Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

But he does care to know.

Madness, of course; a perverse fantasy, to marry a suspected murderess. But what if he’d met her before the murders? He considers this, rejects it. Before the murders Grace would have been entirely different from the woman he now knows. A young girl, scarcely formed; tepid, bland, and tasteless. A flat landscape.

Murderess, murderess, he whispers to himself. It has an allure, a scent almost. Hothouse gardenias. Lurid, but also furtive. He imagines himself breathing it as he draws Grace towards him, pressing his mouth against her. Murderess. He applies it to her throat like a brand. Thirteen - Pandora’s Box

Chapter 48

They wait in the library of Mrs. Quennell’s house, each in a straight-backed chair, each turned not too obviously towards the door, which is slightly open. The curtains, which are of maroon plush with black trim and tassels and remind Simon of Episcopalian funerals, have been drawn shut; a globe-shaded lamp has been lit. It stands in the centre of the table, which is oblong and made of oak; and they sit around it, silent, expectant, decorous and wary, like a jury before the trial.

Mrs. Quennell, however, is relaxed, her hands folded placidly in her lap; she anticipates wonders, but will evidently not be surprised by them, whatever they may be. She has the air of a professional guide for whom the ravishments of, say, Niagara Falls have become a commonplace, but who hopes to enjoy vicariously the raptures of visiting neophytes. The Governor’s wife wears an expression of yearning piety, tempered with resignation, whereas Reverend Verringer manages to look both benign and disapproving; there’s a glinting around his eyes as if he’s wearing spectacles, although he is not. Lydia, who is seated to Simon’s left, is dressed in some cloudy, shiny material, a light mauve shot through with white, cut low enough to reveal her charming collarbone; she exudes a moist aroma of lily of the valley. She’s nervously twisting her handkerchief; but when her eyes meet Simon’s, she smiles. As for Simon, he senses that his face is set in a sceptical and not very pleasant sneer; but that’s a false face, as underneath it he’s eager as a schoolboy at a carnival. He believes in nothing, he expects trickery and longs to discover how it is worked, but at the same time he wishes to be astonished. He knows this is a dangerous state of mind: he must preserve his objectivity.

There’s a knock at the door, which opens wider; and Dr. Jerome DuPont comes in, leading Grace by the hand. She isn’t wearing a cap, and her coiled hair shines redly in the lamplight. She has on a white collar, which is something he’s never seen her in; and she looks astonishingly young. She walks tentatively, as if blind, but her eyes are wide open, fixed upon DuPont with the timorousness, the tremulousness, the pale and silent appeal, which Simon — he now realizes — has been hoping for in vain.

“I see you are all assembled,” says Dr. DuPont. “I am gratified by your interest, and, I hope I may say, by your trust. The lamp must be removed from the table. Mrs. Quennell, may I impose upon you? And turned down, please. And the door closed.”

Mrs. Quennell rises and silently moves the lamp to a small desk in the corner. Reverend Verringer shuts the door firmly.

“Grace will sit here,” says Dr. DuPont. He places her with her back to the curtains. “Are you quite comfortable? Good. Do not be afraid, no one here wishes to hurt you. I have explained to her that all she has to do is listen to me, and then go to sleep. Do you understand, Grace?”

Grace nods. She’s sitting rigidly, her lips pressed together, the pupils of her eyes huge in the weak light. Her hands grip the arms of the chair. Simon has seen attitudes like this in the wards of hospitals — those in pain, or awaiting an operation. An animal fear.

“This is a fully scientific procedure,” says Dr. DuPont. He is talking to the rest of them, rather than to Grace. “Please banish all thoughts of Mesmerism, and other such fraudulent procedures. The Braidian system is completely logical and sound, and has been proven by European experts beyond a shadow of a doubt. It involves the deliberate relaxation and realignment of the nerves, so that a neuro-hypnotic sleep is induced. The same thing may be observed in fish, when stroked along the dorsal fin, and even in cats; although in higher organisms the results are of course more complex. I do ask you to avoid sudden movements and loud noises, as these can be shocking, and perhaps even damaging, to the subject. I request that you remain completely silent until Grace is asleep, after which you may converse in low voices.”

Grace stares at the closed door as if thinking of escape. She’s so high-strung Simon can almost feel her vibrating, like a stretched rope. He’s never seen her so terrified. What has DuPont said or done to her before bringing her here? It’s almost as if he must have threatened her; but when he speaks to her she looks up at him trustingly. Whatever else, it isn’t DuPont she’s afraid of. DuPont turns the lamp down lower. The air in the room seems to thicken with barely visible smoke. Grace’s features are now in shadow, except for the vitreous gleam of her eyes. DuPont begins his procedure. First he suggests heaviness, drowsiness; then he tells Grace that her limbs are floating, drifting, that she is sinking down, down, down, as if through water. His voice has a soothing monotony. Grace’s eyelids droop; she is breathing deeply and evenly.

“Are you asleep, Grace?” DuPont asks her.

“Yes,” she says, in a voice that is slow and languid, but clearly audible.

“You can hear me.”

“Yes.”

“You can hear only me? Good. When you wake, you will remember nothing of what is done here. Now, go deeper.” He pauses. “Please lift your right arm.”

Slowly the arm rises as if pulled by a string, until it is held out straight. “Your arm,” says DuPont, “is an iron bar. No one can bend it.” He looks around at them. “Would anyone care to try?” Simon is tempted, but decides not to risk it; at this point he wants neither to be convinced, nor to be disillusioned. “No?”

says DuPont. “Then allow me.” He places his two hands on Grace’s outstretched arm, leans forward. “I am using all my force,” he says. The arm does not bend. “Good. You may lower your arm.”

“Her eyes are open,” says Lydia, alarmed; and sure enough there are two half-moons of white showing between the lids.

“It is normal,” says DuPont, “but of no import. In this condition the subject appears able to discern certain objects, even with the eyes closed. It is a peculiarity of the nervous organization which must involve some sensory organ not yet measurable by human agency. But let us proceed.”

He bends over Grace as if listening to her heart. Then he takes from some hidden pocket a square of fabric — an ordinary woman’s veil, light grey — and drops it gently over her head, where it billows and settles. Now there’s only a head, with the merest contour of a face behind it. The suggestion of a shroud is unmistakable.

It’s too theatrical, too tawdry, thinks Simon; it reeks of the small-town lecture halls of fifteen years ago, with their audiences of credulous store clerks and laconic farmers, and their drab wives, and the smooth-talking charlatans who used to dole out transcendental nonsense and quack medical advice to them as an excuse for picking their pockets. He’s striving for derision; nevertheless, the back of his neck creeps.

“She looks so — so odd,” whispers Lydia.

“”What hope of answer or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil,“” says Reverend Verringer, in his quoting voice. Simon can’t tell whether or not he intends to be jocular.