Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

“Puysegeur describes something of the sort, as I recall,” says Simon. “It may be a case of what is known as dédoublement — the subject, when in a somnambulistic trance, displayed a completely different personality than when awake, the two halves having no knowledge of each other.”

“Gentlemen, it’s most difficult to credit,” says Verringer. “But stranger things have happened.”

“Nature sometimes produces two heads on one body,” says DuPont. “Then why not two persons, as it were, in one brain? There may exist examples, not only of alternating states of consciousness, as claimed by Puysegeur, but of two distinct personalities, which may coexist in the same body and yet have different sets of memories altogether, and be, for all practical purposes, two separate individuals. If, that is, you’ll accept — a debatable point — that we are what we remember.”

“Perhaps,” says Simon, “we are also — preponderantly — what we forget.”

“If you are right,” says Reverend Verringer, “what becomes of the soul? We cannot be mere patchworks! It is a horrifying thought, and one that, if true, would make a mockery of all notions of moral responsibility, and indeed of morality itself, as we currently define it.”

“The other voice, whatever it was,” says Simon, “was remarkable for its violence.”

“But not without a certain logic,” says Verringer dryly, “and an ability to see in the dark.”

Simon remembers Lydia‘s warm hand, and finds himself flushing. At the moment he wishes Verringer at the bottom of the sea.

“If two persons, why not two souls?” DuPont continues. “That is, if the soul must be brought into it at all. Or three souls and persons, for that matter. Consider the Trinity.”

“Dr. Jordan,” says Reverend Verringer, ignoring this theological challenge, “what will you say about this, in your report? Surely the evening’s proceedings are scarcely orthodox, from a medical point of view.”

“I shall have to consider my position,” says Simon, “very carefully. Although you do see that if Dr. DuPont’s premise is accepted, Grace Marks is exonerated.”

“To admit such a possibility would require a leap of faith,” says Reverend Verringer. “One that I myself will pray for the strength to make, as I have always believed Grace to be innocent; or hoped, rather, although I must admit I have been somewhat shaken. But if what we have witnessed is a natural phenomenon, who are we to question it? The ground of all phenomena is God, and he must have his reasons, obscure though they may appear to mortal eyes.”

Simon walks back to the house alone. The night is clear and warm, with a moon, almost full, enclosed in a nimbus of mist; the air smells of mown grass and horse manure, with an undertone of dog. Throughout the evening he’s maintained a plausible self-control, but now his brain feels like a roasting chestnut, or an animal on fire. Silent howls resound inside him; there’s a confused and frenzied motion, a scrambling, a dashing to and for. What happened in the library? Was Grace really in a trance, or was she play-acting, and laughing up her sleeve? He knows what he saw and heard, but he may have been shown an illusion, which he cannot prove to have been one.

If he describes what he witnessed in his report, and if his report finds its way into any petition submitted on Grace Marks’ behalf, he knows it would immediately scotch all possible chances of success. It’s Ministers of Justice and their kind who read such petitions; they are hard-headed, practical men, who require solid evidence. If the report were to become public, and a matter of record, and widely circulated, he would become an instant laughing-stock, especially among the established members of the medical profession. That would be the end of his plans for an Asylum, for who would subscribe to such an institution, knowing it to be run by some crack-brained believer in mystical voices?

There’s no way he can write the report Verringer desires without perjuring himself. The safest thing would be to write nothing at all, but Verringer will hardly let him off the hook so easily. However, the fact is that he can’t state anything with certainty and still tell the truth, because the truth eludes him. Or rather it’s Grace herself who eludes him. She glides ahead of him, just out of his grasp, turning her head to see if he’s still following.

Brusquely he dismisses her, and turns to thoughts of Rachel. She at least is something he can grapple with, take hold of. She will not slip through his fingers.

The house is in darkness; Rachel must be asleep. He doesn’t wish to see her, he feels no desire for her this evening — quite the opposite; the thought of her, of her tense and bone-coloured body, her scent of camphor and withered violets, fills him with a faint disgust; but he knows all that will change as soon as he steps over the threshold. He’ll begin to tiptoe up the stairs, intending to avoid her. Then he’ll turn around, make his way to her room, shake her roughly awake. Tonight he’ll hit her, as she’s begged him to; he’s never done that before, it’s something new. He wants to punish her for his own addiction to her. He wants to make her cry; though not too loudly, or Dora will hear them, and trumpet scandal. It’s a wonder she hasn’t heard them before; they’ve become increasingly careless.

He knows he’s reaching the end of the repertoire; the end of what Rachel can offer; the end of her. But what will come before the end? And the end itself — what shape will it take? There must be some conclusion, some finale. He can’t think. Perhaps, tonight, he should abstain. He unlocks the door with his key, opens it as quietly as he can. She’s there, just inside; waiting for him in the hall, in the dark, in her ruffled peignoir, which gleams wanly in the moonlight. She winds her arms around him and draws him inward, pressing against him. Her body shakes. He has an urge to beat her away, as if she’s a spiderweb across his face, or a skein of entangling jelly. Instead he kisses her. Her face is wet; she’s been crying. She’s crying now.

“Hush,” he murmurs, stroking her hair. “Hush, Rachel.” This is what he’s wanted Grace to do — this trembling and clinging; he’s pictured it often enough, though, he now sees, in a suspiciously theatrical way. Those scenes were always skilfully lit, the gestures — his included — languid and graceful, with a kind of luxurious quivering, as in the death scenes at the ballet. Melting anguish is a good deal less attractive now that he actually has to contend with it up close and in the flesh. Wiping the doe-like eyes is one thing, wiping the doe-like nose quite another. He rummages for his pocket-handkerchief.

“He’s coming back,” Rachel says in a piercing whisper. “I’ve had a letter from him.” For an instant Simon has no idea who she means. But of course it’s the Major. Simon has consigned him, in imagination, to some bottomless debauch or other, and then forgotten him.

“Oh, what will become of us?” she sighs. The melodrama of the expression does not diminish the emotion, at least not for her.

“When?” Simon whispers.

“He wrote me a letter,” she sobs. “He says I must forgive him. He says he’s reformed — he wishes to start a new life — it’s what he always says. Now I must lose you — it’s unbearable!” Her shoulders are shaking, her arms around him tighten convulsively.

“When is he coming?” Simon asks again. The scene he used to envisage, with a pleasurable prickling of fear — himself embedded in Rachel, the Major appearing in the doorway, all outrage and drawn sword

— returns with new vividness.

“In two days,” says Rachel in a choking voice. “The day after tomorrow, in the evening. On the train.”