Outcasts by Sarah Stegall Page B

dark frowning Jura, behind whose range we every evening see the sun sink, and darkness approaches our valley from behind the Alps, which are then tinged by that glowing rose-like hue which is observed in England.
    Yes, she thought with satisfaction. That was the tone to take with her father: distant, formal, objective, logical. Appeal to his reason; unlike Shelley, the last approach that would gain his attention would be an emotional one. She set out to remind her father of how alike they were, how much they shared—that she could write as well as he, tell a story as well as he, make words a powerful weapon as well as he. In this, she knew her father saw her lost mother in her. In this, she excelled over all the other children of that household. Let her only remind him of her mother, and his heart might soften.
    There is more equality of classes here than in England. This occasions a greater freedom and refinement of manners among the lower orders than we meet with in our own country. I fancy the haughty English ladies are greatly disgusted with this consequence of republican institutions, for the Genovese servants complain very much of their scolding, an exercise of the tongue, I believe, perfectly unknown here. The peasants of Switzerland may not however emulate the vivacity and grace of the French. They are more cleanly, but they are slow and inapt. I
know a girl of twenty, who although she had lived all her life among vineyards, could not inform me during what month the vintage took place, and I discovered she was utterly ignorant of the order in which the months succeed each other. She would not have been surprised if I had talked of the burning sun and delicious fruits of December, or of the frosts of July. Yet she was by no means deficient in understanding.
    Mary dipped her pen in the inkwell and sat thinking. How to word the next part? By now her father would be, perhaps, nodding in unconscious agreement, imagining her among the benighted peasants of the Alps, painting pictures in his head of their household. How to draw in his sympathy?
    My only fear is that my William, who of course is named for you, should feel the neglect of education which is so pervasive here.
    Ah, yes, that was it. A discussion of the education of the young would always catch her father’s eye.
    You know how strongly I adhere to your principles of education, and how important it is that a young mind be formed quickly in life, and directed into the proper paths. For his education, I could ask no better teacher than you yourself, and I look forward to the day when you may meet your grandson, and see that he is like you in so many ways. Not least of these is his mind, which is already bright and alert. You will see in him perhaps my mother’s round face, and in his eagerness for learning an echo of his mother. How sad it would be if, through discord between us, a discord that lies primarily in my adherence to the principles you yourself taught me, he should lose the opportunity to live and learn in England, rather than in foreign lands.
    There, she thought. That ought to strike home. Her father held foreigners, save for a few French revolutionaries, in contempt. Having traveled Europe far more than William Godwin, she now knew how narrow and unreasonable his prejudices were, but this was not the time to argue them. Having now gained her father’s full attention, she advanced to her final plea.
    I do not understand this shadow that lies between us, nor whence it comes. My mother’s shade, were it here, would stand beside me in mute astonishment. Did she not love you as I love my Shelley? Did she not scorn the world’s opinion as I do? Did she not bear me in disdain of common prejudice? She thrust away the chains of tradition, eschewing the enforced prostitution of marriage for most of her life. You celebrated her life to the world, yet when I betake the same path, for the same reasons, I am cast forth. I entreat you to