by Cecily Ross
With that, he laid a heavy hand on my bowed head until I thought he would push me to my knees. Stepping back from his ministrations, I curtseyed quickly and dutifully promised to attend services this Sunday. I left him at a bend in the road, just at the spot where the plain red church with its rows of watchful windows comes into view. Its simple presence shamed me, and as I turned toward home, I was filled with confusion and guilt. In my bewilderment, I left the road and took a shortcut across the meadow, only to find the fields thick with sharp grasses and burrs, so that my skirt and stockings are nearly ruined.
A letter from Moodie was waiting for me at home and it seems there is hope. His uncle, Sir Alex Dunbar, has welcomed his grandnephew and urges us to move to Orkney to be near him. I am suffering my fiancé’s absence keenly and am so hungry for his return that I sometimes think I should be happy with John Moodie anywhere, whether under the burning suns of Africa or building a nest among the eagles of my hero’s native land. Later, I lay on my bed, trying to imagine the swirling storms on the craggy isle of Hoy, and to picture us together amid the rocks and windy seas. But try as I might, the vision would not hold.
OCTOBER 3, 1830
The History of Mary Prince is to appear as a pamphlet early in the new year. Of course, my name will not be attached, as it is to be Mary’s story, told in her own words, an authenticity I tried very hard to achieve. Although the small publication is not officially sanctioned by the Anti-Slavery Society, Papa Pringle has great hopes for its salutary effect upon the good citizens of England in advancing the Abolitionist cause, and for whatever the profits from its sales can do to provide for Mary and her family. I confess I cannot help but feel proud of this small anonymous endeavour. With Enthusiasm, on the other hand, I am less than enthused, possibly because my enthusiasm for the nonconformists has waned somewhat since its writing. My mother and sisters will be appalled, I know, when my poems appear in print. Still, though my religious fervour has cooled, my heart yet goes out to the low-born, unlearned congregation at Wrentham, where, true to my word, I attended services last Sunday and was welcomed with a warmth and sincerity that surely I do not deserve.
NOVEMBER 30, 1830
It is almost six weeks since I injured my foot climbing down from the stile leading to the north pasture. The lower step gave way as I put my weight on it. It has been five years since Sam left for the wilds of Canada, and without his stout heart and strong back, the fences, like everything else here at Reydon, are in a chronic state of disrepair. A twisted ankle has kept me confined to this couch for so long now that I fear Dr. Lay is mistaken and that I did, in fact, break some bones after all. In any case, two bottles of medicine and as many boxes of pills have done nothing to change my situation except to render my purse lighter by a pound. Poor Moodie may be forced to marry me in my chemise.
How I long to be in London again. Still, even as I chafe at my forced inactivity, it has given me ample opportunity to write. My sonnet (“The Boudoir”) has been accepted by Mr. Ackermann’s literary annual, the Forget-Me-Not, and I have completed a tale based on Moodie’s African adventures (“The Vanquished Lion”), which I shall also submit to Ackermann. At present, I am working on a story about a man whose miserliness estranges him from his son.
Opposition here in Suffolk to the Duke of Wellington’s heavy-handed pressure for reform has led to riots in Bungay and Yoxford. I am much concerned about the King’s failure to attend the Mayor’s Day Procession for fear of violent disturbance. I do wish he would take a bold step and stand up to his unruly opponents. History is taking place and here I languish with a broken foot!
DECEMBER 6, 1830
Today, my twenty-seventh birthday has passed without comment. No good wishes from my beloved or my family. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist.
DECEMBER 15, 1830
Oh, how dreary and dark the days are. As I grow thinner and sadder, Moodie writes home of his perilous adventures at sea, a long letter describing a near shipwreck in the Pentland Firth, aboard a sailing dinghy with his young cousin Angus: “My darling Susie, a storm so savage beset our small craft that I prayed for deliverance and am convinced that only divine intervention and my love for you spared us from certain death upon the rocky shores of Hoy.”
