Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  I pray you to answer this letter. Imperfect as may be my capacity, my desire is ardent and unintermitted. Half an hour would be at least humanely employed in the experiment. I may mistake your residence; certain feelings, of which I may be an inadequate arbiter, may induce you to desire concealment; I may not, in fine, have an answer to this letter. If I do not, when I come to London I shall seek for you. I am convinced I could represent myself to you in such terms as not to be thought wholly unworthy of your friendship; at least, if desire for universal happiness has any claim upon your preference, that desire I can exhibit.

  Adieu. I shall earnestly await your answer.

  Percy B. Shelley.

  Percy swears to himself he will follow this letter with as many as it takes to receive a response. But William does respond, and with a fair degree of immediacy. He was quite unimpressed, however, for many of the expected reasons befitting a man of his stature, such as the younger man’s tendency toward sycophancy, which Percy takes as incentive and immediately sits down to rectify . . .

  To

  Mr. William Godwin,

  at M.J. Godwin’s Juvenile Library,

  Skinner Street,

  London.

  Keswick, [Cumberland.]

  January 10th, 1812.

  [Friday].

  Sir,

  It is not otherwise to be supposed than that I should appreciate your avocations far beyond the pleasure or benefit which can accrue to me from their sacrifice. The time, however, will be small which may be mis-spent in reading this letter; and, much individual pleasure as an answer might give me, I have not the vanity to imagine that it will be greater than the happiness elsewhere diffused during the time which its creation will occupy.

  You complain that the generalizing character of my letter renders it deficient in interest; that I am not an individual to you. Yet, intimate as I am with your character and your writings, intimacy with yourself must in some degree precede this exposure of my peculiarities. It is scarcely possible, however pure be the morality which he has endeavoured to diffuse, but that generalization must characterize the uninvited address of a stranger to a stranger.

  I proceed to remedy the fault. I am the son of a man of fortune in Sussex. The habits of thinking of my father and myself never coincided. Passive obedience was inculcated and enforced in my childhood. I was required to love, because it was my duty to love: it is scarcely necessary to remark that coercion obviated its own intention. I was haunted with a passion for the wildest and most extravagant romances. Ancient books of Chemistry and Magic were perused with an enthusiasm of wonder, almost amounting to belief. My sentiments were unrestrained by anything within me: external impediments were numerous, and strongly applied; their effect was merely temporary.

  From a reader, I became a writer, of romances; before the age of seventeen I had published two, St. Irvyne and Zastrozzi, each of which, though quite uncharacteristic of me as now I am, yet serves to mark the state of my mind at the period of their composition. I shall desire them to be sent to you: do not, however, consider this as any obligation to yourself to misapply your valuable time.

  It is now a period of more than two years since first I saw your inestimable book of Political Justice. It opened to my mind fresh and more extensive views; it materially influenced my character, and I rose from its perusal a wiser and a better man. I was no longer the votary of romance; till then I had existed in an ideal world — now I found that in this universe of ours was enough to excite the interest of the heart, enough to employ the discussions of reason; I beheld, in short, that I had duties to perform. Conceive the effect which the Political Justice would have upon a mind before jealous of its independence, participating somewhat singularly in a peculiar susceptibility.

  My age is now nineteen; at the period to which I allude I was at Eton. No sooner had I formed the principles which I now profess than I was anxious to disseminate their benefits. This was done without the slightest caution. I was twice expelled, but recalled by the interference of my father. I went to Oxford. Oxonian society was insipid to me, uncongenial with my habits of thinking. I could not descend to common life: the sublime interest of poetry, lofty and exalted achievements, the proselytism of the world, the equalization of its inhabitants, were to me the soul of my soul. You can probably form some idea of the contrast exhibited to my character by those with whom I was surrounded. Classical reading and poetical writing employed me during my residence at Oxford.

  In the meantime I became, in the popular sense of the word, a sceptic. I printed a pamphlet, avowing my opinion, and its occasion. I distributed this anonymously to men of thought and learning, wishing that Reason should decide on the case at issue; it was never my intention to deny it.

  Mr. , at Oxford, among others, had the pamphlet; he showed it to the Master and the Fellows of University College, and I was sent for. I was informed that, in case I denied the publication, no more would be said. I refused, and was expelled.

  It will be necessary, in order to elucidate this part of my history, to inform you that I am heir by entail to an estate of £6000 per annum. My principles have induced me to regard the law of primogeniture as an evil of primary magnitude. My father’s notions of family honour are incoincident with my knowledge of public good. I will never sacrifice the latter to any consideration. My father has ever regarded me as a blot, a defilement of his honour. He wished to induce me by poverty to accept of some commission in a distant regiment; and, in the interim of my absence, to prosecute the pamphlet, that a process of outlawry might make the estate, on his death, devolve to my younger brother.

