Vindicated

by Kathleen Williams Renk

  I try to understand my father’s callous heart. I suppose he only advises what he thinks is best, but sometimes his extreme rationality makes it seems as though he lacks a heart, even after I thought that his heart had grown. I know that he was terribly fond of my son, so he probably feels grief too, but cannot express it. I should try to be more compassionate. Even so, I suspect that he and I are not truly reconciled and that he still harbors ill feelings toward me, or he would try to console, not berate, me by calling me undisciplined.

  7 July 1819

  I had supposed that Shelley is not grieving as deeply as I am, but I was in error. He left a poem on my pillow. Of late, we are sleeping separately because I cannot rest at night and because my sadness is too profound. I found this poem this morning:

  (With what truth may I say—

  Roma! Roma! Roma!

  Non e più come era prima!

  It is no longer as it was before!)

  I.

  My lost William, thou in whom

  Some bright spirit lived, and did

  That decaying robe consume

  Which its lustre faintly hid,—

  Here its ashes find a tomb,

  But beneath this pyramid

  Thou art not—if a thing divine

  Like thee can die, thy funereal shrine

  Is thy mother’s grief and mine.

  II.

  Where art thou, my gentle child?

  Let me think thy spirit feeds,

  With its life intense and mild,

  The love of living leaves and weeds

  Among these tombs and ruins wild,—

  Let me think that through low seeds

  Of sweet flowers and sunny grass

  Into their hues and scents may pass

  A portion.

  I am quite moved and I must tell Shelley that I know that his grief is as profound as my own. I will rush to him and perhaps we will comfort one another.

  20 July 1819

  Shelley and I are reconciled; we found solace in each other’s arms, but I cannot forgive my father for his hard-hearted attempt to quench my grief. My only solution is to write my way out of it. I have begun a new project, one that corresponds with Shelley’s work based on the life of Beatrice Cenci, the abused Florentine girl, who murdered her father and then was executed for her crime (of course, I do not wish to murder Godwin, just chastise him).

  Shelley discovered the infamous Italian story when I translated it. My story somewhat parallels Beatrice’s story. In some ways, her story is my own story because it tells of a young girl, Mathilda, whose powerful and brilliant mother died when Mathilda was born and whose father was to her like a god. However, our stories diverge in that Mathilda’s father, in his grief, leaves his daughter for 16 years and then returns and embraces her once again. Mathilda, like me, adores her father and wishes to spend all of her time with him, learning from him, absorbing his knowledge, conversing with him, viewing art with him, discussing Plato with him. For a brief time, he is a loving father to her but he begins to loathe a rival, a young artist named Woodville, similar to my Shelley.

  When I have completed this novella, I will send it to Godwin. I wonder what his reaction will be. Of course, he will recognize us in these characters. Will this lead to a greater empathy and compassion on his part? Will he see how he found my Shelley to be his rival for my affection? Will he understand how much I loved and admired him and how I continue to mourn the loss of his love for me? Perhaps it is an exaggeration, but I feel similar to the abandoned creature whose creator loathes her.

  14 August 1819

  Mathilda proceeds in unexpected ways. It occurred to me that my father’s love for me when I was young was at times too passionate. Is it possible that in his own grief he transferred his longing for my mother to me? Of course, there was no physical contact, but he was emotionally attached to me. He saw me as a substitute for my mother; I was her surrogate. If he couldn’t have her, he would have me emotionally. Poor Mathilda’s relationship with her father does cross boundaries. He, like Beatrice’s father, wishes to physically connect with her in a way that is forbidden by nature. He admits his passionate love for his daughter, the love that he felt for his wife; the resemblance between Mathilda and his wife is so great that he cannot separate the two in his mind and in his emotions. Due to this forbidden, unnatural love, he decides to leave his daughter, but she follows him because she does not fully understand the nature of his desire.

  I know that, like Frankenstein, this story touches on forbidden truths and knowledge, in this case, carnal knowledge. The story is taking on a life of its own and tells itself. I have little control over where it proceeds.

  12 September 1819

  Work has always been the antidote for Shelley and me, although my grief continues and my writing about father-daughter love is emotionally haunting to me. Perhaps I go too far in recognizing the most grievous of all offenses, the physical and sexual abuse of a child, but these actions do occur in families and certainly lead to the gravest consequences. My own relationship with my father was troubling at times. In so many ways, humans are wounded creatures, all of us, whether rich or poor. As a writer, I have the obligation to write the truth, in order to expose injustices, in order to begin to reform the world. I carry on my mother’s work on behalf of all women. I have discussed with my mother the trajectory of this story and she endorses it. She firmly believes that truth, no matter how troubling, must be exposed, otherwise injustice will continue to prevail and a new and better world cannot be attained.

  Shelley’s The Cenci, which dwells on the same theme as Mathilda, is a tragic drama that he wishes to have performed at Covent Garden Theatre in London. He has written to his friend Thomas Peacock to see if he can get it staged. Peacock worries that the content is too salacious, but Shelley reminds him that Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex confronts a similar issue and many Greek myths speak of sexual transgressions. Peacock will try again, but it may be impossible to get the drama performed. Would that our England were as fair-minded and truthful as Ancient Greece. Shelley will publish the tragedy nevertheless.