Perhaps I am affected by this endless fog, but I wonder why, if his devotion to me is so strong, he continues to take such risks. His obvious delight in these adventures puzzles and disturbs me . . .
And in a postscript, my dearest adds (almost cheerfully, I think): “Poor Uncle Alex is in even more desperate financial straits than we are. I rather suspect he had hoped to lure us here in order that we might support him in his dotage. Grand fellow, though.” At least I can now relinquish the prospect of spending the rest of my days clinging to some bleak, rocky brae overlooking a distant Scottish firth.
Now that my foot is nearly healed, I intend to accept the Pringles’ kind invitation to visit them in the new year.
JANUARY 15, 1831 (CLAREMONT SQUARE)
Agnes and I spent the morning at Montagu House, deep in research for the Patriotic Songs poetry project. In the afternoon, we met with the composer Edward Cruse at his townhouse in Bloomsbury to discuss setting our words to music for the pianoforte. He was most complimentary and happily obliged when we asked him to play something for us—a choral rendition of the Apostles’ Creed he is working on.
This evening, we attended a reception at the home of Edward Lytton (MP). About my age and an established novelist (under the pen name Bulwer-Lytton), he was not at all what I expected. Seated on a high stool in the centre of the large drawing room, wearing a dark purple waistcoat and what I am certain was a wig, he fanned himself ostentatiously with a silk scarf (though the room was quite cold), all the while receiving his guests as though he were an incarnation of the dauphin.
“They say the ladies find him irresistible, though I don’t understand it,” Margaret Pringle whispered in my ear. And indeed, five or six tittering belles were lined up, waiting for a chance to exchange a few words with our host, who seemed bored beyond redemption at the attention. The historian Thomas Carlyle was also in attendance, but he was such a crabbed-looking creature that I did not care to make his acquaintance. They say he is writing a history of the revolution in France and that he believes a similar situation may be imminent in England because of our treatment of the poor here. “When Paris sneezes,” he was heard to remark, “the whole of Europe catches cold.” It is turning out to be a very chilly winter indeed.
Tomorrow, we are invited to a soiree at the home of the painter John Martin. Cheesman says such invitations are highly coveted.
Despite the frivolity of such gatherings in these troubled times, I relish the chance to mingle with like-minded souls. The companionship of other writers ignites in me a small spark of legitimacy, a sense of community, of belonging, of being my own mistress. I wonder what Moodie would think if he could see me like this, surrounded by the young men of London, the object of their compliments and fine speeches, their tributes to my “genius.” Genius!
I wonder.
I am dizzy with work and parties and growing more in love with London every day.
Moodie seems so very far away. And the idea of marriage, something like a dream. How I miss him. Five long months he has been gone, much longer than the few weeks we spent together last summer before he left. I close my eyes and try to summon his image, but it will not come, and though I struggle to banish it, a tiny bud of resentment—that he is not here, and that marriage and motherhood will surely take me away from all this—swells inside me and would flourish and bloom if I let it. Am I doing the right thing?
JANUARY 25, 1831
It is over. Though it breaks my heart, I have written Mr. Moodie to break off our engagement, which I see now was too hasty. I do regret having raised his hopes this way and imagine he will hate me forever, but call me a flirt or a jilt or whatever you please, I don’t care. I have come to realize that the whole business has been a terrible mist
ake. I cannot marry a soldier or leave England.
It was Papa Pringle who put the final nail in the coffin. Perhaps he noticed my silence at dinner yesterday. I had received a letter from Moodie that afternoon, and reading it filled me with despair. (His Orkney adventures continue; he longs for me, dreams of nothing else; his aunt is as penniless as all his other relatives, but no matter, we shall live on love, on crocodile meat and dates. I do not know . . .) We had finished our meal, and as I rose to leave and go to my room, I saw Papa give Margaret a meaningful nod.
“Susanna, I should like a word with you in the library for a moment.” He took my elbow and guided me to a chair by the fire, then pulled up another and sat facing me, his eyes burning into mine.
