Unveiling of Aunt Lydia's Statue

The unveiling of Aunt Lydia's statue at Ardua Hall was a ceremony of calculated ambiguity, a public consecration that simultaneously celebrated her power and exposed the brittle foundations upon which it rested. The event took place nine years before the main narrative of The Testaments, a token of appreciation for her many contributions to Gilead. The citation was read out by Aunt Vidala, who was far from appreciative of the task. Aunt Lydia herself pulled the rope that released the cloth drape, and there she stood, larger than life, as statues tend to be. There was no cheering, as such displays were not done at Ardua Hall, but there was some discreet clapping, to which she inclined her head in a nod.

The Statue's Composition and Symbolism

The statue was not a solitary figure but a crowded group, a composition Aunt Lydia privately judged a failure, preferring more emphasis on herself. It depicted her as younger, slimmer, and in better shape than she had been for some time, standing straight with shoulders back and a firm but benevolent smile fixed on a cosmic point of reference meant to represent her idealism and unflinching commitment to duty. Clutching her left hand was a girl of seven or eight, gazing up with trusting eyes. Her right hand rested on the head of a crouched, veiled woman, a Handmaid whose upturned eyes could be read as either craven or grateful. Behind her stood one of her Pearl Girls, ready to set out on missionary work. Hanging from a belt around her waist was her Taser, a weapon she viewed as a reminder of her failings, a sign that the persuasion in her voice had not been enough. The sculptress, a true believer since deceased, had a tendency to confer bulging eyes on her subjects as a sign of pious fervour, making her busts of Aunt Helena, Aunt Vidala, and Aunt Elizabeth look rabid, hyperthyroid, and ready to explode, respectively. Aunt Lydia, however, looked sane, a fact for which she was grateful.

The Ceremony and Its Aftermath

At the unveiling, the sculptress was nervous, worried about whether her rendition was sufficiently flattering. Aunt Lydia toyed with the idea of frowning as the sheet came off but thought better of it, demonstrating a measure of compassion. "Very lifelike," she said. In the nine years since, the statue had weathered. Pigeons had decorated it, moss had sprouted in its damper crevices, and votaries had taken to leaving offerings at its feet: eggs for fertility, oranges to suggest the fullness of pregnancy, and croissants to reference the moon. Aunt Lydia ignored the breadstuffs but pocketed the oranges, finding them refreshing. The statue became a site of unofficial cult worship, a development that Aunt Vidala would later attempt to use against her, planting evidence of idolatry to incriminate her.

The Statue as a Reflection of Power and Mortality

The statue was a physical manifestation of the paradox of Aunt Lydia's existence in Gilead. She had been given a statue while still alive, a privilege usually reserved for the dead, and she felt herself already petrified. She mused on her possible ends: a gently neglected old age, ossifying by degrees; toppling along with the regime, her stone replica dragged away as a curiosity or a chunk of gruesome kitsch; or being put on trial as a monster, executed by firing squad, and dangled from a lamppost. She acknowledged having inspired sufficient rage for that. The statue, therefore, was not a monument to a secure legacy but a marker of a life lived on a razor's edge, a life where she had become swollen with power but also nebulous with it, formless and shape-shifting, casting an unsettling shadow even in the minds of the Commanders. It was a constant reminder of the bargain she had struck and the high price she might yet pay.