposing the sheet that covers the mattress, at the level of my hips. ‘Move over,’ he says. I do. He sits, and awkwardly turns. He reaches into the pocket of his trousers and draws something out. A pen-knife.

  I see it, and think at once of my uncle’s razor. It was in a different life, however, that I went stealthily through that sleeping house, cut the pages of books. Now I watch as Richard puts his nail to the groove of the knife and eases free the blade. It is spotted black. He looks distastefully at it, then lays it against his arm. But he does it uncertainly, flinching when the metal touches. Then he lowers the knife.

  ‘God damn it,’ he says again. He smooths his whiskers, his hair. He catches my eye. ‘Don’t look, so uselessly. Have you no blood about you, to save me the pain? None of those—courses, that women suffer?’ I say nothing. His mouth twists again. ‘Well, that is like you. I should have thought that, being obliged to bleed, you might as well bleed to some advantage; but, no . . .’

  ‘Do you mean,’ I say, ‘to insult me, in every possible way?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ he answers. We are still speaking in whispers. ‘This is for both our good. I don’t see you offering up your arm to the knife.’ At once, I offer it. He waves it away. ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘I shall do it, in a moment.’ He draws in his breath, moves the blade further down his arm, rests it in one of the creases at the base of his palm, where the flesh is hairless. He pauses again, takes another breath; slices, quickly. ‘Good Christ!’ he says, wincing. A little blood springs to the cut—it seems dark, in the candle-light, upon the white heel of his hand. He lets it fall to the bed. There is not much of it. He presses with his thumb at the skin of his wrist and palm, and then it falls faster. He does not catch my eye.

  After a moment, however, he says quietly: ‘Do you suppose that enough?’

  I study his face. ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘No, I do not know.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ He blinks. ‘You mean Agnes, I suppose. Don’t flatter her. There are more ways of shaming a virtuous girl, than that one. You ought to know.’

  The blood still feebly runs. He curses. I think of Agnes, showing me her red and swollen mouth. I turn away from him, in a sort of sickness. ‘Come, Maud,’ he says then, ‘tell me before I fall in a swoon. You must have read of such things. I am sure your uncle must have some entry on it in his damn Index—doesn’t he? Maud?’

  I look again, reluctantly, at the spreading drops of blood; and I nod. As a final gesture he puts his wrist to them, and smears them. Then he frowns at his cut. His cheek is quite white. He makes a face.

  ‘How ill a man may grow,’ he says, ‘from the sight of the spilling of a little of his own blood. What monsters you females must be, to endure this, month upon month. No wonder you are prone to madness. See how the flesh parts?’ He shows me his hand. ‘I think after all I cut too deep. That was your fault, provoking me. Have you brandy? I think a little brandy would restore me.’

  He has drawn out his handkerchief, and now presses it to his arm. I say, ‘I have no brandy.’

  ‘No brandy. What have you, then? Some draught or other? Come, I see by your face that you do.’ He looks about him. ‘Where is it kept?’

  I hesitate; but now he has named it, the desire for drops begins to make its creeping way about my heart and limbs. ‘In my leather bag,’ I say. He brings the bottle to me, draws out its stopper, puts his nose to it, grimaces. ‘Bring me a glass, also,’ I say. He finds a cup, adds a little dusty water.

  ‘Not like that, for me,’ he says, as I let the medicine slip. ‘That will serve for you. I want it quicker.’ He takes the bottle from me, uncovers his cut, lets a single drop fall into the parted flesh. It stings. He winces. Where it runs, he licks it. Then he sighs, half closing his eyes, watching me as I drink then shiver then lean back upon my pillow, the cup at my breast.

  At length, he smiles. He laughs. ‘“The Fashionable Couple on their Wedding-Night,” ’ he says. ‘They would write a column on us, in the London papers.’

  I shiver again, draw the blankets higher; the sheet falls, covering the smears of blood. I reach for the bottle. He reaches it first, however, and puts it out of my grasp.

