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There are no typical 19th-century ladies in Fingersmith. Out of the two first-person female narrators, one is a skilled thief, and the other is a secretary, well-versed in pornographic texts. What is also remarkable about them—aside from their peculiar professions—is that they are granted voice to tell their own stories and agency (in the end) to live their own extraordinary lives. While there are male obstacles along the way—Gentleman’s scheming and threats; Dr. Christie’s cruel medical treatments—their actions are viewed only through the eyes of the female narrators; their voices are mediated, their stories secondary. Sue Smith and Maud Lilly transgress nearly all socially sanctioned boundaries—or, one might call them Sue Lilly and Maud Sucksby as they even transgress boundaries of identity—on their journey to secure their own singular and intimately entangled fortune.
Sue Smith begins the story as Susan Trinder—and the reader never discovers the origin of the surname, so inconsequential the contribution of fathers is to the novel. Her name is changed as she embarks upon the conspiracy to defraud Maud of her money. While Gentleman chooses the name, Sue immediately embodies it: “He let his hand drop, and turned it, and crooked his middle finger; and the sign, and the word he meant—fingersmith—being Borough code for thief, we laughed again” (36). The gesture is not only code for thief, but it is notably sexualized, as the term itself is clearly suggestive. Later, after Sue and Maud have consummated their love affair, Sue “put the tip of one finger to my tongue. It tasted sharp—like vinegar, like blood. Like money” (131). They are brought together and bound together by the conspiracy to seize the Lilly fortune—and by the passionate love between them—as the two are inextricably connected. When Gentleman observes Maud’s growing reluctance to betray Sue, he accuses her of harboring inappropriate feelings: “You’ve a heart, instead, for little fingersmiths? Oh, Maud” (256).
It becomes readily apparent that Maud Lilly is not the typical aristocratic lady herself. She has been subject to the passions of her uncle, who has been hard at work amassing the largest library of pornographic texts (and images) in Europe. Maud has been his reluctant accomplice in this. In his library, a large, pointed finger demarcates the line that should not be crossed by the uninitiated: “That hand marks the bounds of innocence here” (173). And, while Maud herself has long ago crossed that line, Sue is held back: “‘The finger, girl!’ he cried. ‘The finger! The finger!’” (70). It is left to Maud to explain that she should not transgress the boundary represented by the pointing finger—itself symbolic both of blame and guilt. Maud’s transgressions into the library have left her simultaneously knowledgeable—she has transcribed and read innumerable sexual scenarios to the point of boredom—and strangely innocent, having been kept hidden away at Briar by her uncle. It takes Sue’s loving presence and her belief in Maud’s goodness to awaken her latent desire. Under the auspices of teaching Maud what Mr. Rivers might do to her on their wedding night, Sue “raises her hand and I feel the tips of her fingers flutter against my face. [...] The fluttering hand moves lower. ‘Only touch you. Like this. Like this’” (262), Sue says. Maud’s “little fingersmith” has stolen her heart under the guise of deceiving her out of her fortune.
“After all,” Maud thinks earlier, “we are not ordinary girls, in an ordinary parlour; and she is interested in my fortune only as she supposes it hers” (238). From even before the moment they meet, their fortunes have been bound together via the machinations of Mrs. Sucksby; it is only through the beauty of chance that their fortunes also lead to love. When Sue is desperate, locked away in the psychiatric hospital, she still keeps Maud’s glove close to her heart (even when she bites it in a fury) and recognizes their twinned fates: “Now my fortune was gone. Maud Lilly had stolen it and given me hers. She was supposed to be here” (404). Their fortunes have flipped, yet again, and they will reverse once more by the novel's end. Sue is actually Susan Lilly, heir to half of the fortune to which Maud Sucksby is also an heir. That they will make their way back to one another is foretold in the cards. Early in their adventures, Sue tells Maud’s fortunes with a pack of old playing cards. When Sue returns to London to find (and revenge herself on) Maud, Maud sends her a sign:
It was a playing card. It was one of the playing cards from her old French deck at Briar. It was the Two of Hearts. It had got greasy, and was marked by the folds she had put in it; but it still had that crease, in the shape of her heel, across one of its painted red pips (452).
These two transgressive hearts are destined, by accident and by design, to find their fortunes together.
