Outcasts

by Sarah Stegall

  “Is this why you abjure marriage so?”

  Mary smiled. “No. It is my father’s teaching, from his earliest days, that marriage is only enforced prostitution. Oh, I have offended you!”

  Polidori struggled to control his features. “No, no,” he said hastily—and, Mary knew, untruthfully. “I am sure he has the most, er , high-minded ideals. But is it not hard on you, on your babe, to be in so … irregular an arrangement?” He pressed her hand. “I will not burden you with unwelcome sentiments, but do consider, dear Mrs. Shelley, what the future will hold. For you, for your son, what will be the outcome? How will he grow up in society?”

  Mary removed her hand from his. “Shelley has altered his will to provide for us. And when he comes into his inheritance, we shall live freely and openly as we please.”

  “So your principles wait on death,” Polidori said. “To live on post-obits, is this the utilitarian philosophy your father espouses?”

  Mary felt her face grow hot. “You disapprove, of course. You do not understand.”

  Polidori again struggled to sit up straight. “It is not for me to disapprove or approve,” he said. “But it seems to me that this theory of open love, or free love, or what have you, is a very good idea for men, but not for women.”

  Mary, troubled, looked down at her hands.

  Polidori leaned near. “You know that I speak the truth. You know what they are, these noblemen. They are raised to think only of themselves, to consider only themselves. Mr. Shelley appears to love all mankind—in the abstract. And I have observed his generosity, but it sometimes appears to me that he lives with his head inside a glass bowl, that he does not really understand the causes of the misery around us.”

  Mary said hotly, “You do not understand! He understands, better than most, the misery of the poor and oppressed! He has suffered for his beliefs! He has been hounded from place to place by vile persons, he has been persecuted. His own father, as corrupt a member of the privileged caste as I can imagine, cut him off for daring to live by his own principles. He was cast out of Oxford for espousing atheism.”

  “I am aware—”

  Mary rose, gathering her skirts. “I have work to do with Albé. Pray excuse me, Doctor.” She swept from the room, seething.

  But under the anger, she felt fear.

  Chapter XXVIII - The Feast of Reason

  Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat! Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand.

  —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter V

  As if the previous evening had worn them all out, the households settled into a quiet, unchallenging day. In the forenoon, Mary and Claire copied out more of Byron’s verses, or wrote in their journals. Byron and Shelley took the boat out, despite the unseasonably cold day. Polidori remained on the downstairs sofa, reading a book of Italian poetry and scribbling notes. Later in the day, Mary traipsed back down to the Maison Chapuis to feed William and to interview a candidate for the position of cook. This individual was so completely lacking in talent or the ability to speak English that she returned in a glum mood to the Diodati.

  The day grew ominously dark as it wore on. Mary considered whether it would not be better for her and Claire to return to the Maison and stay there, but Claire demurred.

  “I must be here when Albé returns,” she said firmly. “Return if you wish, but I will stay for dinner. You know we have a standing invitation.”

  Mary did not want to stay, but the fact that they still had no cook of their own made it a moot point.

  Shortly after noon, Byron and Shelley returned with the mail; there was nothing from Mary’s father. Byron took Claire off to one of the bedrooms, and Shelley engaged Polidori in a game of chess. Mary sat alone in the big drawing room, surrounded by books, letters, and scraps of poetry. She put her chin on her hands and stared out into the gathering storm. She felt restless and ill at ease, but put it down to worry over Claire and her state.

  As the sun set, Fletcher and the chambermaid came in with lights, and then called her to an unusually early supper. Once more, bread, soup and potatoes were the order of the day. Though the hour was not much advanced, the chambermaid went around lighting candles as the sky outside grew dark with clouds. Thunder rumbled ominously across the sky as Fletcher served the soup.

  Byron and Shelley were arguing over the nature of Man, apparently continuing an argument from their boat trip that morning.

  “Man is born free, by nature,” Shelley said, munching bread. Crumbs scattered over his plate, where the remains of a Welsh rarebit and a quiche lay mangled.

  “But everywhere in chains,” Byron said, “Yes, yes, I have read my Rousseau. And you know my opinion of him.”

  “Then if you know him, you know of his belief that man is naturally good. It is only through the pernicious influence of human society and its institutions that he becomes corrupted.”

  Polidori signaled to Fletcher to bring him a platter from the sideboard. “And is this not the same Rousseau who abandoned his own children? I read that he lived openly with a mistress—”

  Byron laughed. “Remember who sits at this table,” he said. “You will find no condemnation of that conduct here.”

  Polidori flushed a bit. “And his dereliction concerning his own offspring? He forced his mistress to give them to foundling hospitals. Is that the perfectible man?”

  Byron set down his fork. “You speak pointedly, physician, of abandoned offspring. Have you some remark to make?” His voice was soft, his tone dangerous.

  “He speaks of Jean-Jacques Rousseau,” Mary said sharply, heading him off. “There is no need to take such a remark personally, Albé. Rousseau is quite eloquent when it comes to describing the blessings of a state of nature, but nothing could be more unnatural than his ‘natural man’.”

