The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls

by Emilie Autumn

  This year, there is to be an entirely new production. Ever the shrewd proprietor, Dr. Stockill has recognized that there is big business in our patron saint of bridge hopping: the Fair Ophelia.

  Somehow, Shakespeare’s darling has risen from her watery, three-hundred-year-old grave to set the public’s imagination afire. The morbidly romantic suicide paintings were only part of the trend—now, people want to see her in the flesh. They can no longer distinguish between fictional personality and true sufferer, and so a third character is born: Ophelia the Icon. It is she whom the aristocrats will pay, and pay well, to see played out before them, and, during every afternoon for a month, a rude public will hand over their shillings to see the show as well.

  As I write this, I am preparing to take the stage, and the following, Diary, is how I arrived at the present point:

  Early this morning, Madam Mournington strode through our Ward as she does upon every other. But, today, she commanded all of us to stand against the bars and display our hair. Having no choice but to obey this strange request, we did so, though we had no idea what fresh torment lay before us. To her squinting eye, our Headmistress raised the silver monocle attached to her chatelaine, and, peering down her pointed nose, studied us closely as she passed, swinging her Ward Key all the while.

  As Madam Mournington pointed the key at a select few of us, Maudsley pulled the chosen from our cells and lined us up in the corridor. I tried to determine what it was that distinguished the selected from those left behind, but all I could tell was that the girls at whom the key pointed were either exceptionally pretty or showed at least some sort of physical grace. They also had the longest and most splendid hair, which is why I was not surprised when the key was pointed my way; I have never considered myself a beauty, yet I will take my pride in my red hair to the grave, for it is all I have that hints at any particular ancestry.

  After pointing at Veronica, Madam Mournington stood contemplating Jolie Rouge, who met her eagle’s gaze.

  Since the day of the rat burial, Jolie had addressed me as ‘Valentine’ because of my heart-shaped scar; in turn, I had come to call the self-proclaimed pirate ‘the Captain’, and, soon, so did everybody else. Jolie was wearing her paper hat, and, even through the stench of unwashed bodies, I smelled trouble.

  ‘Remove that rubbish from your head, wretch!’ shouted Madam Mournington.

  The Captain hesitated, then complied, holding the hat securely behind her back.

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ pondered our Headmistress, ‘the face is pleasant enough, but the hair is revolting. However, I suppose it can be combed out . . .’

  At last, the Ward Key was pointed towards the Captain.

  Outside and into the raw wind we were marched, arriving at the Bathing Court where we were sprayed down with more than the usual attention. We were each given a bar of lavender soap with which to wash our hair—an incredible luxury even in the freezing cold, and nearly enough to bring tears to our eyes, so starved were we of pleasant sensory experiences. The locks of many of the girls had not been properly groomed in months, or even years, and they were roughly handled as a pair of kitchen maids tore through the tangled masses, snipping away the snarled strands with a pair of sewing shears.

  I hurried to rinse my hair clean and free of knots, but the Captain was struggling with hers. I moved to help her, and was forced back. As the maids approached the Captain, she twisted her arms round her head, covering her hair as best she could. Though she had tried slapping them away, the two maids were now raking their fingers through the Captain’s hair; she was screaming as if in excruciating pain. The maids stepped back in horror—piles of hair had come away in their hands.

  ‘Her hair’s comin’ out! Her hair’s comin’ out!’ the duller of the maids began to shriek as she fled the Bathing Court for the safety of the building. Now restrained by Maudsley, the Captain continued to scream.

  ‘Give it back! It’s mine!’

  Finally, Madam Mournington entered the Court, her heels clicking sharply upon the wet stone. Seeing the loosened hair, she ordered the remaining maid to crop the Captain’s locks as closely as she could with the shears, adding to Maudsley that Jolie’s scalp must then be shaven clean, following which she should be placed into Quarantine until further notice. Helpless and heartbroken by her cries, we watched until every last strand of the Captain’s hair had fallen in soggy clumps at her bare feet.

