Mrs. Shelley by Lucy M. Rossetti

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None of Shelley's poems is more characteristic than this. The solemn
spirit that exists throughout, the worship of the majesty of nature,
and the breedings of a poet's heart in solitude--the mingling of the
exulting joy which the various aspects of the visible universe inspire
with the sad and trying pangs which human passion imparts--give a
touching interest to the whole. The death which he had often
contemplated during the last months as certain and near, he here
represented in such colours as had, in his lonely musings, soothed his
soul to peace. The versification sustains the solemn spirit which
breathes throughout; it is peculiarly melodious. The poem ought rather
to be considered didactic than narrative; it was the outpouring of his
own emotions, embodied in the purest form he could conceive, painted
in the ideal hues which his brilliant imagination inspired, and
softened by the recent anticipation of death.

Poetry was theirs, Nature their mutual love: Nature and two or three
friends, if we may include the Quaker, Dr. Pope, who called on Shelley
and wished to discuss theology with him, and when Shelley said he
feared his views would not be to the Doctor's taste replied "I like to
hear thee talk, friend Shelley. I see thou art very deep." But beyond
these all friends had fallen off, and certainly Godwin's conduct seems
to have been most extraordinary. He did not hesitate to put Shelley to
considerable inconvenience for money, for not long after the one
thousand pounds had been given, we find Shelley having to sell an
annuity to help him with more money. Yet Godwin all this time treated
Shelley and Mary with great haughtiness, much to their annoyance,
though neither let it interfere with the duty they owed Godwin as
father and philosopher. These perpetual worries helped to keep them in
an unsettled state in their home. Owing perhaps to the loss of the
diary at this period, we have no information about Harriet. Already in
January, we find there is an idea of residing in Italy, both for the
sake of health, and on account of the annoyance they experienced from
their general treatment. Shelley had the poet's yearning for sympathy,
and Mary must have suffered with and for him, especially when her
father, for whom he did so much, treated him with haughty severity by
way of thanks. Mary attributed Godwin's conduct to the influence of
his wife, whom she cordially disliked at this time. She was loth to
recognise inconsistency in her father, whom she always revered. Godwin
on his side was by no means anxious for his daughter and Shelley to
leave for Italy in a few weeks' time, as intimated to him by Shelley
as possible on the 16th February. We thus see that a trip to the
Continent was contemplated some months prior to the journey to Geneva.
This idea arose after the birth of Mary's first son, William, born
January 24, 1816, who was destined to be only for a few short years
the joy of his parents, and then to rest in Rome, where Shelley was
not long in following him.

It is evident from Godwin's diary that Claire must have been on a
visit or in direct communication with Mary at the beginning of
January, as Godwin notes "Write to P.B.S. inviting Jane"; and it does
not seem to have been possible for Shelley and Mary to have borne
resentment. The facts of this meeting early in the year, and that Mary
and Shelley contemplated another of their restless journeys abroad,
certainly take off from the abruptness of their departure for Geneva
in May with Claire Claremout. Undoubtedly Shelley was in a worried and
excited state at this period, and he acted so as to rouse the doubts
of Peacock as to the reason of the hurried journey. The story of
Williams of Tremadock suddenly appearing at Bishopsgate, to warn
Shelley that his father and uncle were engaged in a plot to lock him
up, seems without foundation. But when, in addition to this story, we
consider Claire's history, we can well understand that, in spite of
Shelley's love of sincerity and truth, circumstances were too strong
for him. At a time when he and Mary were being avoided by society for
openly defying its laws, they might well reflect whether they could
afford to avow the new complication which had sprung up in their small
circle. Claire, in hopes of finding some theatrical engagement, had
called upon Lord Byron at Drury Lane Theatre, apparently about March
1816, during the distressing period of his rupture with his wife. The
result of this acquaintance is too well known, and has been too much a
source of obloquy to all concerned in it, to need much comment here,
and it is only as the facts affect Mary that we need refer to them at
all.

