Outcasts (7 page)

She thought of Claire, of the child growing inside her. Mary remembered Shelley's joy and delight on learning of her pregnancy. She did not think Byron would react the same way to Claire's news.

Mary hugged her son more tightly to her, rocking, thinking.

I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate.

—Frankenstein,
Volume I,
Chapter II

O
nce again
Mary sat at the writing table, but this time the ink dried on the quill as she nervously picked at the paper. She had intended to write in her journal, to settle her thoughts with an essay on the spectacular scenery or her thoughts on the republican politics of Switzerland. Instead, she found herself obssessed with the same question: why would Godwin refuse to read her letters? Always, he had read every word she had written, praised and supported her, encouraged her in every way to become a woman of letters like her mother. And now, when she lived most like her mother, this stifling silence. For him, of all people, to shun her was the worst of all.

She should write to him. But nagging doubt paralyzed her fingers, stifled her mind. It had always been the same way with him: the cold silence, the distance, the back turned in contempt when he wanted to punish her. Then the slow thaw, like glaciers reluctantly melting. He would look out of those pale blue eyes, always calm, always composed and serene, and he would shake his head slowly, and then would come the words. He was good with words, better than most men, and for him they were toys and weapons and friends and tools all in one. He would begin to build a vindication, slow argument after argument, breaking down every opposing view, ruthlessly destroying any of her assertions or feelings.

In the end she would be crying and begging for his forgiveness, promising never, ever, ever to do it again, whatever it was. Her friends thought her family was progressive and strange
because her father never beat her or her siblings. What they didn't know was that William Godwin's silences were worse than any beating, and his “discussions” were worse than any scolding. They were as cold and solid as stones, and more inert. Tears would not move them or wear them away.

Now she sat, bewildered and confused as she had been since the first time they returned, she and Shelley and Claire, from their elopement two summers ago. Elated by her adventures, flushed with pride that she had finally stepped into her mother's footsteps and dared to live as she believed, as Godwin had taught, she had returned to Skinner Street only to find the door barred and The Silence in place. Godwin would not hear her, would not see them. He refused her letters and wrote only to Shelley, and then only to demand money.

Because the money must continue. That was a separate consideration. At first she had taken that for granted, as she had taken it all her life. It was part of his creed: that money belonged to whoever needed it most. It was revolutionary, dangerous, exciting. It changed everything, that creed. It meant that Godwin had every right to ask a rich man like Shelley to support him, only because philosophers needed to be supported in order to contribute to the betterment of mankind. Naturally, since Godwin was the chief progressive philosopher of his age, he deserved to be supported. Naturally, Shelley was to provide that support.

She took up her pen, dipped it in the inkwell, scratched a few times on the blotter. Finally, she began.

My dear Father,

I cannot understand how all this time you have continued to shun me for that which you yourself taught

She scratched furiously at the paper, blotting over her line. No, that would not do. She knew what happened if anyone presumed to question or reprimand William Godwin. Perhaps he would respond to a reminder of her love for him, of her devotion to his fame and principles.

My dear Father,

I do not understand why you have turned your back on us. I have named my son for you, your own grandson. Will you not see him? He is the sweetest child

Again she scratched out what she had written. An appeal to sentiment was the last thing Godwin would pay attention to.

My dearest Papa

We are now well situated on the shores of Lake Geneva, across from dark frowning Jura, behind whose range we every evening see the sun sink, and darkness approaches our valley from behind the Alps, which are then tinged by that glowing rose-like hue which is observed in England.

Yes, she thought with satisfaction. That was the tone to take with her father: distant, formal, objective, logical. Appeal to his reason; unlike Shelley, the last approach that would gain his attention would be an emotional one. She set out to remind her father of how alike they were, how much they shared—that she could write as well as he, tell a story as well as he, make words a powerful weapon as well as he. In this, she knew her father saw her lost mother in her. In this, she excelled over all the other children of that household. Let her only remind him of her mother, and his heart might soften.

There is more equality of classes here than in England. This occasions a greater freedom and refinement of manners among the lower orders than we meet with in our own country. I fancy the haughty English ladies are greatly disgusted with this consequence of republican institutions, for the Genovese servants complain very much of their scolding, an exercise of the tongue, I believe, perfectly unknown here. The peasants of Switzerland may not however emulate the vivacity and grace of the French. They are more cleanly, but they are slow and inapt. I
know a girl of twenty, who although she had lived all her life among vineyards, could not inform me during what month the vintage took place, and I discovered she was utterly ignorant of the order in which the months succeed each other. She would not have been surprised if I had talked of the burning sun and delicious fruits of December, or of the frosts of July. Yet she was by no means deficient in understanding.

Mary dipped her pen in the inkwell and sat thinking. How to word the next part? By now her father would be, perhaps, nodding in unconscious agreement, imagining her among the benighted peasants of the Alps, painting pictures in his head of their household. How to draw in his sympathy?

My only fear is that my William, who of course is named for you, should feel the neglect of education which is so pervasive here.

Ah, yes, that was it. A discussion of the education of the young would always catch her father's eye.

You know how strongly I adhere to your principles of education, and how important it is that a young mind be formed quickly in life, and directed into the proper paths. For his education, I could ask no better teacher than you yourself, and I look forward to the day when you may meet your grandson, and see that he is like you in so many ways. Not least of these is his mind, which is already bright and alert. You will see in him perhaps my mother's round face, and in his eagerness for learning an echo of his mother. How sad it would be if, through discord between us, a discord that lies primarily in my adherence to the principles you yourself taught me, he should lose the opportunity to live and learn in England, rather than in foreign lands.

