Alias Grace (8 page)

It was difficult to begin talking. I had not talked very much for the past fifteen years, not really talking the way I once talked with Mary Whitney, and Jeremiah the peddler, and with Jamie Walsh too before he became so treacherous towards me; and in a way I had forgotten how. I told Dr. Jordan that I did not know what he wanted me to say. He said it wasn’t what he wanted me to say, but what I wanted to say myself, that was of interest to him. I said I had no wants of that kind, as it was not my place to want to say anything.

Now Grace, he said, you must do better than that, we made a bargain.

Yes Sir, I said. But I cannot think of anything.

Then let us discuss the weather, he said; you must have some observations to make on it, since that is the way everyone else begins.

I smiled at that, but I was just as shy. I was not used to having my opinions asked, even about the weather and especially by a man with a notebook. The only men of that kind I ever encountered were Mr. Kenneth MacKenzie, Esq., the lawyer, and I was afraid of him; and those in the courtroom at the trial, and in the jail; and they were from the newspapers, and made up lies about me.

Since I could not talk at first, Dr. Jordan talked himself. He told me about how they were building railroads everywhere now, and how they laid down the tracks, and how the engines worked, with the boiler and the steam. This had the effect of setting me more at my ease, and I said I would like to ride in a railway train like that; and he said that perhaps someday I would. I said I did not think so, being sentenced to be here for life, but then you never can tell what time will have in store for you.

Then he told me about the town where he lives, which is called Loomisville, in the United States of America, and he said it was a mill town although not as prosperous as before the cheap cloth from India came in. He said his father once owned a mill, and the girls who worked in it came from the country, and were kept very tidy and lived in boarding houses provided, with respectable and sober landladies and no drink allowed and sometimes a parlour piano, and only twelve hours of work per day and Sunday mornings off for church; and by the moist and reminiscing look in his eye, I would not be surprised to learn that he once had a sweetheart among them.

Then he said these girls were taught to read, and had their own magazine which they published, with literary offerings. And I said what did he mean by literary offerings, and he said they wrote stories and poems which they put into it, and I said under their own names? He said yes, which I said was bold of them, and didn’t it scare away the young men, as who would want a wife like that, writing things down for everyone to see, and made-up things at that, and I would never be so brazen. And he smiled, and said it did not appear to trouble the young men, as the girls saved up their wages for their dowries, and a dowry was always acceptable. And I said that at least after they got married, they would be too busy to make up any more stories, because of all the children.

Then I was sad, as I remembered that I would never be married now, or have any babies of my own; though there can be too much of a good thing you could say, and I would not like to have nine or ten and then die of it, as happens to many. But still it is a regret.

When you are sad it is best to change the subject. I asked if he had a mother living, and he said yes, although her health was not good; and I said that he was fortunate to have a mother living, as mine was not. And then I changed the subject again, and said I was very fond of horses, and he told me about his horse Bess, that he had as a boy. And after a time, I don’t know how it was, but little by little I found I could talk to him more easily, and think up things to say.

And that is how we go on. He asks a question, and I say an answer, and he writes it down. In the courtroom, every word that came out of my mouth was as if burnt into the paper they were writing it on, and once I said a thing I knew I could never get the words back; only they were the wrong words, because whatever I said would be twisted around, even if it was the plain truth in the first place. And it was the same with Dr. Bannerling at the Asylum. But now I feel as if everything I say is right. As long as I say something, anything at all, Dr. Jordan smiles and writes it down, and tells me I am doing well.

While he writes, I feel as if he is drawing me; or not drawing me, drawing on me — drawing on my skin

— not with the pencil he is using, but with an old-fashioned goose pen, and not with the quill end but with the feather end. As if hundreds of butterflies have settled all over my face, and are softly opening and closing their wings.

But underneath that is another feeling, a feeling of being wide-eyed awake and watchful. It’s like being wakened suddenly in the middle of the night, by a hand over your face, and you sit up with your heart going fast, and no one is there. And underneath that is another feeling still, a feeling like being torn open; not like a body of flesh, it is not painful as such, but like a peach; and not even torn open, but too ripe and splitting open of its own accord.

And inside the peach there’s a stone.

Chapter 9

From Dr. Samuel Bannerling, M.D., The Maples, Front Street, Toronto, Canada West; to Dr.

Simon Jordan, M.D., care of Mrs. William P. Jordan, Laburnum House, Loomisville,
Massachusetts, The United States of America. Redirected, care of Major C.D. Humphrey, Lower
Union Street, Kingston, Canada West.

April 20th, 1859.

Dear Dr. Jordan:

I am in receipt of your request to Dr. Workman of April 2nd, concerning the convict Grace Marks,
and of a note from him asking that I supply you with any further information at my disposal.

I must inform you at once that Dr. Workman and I have not always seen eye to eye. In my
estimation — and I was at the Asylum for more years than he has yet been there — his policies of
leniency have led him to undertake a fool’s errand, namely the transforming of sows’ ears into
silk purses. Most who suffer from the more severe nervous and cerebral disorders cannot be
cured, but merely controlled; for which purposes, physical restraint and correction, a restricted
diet, and cupping and bleeding to reduce excessive animal spirits, have in the past proven
efficacious enough. Although Dr. Workman claims to have obtained positive results in several
cases previously considered hopeless, these supposed cures will no doubt in time prove to have
been superficial and temporary. The taint of insanity is in the blood, and cannot be removed with
a little soft soap and flannel.