At this time Byron was about to leave England, pursued, justly or
unjustly, by the hatred of the British mob for a poet who dared to
quarrel with his wife and follow the low manners of some of the
leaders of fashion whom he had been intimate with. Their obscurity has
sheltered _them_ from opprobrium. He was accompanied by the young
physician, Dr. John Polidori, who has somehow passed with Byron's
readers as a fool; yet he certainly could have been no fool in the
ordinary sense of the word, as he had taken full degrees as a doctor
at an earlier age perhaps than had ever been known before. His family,
a simple and highly educated family (his father was Italian, and had
been secretary to Alfieri), caring very much for poetry and
intellectual intercourse, were delighted at the prospect of the young
physician having such an opening to his career, as his sister, the
mother of poets, has told the writer. It is true that this exciting
short period with Byron must have had an injurious effect on the young
physician's after career, though he was still able to obtain the deep
interest of Harriet Martineau at Norwich. It might be added that his
nephew, not only a poet but a leader in poetic thought, deeply
resented the insulting terms in which Byron wrote of Polidori, and,
although h deeply admired the genius of Byron, did not fail to note
where any weakness of form could be found in his work--such is human
nature, and so is poetic justice meted out. This might appear to be a
slight digression from our subject, if it were not for the fact that
when Mary wrote _Frankenstein_ at Secheron, as one of the tales
of horror that were projected by the assembled party, it was only John
Polidori's story of _The Vampire_ which was completed along with
Mary's _Frankenstein_, _The Vampire_, published anonymously,
was at first extolled everywhere under the idea that it was Byron's,
and when this idea was found to be a mistake the tale was slighted in
proportion, and its author with it. The fact is that as an imaginative
tale of horror _The Vampire_ holds its place beside Mary's
_Frankenstein_, though not so fully developed as a literary
performance or as an invention.

So on the eve of Byron's starting for Switzerland, we find Shelley and
Mary contemplating a journey with Claire in the same direction by
another route, but to the same place and hotel, previously settled on
and engaged by Byron. It certainly might appear that Shelley and Mary
in this dilemma did not feel justified in acting towards another in a
way contrary to their own conduct in life. In all probability Claire
confided her belief in Byron's attachment to herseif, after his wife
had discarded him, to Mary or even to Shelley. Mary, however
distasteful the subject must have been to her, would not perhaps allow
herself to stand in the way of what, from her own experience, might
appear to be a prospect of a settlement in life for Claire, especially
as she must deeply have felt their responsibility in having induced or
allowed her to accompany them in their own elopement. In fact, the
feeling of responsibility in this most trying case might, to a highly
imaginative mind, almost conjure up the invention of a Frankenstein.

We now (May 3, 1816) find Shelley, Mary, and Claire at Dover, again on
a journey to Switzerland. From Dover Shelley wrote a kind letter to
Godwin, explaining money matters, and promising to do all he could to
help him. They pass by Paris, then by Troyes, Dijon, and Dole, through
the Jura range. This time is graphically described by Shelley in
letters appended to the _Six Weeks' Tour_; the journey and the
eight days' excursion in Switzerland. We read of the terrific changes
of nature, the thunderstorms, one of which was more imposing than all
the others, lighting up lake and pine forests with the most vivid
brilliancy, and then nothing but blackness with rolling thunder. These
letters are addressed to Peacock, but in them we have no reference to
the intimacy with Byron now being carried on; how he arrived at the
Hotel Secheron, nor their removal to the Maison Chapuis to avoid the
inquisitive English.

There is, fortunately, no further reason to refer to the rumours which
scandal-mongers promulgated--rumours which undoubtedly hastened the
rupture between Byron and Claire; although evil rumours, like fire
smouldering in a hold, are difficult to extinguish, and, as Mr.
Jeaffreson shows, the slanders of this time were afterwards a trouble
to Shelley at Ravenna, in 1821, when his wife had to take his part.
These rumours were the source of certain poems, and also, later,
stories about Byron. All lovers of Shelley owe a debt of deep
gratitude to Mr. Jeaffreson, who, although, severe to a fault on many
of the blemishes in his character (as if he considered that poets
ought to be almost superhuman in all things), nevertheless proves in
so clear a way the utter groundlessness of the rumours as to relieve
all future biographers from considering the subject. At the same time
he shows how distasteful Claire's presence must have become to Byron,
who was hoping for reconciliation with his wife, and who naturally
construed fresh obduracy on her part as the result of reports that
were becoming current. Anyway, it is manifest that Byron did not
regard Claire in the light that Mary may have hoped for--namely, that
he would consider her as a wife, taking the place of her who had left
him. Byron had no such new idea of the nature of a wife, but only
accepted Claire as she allowed herself to be taken, with the addition
that he grew to dislike her intensely.

