The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls Read online

  Numbered parts.

  Nothing more.

  Asylum Letter No. XLV

  Thrice now have I been summoned back to Dr. Greavesly’s Operating Theatre. The first I have already spoken of; the second was much the same, though I was obliged to endure an invasive physical examination as well, and was introduced to an array of tools designed specifically for this purpose, though one would never guess it by the injuries they cause. Bloody hell, I thought, as I lay upon the operating table, would it have killed someone to warm these things up first?

  I should have felt pain, but everything has become pain to me, and thus little is worthy of note. I should also have felt shame, or at least indignity, but dignity is dead, and shame implies the loss of a thing I have not had for some time.

  My third examination took place this morning. As usual was I led by a Chaser into the Theatre and shoved inside, the door locked behind me, but, this time, Dr. Greavesly was nowhere to be seen. I looked about, wandering amongst the tables, my inquisitive fingers grazing the tools of the surgeon’s abattoir. Each device I touched filled my head with the screams of its previous victims; they were deafening, and I put my hands to my ears.

  Violently was I roused by a loud crashing close behind me. I turned to see a young man hastening to pick up the shattered bits of a glass pane. He had, evidently, emerged from behind one of the heavy moleskin curtains that shielded the storage areas from the greater part of the room.

  I inspected the young man with a thorough eye. He could be a new surgical assistant in training with Dr. Greavesly, which would make him my natural enemy. Yet he looked nothing like the others; where their features were monstrous and mean, his were refined, even inviting. This is what a gentleman ought to look like, thought I, and I felt sure, quite sure, that, whatever he was, he did not intend to harm me.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ he said, his fair face flushed. ‘You startled me . . . I did not hear you come in.’

  ‘And how could you?’ said I, looking down at my stocking feet, noting with dismay the threadbare knees and tattered toes where my flesh peeked through. ‘We’re not allowed any shoes.’

  The stranger appeared somewhat taken aback by my words, but then he smiled.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘I ought to clear this blasted glass off the floor at once, or you’re sure to cut yourself.’

  Having collected the larger pieces, he rose and went in search of a broom. Seeing an unchained being, someone who did not belong here—who was not part of the institution or at least did not appear to be—made me all the more aware of my imprisonment.

  ‘How lovely it would be . . .’ I said, haltingly, feeling suddenly awkward. I wished I were not so dirty. I wished I were not so thin.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Miss?’

  ‘How lovely it would be,’ I began again, ‘if all that cuts me could be swept away by your broom.’

  Goodness, what a fool I sounded. The young man stopped his sweeping.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand you,’ he said, an apology in his voice.

  Just then, a door slammed, and Dr. Greavesly stormed in from the other side of the Theatre, the thud of his heavy boots reverberating off the lofty ceiling. His arms were loaded with willow branches and sundry forage, and I concluded that, already, this had been the most peculiar examination yet.

  I had prepared myself for that sickening moment wherein Dr. Greavesly would lift me onto the operating table, but he did not. Instead, he ordered the young man to arrange what he called an apparatus in front of a large screen that had been draped with swaths of sheer muslin.

  I watched as my new acquaintance positioned a wooden box with a sort of bellows attached atop a tall, three-legged stand. He had beside him the remainder of his glass panes, and was fitting one of them into the back of the box. After looking closely into one end, he adjusted the bellows, which tilted the front of the box away from the back. A black cloth was then laid over the entire contraption.

  Meanwhile, the Doctor had piled his mass of flora onto the operating table, seemingly oblivious to my presence as he laid out the foliage like so many surgical instruments.

  At last, both men had finished their mysterious preparations. Calling me by my cell name of W14A, which embarrassed me somewhat though ordinarily I scarcely notice, Dr. Greavesly demanded I follow him. When I hesitated, he took hold of my arm and pushed me down onto a low chaise placed before the screen, leaving the marks from his dirty fingernails behind.