  Once bathed, our small band was led upstairs to one of the many chambers in the Upper Staff apartments; there, we were each given a cup of tea, and I felt almost guilty at the ecstasy I experienced as the bitter liquid touched my lips. We wandered about the room, passing our emaciated fingers over the gold trim of the mantelpiece, the silken curtains, the finely woven carpets—such things as we had not seen in . . . well, longer than we could remember.

  When Madam Mournington arrived, all of my anger flooded back. What violent enmity I felt towards this woman; she had ordered the Captain’s lovely head shaved without an ounce of feeling, and I hated her for it.

  Each day for the following month, our mistress informed us, we were to be the ‘Ophelias’ in a new Asylum fundraising attraction: the Ophelia Gallery.

  As we were being instructed in our duties, the door was flung wide, revealing an odd little man in purple trousers. Bounding with comical liveliness, he was certainly the most flamboyant personage I had ever encountered. Introduced to us as a stage actor, he had been brought in from the city for the express purpose of teaching us to convey the Icon as the Asylum wished to portray her, for, though we would not profit by it in any way, a great deal of money rested upon the quality of our performance.

  Having been directed to languish, to sigh, our hands to our foreheads as though we would faint, it was time to don our costumes. We were dressed in long, sheer gowns that moved like air against our skins. A man of many talents, our tutor helped us to weave jasmine flowers through our freshly clean locks, their delicious scent a potent drug. Finally, he rouged our lips, and our eyes were theatrically blackened.

  We stood together before the glass. I scarcely knew myself; my heart-shaped scar had darkened, and I was painfully thin, my ribs protruding. Yet, with our drooping flowers and long, shimmering hair, we were somehow . . . magnificent.

  Asylum Letter No. XXX

  I have survived my first day as a showgirl—an entertainer of the masses—and this is what I have to report:

  My sisters and I were led to the tents that had been raised upon the front lawn. They were very grand in black and white, a stunning contrast to the soft colours and fabrics, petals and flowing fountains that waited inside. Our cages, painted in gold, sparkled in the lamplight; flowering vines twined up and round the bars, evoking an enchanted prison. Some of the cages were tall enough to stand upright inside; mine even had a little hanging swing from which I had been instructed to appear in a constant state of falling—a suicide pantomime.

  A string quartet tuned up as we were fashioned into living paintings by our acting master, who skipped about the tents, nearly hysterical with excitement. I inspected the lead violinist—a stodgy old man with a sour expression—and I longed to wrench the instrument from his hands; I knew I could still play it, and play it better. It was horrible to think that I would never make music again.

  Still, I reminded myself of how desperately I had wanted to be upon the stage—of how arduously I had worked for the opportunity to speak and be heard, even if it were only through my hands. What if this was it—all I get? My only chance? And so, I determined to fall from a swing better than anyone had ever fallen from a bloody swing in the entire bloody history of swinging.

  The tents were opened, and there was a collective gasp from the incoming crowd. No one had expected anything so lovely.

  Asylum Letter No. XXXI

  We are now a week into our performance as the Opheliacs. Dr. Stockill had protested the name, with the complaint that it wa
s nonsensical and ugly besides, but Dr. Lymer, who had coined the term, put forth the following argument and won:

  ‘If you were to host an Insomnia Gallery, or a Hypochondria Gallery, or Pneumonia, say, or a gallery of some other such disease, would you not call your subjects the Insomniacs? The Hypochondriacs? The Pneumoniacs?’

  ‘Firstly, my dear Lymer, a Hypochondria Gallery is a ridiculous thing to imagine, even for the sake of argument. Secondly, I am not entirely convinced that Pneumoniac is a word. And, thirdly, what is the disease of Ophelia?’

  ‘Why, the disease of Ophelia is the disease of the melancholy, mad, and female, and we, my dear Stockill, own a great deal of stock in it!’

  Asylum Letter No. XXXII

  The greatest luxury of being an Opheliac is that we are not made to return to our wards at night, but are instead housed temporarily in the servants’ quarters below the kitchen. This is a palace after what we have endured within our cells upstairs, and we only feel the sorrier for those who are not here with us.

