Alias Grace

  - Chronicle and Gazette,

  Kingston, August 12th, 1843.

  "But though I have repented of my wickedness with bitter tears, it has pleased God that I should never again know a moment's peace. Since I helped Macdermot to strangle [Nancy] Montgomery, her terrible face and those horrible bloodshot eyes have never left me for a moment. They glare upon me by night and day, and when I close my eyes in despair, I see them looking into my soul - it is impossible to shut them out.... at night - in the silence and loneliness of my cell, those blazing eyes make my prison as light as day. No, not as day - they have a terribly hot glare, that has not the appearance of anything in this world...."

  - Grace Marks,

  to Kenneth MacKenzie, as retold by

  Susanna Moodie, Life in the Clearings, 1853.

  It was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other.... Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.

  - Nathaniel Hawthorne,

  "Rappaccini's Daughter," 1844.

  41.

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

  August 3rd, 1859.

  My Dearest Son:

  I am in the greatest state of apprehension, at not having had a letter from you, for so long. Do send me at least one word, to let me know that no disaster has befallen you. In these evil days, with a calamitous War looming ever nearer in the distance, a Mother's chief hope is that her dearest ones, of which I have only you remaining, should be safe and sound. Perhaps it would be best if you would remain in that country, to avoid the inevitable; but it is only a weak Mother's heart that urges it, as I cannot in all conscience advocate cowardice, when so many other Mothers will surely be prepared to face whatever Fate may have in store.

  I do so long to see your welcome face once more, dear Son. The slight cough, which has troubled me ever since the time of your birth, has increased of late, and is in the evenings quite violent; and I am in an agony of nerves, every day that you are away from us, for fear that I should be taken away suddenly, in the middle of the night perhaps, without having the opportunity of bidding you a last fond farewell, and giving you a last Mother's Blessing. Should War be avoided, which we must all hope for, I do so pray that I may see you well settled, and in a home of your own, before that inevitable date. But do not let my doubtless idle fears and fancies take you away from your studies and researches, and your Lunatics, or whatever you are doing, which I am sure is very important.

  I hope you are eating a nourishing diet, and keeping up your strength. There is no blessing like a solid constitution, and if one has not inherited it, then even more care must be taken. Mrs. Cartwright says she is so thankful that her daughter has never been sick a day in her life, and is as strong as a horse. The inheritance of a sound mind in a healthy body would be the best legacy of all, to leave to one's children; one which your own poor Mother was, alas, not able to provide, to her own dear Boy, though not for lack of wishing. But we must all content ourselves with the lot in life, in which Providence has seen fit to place us.

  My faithful Maureen and Samantha send their respect and love to you, and beg to be remembered. Samantha says that her strawberry preserves, which you loved so much as a Boy, continue as good as ever, and you should hurry back for a taste of them, before she "crosses over the river," as she puts it; and my poor Maureen, who may soon be as crippled as your Mother, says she cannot eat a spoonful, without thinking of you, and remembering happier times; and they are both most anxious for the renewed sight of your ever-welcome countenance; as is, to a thousandfold extent,

  Your always loving and devoted,

  Mother.

  42.

  Simon is in the upstairs corridor again, in the attic, where the maids live. He senses them waiting behind their closed doors, listening, their eyes shining in the semi-darkness; but they don't make a sound. His footsteps in their thick schoolboy boots ring hollowly on the boards. Surely there ought to be some kind of carpet here, or matting; everyone in the house must be able to hear him.

  He opens a door at random, hoping to find Alice, or was her name Effie? But he's back at Guy's Hospital. He can smell it, almost taste it - that dense, heavy smell of damp stone, damp wool, halitosis, and septic human flesh. It's the smell of trial and disapproval: he is going to be examined. Before him is a draped table: he must make a dissection, although he is only a student here, he hasn't been taught, he doesn't know how. The room is empty, but he knows he's being watched, by those who are there to judge him.

  It's a woman, under the sheet; he can tell by the contours. He hopes she isn't too old, as that would be somehow worse. A poor woman, dead of some unknown disease. No one knows where they get the cadavers; or no one knows for certain. Dug up in the graveyard by moonlight, goes the student joke. No, not by moonlight, you fool: by the Resurrection Men.

  Step by step he approaches the table. Does he have his instruments ready? Yes, here is the candlestick; but he has no shoes on, and his feet are wet. He must lift off the sheet, then lift off her skin, whoever she is, or was, layer by layer. Strip back her rubbery flesh, peel her open, gut her like a haddock. He's shaking with terror. She will be cold, inflexible. They keep them on ice.

  But under the sheet there's another sheet, and under that another one. It looks like a white muslin curtain. Then there's a black veil, and then - can it be? - a petticoat. The woman must be down there somewhere; frantically he rummages. But no; the last sheet is a bed-sheet, and there's nothing under it but a bed. That, and the form of someone who's been lying here. It's still warm.

  He is failing desperately, failing his examination, and so publicly too; but now he doesn't mind that. It's as if he's been reprieved. It will be all right now, he will be taken care of. Outside the door, which is the same one he came in by, there's a green lawn, with a stream flowing beyond it. The sound of the running water is very soothing. There's a quick indrawn breath, and the smell of strawberries, and a hand touches his shoulder.