  Mathilda is complete and I have sent it to Godwin for his critique.

  20 September 1819

  I have visited my Will’s grave and I left him a pink rose. I forced myself to go and Amelia held my hand the entire way. My knees buckled as I approached and Amelia held me tight to prevent me from collapsing onto his grave. I felt relief to see a tiny etching of his dear face on his tombstone. Amelia was responsible for that. I needed to go because we are moving to Firenze soon; Shelley wishes to visit the Uffizi as do I to see the Botticelli murals, which we believe will inspire us and lend us hope. I hate to leave poor Will alone in Rome, but Amelia promises that she will visit him frequently and will act as my surrogate.

  3 October 1819

  On our way to Firenze, we stopped for a few days in Pisa and met, by chance, my mother’s former Irish pupil, Margaret King, Lady Mont Cashell, who now goes by the name Mrs. Mason. I felt that the gods were for once looking on us favorably in perhaps arranging this happy meeting. I was thrilled to finally meet her. Godwin knows her because he has published her Stories of Old Daniel, a children’s book, and I had heard of her for many years through my father’s account of my mother’s time in Ireland. What I didn’t know is that Margaret participated in the Irish Rebellion when she followed Theobold Wolfe Tone and joined the Society of United Irishmen in 1798; she then fell in love with Mr. Mason and left her husband, Lord Mont Cashell. She went on to study medicine. And the only way to do that was to pretend to be a man! Like Pope Joan, she did not conform; she had to don men’s clothing in order to gain knowledge and skill. She followed my mother’s hope for her to be a new kind of woman.

  She tells me that she only became the person that she is now because of my mother’s influence. She reports, “Mary, my dear girl, your mother fre
ed me from superstition and fear. I owe my life to her.”

  My heart swelled with pride to know that my mother’s tutelage of Margaret, her insistence that Margaret run, jump, play, study and think, not wear whalebone stays, and dare to refuse to conform transformed Margaret’s life. We never can comprehend the effects that we have on others, even if our encounters with them are brief. She has reached out to Shelley and me and promises to help us in any way that she can. She wishes to repay the loving kindness that my mother showed her. I find great solace in her presence and am grateful for the serendipity that brought us together. She has allowed me to bare my grief to her and I am exceedingly thankful for her friendship.

  12 November 1819

  During an excursion in the Uffizi, I felt a rush of water inside my undergarments and I told Shelley that we must make haste back to our pension. The landlady, Mrs. Bonnano, a very kind but boisterous woman, ordered her son to hurry and fetch the midwife. I think that she feared that she would have to attend the birth! However, I was in no great distress because the labor pains had not yet started, so I tried to reassure her that the birth was not imminent. When the midwife arrived, she advised that I walk around the courtyard repeatedly in order to get my womb to open and to get the child moving into the birth canal. Once the labor started in earnest, each time I felt a pain, water gushed forth onto the ground. I found this rather uncomfortable and embarrassing and I eventually returned to my confinement bed. After only a few hours, our fourth child was born. This was the easiest of the births and for once I was not wracked by fear of death. Perhaps I am now immune to the fear because death has encircled my life.

  I must say that I expected and hoped for a girl, but Percy Florence was born and we are exceedingly happy and relieved. I cannot pray but I send all of my good and wholesome thoughts his way for his well-being and good health. Being born in the city of the arts is a positive omen and perhaps there is a spare “Catholic” Guardian Angel in our midst who will shield him from harm. I will not tell Shelley but I intend, when the priest is not around, to baptize Percy Florence myself in the holy fount of the Duomo di Firenze.

  25 November 1819

  Our Percy’s looks are far different from Will’s. His complexion is dark and his hair is black. He could certainly pass for an Italian bambino. He is quite easy to care for and is already sleeping for long stretches. As I did with Clara and Willmouse, I keep him close to my heart; even though Clara and Will were not unfailingly protected by my warmth, they knew that I loved them. Perhaps with the help of a Guardian Angel, I will protect him from all harm.

  But just to ensure his well-being, I bundled him into a pram today and slipped into the Duomo. I have witnessed several Catholic baptisms and so knew exactly what to do. The “holy” water, it seems to me, is merely a way to acknowledge each child’s sacred being. It does not work a miracle and does not cleanse away supposed original sin, a concept in which I do not believe. Instead of reciting a Christian prayer as I poured a handful of water over his head, I silently spoke a stanza from Wordsworth’s “Ode to Intimations of Immortality,” the stanza about “trailing clouds of glory.” I believe that Percy Florence is a miracle and a gift to us. He will be my treasure and I shall safeguard him for the remainder of my life.