  Shelley looked at her quizzically. “Truly? But surely you agree that Rousseau’s description of the unfortunate effects of society on the natural man are substantive?”

  “Substantive, but perhaps disingenuous. He seems not even to have understood how criminal his actions were.” Mary glanced sharply at Byron, but noticed that Claire was staring down at her plate, her face pale. “His capacity for self-deception, though vast, is only typical of Man.”

  “How do you mean?” Byron said. “I find this critique, from a woman no less, fascinating.”

  “As well, perhaps, you should. As a man, you are granted freedoms and liberties we females are denied, and all because of ignorance and superstition. Your idea of ‘freedom’ is sometimes literally death to us and those we love.”

  Shelley looked shocked. “Mary!”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “Dearest, you know I agree with much of what we both have read of Rousseau. We agree that the nature of Man is basically good, that education is the root of social good. But in his personal life, he fell well short of those ideals for which we often praise him.”

  “He took them away from her.” Claire’s voice arrested them all. Fervid, low, fraught with meaning, she raised her eyes from her plate to stare at Byron. Yet it was as if she stared through him, into some other room or place. “His natural instinct, as a father, should have been to protect them. He should have protected their mother. He should have cared for them.”

  “But she was his mistress, not his wife,” said Polidori.

  The other four stared at him until he dropped his gaze to his plate.

  “Claire is right,” Mary said. “Our first duty is to render those to whom we give birth, wise, virtuous and happy, as far as in us lies. Rousseau failed in this. The distortion of intellect that blinded him to the first duties of life made him an example among men for self-inflicted
sufferings.”

  “Would you have had him marry his mistress, then?” Shelley asked, squinting at her over a wineglass.

  “Oh, I am content that marriage, as we agree, is but slavery writ small. As a connection between men and women, it is nothing but chains and agony.”

  Byron lifted his glass. “Hear, hear!” he said, and tossed back the wine.

  “But Rousseau’s otherwise egalitarian society was more like that of Moloch,” Mary continued, stabbing at her potatoes. “Little children were ruthlessly sacrificed to principle, even as the ancients threw their children into a fire for the sake of their false god.”

  “I perceive the shade of William Godwin haunting us,” murmured Polidori.

  Mary glared at him, almost hating him for his bad timing, his insensitivity. “Surely the most fundamental characteristic of man is his affections. Yet Rousseau describes his natural man, in his Confessions, as satisfying his desires by chance. He leaves his woman on a whim, while she goes through pregnancy and childbirth alone. No matter how civilized or barbarous a society is, surely that man is most noble who loves his woman and offspring with constant and self-sacrificing passion.”

  “My dear, I have never known you to speak so forcefully against Rousseau,” Shelley said.

  “Perhaps she is speaking through him to you,” Byron said. “I am aware, as are we all, that you left a wife and two children back in England. In that, you have bested me by one, as I have left only a wife and one child. I suppose, Mary dear, that only the good doctor here deserves your respect and praise.”

  Mary shook her head. “Shelley has not abandoned his children,” she said staunchly. “Our son sleeps under this very roof tonight, sheltered and protected by his father’s love. He supports and cares for his children by Harriet. You cannot call him indifferent to their welfare.”

  Byron’s hand tightened on his dinner napkin. “Perhaps you see a fault in me, then,” he said.

  “I see a fault in all men,” Mary said. “Less so in yourself, not at all in Shelley, but definitely in Rousseau and the men who made the Revolution after him. Despite his genius and his aspirations after virtue, he failed in the plainest dictates of nature and conscience. It shows us that a father may not be trusted with ‘natural’ instincts towards his offspring. Only imagine what the children of that man might have become, raised in his shadow, taught by him. Instead, I believe that he was plagued later in life by such guilt, as to color his whole philosophy of the state of natural man.”

  “So man’s natural state is to swive women and abandon their children? This sounds more like a beast than a human being,” Polidori said.

  “Your mother would not have agreed,” said Claire. She looked across the table at Mary, challenging her. “Your mother thought that Man is naturally a creature of reason, that that reason is God-given.”

  “Yes, Mary Wollstonecraft believed in God,” Shelley said. “Therefore she could not agree with Rousseau.”

  “Her faith is not mine,” Mary replied. “Rousseau can attribute only two traits to humans in the natural state: self-preservation and compassion. He says nothing of a divine reason.”

  “And yet, is this not the state of the true hero,” Shelley said. “To preserve his life and reason, and to perfect them? And through compassion, lift up all mankind to the same perfected state?”

  “And how shall he lead them to this blessed state?” Byron asked.

  “Why, from without. The true hero leads from nature, not from a throne.”

  “So it is necessary that we all return to a state of nature, to perfect ourselves? I confess, on a raw night like this, I am disinclined to strip bare and run about perfecting myself.”

  “You would catch an ague,” said Polidori. “I cannot recommend it to your lordship.”

