by Mary Shelley
The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt — of days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took firmer root even as they were more baseless — was changed to the certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors for evermore.
There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains of those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them — the law with respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague into Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length, through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge d’Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after the bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in carrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions, and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was a fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose. And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory to the world — whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and good, — to be buried with him!
The concluding stanzas of the “Adonais” pointed out where the remains ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay buried in the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley’s ashes were conveyed; and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He selected the hallowed place himself; there is
‘the sepulchre,
Oh, not of him, but of our joy! —
...
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.’
Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in Shelley’s fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that remains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied may regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse all such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it now seems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figures his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away, no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched the vessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its homeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore, when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and several larger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Roberts looked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except their little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he could scarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have been driven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation made as to the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found, through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in ten fathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as had floated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had been placed when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Roberts possessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy, and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked.) — who but will regard as a prophecy the last stanza of the “Adonais”?
‘The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven,
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.’
Putney, May 1, 1839.
An Adaptation
The English Opera House, now the Lyceum Theatre, where Shelley and her father attended a performance of Peake’s popular Frankenstein play on 29 August 1823.
PRESUMPTION; OR, THE FATE OF FRANKENSTEIN by Richard Brinsley Peake
Richard Brinsley Peake (1792-1847) was a dramatist of the early nineteenth century, who is best remembered today for this 1823 play, which is based on Shelley’s novel Frankenstein. Throughout his career, Peake wrote burlesques, farces, comedies, melodramatic and musical romances, and an operatic romance.
Presumption; or, the Fate of Frankenstein was seen by Mary Shelley and her father William Godwin on 29 August 1823 at the English Opera House, shortly after her return to England. Reportedly, Shelley approved of the portrayal of the Creature, played by T.P. Cooke. To capitalise on the success of the play, Godwin immediately arranged for his daughter’s novel to be reprinted in two volumes with emendations by himself.
Playbill from 1823 advertising Presumption; or, the Fate of Frankenstein
CONTENTS
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
A later Victorian edition of the play
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
English Opera House, 28 July, 1823
Frankenstein: Mr. Wallack
Clerval (his friend, in love with Elizabeth): Mr. Bland
William (brother of Frankenstein): Master Boden
Fritz (servant of Frankenstein): Mr. Keeley
DeLacey (a banished gentleman-blind): Mr. Rowbotham
Felix DeLacey (his son): Mr. Pearman
Tanskin (a gipsy): Mr. Shield
Hammerpan (a tinker): Mr. Salter
First Gipsy
A Guide (an old man): Mr. R. Phillips
Elizabeth (sister of Frankenstein): Mrs. Austin
Agatha (daughter of DeLacey): Miss L. Dance
Safie (an Arabian girl, betrothed to Felix): Miss Povey
Madame Ninon (wife to Fritz): Mrs. T. Weippert
Gipsies, Peasants, Choristers, and Dancers (Male and Female)
ACT I
SCENE I: A Gothic Chamber in the house of Frankenstein.
Fritz discovered in a Gothic arm-chair, nodding asleep. During the Symphony of the Song, he starts, rubs his eyes, and comes forward.
AIR – FRITZ
Oh, dear me! what’s the matter?
How I shake at each clatter.
My Marrow
They harrow.
Oh, dear me! what’s the matter?
If Mouse squeaks, or cat sneezes,
Cricket chirps, or cock wheezes,
Then I fret
In cold sweat.
Every noise my nerves teazes;
Bless my heart – heaven preserve us!
I declare I’m so nervous.
Ev’ry Knock
Is a shock.
I declare I’m so nervous!
I’m so nervous.
