Our Hideous Progeny

by C.E. McGill

Shame breeds fear, and fear breeds goodness, morality, better behaviour. Such is the hope. Except that sometimes – as I can attest – shame and fear beget only anger instead.

Ladies are often criticized for being childish, I find – but it is hard not to be, when one’s life is so wholly in the hands of another.

I grin and bear it and bite my tongue, all for the privilege of watching you ruin chances I would die for, throwing away more than I’ve ever had – you have no idea, no idea, how easy you have it!’

Whenever a woman without children loved an animal or a cause or anything else – anything else besides that which she ought to love most in the world, that which she ought to spend all her days trying and longing for – it was thought to be a substitute for what she did not have.

‘I should not have to be decent,’ I hissed. ‘I should not have to be nice – God knows, you have not one ounce of compassion or propriety in your bones, and yet you’ve made it this far! I should not have to wait and grovel and plead and crush and cut away at myself until I’m small enough to fit at the margins, in the footnotes! You make all the world a game, where you decide the victor and you decide the rules, then pat yourself on the back for winning every single time! Yes, you are clever, Mr Clarke. Yes, you are talented. Every man is Shakespeare when he’s the only one in London with a pen.

Pride – what a tricky word that was. It was pride that had turned the angels into demons, pride that had doomed Babel, pride that had tempted Eve; it was the sin of believing oneself capable of great things, worthy of better. It was the worst sin a woman could commit.