“My dear,” he began. “I cannot keep silent any longer. Despite my regard for our mutual friend, Dunbar Moodie, I can’t stand by and see you throw your life away like this.”
I looked at him in disbelief; it was the shock of hearing the silent rumblings in my own head given voice.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “I don’t understand. Throw my life away?” Surely nothing could be as welcome to him as my betrothal to one of his oldest friends.
“I’m so sorry,” he began again. “I don’t mean to cause you pain or to cast aspersions on Dunbar’s character. He is a good fellow, honest and well-intentioned, but the life he is offering you is no life for a woman of your talents.” When I started to respond, he silenced me. “Hear me out, I pray.” And taking my hands in his, he continued. “As you know, Margaret and I lived for seven years in the Cape Colony. You have listened many times to our tales of despair and disillusionment at the treatment of the Negroes there, of the way our own government has condoned slavery and of its treatment of the Boers. We did our best to push for change during that time, but in doing so, we risked not only social rejection but also violence to our persons, as well as the possibility of prison. We returned to England because it became evident that our voices and efforts carry far more weight here than they ever could in Africa. You are one of us now. Why would you even consider going to live in a country that engages in the terrible practices of which poor Mary Pringle is a sad victim? And then there is the isolation, the want of anything resembling culture, the dust and heat . . .” He straightened and placed a weary hand over his eyes as though trying to wipe away the memories before continuing.
“But we have no plans to live in South Africa,” I said, confused that he would assume this was the case.
“Susanna, that is indeed Mr. Moodie’s intention. He returned to London last year not just to secure a publisher, but also to find a wife to share his pioneer experience. He may not have pushed the issue, but I can assure you he will. I beg you to reconsider and reject Moodie’s suit; I feel certain you will thrive in the world of letters here.” Then his expression changed; his eyes crinkled with excitement. “We are at the dawn of a new age of information; I feel certain of it. And with my connections and support, you cannot help but prosper.”
I heard him out and then could no longer hold back my tears. In a rush, I told him of my indecision, of our dwindling prospects, of my fear that love would not be enough to sustain us, and of my growing suspicion I am unsuited for marriage, and certainly for Africa. I returned to my room in a tempest of confusion. Outside, a light snow was falling, and through this pale curtain, I gazed for a long time at the serried townhouses across the square, the ordered facades, the unbroken lines of windows and doors, their severity softened only by swirls of wrought iron. Somehow I was calmed and reassured by the sight and I made my decision.
FEBRUARY 5, 1831 (MIDDLETON SQUARE, FINSBURY, LONDON)
I have found temporary lodgings at Middleton Square in Finsbury, just steps from the Pringles. And so my life as an independent woman of letters begins in earnest. For the next three months, I will board with the William Joneses, friends of Thomas Harral’s (with whom I am once again on speaking terms). I have a pretty back drawing room to write in that opens onto the garden. From my desk, I can see the magnificent new St. Mark’s church with its splendid stone tower. Spring is in the air! And soon the squares and gardens outside my door will explode with daffodils and cherry blossoms. (All this for only twelve pounds, ten shillings for the quarter.)
I imagine Moodie will have my letter by now. The memory of him is fading like a bolt of silk left out in the sun. A sad, shimmering remnant of passion. Surely I am doing the right thing.
La Belle Assemblée has decided to publish my poem “The Old Ash Tree.” Why now (Mr. Harral has had it for two years), I cannot imagine. Perhaps they are desperate. Nevertheless, it is one of my favourites, though Katie called it “apocalyptic” when I showed it to her.
“Why is your imagination drawn to such violence and destruction?” she asked me. “A poem about an ash tree destroyed by a storm? It would never occur to me.”
Thou beautiful Ash! Thou art lowly laid,
And my eyes shall hail no more
From afar thy cool and refreshing shade,
When the toilsome journey’s o’er.
The winged and the wandering tribes of air
A home ’mid thy foliage found,
But the graceful boughs, all broken and bare,
The wild winds are scattering round.