FRITZ. Oh, Fritz, Fritz, Fritz! What is it come to! you are frighten’d out of your wits. Why did you ever leave your native village! why couldn’t you be happy in your native Village with an innocent cow for your companion (bless its sweet breath!) instead of coming here to th
e City of Geneva to be hired as a servant! (Starts.) What’s that? – nothing. And then how complimentary! Master only hired me because he thought I looked so stupid! Stupid! ha, ha, ha! but am I stupid though? To be sure Mr. Frankenstein is a kind man, and I should respect him, but that I thinks as how he holds converse with somebody below with a long tail, horns and hoofs, who shall be nameless. (Starts again.) What’s that! Oh, a gnat on my nose! Ah, anything frightens me now – I’m so nervous! I spill all my bread and milk when I feed myself at breakfast! Lord! Lord! In the country, if a dog bray’d, or a donkey bark’d ever so loud, it had no effect upon me. (Two distinct loud knocks – Fritz jumps.) Oh, mercy! I jump like a maggot out of cheese!* How my heart beats!
CLER. (Without.) Fritz, Fritz!
[FRITZ. It’s a human being however – ]
CLER. (Without.) Open the door, Fritz!
FRITZ. Yes. It’s only Mr. Clerval, master’s friend, who is going to marry Miss Elizabeth, master’s sister. (Opens the door.)
Enter Clerval.
How d’ye do, sir!
CLER. Good morrow, Fritz! Is Mr. Frankenstein to be seen?
FRITZ. I fear not, Sir, he has as usual been fumi – fumi – fumigating all night at his chemistry. I have not dared to disturb him.
CLER. Mr. Frankenstein pursues his studies with too much ardour.
FRITZ. And what can be the use of it, Mr. Clerval? Work, work, work – always at it. Now, putting a case to you. Now, when I was in the country, with my late cow (she’s no more now, poor thing!) if I had sat to and milked her for a fortnight together, day and night, without stopping, do you think I should be any the better for it? I ask you as a gentleman and a scholar.
CLER. Ha, ha, ha! Certainly not!
FRITZ. Nor my cow neither, poor creter. (Wipes his eyes.) Excuse my crying – she’s defunct, and I always whimper a little when I think on her; and my wife lives away from me, but I don’t care so much for that. Oh! Mr. Clerval, between ourselves – hush! didn’t you hear a noise! – between ourselves, I want to unbosom my confidence.
CLER. Well?
FRITZ. Between ourselves – there’s nobody at the door, is there? – (Crosses to door.) – No! well, between ourselves, Mr. Clerval, I have been so very nervous since I came to this place –
CLER. Pshaw!
FRITZ. “Nay,” don’t ‘Pshaw!’ till you’ve heard me out. – My poor Master – I know you are his friend, but he has dealings with the Gentleman in black!
[CLER. Yes, I know – the Notary who comes to consult him on my marriage contract –
FRITZ. Notary – no – somebody deeper than that – Oh, Mr. Clerval! I’ll tell you. One night Mr. Frankenstein did indulge himself by going to bed. He was worn with fatigue and study. I had occasion to go into his chamber. He was asleep, but frightfully troubled; he groaned and ground his teeth, setting mine on edge. ‘It is accomplished!’ said he. Accomplished! I knew that had nothing to do with me, but I listened. He started up in his sleep, though his eyes were opened and dead as oysters, he cried, ‘It is animated – it rises – walks!’ Now, my shrewd guess, sir, is that, like Doctor Faustus, my master is raising the Devil.
CLER. Fritz, you are simple; drive such impressions from your mind, you must not misconstrue your Master’s words in a dream. Do you never dream?
FRITZ. (Mournfully.) I dream about my Cow sometimes.
CLER. Your master is a studious Chemist – nay, as I sometimes suspect, an alchemist.
FRITZ. Eh! Ah, I think he is. What is an alchemist Mr. Clerval?
CLER. Does he not sometimes speak of the art of making gold?
FRITZ. Lord, sir! do you take Mr. Frankenstein for a coiner?
CLER. Did you never hear him make mention of the grand elixer, which can prolong life to immortality.
FRITZ. Never in all my life!
CLER. Well go – find out if it is possible I can see him. I will not detain him.
FRITZ. Yes, sir. Oh, that laboratory! I’ve got two loose teeth, and I am afraid I shall loose them, for whenever I go towards that infernal place my head shakes like a dice-box. (Goes to door.) Oh, mercy! what’s that? Two shining eyes – how they glisten! Dear, dear, why I declare it’s only the cat on the stairs. Puss, puss, pussy! How you frighten’d me, you young dog, when you know I am so very nervous!
