Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

opportunities which were by no means so available, nor so various, in New England. To heal humanity one must know it, and one cannot know it from a distance; one must rub elbows with it, so to speak. He considers it the duty of those in his profession to probe life’s uttermost depths, and although he has not probed very many of them as yet, he has at least made a beginning. He’d taken, of course, all proper precautions against disease.

Outside the house he encounters the Major, who stares at him as if through a dense fog. His eyes are pink, his stock is askew, and he is missing a glove. Simon tries to imagine what sort of debauch he’s been on, and how long it has lasted. There must be a certain freedom in not having a good name to lose. He nods, and lifts his hat. The Major looks affronted.

Simon sets out to walk to Reverend Verringer’s residence, which is on Sydenham Street. He hasn’t hired a carriage or even a horse; the expense would not be not justified, as Kingston is not a large place. The streets are muddy and cluttered with horse dung, but he has good boots. The door of Reverend Verringer’s impressive manse is opened by an elderly female with a face like a pine plank; the Reverend is unmarried, and has need of an irreproachable housekeeper. Simon is ushered into the library. It is so self-consciously the right sort of library that he has an urge to set fire to it. Reverend Verringer rises from a leather-covered wing chair, and offers him a hand to shake. Although his hair and his skin are equally thin and pallid, his handshake is surprisingly firm; and despite his unfortunately small and pouting mouth — like a tadpole’s, thinks Simon — his Roman nose indicates a strong character, his high-domed forehead a developed intellect, and his somewhat bulging eyes are bright and keen. He cannot be over thirty-five; he must be well connected, thinks Simon, to have risen so fast in the Methodist establishment, and to have procured such an affluent congregation. Considering the books, he must have money of his own. Simon’s father used to have books like that.

“I am glad you could come, Dr. Jordan,” he says; his voice is less affected than Simon has feared. “It is kind of you to oblige us. Your time must be valuable indeed.” They sit, and coffee appears, brought in by the slab-faced housekeeper on a tray which is plain in design, but nonetheless of silver. A Methodist tray: not flamboyant, but quietly affirmative of its own worth.

“It is a matter of great professional interest to me,” says Simon. “It is not often that such a case presents itself, with so many intriguing features.” He speaks as if he personally has treated hundreds of cases. The thing is to look interested, but not too eager, as if the favour is being conferred by him. He hopes he’s not blushing.

“A report from you would be a considerable help to our Committee,” says Reverend Verringer, “should such a report favour the theory of innocence. We would attach it to our Petition; Government authorities are much more inclined nowadays to take expert opinion into consideration. Of course,” he adds, with a shrewd glance, “you will be paid the sum agreed on, no matter what your conclusions.”

“I fully understand,” says Simon with what he hopes is an urbane smile. “You studied in England, I think?”

“I began the pursuit of my vocation as a member of the Established Church,” says Reverend Verringer,

“but then had a crisis of conscience. Surely the light of God’s word and grace is available to those outside the Church of England, and through more direct means than the Liturgy.”

“I would certainly hope so,” says Simon politely.

“The eminent Reverend Egerton Ryerson, of Toronto, followed much the same course. He is a leader in the crusade for free schooling, and for the abolition of alcoholic beverages. You have heard of him, naturally.”

Simon has not; he emits an ambiguous h’m, which he hopes will pass for agreement.

“You yourself are…?”

Simon dodges. “My father’s family was Quaker,” he says. “For many years. My mother is a Unitarian.”

“Ah yes,” says Reverend Verringer. “Of course, everything is so different in the United States.” There is a pause, while they both consider this. “But you do believe in the immortality of the soul?”

This is the trick question; this is the trap that might put paid to his chances. “Oh yes, of course,” says Simon. “It is not to be doubted.”

Verringer seems relieved. “So many scientific men are casting doubts. Leave the body to the doctors, I say, and the soul to God. Render unto Caesar, you might say.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Dr. Binswanger spoke very highly of you. I had the pleasure of meeting him while travelling on the Continent — Switzerland is of great interest to me, for historical reasons — and I talked with him of his work; and therefore it was natural for me to consult him, when seeking an authority on this side of the Atlantic. An authority” — he hesitates — “who would be within our means. He said you are well up on cerebral diseases and nervous afflictions, and that in matters concerning amnesia you are on your way to becoming a leading expert. He claims you are one of the up-and-coming men.”

“It is kind of him to say so,” Simon murmurs. “It is a baffling area. But I have published two or three little papers.”

“Let us hope that, at the conclusion of your investigations, you will be able to add to their number, and to shed light on a puzzling obscurity; for which society will give you due recognition, I am sure. Especially in such a famous case.”

Simon notes to himself that, although tadpole-mouthed, Reverend Verringer is no fool. Certainly he has a sharp nose for other men’s ambitions. Could it be that his switch from the Church of England to the Methodists had coincided with the falling political star of the former in this country, and the rising one of the latter?

“You have read the accounts I sent you?”

Simon nods. “I can see your dilemma,” he says. “It is difficult to know what to believe. Grace appears to have told one story at the inquest, another one at the trial, and, after her death sentence had been commuted, yet a third. In all three, however, she denied ever having laid a finger on Nancy Montgomery. But then, some years later, we have Mrs. Moodie’s account, which amounts to a confession by Grace, of having actually done the deed; and this story is in accordance with James McDermott’s dying words, just before he was hanged. Since her return from the Asylum, however, you say she denies it.”

Reverend Verringer sips at his coffee. “She denies the memory of it,” he says.

“Ah yes. The memory of it,” says Simon. “A proper distinction.”

“She could well have been convinced by others that she had done something of which she is innocent,”

says Reverend Verringer. “It has happened before. The so-called confession in the Penitentiary, of which Mrs. Moodie has given such a colourful description, took place after several years of incarceration, and during the long regime of Warden Smith. The man was notoriously corrupt, and most unfit for his position. He was accused of behaviour of the most shocking and brutal kind; his son, for instance, was permitted to use the convicts for target practice, and on one occasion actually put out an eye. There was talk of his abusing the female prisoners also, in ways you may well imagine, and I am afraid there is no doubt about it; a full enquiry was held. It is to Grace Marks’ mistreatment at his hands that I attribute her interlude of insanity.”

“There are some who deny that she was in fact insane,” says Simon.

Reverend Verringer smiles. “You have heard from Dr. Bannerling, I suppose. He has been against her from the beginning. We on the Committee have appealed to him — a favourable report from him would have been invaluable to our cause — but he is intransigent. A Tory, of course, of the deepest dye — he would have all the poor lunatics chained up in straw, if he had his way; and all hanged who look sideways. I am sorry to say that I consider him to have been a part of the same corrupt system that was responsible for the appointment of a coarse and profane man such as Warden Smith. I understand that there were irregularities at the Asylum as well — so much so that Grace Marks, upon her return from it, was suspected of being in a delicate condition. Happily these rumours were unfounded; but how craven