The Celebrated Murderess: Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood

Last month, my parents and I got hooked on a series that Netflix had been pleading with us to watch for months, but that had always seemed too melodramatic to pique my interest. Spoiler alert: I was wronggg. It's based on a 1996 novel by Margaret Atwood, which in turn is based on a true court case in mid-19th century Canada, where a teenage servant girl was accused of killing her employer and his housekeeper, and subsequently spent nearly thirty years in prison. It's a riveting show, humorous, creepy, and gorgeously produced, and I borrowed the ebook the same night we finished the series. I actually think it works better on screen (don't kill me). Though very faithful to the novel, the series lends a sweeping drama and eeriness even to the most mundane scenes (there are a lot of montages showing the duties of a servant, which in the book merely came off almost as a laundry-list of historical housekeeping). But it's Margaret Atwood, and this is a book blog, so I'm gonna switch gears here to talk about Alias Grace, the book.

Admittedly, I feel a bit presumptuous even including this novel on a blog about gothic lit. So far I haven't heard many people refer to Alias Grace in this way, and who knows, maybe it was just the creepy score and shadowy cinematography of the series that made me shelve it as "neo-gothic" in my mind. On the other hand, for me this book in many ways deeply evokes traditional gothic novels. Obviously this is due least in part to its setting, between 1843 and 1872, bringing to mind the sweeping landscape and ball gowns of Jane Eyre or Frankenstein, Canadian edition. But there's also the many superstitions and omens sighted by ordinary people, the troubling dreams, and of course, the handsome, mysterious and deeply flawed male characters (all my favorite things, of course).

If there's one thing kind of missing from this classic array of gothic tropes, it's probably romance. In general, Margaret Atwood's work features many an unhealthy relationship, and the detrimental effects they have on those involved, usually the women. Alias Grace is filled with people having some kind of feeling towards each other, though usually these sentiments seem to have little to do with romance. A doctor lusts after and objectifies his patient, who also happens to be the "celebrated murderess" Grace Marks. Grace easily identifies his hidden longings, and in turn develops a close attachment to him, even as we see her judging him for making himself out to be more virtuous than the many other doctors who've visited her over the years, many of whom have sexually assaulted her. She most often recalls her experience with a Dr Bannerling, who "trussed" her to a chair in order to "examine her cerebral configuration" (...right...). When she lashes out in self-defense, she is placed into solitary confinement.

The archetype of the antihero, the Mr. Rochesters and Victor Frankensteins harboring a dark secret, has been around for some time. Traditionally gothic female characters are rarely flawed in the same way, unless over-emotionality counts as a flaw---damsels in distress were very popular in the 18th and 19th centuries. Atwood adds a more modern touch to Alias Grace, in a way that arguably depicts a more realistic, less sensationalized Victorian era. She does however address the sensationalization of crime, particularly when committed by women, introducing many chapters with quotes from Susanna Moodie, a 9th century Canadian author with a flair for the dramatic. After a visit to the Penitentiary, Moodie reports that Grace believes herself to be haunted by the murder victim--"that [the victim's] two bloodshot and blazing eyes were following her around, and appearing in such locations as her lap and her soup plate", says a reader of Moodie's dubious account. But the real Grace--whoever she is--is far more inscrutable and perplexing.

As the word "alias" in the title suggests, Grace's true identity is never quite clear. We know from historical records that she immigrated from Ireland to Toronto during the 1840s--a hard passage which killed her mother--and took on several jobs as a maid before finally winding up at the household of Mr. Kinnear, a wealthy Scottish immigrant, whose murder she'd eventually be accused of. But there is very little evidence about the extent of Grace's involvement in the crime itself, and all of her testimonies remained contradictory. In Atwood's novel, Grace endures a series of interviews from the fictional Dr Simon Jordan, an early psychologist trying to penetrate Grace's consciousness where others have failed. Her recollections of the crime and the events leading up to it suggest that maybe Dr Jordan is the first person to whom she has told the truth. But he is never sure of this, and neither are we. Grace reportedly has lost all memory of the exact crime--but has she really, or is she "playing" Dr Jordan? Maybe she's lost all hope of freedom (it's her fifteenth year of imprisonment), maybe she's conniving, or maybe she's just insane. There are certainly times in the narrative where Grace's apparent calm as she recalls the crime is downright eerie. During one flashback, she convinces her partner in crime, James McDermott, to delay the murder for disturbingly practical reasons--"Oh for God's sake don't kill her in the room...you will make the floor all bloody." She also spends a great deal of time recounting various mundane details leading up to the grisly deed with no sense of hurry or distress, particularly the many household chores under her domain as a servant. If anything, she describes these chores with pride, maybe because of Dr Jordan's obvious ignorance of what would then be seen as a woman's domain.