  ‘Stay perfectly still.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘I am going to place these flowers upon your head, and you are not to touch them.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  Am I to revise my role as the mad Ophelia so soon? I wondered.

  The surgeon had selected a handful of poppies and attempted to weave them through my tangled hair, but his twitching hands were ill equipped for a task of such delicacy, and I dreaded to think what they would do with a surgeon’s knife. At last, he succeeded in piling an assortment of greenery atop my head, but, upon standing back to review his work, was displeased, and angrily swept the entire arrangement away before stalking back to his chair beside the young man, who was busy peering into the box and making adjustments.

  ‘I haven’t got the eye for this sort of thing at all, Thomas.’

  ‘The name is Thomson, Dr. Greavesly.’

  ‘Details. By any name, you’re a delicate sort of chap I daresay; perhaps you’ve got the touch.’

  Seemingly unsure of whether he ought to thank the Doctor for the insult or curse him for the compliment, Thomson—whether that was his first name or his last I did not know—hesitated.

  ‘Well, go on, I don’t think she bites,’ prodded the Doctor. ‘Or perhaps you’d care for an opium cigarette first. I find they help me in my work. Steadies the hands.’

  Declining the opium, Thomson moved from behind his contraption and stepped towards me. He bent to retrieve the poppies strewn about by the frustrated surgeon.

  ‘I seem destined to reside upon the floor today,’ he said, as one wishing to lighten a grave situation.

  Then, Thomson was standing beside me, so close that I could hear his heart beating against his chest. He really is quite young, I thought. We have seen very few young men at the Asylum—they have not the heart for it, or perhaps they have too much.

  ‘Do forgive me,’ said Thomson.

  He took a very deep breath, then twined a poppy through the knotted hair above my right ear. His fingers trembled slightly; I pretended not to notice. Thomson seemed pleased with the blossom’s placement, for he continued on, and soon had every stem of vegetation back upon my head, yet, apparently, in a far more becoming manner, for, after some moments in the company of his opium, the surgeon leapt forwards.

  ‘Why, Thomas,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’re an absolute artist, just as your old Bryson said you were. It’s no wonder the Queen has her royal eye upon you, the old bird . . .’

  ‘It’s Thomson, Dr. Greavesly.’

  ‘So you claim. But don’t you think we ought to disguise that unsightly mark somehow? Turn the slut to the other side, perhaps?’

  I flinched at his ugly word, and so did Thomson.

  ‘That heart-shaped scar, you mean? I must confess I disagree with you, Dr. Greavesly. To my eye, the scar is the very soul of the portrait. It shows a history.’

  He met my eyes, just the hint of a smile flickering behind his own.

  ‘A past is nothing to be ashamed of, is it?’

  Sensing an argument ahead, Thomson added, ‘And besides, the light is better on this side.’

  ‘Hmpf! You young romantics find your “soul” in the strangest of places. But you’re quite right—I daresay our clientele might have a particular appreciation for battle scars. Carry on, Thomas.’

  Dr. Greavesly had been advancing towards me as he spoke in orde
r to better inspect my ancient wound. Now that Thomson had turned his attention back to his wooden contraption, the Doctor dragged his bloodstained hand along my bruised arm and up to my chest; I thought how very different was his touch from the young man’s. His long, loose mane was falling over my face; his fingers curled round the back of my neck, pointed thumbnail slowly scraping my scar. I closed my eyes to shut him out, but my ears were under no such government, and I heard too well the rumbling in his throat, like the purring of a great cat. He slid his fingers down to my mouth, pulling my bottom lip painfully, his thumb forcing its way between my teeth, and I turned my head in disgust. His vulgar action sent my thoughts to the Count de Rothsberg, and I wondered why it was that men seemed so desirous of putting their fingers into my mouth.

  Dr. Greavesly sneered at me through his long teeth, and, with a low and growling laugh, returned to his chair where he lit another opium cigarette.