  These are the leading points of the history of the man before you. Others exist, but I have thought proper to make some selection, not that it is my design to conceal or extenuate any part, but that I should by their enumeration quite outstep the bounds of modesty. Now, it is for you to judge whether, by permitting me to cultivate your friendship, you are exhibiting yourself more really useful than by the pursuance of those avocations of which the time spent in allowing this cultivation would deprive you. I am now earnestly pursuing studious habits. I am writing “An enquiry into the causes of the failure of the French Revolution to benefit mankind.” My plan is that of resolving to lose no opportunity to disseminate truth and happiness.

  I am married to a woman whose views are similar to my own. To you, as the regulator and former of my mind, I must ever look with real respect and veneration.

  Yours sincerely,

  P.B. Shelley

  DUNDEE, SCOTLAND, JUNE 1812

  Atop Mary’s desk, a dog-eared copy of Paradise Lost by John Milton rests spine-curled alongside a small stack of notebooks. Mary sits at her desk and pensively pens a letter:

  We are getting on, dear father. How I love Scotland, and William Baxter is certainly the radical you have promised. I only hope these next several months do not pass too quickly!

  She places down her pen and casually flips through the old copy of Milton’s work. Once refocused, she returns to her letter:

  My health is holding and, laughing as I write, I may yet become the philosopher and cynic you say you hope for. His four daughters are all outstanding young women, and this house, this house is magnificent. Aside from my own needs, if you impulsed a personal reason for sending me here, of all places, I can only thank you again, this time from afar. And I thank you that much more for meeting my best needs.

  Mary peeks out her room’s single window. It’s a beautiful day outside. Sunny, serene . . .

  She hastily signs her name to the letter and stands. She’ll get to the mailing later. Another issue, suddenly pressing, requires her attention.

  Mary grabs the top notebook under Paradise Lost and rushes out of the room.

  Outside. Inspiration.

  A title has been written on the notebook’s cover. It reads, simply: Lost. Underneath the title: A novel.

  Mary leans against a tree outside as she writes, taking breaks for seconds at a time to stare straight
ahead and admire the vastness of her present dwelling.

  A substantial three-story Edwardian dwelling fit for a king.

  Royalty, she thinks. She resumes her writing:

  I am at present renewed and clear of thought. Such a wonderful thing and I so hope my newest work proves particularly influencing! thought the writer. I must say, in the absence of the gods and monsters of others it is terrifically important to surrender oneself early to kingly presence. I know better than most. My childhood is filled with memories of varying power — wistful memories of home visits by politicians and poets of whose words stirred the intellect, and resentful memories of earliest writings lost within the frenzies of intolerance. To be free of thought and action and science is the only way; how stirring it would be to resurrect all that has been lost and make better from there even the most terrible of circumstance.

  Mary peeks up at the blazing sun as if being called, shielding her eyes for a moment. She taps the pen on her knee—

  “Sentence, sentence . . . must punctuate the thought . . .” she says. She reads her page so far but stops at ever-intolerable household, after which she crosses out the rest. “The difference . . . is now . . . I am in control.” She shakes her head at the memory.

  Over the last extended sentence Mary scribbles a single word, entirely in caps, each letter larger than those in the other words by thrice:

  LOST

  An Open Letter to the Media Whomever, Whatever

  Percy Shelley received a favorable response from William Godwin upon his read of the younger man’s second letter. The dandy, though, was incorrect in stating he had published two novels before his seventeenth year; he was already seventeen upon publication of the first, and eighteen upon the other. In my humble opinion, Percy was far too manipulative for the convenience of faulty memory and, since he was an irascible sort, exaggerating to get what he wanted would not have been atypical.

  As for William, he did not take to Percy out of any sense of obligation or pity. His sudden affection as it were was due to one thing and one thing only:

  It will be necessary, in order to elucidate this part of my history, to inform you that I am heir by entail to an estate of £6000 per annum.

  Communication continued, and the two men became fast friends and trusted allies. Percy cherished their mentor-student relationship, and he promised to bail William out from under his substantial debt.

  And then, despite the best of intentions, things became . . . difficult.

  Shortly after returning to England from her first stay in Scotland, Mary Godwin met Percy.

  Specific dates, places, and times elude scholars, but one thing is certain: They shared remarkable commonalities, and the attraction was quick and mutual.

  However, weeks following his expulsion from Oxford and months prior to making Mary’s acquaintance in May of 1814, Percy met and eloped with the sixteen-year-old Harriet Westbrook in the fall of 1813. If Percy’s University expulsion severely strained his relationship with his father, his unexpected elopement and Harriet’s two pregnancies—giving birth to daughter Ianthe in June of 1813 and expecting another child the following year—nearly severed it.

  Percy and Harriet legally remarried in March of 1814 in a London church, taking advantage of favorable laws to provide protection for Ianthe. But Harriet was profoundly unhappy and she took a lover. Percy, by the time he had met Mary, had been long since emotionally disengaged. He had blamed Harriet’s older sister, Eliza, for her early interference. Eliza would discourage Harriet from breastfeeding Ianthe, a “natural”act of which Percy was a steadfast proponent, and he was thinking that Harriet may have only married him for his money—which he had not yet inherited.