  ‘No, no,’ he says. ‘Not while you keep so contrary. I shall have it, tonight.’ He puts it in his pocket, and I am too weary to try to take it from him. He stands and yawns, wipes his face, rubs hard at his eyes. ‘How tired I am!’ he says. ‘It is past three o’clock, do you know?’ I say nothing, and he shrugs. But he lingers at the foot of the bed, looking down, in a hesitating manner, at the place at my side; then he sees my face, and pretends to shudder.

  ‘I should not be astonished, after all,’ he says, ‘to wake to the grip of your fingers at my throat. No, I shall not risk it.’

  He steps to the fire, wets his thumb and finger upon his tongue, puts out the candle; then he sits in a huddle in the arm-chair and makes a blanket of his coat. He swears against the cold, the pose, the angles of the chair, for perhaps a minute. But he sleeps, sooner than I do.

  And when he does, I rise, go quickly to the window, put the curtain back. The moon is still bright, and I don’t want to lie in darkness. But after all, every surface that takes up the silver light is strange to me; and when once I reach, to put my fingers to some mark upon the wall, the mark and the wall in taking my touch seem only to grow stranger. My cloak and gown and linen are closed in the press. My bags are shut. I look, and look, for something of mine; and see only at last, in the shadow of the wash-hand stand, my shoes. I go to them, and stoop, and place my hands upon them. Then I draw back and almost straighten; then touch them again.

  Then I lie in the bed, and listen hard for the sounds I am used to—for bells and growling levers. There are only those meaningless noises—the yawning boards, the creeping bird or mouse. I put back my head and gaze at the wall behind me. Beyond it lies Sue. If she turned in her bed, if she said my name, I think I would hear it. She might make any sound, any at all—I would catch it, I am certain I would.

  She makes no sound. Richard shifts in his chair. The moonlight creeps across the floor. In time, I sleep. I sleep and dream of Briar. But the passages of the house are not as I recall them. I am late for my uncle, and lost.

  She comes each morning, after that, to wash me, to dress me, to set food before me, to take away my untouched plate; but, as in the last of our days at Briar, she never meets my gaze. The room is small. She sits near me, but rarely do we speak. She sews. I play at cards—the two of hearts with the crease of my heel upon it, rough beneath my naked finger. Richard keeps all day from the room. At night, he curses. He curses the filthy lanes of the country, that muddy his boots. He curses my silence, my strangeness. He curses the wait. Above all, he curses the angular arm-chair.

  ‘See here,’ he says, ‘my shoulder. You see it? It is rising from its socket—it is quite thrown out. I shall be deformed, in a
week. As for these creases—’ He angrily smooths his trousers. ‘I should have brought Charles, after all. At this rate I shall arrive at London only to be laughed off its streets.’

  London, I think. The word means nothing to me now.

  He rides out, every other day, for news of my uncle. He smokes so many cigarettes the stain on his scorched forefinger spreads to the finger beside it. Now and then he lets me take a dose of my draught; but he always keeps hold of the bottle.

  ‘Very good,’ he says, watching me drink. ‘Not much longer, now. Why, how thin and pale you’ve grown!—and Sue grows sleeker by the hour, like one of Mother Cream’s black-faced sows. Get her into your best gown tomorrow, will you?’

  I do. I will do anything, now, to bring an end to our long wait. I will pretend fear, and nervousness, and weeping, while he leans to caress or chide me. I will do it, not looking at Sue—or else, looking at her slyly, desperately, to see if she colours or seems ashamed. She never does. Her hands, that I remember sliding upon me, pressing, turning, opening me up—her hands, when they touch me now, are perfectly lifeless and white. Her face is closed. She only waits, as we do, for the coming of the doctors.

  We wait—I cannot say how long. Two weeks, or three. At last: ‘They come tomorrow,’ Richard tells me one night; and then, next morning: ‘They come today. You remember?’

  I have woken from terrible dreams.

  ‘I cannot see them,’ I say. ‘You must send them back. They must come another time.’

  ‘Don’t be tiresome, Maud.’

  He stands and dresses, fastening his collar, his neck-tie. His coat lies neatly on the bed.

  ‘I won’t see them!’ I say.

  ‘You will,’ he answers; ‘for in seeing them you bring this thing to completion. You hate it here. Now is our time to leave.’