I don’t know the answer, but it’s true: the furies of nature, of passionate love and untimely death—these are my preoccupations. I am as thrilled by adventures of the mind as Moodie is drawn to adventures in the flesh. (Still no word from my former love.) Kate thinks I have been hasty. She is much too polite to say anything (and in any case, I do not want to hear it), but I can read it in her face. I think the rupture of my relations with Moodie has made her wonder why she persists in the belief that Francis Harral will defy his stepmother and marry her someday.
FEBRUARY 13, 1831
I have met the most compelling and tragic figure in the person of Mrs. Mary Shelley, whose wondrous and terrible novel Frankenstein I read years ago when I was a girl. I remember the story made a deep impression upon me at the time: the image of the brutish monster, at once hideous and pathetic, and his chastened creator, who strayed beyond the frontiers of reason into realms he could not fathom. For many months, my nights were riven by visions of the soulless creature, monster of the north, doomed to endlessly wander the vast, frozen wasteland of human ingenuity gone wrong; a creature arousing sympathy and horror in equal measure.
All these forgotten sensations came rolling back to me at Bulwer-Lytton’s grand conversazione on Monday night. Almost as soon as I arrived, our host swooped down and, taking my elbow, propelled me across the drawing room into a circle of men—Allan Cunningham, Hobart Caunter, Daniell the painter, Whister the musician, and I cannot recall who else—who surrounded a diminutive, unprepossessing-looking woman of early middle age.
“Mrs. Percy Shelley,” Mr. Bulwer-Lytton roared, “I should like to present Miss Susanna Strickland, a woman—nay, a literary lioness after your own heart.”
I blushed to the bottom of my being at these words and had no alternative but to make a respectful curtsey. And as I was doing so, the realization that I was speaking to the noted authoress finally took hold.
“Mrs. Shelley,” I stammered as the gentlemen looked on, “what a great—”
“Never mind that.” She grasped my hand firmly as though it were a lifeline thrown from a sinking ship. “How kind of you to come. I am delighted to see you.” She tilted her black bonnet back and up to face the circle of gentlemen, who were frozen in mid-sentence by my inadvertent intrusion. “You will pardon us, won’t you?” she said, her apology smooth as butter on her tongue. “Miss Strickland and I have much to catch up on.” And with that, she led me quickly into a narrow passageway opening onto a back stairway and pulled me down beside her on a small settee placed there as though in anticipation of a moment such as this.
“Ah,” she exclaimed, tugging at her gloves and hat so that even in the dim light I could clearly see her pale, delica
te face, no longer pretty, the years and the trials with which we are only too familiar having put paid to whatever beauty she may have once possessed. Instead, her deep-set hazel eyes, long, narrow nose and thin lips gave her a look of sad intelligence. Dressed entirely in black, though her husband, the great poet, has been dead for nearly ten years, she exuded a careworn dignity and an air of weary insouciance.
“I do apologize. You must think me mad, but I could not bear another moment of the hot air billowing from that collection of buffoons.”
Her dark eyebrows rose and she tilted her head slightly as though beckoning me to affirm her opinion of our fellow guests. I laughed and nodded happily for her words expressed what I had only a few moments earlier been thinking myself.
“I am honoured to meet you, Mrs. Shelley . . .” I began gushing once more, but she stopped me with a raised hand.
“Mr. Lytton says you are a writer? What are you writing, then?” She was fanning herself with one hand, and I could see small beads of perspiration gathering on her forehead.
“Are you ill, Mrs. Shelley? Let me get you something to drink.”
But she shook her head and smiled.
“Go on. Tell me about your work. It is so reassuring to meet another woman engaged in such a merciless occupation.”
Nervous and star-struck, I began babbling on about my successes, my sketches and stories and most of all my poems, while she, Mary Shelley, listened quietly. And perhaps I flatter myself, but her interest seemed genuine. When I finally drew breath, she said, “I should like to see them sometime.”