Margaret Atwood - Alias Grace

Yours most sincerely,

(Mrs.) Constance Jordan.

From Grace Marks, The Provincial Penitentiary, Kingston, Canada West; to Dr. Simon Jordan. December 19th, 1859.

Dear Dr. Jordan:

I am writing to you with the help of Clarrie, who has always stood my friend, and got this paper for me, and will post it when the time comes in return for extra help with the laces and stains. The trouble is that I don’t know where to send it, as I am ignorant of where you have gone. But if I find it out, then I will send this. I hope you can read my writing, as I am not much accustomed to it; and can only spend a short time at it each day.

When I heard you went off so quick, and without sending any word to me, I was very distressed, as I thought you must have been taken ill. I could not understand it, that you would go without a goodbye, after all the talking we had done together; and I fainted dead away in the upstairs hall, and the chambermaid went into a panic, and threw a vase of flowers over me, water, vase and all; which quickly brought me round, although the vase broke. She thought I was going off into fits, and would run mad again; but this was not the case, and I took very good control of myself, and it was just the shock of hearing about it in that sudden manner, and the palpitations of the heart which I have often been troubled from. I suffered a gash on my forehead from the vase. It is astonishing what a great quantity of blood may flow from a wound to the head, even if it is a shallow one.

I was unhappy that you left, as I was enjoying our talks; but also they said you were to write a letter to the Government on my behalf, to set me free, and I was afraid that now you would never do so. There is nothing so discouraging as hopes raised and then dashed again, it is almost worse than not having the hopes raised in the first place.

I do very much hope you will be able to write the letter in my favour, which I would be very thankful for, and hope you are keeping well,

From,

Grace Marks.

From Dr. Simon P. Jordan, care of Dr. Binswanger, Bellevue, Kreutzlinger, Switzerland; to Dr. Edward Murchie, Dorchester, Massachusetts, The United States of America. January 12th, 1860.

My dear Ed:

Forgive me for having taken so long to write to you, and to acquaint you with my change of address. The fact is that things have been somewhat muddled, and it has taken me some time to straighten myself out. As Burns has remarked, “The best laid schemes o‘ mice and men gang aft a-gley,” and I was forced to make a hasty escape from Kingston, as I found myself in complicated circumstances which could rapidly have become quite damaging, both to myself and to my future prospects. Someday over a glass of sherry I may tell you the whole story; although it seems to me at present less a story, than a troubled dream.

Among its elements is the fact that my study of Grace Marks took such an unsettling turn at the last, that I can scarcely determine whether I myself was awake or asleep. When I consider with what high hopes I commenced upon this undertaking — determined, you may be sure, on great revelations which would astonish the admiring world, I have cause almost for despair. Yet, were they indeed high hopes, and not mere self-seeking ambition? From this vantage point I am not altogether sure; but if only the latter, perhaps I have been well repaid, as in the whole affair, I may have been engaged on a wild goose chase, or a fruitless pursuit of shadows, and have come near to addling my own wits, in my assiduous attempts to unpick those of another. Like my namesake the apostle, I have cast my nets into deep waters; though unlike him, I may have drawn up a mermaid, neither fish nor flesh but both at once, and whose song is sweet but dangerous. I do not know whether to view myself as an unwitting dupe, or, what is worse, a self-deluded fool; but even these doubts may be an illusion, and I may all along have been dealing with a woman so transparently innocent that in my over-subtlety I did not have the wit to recognize it. I must admit

— but only to you — that I have come very close to nervous exhaustion over this matter. Not to know — to snatch at hints and portents, at intimations, at tantalizing whispers — it is as bad as being haunted. Sometimes at night her face floats before me in the darkness, like some lovely and enigmatic mirage —

But excuse my brain-sick ramblings. I have intimations of some vast discovery still, if I could only see my way clear; though as yet I wander in darkness, led only by marsh-lights. To more positive matters: the Clinic here is run along very clean and efficient lines, and is exploring various lines of treatment, including water therapy; and might act as a model for my own project, should it ever come to fruition. Dr. Binswanger has been most hospitable, and has given me access to some of the more interesting cases here. Much to my relief, there are no celebrated murderesses among them, but only what the worthy Dr. Workman of Toronto terms

“the innocent insane,” as well as the usual sufferers from nervous complaints, and the inebriates and syphilitics; although of course one does not find the same afflictions among the well-to-do as among the poor.

I was overjoyed to hear that you may soon favour the world with a miniature copy of yourself, through the kind offices of your esteemed wife — to whom, please send my respectful regards. How calming it must be, to have a settled family life, with a trustworthy and dependable woman capable of providing it! Tranquillity is indeed much undervalued by men, except those who lack it. I envy you!

As for myself, I fear I am doomed to wander the face of the earth alone, like one of Byron’s gloomier and more lugubrious outcasts; though I would be much heartened, my dear fellow, to be able to grasp once more your true friend’s hand. This chance may soon come, as I understand that the prospects for a peaceful resolution of the current differences between North and South are not hopeful, and the Southern States talk seriously of secession. In the event of an outbreak of hostilities, my duty to my country will be clear. As Tennyson says in his overly botanical fashion, it is time to pluck “the blood-red blossom of war.” Given my present tumultuous and morbid mental state, it will be a relief to have a duty of some kind set before me, no matter how deplorable the occasion for it.

Your brain-sore and weary, but affectionate friend,

Simon.

From Grace Marks, the Provincial Penitentiary, Kingston; to Signor Geraldo Ponti, Master of Neuro-Hypnotism, Ventriloquist, and Mind-Reader Extraordinaire; care of The Prince of Wales Theatre, Queen Street, Toronto, Canada West.

September 25th, 1861.

Dear Jeremiah:

Your Show was on a poster, which Dora got hold of one of them, and pinned it to the laundry wall, to liven it up; and I knew at once it was you, even though you have another name and have grown your beard very wild. One of the gentlemen paying attentions to Miss Marianne saw the Show when it was at Kingston, and said the Future Told in Letters of Fire was a first-class item, and worth the price of admission, as two ladies fainted; and he said your beard was bright red. So I expect you have dyed it, unless it is a wig.