like invasion. Men; I knew nothing of them beyond their admiration for me, and my flirtation with them, which was laced with scorn. I grew up without them. I hated my stepfather to come home, the way he took mamma from me, the unwanted attention he paid to me. I had no father of my own, no brother. The only closeness I had had was to dance the quadrille, the waltz or polka, with Rex or Clintock or Mr Middleton. Grandcourt had reassured me with his languid distance. I could not have known he sensed my profound terror and that this fed his desire, that he had a torturer’s mind.
*
What happened next I have down the years hinted at but told no one. I have tried to excise it from my mind. It took me not from being a girl into a woman but from bright hope to deep despair. Grandcourt led me to the bed then gestured with a sweep of his arm for me to lie down. I trembled like a condemned creature, the lamb that smells the abattoir. I saw the writing of those terrible words:
The man you have married has a withered heart.
It was not that Grandcourt loved me more than Lydia Glasher: he wished to violate us equally.
He was entirely in control, though more angered than he chose to say. He took off his nightshirt. He had no awkwardness. I had never seen a naked man. I hated him clothed, naked he was my executioner. He tore my dress and dropped it to the floor. I tried to check myself so I would not scream. To punish my screams would be his triumph. He said again, ‘Mrs Grandcourt.’ To myself I whispered my name,
Gwendolen Harleth
. I tried to think of mamma, to think of you. He pinioned my hands above my head, held me down on the bed, told me twice to open my eyes, stared at me, moved his body against mine, then lunged into me. He was silent, he did not seem to breathe, he stank of cigars. I felt a sear of pain then nothing. I tried to scream but no sound came. I tried to block my senses, not to listen, smell or feel. He said it again, ‘Mrs Grandcourt,’ then stabbed into me again and again until I bled. When I tried to free myself he became more vicious. I do not know how long it went on. Until he made a strange guttural sound and I did not know if it was my blood or his seed that seeped over me. I wanted to die. He was silent. I thought he might hit me or spit. Then he said, ‘That’s what women are,’ threw the covers over me, put on his nightshirt, said, ‘Now you can be alone,’ and closed the door quietly as he left the room.
I felt myself pulled backward as if into a black tunnel. I think I fainted. I do not know how long it was before I rose to stem the bleeding and wash my body, rinse my mouth. My legs buckled under me; there were bruises on my neck. I was not beyond fear, I was at its silent core. I thought, There is no one I can tell of this, there are no words for this, this has no voice. I could not run into the night to mamma, call for a doctor, inform the police. What Grandcourt had done to me, would do to me, was not illegal. I was his wife. I had no right or power to refuse him. Consent was immaterial. I was, as he told me, Mrs Grandcourt.
*
And so it crashed upon me, the punishment Lydia Glasher desired with all her soul. For days I kept to my room. I believe Grandcourt went away, I supposed to her. I was feverish. The housekeeper, Hudson, and the maids replaced the bedding and brought hot water, light soups and custards but made no comment. I did not read or look at other rooms. I lay in bed and ceased to be. I and my life had no definition. All doors had closed. ‘
Tu sera heureuse, ma chère.
’ ‘
Oui, maman, comme toi.
’
What options were there for me? If I ran away where might I go or to whom? My husband would command my return. If I sought divorce all calumny would fall on me, I would be seen as an ingrate, an hysteric, deserving of the gutter, consigned to penury. No Momperts would hire me as their governess, no school as their teacher; poor mamma would have nothing.
Hatred bred evil in my
*
What happened next I have down the years hinted at but told no one. I have tried to excise it from my mind. It took me not from being a girl into a woman but from bright hope to deep despair. Grandcourt led me to the bed then gestured with a sweep of his arm for me to lie down. I trembled like a condemned creature, the lamb that smells the abattoir. I saw the writing of those terrible words:
The man you have married has a withered heart.
It was not that Grandcourt loved me more than Lydia Glasher: he wished to violate us equally.
He was entirely in control, though more angered than he chose to say. He took off his nightshirt. He had no awkwardness. I had never seen a naked man. I hated him clothed, naked he was my executioner. He tore my dress and dropped it to the floor. I tried to check myself so I would not scream. To punish my screams would be his triumph. He said again, ‘Mrs Grandcourt.’ To myself I whispered my name,
Gwendolen Harleth
. I tried to think of mamma, to think of you. He pinioned my hands above my head, held me down on the bed, told me twice to open my eyes, stared at me, moved his body against mine, then lunged into me. He was silent, he did not seem to breathe, he stank of cigars. I felt a sear of pain then nothing. I tried to scream but no sound came. I tried to block my senses, not to listen, smell or feel. He said it again, ‘Mrs Grandcourt,’ then stabbed into me again and again until I bled. When I tried to free myself he became more vicious. I do not know how long it went on. Until he made a strange guttural sound and I did not know if it was my blood or his seed that seeped over me. I wanted to die. He was silent. I thought he might hit me or spit. Then he said, ‘That’s what women are,’ threw the covers over me, put on his nightshirt, said, ‘Now you can be alone,’ and closed the door quietly as he left the room.
I felt myself pulled backward as if into a black tunnel. I think I fainted. I do not know how long it was before I rose to stem the bleeding and wash my body, rinse my mouth. My legs buckled under me; there were bruises on my neck. I was not beyond fear, I was at its silent core. I thought, There is no one I can tell of this, there are no words for this, this has no voice. I could not run into the night to mamma, call for a doctor, inform the police. What Grandcourt had done to me, would do to me, was not illegal. I was his wife. I had no right or power to refuse him. Consent was immaterial. I was, as he told me, Mrs Grandcourt.
*
And so it crashed upon me, the punishment Lydia Glasher desired with all her soul. For days I kept to my room. I believe Grandcourt went away, I supposed to her. I was feverish. The housekeeper, Hudson, and the maids replaced the bedding and brought hot water, light soups and custards but made no comment. I did not read or look at other rooms. I lay in bed and ceased to be. I and my life had no definition. All doors had closed. ‘
Tu sera heureuse, ma chère.
’ ‘
Oui, maman, comme toi.
’
What options were there for me? If I ran away where might I go or to whom? My husband would command my return. If I sought divorce all calumny would fall on me, I would be seen as an ingrate, an hysteric, deserving of the gutter, consigned to penury. No Momperts would hire me as their governess, no school as their teacher; poor mamma would have nothing.
Hatred bred evil in my
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