  18 December 1819

  Firenze is mad with preparations for Christmas. All of the church bells sing out at noon each day to remind the faithful to recite the Angelus. And, as usual, the bells toll the Ave Maria at sunset. There are special customs during the Christmas season though, particularly the lighting of the advent wreath, in anticipation of the birth of the Christ Child. I know that it sounds silly and superstitious but I find peace in this season. It is a way to combat the dark months and to cope, as much as possible, with the winter bleakness. Since we are pagans and not Christians, we do continue our own sort of celebration and will light the yule log as is our custom. Our Italian servants find this a bit distressing and they quickly cross themselves when we perform our pagan rituals.

  1820

  6 January 1820

  Percy Florence grows stronger daily. He lifts his little head and has started to coo. I think that he is precocious, but Shelley reminds me that Clara and Will developed in the same way. I assert that they were also exceptional, after all they are our children and had fine intellectual pedigrees.

  Percy Florence assuages my grief. Even though I miss my Sophia, Clara, and Will and shall miss them my entire life, this child is my consolation.

  I have not heard a word from Godwin in regard to Mathilda. I shall send him another missive and ask directly for his input. Surely he has read it by now and knows whether he thinks it worthy of publication.

  In the meantime, I shall devote myself to my son and when able shall return to my other Italian project, my novel Valperga, which has been simmering in the back of my mind for a significant amount of time.

  14 February 1820

  Our relationship with Mrs. Mason has grown. We write to each other frequently and she provides motherly advice to me about the care of Percy. Her medical knowledge is quite extensive and so I ask about any and all maladies that arise. She advises me in regard to what to do for the croup and how to prevent and treat mastitis. I often wish that I had met her earlier; perhaps, if I had, Sophia, Clara, and Will would still be alive. She knows the remedies for every sort of illness and she never resorts to bleeding or cupping, which she also finds barbaric. Instead, she knows all of the old ways to heal and uses herbs and tinctures that she concocts in her own apothecary. I suppose in the old days she would have been deemed a witch.

  She has petitioned us to move to Pisa and I have asked Shelley about moving there to be near her. He has assured me that he will look for lodgings for us. This will also benefit his health, which has been poorly since he completed Prometheus Unbound. Completing his work has always taken a terrible toll on his vigor, so he is eager for a change in circumstance and the chance to be near medical help.

  I am thrilled that we will be able to spend more time with Margaret who is quite content to act as a surrogate mother for Shelley and me and to be Percy’s granddame. She has told me recently about how she is not able to see her own (seven) children because of her relationship with Mr. Mason and her abandonment of Lord Mont Cashell. She misses her children terribly. We can’t replace them, but we can provide her with a maternal outlet.

  Somehow, I believe that my own mother has sent Margaret to us, as a substitute for her physical being.

  10 March 1820

  We have moved to lodgings near Margaret in Pisa and are quite content. We finally feel as though we have a family again, in addition to Claire who remains with us. I still wish that her circumstances could change. Mrs. Mason is looking into finding Claire some employment, although I can’t for the life of me think of anything that Claire is capable of, except perhaps giving singing lessons.

  My Valperga continues apace. I find time to write for two hours each day. I have grown to love my heroine, Euthanasia, who believes in human rights and human liberty. She stands against her foe and former childhood friend, Castruccio. I am eager to see how she will respond to his supposed love and his amorous intent. Of course, I must abide by historical facts and I have read Machiavelli’s fictionalized biography of Castracani. He epitomizes Machiavelli’s belief that Might Makes Right.

  It is helpful to be here in Pisa, a place that Castracani captured and where he was made imperial vicar. I speak with locals about him and the lore that remains extant about his life and his loves. The more I read and learn about him the more I see parallels between his egotism and Napoleon’s; like Napoleon, he began in earnest to lead people to freedom and try to bring about peace between two opposing political parties, but then became a tyrant, even going so far as to capture and incarcerate his love.

  13 April 1820

  My heroine Euthanasia is at odds with what Castruccio, her love, will become. She is a loyal Florentine who
defends her family and Firenze and attends both her family and her city. She cares for her blind father and learns to read Latin in order to serve him but also to ennoble her own mind. She is a form of what my mother envisioned for a woman, although a medieval version of a free and independent woman. Surely there were women in earlier eras who espoused the ability to reason and the desire for freedom for all. Although my mother was the first woman to put pen to paper about these issues, she must not have been the first to think them.

  Castruccio, on the other hand, is Machiavellian in his desire to lord over regions and principalities. He does not believe in the innate goodness or intelligence of the common person and believes that he has the right and obligation to rule over them. The poor are his vassals, his inferiors. Unfortunately, he is no philosopher king, although one of his mentors, Guinigi, a former soldier turned farmer and a friend of his father’s, has advised him to hold the peasant in high regard, and that, if he wishes to rule the poor, he must rule with wisdom. Castruccio listened to his advice but ignored it and decided against further education in favor of pursuing a military career. He sought fame and pugilistic power rather than wisdom. He argues with Guinigi, “Is it not fame that makes us like gods?” He will be ruled by passion rather than reason and wisdom. His passion will be detrimental to him, just as it was to my creature and to Frankenstein.