1859.
I am sitting on the purple velvet settee in the
Governor''s parlour, the Governor''s wife''s parlour; it has always
been the Governor''s wife''s parlour although it is not always the
same wife, as they change them around according to the politics. I
have my hands folded in my lap the proper way although I have no
gloves. The gloves I would wish to have would be smooth and white,
and would be without a wrinkle.
I am often in this parlour, clearing away the tea things and
dusting the small tables and the long mirror with the frame of
grapes and leaves around its and the pianoforte; and the tall clock
that came from Europe, with the orange-gold sun and the silver
moon, that go in and out according to the time of day and the week
of the month. I like the clock best of anything in the parlour,
although it measures time and I have too much of that on my hands
already.
But I have never sat down on the settee before, as it is for the
guests. Mrs. Alderman Parkinson said a lady must never sit in a
chair a gentleman has just vacated, though she would not say why;
but Mary Whitney said, Because, you silly goose, it''s still warm
from his bum; which was a coarse thing to say. So I cannot sit here
without thinking of the ladylike bums that have sat on this very
settee, all delicate and white, like wobbly softboiled eggs.
The visitors wear afternoon dresses with rows of buttons up their
fronts, and stiff wire crinolines beneath. It''s a wonder they can
sit down at all, and when they walk, nothing touches their legs
under the billowing skirts, except their shifts and stockings. They
are like swans, drifting along on unseen feet; or else like the
jellyfish in the waters of the rocky harbour near our house, when I
was little, before I ever made the long sad journey across the
ocean. They were bell-shaped and ruffled, gracefully waving and
lovely under the sea; but if they washed up on the beach and dried
out in the sun there was nothing left of them. And that is what the
ladies are like: mostly water.
There were no wire crinolines when I was first brought here. They
were horsehair then, as the wire ones were not thought of. I have
looked at them hanging in the wardrobes, when I go in to tidy and
empty the slops. They are like birdcages; but what is being caged
in? Legs, the legs of ladies; legs penned in so they cannot get out
and go rubbing up against the gentlemen''s trousers. The
Governor''s wife never says legs, although the newspapers said legs
when they were talking about Nancy, with her dead legs sticking out
from under the washtub.
It isn''t only the jellyfish ladies that come. On Tuesdays we have
the Woman Question, and the emancipation of this or that, with
reform-minded persons of both sexes; and on Thursdays the
Spiritualist Circle, for tea and conversing with the dead, which is
a comfort to the Governor''s wife because of her departed infant
son. But mainly it is the ladies. They sit sipping from the thin
cups, and the Governor''s wife rings a little china bell. She does
not like being the Governor''s wife, she would prefer the Governor
to be the governor of something other than a prison. The Governor
had good enough friends to get him made the Governor, but not for
anything else.
So here she is, and she must make the most of her social position
and accomplishments, and although an object of fear, like a spider,
and of charity as well, I am also one of the accomplishments. I
come into the room and curtsy and move about, mouth straight, head
bent, and I pick up the cups or set them down, depending; and they
stare without appearing to, out from under their bonnets.
The reason they want to see me is that I am a celebrated murderess.
Or that is what has been written down. When I first saw it I was
surprised because they say Celebrated Singer and Celebrated Poetess
and Celebrated Spiritualist and Celebrated Actress, but what is
there to celebrate about murder? All the same,
Murderess
is a strong word to have attached to you. It has a smell to it,
that word-musky and oppressive, like dead flowers in a vase.
Sometimes at night I whisper it over to myself
. Murderess,
Murderess. It rustles, like a taffeta skirt across the
floor.
Murderer is merely brutal. It''s like a hammer, or a lump
of metal. I would rather be a murderess than a murderer, if those
are the only choices.
Sometimes when I am dusting the mirror with the grapes I look at
myself in it, although I know it is vanity. In the afternoon light
of the parlour my skin is a pale mauve, like a faded bruise, and my
teeth are greenish. I think of all the things that have been
written about me-that I am an inhuman female demon, that I am an
innocent victim of a blackguard forced against my will and in
danger of my own life, that I was too ignorant to know how to act
and that to hang me would be judicial murder, that I am fond of
animals, that I am very handsome with a brilliant complexion, that
I have blue eyes, that I have green eyes, that I have auburn and
also brown hair, that I am tall and also not above the average
height, that I am well and decently dressed, that I robbed a dead
woman to appear so, that I am brisk and smart about my work, that I
am of a sullen disposition with a quarrelsome temper, that I have
the appearance of a person rather above my humble station, that I
am a good girl with a pliable nature and no harm is told of me,
that I am cunning and devious, that I am soft in the head and
little better than an idiot. And I wonder, how can I be all of
these different things at once?