So after Shelley and Byron had made their eight days' tour of the
lake, from June 23, unaccompanied by Mary and Claire, we find a month
later Shelley taking them for an eight days' tour to Chamouni,
unaccompanied by Byron. Of this tour Shelley each day writes long
descriptive letters to Peacock, who is looking out for a house for
them somewhere in the neighbourhood of Windsor. They return by July 28
to Montalegre, where he writes of the collection of seeds he has been
making, and which Mary intends cultivating in her garden in England.

For another month these young restless beings enjoy the calm of their
cottage by the lake, close to the Villa Diodati, while the poets
breathe in poetry on all sides, and give it to the world in verse.
Mary notes the books they read, and their visits in the evening to
Diodati, where she became accustomed to the sound of Byron's voice,
with Shelley's always the answering echo, for she was too awed and
timid to speak much herself. These conversations caused her,
subsequently, when hearing Byron's voice, to feel a sad want for "the
sound of a voice that is still."

It is during this sojourn by the Swiss Lake that Mary began her first
serious attempt at literature. Being asked each day by Shelley whether
she had found a story, she answered "No," till one evening after
listening to a conversation between Byron and Shelley on the principle
of life--whether it would be discovered, and the power of
communicating life be acquired--"perhaps a corpse might be reanimated;
galvanism had given tokens of such things"--she lay awake, and with
the sound of the lake and the sight of the moonlight gleaming through
chinks in the shutters, were blended the idea and the figure of a
student engaged in the ghastly work of creating a man, until such a
horror came to light that he shrank in fear from his own performance.
Such was the original idea for this imaginative work of a girl of
nineteen, which has held its place among conspicuous works of fiction
to the present day. _Frankenstein_ was the outcome of the project
before mentioned of writing tales of horror. One night, when pouring
rain detained Shelley's party at the Villa Diodati over a blazing
fire, they told strange stories, till Byron, leading to poetic ideas,
recited the witch's scene from "Christabel," which so excited
Shelley's imagination that he shrieked, and ran from the room; and
Polidori writes that he brought him to by throwing water in his face.
Upon his reviving, they agreed to write each a supernatural tale.
Matthew Gregory Lewis, the author of _The Monk_, who visited at
Diodati, assisted them with these weird fancies.

CHAPTER VII.

"FRANKENSTEIN."

That a work by a girl of nineteen should have held its place in
romantic literature so long is no small tribute to its merit; this
work, wrought under the influence of Byron and Shelley, and conceived
after drinking in their enthralling conversation, is not unworthy of
its origin. A more fantastically horrible story could scarcely be
conceived; in fact, the vivid imagination, piling impossible horror
upon horror, seems to claim for the book a place in the company of a
Poe or a Hoffmann. Its weakness appears to be that of placing such an
idea in the annals of modern life; such a process invariably weakens
these powerful imaginative ideas, and takes away from, instead of
adding to, the apparent truth, and cannot fail to give an affectation
to the work. True, it might add to the difficulty to imagine a
different state of society, past or future, but this seems a _sine
qua non_. The story of _Frankenstein_ begins with a series of
letters of a young man, Robert Walton, writing to his sister, Mrs.
Saville in England, from St. Petersburg, where he is about to embark
on a voyage in search of the North Pole. He is bent on discovering the
secret of the magnet, and is deluded with the hope of a _never_
absent sun. When advanced some distance towards his longed-for goal,
Walton writes of a most strange adventure which befalls them in the
midst of the ice regions--a gigantic being, of human shape, being
drawn over the ice in a sledge by dogs. Not many hours after this
strange sight a fresh discovery was made of another man in another
sledge, with only one living dog to it: this time the man was seen to
be a European, whom the sailors tried to persuade to enter their ship.
On seeing Walton the stranger, speaking English, asked whither they
were bound before he would consent to enter the ship. This naturally
caused intense excitement, as the man, reduced to a skeleton, seemed
to have but a short time to live. However, on hearing that the vessel
was bound northwards, he consented to enter, and with great care he
was restored for the time. In answer to an inquiry as to his object in
thus exposing himself, he replied, "To seek one who fled from me." An
affection springs up and increases between Walton and the stranger,
till the latter promises to tell his sad and strange story, which he
had hitherto intended should die with him.