  He wakes, or dreams he wakes. He knows he must still be asleep, because Grace Marks is bending over him in the close darkness, her loosened hair brushing his face. He isn't surprised, nor does he ask how she has managed to come here from her prison cell. He pulls her down - she is wearing only a nightdress - and falls on top of her, and shoves himself into her with a groan of lust and no manners, for in dreams everything is permitted. His spine jerks him like a hooked fish, then releases him. He gasps for air.

  Only then does he realize he's not dreaming; or not dreaming the woman. She's really here, in the flesh, lying motionless beside him in the suddenly too-quiet bed, arms at her sides like an effigy; but she is not Grace Marks. Impossible now to mistake her boniness, her bird's ribcage, her smell of singed linen and camphor and violets. The opium taste of her mouth. It's his thin landlady, whose first name he doesn't even know. When he entered her she made no sound, either of protest or delight. Is she even breathing?

  Tentatively he kisses her again, then again: small kisses. It's the alternative to taking her pulse. He works his way around until he finds a vein, the one in her neck, throbbing. Her skin is warm, a little sticky, like syrup; the hairs behind her ear smell of beeswax.

  Not dead then.

  Oh no, he thinks. What next? What have I done?

  43.

  Dr. Jordan has gone off to Toronto. I don't know how long he will be gone; I hope it's not very long, as I have become quite used to him somehow, and fear that when he goes away, as he is bound to do sooner or later, there will be a sad emptiness in my heart.


  What should I tell him, when he comes back? He will want to know about the arrest, and the trial, and what was said. Some of it is all jumbled in my mind, but I could pick out this or that for him, some bits of whole cloth you might say, as when you go through the rag bag looking for something that will do, to supply a touch of colour.

  I could say this:

  Well, Sir, they arrested me first, and James next. He was still asleep in his bed, and the first thing he did when they woke him up was to try to blame it on Nancy. If you find Nancy you will know all about it, he said, it was her fault. I thought this was very stupid of him, as although she hadn't yet been discovered, they were bound to ferret her out sooner or later, if only by the smell; and indeed they did so, the very next day. James was trying to pretend he didn't know where she was, or even that she was dead; but he should have held his tongue about her.

  It was still the early morning when they arrested us. They hustled us out of the Lewiston tavern at great speed. I believe they were afraid the men there might stop them, and attract a mob, and rescue us, as they might have done if McDermott had thought to shout out that he was a revolutionary, or a republican, or some such, and he had his rights, and down with the British; because there was still considerable high feelings then, on the side of Mr. William Lyon Mackenzie and the Rebellion, and there were those in the States that wanted to invade Canada. And the men that arrested us had no real authority. But McDermott was too cowed to protest, or else he lacked the presence of mind; and when they'd got us as far as the Customs, and said we were wanted on suspicion of murder, then our party was allowed to proceed, and to set sail without further ado.

  I was very glum going back across the Lake, although the weather was fair and the waves not large; but I cheered myself up, by telling myself that Justice would not let me be hanged for something I hadn't done, and I would only have to tell the story as it happened, or as much of it as I could remember. As for McDermott's chances, I did not rate them very high; but he was still denying all, and saying we only had Mr. Kinnear's things with us because Nancy had refused to pay us what we were owed, and so we had paid ourselves. He said if anyone had killed Kinnear it was most likely a tramp; and there had been a suspicious-looking man hanging around, who'd said he was a peddler, and sold him some shirts; and they should be looking for that one, and not an honest man like himself, whose only crime was to wish to better his lot in life through hard work and immigration. He certainly could lie, but never very well; and he wasn't believed, and might just as well have kept his mouth shut; and I thought it wrong in him, Sir, that he was trying to put the murder off on my old friend Jeremiah, who'd never done any such thing in his life, that I knew of.

  They put us into the jail in Toronto, locked up in cells, like animals in a cage, but not so close together that we could speak; and then they examined us separately. They asked me a good many questions; and I was quite frightened, and not at all sure what I should say. I had no lawyer at this time, as Mr. MacKenzie only came into it much later. I asked for my box, which they made such a fuss over in the newspapers, and sneered at me for referring to it as mine, and for having no clothes of my own to speak of; but although it was true this box and the clothes in it had once been Nancy's, they were hers no longer, as the dead have no use for such things.

  They held it against me as well that I was at first calm and in good spirits, with full and clear eyes, which they took for callousness; but if I'd been weeping and crying, they would have said it showed my guilt; for they'd already decided I was guilty, and once people make their minds up that you have done a crime, then anything you do is taken as proof of it; and I don't think I could have scratched myself or wiped my nose without it being written up in the newspapers, and malicious comment made on it, in high-sounding phrases. And it was at this time that they called me McDermott's paramour, and also his accomplice; and they wrote also that I must have helped to strangle Nancy, as it would take two to do the job. The newspaper journalists like to believe the worst; they can sell more papers that way, as one of them told me himself; for even upstanding and respectable people dearly love to read ill of others.

