hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate.
âFrankenstein,
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 strangebecause her father never beat her or her siblings. What they didnât know was that William Godwinâs silences were worse than any beating, and his âdiscussionsâ 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 motherâs 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
âFrankenstein,
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 strangebecause her father never beat her or her siblings. What they didnât know was that William Godwinâs silences were worse than any beating, and his âdiscussionsâ 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 motherâs 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
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