This commencement leads to the story being told in the form (which
might with advantage have been avoided) of a long narrative by the
dying man. The stranger describes himself as of a Genevese family of
high distinction, and gives an interesting account of his father and
juvenile surroundings, including a playfellow, Elizabeth Lavenga, whom
we encounter much later in his history. All his studies are pursued
with zest, till coming upon the works of Cornelius Agrippa he is led
with enthusiasm into the ideas of experimental philosophy; a passing
remark of "trash" from his father, who does not explain the difference
between past and modern science, is not enough to deter him and
prevent the fatal consequence of the study he persists in, and thus a
pupil of Albertus Magnus appears in the eighteenth century. The
effects of a thunderstorm, described from those Mary had recently
witnessed, decided him in his resolution, for electricity now was the
aim of his research. After having passed his youth in his happy Swiss
home with his parents and dear friends, on the death of his loved
mother he starts for the University of Ingolstadt. Here he is much
reprehended by the professors for his useless studies, until one, a
Mr. Waldeman, sympathises with him, and explains how Cornelius Agrippa
and others, although their studies did not bring the immediate fruit
they expected, nevertheless helped on science in other directions, and
he advises Frankenstein to pursue his studies in natural philosophy,
including mathematics. The upshot of this advice is that two years are
spent in intense study and thought, till he becomes thin and haggard
in appearance. He is contemplating a visit to his home, when, making
some fresh experiment, he finds that he has discovered the principle
of life; this so overcomes him for a time that, oblivious of all else,
he is bent on making use of his discovery. After much perplexing
thought he determines to create a being superior to man, so that
future generations shall bless him. In the first place, by the help of
chemistry, he has to construct the form which is to be animated. The
grave has to be ransacked in the attempt, and Frankenstein describes
with loathing some of the details of his work, and shows the danger of
overstraining the mind in any one direction--how the virtuous become
vicious, and how virtue itself, carried to excess, lapses into vice.

The form is created in nervous fear and fever. Frankenstein being the
ideal scientist, devoid of all feeling for art (whose ideas of it,
indeed, might be limited to the elevation and section of a pot),
without any ideal of proportion or beauty, reaches the point where he
considers nothing but the infusion of life necessary. All is ready,
and in the first hour of the morning he applies his fatal discovery.
Breath is given, the limbs move, the eyes open, and the colossal being
or monster, as he is henceforth called, becomes animated; though
copied from statues, its fearful size, its terrible complexion and
drawn skin, scarcely concealing arteries and muscles beneath, add to
the horror of the expression. And this is the end of two years work to
the horrified Frankenstein. Overwhelmed by disgust, he can only rush
from the room, and finally falls exhausted on his bed, only to wake to
find his monster grinning at him. He runs forth into the street, and
here, in Mary's first work, we have a reminiscence of her own infant
days, when she and Claire hid themselves under the sofa to hear
Coleridge read his poem, for the following stanza from the _Ancient
Mariner_ might seem almost the key-note of _Frankenstein_:--

Like one who on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head,
Because he knows a fearful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

Frankenstein hurries on, but coming across his old friend Henri
Clerval at the stage coach, he recalls to mind his father, Elizabeth,
his former life and friends. He returns to his rooms with his friend.
Reaching his door, he trembles, but opening it, finds himself
delivered from his self-created fiend. His frenzy of delight being
attributed to madness from overwork, Clerval induces Frankenstein to
leave his studies, and, finally (after he had for months endured a
terrible illness), to accompany him to his native village. Various
delays occurring, they are detained too late in the year to pass the
dangerous roads on their way home.