Yet far from fetishizing and objectifying the persona of the "celebrated murderess", as Dr Jordan does, and as many other writers and artists have done, Atwood instead uses the factual evidence to show how women too often become the victims of men, and the complex ways they have of coping with such victimization. Grace herself grows up with an abusive father, and endures unwanted advances from McDermott in the weeks leading up to and following the murders. Though she views Mr. Kinnear as a kindly employer, a "liberal gentleman", he also makes advances toward both Grace and Nancy, sowing discord between both servants. Notably, after being arrested Grace uses as her "true" alias the name "Mary Whitney", allegedly taken from a fellow servant and close friend of hers during her first job as a maid, a young woman who ultimately died of an abortion, after being impregnated by the son of her employer. In the novel, Mary serves as a sort of role model in Grace's recollections, a few years older (Grace is thirteen when she first starts working) and far more worldly, with radical political views of Canadian independence. Personally, I also detected something vaguely sinister about Mary's character, particularly in her tendency to "play dead" during games played with Grace, refusing to open her eyes until Grace is greatly distressed. It's because of this that when faced with Mary's actual death, Grace feels compelled to ask, "Mary, are you faking?"

Perhaps it is the combination of Mary's talent for "faking" and her own status as a victim which prevents her from fully "dying" in Grace's view. For years leading up to and following the murder, Grace dreams frequently of Mary, and often of Mary's voice uttering: "Let me in". Though the significance of this phrase is never really made clear till the end, Grace almost seem to feel closer to Mary following her friend's death, often sensing that a part of her friend lingers inside herself. One particularly unsettling moment both in the series and the book occurs immediately after Mary's body is discovered, when Grace awakes from a deep, troubled sleep and forgets who she is. "Where's Grace?" she asks repeatedly, with rising distress. Later, she has no recollection of this episode, and knows only what other servants have told her. Though never confirmed, it is strongly implied that however briefly, Mary's spirit entered her, or perhaps in more psychological terms, Grace dissociated from herself, some part of her wanting to "let Mary in".

Mary and Grace are not the only victims of male supremacy. Working as a maid at Mr. Kinnear's, Grace finds herself under the thumb of the housekeeper Nancy, whom she will later be accused of murdering. Though often very cruel to Grace, competing with her for Mr. Kinnear's favors while relegating the more grueling housework to her, Nancy is ultimately at the mercy of both Mr. Kinnear and farmhand James McDermott. Though she dresses like a "lady" and often engages in leisurely activities, Mr. Kinnear never lets her forget the power imbalance between them, cavorting with and eventually impregnating Nancy. Though it is never made completely clear how consensual these relations are, what is evident is that Nancy has little to no control over her fate, particularly as a pregnant servant--a uniquely vulnerable position for a 19th century woman. Meanwhile, Nancy fears McDermott in a fear more direct way. His hostile attitude toward Nancy is never hidden, though the reasons behind it are also notably never really specified. Often McDermott seems to want Nancy dead for no reason other than her ladylike airs and snobbery. Perhaps not much time was spent on his character, or maybe he's just a wanton psychopath. Either way, Nancy senses his violent intentions towards he and forces Grace to sleep in her bed every night that Mr. Kinnear is away. Though Grace often feels quite hostile towards Nancy herself, and does not exactly warn her that McDermott is plotting her death, many years later, Grace seems to view Nancy as an ally rather than an enemy. This unlikely alliance appears to be made necessary by their shared suppression at the hands of men. The book's final and surprising moment sees Grace sewing a quilt made of three colors to represent herself, Mary Whitney, and Nancy, so that "we may all be together again".

It's never made completely clear whether or not Grace is a murderer, partially since no one handling the actual case ever got to the bottom of it. Yet the novel culminates in a scene of hypnosis that provides the slightest hint of the truth, and reminds us that the answer is not a simple one. The Netflix series makes this scene particularly creepy, with the addition of minor piano notes and eerie giggles. Both the series and the book use this moment to show us a side of Grace that we have never seen before, adding to the sense of horror and instability hovering over the novel. And of course, reminding us what a flawed and unreliable narrator we've been listening to all along.