It was my own lawyer, Mr. Kenneth MacKenzie, Esq., who told them I
was next door to an idiot. I was angry with him over that, but he
said it was by far my best chance and I should not appear to be too
intelligent. He said he would plead my case to the utmost of his
ability, because whatever the truth of the matter I was little more
than a child at the time, and he supposed it came down to free will
and whether or not one held with it. He was a kind gentleman
although I could not make head nor tail of much of what he said,
but it must have been good pleading. The newspapers wrote that he
performed heroically against overwhelming odds. Though I don''t
know why they called it pleading, as he was not pleading but trying
to make all of the witnesses appear immoral or malicious, or else
mistaken.
I wonder if he ever believed a word I said.
When I have gone out of the room with the tray, the ladies look at
the Governor''s wife''s scrapbook. Oh imagine, I feel quite faint,
they say, and You let that woman walk around loose in your house,
you must have nerves of iron, my own would never stand it. Oh well
one must get used to such things in our situation, we are virtually
prisoners ourselves you know, although one must feel pity for these
poor benighted creatures, and after all she was trained as a
servant, and it''s as well to keep them employed, she is a
wonderful seamstress, quite deft and accomplished, she is a great
help in that way especially with the girls'' frocks, she has an eye
for trimmings, and under happier circumstances she could have made
an excellent milliner''s assistant.
Although naturally she can be here only during the day, I would not
have her in the house at night. You are aware that she has spent
time in the Lunatic Asylum in Toronto, seven or eight years ago it
was, and although she appears to be perfectly recovered you never
know when they may get carried away again, sometimes she talks to
herself and sings out loud in a most peculiar manner. One cannot
take chances, the keepers conduct her back in the evenings and lock
her up properly, otherwise I wouldn''t be able to sleep a wink. Oh
I don''t blame you, there is only so far one can go in Christian
charity, a leopard cannot change its spots and no one could say you
have not done your duty and shown a proper feeling.
The Governor''s wife''s scrapbook is kept on the round table with
the silk shawl covering it, branches like vines intertwined, with
flowers and red fruit and blue birds, it is really one large tree
and if you stare at it long enough the vines begin to twist as if a
wind is blowing them. It was sent from India by her eldest daughter
who is married to a missionary, which is not a thing I would care
to do myself. You would be sure to die early, if not from the
rioting natives as at Cawnpore with horrid outrages committed on
the persons of respectable gentlewomen, and a mercy they were all
slaughtered and put out of their misery, for only think of the
shame; then from the malaria, which turns you entirely yellow, and
you expire in raving fits; in any case before you could turn
around, there you would be, buried under a palm tree in a foreign
clime. I have seen pictures of them in the book of Eastern
engravings the Governor''s wife takes out when she wishes to shed a
tear.
On the same round table is the stack of Godey''s Ladies'' Books
with the fashions that come up from the States, and also the
Keepsake Albums of the two younger daughters. Miss Lydia tells me I
am a romantic figure; but then the two of them are so young they
hardly know what they are saying. Sometimes they pry and tease;
they say, Grace, why don''t you ever smile or laugh, we never see
you smiling, and I say I suppose Miss I have gotten out of the way
of it. My face won''t bend in that direction any more. But if I
laughed out loud I might not be able to stop; and also it would
spoil their romantic notion of me. Romantic people are not supposed
to laugh, I know that much from looking at the pictures.
The daughters put all kinds of things into their albums, little
scraps of cloth from their dresses, little snippets of ribbon,
pictures cut from magazines-the Ruins of Ancient Rome, the
Picturesque Monasteries of the French Alps, Old London Bridge,
Niagara Falls in summer and in winter, which is a thing I would
like to see as all say it is very impressive, and portraits of Lady
This and Lord That from England. And their friends write things in
their graceful handwriting,
To Dearest Lydia from your Eternal
Friend, Clara Richards; To Dearest Marianne In Memory of Our
Splendid Picnic on the Shores of Bluest Lake Ontario. And also
poems:
As round about the sturdy Oak
Entwines the loving Ivy Vine,
My Faith so true, I pledge to You,
''Twill evermore be none but Thine, Your Faithful Laura.
Or else:
Although from you I far must roam,
Do not be broken hearted,
We two who in the Soul are One
Are never truly parted. Your Lucy.
This young lady was shortly afterwards drowned in the Lake
when her ship went down in a gale, and nothing was ever found but
her box with her initials done in silver nails; it was still
locked, so although damp, nothing spilt out, and Miss Lydia was
given a scarf out of it as a keepsake.
When I am dead and in my grave
And all my bones are rotten,
When this you see, remember me,
Lest I should be forgotten.