Dr. Workman had the opportunity of examining Grace Marks for a few weeks only, whereas I had
her under my care for over a year; and therefore his opinions on the subject of her character
cannot be worth a great deal. He was, however, perspicacious enough to discover one pertinent
fact — namely that, as a lunatic, Grace Marks was a sham — a view previously arrived at by
myself, although the authorities of that time refused to act upon it. Continuous observation of her,
and of her contrived antics, led me to deduce that she was not in fact insane, as she pretended,
but was attempting to pull the wool over my eyes in a studied and flagrant manner. To speak
plainly, her madness was a fraud and an imposture, adopted by her in order that she might
indulge herself and be indulged, the strict regimen of the Penitentiary, where she had been placed
as a just punishment for her atrocious crimes, not having been to her liking.

She is an accomplished actress and a most practised liar. While among us, she amused herself
with a number of supposed fits, hallucinations, caperings, warblings and the like, nothing being
lacking to the impersonation but Ophelia’s wildflowers entwined in her hair; but she did well
enough without them, as she managed to deceive, not only the worthy Mrs. Moodie, who like
many high-minded females of her type, is inclined to believe any piece of theatrical twaddle served
up to her, provided it is pathetic enough, and whose inaccurate and hysterical account of the
whole sad affair you have no doubt read; but also several of my own colleagues, this latter being
an outstanding example of the old rule of thumb, that when a handsome woman walks in through
the door, good judgment flies out through the window.

Should you nonetheless decide to examine Grace Marks at her current place of abode, be pleased
to consider yourself amply warned. Many older and wiser heads have been enmeshed in her toils,
and you would do well to stop your ears with wax, as Ulysses made his sailors do, to escape the
Sirens. She is as devoid of morals as she is of scruples, and will use any unwitting tool that comes
to hand.

I should alert you also to the possibility that, once having involved yourself in her case, you will be
besieged by a crowd of well-meaning but feeble-minded persons of both sexes, as well as
clergymen, who have busied themselves on her behalf. They pester the Government with petitions
for her release, and will attempt in the name of charity to waylay and conscript you. I have had
repeatedly to beat them away from my door, whilst informing them that Grace Marks has been
incarcerated for a very good reason, namely the vicious acts which she has committed, and which
were inspired by her degenerate character and morbid imagination. To let her loose upon an
unsuspecting public would be irresponsible to the last degree, as it would merely afford her the
opportunity of gratifying her bloodthirsty tastes.

I am confident that, should you choose to explore the matter further, you will arrive at the same
conclusions as have already been arrived at, by,

Your obedient servant,

(Dr.) Samuel Bannerling, M.D.

Chapter 10

This morning Simon is to meet with Reverend Verringer. He’s not looking forward to it: the man has studied in England, and is bound to give himself airs. There is no fool like an educated fool, and Simon will have to trot out his own European credentials, and flourish his erudition, and justify himself. It will be a trying interview, and Simon will be tempted to start drawling, and saying
I reckon,
and acting the British Colonial version of the wooden-nutmeg-peddling Yankee, just to annoy. He must restrain himself, however; too much depends on his good behaviour. He keeps forgetting he is no longer rich, and therefore no longer entirely his own man.

He stands in front of his looking glass, attempting to tie his stock. He hates cravats and stocks, and wishes them at the Devil; he resents his trousers as well, and all stiff and proper clothing generally. Why does civilized man see fit to torture his body by cramming it into the strait-jacket of gentlemanly dress?

Perhaps it is a mortification of the flesh, like a hair shirt. Men ought to be born in little woollen suits which would grow with them over the years, thus avoiding the whole business of tailors, with their endless fussing and snobberies.

At least he isn’t a woman, and thus not obliged to wear corsets, and to deform himself with tight lacing.

For the widely held view that women are weak-spined and jelly-like by nature, and would slump to the floor like melted cheese if not roped in, he has nothing but contempt. While a medical student, he dissected a good many women — from the labouring classes, naturally — and their spines and musculature were on the average no feebler than those of men, although many suffered from rickets.

He’s wrestled his stock into the semblance of a bow. It’s lopsided, but the best he can do; he can no longer afford a valet. He brushes down his unruly hair, which rebounds instantly. Then he takes up his topcoat, and on second thought his umbrella. There’s weak sunlight making its way in through the windows, but it’s too much to hope that it won’t rain. Kingston in the spring is a watery place.

He makes his way stealthily down the front stairs, but not stealthily enough: his landlady has taken to waylaying him on some trivial matter or another, and she glides out from the parlour now, in her faded black silk and lace collar, clutching her customary handkerchief in one thin hand, as if tears are never far off. She was obviously a beauty not so long ago, and could still be one if she would take the trouble to be so, and if the centre parting in her fair hair were not quite so severe. Her face is heart-shaped, her skin milky, her eyes large and compelling; but although her waist is slender, there is something metallic about it, as if she is using a short length of stove-pipe instead of stays. Today she wears her habitual expression of strained anxiety; she smells of violets, and also of camphor — she is doubtless prone to headaches —

and of something else he can’t quite place. A hot dry smell. A white linen sheet being ironed?

As a rule, Simon avoids her type of attenuated and quietly distraught female, although doctors attract such women like magnets. Still, there’s a severe and unadorned elegance about her — like a Quaker meeting house — which has its appeal; an appeal which, for him, is aesthetic only. One does not make love to a minor religious edifice.

“Dr. Jordan,” she says. “I wanted to ask you…” She hesitates. Simon smiles, prompting her to get on with it. “Your egg this morning — was it satisfactory? This time I cooked it myself.”

Simon lies. To do otherwise would be unpardonably rude. “Delicious, thank you,” he says. In reality the egg had the consistency of the excised tumour a fellow medical student once slipped into his pocket for a joke — both hard and spongy at the same time. It takes a perverse talent to maltreat an egg so completely.