There, she thought. That ought to strike home. Her father held foreigners, save for a few French revolutionaries, in contempt. Having traveled Europe far more than William Godwin, she now knew how narrow and unreasonable his prejudices were, but this was not the time to argue them. Having now gained her father's full attention, she advanced to her final plea.

I do not understand this shadow that lies between us, nor whence it comes. My mother's shade, were it here, would stand beside me in mute astonishment. Did she not love you as I love my Shelley? Did she not scorn the world's opinion as I do? Did she not bear me in disdain of common prejudice? She thrust away the chains of tradition, eschewing the enforced prostitution of marriage for most of her life. You celebrated her life to the world, yet when I betake the same path, for the same reasons, I am cast forth. I entreat you to reconsider your position, both for my sake and the sake of your grandson, who will need your firm hand and seasoned wisdom as he grows up. Write to me, father, and tell me that you embrace me once again, that you hug your Mary to your bosom as of old. Do not let me languish out here in the outer darkness, alone and bereft of my only parent, my only father. You created me, and you answer me now with only silence. Fanny writes to me. Mrs. G writes to Jane. You write to Shelley, but never to me. Why? Write me, and tell me that I may always be Your Mary.

By the time she had finished, the paper was dotted with tears and inkblots. She considered rewriting it in her best hand, and then decided to let the honesty of those tears speak for her as eloquently as her words. She folded the letter and was addressing it when Shelley strode in, his greatcoat flaring behind him.

“That was a capital walk, along the lake side to the east. That country is all Rousseau. Have you seen my copy of
The New Heloise
?” he said. “I was sure I had it with me in the—here it is, on the
table.” He picked up the book, glancing at Mary. “Here, now! Are you crying?” He knelt beside her, as Mary furiously dashed tears from her eyes and cheeks.

“It is nothing, sweetest. I was writing to Godwin.”

Shelley's hand squeezed her knee. “You have heard from him?”

Mary shook her head, unable to speak. She held the unsealed letter out to him, trembling. He took it from her slowly, his eyes on her face. Tenderly, he stroked her cheek, leaned forward to kiss it. “You wish me to post it, my dear?”

She nodded. “If you would … seal it up in a letter of yours. Then he will be sure to see it. And once he has it in his hand, and sees it is open, he will read it … oh, I cannot bear it, Shelley! To be cast out—” She flung her arms around his neck, and his arms came around her, guarding and enfolding her.

“Mary, my Mary,” he murmured into her hair. She felt his hand between them, heard the rustle of paper as he thrust the paper into his greatcoat pocket. “My own, we do not need him, do we? Do we not have one another? Do we not have love, sacred love, to hold us to one another more surely than any other tie?”

She nodded, sniffling into his shoulder. “But he is my father!”

She felt him nod against her hair, and tuck her head under his chin. She knew he liked her to nestle against him like that, contrasting her petite form with his long and lanky one. His Dormouse, he called her. Now she folded up gratefully against him, knowing he would not find an excuse to shut her out or walk away, but would stay. “Mary, Mary,” he crooned, rocking a little. “So fair, so young.”

“I do not understand it,” she said, sniffling. “Why, why does he not follow the obvious bent of his affection and be reconciled to us? Oh, I know what it is. It is that woman, my stepmother—I will not, will not call her Mamma ever more! She plagues my father out of his mind, all for spite against me. Oh, if only I could see him, talk to him….”

“But am I not enough, my Dormouse?” He drew back, kissing her forehead. “And our Will-mouse? Need we the approval of
anyone other than ourselves? Are we not following the obvious bent of our affections? And how other should real people act, if they are ever to act in accord with their true natures?”

She laughed. “Only you, Percy Shelley, would read a weeping woman a lecture in philosophy!”

“Ah, but the reason I love you, Mary Maie, is that you listen to, and understand, my lectures in philosophy.” He kissed her.

“Oh, Shelley, am I greedy?” she sighed when he released her. “I want my father's love. I want your love. I want William to love us as well. I even, sometimes, want Jane's—Claire's love.”

He laughed. “Yes, you are greedy, my tyrant.” He leaned backwards, and she gave a little squeak as he pulled her with him, and then he was rolling over on the floor with her, his big boots tangled in her muslin skirts. “See how I pay tribute to my little empress,” he laughed. She laughed back at him, her tears forgotten.

He kissed her smile, and then kissed her again, and the kiss went deeper and then her hands were in his hair and his hands were all over her, and before long Mary had lost all thought of her father, or her letter, or any other thing than the man in her arms and the sound of rain against the window.

God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.

—Frankenstein,
Volume III,
Chapter VII

A
n hour later,
Shelley, disheveled and half-dressed, drowsed next to her on the carpet. She did not want to get up and attend to chores, or even to little William. She wanted to laze away the day with her lover, reading and making love and talking about the perfectibility of man.

What she did was get to her feet and adjust her gown. “Come, dearest, it is the afternoon. We must not idle away the day.”

“Why not?” he said, smiling. He reached a hand up to her but she evaded him. “Oh, come, my love. ‘Let us not to the marriage of true minds make impediment'.”

Shaking her head, Mary backed away. Shelley groaned and got up, looking like a heron unfolding its long legs. He picked up the greatcoat where he had discarded it and shoved Mary's letter into the pocket. Mary fussed with her bits and pieces of dressmaking, a smile on her face.

“Where is Claire?” Shelley said, yawning.

“I believe she is changing,” Mary said. She told him what had happened with the cook.