In addition to their transgressive dispositions, both Sue and Maud have unconventional educations. While Sue is functionally illiterate, Maud’s literacy brings her nothing but shame and captivity. Still, they are both uncommonly intelligent, uniquely educated women. In keeping with the tropes of the time, education was almost always inherently concerned with morality, especially when it comes to women—which is what makes the educations of these two women even more remarkable. Sue is trained as a thief, while Maud is trained as an expert in all things pornographic. To a lesser extent, both are trained as actresses—another suspect profession linked during this time to “debauched” morals and sex work. Yet, Sue and Maud are the protagonists of their own story, possessed of their own agency, and never in need of redemption, except through their love for each other. The author creates unlikely—bold, complex, uncharacteristic—heroines.
Sue has already had thorough instruction in the art of thievery during her formative years in Mrs. Sucksby’s household. Her first memory is that of seeing a theatrical performance of Oliver Twist with Flora, a pickpocket just a few years older than Sue herself. When they return from the theater, Mrs. Sucksby immediately demands to see Flora’s “poke,” or ill-gotten gains, which engenders admiration in Sue: “She knew everybody’s rig,” she thinks (4). Flora grows up to be “quite the fingersmith” (7), Sue recounts, though she is eventually caught—unlike Sue herself, who becomes the better fingersmith. She may be caught up in Mrs. Sucksby’s conspiracy for a moment, but she is never caught for her thievery. In fact, her skills allow her to escape from the psychiatric hospital where she is imprisoned; she well knows how to file a blank into a life-saving key.
In addition, Sue gets an education in behaving like a lady’s maid—or, more specifically, how to act like one. Gentleman was “so sure [...] of the success of his plan, he said they must begin at once to teach me how a proper lady’s maid should be” (31). This requires not only knowing how to style hair and iron clothes but also how to dress and undress her mistress—an act sexualized by Gentleman’s demonstration with the empty dress draped over the chair: “He [...] smoothed his fingers over the bulging skirts; then he dipped his hand beneath them, reaching high into the layers of silk. He did it so neatly, it looked to me as if he knew his way, all right” (34). After a rustle of silk and a quavering of the chair, Gentleman extracts a stocking. Later, Sue will note, when poring over Maud’s belongings, “one thing a business like ours at Lant Street teaches you is, the proper handling of quality goods” (67). She handles Maud’s belongings, and later Maud herself, covetously but gently.
Maud, for her part, is educated through threats and torment, her willful resistance painfully subdued: “Perhaps children are like horses after all,” she observes, “and may be broken” (179). When her uncle tilts her defiant chin up to him with the blade of his knife, speaking of his patience, Maud thinks, “[T]his is the first day, perhaps, of my education” (180)—knowing that she is helpless to resist his instruction. This instruction, of course, is perverse, immoral at worst and amoral at best; she has been trained to assist her uncle as a “curator of poisons” (183), referring to his pornographic collection. He fully understands that this training will render Maud ineligible for marriage—one of the only paths out of the prison that is Briar—and alienated from polite society, in general: “They will think you tainted, should you tell. You understand me?” he says to her. “I have touched your lip with poison, Maud. Remember” (184).
With significant irony, Maud transcends her education in two specific ways. First, she willfully destroys the very first obscene book from which her uncle makes her read. Second, and even more courageously, Maud transforms the perversity of her uncle’s instruction into the material of her own liberation. In the end, she writes her own stories of passionate, sexual encounters—for money and with pride. When Sue questions if this is appropriate for a “girl, like you—,” Maud responds quickly, “Like me? There are no girls like me” (510). Indeed, she is an iconoclastic female protagonist, and eventually she owns her uncommon education, transforming it into the language of love. When Sue asks what her book says, Maud replies, “[i]t is filled with all the words for how I want you” (511).
The women in the novel are not only subversive heroines, as demonstrated by the characters of Sue and Maud, but they are also complicated villains, as illustrated by Mrs. Sucksby and the unreliable stories about Sue’s and Maud’s respective mothers. The stories that Sue and Maud have been told about their mothers give them cause for concern. Does the blood that runs through their veins in some way corrupt them? Is maternal inheritance destiny? While the answers to these questions are not straightforward—the manipulations to which both women have been subject regarding their pasts make simple conclusions impossible—it appears, ultimately, neither nature nor nurture holds exclusive sway over the narrator’s selves. They will forge their own particular future without parental influence.