  The next thing, Sir, was the Inquest, which was held very soon after we were brought back. It was to determine how Nancy and Mr. Kinnear had died, whether by accident or murder; and for that I had to be examined in court. By now I was thoroughly terrified, as I could see that feeling was running very much against me; and the jailers in Toronto made cruel jokes when they brought in my food, and said they hoped when they hanged me that the scaffold would be high, as that way they would get a good look at my ankles. And one of them tried to take advantages, and said I might as well enjoy it while I had the chance, as where I was going I'd never have no fine brisk lover like himself between my knees; but I told him to keep his filthy self to himself; and it would have come to worse, except that his fellow-jailer came along and said that I hadn't been tried yet, much less condemned; and if the first one valued his position he should keep away from me. Which he did mostly.

  I will tell Dr. Jordan about this, as he likes to hear about such things, and always writes them down.

  Well, Sir, I will continue - the day of the Inquest came, and I took care to appear neat and tidy, for I knew how much appearances count, as when you are applying for a new position, and they always look at your wrists and cuffs, to see if you are of clean habits; and they did say in the newspapers that I was decently dressed.

  The Inquest was held in the City Hall, with a number of Magistrates present, all staring and frowning; and an immense crowd of spectators, and Press men, pushing and shoving and jostling, so as to be in a better position to see and hear; and these had to be reprimanded several times, for disruption. I didn't see how they could get any more people into the room, which was stuffed to bursting, but more and more kept trying to thrust themselves forward.

  I tried to control my trembling, and to face what was to come with as much courage as I could lay hold of, which by that time, to tell you the truth, Sir, was not very much. McDermott was there, looking as surly as ever, which was the first time I had seen him since we were arrested. The newspapers said he showed sullen doggedness and reckless defiance, which was their way of putting it, I suppose. But it was nothing different from the way he always looked at the breakfast table.

  Then they started in to question me about the murders, and I was at a loss. For as you know, Sir, I could not rightly remember the events of that terrible day, and did not feel I had been present at them at all, and had lain unconscious for several parts of it; but I was well aware that if I said this I would be laughed to scorn, since Jefferson the butcher testified that he'd seen me and conversed with me, and said I'd told him we would not be needing any fresh meat; which they made a joke of later, because of the bodies in the cellar, in a broadsheet poem they were hawking about at the time of McDermott's hanging; and I thought it was very coarse and common, and disrespectful of a fellow-being's mortal struggle.

  So I said that the last time I'd seen Nancy was around dinnertime, when I looked out of the kitchen door and saw her putting the young ducks in; and after that, McDermott said she'd gone into the house, and I said she was not there, and he told me to mind my own business. Then he said she'd gone over to Mrs. Wright's. I told them I was suspicious, and asked McDermott about her several times, when we were travelling to the States, at which he said she was all right; but I did not positively know of her death, until she was discovered on the Monday morning.

  I then told how I heard a shot, and saw Mr. Kinnear's body lying on the floor; and how I screamed and rushed about, and how McDermott shot at me, and I fainted and fell down. I did remember that part of it. And indeed they found the ball from the gun, in the wood of the summer kitchen door frame, which showed I was not lying.

  We were bound over for trial, which was not to take place until November; and so I was three weary months penned up in the Toronto jail, which was worse than being here in the Penitentiary, as I was all by
myself in a cell, and people coming on the pretence of some errand or other, but really to gawk and gape. And I was in a very miserable state.

  Outside, the seasons changed, but all I knew of it was the difference in the light that shone through the small barred window, which was too high on the wall for me to see out of it; and the air that would come in, bringing the scents and odours of all I was missing. In August there was the smell of fresh-mown hay, and then the smell of grapes and peaches ripening; and in September the apples, and in October the fallen leaves, and the first cold foretaste of snow. There was nothing for me to do, except sit in my cell, and worry about what was going to happen, and whether indeed I would be hanged, as the jailers told me every day, and I must say they enjoyed every word of death and disaster that came out of their mouths. I don't know whether you have noticed it, Sir, but there are some that take pleasure in the distress of a fellow-mortal, and most especially if they think that fellow-mortal has committed a sin, which adds an extra relish. But which among us has not sinned, as the Bible tells us? I would be ashamed myself, to take such delight in the sufferings of others.

  In October they gave me a lawyer, which was Mr. MacKenzie. He was not very handsome, and had a nose like a bottle. I thought he was very young and untried, as this was his first case; and sometimes his manner was a little too familiar for my taste, as he appeared to wish to be shut up in the cell with me alone, and offered to comfort me, with frequent pattings of the hand; but I was glad to have anyone at all, to plead my case and to put things in as good a light as possible; so I said nothing about it, but did my best to smile and behave gratefully. He wanted me to tell my story in what he called a coherent way, but would often accuse me of wandering, and become annoyed with me; and at last he said that the right thing was, not to tell the story as I truly remembered it, which nobody could be expected to make any sense of; but to tell a story that would hang together, and that had some chance of being believed. I was to leave out the parts I could not remember, and especially to leave out the fact that I could not remember them. And I should say what must have happened, according to plausibility, rather than what I myself could actually recall. So that is what I attempted to do.