Health and peace of mind returning to some degree, Frankenstein is
about to proceed on his journey homewards, when a letter arrives from
his father with the fatal news of the mysterious death of his young
brother. This event hastens still further his return, and gives a
renewed gloomy turn to his mind; not only is his loved little brother
dead, but the extraordinary event points to some unknown power. From
this time Frankenstein's life is one agony. One after another all whom
he loves fall victims to the demon he has created; he is never safe
from his presence; in a storm on the Alps he encounters him; in the
fearful murders which annihilate his family he always recognises his
hand. On one occasion his creation wished to have a truce and to come
to terms with his creator. This, after his most fearful treachery had
caused the innocent to be sentenced as the perpetrator of his fearful
deeds. On meeting Frankenstein he recounts the most pathetic story of
his falling away from sympathy with humanity: how, after saving the
life of a girl from drowning, he is shot by a young man who rushes up
and rescues her from him. He became the unknown benefactor of a family
for some period of time by doing the hard work of the household while
they slept. Having taking refuge in a hovel adjoining a corner of
their cottage, he hears their pathetic and romantic story, and also
learns the language and ways of men; but on his wishing to make their
acquaintance the family are so horrified at his appearance that the
women faint, the men drive him off with blows, and the whole family
leave a neigbourhood, the scene of such an apparition. After these
experiences he retaliates, till meeting Frankenstein he proposes these
terms: that Frankenstein shall create another being as repulsive as
himself to be his companion--in fact, he desires a wife as hideous as
he is. These were the conditions, and the lives of all those whom
Frankenstein held most dear were in the balance; he hesitated long,
but finally consented.

Everything now had to be put aside to carry out this fearful task--his
love of Elizabeth, his father's entreaties that he should marry her,
his hopes, his ambitions, go for nothing. To save those who remain, he
must devote himself to his work. To carry out his aim he expresses a
wish to visit England, and, with his friend Clerval, descends the
Rhine, which is described with the knowledge gained in Mary's own
journey, and the same route is pursued which she, Shelley, and Claire
had taken through Holland, embarking for England from Rotterdam, and
thence reaching the Thames. After passing London and Oxford and
various places of interest, he expresses a desire to be left for a
time in solitude, and selects a remote island of the Orkneys, where an
uninhabited hut answers the purpose of his laboratory. Here he works
unmolested till his fearful task is nearly accomplished, when a fear
and loathing possess his soul at the possible result of this second
achievement. Although the demon already created has sworn to abandon
the haunts of man and to live in a desert country with his mate, what
hold will there be over this second being with an individuality and
will of its own? What might be the future consequences to humanity of
the existence of such monsters? He forms a resolution to abandon his
dreaded work, and at that moment it is confirmed by the sight of his
monster grinning at him through the window of the hut in the
moonlight. Not a moment is lost. He tears his just completed work limb
from limb. The monster disappears in rage, only to return to threaten
eternal revenge on him and his; but the time of weakness is passed;
better encounter any evils that may be in store, even for those he
loves, than leave a curse to humanity. From that time there is no
truce. Clerval is murdered and Frankenstein is seized as the murderer,
but respited for worse fate; he is married to Elizabeth, and she is
strangled within a few hours. When goaded to the verge of madness by
all these events, and seeing his beloved father reduced to imbecility
through their misfortunes, he can make no one believe his
self-accusing story; and if they did, what would it avail to pursue a
being who could scale the Alps, live among glaciers, and pass
unfathomable seas? There is nothing left but a pursuit till
death, single-handed, when one might expire and the other be
appeased--onward, with a deluding sight from time to time of his
avenging demon. Only in sleep and dreams did Frankenstein find
forgetfulness of his self-imposed torture, for he lived again with
those he had loved; he endured life in his pursuit by imagining his
waking hours to be a horrible dream and longing for the night, when
sleep should bring him life. When hopes of meeting his demon failed,
some fresh trace would appear to lead him on through habited and
uninhabited countries; he tracks him to the verge of the eternal ice,
and even there procures a sledge from the wretched and horrified
inhabitants of the last dwelling-place of men to pursue the monster,
who, on a similar vehicle, had departed, to their delight. Onwards,
onwards, over the eternal ice they pass, the pursued and the pursuer,
till consciousness is nearly lost, and Frankenstein is rescued by
those to whom he now narrates his history; all except his fatal
scientific secret, which is to die with him shortly, for the end
cannot be far off.

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