Sue is told—by the almost wholly unreliable Mrs. Sucksby—that her mother was a gifted thief who incidentally murdered a man during the robbery that was supposed to make her fortune. Thus, she was hanged, and Mrs. Sucksby sheltered Sue. Because Sue never knew her mother, she decides to take comfort in what she is left: “I supposed it was a pity she had made an orphan of me—but then, some girls I knew had mothers who were drunkards, or mothers who were mad [...]. I should rather a dead mother, over one like that!” (11). Nevertheless, the tale leaves Sue with two distinct feelings: one, a sense of pride in her mother’s skills as a thief, which she supposes she has inherited; two, a fascination with and fear of the prospect of hanging. Before she leaves for Briar to impersonate a lady’s maid, she asks Mrs. Sucksby, “Do you think it hurts, Mrs Sucksby, when they drop you?” (43). This is, at once, an admission of fear over her unlawful role in the scheme and a foreshadowing of what ultimately transpires—both in her own betrayal and in Mrs. Sucksby’s unfortunate fate. It also indicates an implicit acceptance of her maternal inheritance that she subconsciously believes is her maternal inheritance. It makes Mrs. Sucksby’s job easy when she lies to the rest of the household about Sue’s absence: “That’s bad blood for you.” Gentleman assists with the fiction: “Shows up in queer ways” (336). All Mrs. Sucksby has to do is tell the household that Sue double-crossed them and ran off with the money; the others believe it because her mother was a murderess—maternal inheritance is destiny. As Sue worries before her betrayal, “I wondered how Maud would look, if she knew what bad blood flowed in me” (73).
In contrast, Maud has been told—by her uncle, another unreliable narrator—that her mother died in childbirth after being placed in a psychiatric hospital for a mental health condition, ironically mirroring Sue’s disdain for mothers who have mental health conditions above. Maud’s nagging fear of following her mother’s experiences with mental health haunts her, and Gentleman gains ground with her by taunting her with that possibility: “The madhouse. Do you think very often of your time there? Do you think of your mother, and feel her madness in you?” (202). Later, when Maud is told that her mother was Sue’s mother (another deception of Mrs. Sucksby’s), the murderess who was hanged, she is tormented again with the possibility of being tainted by unworthy blood. When Mrs. Sucksby tries to gain Maud’s confidence, she reminds her that Maud willingly participated in the betrayal of Sue: “‘You let them take her,’ she says. Then her look changes. She almost winks. ‘And oh, dear girl, don’t you think you was your mother’s daughter, then?’” (321). Maud’s maternal inheritance comes down to a choice of mental dissolution or moral contamination.
Ironically, it turns out that Mrs. Sucksby refers to herself in this anecdote, for she is Maud’s biological mother—a corrupt woman who looks out for herself above all else, for whom betrayal is second nature. Even more ironically (not to mention tragically), the fiction she relates about Sue’s and Maud’s alleged mother ultimately comes true. Mrs. Sucksby—actual mother of Maud, surrogate mother to Sue—is hanged after the stabbing death of Gentleman. Indeed, Gentleman’s fate is sealed when he slyly references Maud’s maternity in front of Sue, who still remains ignorant of the truth: “What’s it to you, what Sue knows? [...] And do you look at Mrs. Sucksby? Don’t say you care what she thinks! Why, you’re as bad as Sue. Look how you quake! Be bolder, Maud. Think of your mother” (467). It is unclear whether Gentleman refers to the fictional murderous mother or Mrs. Sucksby herself; either way, the truth will unravel Mrs. Sucksby’s scheme, should Sue know her surrogate mother’s role in sending her to the psychiatric hospital. For her part, Maud wishes to protect Sue from the truth of Mrs. Sucksby’s treachery, and thus, she and Mrs. Sucksby briefly become co-conspirators. Mrs. Sucksby’s final act, however, is to confess to the murder of Gentleman: “‘I done it,’ she said. ‘Lord knows, I’m sorry for it now; but I done it. And these girls here are innocent girls, and know nothing at all about it; and have harmed no-one’” (475). She protects both of her “daughters,” leaving them free to find each other and divest themselves of misguided maternal influence.
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