  I think of the Captain often, and have a sneaking suspicion that I do not yet wish to share . . .

  Asylum Letter No. XXXIII

  Something ghastly has occurred today, something I do not expect to quickly recover from, though the events of which I shall speak resulted in the solidification of my suspicion regarding the Captain—not through fact, but through feeling.

  Having grown weary of the pointing and staring, I could bring myself to do nothing more than sit upon the floor of my cage, facing the wall, with my head resting upon the swing, and, in retrospect, I suppose I looked melancholy enough to be Ophelia herself.

  Abruptly, my stomach seized, and I could not breathe. I turned to see a man making his way through the line. Spotting the crimson patch over his left eye, my heart ceased to beat, and I hid my face in the fabric of my gown. When I felt brave enough to look out, the man was gone.

  A wave of illness passed over me and I doubled over in pain, unable to raise myself. Lacking sufficient air, I called to our livery-clad Chasers for help, but they were occupied in helping themselves to the champagne intended for the guests.

  The pain in my abdomen soon became unbearable. The callous crowd was entertained by my suffering and howled with merciless glee, but, when I began to bleed, the taunts turned to screams of horror.

  When I awoke, I was lying upon a cold, hard surface. I was still in my costume but it was soiled with blood, and a pile of rags had been stuffed between my legs. I opened my eyes and found myself alone in a cell I did not recognize. Upon the ground by my side lay a crumpled shift and the familiar stockings of the lowly prisoner; my privileges had run out. In a daze, I tried vainly to recollect what had transpired during my last moments of consciousness, yet my head pounded terribly and I could not think.

  Then, I remembered the man passing my cage. I dare not mention this sighting to the Captain. My desire to know if I am right is not nearly as important to me as her relative peace, and her time in Quarantine can not have been good for her nerves. Has she even been released yet?

  I sat up and strained to focus my vision in the deepening darkness. Gradually, I became aware of the inmates inhabiting the cells surrounding mine; their eyes burned in their skulls, their postures crouched like animals, and many simply stood facing the striped, writhing walls. It was clear from their appearance that they had not seen daylight in a very long time.

  And then, I realised where I was.

  Asylum Letter No. XXXIV

  There are no beds in Ward B; we sleep upon piles of straw like beasts. Just as it was in Ward A, the cells at either side of the long corridor are visible through a wall of prison bars extending from floor to ceiling, leaving them open to the drafts, the stench, and the probing eyes of the Chasers.

  I have been assigned to cell number W14, this being located upon the fourteenth tier of the Western Wing enclosures. I am alone in this barren chamber, and my view is limited to that offered through the typical small, barred window looking out onto the front courtyard far below. Denied windowpanes, it is unbearably cold, and I wonder how we should live through winter.

  Through the tenebrous haze, I can see that some of the other cells contain narrow cages within which prisoners lie trapped, unable to move. What could a girl possibly have done to warrant such treatment?

  All of the stories were true, and worse. In the cell directly opposite mine, there is a device made up of iron bands that clamp round the victim’s neck, chest, and arms, keeping her pinned to the wall, trapped within what can only be described as an iron skeleton.

  Most of Ward B’s inhabitants are indeed quite frightening to look upon, for they are not bathed regularly here, and pass the years lying in their straw and slowly dying. I do pity them, but I hope to keep this cell to myself.

  I have the cell to myself no longer, but have been invaded by a welcome guest.

  Earlier this afternoon, I heard a fuss in the corridor. Through the bars, I saw Veronica being led by a chain attached to a collar round her neck. Her hands were bound behind her back, yet, despite her degrading circumstance, Veronica proudly pranced, sauntering almost, and taunting the young Chaser who walked before her. It came as no surprise to me that she was also completely naked, save her striped stockings.

  ‘Oh, come on now, Charlie, you strappin’ steed, turn round! What are you afraid of?’