  He is just like the Count, I thought. They are of the same breed—our disdain is wasted upon men such as these. They thrive upon it, and our disgust is the sauce they savour it with. I will show him nothing, do what he will.

  Having completed his adjustments, Thomson explained to me that he was going to take my photograph, and that, after the sparks appeared, I must remain completely still until he said it was all right to move again. I knew then that Thomson’s wooden box was a camera. I had heard of such a device, yet had never seen one, and had certainly never imagined that I should be photographed, especially in an unfortunate setting. I would have loved to have a picture of myself performing upon the stage as I had always dreamt. But I should not be immortalized like this. I wanted to run.

  My anxiety must have suited me, for, Thomson, pulling the black cloth over the camera as well as himself, said, ‘You’re posed quite perfectly as you are, Miss. Though, perhaps . . . yes, perhaps you could lift your chin just a bit, and turn your lovely face to the light for me.’

  I did so. I wondered if he were satisfied with the result, for he stood gazing at me in silence for a peculiarly long time.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s all right,’ he spoke at last. ‘Please, don’t move.’

  With one hand, Thomson slid open the camera’s shutter. With the other, he lifted a lit taper from the small table beside him and touched the flame to a metal dish laden with a fine powder. Without warning, a bright flash quite blinded me; this was followed by much smoke and falling ash. I felt an age had passed before Thomson allowed me to move again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, softly, strangely bashful now that his work was done.

  The brilliant burst of light had ignited something deep within me. I felt . . . unsettled.

  ‘I’ve done nothing,’ I said, abruptly.

  Unaccustomed to kindness from any man, I almost bristled at it, and was quicker with my reply than I had intended. Dr. Greavesly snubbed out his cigarette and rose from his chair.

  ‘Quite so, you haven’t,’ he spat. ‘I’m afraid I was hasty in my compliments. This poetic pageant of melancholy may delight the pretentious idealists, but the cynics will be bored to tears, and if there is anything Whitechapel has taught me it is that the cynics are our primary patrons, and idealists are always poor. You know Whitechapel, don’t you, Thomas?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Should I, Dr. Greavesly?’

  ‘Ah, well . . . I suppose you don’t go in for that sort of thing, not yet anyway. Now, look here, boy.’

  The surgeon was again at my side and tearing at my shift now, pulling it down over one shoulder, revealing enough to make Thomson blush.

  I was sick inside, yet I kept my vow not to show it.

  Dr. Greavesly had forced me to one side of the chaise until I was leaning clear off the edge; my flowers began to fall.

  I must have had something of my dignity left after all, for it had been offended. I glared directly at my antagonist.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted the surgeon, taken of a sudden passion. ‘That has a touch of madness in it. Thomas, my boy! Capture that!’

  Thomson had been watching Dr. Greavesly handle me, and I believe I saw upon the young man’s countenance the uneasy look of someone torn between two courses of action.

  The surgeon stepped away from me to allow the camera full view. Thomson could see my face, and, no doubt, my fury. Something had inflamed him as well, for he quickly slid a fresh pane of glass into the camera, and added more powder to the plate.

  ‘Stay as you are!’ Thomson said. ‘It’s real. It’s perfect. This is how I’ve always imagined Ophelia! No woman would have drowned without a fight . . .’

  Dr. Greavesly paced the room in agitated excitement. The second photograph taken, he fell back into his chair and lit still another cigarette.

  ‘Dear, young, naive Thomas . . . today we have begun a new chapter in a very old book, and that,’ he gestured towards me, ‘is the image that will sell it.’

  Asylum Letter No. XLVI

  Dr. Stockill has relocated our colloquies from his chamber downstairs to his Laboratory above, for he seems mystified by my reactions to the injections he has been administering and now requires me to lie upon his table and undergo more invasive treatments.

  A change in questioning has taken place as well.

  ‘Let’s play a game,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of game?’