  He and Mary fell in love while he was expecting his second child. They kept their relationship secret for as long as they could. Once discovered, Percy was disowned by his aristocratic father and, as such, could not pay off William’s debts. William was outraged and tried his utmost to thwart the evolving relationship between his daughter and one of his greatest followers.

  Mary took the side of Percy. She was seventeen when they met (my age; never underestimate tortured genius, by the way), and their union would become the de facto basis of one of my most important Measures . . .

  ST. PANCRAS CHURCHYARD, ENGLAND

  GRAVESITE OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT

  Percy stands under a tree, protecting himself from the coming rain. Mary kneels forlornly at her mother’s grave. She has asked for a few minutes, alone, as they were leaving the carriage.

  “I’m not asking for too much, am I?” she asked, with no small degree of insecurity. He watched her, captivated. “Here,” she says, reaching inside the buggy. “Read this while you’re waiting.” She hands him a book.

  Hate. And he looks up . . . but she’s gone. She’s already near the gravesite.

  Percy reads from Lost, Mary’s work in progress. He is taken by her prose, its eloquence and simplicity. He is also comforted that the promise held therein is something considerably more.

  “Percy!” He looks up in response to her voice. “I could use your help!” she affirms.

  “Coming, dear.” He helps her to her feet.

  “Another storm is coming,” she says as Percy follows. “Have you heard anything?”

  “About?”

  “The new storm. I didn’t think it was going to rain today. I would have preferred a little more time—”

  He places his hands on her shoulders . . . gazes into her eyes. “Why is it,” he teases, “that you children are so terrified of a bit of water, hmm?”

  They return to the carriage, and enter the cabin. “Are you afraid of water? I thought—”

  “Me?” he asks, joking.

  “I shall receive your response in the negative, as I’ve never known Percy Bysshe Shelley to be anything less than charming under any circumstance . . . though today he’s being a bit of a bastard . . .”

  He refuses to engage her. “Nothing doing. You did not ask me about my reverie. My mood is tempered, as you did not ask me of my reverie—”

  “What’s that?” She’s suddenly very interested.

  Percy waves to the driver. It’s okay to leave.

  “I teased you a moment ago over my nerves, you see.”

  “Your nerves?” Mary is unimpressed.

  “I dreamt that I shall meet a most violent demise—”

  “Tell me.” She sits alongside him.

  “You’re excited about my violent demise, are you?” Percy asks, amused.

  “I’m excited about how you believe you’re going to meet your violent demise.”

  “This doesn’t quite settle my thoughts on the matter.”

  “I don’t care.”

  He looks at her as if she’s a demon.

  “Well, if you must know, there were waves,” he says. “And the waves were rough and rocky and—”

  “You were in those waves?”

  “I was in those waves.”

  “Oh dear,” Mary says. “Are you so aged and impaired you forgot how to swim?” She breaks into a sly, mischievous grin. “Why is it that you older men are so terrified of a bit of water?”

  CHELSEA, NEW YORK CITY, FEBRUARY 2015

  As a cover for the unusual nature of the police investigation, Sidra has been recommended and assigned a court-appointed psychotherapist.

  “It was an effort,” Sidra explains.

  “An effort?” her therapist asks. “What do you mean by that? What do you mean . . . an effort?”

  “An effort. An effort to avoid a storm. A new storm. Weigh that statement, why don’t you—”

  “What do you mean by—”

  “The storm?” The girl is playing her. The psychotherapist is well aware, but she plays by her client’s rules. “Why don’t you tell me more.”

  “Not much more to say, really,” Sid responds, before losing patience entirely. “How about, instead, maybe we end this court-appointed charade once and for all? I’m not so ugly anymor
e.”

  Doctor Francine Rawling didn’t buy it. Not a single, pitiful word. Cool, elegantly attractive, mid-forties, the psychotherapist continued her interrogation. “You have four days left on your Christmas break,” she says. “Since you’ve been gone, there have been no temptations? None at all, Sid?”

  “Nothing to brag about.”

  “I see,” she patronizes. “So you’re cured, then?”

  “Cured? Cured isn’t quite the word I’d use, doctor.”

  “No?”

  “It’s irresponsible of you, don’t you think?” Sid curtly replies, sniffling.

  “May I look at your arm?” Sid attempts to stare her down. Unsuccessfully. “May I look at your arm, Sid?” Sid reluctantly rolls up her sleeve. There are faded track marks all along, and some fresh, razor blade slits. “When was the last time you cut yourself?”

  “Cut? Not since I was a kid. These here aren’t really . . . cuts.” She smirks. Checks the book Frankenstein sticking out from her purse. “The monster’s loose, see, and the doctor needed a bride to contain him. Me? I’m in the process of being molded from the doc’s best stuff on earth, but haven’t healed yet so I’m sort of . . . still in some raging pain because of the deep scars and this . . . interminable recovery and conversation—”