CLER. Frankenstein, friend of my youth, how extraordinary and secret are thy pursuits! how art thou altered by study! Strange, what a hold has philosophy taken of thy mind – but thou wert always enthusiastic and of boundless ambition. But “Elizabeth” – the fair Elizabeth, his sister – what a difference in disposition! Everyone adores her. Happy Clerval, to be now the possessor of Elizabeth, who, unconscious of her beauty, stole thy heart away!
SONG – CLERVAL
Ere witching love my heart possest,
And bade my sighs the nymph pursue,
Calm as the infant’s smiling rest,
No anxious hope nor fear it knew.
But doom’d – ah! doom’d at last to mourn,
What tumults in that heart arose!
An ocean trembling, wild, and torn
By tempests from its deep repose.
Yet let me not the virgin blame,
As tho’ she wish’d my heart despair,
How could the maid suspect a flame,
Who never knew that she was fair.
– But Frankenstein approaches.
Enter Frankenstein, thoughtfully, shown in by Fritz, who exits.
CLER. My dear friend!
FRANK. Clerval!
CLER. Frankenstein, how ill you appear – So [thin and] pale! You look as if your night-watchings had been long and uninterrupted.
FRANK. [You have guessed rightly! – ] I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest. But how left you my sister, Elizabeth?
CLER. Well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that she sees you so seldom.
FRANK. Aye, I am engaged heart and soul in the pursuit of a discovery – a grand, unheard of wonder! None but those who have experienced can conceive the enticement of Science; he who looks into the book of nature, finds an inexhaustible source of novelty, of wonder, and delight. What hidden treasures are contained in her mighty volume – what strange, undreamed-of mysteries!
CLER. But some little respite – your health should he considered.
FRANK. (Abstracted.) After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, would be indeed a glorious consummation of my toils.
CLER. How wild and mysterious his abstractions – he heeds me not! (Aside.)
FRANK. (Apart.) This discovery will be so vast, so overwhelming, that all the steps by which I have been progressively led will be obliterated, and I shall behold only the astonishing result.
CLER. Frankenstein!
FRANK. Ha! (To Clerval.) I see by your eagerness that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted. That cannot be.
CLER. I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Frankenstein. I am no natural philosopher; my imagination is too vivid for the details of science. If I contemplate, let it be the charms of your fair sister, Elizabeth. My message hither now – I wish to fix the day for our nuptials. But we must be certain on so important and happy an event, that we shall enjoy the society of our Frankenstein.
FRANK. Pardon me, Clerval! My first thoughts should recur to those dear friends whom I most love, and who are so deserving of my love – name the day?
CLER. On the morn after to-morrow, may I lead the charming Elizabeth to the altar?
FRANK. E’en as you will – e’en as you will! (Aside.) My wonderful task will be ere that completed. It will be animated! It will live – will think! (Crosses in deep reflection – afterwards turns up the stage.)
CLER. (Apart.) Again in reverie! this becomes alarming – surely his head is affected. I am bound in duty to counteract this madness, and discover the secret of his deep reflections.
Frankenstein sits down – musing.
Farewell, Frankenstein! He heeds me not – ‘tis in vain to claim his notice – but I will seek the cause, and, if possible, effect his cure. No time must be lost. Fritz must assist me, and this way he went.
(Exit Clerval)
FRANK. Every moment lost, fevers me. What time have I devoted? (Rises.) Had I not been heated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome, disgusting, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life – I have had recourse to death – I have seen how the fine form of man has been wasted and degraded – have beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life! I have seen how the worm inherits the wonders of the eye and brain – I paused – analysing all the minutiae of causation as exemplified in the change of life from death – until from the midst of this darkness the sudden light broke in upon me! A light so brilliant and dazzling, some miracle must have produced the flash! The vital principle! The cause of life! – Like Prometheus of old, have I daringly attempted the formation – the animation of a Being! To my task – away with reflection – to my task – to my task!