That one is signed,
I will always be with you in Spirit,
Your loving ''Nancy'', Hannah Edmonds, and I must say the
first time I saw that, it gave me a fright, although of course it
was a different Nancy. Still, the rotten bones. They would be, by
now. Her face was all black by the time they found her, there must
have been a dreadful smell. It was so hot then, it was July, still
she went off surprisingly soon, you''d think she would have kept
longer in the dairy, it is usually cool down there. I am certainly
glad I was not present, as it would have been very
distressing.
I don''t know why they are all so eager to be remembered. What good
will it do them? There are some things that should be forgotten by
everyone, and never spoken of again.
The Governor''s wife''s scrapbook is quite different. Of course she
is a grown woman and not a young girl, so although she is just as
fond of remembering, what she wants to remember is not violets or a
picnic. No Dearest and Love and Beauty, no Eternal Friends, none of
those things for her; what it has instead is all the famous
criminals in it-the ones that have been hanged, or else brought
here to be penitent, because this is a Penitentiary and you are
supposed to repent while in it, and you will do better if you say
you have done so, whether you have anything to repent of or
not.
The Governor''s wife cuts these crimes out of the newspapers and
pastes them in; she will even write away for old newspapers with
crimes that were done before her time. It is her collection, she is
a lady and they are all collecting things these days, and so she
must collect something, and she does this instead of pulling up
ferns or pressing flowers, and in any case she likes to horrify her
acquaintances.
So I have read what they put in about me. She showed the scrapbook
to me herself, I suppose she wanted to see what I would do; but
I''ve learnt how to keep my face still, I made my eyes wide and
flat, like an owl''s in torchlight, and I said I had repented in
bitter tears, and was now a changed person, and would she wish me
to remove the tea things now; but I''ve looked in there since, many
times, when I''ve been in the parlour by myself.
A lot of it is lies. They said in the newspaper that I was
illiterate, but I could read some even then. I was taught early by
my mother, before she got too tired for it, and I did my sampler
with leftover thread, A is for Apple, B is for Bee; and also Mary
Whitney used to read with me, at Mrs. Alderman Parkinson''s, when
we were doing the mending; and I''ve learnt a lot more since being
here, as they teach you on purpose. They want you to be able to
read the Bible, and also tracts, as religion and thrashing are the
only remedies for a depraved nature and our immortal souls must be
considered. It is shocking how many crimes the Bible contains. The
Governor''s wife should cut them all out and paste them into her
scrapbook.
They did say some true things. They said I had a good character;
and that was so, because nobody had ever taken advantage of me,
although they tried. But they called James McDermott my paramour.
They wrote it down, right in the newspaper. I think it is
disgusting to write such things down.
That is what really interests them-the gentlemen and the ladies
both. They don''t care if I killed anyone, I could have cut dozens
of throats, it''s only what they admire in a soldier, they''d
scarcely blink. No: was I really a paramour, is their chief
concern, and they don''t even know themselves whether they want the
answer to be no or yes.
I''m not looking at the scrapbook now, because they may come in at
any moment. I sit with my rough hands folded, eyes down, staring at
the flowers in the Turkey carpet. Or they are supposed to be
flowers. They have petals the shape of the diamonds on a playing
card; like the cards spread out on the table at Mr. Kinnear''s,
after the gentlemen had been playing the night before. Hard and
angular. But red, a deep thick red. Thick strangled tongues.
1. This novel is rooted in physical reality, on one hand, and
floats free of it, on the other, as Atwood describes physical
things in either organic, raw terms (the "tongue-coloured settee")
or with otherworldly, more ephemeral images (the laundry like
"angels rejoicing, although without any heads"). How do such
descriptions deepen and reinforce the themes in the novel?
2. The daily and seasonal rhythm of household work is described
in detail. What role does this play in the novel in regard to its
pace?
3. Atwood employs two main points of view and voices in the
novel. Do you trust one more than the other? As the story
progresses, does Grace's voice (in dialogue) in Simon's part of the
story change? If so, how and why?
4. Grace's and Simon's stories are linked, and they have a
kinship on surface and deeper levels. For instance, they both
eavesdrop or spy as children, and later, each stays in a house that
would have been better left sooner or not entered at all. Discuss
other similarities or differences in the twinning of their stories
and their psyches.
5. Atwood offers a vision of the dual nature of people, houses,
appearances, and more. How does she make use of darkness and light,
and to what purpose?
6. In a letter to his friend Dr. Edward Murchie, Simon Jordan
writes, "Not to know -- to snatch at hints and portents, at
intimations, at tantalizing whispers -- it is as bad as being
haunted." How are the characters in this story affected by the
things they don't know?
7. How and why does Atwood conceal Grace's innocence or guilt
throughout the novel? At what points does one become clearer than
the other and at what points does it become unclear?