  ‘It is quite simple. I will ask you a question and you will answer it quickly, and without thinking. This is a test of your cognitive skills under medication. Shall we begin?’

  ‘Have I a choice?’

  ‘That was my first question and your first answer, so it rather seems you have the idea. Let us continue.’

  As Dr. Stockill cut my flesh and poisoned my body, he went on to ask the most peculiar questions, all seemingly related to my existence within the Asylum, why I cared for my fellow inmates, how I would attempt escape, and what I would do if I succeeded.

  To speak this plainly regarding my dissatisfaction with my treatment was at first strange to me, but the Doctor is well aware of our misery—it is not as though he could be offended, for he knows what he does, and does not wish us any happier, feeling quite strongly that we do not deserve to be. Instead, he seems genuinely curious, and, such is the frequency of these interviews, I find myself conversing more with the man I hate most than to nearly any other person.

  MADAM MOURNINGTON LETTER NO. 3

  To: Augusta Mournington

  The Mourning Room Tea House

  Coventry

  From: Prudence Mournington-Stockill

  The Asylum F.W.V.G.

  London

  My Dear Augusta,

  I fear I have not the heart for this work.

  Yet, have I the heart for other work?

  I am well kept here. I am needed. I will harden my heart.

  Your affectionate sister,

  Prudence

  Asylum Letter No. XLVII

  From the Asylum stock of approximately two thousand, less than one hundred girls have been selected to be photographed, and I have the peculiar honour of being the only inmate called back to be photographed more than once.

  Several portraits have now been taken, and, though being in the presence of the surgeon’s leering eyes turns my stomach, I endure it almost willingly, for it allows me temporal freedom from my cell, and also because . . . well, because I have, Diary, grown rather fond of Thomson’s company.

  The budding photographer has been granted a room of his own in which to carry out his work, as it is necessary for Dr. Greavesly to resume his surgical duties, for which he requires the unobstructed usage of his Theatre.

  And yet, I feel unbearably guilty at not being the body upon the operating table—at being loosed from my cage whilst my sisters suffer in its cramped, cold corners. Nevertheless, the fact remains that I am ordered to sit for these photographs—I do not request it, and, should I ask to be relieved of this
duty, I would not be allowed, for it is, in fact, arranged by the surgeon himself, though for what purpose I cannot begin to guess. Should I say one word in protest, I would be tossed into Quarantine for my rebelliousness. Wouldn’t I?

  Now, as I recline comfortably before the camera, warm, with fragrant flowers in my hair and a cup of tea at my side, my shame at being preferred threatens to consume me, and I wonder if it is truly guilt alone that presses this heaviness upon my heart, or, perhaps, fear of any small happiness that I know cannot last. I have lost what little I ever owned, and my sole consolation in this world is that I can lose no more. Yet, by gaining a thing I am afraid to be deprived of, have I not lost this consolation? Perhaps, then, there is always more to lose, no matter how little one has to begin with.

  Thomson seems ever to be searching in his work—for truth, he says, or reality. He believes that the soul of a person can be photographed if only the subject is willing to share it, provided that the photographer knows how to draw it out. It is not that he despises physical beauty for its own sake—on the contrary, he has the greatest respect for it; I had known this from the moment he twined that first poppy into my hair. It is simply that his is a higher aspiration, and I am glad to assist him in his quest.

  ‘I hope someday to capture people as they are,’ Thomson said to me, as I sat before him for the fifth time.

  The gloaming was swiftly swallowing up what little sunlight the clouds had allowed us, and there was no longer any chance of a properly illuminated portrait.

  ‘I believe that photography could be used to inspire change. It could tell the truth, and force people to pay attention. I cannot pursue that now, Em, for people want portraits, and portraits alone, but I think that a portrait is a terribly false thing, for what shows in a portrait is little more than a mask made of all that the subject would like the viewer to believe he is.’

  ‘And am I a terribly false thing?’ I asked Thomson.