  “But I require an answer,” Byron said, his jaw suddenly clenching. “You must tell me, Shiloh. Would it be your contention, or Mary’s here,” he bowed to her. “That only a man raised outside of civilization, one who grew up with only grim Nature for a teacher, would be a superior being?”

  “He would be Prometheus,” Shelley said simply. “He would bring true civilization to Man.”

  “And what of those natural affections of which Mary spoke? Would such a man scatter his seed neglectfully as, as—” Byron stopped, groping for a word.

  “As neglectfully as any English lord?” Polidori supplied.

  Byron’s mouth drew into a tight line. “You live dangerously, sir. But yes, such a creature, driven by self-preservation, would naturally ignore any calls upon his food supply or other needs. And this creature, neglecting his own children, is this the hero you would have as the savior of mankind?”

  Shelley leaned forward eagerly to address his answer, but Mary intervened. “You forget, Albé. Rousseau described such a creature as being led by compassion as well as self-preservation. Even the lowliest creature of wood and meadow will give its life to preserve its own young.”

  There was a long silence, while a footman silently cleared the table of plates and glasses. Shelley toyed with the stem of his glass. Claire folded and refolded his napkin.

  Mary looked from Byron to Shelley. Byron’s father had abandoned the family shortly after his birth. Shelley’s father had cut him off after he married Harriet against his father’s wishes. She and Claire were barred from their father’s house. Of all the people at the table, only young Polidori enjoyed the full love and support of his parents and family.

  Byron said slowly, “I confess, I have had a new experience tonight: I have been entertained by not one but two lady philosophers. A most singular occurrence.”

  Polidori wiped his mouth with his napkin. “So many poets and philosophers, so much about the perfectibility of Man,” he said slowly, “yet not a word about how this is to be accomplished. I take it, Mr. Shelley, that you do not seriously propose that we abandon our cities and towns, go into the woods and try to live? Because I do not think that many of us would long survive so brutal a schooling in perfection. Is there no other way?”

  “No way that a poet can conceive, perhaps,” Byron said ironically. “Possibly a medical man would know. Did they teach you perfectibility at Edinburgh?”

  Polidori met his gaze with composure. “No, they taught me anatomy. Bones and flesh, brain and marrow and tissue. The real composition of man, not the theories of a Swiss revolutionary.”

  Fletcher set the final course, a dessert array consisting of walnuts, raisins, almonds and oranges, as well as a pear cake, on the table. Shelley immediately held out a plate for a slice of the cake. “Then tell us, Doctor. Among all those anatomies, which is the most capable of perfection? The limbs? Muscles? Where shall we start, to build our perfect man?”

  “With the brain,” Polidori said immediately. “The seat of reason is surely the point of beginning.”

  Byron took up an apple and began to pare it. “You would replace the brain of a man with, perhaps, the brain of some other animal? You could make a lion-man, or a dog-man. What wonders would we see! Yet you cannot argue that such a creature would be superior, let alone perfected.”

  Mary recalled Polidori’s notion of the clockwork man. “A machine,” she said. “Could a man’s brain be replaced by a machine?”

  “Such as the Luddites fear?” Byron said, his eyebrows climbing nearly to his hair. “Are we not already replacing men with machines? The frame-breakers and the rioting workers will not welcome your suggestion.”

  Polidori shrugged. “Machines must be powered. Even if we built a clockwork man, he would be inferior, since he could not move or walk about unless he was wound up.”

  “We must give him, then, a source of his own power,” Shelley said. He picked a raisin up with his fingers. “Give him an electric brain.”

  The entire company stared at him. Then Byron grinned. “So he would have to be paraded about during thunderstorms? What an imagination you have, Shiloh! I declare, I do not know what you will suggest next.”

  “I su
ggest a recess,” Claire said suddenly. “This talk of mechanical men is making me tired. And the fire has died down. I shall go into the drawing room, where it is warmer. Mary, will you come?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Claire rose. A footman stepped forward to move her chair back. Mary was reluctant to end the conversation, but stood. The men got to their feet and bowed.

  “We shall join you momentarily,” Byron said. “To lose your company for an hour would bereave me.”

  Mary doubted it, but curtsied back at the men. “We shall leave you to your feast of reason, then.”

  Chapter XXIX - The Challenge

  Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise…. “We will each write a ghost story,” said Lord Byron—and his proposition was acceded to.

  —Frankenstein, 1831 Edition, Preface

  As Mary stepped across the threshold of the drawing room, thunder crashed like cannon fire overhead. She flinched, then straightened.

  “Gracious!” Claire said. “The draft has blown out half the candles!”

  Mary took a taper to the fire, and was relighting the candles as Shelley and Byron came in, laughing together. Byron noted her action and clapped his hands together. “Yes, that’s the way of it,” he cried. “We must have light! Fletcher! Bring every candle we have in the house! Let us fire a blaze to o’erset the levin itself!”

  Claire sank into the arm chair nearest the fire, arranging her curls. Byron cast himself into the opposite chair, stretching his boots to the fire. “Shelley! Mary! How shall we amuse ourselves in this dark hour?”