  The Chaser snapped the chain and Veronica stumbled forwards.

  ‘Oh, Charlie! Yes! Pull me ‘arder!’

  They continued down the corridor, Veronica kicking out her long legs and calling playfully to the prisoners on either side.

  Reaching my cell, the Chaser unlocked the door and shoved the still shouting Veronica inside. He attached her chain to a ring set into the wall before producing a dirty shift from his pocket and flinging it at her. Veronica laughed uproariously at his frustration.

  ‘Unlock my ‘ands,’ she cooed, detaining the guard with her saucy eyes as he turned to exit the cell.

  The Chaser looked back at her.

  ‘Unlock my ‘ands, Charlie boy. Come on, who wants to kiss me?’

  The Chaser sighed heavily. Then, with the same key he had used to unlock the cell, he released Veronica from the iron band clamped tight about her wrists. The moment she was free, out thrashed her arms, clawing at the young man’s face. He leapt back before any real damage could be done, and, cursing, stormed from the cell, locking us inside.

  ‘Works every time,’ said Veronica, seemingly quite satisfied with herself, as she stepped into the shift and pulled it up. ‘He never learns, poor thing.’

  ‘Oh, V!’ I went to embrace her but was defied by her bulky collar and chain. ‘What’s all this, then?’ I asked. ‘You’ve been advancing through the ranks, I see.’

  ‘Em! It’s perfectly marvelous what’s ‘appened!’ Veronica gripped my shoulders. ‘I must always be chained now as I am “a danger to myself and others”. I feel terribly important.’

  ‘What do you mean, V? What’s wrong with you?’

  I began to think that this place was finally getting to her.

  ‘I am a nymphomaniac,’ she announced with pride.

  ‘What’s a nymphomaniac?’

  ‘Well, now, I don’t know exactly, but it sounds delicious, don’t you think?’

  I studied Veronica closely as she busied herself with braiding her lustrous black hair into numerous thin plaits. Plucking bits of straw from the floor, she wove them into the plaits. I went to sit upon the ground behind her and did my best to smooth the hair she was quickly tangling.

  ‘They’re lettin’ me go tomorrow, Emmy . . . you can come an’ visit me at the music hall. I’ll see you get into the show without payin’ a penny . . . truly love, you won’t pay a bloomin’ cent.’

  I wrapped my arms round Veronica from behind.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ I said.

  Asylum Letter No.
XXXV

  During what was left of the day and much of the night, I have fallen in and out of a feverish slumber filled with shapeless phantoms and watery visions, and I fear that my miscarriage has left me unwell. Though I had not known it was coming, I am hardly surprised. It happened to one or the other of us far too often; we are not fit to sustain life within us—we have barely enough for ourselves. I am glad to have it ended by nature rather than the ministrations of a visiting surgeon with rusty tools and careless hands.

  As I lie in the black, scribbling these words without the aid of sight, I hear a sort of creaking—quiet, and very far away. It grows louder, closer, and, finally, I recognize the turning of wheels grinding upon the cobblestone drive outside. I rise from my straw to look out, and see an open cart being pulled by a hackneyed old horse. Even from far above, I can detect a dark figure perched at the front of the cart, the heavy contents of which are covered with a cloth.

  The clock in the Entrance Hall downstairs strikes four. Morning, but still dark, the moon glares down upon the courtyard, casting a garish glow upon the scene. I watch the cart until it turns the corner of the building and I can see it no more.

  As the creak of the wheels grows ever more distant, my awareness turns to the frantic muttering emanating from the cells round me. Someone begins to shriek, high-pitched and panicked. Veronica raises herself slightly.

  ‘Ladies, please!’ she shouts.

  ‘It’s four o’clock in the morning, V . . . where was that cart going at this hour?’ I ask her.

  ‘There’s a ditch, Em . . .’ she says, sleepily, ‘somewhere in the field . . . it goes there . . .’

  ‘A ditch? Why? What for?’

  But, even now, I know.

  ‘The . . . the Death Cart, they calls it . . .’